“Good for you. He feels the same way about you.”
“Excellent.”
We continued our walk into the wooded hollow, Susan’s arm still thrown over my shoulders. I’m not usually into self-pity or self-analysis, but sometimes you have to stop and think about things. Not only for yourself, but also so you don’t hurt other people.
I said, “By the way, the Bishop stopped by last Saturday. George told him I wasn’t receiving.”
“George said that to Bishop Eberly?”
“No, to Bishop Frank.”
“Oh. . . .’’ She laughed. “That Bishop.’’ She thought a moment. “He’ll be back.”
“You think so?’’ I added, “I wonder what he wanted.”
Susan replied, “You’ll find out.”
“Don’t sound so ominous, Susan. I think he just wants to be a friendly neighbor.”
“For your information, I’ve called the Eltons and the DePauws, and they haven’t heard from him or seen him.”
The Eltons own Windham, the estate that borders Alhambra to the north, and the DePauws have a big colonial and ten acres, not actually an estate, directly across from Alhambra’s gates. I said, “Then it appears as if Mr. Bellarosa has singled us out for neighborly attention.”
“Well, you met him. Maybe you said something encouraging.”
“Hardly.’’ And I still wondered how he knew who I was and what I looked like. That was upsetting.
We came out of the trees at a place where there was a small footpath, paved with moss-covered stone. I steered Susan toward the path and felt her resist for a moment, then yield. We walked up the stone path, which was covered by an old rose trellis, and at the end of the path was the charred ruin of the gingerbread playhouse. The remaining beams and rafters supported climbing ivy that had crept up from the stone fireplace chimney. The fireplace itself was intact with a mantel and a large black kettle still hanging from a wrought-iron arm. In true fairy-tale fashion, there was, and had been as I recalled before the fire, something sinister about the cute little cottage.
Susan asked, “Why did you want to walk here?”
“I thought since you were analyzing my head, I’d like to know why you never come here.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Because I’ve never seen you walk here, and I’ve never seen a hoofprint near this place.”
“It’s sad to see it this way.”
“But we never came here before the fire, never played our games here.”
She didn’t reply.
“I suppose I can understand not wanting to have sex in a playhouse with childhood memories.”
Susan said nothing.
I walked up to what had been the front door, but Susan didn’t follow. I could make out a flower box that had fallen from a window ledge, pieces of stained glass and melted lead, and the burned skeleton of a bed and mattress that had fallen through from the second floor. I asked, “Well, are the memories good or bad?”
“Both.”
“Tell me the good ones.”
She took a few steps toward the house, knelt, and picked up a shard of pottery. She said, “I had sleepovers here in the summer. A dozen girls, up all night, giggling, laughing, singing, and deliciously terrified at every noise outside.”
I smiled.
She approached the house and surveyed the blackened timbers, which still emitted an odor ten years after the fire. “Lots of good memories.”
“I’m glad. Let’s go.’’ I took her arm.
“Do you want to know about the bad things?”
“Not really.”
“The servants used to come here sometimes and have parties. And sex.’’ She added, “I realized it was sex when I was about thirteen. They used to lock the door. I wouldn’t sleep in that bed again.”
I didn’t respond.
“I mean, it was my house. A place that I thought belonged to me.”
“I understand.”
“And . . . one day . . . I was about fifteen, I came here and the door wasn’t locked and I went inside and up the stairs to get something I’d left in the bedroom . . . and this couple was lying there, naked, asleep . . .’’ She glanced at me. “I guess I was traumatized.’’ She forced a smile. “Today, I don’t know if a fifteen-year-old girl would be traumatized by that. I mean, how could they be? You see naked people on TV doing it.”
“True.’’ But I couldn’t believe that still bothered her. There was more to it, and I sensed she was going to tell me what it was.
She stayed silent awhile before saying, “My mother used to come here with someone.”
“I see.’’ I wondered if it was her mother that she’d seen in bed, and with whom.
She walked across the littered floorboards and stopped beside the burned bed. “And I lost my virginity here.”
I didn’t respond.
She turned toward me and smiled sadly. “Some playhouse.”
“Let’s go.”
She walked past me, onto the path between the rose bushes. I came up beside her. I said, “Was it you who burned the place down?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
I put my arm around her and said in a lighter tone, “Did I ever tell you about that Good Friday when I was a kid and the sky suddenly darkened?”
“Several times. Tell me how you lost your virginity.”
“I told you.”
“You told me three different versions. I’ll bet I was your first lay.”
“Maybe. But not my last.”
She punched me in the ribs. “Wise guy.”
We walked in silence back through the hollow, and when I ran my fingers over her cheek, I discovered she was crying.
“Everything’s going to be all right,’’ I assured her.
“I’m too old for fairy tales,’’ she informed me.
At Susan’s suggestion we turned toward the plum orchard, the so-called sacred grove, and made our way toward the Roman love temple. More than half the plum trees were dead or dying, and each spring there were fewer blossoms, but still, the air was perfumed with their scent.
We came into the clearing where the round marble temple stood, and without speaking we mounted the steps and I swung open the big brass door.
The sun was low on the horizon and shone in on a slant through the opening in the domed roof, illuminating a section of the erotic carvings on the lintels. Susan walked across the marble floor and stood before the naked statues of Venus and the big Roman male. The statues of pink marble were seated side by side on an uncarved slab of black stone, and though they were in a partial embrace, about to kiss, the view from the waist down was of full frontal nudity. The man had forgotten his fig leaf, and his penis was in an excited state. As I said, this was all pretty risqué for 1906, and even today an erect penis in art is considered by some to be pornographic.
Anyway, it is possible for a woman to sit in the lap of this virile male and achieve penetration. In fact, in Roman times during the Saturnalia festival, virgins actually deflowered themselves in this way, using, I believe, the statue of Priapus, whose member is always at the ready.
You must keep in mind that these statues and this love temple were commissioned by Susan’s great-grandfather, Cyrus Stanhope, and I believe that randiness runs in some families. Certainly Susan has inherited an as yet unidentified gene for an overactive libido from both sides of her family, who, by most accounts, couldn’t seem to keep their pants up or their skirts down.
I told you, too, that Susan and I engage in some interesting sexual practices in this love temple, though not the aforementioned Roman practice of statuary rape, if you’ll pardon my pun. I should also tell you that the two statues are slightly larger than life, and consequently the Roman gentleman’s equipment is perhaps slightly larger than mine, but not by so much as to make me jealous.
Well, anyway, there we were in this pagan temple
on a Good Friday, recently returned from church, and from a moment of truth at the gazebo and an emotional episode at the playhouse. And to be honest, this confluence of events left me with the uncomfortable feeling that this might not be the time or place for romance.
Susan, on the other hand, seemed more sure of what she wanted. She said, “Make love to me, John.”
That request in that form means we are not going to playact, but are going to make love as husband and wife. This also means that Susan is feeling insecure, or perhaps melancholy.
So I took her in my arms, and we kissed and, still kissing, sat on the wide ledge at the base of the statues in unconscious imitation of their pose. We kicked off our shoes and, still kissing, removed our clothes, helping each other undress until we were naked. I lay down on my back on the cool marble, and Susan straddled me with her knees, then rose up and came down on me. She worked her pelvis up and down and rocked back and forth, her eyes closed, her mouth open, moaning softly.
I reached up and pulled her down to me and kissed her. She straightened her legs and stretched her body out over mine. We embraced and continued to kiss as her hips rose and fell.
Susan’s body went tense, then relaxed, and she continued to move her hips until she went rigid again, then went limp again. She did this three or four times until her breathing began to sound labored, but she continued on until she had yet another orgasm. She might have gone on until she passed out, which actually happened once, but I let myself come, and this brought on her final climax.
She lay with her head buried in my chest, her long red hair draped over my shoulders. I heard her whisper between deep breaths, “Thank you, John.”
It was pleasant lying there, Susan on top of me, our groins all warm and wet. I played with her hair, rubbed her back and buttocks, and we rubbed our feet together.
I could see from the open dome that the sunlight was fading outside, and in fact the temple was darker now. But directly above me I could see the marble statues still locked in their eternal embrace, and from this perspective, their expressions and their whole demeanor looked more lustful and heated, as if their nine decades of frustration were about to explode into an act of sexual frenzy.
We must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, it was dark in the temple and I was cold. Susan stirred, and I felt her warm lips on my neck.
I said, “That’s nice.”
“Feel better?”
“Yes,’’ I replied. “You?”
“Yes.’’ She added, “I love you, John.”
“I love you.”
She got to her feet and said, “Stand up.”
I stood and Susan took my shirt, put it on me and buttoned it, then put my tie on and tied it. Next came my shorts and my socks, then my trousers. She buckled my belt and zipped my fly. Having a woman undress me is very erotic, but only Susan has ever dressed me after sex and I find it a very loving and tender act. She put my shoes on and tied them, then brushed off my jacket and helped me into it. “There,’’ she said as she straightened my hair, “you look like you just left church.”
“Except my groin is sticky.”
She smiled, and I looked at her standing in front of me stark naked. I said, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I tried to dress her, but I got the panties on backward and was having trouble with the bra fasteners. Susan said, “John, you used to undress me in the dark with one hand.”
“This is different.”
We finally got Susan into her clothes and walked hand in hand back to the house in the dark. I said to her, “You’re right, you know. I mean your perceptive analysis of how I feel. I don’t want to feel bored or restless, but I do.”
“Maybe,’’ she replied, “you need a challenge. Perhaps I can think of something to challenge you.”
“Good idea,’’ I said, which turned out to be the stupidest thing I ever said.
Nine
I skipped church on Holy Saturday, having had enough of the Reverend Mr. Hunnings and the Allards. Susan played hooky, too, and spent the morning cleaning her stables with two college boys home on vacation. I don’t do stables, but I did stop by with a cooler of soft drinks. As I pulled the Bronco up to the stable, I was struck by the awful smell of horse manure and the sounds of laughter and groans.
Zanzibar and Yankee were tethered to a post outside, under the huge, spreading chestnut tree, nibbling grass and oblivious to the humans slaving on their behalf. I think horses should clean their own stables. I used to like horses. Now I hate them. I’m jealous.
On the same subject, Susan, who can be cold as Freon to men her own age who show an interest in her, is very friendly to young men. This I’m sure is partly maternal, as she is old enough to be the mother of college-age children and in fact is. It’s the part that is not maternal that annoys me. Anyway, they all seemed to be having a grand time in there shoveling shit.
I pulled the cooler out of the rear of the Bronco and set it down on a stone bench.
A pile of manure had risen on the cobbled service court in front of the stable, and this would find its way to the rose garden behind our house. Maybe that’s why I don’t stop and smell the roses.
I opened a bottle of apple juice and drank, my foot propped on the bench, trying to strike a real-man pose in case anybody came out of the stable. If I had tobacco and paper I would have rolled one. I waited, but the only thing coming out of the stable was laughter.
I surveyed the long, two-story stable complex. The stables are built of brick with slate roofs in an English country style, more matching the guesthouse than the main house. I suppose there’s no such thing as beaux-arts stables with Roman columns. The stables had been built at the same time as the house, when horses were a more reliable and dignified means of transportation than automobiles. There were thirty stalls for the riding horses, the carriage horses, and the draft horses, and a large carriage house that probably held two dozen horsedrawn conveyances, including sleds and estate equipment. The second story was part haymow and part living quarters for the forty or so men needed to maintain the animals, buildings, tack, and carriages. The carriage house had become the garage by the 1920s, and the coachmen, grooms, and such had become chauffeurs and mechanics.
Susan and I sometimes use the garage for the Jag, and George always parks his Lincoln there, as he is of the generation that believes in taking care of possessions. The gatehouse, guesthouse, and main house were built without garages, of course, because if one needed one’s horse, carriage, or automobile, one just buzzed the carriage house. I have a buzzer marked CARRIAGE HOUSE in my kitchen, and I keep pushing it, but no one comes.
Anyway, the stables are on Stanhope land, which presents a problem if the land is sold. The obvious solution to this is to construct a smaller wooden stable on Susan’s property. I mean, we don’t live in the great house; why should the horses live in the great stable? But Susan fears emotional trauma to her animals if they are forced to step down in life, so she wants at least part of the original stable moved, brick by brick, slate by slate, and cobble by cobble to her land. She wants this done soon, before the tax people start identifying assets. Her father has graciously given his permission to move all or part of the structure to her ten acres, and Susan has picked a nice tree-shaded patch of land with a pond for her precious horsies. All that remains to be done is to engage the Herculean Task Stable Moving Company and a hundred slaves to complete the job. Susan says she’ll split the cost with me. I have to look at that prenuptial agreement again.
I finished my apple juice and hooked my thumb in my belt, waiting for somebody to push a wheelbarrow full of feces out the door. I found a piece of straw and stuck it between my teeth.
After a minute or so in this pose, I decided to stop being silly and just go in. But as I walked toward the main doors, a puff of hay flew out of the loft overhead and landed on me. It sounded as if they were having a hay fight. Good clean American fun. Pissed off beyond belief, I spun around
, got into the Bronco, and slammed it into gear, making a tight U-turn in front of the main doors. I could hear Susan calling after me from the open loft as I drove right through the pile of manure in four-wheel drive.
• • •
That afternoon, after a rational discussion regarding my childishness, we put on our tennis whites and walked down to the courts to keep a tennis date. It was warm for April, and after a few volleys while we waited for the other couple, Susan took off her sweater and warm-up pants. I have to tell you, the woman looks exquisite in tennis clothes, and when she fishes around in her panties for the second ball, the men on the court lose their concentration for a minute or two.
Anyway, we volleyed for another ten minutes, and I was blasting balls all over the place, and Susan was telling me not to be hostile. Finally, she said, “Look, John, don’t blow this match. Calm down.”
“I’m calm.”
“If we win, I’ll grant you any sexual favor you wish.”
“How about a roll in the hay?”
She laughed. “You got it.”
We volleyed a bit longer, and I guess I did calm down a bit, because I was keeping the balls in the court. I was not, however, a happy man. It’s often little things, like Susan’s horsing around in the hay, that sets you off on a course that can be vengeful and destructive.
Anyway, our tennis partners, Jim and Sally Roosevelt, showed up. Jim is one of the Oyster Bay Roosevelts still living in the area. Roosevelts, Morgans, Vanderbilts, and such are sort of a local natural resource, self-renewable like pheasant and nearly as scarce. To have a Roosevelt or a pheasant on your property is an occasion of some pride; to have one or the other for dinner is, respectively, a social or culinary coup. Actually, Jim is just a regular guy with a famous name and a trust fund. More important, I can beat his pants off in tennis. Incidentally, we don’t pronounce Roosevelt the way you’ve heard it pronounced all your life. Around here, we say Roozvelt, teeth clenched lockjaw style, two syllables, rhymes with “Lou’s belt.’’ Okay?
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