Kennedy breathed a sigh of relief when he got through the list—"Pretty rough going,” he said; “just pray that that inventory list is complete"—and then went on. “All remaining assets and monies included in, or accruing to, the estate, now or in future, I bequeath, with no stipulations, hindrance, or condition whatsoever, to Mr. Peter Edward Constantine, my sole grandson by my only daughter, Mrs. Ellen Constantine, of New York City, for him to use at his own discretion, convenience, and pleasure.”
Kennedy glanced up at Peter, adjusted his glasses, and then went on reading the remaining text. Peter was so astonished that he sat like a stone; Meg, unable to restrain herself, bobbed up from her chair, hugged him quickly round the neck, then dutifully sat back down; his mother . . . his mother looked as if she'd just had the wind knocked out of her. She sat perfectly still, rigid even, her eyes staring out the office window. Kennedy finished with the will, whisked his glasses off, and pulled his chair a foot or two back from the table.
“And that,” he said, “concludes the formal reading. Our office is taking care of finding the legatee in Heraea. Since Mr. Constantine lived in Passet Bay, the will will have to go into probate out on Long Island. Peter—if I may call you that—you'll have to make some sworn statements and such. I'll fill you in on all the details and rigamarole. As for the rest, well, I suppose you have some things you'd like to ask me about—yes?”
“I don't know where to start,” said Peter, looking around the table and catching his mother's eye. She gave him a little forced smile. “What's it all mean, I suppose I should start with.”
“I think, what's it all amount to is more what you're asking. We've handled your grandfather's affairs here for well over twenty-five years, Peter. He ran a number of very successful import-export firms—I expect you know that.” Peter said nothing to indicate otherwise. “About ten years ago, he abruptly decided to sell them all and retire to his estate in Long Island. Since that time, he'd been living off the proceeds of the sales and various investments he'd made over the years. We have records of all this that Connie can send you next week. To be perfectly honest with you, he'd been going through his capital at a very rapid rate— acquiring art, antiques, and I'm really not quite sure what. The annual property taxes on the estate were enormous, as you can well imagine, and frankly I don't know how much longer he could have continued to live in such an . . . unbridled fashion.”
“Are you telling me he was broke?” Peter said, already braced for the letdown.
“Hardly, hardly,” Kennedy assured him. “The Passet Bay estate itself is worth a small fortune. It covers seventy-five acres of very valuable land—he called the place Arcadia, by the way, an allusion which I'm sure won't be lost on a grad student—and in addition to the house, which is quite a sight from what I hear, the place includes a boathouse, gardener's cottage, gazebo, private dock. It's quite a little paradise.”
“And all of this,” Peter said, still having trouble believing it, “is mine?”
“Lock, stock, and barrel,” Kennedy replied. “At least until the IRS gets done with us. I might as well forewarn you—the inheritance taxes are going to be very substantial on all this. To pay the taxes on the place, you're undoubtedly going to have to sell it. But with real-estate values out there being as high as they've been of late, you'll still have plenty of reason to celebrate, I can promise you that. So,” he concluded, taking a large swallow from his iced coffee, “you have just become a member of the landed gentry, Peter. For however long it lasts. How does it feel?”
“I couldn't tell you yet. It hasn't had a chance to sink in.” And it wouldn't, he knew, for at least a while. He'd often said, only half in jest, that he was a “spontaneous anhedonic,” unable to experience pleasure or happiness unless at some temporal remove, sometimes a few hours, sometimes days. Lately, he had hardly been able to experience it at all; he'd have to relearn the art.
Compounding whatever natural difficulty he'd have had was the cryptic expression on his mother's face— she couldn't help but be happy for him, that he knew; his father having died when he was only six weeks old, she had always struggled to provide for him as well as she possibly could, working long, hard hours to pay for him to attend private school in the city, and then Columbia University. He knew she'd be happy that his financial future—and her own, for that matter—was now secure, that choosing to pursue a career in teaching would no longer compromise his chances of leading a decent life. He knew she'd be relieved, indeed elated, for him.
And yet, her expression told another, contradictory, story. Her face had always had a certain drawn, careworn look about it, and the strain of the last couple of days had apparently added to it: the circles under her eyes were darker than usual; the gray in what had once been her jet-black hair seemed more pronounced. As she looked at him now, across the table, it was with a deep concern and even, though he suspected he must be misreading it, something like fear—fear for his safety, the look he'd seen when he was seventeen and saying good-bye to go on a three-week cross-country car trip with two of his friends from school. It seemed a mysterious way to greet such good news.
“Peter,” she said, as if she'd been reading his mind the whole time, “I am happy for you,” and she reached one hand across the table toward him. He took it in his own good hand, feeling her cold, lean fingers beneath his own. “And you, too, dear,” she said, extending the other to Meg. “I think you two had a bit of good luck coming to you.”
“This is a pretty healthy bit, I'd say,” Kennedy added. “Peter, I'm going to give you this packet here,” and he slid a manila envelope across the table to him, “and ask you to read over everything inside, sign the papers wherever necessary, and return them to my attention as soon as you can. If you've got any questions, just give us a call, and I'm sure Connie can tell you what's what.” Then, clearly switching gears, he said in a much less brisk and businesslike tone, “There's just one other thing I must bring up. You should know that as of yesterday morning at least, the police and county coroner's office were still investigating the circumstances of Mr. Constantine's death. The supposition is that he had a heart attack while out alone on the dock, late last Sunday night, and that the bruises and other markings which turned up on the body resulted from his being buffeted against the rocks and dock pilings. I'm sure it will all be cleared up in the next day or two, barring anything else untoward showing up, but I'll certainly let you know if I hear anything more.” There was a brief silence in the room at this sudden reminder of the actual death and its unusual circumstances, before Kennedy, stretching out his arms with his palms laid flat against the table, said, “And with that, I think we've covered about everything we need to. Thank you all for coming here— Peter, be sure to get those papers back to me as soon as possible.”
On the street outside, the shock of the warm sunlight and the rush-hour traffic made what had just transpired in Kennedy's office seem to Peter more real and, at the same time, more difficult to believe. The crowded sidewalks, the bleating of the car horns, lent it all a background of everyday credibility, while rendering the cool, hushed tranquillity of the law office more remote and improbable than ever. Meg, however, settled the question by hugging him so hard he had to plead for mercy on behalf of his wounded arm.
His mother had put on a pair of round, lightly tinted sunglasses, which concealed the weariness in her eyes, but the waning sunlight made her features appear more pale, more drawn than ever. There were lines in her throat that he had never noticed there before.
At Peter's insistence, they all climbed into a Checker cab that had just deposited its passenger right in front of them and rode to Mrs. Constantine's apartment building near First Avenue. It was one of the great, gray prewar buildings, with a frayed green awning and a doorman too tired to stand up when they passed through the lobby. His mother's apartment was a small one bedroom, furnished with an overstuffed brocade sofa, squat, heavy armchairs, and worn old Oriental carpets on the floor. The only cheerful touches of
color and life came from a variety of throw pillows, scattered around the room, that his mother had worked in beautiful and delicate needlepoint. The windows commanded a view of other windows in the building right next door.
Mrs. Constantine went straight into the kitchen, a narrow galley just off the living room, to look after the pot roast she'd prepared; Peter and Meg flopped down on the sofa, which immediately rose up and threatened to envelop them. They heard the oven door close; Mrs. Constantine came back into the room, smoothing her hair back along the sides.
“I think it'll be ready in about another half-hour,” she said, removing an open copy of Ellery Queen magazine from one of the armchairs and sitting down. “So tell me about what's going on at the college. And how you're both feeling. When does the term actually end?”
Peter and Meg exchanged a quick look, of both surprise and amusement, at his mother's determination even now to avoid the obvious topic of conversation.
“Well, Mom, aside from the fact that I may have become a millionaire about ten minutes ago, things are just so-so. Mom,” he said, with an exasperated smile, “do you think we could talk about it? About the fact that I never even knew your father was living out there? Or that he was rich? Or that he knew I was alive? Do you think we could clear up some of this age-old mystery now?”
His mother fidgeted in the chair, then automatically reached down into the sewing basket and pulled out a piece of half-completed needlepoint. A peacock, as far as Peter could make out.
“It's not really such a great mystery,” she said, meticulously arranging the fabric on her lap. “I'm sorry if I've made it seem so.” Peter knew she was stalling again, just as she had been for twenty-odd years. “He would not have been a good influence, especially for someone as vulnerable as you, a boy who had never even known his own father. He was . . . not ethical, in his personal or business affairs. I think even the circumstances of his death—with the police involved and all—point to that,” she said, as if bolstering her hand.
“And yet you reverted to your maiden name, his name, when my father died?”
“Your father died less than a year, one year, after the marriage. Of a rare heart disease—as I've told you.” Her eyes never lifted from the needlepoint; Peter could never remember her meeting his gaze when discussing that marriage. She had mentioned it very infrequently in all those years, and only then in direct reply to a pointed inquiry. Even now, she seemed to be concentrating on imparting as little actual information as possible, on keeping her story— and that was the one word that always crept into Peter's mind when listening to these accounts of his background—as simple, uncluttered, and incontestable as possible. “All my life I'd been Ellen Constantine; it seemed easier, and more sensible, to just go back to it.”
Meg, feeling things might proceed more smoothly in her absence, indicated, with a look and a silent tilt of her head, that she'd be in the next room napping until further notice. Mrs. Constantine glanced up as she left, then quickly looked down at her needlepoint again.
“But what was the fight about? Things were okay, weren't they, between you and your father before you got married? What was it about the marriage, or my father, or my birth—if that was it—that caused this incredible rift to open up? And stay open, all these years?”
His mother's fingers stopped working on the design. As she sat, head lowered, hands still, Peter wondered again how someone so young as she—somewhere in her late forties, he knew, though she'd always been evasive about actual dates—could seem so much older. He had never known her, even when he was a boy, to dress, or act, or carry herself in the way most women her age would have done; she had always seemed older, more faded, more resigned somehow.
“Your father . . . and mine . . .”—she was speaking so softly he had to lean forward to hear her—"quar- reled, bitterly. It was part of one of those ancient Greek feuds. A family thing. A terrible, useless, futile thing.” She raised her hands to her face, cupping them as if in prayer, covering all but her lowered eyes. “When your father became ill—and needed help, desperately—no help was given. He might have been saved . . . but even then, no help was given.”
She fell silent, and Peter reached up and took one hand from her face, and held it.
“I wanted this . . . monstrousness to end with you. I wanted you preserved from it, untouched by it. I didn't even want you to ever have to know about any of it . . . I'm only sorry that what happened this afternoon has made that impossible.”
“But then why—” Peter started to say, thinking out loud.
“Why did he leave you virtually everything he had?” his mother said, completing his thought. “I'm not sure myself. I would like to think out of regret, and remorse. I would like to think that,” she said, sounding not at all convinced. Then looking up at him again, “But I'm glad he did. Truly I am. I've no more idea than you do of what it will all come to, but we'll tell Mr. Kennedy to dispose of the estate and property as soon as possible, and once that's done—”
“Not without at least seeing it, though,” Peter interjected innocently. “You don't want him to simply sell it all off without our even having taken a look, do you?”
His mother appeared startled. “Why would you need to do that? It seems to me that the simplest, and most expedient, thing to do is to leave it all in more experienced hands. Don't you trust Kennedy?”
“No, it's not that; I'm sure Kennedy is fine. It's just that I'd hate to be a property owner who never even saw what he owned before he had to give most of it to the IRS. Wouldn't you like to see the estate? Arcadia? Kennedy said it was quite a place, from what he'd heard.”
“No, I wouldn't like to see it,” his mother replied, her voice instantly colder and more resolute than before. “I wouldn't like to see it, and after what I've just told you, I'm very surprised that you do.”
“Mom, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry. I'm just curious. I mean, it's not as if your father were still out there.”
For one split second, he saw her eyes dart away.
“I'm sorry I mentioned it. Forget the whole thing. I'll talk to Kennedy next week.” He searched for a way to end the conversation. “Why don't you check on the pot roast—smells almost done to me—and I'll see how Meg's doing in the bedroom.”
He kissed his mother on the cheek before leaving the room, but even as he inched open the bedroom door and peered inside to see Meg curled up with a pillow in her arms, he knew he was going to see Arcadia—at least once—before letting it go.
Four
AT THE COLLEGE, Byron was the only friend they told of their sudden good fortune, and even he was sworn to secrecy. Peter didn't want the news traveling around the campus quite yet, partly because he still wasn't sure what it all meant, and partly because he was by nature superstitious: What came so easily could just as easily disappear.
On Wednesday morning, Peter called Kennedy's office and, after asking him two or three quick questions concerning the estate papers, said, “There's just one more thing. Meg and I would like to go out and see my grandfather's place this weekend.” Just saying the word “grandfather,” even to Kennedy, seemed like a betrayal of his mother. “What are we supposed to do about keys and getting in?”
“Keys I don't think you'll need. The caretaker's still tending to the place. His name's Nikos, by the way, in case I haven't mentioned it. I'll have Connie call him from here and tell him you'll be by—when? Early Saturday afternoon?”
“Yes, that's probably about right.”
“Fine. If there's any problem, we'll get back to you.”
“And could I ask one more favor? If you should happen to speak to my mother for any reason, could you please not mention that Meg and I went out there?”
“Done,” he agreed, after a moment's pause. “Attorney-client privilege.”
When Peter had hung up the phone, Meg asked, “Are you always going to keep this visit a secret from your mother?”
“I don't know about always,” Peter rep
lied. “But twenty or thirty years might not be a bad idea.”
On Saturday morning, instead of going their separate ways as they had of late, Meg made sandwiches in the kitchen and Peter laid out a road map of Long Island on the dining table. “Looks like we just take the expressway out to Syosset, then Route 1 to Passet Bay. Huntington Road's supposed to intersect it.”
“Just tell me when and where to turn,” said Meg, cheerfully, as she dropped the sandwiches into the paper bag.
“Well, actually I thought I'd have you tell me when to turn.” He paused. “I think I'll drive.”
Meg tried not to seem too surprised; he hadn't driven since the accident. “Okay by me,” she said brightly. “I'll navigate, then.”
Peter didn't wear his sling out to the car but tossed it into the back seat in case he needed it later. He pulled the seat belt down around him and, jamming the key into the ignition, hit the gas pedal too hard; the gears made a terrible grinding noise. Meg noticed his left hand tightly clench, and then release, the steering wheel.
“Why don't you take Asbury Avenue out of town?” Meg suggested.
They both knew why—Asbury wasn't the most direct route but taking it would allow them to circumvent the scene of the accident. Though Peter didn't say anything, at the end of the block he made a left turn, toward Asbury.
For the first few miles, he continued to hit everything a bit too abruptly—the gas, the brakes, the gear shift. Meg kept up a steady stream of what she hoped would be distracting conversation while looking resolutely out the side window. Once they'd actually reached the expressway entrance, Peter seemed to relax a little.
The Spirit Wood Page 3
