She replied without hesitation, “He has a certain primitive charm and a self-assurance even in the face of my well-bred arrogance.’’ She paused, then said, “He’s rather better looking than I’d imagined.”
“I don’t think he’s good-looking.’’ I added, “And he dresses funny.”
“So do half the tweedbags around here.”
We walked back onto the court, where Jim and Sally were volleying. I said, “Sorry.’’ You should know that interrupting a tennis game for anything short of a death on the court is in bad taste.
Jim responded, “Susan said that might be your new neighbor.”
“It was.’’ I picked up my racquet and took the court. “Where were we?”
Sally asked, “Frank Bellarosa?”
“I think it was my serve,’’ I said.
Susan said to Sally, “We just call him Bishop.”
Three of us thought that was funny. I repeated, “My serve, two–love.”
Susan showed the Roosevelts the bag of radicchio and they all examined it as though it were Martian plant life or something.
“It’s getting dark,’’ I said.
“What did he want?’’ Jim asked Susan.
Susan answered, “He wants us to eat this and plant a vegetable garden.”
Sally giggled.
Susan continued, “And he wants to know if he’s supposed to put a sign out front that says Alhambra. And,’’ Susan added, “he invited us over for Easter dinner.”
“Oh, no!’’ Sally squealed.
“Lamb’s head!’’ Susan exclaimed.
“Oh, for God’s sake,’’ I said. I’ve never seen a game delayed for conversation on the court except once at the Southampton Tennis Club when a jealous husband tried to brain the pro with his Dunlop Blue Max, but everyone got back to business as soon as the husband and the pro disappeared around the clubhouse. I said, “My muscles are tightening. That’s the game.’’ I gathered my things and walked off the court. The other three followed, still talking, and I led the way back to the house.
It was still warm enough to sit in the garden, and Susan brought out a bottle of old port. For hors d’oeuvres there was cheese and crackers, garnished with radicchio, which even I found amusing.
I drank and watched the sun go down, smelled the fresh horse manure in the rose garden, and tried to listen to the birds, but Susan, Sally, and Jim were chattering on about Frank Bellarosa, and I heard Susan using the words “deliciously sinister,’’ “interestingly primitive,’’ and even “intriguing.’’ The man is about as intriguing as a barrel of cement. But women see different things in men than men see in men. Sally was certainly intrigued by Susan’s descriptions. Jim, too, seemed absorbed in the subject.
If you’re interested in the pecking order on my terrace, the Stanhope and the Grace sitting across from me are considered old money by most American standards, because there wasn’t much American capital around until only about a hundred years ago. But the Roosevelt sitting beside me would think of the Graces and Stanhopes as new money and too much of it. The Roosevelts were never filthy rich, but they go back to the beginning of the New World and they have a respected name and are associated with public service to their country in war and peace, unlike at least one Stanhope I could name.
I told you about the Sutters, but you should know that my mother is a Whitman, a descendant of Long Island’s most illustrious poet, Walt Whitman. Thus, in the pecking order, Jim and I are peers, and our wives, while rich, pretty, and thin, are a step down the social ladder. Get it? It doesn’t matter. What matters now is where Frank Bellarosa fits.
As I listened to Susan and the Roosevelts talk, I realized they had a different slant on Frank Bellarosa than I did. I was concerned about Mr. Bellarosa’s legal transgressions against society, such as murder, racketeering, extortion, and little things like that. But Susan, Sally, and even Jim discussed larger issues such as Mr. Bellarosa’s shiny black car, shiny white shoes, and his major crime, which was the purchase of Alhambra. Susan, I think, acts and speaks differently when she’s around people like Sally Grace.
I was also struck by the fact that these three found some entertainment value in Mr. Frank Bellarosa. They spoke of him as if he were a gorilla in a cage and they were spectators. I almost envied them their supreme overconfidence, their assurance that they were not part of life’s circus, but were ticket holders with box seats opposite the center ring. This aloofness, I knew, was bred into Sally’s and Susan’s bones from childhood, and with Jim, it just flowed naturally in his blue blood. I suppose I can be aloof, too. But everyone in my family worked, and you can only be so aloof when you have to earn a living.
Listening to Susan, I wanted to remind her that she and I were not ticket holders at this particular event; we were part of the entertainment, we were inside the cage with the gorilla, and the thrills and chills were going to be more than vicarious.
At my suggestion, the subject turned to the boating season. The Roosevelts stayed until eight, then left.
I remarked to Susan, “I don’t see anything amusing or interesting about Bellarosa.”
“You have to keep an open mind,’’ she said, and poured herself another port.
“He is a criminal,’’ I said tersely.
She replied just as tersely, “If you have proof of that, Counselor, you’d better call the DA.”
Which reminded me of the underlying problem: If society couldn’t get rid of Frank Bellarosa, how was I supposed to do it? This breakdown of the law was sapping everyone’s morale—even Susan was commenting on it now, and Lester Remsen was convinced the rules were out the window. I wasn’t so sure yet. I said to Susan, “You know what I’m talking about. Bellarosa is a reputed Mafia don.”
She finished her port, let out a deep breath, and said, “Look, John, it’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”
Indeed it had been a long day, and I, too, felt physically and emotionally drained. I remarked, unwisely, “Hay fights take a lot out of a person.”
“Cut it out.’’ She stood and moved toward the house.
“Did we beat the Roosevelts or not?’’ I asked. “Do I get my sexual favor?”
She hesitated. “Sure. Would you like me to go fuck myself?”
Actually, yes.
She opened the French door that led into the study. “I’m certain you recall that we are due at the DePauws at nine for late supper. What one might call an Easter thing. Please be ready on time.’’ Susan went into the house.
I poured myself another port. No, I did not recall. What was more, I didn’t give a damn. It occurred to me that if certain people found Frank Bellarosa not bad looking, “deliciously sinister,’’ “interestingly primitive,’’ “intriguing,’’ and worth an hour’s conversation, then maybe those same people found me nice and dull and predictable. That, coupled with the hay fight earlier in the afternoon, got me wondering if Susan was getting a bit restless herself.
I stood, took the bottle of port, and walked out of the garden and into the dark. I kept walking until I found myself some time later at the hedge maze. A bit under the influence by now, I stumbled into the maze, whose paths were choked with untrimmed branches. I wandered around until I was sure I was completely lost, then sprawled out on the ground, finished the port, and fell asleep under the stars. Screw the DePauws.
Ten
I could hear birds singing close by, and I opened my eyes but could see nothing. I sat up quickly in disoriented panic. I saw now that I was engulfed in a mist, and I thought for a moment that I had died and gone to heaven. But then I burped up some port and I knew I was alive, though not well. By stages I recalled where I was and how I’d gotten there. I didn’t like any of the recollections, so I pushed them out of my mind.
Overhead, the first streaks of dawn lit up a purple and crimson sky. My head felt awful, I was cold, and my muscles were stiff as cardboard. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. It was Easter Sunday, and John Sutter had indeed risen.
I
stood slowly and noticed the bottle of port on the ground and recalled using it as a pillow. I picked it up and took the final swallow from it to freshen my mouth. “Ugh . . .”
I brushed off my warm-up suit and zipped the jacket against the chill. Middle-aged men, even those in good shape, should not wallow around on the cold ground all night with a snoot full of booze. It’s not healthy or dignified. “Oh . . . my neck . . .”
I coughed, stretched, sneezed, and performed other morning functions. Everything seemed to be working except my mind, which couldn’t grasp the enormity of what I’d done.
I took a few tentative steps, felt all right, and began pushing aside the branches of the hedge maze. I tried following the trail of footprints and broken twigs of the night before, but tracking is not one of my outdoor skills, and I was soon lost. Actually, I started out lost. Now I was missing in action.
The sky was getting lighter, and I could make out east from west. The exit from the maze was on the eastern edge of the hedges, and I moved generally that way whenever I could, but I found myself crossing my path again and again. Whoever laid out this labyrinth was some kind of sadistic genius.
A full half hour after I’d begun, I broke out onto the lawn and saw the sun rising above the distant gazebo.
I sat on a stone bench at the entrance to the maze and forced myself to think. Not only had I walked out on Susan and missed a social engagement, but I had also missed sunrise services at St. Mark’s, and Susan and the Allards were probably frantic with worry by now. Well, maybe Susan and Ethel were not frantic, but George would be worried and the women, concerned.
I wondered if Susan had bravely gone to the DePauws with regrets from her husband, or had she called the police and stayed by the phone all night? I guess what I was wondering was if anyone cared if I was dead or alive. As I was brooding over this, I heard the sound of hoofs on the damp earth. I looked up to see a horse and rider approaching out of the sun. I stood and squinted into the sunlight.
Susan reined up on Zanzibar about twenty feet from where I stood. Neither Susan nor I spoke, but the stupid horse snorted, and the snort sounded contemptuous, which set me off, illogical as that may seem.
I thought I would be filled with guilt and remorse when I saw Susan, but strangely enough, I still didn’t care. I asked, “Were you looking for me, or just out riding?”
It must have been my tone of voice that kept her from a smart-aleck reply. She said, “I was looking for you.”
“Well, now that you’ve found me, you can leave. I want to be alone.”
“All right.’’ She began reining Zanzibar around and asked over her shoulder, “Will you come to eleven-o’clock service with us?”
“If I do, I’ll drive my own car to church.”
“All right. I’ll see you later.’’ She rode off, and Zanzibar broke wind. If I’d had my shotgun, I would have filled his ass with buckshot.
Well, I thought, that was easy. I felt good. I began walking, loosening my muscles, then I jogged for a while, sucking in the cool morning air. What a beautiful dawn it was, and what a beautiful thing it was to be up with the sun and running through the ground mist, getting high on beta blockers and endorphins or something. I spent an hour cavorting, I guess you’d call it, gamboling about the acreage, with no goal or reason except that it felt good.
I climbed a big linden tree at the rear edge of the property that overlooks The Creek Country Club. What a magnificent view. I stayed in the tree awhile, reliving this exquisite pleasure of childhood. With great reluctance I got down from the tree, then began jogging again. At about what I guessed was nine A . M ., I was physically exhausted but as mentally alert as I’d been in a long time. I didn’t even have a hangover. I pushed myself toward the line of white pine that separated the Stanhope property from Alhambra, sweat pouring from my body and carrying the toxins out with it.
I ran through Alhambra’s overgrown horse pasture, my heart pounding and my legs wanting to buckle and drop me to the earth. But I went on through the cherry grove and reached the classical garden where Susan and I had enacted our sexual drama.
I collapsed on a marble bench and looked around. The imposing statue of Neptune still stood at the end of the mosaic reflecting pool, but there was now a bronze trident in his clenched fist. “Look at that. . . .’’ I saw, too, that the four fish sculptures were spouting water from their mouths and the water was collecting in a giant marble seashell, then spilling over into the newly cleaned reflecting pool. “I’ll be damned. . . .”
I stood and staggered over to the fountain, which had not worked in over twenty years. I dropped to my knees and washed my face in the seashell, then lapped up the cold water. “Ahh . . . nice going, Frank.”
I gargled a mouthful of water and spit it up in a plume, in imitation of the stone fish. “Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.”
I heard a noise and turned. Not thirty feet away, on the path that led from the house, stood a woman in a flowery dress and pink hat, with a white shawl over her shoulders. She saw me and stopped dead in her tracks. I could imagine the picture I presented, slobbering around the fountain with a filthy warm-up suit and tangled hair. I spat out a mouthful of water and said, “Hello.”
She turned and began walking quickly away, then looked back to see what I was up to. She was a woman in her mid-forties, full-figured, with blond hair that, even at this distance, looked bleached. Her makeup was not subtle, and I thought the purple eye shadow and hot-pink lip gloss might have been leftover Easter-egg dyes. Even in her Easter frock and bonnet she looked a little cheap and brassy. But she was well put together. I’m not a tit man, and my preference is for lithe, well-scrubbed, all-American types, like Susan. But having spent the morning alternating between atavistic and adolescent behavior, I was in the right mood to find something crudely sexual in this woman’s primitive paint job, with her big breasts and buttocks. In some vague way she reminded me of the Venus statue in the love temple.
She was still glancing over her shoulder as she put distance between us. I thought I should identify myself so she wouldn’t be frightened, but if she was part of the Bellarosa clan, it might be best if we didn’t meet under these circumstances. I was about to stand and walk away, which is what an uninteresting attorney and gentleman would have done. But, recalling my recent success with Susan, I got on all fours and growled.
The woman broke into a run, losing her high heels.
I stood and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. This was fun. It did occur to me that my behavior was not in the normal range, but who am I to make psychiatric evaluations? As I walked along the edge of the reflecting pool contemplating my next move, I noticed something else new. At the far end of the long, narrow pool was a white statue. As I drew closer, I saw that it was one of those cheap plaster saints with the sky-blue niches that you see on Italians’ lawns, usually in conjunction with a pink flamingo or two.
I saw now that it was a statue of Mary, her arms cradling the infant Jesus. I found the juxtaposition of this Christian icon across the pool from the pagan god rather curious. Here was this loving woman enveloping her child, and in the same setting staring at her, as it were, was this half-naked, virile god with upraised trident, the antithesis of the Judeo-Christian God of love.
I was reminded of the first time I was in Rome and being surprised at how the two dominant strands of Italian culture—pagan and Christian—coexisted in art with no apparent contradictions. The tour guides seemed to have no theological or aesthetic problems with mixed motifs: for instance, a frieze of nubile nymphs and randy cupids adorning the same room that held a statue of La Vergine.
The Italians, I decided then, were themselves pagan and Christian, like their art, both cruel and gentle, Roman and Catholic. It was as if the wrong religion had been grafted onto a country and a people who by temperament made good pagans and lousy Christians.
It occurred to me, too, that the same Frank Bellarosa who restored the trident to Neptune, who knew what that clenched fist needed,
was also the Frank Bellarosa who felt a need to balance his world with this symbol of love and hope. This was a man who covered all his bases. Interesting.
I heard a dog barking from the direction of the mansion, and I decided to wonder about all of this while moving rapidly away from the don’s hit men. I may have been crazy, but I wasn’t stupid.
I headed in the direction of Stanhope Hall, moving as fast as I could, considering I hadn’t had anything more substantial to eat than radicchio and cheese since Saturday’s lunch. The barking dogs, two of them now, were closer.
I put on a burst of speed, crossing the tree line at full tilt. I didn’t slow up, however, figuring the dogs and the hit men, while not mounted gentry, would still surely cross into Stanhope land in hot pursuit.
I saw the shallow pond near where Susan intended to move her stable and charged into it, half wading, half walking on water, until I reached the other side. What I lacked in stalking skills, I made up for in escape and evasion techniques.
I kept running and I could hear the dogs yapping around the pond where they’d lost the scent. I had only assumed that the dogs were accompanied by men, but I wasn’t certain until now when I heard the discharge of a shotgun behind me. My legs responded instinctively and began moving faster than my heart and lungs could take. I ran out of glucose, adrenaline, endorphins, and all that and collapsed on the ground. I lay perfectly still and listened.
After a few minutes, I stood slowly and began walking softly through the brush. I intersected an old gravel road that led to the service gate on Grace Lane. I followed the road until I saw the guesthouse through newly budded cherry trees. I was pretty sure the shotgun boys wouldn’t penetrate this far into the Stanhope estate, so I took my time getting to the house. As someone once said, there’s nothing quite so satisfying as being shot at and missed. I felt terrific, on top of the world. My only regret was that I couldn’t tell this story to anyone. What I needed, I realized, were friends who would appreciate this escapade. I would have told Susan, but she wasn’t my friend anymore.
The Gold Coast Page 10
