A few sarcastic replies passed through my mind, but I answered, “I probably do.”
“Of course you have every right to park here, and we have no authority to ask you to move.”
“That’s right,’’ I informed him. “This street is private property. My property.”
“Yes, sir.’’ Mancuso had folded his arms on the windowsill of my Bronco, and his chin was resting on his forearm, his head tilted as though he were an old friend just chatting. He was a man of about fifty, with incredibly large white teeth, like a row of Chiclets. His skin was sallow, and his eyes and cheeks were sunken as if he weren’t getting enough to eat. And he had gone bald in a bad way, with a bushy fringe and a tuft of curly hair left on his peak like a circus clown. I added, “I’m not even sure you have a right to be here.”
Mr. Mancuso winced as if I’d offended him, or maybe he smelled the beer nuts and beef jerky. “Well,’’ he said, “I’m a lawyer and you’re a lawyer and we could debate that intelligently some other time.”
I didn’t know why I was being aggressive with the guy. Maybe I was still a little shook up about how he’d rapped on my window, and aggression was my response. Or maybe I was still in my primitive mode. Anyway, I realized I sounded as if I were a mouthpiece for the don. I calmed down a bit and said, “So?”
“Well, you see, we’re taking pictures and your vehicle is in our line of sight.”
“Pictures of what?”
“You know.”
He didn’t offer and I didn’t ask from where he or they were taking pictures, but it could only have been from the DePauw house, which sits about a hundred yards off Grace Lane on a rise, directly, as I said, across from Alhambra’s gates. I found it interesting, but certainly understandable, that the DePauws, who are “Support your local police state’’ types, would join the forces of good against the forces of evil. Allen DePauw would, I’m sure, let the Feds set up a machine gun nest and supply the ammunition. Grace Lane was going through some changes.
I looked up at the DePauws’ big clapboard colonial, then turned toward Alhambra’s gate. I supposed that as the cars swung into the drive, the FBI was photographing the license plates with a telephoto lens and probably even getting nice shots of the guests as they got out of their cars. I realized that I was not actually blocking the line of sight between the DePauws’ house and the gates, and I thought there was more to this. I said, “I was about to leave anyway.”
“Thank you.’’ Mancuso made no move to disengage himself from my vehicle. He said, “I guess you’re stopped here because you’re curious.”
“Actually, I was invited.”
“Were you?’’ He seemed surprised, then not so surprised. He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, if you ever want to talk to us”—he produced a business card and handed it to me—“give me a call.”
“About what?”
“Anything. You going in there?”
“No.’’ I put the card in my pocket with the shotgun shell and cocktail napkin. Maybe a display case would be better.
“It’s okay if you want to go in.”
“Thanks, Mr. Mancuso.”
He flashed his pearly whites. “I mean, we understand your situation. Being neighbors and all.”
“You don’t know the half of it.’’ I glanced back at Alhambra’s gates and saw the two men and the Easter bunny talking among themselves and looking at us. On a day when even the rich people that I knew couldn’t get help with dinner (unless they ate at the Stardust Diner), don Bellarosa could turn out two goons, a bunny, and probably more hired guns and help inside. I turned back to Mancuso, who was also missing Easter with his family, and asked a bit sarcastically, “When can I expect Mr. Bellarosa to go away for a while?”
“I can’t comment on that, Mr. Sutter.”
I said, “I am not pleased with this situation, Mr. Mancuso.”
“Neither are we, sir.”
“Well, then, arrest the guy.”
“We’re gathering evidence, sir.”
I felt my anger rising, and poor Mr. Mancuso, who represented the forces of official impotence, was going to get a piece of my civic mind. I snapped, “Frank Bellarosa has been a known criminal for nearly three decades, and he lives a better life than you or I, Mr. Mancuso, and you are still gathering evidence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps crime does pay in this country.”
“No, it doesn’t, sir. Not in the long run.”
“Is thirty years a short run?”
“Well, Mr. Sutter, if all honest citizens were as outraged as you seem to be, and assisted—”
“No, no, Mr. Mancuso. Don’t give me that crap. I’m not a peace officer, a judge, or a vigilante. Civilized people pay taxes to the government as part of the social contract. The government is supposed to get rid of Frank Bellarosa. I’ll sit on the jury.”
“Yes, sir.’’ He added, “Lawyers can’t sit on juries.”
“I would if I could.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’ve spoken to a few federal types over the course of my career—IRS agents, FBI men, and such—and when they get into their “Yes, sir, Mr. Citizen Taxpayer’’ mode, it means that communication has ended. I said, “Well, go back to your picture-taking.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I threw the Bronco into gear. “At least the neighborhood is safe now.”
“It usually is in these situations, Mr. Sutter.”
“Very ironic,’’ I observed.
“Yes, sir.”
I looked Mr. Mancuso in the eye and asked, “Do you know what capozella is?”
He grinned. “Sure. My grandmother used to try to make me eat it. It’s a delicacy. Why?”
“Just checking. Arrivederci.”
“Happy Easter.’’ He straightened up and all I could see now was his paunch. I hit the gas and released the clutch, throwing up some gravel as I headed up Grace Lane.
The lane ends in a turnaround in front of an estate called Fox Point, which backs onto the Sound. Fox Point may become a mosque, but more about that later.
I drove around the circle and headed south on Grace Lane, passing Alhambra and the spot where Mr. Mancuso had stood. He was gone now, as I expected he would be, but I had such a strong sense that the whole day was hallucinatory that I pulled his card from my pocket and stared at it. I recalled retrieving the shotgun cartridge for the same reason, to establish physical evidence of something that had just happened. “Get hold of yourself, John.”
I thought of Mr. Mancuso for a minute or two. Clown that he seemed, he was no fool. There was something quietly self-assured about him, and I rather liked the idea of an Italian on the case of another Italian. God knows, the establishment in Washington couldn’t handle Bellarosa or his kind. The days of the erstwhile Elliot Ness were over, and Italian-American prosecutors and federal agents were having better luck with their felonious compatriots. In a sort of ironically historical twist, I thought, it was like the Roman senate hiring barbarian mercenaries to fight the barbarians. Satisfied with my analysis and nearly comforted by the chance meeting with the odd-looking Mr. Mancuso, I headed toward Aunt Cornelia’s.
• • •
Within ten minutes I was in the village of Locust Valley. Aunt Cornelia’s house is a big Victorian on a quiet side street a few blocks from my office. The house has a turret, a huge attic, and a wraparound porch, the sort of home an Aunt Cornelia should live in, and I have fond childhood memories of the place. My aunt’s husband, Uncle Arthur, is a retired failure: that is, he spent vast amounts of inherited income on ventures that went nowhere. But he never forgot the most important Wasp dictum: Never touch the principal. And so now, in retirement, the principal, handled by professionals, myself included, has grown and so has his income. I hope he stays out of business. His three sons, my brainless cousins, who have their father’s flair for losing money, are made to repeat every morning, “Never touch the principal.’’ They’ll be all right, and so will their wit
less children, as long as they never touch the principal.
Aunt Cornelia’s street was lined with cars, because it was a street where everyone’s aunt, grandmother, and mother lived; a place, to paraphrase Robert Frost, where when you had to go home for a holiday, any home on the block would do.
I found a parking space and walked up to Aunt Cornelia’s house. I stood on the porch awhile, took a deep breath, opened the front door, and entered.
The house was filled with people, all of them in some way or the other related to me and to each other, I suppose. I’m not good at the extended-family game, and I never know whom I’m supposed to kiss, whose kids belong to whom, or any of that. I’m always putting my foot in my mouth, asking divorced people how their spouses are, inquiring of bankrupt relatives how business is, and on more than one occasion, asking about the health of a parent who has been dead a few years. Susan, who is not related to any of these people except through me, knows everybody’s name, their relationship to me, who died, who was born, and who got divorced, as if it were her job to make entries in the family Bible. I almost wished she were at my side now, whispering in my ear something like, “That’s your cousin Barbara, daughter of your aunt Annie and your deceased uncle Bart. Barbara’s husband, Carl, left her for a man. Barbara is upset, but is taking it well, though she hates men now.’’ Thus forewarned, I would be forearmed when I greeted Barbara, though there wouldn’t be much to talk about except maybe women’s tennis or something like that.
Anyway, there they all were, holding glasses in their left hands, gums flapping, and my mind raced ahead to possible pitfalls. I said a few hellos, but managed to avoid any real conversation by moving quickly from room to room through large double doors in the big old house, as if I were on my way to the bathroom.
I saw Judy and Lester Remsen, who always put in appearances at my family affairs, but for the life of me I can’t find a single relative who knows how Lester is related to us. It may be just a terrible mistake on his part, and he may have realized it at some point but is afraid to stop coming to these things, thereby admitting he’s been at the wrong family functions for thirty years.
As I slipped from room to room and out of conversational traps, I caught glimpses of my mother and father and of Susan, but I avoided them. I was acutely aware that I was underdressed and undergroomed. Even the kids were wearing pressed clothes and leather shoes.
I found the bar, set up in the butler’s pantry, and made myself a scotch and soda. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I was surprised when I turned to see my sister, Emily, who I had understood could not make it in from Texas. We embraced and kissed. Emily and I are close despite the years and miles that have separated us, and if there is anyone in this world I care about aside from Susan and my children, it is my sister.
I noticed a man standing behind her and assumed it was her new beau. He smiled at me, and Emily introduced us. “John, this is my friend, Gary.”
I shook hands with Gary, who was a handsome, suntanned, young man, about ten years younger than Emily. He spoke in a Texas drawl. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sutter.”
“John. I’ve heard a lot about you.’’ I glanced at Emily and saw she was radiant, younger looking than when I’d last seen her, aglow with a new sexual fire that made her eyes sparkle. I was truly overjoyed for her and she knew it. The three of us chatted for a minute, then Gary excused himself, and Emily and I slipped into the big storage room off the butler’s pantry. Emily took my hand. “John, I’m so happy.”
“You look it.”
She fixed her eyes on mine. “Is everything all right with you?”
“Yes. I’m on the verge of cracking up. It’s marvelous.”
She laughed. “I’m a slut and you look like a bum. Mother and Dad are scandalized.”
I smiled in return. “Good.’’ My parents, as I’ve mentioned, are socially progressive, but when their own family is involved in some sort of iconoclastic behavior, my parents become keepers of the traditional values. I hesitate to use the word hypocrites.
Emily asked, “Are you and Susan okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“She told me you were unhappy and she was concerned. I think she wanted me to speak to you.”
I stirred my scotch and soda, then sipped it. Susan knows that aside from herself, only Emily can speak to me intimately. I responded, “Most of Susan’s problems are of Susan’s own making, and most of my problems are of my making. That’s the problem.’’ I added, “I think we’re bored. We need a challenge.”
“So, challenge each other.”
I smiled. “To what? A sword fight? Anyway, it’s not serious.”
“But of course it is.”
“There’s nobody else involved,’’ I said. “At least not on my part.’’ I finished my drink and set the glass on a shelf. “We still have a good love life.”
“I’m sure you do. So take her upstairs and make love to her.”
“Really, Emily.’’ People who are in steamy relationships think they’ve found a new cure for all life’s ills.
“John, she really is devoted to you.”
I can’t get angry with Emily, but I said, with an edge in my voice, “Susan is self-centered, self-indulgent, narcissistic, and aloof. She is not devoted to anyone but Susan and Zanzibar. Sometimes Yankee. But that’s Susan, and it’s all right.”
“But she is in love with you.”
“Yes, she probably is. But she has taken me for granted.”
“Ah,’’ said the perceptive Emily. “Ah.”
“Don’t ‘ah’ me.’’ We both laughed, then I said seriously, “But I’m not acting different to get her attention. I really am different.”
“How so?”
“Well, I got drunk last night and slept outside, and I growled at a woman.’’ Since Emily is my good friend, I was happy to tell her about my morning, and we were both laughing so hard, someone—I couldn’t see who—opened the door a crack and peeked in, then shut it.
Emily took my arm. “Do you know that joke—‘What is a real man’s idea of group therapy?’ Answer, ‘World War Two.’”
I smiled tentatively.
She continued, “Beyond midlife crisis, John, and male menopause, whatever that is, is the desire to simply be a man. I mean in the most basic biological sense, in a way no one wants to speak about in polite company. To fight a war, or knock somebody over the head, or some surrogate activity like hunting or building a log cabin or climbing a mountain. That’s what your morning was about. I wish my husband had let himself go once in a while. He started to believe that his paper shuffling was not only important, but terribly challenging. I’m glad you cracked up. Just try to make it a constructive crack-up.”
“You’re a very bright woman.”
“I’m your sister, John. I love you.”
“I love you.”
We stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, then Emily asked, “Does this new fellow next door, Bellarosa, have anything to do with your present state of mind?”
It did, though I didn’t completely understand myself how the mere presence of Frank Bellarosa on the periphery of my property was causing me to reevaluate my life. “Maybe . . . I mean, the guy has broken all the rules, and he lives on the edge, and he seems at peace with himself, for God’s sake. He’s completely in control and Susan thinks he’s interesting.”
“I see, and that annoyed you. Typical male. But Susan also tells me he seems to like you.”
“I guess.”
“And you want to live up to his estimation of you.”
“No . . . but . . .”
“Be careful, John. Evil is very seductive.”
“I know.’’ I changed the subject. “How long are you staying?”
“Gary and I fly out early tomorrow. Come out and see us. We have a perfectly horrible shack near the water. We eat shrimps and drink Corona beer, we run on the beach and swat mosquitoes.’’ She added, “And make love. Bring Susan if you
wish.”
“Maybe.”
She put her hand on my arm and looked me in the eye. “John, you have to get out of here. This is the old world. No one lives like this in America anymore. This place has a three-hundred-year history of secret protocols, ancient grievances, and a stifling class structure. The Gold Coast makes New England look informal and friendly.”
“I know all that.”
“Think about it.’’ She moved toward the door. “Are you going to hide in here?”
I smiled. “For a while.”
“I’ll bring you a drink. Scotch and soda?”
“That’s right.”
She left and returned in a minute with a tall glass filled with ice and soda water and a whole bottle of Dewar’s. She said, “Don’t leave without saying good-bye.”
“I may have to.”
We kissed and she left. I sat on a stool and drank, surveying the room filled with table linens, silver pieces, crystal, and other objects from what we call a more genteel age. Maybe Emily was right. This world was half ruin and half museum, and we were all surrounded by the evidence of former glory, which is not a psychologically healthy thing, or good for our collective egos. But what lies out there in the American heartland? Dairy Queens and Kmarts, pickup trucks and mosquitoes? Are there any Episcopalians west of the Alleghenies? Like many of my peers, I’ve been all around the world, but I’ve never been to America.
I stood, braced myself, and made another foray into the caldron of boiling family blood.
I walked upstairs where I knew there would be fewer people and went into the turret room, which is still a playroom for kids as it was when I was a child. There were, in fact, ten children in there, not playing make-believe as I had done, but watching a videotape of a gruesome shock-horror movie that one of them must have smuggled in. “Happy Easter,’’ I said. A few heads turned toward me, but these children had not yet learned intelligible speech and were picking up points on how to become ax murderers.
I shut off the television and removed the videotape. No one said anything, but a few of them were sizing me up for the chain saw.
I sat and chatted with them awhile, telling them stories of how I had played in this very room before it had a television. “And once,’’ I said to Scott, age ten, “your father and I made believe we were locked in here and it was the Tower of London and all we had was bread and water.”
The Gold Coast Page 12
