“Why?”
“Well . . . it was pretend.”
“Why?”
“Anyway, we made paper airplanes with messages written on them, asking for help, and we sailed the planes out the window. And someone’s maid found one and thought it was for real, and she called the police.”
“Pretty stupid,’’ said Justin, age twelve. “She must have been Spanish.”
A little girl informed Justin, “They can’t even read English, you dope.”
“The maid,’’ I said with annoyance, “was black. There were a lot of black maids then and she read English and she was a very concerned woman. Anyway, the police came, and Aunt Cornelia called us downstairs to talk to them. We got a good lecture, then when the police left, we got punished by being locked up for real, in the root cellar.”
“What’s a root cellar?”
“She locked you up? For what?”
“Did you ever get even with the maid?”
“Yes,’’ I replied, “we cut off her head.’’ I stood. “But enough about last Easter.’’ No one caught the subtle humor. “Play Monopoly,’’ I suggested.
“Can we have the tape back?”
“No.’’ I walked out into the hallway with the videotape, sadder but wiser.
I felt like sitting in the root cellar again, but as I made the turn in the hallway, I ran into Terri, a stunning blonde, married to my cousin Freddie, one of Arthur’s brainless sons. “Well, hello,’’ I said. “Where are you heading?”
“Hello, John. I’m checking on the kids.”
“They’re fine,’’ I informed her. “They’re playing doctor and nurse.”
She gave me a tight smile.
“Have you had your complete physical yet?’’ I inquired.
“Behave.”
I walked over to a door across from the stairs and opened it. “I was on my way to the attic. Would you like to join me?”
“Why?”
“There are beautiful old gowns up there. Would you like to try some on?”
“How’s Susan?”
“Ask Susan.”
Terri seemed a little nervous, but I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or considering the possibilities. I closed the attic door and moved toward the staircase. “I guess we’re too old for make-believe.’’ I started down the stairs, slowly.
“What’s that?’’ she asked, pointing to the videotape in my hand.
“Trash. It’s going in the garbage.”
“Oh . . . those damned kids. . . .’’ She added, “I’m glad you took it away from them.”
“That’s my job. Uncle Creep.”
She laughed. “I wish Freddie would do that once in a while.”
“It may be a lost cause. But it’s our duty to civilization to try.”
“Yes.’’ She looked at me and smiled. “You’re very casual today, John.”
“I’m having an identity crisis, and I don’t know how to dress for it.”
“You’re crazy.”
“So what?’’ I stared at her.
She didn’t reply, and I could see the hook was in, and all I had to do was reel up. This, you have to understand, is a woman who is used to men sniffing and drooling around her and has about fifty polite and impolite ways of handling it. But now she was just standing there, looking defenseless and ready for my next move. I started feeling guilty or something, so I said, “See you later.”
“John, could I talk to you about a will? I think I need a will.”
“You do if you don’t have one.”
“Should I call you?”
“Yes, I’m in the city Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Locust Valley Monday and Friday. We’ll have lunch.”
“All right. Thanks.”
I went down the wide winding staircase, my feet barely touching the steps. I was on. I was magnetic, charismatic, interesting. I believed it, and that made it so. And I didn’t even need my thousand-dollar cashmere sport jacket or my ninety-dollar Hermès tie. I had power over men and women. Children next. I wanted to tell Susan, but maybe I should keep my mouth shut and see if she noticed.
I also knew I should quit while I was ahead, before I got cornered by old people who are very good at scoping out a room, sizing up their prey, and making telepathically coordinated moves until they’ve got you cornered.
I dashed for the front door, pretending not to notice two male cousins who were calling my name. A lot of people are named John.
I got outside, bounded down the porch steps, and hurried down the street, stopping only long enough to throw the videotape down a storm drain. I jumped into the Bronco and drove off.
It was twilight, and I drove slowly with the windows down, breathing in the cool air.
I like to drive, because it is one of the few times I am unreachable. I have no car phone with answering machine, call-waiting, and call-forwarding, no CB, no car fax, ticker tape, telex, or beeper. Only a fuzz buster.
I do have an AM radio, but it’s usually locked into the U.S. Weather Service marine forecast out of Block Island. I like weather reports because they are useful information, and you can check the accuracy for yourself. And the guys who deliver the marine forecast talk in a monotone, and they don’t make jokes, like the idiots on regular radio or TV. They report an approaching hurricane in the same tone of voice they tell you it will be sunny and mild.
I turned on the weather station, and the voice recapped the day’s weather without telling me what a nice day it had been for the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue. I learned that cumulonimbus clouds were on the way and that heavy rains were expected for Monday morning, with winds from the northeast at ten to fifteen knots, and there were small-craft advisories. We’ll see.
I drove for another hour or so, but traffic was starting to get heavy, so I headed home. Sunday evenings have never been a good time for me, and under the best of circumstances I’m moody and turn in early.
Susan came home after I’d settled into bed with the lights out. She asked, “Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
“Are you feeling well?”
“I’m very well.”
“Your mother and Aunt Cornelia were wondering if there was anything wrong with you.”
“Then they should have asked me, not you.”
“You avoided them. Your father was disappointed he didn’t have a chance to speak to you.”
“He’s had over forty years to speak to me.”
“Do you want to speak to me?”
“No, I want to snore. Good night.”
“Emily passes on her best wishes. Good night.’’ Susan went downstairs.
I lay very still and looked up at the dark ceiling, feeling about as good as I’d felt in a long time, and about as bad as I’d ever felt in my life. What had happened to me in the last few days, I thought, was both apostasy and apotheosis; I had abandoned my old faith, and in the process had acquired new godlike powers. Well, that might be overstating the case, but certainly I wasn’t the same man I had been a few weeks ago.
After a few minutes of metaphysics, I closed the door on the day. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, and I imagined myself out on the ocean at night, alone with my boat, the waves breaking over the bow, and the sails filled with wind. It was a good feeling, but I knew that ultimately, when the storm broke, I could not handle the helm and the sails alone. Wondering what to do about that, I fell asleep.
Eleven
Monday, Easter Monday, it rained as predicted, and the winds were indeed from the northeast, blowing in over Cape Cod and across the Sound, a bit of leftover winter.
I had risen at dawn and discovered that Susan had slept elsewhere, probably in a guest room. I showered and threw on jeans and a sweater, then headed into Locust Valley where I had breakfast at a coffee shop.
I lingered over my coffee and read the New York Post for the first time in ten years. An interesting paper, sort of like beef jerky for the mind.
I ordered a coffee to go,
left the coffee shop, and drove the few blocks in the rain to my office. I went upstairs to my private office, which had once been the second-floor sitting room, and I built a fire in the fireplace. I sat in my leather wingback chair, put my bare feet up on the fender, and read a copy of Long Island Monthly as I sipped coffee from the paper cup. There was an article in the magazine about getting your East End house ready for Memorial Day, the official start of summer fun and sun. This, of course, reminded me that I had a place to go if I went into self-imposed exile or was declared persona non grata in Stanhope land.
My summer house in East Hampton is a cedar-shingled true colonial, built in 1769, surrounded by wisteria and fruit trees. I own that house with Susan—it is mine, hers, and the bank’s.
My ancestors on my father’s side were original settlers on the eastern end of this island, arriving from England in the 1660s when this New World was indeed very new. I actually have in my possession an original land grant given to one Elias Sutter by Charles II in 1663. That land encompassed about a third of Southampton Township, now one of the most exclusive beach communities on the East Coast, and if the Sutters still owned it, we’d all be billionaires.
That far eastern strip of this island, jutting out into the Atlantic, is a strikingly beautiful landscape, geographically different from the Gold Coast, but in some ways bound to it by family connections, money, and social similarities. More important, it is far less populated out there, and the nature nuts are in control. You can hardly put up a mailbox without filing an environmental impact statement.
This ancient connection to the eastern tip of Long Island has always interested me as an abstract footnote to my own life, but until now it has had little impact on my thinking. Lately, however, I’ve been wondering if the time has come to live in Sutter land rather than Stanhope land.
I tried to picture myself a country lawyer, my stocking feet on the desk in some storefront office, pulling in maybe thirty thousand a year and joining the rush down to the docks when the bluefish were running.
I wonder if Susan would live out there year-round. She would have to board her horses, but the riding there is spectacular, the public trails running through the Shinnecock Hills, right down to the Atlantic Ocean and along the white sand beach. Maybe that’s what we needed to get ourselves together.
I sometimes like to come to the office on a day off and catch up on things, but I’ve never before used the office as a refuge from domestic problems. I put the magazine down, closed my eyes, and listened to the crackling fire and the wind and rain. Absolutely delightful.
I heard the front door open. I had left it unlocked in case any of the more enthusiastic troops wanted to put in a few hours or, like myself, just get away from home. I heard the door shut, then heard footsteps in the foyer. We have a dozen people working here: six secretaries, two paralegals, two junior partners, and two new law clerks, both young women who will take the bar exam this summer. One of the budding new attorneys is Karen Talmadge, who will go far because she is bright, articulate, and energetic. She is also beautiful, but I mention that only in passing.
I hoped that the footsteps I’d heard were Karen’s because there were a few interesting legal concepts I wanted to discuss with her. But in the next instant, I realized that it didn’t matter if it was her, my wife, my homely secretary, sexy Terri, or my little nieces and nephews with axes and chain saws. I just wanted to be alone. No sex or violence.
I listened and realized that the footsteps were slow and heavy, unlike a woman’s tread. Perhaps it was the mailman or a deliveryman or even a client who didn’t know I had made Easter Monday a new holiday. Whoever was down there was walking around, going from room to room, looking for someone or something.
I thought I should go down and investigate, but then I heard the bottom step squeak, and a voice called out, “Mr. Sutter?”
I put the coffee down and stood.
“Mr. Sutter?”
I hesitated, then replied, “I’m up here.’’ The heavy footsteps ascended the stairs, and I said, “Second door to your left.”
Frank Bellarosa, wearing a shapeless raincoat and a gray felt hat, came through the door into my office. “Ah,’’ he said, “there you are. I saw your Jeep outside.”
“Bronco.”
“Yeah. Do you have a few minutes? I got some things I want to talk to you about.”
“We’re closed today,’’ I informed him. “It’s Easter Monday.”
“Yeah? Hey, you got a fire. Mind if I sit?”
I sure did, but I motioned to the wooden rocker facing my chair across the hearth, and Mr. Bellarosa took off his wet hat and coat and hung them on the clothes tree near the door. He sat. “You religious?’’ he asked.
“No, Episcopalian.”
“Yeah? You take this day off?”
“Sometimes. Business is slow.’’ I picked up the poker and happened to glance at Bellarosa, whose eyes, I saw, were not on me or the fire, but on the heavy, blunt object in my hand. The man had very primitive instincts, I thought. I poked the logs in the fire, then with no abrupt movements, put the poker back. I had the urge to ask Bellarosa if this was a stickup, but I didn’t want to strain our new relationship with bad humor. I said instead, “Do you have the day off?”
He smiled. “Yeah.”
I sat in my chair opposite him. “What sort of business are you in?”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.’’ He crossed his legs and tried rocking a few times as if he’d never sat in a rocker before. He said, “My grandmother had one of these. Used to rock, rock, rock, all day. She walked with two canes, you know, before they had those walker things, and sometimes if you were trying to get past her to get into the kitchen, she’d swat you with one of the canes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I never asked her.”
“I see.’’ I regarded Mr. Bellarosa a moment. He was wearing basically the same outfit as on Saturday, but the colors were sort of reversed; the blazer was gray and the slacks were navy blue, the shoes were now black, and the turtleneck was white. More interestingly, I could see his shoulder holster.
He looked at me and asked, “You ever have trouble with trespassers?”
I cleared my throat. “Once in a while. Nothing serious. Why?”
“Well, there was a guy on my property yesterday morning. Scared the hell out of my wife. My . . . gardeners ran him off.”
“People sometimes like to walk on the estates. You get the vandalism at night with the kids.”
“This was no kid. White guy, about fifty. Looked like a derelict.”
“Really? Did he actually do anything to frighten your wife?”
“Yeah. He growled at her.”
“My goodness. Did you call the police?”
“Nah. My gardeners chased him with the dogs. But he went onto your place. I woulda called you, but you’re unlisted.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Good. Now my wife wants to move back to Brooklyn. Maybe you can tell her this is a safe place.”
“I’ll call her.”
“Or stop by.”
“Perhaps.’’ I sat in the wing chair and stared at the crackling fire. Fifty? She must be half blind. I hope so.
The wind had picked up, and the rain was splashing against the windowpanes. We sat in silence awhile, while one of us contemplated the purpose of this visit. Finally, Mr. Bellarosa asked, “Hey, you ever get those vegetables in the ground?”
“Not yet. But I did eat the radicchio.”
“Yeah? You like it?”
“Very much. I hope you gave me some to plant.”
“Oh, sure. It’s marked. You got radicchio, you got basil, you got green peppers, and you got eggplant.”
“Do I have olives?”
He laughed. “No. Olives grow on a tree. The trees are hundreds of years old. You can’t grow them here. You like olives?”
“For my martini.”
�
�Yeah? I’m growing figs, though. I bought five green and five purple. But you got to cover the trees in the winter here. You wrap them with tar paper and stuff leaves around them so they don’t freeze.”
“Really? Is gardening your hobby?”
“Hobby? I don’t have hobbies. Whatever I do, I do for real.”
I was sure of that. I finished my coffee and threw the paper cup in the fire. “So—”
“Hey,’’ said Frank Bellarosa, “you missed a good time yesterday. Lots of good people, plenty to eat and drink.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t be there. How was the lamb’s head?”
He laughed again. “The old people eat that. You got to have things like that for them or they think you’re getting too American.’’ He thought a moment, then added, “You know, when I was a kid, I wouldn’t eat squid or octopus or any of that real greaseball stuff. Now I eat most of it.”
“But not lamb’s head.”
“No. I can’t do that. Jeez, they pluck the eyes out and cut the tongue off and eat the nose and cheeks and brains.’’ He chuckled. “I just ate the lamb chops. What do you people have for Easter?”
“Headless spring lamb, with mint jelly.”
“Yeah, but you know something? In this country, I see the kids getting more interested in the old ways. I see it with my nieces and nephews and my own kids. At first they don’t want to be Italian, then they get more Italian when they get older. You see it with the Irish, the Polacks, the Jews. You notice that?”
I hadn’t noticed that Edward or Carolyn were dancing round the maypole or eating kippered herrings, but I had noticed that some ethnic groups were doing the roots thing. I don’t entirely disapprove as long as there are no human sacrifices involved.
“I mean,’’ Bellarosa continued, “people are looking for something. Because maybe American culture doesn’t have some things that people need.”
I looked at Frank Bellarosa with new interest. I never thought he would be a complete idiot, but neither did I think that I would hear words such as “American culture’’ from him. I asked, “You have children?”
The Gold Coast Page 13
