So we buried George Allard after church services at St. Mark’s on a pleasant Saturday morning. The cemetery is a few miles from Stanhope Hall, a private place with no name, filled with the departed rich, and in pharaonic style, with a few dozen loyal servants (though none of them had been killed for their master’s burials), and dozens of pets, and even two polo ponies, one of which was responsible for his rider’s death. The old rich insist on being batty right to the end, and beyond.
As I said, George was interred in the Stanhope plot, which is a good-size piece of land, and ironically the last piece of land the Stanhopes were destined to own on Long Island.
At graveside, there were about fifteen people in attendance, with the Reverend Mr. Hunnings officiating; there was the widow, Ethel, the Allards’ daughter, Elizabeth, her husband and their two children, William and Charlotte Stanhope, Susan, Edward, and I, plus a few other people whom I didn’t know.
On the way to the cemetery, the funeral cortege, as is customary, passed by the house of the deceased, and I saw that someone had put a funeral wreath on the gates of Stanhope Hall, something I hadn’t seen in years. Why that custom has died out is beyond me, for what could be more natural than to announce to the world, to unwary callers, that there has been a death in the house and that, no, we don’t want any encyclopedias or Avon products today.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’’ said the Reverend Mr. Hunnings, throwing a handful of soil atop the coffin. This is when clergy earn their pay. But Hunnings always struck me as a method actor who was playing the part of a priest in a long-running off-Broadway show. Why do I dislike this man? Maybe because he’s conned everyone else. But George had seen through him.
Hunnings actually delivered a nice eulogy, though I noticed that he never once mentioned the possibility of heaven as a real place. No use talking about a place you’ve never been to and have no chance of ever going to.
Anyway, I was glad, in some perverse way, that I was the last one to see George alive and that we had spoken, and that he died doing what he liked best and where he liked doing it. I had spoken to Ethel and to his daughter, Elizabeth, about our last conversation, and of course, I embellished it a bit in an effort to bring them some comfort. But basically George had been a happy man on the day he died, and that was more than most of us can hope for.
I, myself, would not mind dropping dead on my own property, if I owned any property. But better yet, perhaps, I’d like to die on my boat, at sea, and be buried at sea. The thought of dying at my desk upsets me greatly. But if I could choose how and when I wanted to die, I would want to be an eighty-year-old man shot by a jealous young husband who had caught me in bed with his teenage wife.
The graveside service was ended, and we all threw a flower on the casket as we filed past on our way to our cars.
As I was about to climb into the Jaguar with Susan, I looked back at the grave and saw that Ethel was still there. The limousine that we had gotten for her and her family had drawn abreast of the Jag and I motioned for the driver to stop. The rear window of the limousine went down, and Elizabeth said to me, “Mom wants to be alone awhile. The driver will come back for her.”
“I understand,’’ I replied, then added, “No, I’ll go back for her.’’ It’s so easy to let professionals handle all the unpleasant aspects of dying and death, and it takes some thought and will to take charge.
Elizabeth replied, “That would be nice. Thank you. We’ll see you back at the church.’’ Her car drove off and I slid behind the wheel of the Jaguar. “Where is Edward?’’ I inquired of Susan.
“He is riding with his grandparents.”
“All right.’’ I fell in behind someone’s car and exited the cemetery.
Burial customs differ greatly in this country, despite the homogenization of other sorts of rites and rituals such as weddings, for instance. Around here, if you’re a member of St. Mark’s, you usually gather after the funeral at the church’s fellowship room, where a committee of good Christian ladies have laid on some food and soft drinks (though alcohol is what is needed). It’s not quite a party, of course, but it can be an occasion to speak well of the deceased, and to prop up the bereaved for a few more hours.
As I drove toward the church, I was impressed by Ethel’s decision not to go along with the planned program, but to spend a little time at the grave of her husband; just she and George.
Susan said to me, “That was very thoughtful of you.”
I replied, “I am an uncommonly thoughtful man.”
Susan didn’t second that, but asked me, “Would you weep over my grave?”
I knew I was supposed to reply quickly in the affirmative, but I had to think about it. I finally replied, “It would really depend on the circumstances.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, what if we were divorced?”
There was a second of silence, then she said, “You could still weep for me. I would cry at your funeral even if we had been divorced for years.”
“Easy to say. How many ex-spouses do you see at funerals?’’ I added, “Marriages may or may not be until death do us part. But blood relatives are forever.”
“You Italian, or what?’’ She laughed.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing . . . anyway, you recently told two of your blood relatives—Mater and Pater to be specific—to take a hike.”
“Nevertheless, they would attend my funeral, and I theirs. My children will attend my funeral and yours. We may not attend each other’s funeral.”
“I will be at yours. You have my word on that.”
I didn’t like this subject, so I changed it. “Do you think Ethel will be all right alone in the gatehouse?”
“I’ll check on her more often. Perhaps we’ll have her to dinner a few times a week.”
“Good idea.’’ Actually, it wasn’t, as I don’t care for Ethel’s company, though I care for her as a person, even if she is a socialist. She might be better off living with her Republican daughter, but I didn’t think that was a possibility.
I noticed, too, that William Stanhope had been eyeing her as though he were sizing her up for a casket. I had no doubt that he would pull me off to the side sometime in the next few days and ask me to suggest to Ethel that she leave the gatehouse. William, of course, was desirous of selling the quaint house to yuppies, or successful artists, or anyone with a romantic bent and about a quarter million dollars. Or of course, if anything came of Bellarosa’s interest in the entire estate, then, as I’d said to George, William would like all the serfs gone (unless he could sell them as well).
Naturally, I would assure my father-in-law that I would do my best to get old Ethel out, but actually I’d do the opposite as I’d done with George just a few days ago. William Stanhope is a monumental prick, and so outrageously insensitive and self-centered that he actually believes he can ask me for my help in enriching him, and I’m supposed to do his bidding (for free) because I’m married to his daughter. What a swine.
“Mother and Father looked good,’’ Susan said. “Very tan and fit.”
“It’s good to see them again.”
“They’re staying for three or four more days.”
“Can’t they stay longer?”
She gave me a sidelong glance, and I realized I was pushing my credibility. I hadn’t told William or his wife to go to hell yet, as I’d promised myself I would, and I’m glad I hadn’t because that could only confuse the issue between Susan and me.
I pulled up to the church, and Susan opened her door. “That was very touching. I mean what Ethel did, staying behind to be with her husband. They were together a half century, John. They don’t make marriages like that anymore.”
“No. Do you know why men die before their wives?”
“No, why?”
“Because they want to.”
“I’ll see you later.’’ Susan got out of the car and headed toward the fellowship room, and I headed back to the cemetery.
Funerals are, of course, a time to reflect on your life. I mean, if you need any evidence that you’re not immortal, that hole in the ground is it. So you naturally start to wonder if you’re getting it right, then you wonder why it matters if you do. I mean, if Hunnings and his cohorts have removed the fear of a fiery hell and the promise of a four-star heaven, who gives a damn what you do on earth? Well, I do, because I still believe in right and wrong, and without embarrassment I’ll tell you I believe in a comfortable heaven. I know that George is there even if Hunnings forgot to mention it.
But afterlife considerations aside, one does wonder if one could be getting a little more fun out of life. I mean, I still enjoy life, but I recall very well a time when things were better at home. So, I must answer the age-old question: Do I move or make home improvements?
I pulled into the gate of the cemetery and drove along the tree-shaded lane to the Stanhope section. It was interesting that the Stanhopes, who needed so much land in life, were all comfortably situated on an acre now, with room for more.
I stopped a short distance from the new grave and noticed that the gravediggers were nearly finished covering it. I noticed, too, that Ethel was nowhere to be seen.
I got out of the car and started for the grave to inquire of the gravediggers where she might be. But then I turned toward the south end of the Stanhope section, the older section where weathered marble headstones rose amid thick plantings.
Ethel Allard stood with her back to me at a grave whose headstone bore the name AUGUSTUS STANHOPE .
I watched for a second or two, but felt as if I’d intruded on a private moment. Though in truth, I hadn’t stumbled upon this scene by accident; I somehow knew that Ethel would be there. I suppose I could have backed off behind the hedges and called out for her, like the old John Sutter would have done, but instead I said, “Ethel, it’s time to go.”
She glanced over her shoulder at me without surprise or embarrassment and nodded. But she remained at the grave for some time longer, then took a white rose that she had been holding and tossed it on Augustus Stanhope’s grave.
Ethel turned and came toward me, and I could see there were tears in her eyes. We walked side by side toward my car and she said to me, “I loved him very much.”
Who? “Of course you did.”
“And he loved me dearly.”
“I’m sure he did.’’ Who?
She began sobbing and I put my arm around her. She actually leaned her head on my shoulder as I led her to the car. She said, “But it could never be. Not in those days.”
Ah. My God, what funny people we are. I said, “But it’s good that you had something. That’s better than nothing.”
“I still miss him.”
“That’s very nice. Very lovely.’’ And it was, odd as the circumstances were, considering why we were there. And the moral was this: Go for it; it’s later than you think.
I put her in the car and we drove back to the church without exchanging another word.
• • •
The morning after the funeral, Edward and I finished planting the boxtrees. As we dug in the hot sun, he sort of looked at me as if I might keel over myself and die on the spot. He said, “Take a break, Dad.”
“I’m in top shape. You need the break.”
We sat under the chestnut tree and we drank spring water. Children don’t think much about death, which is as it should be. But when they are confronted with it, it is not always processed properly or understood in its context. Some children shrug it off, others become maudlin. We spoke about death and dying for a while, coming up with no great revelations, but at least talking it out.
Edward is fortunate in that he has all four grandparents—well, fortunate might not be the right word in the case of those four—but this is more common today as people live longer. And in fact, George Allard’s funeral was the first one Edward had attended. Carolyn, at nineteen, has not gone to a funeral. And, I think, we’ve all, to some extent, come to believe that death is unnatural in modern American society, that somehow the deceased and the family of the deceased have been cheated. I said to him, “Death is the natural order of things. I would not want to live in a world without death, Edward. In the old days, they used to call death the final reward. It still is.”
“I guess. But how about when a kid dies?”
“That’s harder to comprehend or deal with. I have no answers for that.”
And so we kicked death around awhile. American parents are obsessed with the First Sex Talk; when it should occur, what should be said. Parents, I think, should give as much time and thought to preparing their children for their first experience with the death of a loved one.
We finished the plantings, and Edward said to me, “Would you mind if I went back to Florida tomorrow?”
“Were you having a good time?”
“Yes.”
“Then get back there. How are the girls?”
“Well . . . okay.”
“You were taught about safe and responsible sex in health class?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else you want to know about safe sex?”
“No. I’ve had it up to here with that subject.”
I smiled. “Anything you want to know about good sex?”
He grinned. “Sure. If you know anything about it.”
“Hey, watch yourself, wise guy.’’ I think I know where this kid gets his sense of humor.
We went back to the house, cleaned up, then went riding, Edward on Zanzibar, me on Yankee. As we crossed Bellarosa’s land, I asked Edward, “Did you ever say anything to Mr. Bellarosa about my having to sell the summer house for tax money?”
He looked at me as we rode. “No. Why would I tell him that?”
“He seemed to know about that.”
“Not from me.”
After a minute, he made an unconscious mental connection and said, “I saw the picture Mom painted. It’s really terrific. You seen it?”
“Not yet.”
We rode until dusk, then we met Susan at a seafood restaurant on the Sound and had dinner together. We talked about the shark that got away, about the submarine sighting, and about dinner at Buddy’s Hole, which was funny and sad at the same time. We spoke about the things that would become family history in this summer of change, growth, and death.
The next morning, I drove Edward to the airport. We don’t see people off at the gate anymore, but I shook his hand before he passed through the metal detector and watched him disappear into the crowd.
• • •
William and Charlotte Stanhope were staying at one of the cottages at The Creek, and not with us, thank you, God. William took the opportunity of George’s funeral to do some business while he was in New York.
At Susan’s suggestion, Squire Stanhope made an appointment with the Bishop of Alhambra. They met at Alhambra first, without me present, then came back to Stanhope Hall, walked around, kicked the bricks, and struck a deal. I didn’t actually see them strike the deal, but I could picture them, standing in the sacred grove, pitchforks in hand, cloven hooves bared, touching horns and wiggling their tails.
Anyway, we had dinner that night in Locust Valley; Susan and John, William and Charlotte. William fittingly picked an Italian restaurant, a very good restaurant, and very expensive. William does have good taste in restaurants as opposed to my parents. But as William is my client, and as we were going to do a few minutes’ worth of business, I was supposed to bill the dinner to Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds. William pulls this every time he’s in town, but my firm has never done a dime’s worth of business with him, and he doesn’t even pay me personally. Therefore, I always pay the bill with my own credit card.
So William gave me the business. “John,’’ said he, “your neighbor bought not only the house, but all the acreage. We’ll draw up a contract tomorrow morning. Two million down, eighteen million at closing. I’ll meet you at ten in the Locust Valley office, and we’ll go over the detail
s. He uses Cooper and Stiles in Glen Cove for real estate deals. You know them, so we won’t have any problems with this deal. Now, let’s close in a few weeks. He’s got the money. No use waiting. You notify the tax people tomorrow that they can take the property off the auction block. They’ll have their money in about thirty days. Do that first thing. And call Cooper and Stiles first thing and tell them to expect to receive and to read the contract by tomorrow afternoon. And I want them to get to their client with the contract the following day. None of this lawyerly foot-dragging. The whole Japanese Empire was surrendered with a one-page document that took five minutes to sign.”
How would you know? You were fishing off Martha’s Vineyard. “Yes, sir.”
“And John, you’ll keep this strictly confidential.”
“Yes, sir.”
William went on, “I think the idiot believes he can subdivide the acreage and make a killing. I want to nail this down before he learns otherwise. You speak to Cooper and Stiles about that without making it obvious what you don’t want them to say to their client. They won’t say anything anyway, because they want the fee.”
“Yes, sir.’’ Frank Bellarosa was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them.
“He probably thinks he can bribe or threaten government officials to have the land rezoned. He’s got a lot to learn about how we conduct public affairs here.”
I said, “I think he wants the land to bury bodies.”
William gave me a look of annoyance. He doesn’t appreciate my humor at all, which is probably why I hate him.
He said, “Bellarosa’s deed will include the gatehouse, too, of course. He wasn’t happy about the Allards’ lifetime tenancy. But I told him that if he made the widow a reasonable offer, she’d leave. If he can’t get her out, no one can.’’ William nearly smiled, and I nearly put my fist in his mouth. He added, “Meantime, the son of a bitch wants to hold a half million in escrow until the gatehouse is vacated and unencumbered. So put that in the contract, but let’s see if we can get a promise from Ethel to move, and pass that on to Bellarosa.”
The Gold Coast Page 38
