“Nice to see you,”Russell says, squeezing Daniel’s hand, his shoulder.
“What a wonderful party.”
“It certainly is,”Daniel says.He has found a place to stand near the center ofthe room where he can feel the cool draft whenever the front door opens, so he knows when new people have arrived.He feels the flutter ofthe breeze on his pant legs, but when he looks past Russell he sees Upton Douglas, a portly, white-haired real estate broker, swinging his way in on a pair ofyellow crutches.Douglas was knocked to the ground by a falling branch during the October storm and he broke his leg in four places.They’ve known each other casually for years, and when Douglas sees Daniel staring at him he smiles.
Daniel suddenly notices that Phil Russell is looking oddly at him, and Daniel quickly says,“It’ll be great to see this old place brought back to its former glory.”
“It’s really something,”Russell says.He has been taking in his surroundings and his eyes are registering some alarm.Eight Chimneys’ derelict state unnerves him, it seems to suggest a kind ofmadness.“What do you think the square footage is in this place?”
“I don’t think houses like thishavesquare footage.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”He smooths his shirt over his cinderblock stomach.“It’s going to take a lot more than state historic money to put this puppy back on its hindquarters again.We’re going to have to think about the Fed, and private donations.”He smiles his high school hero smile.“But that’s okay, we’re going to make it happen because it’s the right thing to do.”
Daniel sees Kate across the room, talking with noticeable animation to a man in his fifties, a writer from the city named Barry Braithwaite.Braith-waite, a small, sickly man with bloodshot eyes and yellowed fingers, has written several articles about O.J.Simpson, mostly concentrating on the sociopathology ofthe coddled athlete.Kate has her hand on his shoulder and whispers something in Braithwaite’s ear.Braithwaite tucks his chin in and looks at her with considerable amazement, as ifshe has just made the most transgressive remark he has ever heard, and then he laughs.
Just then, Derek Pabst comes in, dressed in a dark-brown suit, a yellow shirt, and brown tie.He looks uneasy as he sways in the entrance to the ball-room, squeezing his large hands together, rolling his broad shoulders, and casting his eyes around for a familiar face.It is not that Derek is a stranger to the people here, but most ofthem are too wealthy and too grand to be a part ofhis social life.He has issued them speeding tickets, brought them sad news about missing dogs and cats, shot rabid raccoons on their porches, been in their homes after break-ins, and even responded to a couple ofdo-mestic abuse calls, but drinking wine and chatting with this collection of doctors, lawyers, academics, writers, and the idle well-to-do on a Sunday afternoon in a mansion by the river is outside his usual experience.When he sees Daniel across the room, his face lights up with relief.
“Hello, good buddy,”he says, grabbing Daniel’s elbow.
”Hello, Derek,”Daniel says.He is about to ask,What are you doing
here?but he stops himself.
Derek looks around, taking in his surroundings.“You hear all these rumors about what this place is like on the inside, but it’s not so bad, not like I thought.”
“Derek Pabst,”Daniel says.“This is Phil Russell.”
Russell puts his hand out and Derek shakes it, but he is clearly distracted.
“Is Kate here?”he asks.
”She’s over there.What about Stephanie?”
“She’s home with Chelsea.”Derek peers around the room.“Where’s Kate.I actually need to talk to her.”He senses the confusion in Daniel’s eyes.“I’ve got a little more information about those runaway kids from Star ofBethlehem, I know she’s concerned.”He suddenly sees her.
”There she is.”He smooths his tie against his shirt.“I’ll be right back.”
As soon as Derek is gone, Russell looks at his watch.“Point Mary Thorne out for me, will you?”he asks Daniel.“She’s the one who sent us the invitation.”
“Marie.She’s right over there, come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Russell repeats the name softly to himself, committing it to memory.
As they make their way to the other side ofthe ballroom, Daniel looks for Ruby, who is suddenly not in sight.By now, most ofthe guests have ar-rived.The talk is loud and excited;people are still telling their storm sto-ries.Ferguson is in front ofthe fireplace, heaving a four-foot birch log in, and Susan is at his side, with her finger hooked through his empty belt loop, and looks to be speaking to him with extreme displeasure.Marie, holding a plastic cup ofwhite wine, is talking with Ethan Greenblatt, Marlowe Col-lege’s young president.Marie’s attention is rapt, though she seems not to realize how unusually tall Greenblatt is and her eyes are fixed not on his face but his chest.IfGreenblatt finds this unnerving, he is nevertheless unde-terred from going on at some length about oddities in the history ofEight Chimneys—though born in Montreal and raised in PaloAlto, Greenblatt knows as much as any ofthe river aristocracy about the town’s grand past.
“Do you know,”he says, in a voice that is at once declamatory and ironic,“MarkTwain, Charles Dickens, EdithWharton, and Ernest Hem-ingway all have spent the night in this house, and there is no other struc-ture on record in which all four ofthese luminaries have stayed.”When Greenblatt sees Daniel and Russell approaching, he rests his hand on Marie’s shoulder, as ifto prevent them from stealing her away.“And its political past is actually more extensive and, well, paradoxical than its cultural past.Dorothy Day, Frederick Douglass, Winston Churchill, Oc-tavio Paz, all the Roosevelts, ofcourse, WoodrowWilson—”
“Sorry to interrupt,”Daniel says.
”I’m just finishing, Daniel,”Greenblatt says.“I’m making a plea.”He raises both hands as ifto hold Daniel off, and then petitions for Marie’s attentions again by touching her lightly.“I would like Marlowe College to be somehow involved in the Eight Chimneys Project, in either curat-ing or administrating the museum, ifit so happens that it comes to pass.
Obviously, we can’t help in terms offinances, but we could bring a lot ofexpertise and legitimacy to the project, and it would be a real boon to our history department, which, by the way, already rivals the best his-tory departments in the country.”
“We’re okay on legitimacy, Ethan,”Marie says.“What we’re looking for is money.”
Just then, Daniel hears Ruby’s voice rising high above the wall-towall murmur ofthe party.At first, the sound alarms him, but then he hears it for what it is:a long trill ofjoy, and he knows there is only one person who can make Ruby quite that happy.Nelson’s here.
Daniel hurries to the entrance hall.Ruby holds Nelson’s hand and jumps up and down, trying to incite him to her level offrenzied joy, but Nelson is having none ofit.He is glancing over his shoulder at his par-ents, who are taking their coats offand looking around, trying to figure out where to put them.
“Ruby, Ruby, calm down,”Daniel says, making his presence known.
He would like to think he is smiling casually, though he can’t be sure.
“You were right!”Ruby says.“They’re here!”She pushes her doll onto Daniel.“Hold this,”she says, and then turns to Nelson.“You want chips?”
“Hey, you two,”Daniel says to Iris and Hampton.In his desire to sound chipper, his voice comes out far too strongly.“Coats are in there, in the conservatory.”A rush ofdizziness.It seems he has forgotten how to distribute his weight when standing.He tries to look only at Hampton but is unable to keep his gaze offIris.She is wearing a black sweater and jeans;she has a little Band-Aid on her right thumb and he resists the im-pulse to ask her how she hurt herself, and further resists the more ab-surd but equally powerful impulse to take her hand and kiss it.Iris has Hampton’s coat and she carries it offwith her own, leaving the two men alone for a moment.A wild stab ofdisappointment goes through Daniel—ifIris had given the coats to Hampton, she and Daniel could have had ten seconds ofprivacy.
“Nel
son, come back here,”Hampton commands.Nelson stops as if on the end ofa leash and turns around to look at his father.Hampton crooks his finger and Nelson dutifully walks back to his side.Like Daniel—just like Daniel, in fact—he wears khaki trousers and a blue blazer, though his are more expensively tailored.The ceiling fixtures cast a brilliant light on his hairless dome.
“Where are we?”Hampton asks Nelson.
”Sorry,”Nelson says.
”Question repeated.Wherearewe?”
Iris emerges from the coatroom.She is pushing up the sleeves ofher sweater.Her face is expressionless.
“In a house,”Nelson says.
”Correct.So? Can we please haveinsidebehavior?Which means no running, no loud voices.All right?”
How would it play ifI slugged him? Daniel wonders.
Nelson nods yes, and backs out ofthe entrance hall without taking his eyes offHampton, as ifto never turn his back on the king.
Then Daniel and Hampton, and Iris between them, walk into the ballroom, without looking at each other and without saying a word.Fer-guson is standing on an old harp-backed chair in front ofthe fireplace, with his hands cupped over his mouth.“Attention, everybody,”he calls out.His voice is authoritative, but with something good-natured in it, too, something that recognizes the absurdity ofshouting at a roomful of people inWindsor County on a warm Sunday afternoon in November.
”We’re going to take you all on a grand tour ofthis house, this wonder-ful house, which I speak ofnot with the pride ofownership but the hu-mility ofstewardship.”There is a smattering ofapplause;someone even sayshear hear.
“What’s this about?”Hampton asks.
”We’re here to support the house,”Iris says.“So they want to show it to us.Why is that a problem?”
Hampton shakes his head.He is clearly here against his wishes.He sees Nelson and gestures for him to come, which the boy does, immedi-ately, with Ruby following.
Ferguson jumps offthe chair and tosses wine from his plastic cup into the fireplace, igniting a sudden whoosh offlame.“Everybody line up along the west wall, and we’ll exit the ballroom through the double doors, and go straight to the portrait gallery.”
The guests are good-natured and compliant, and a line immediately forms.“I’m going to find Kate,”Daniel announces, forcing himself away from Iris and Hampton.
He cranes his neck, trying to find her in the crowd.
”Ruby can come with us,”Iris says.
The suggestion seems intimate and kind.Daniel cannot even look at her for fear ofgiving everything away.There is still no sign ofKate, and Daniel is the last out ofthe ballroom as the tour begins.Then he sees her, coming out ofa bathroom near the main stairway.She seems startled to see all the guests in a line, making their way up the stairs.The tip ofher nose is red;it looks as ifshe might have been crying.
“Tour,”Daniel says.
“Let’s get out ofhere.”She looks at the doll in Daniel’s hand, furrows her brow.
“We just got here.Come on.They’ll show us around.You’ve never really seen this place.”
They can hear Ferguson’s voice from the landing ofthe second floor.
“On the way to the portrait gallery, you’ll notice quite a few first-rate paintings in the hallway.And you’ll also notice a few blank spots, where paintings have been taken down and brought to Sotheby’s.”
“Did you know she was going to be here?”
“Who?”
“Please, don’t insult me.”
He hadn’t meant to, it was just the first word out ofhis mouth.“No,”
he says.“How could I?”
“Don’t answer my question with a question.I’d actually rather be lied to than subjected to that.It’s how my father spoke to me, that demean-ing, patriarchal bullshit.”
“I didn’t know she was going to be here.”He feels he could make things a little easier ifhe could only touch Kate right now, just put a hand on her shoulder, but he is somehow unable to manage the gesture.It is as ifthat hand, the hand that could bring comfort to Kate, has been am-putated, he has cut it offlikeVan Gogh’s ear.
Kate exhales as ifshe has been holding her breath for a long while.
“We should have brought two cars,”she says.
The tour passes directly over them, thunderously, shaking the ceiling.
Marie says in her high, ringing voice,“The rooms to your left will not be public space, but over here, to the right…”
“They’re being given a tour by a blind woman,”Kate says.
They are interrupted by the sound offootsteps coming down the stairs.It’s Susan Richmond, moving in a daze, holding on to the banister for support.She stops midway and peers down at Daniel and Kate, and then shakes her head and continues her descent, holding her chin up now, to affect a certain grandeur.“Intolerable,”she says, and then when she has reached the bottom ofthe stairs she walks up to Daniel and Kate, as ifthey were exactly the people she had hoped to find.“That little weasel is leading a tour ofmy house.IfI stayed up there for one more second I was going to go insane.”She steps in front ofthe mirror hang-ing in the entrance hall, the glass wavy, the backing showing through, framed in plain wood and shaped like a large slice ofbread.She peers at her reflection, frowns.“Hmm.Maybe I’ve already gone insane.”And then, turning toward Kate, she says,“I never told you how much I en-joyedPeaches and Cream.I just roared, that poor, ugly girl, and all the troubles she had.I gave it to Ferguson to read, but he never reads any-thing.Oh well, at least he doesn’t pretend to, he’ll actually come right out and say he hates reading.Either he disagrees with the author, in which case it annoys him, or he agrees, in which case it’s a waste of time.”
“I don’t see how he could agree or disagree with my book,”says Kate.
“It’s a novel, it would be like disagreeing with someone’s dream.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.That’s marvelous.”She turns to Daniel.
“We’re going to have to pull the plug on this, Daniel,”she says.“I don’t care what Fergie and his little friend say.This is intolerable.Ifwe’re hav-ing money problems we’ll just have to find another way to solve them, even ifit means that we go into the village every day and work at the hardware store.Anything would be better than this.”
As Susan announces this, the tour, with Marie at the head ofit, begins down the stairs.The force ofthe collective footsteps is so great that a faint cloud ofplaster fills the sunlight that pours into the entrance hall.
“Next,”Marie is saying,“we’ll go down to the house’s original cellar, which was part ofthe famous Underground Railroad, in the years pre-ceding and during theAmerican CivilWar.”The strain and the excite-ment ofconducting this tour seem to be exacting their price.Marie’s voice has become a little shrill, and she gestures wildly, as ifwaving away a swarm ofgnats.“We envision this as one ofthe highlights ofthe tour.
Right now, you’ll have to use your imagination, but when we have every-thing set up it will be a sort ofdiorama ofthe period, with lifelike fig-ures ofslaves.”She turns to face the guests and suddenly loses her footing.Ethan Greenblatt, who is directly behind her, manages to catch her by the jacket—ifit weren’t for him Marie would be in a heap at the bottom ofthe stairs.
“She’s not above a lawsuit,”Susan says to Kate.Then, to Daniel:
“Don’t mention anything to Marie about our stopping this ridiculous project ofhers.I’ll tell her myself, it seems only fair.”
Marie is rattled by her near fall, but she continues with the tour, bringing the guests down to the ground floor, turning left in the entrance hall and leading them all through the conservatory, the dining room, the main kitchen, and then the summer kitchen, where the door to the cel-lar can be found.
Iris and Hampton walk through the entrance hall, followed by Ruby and Nelson.When Ruby sees Kate and Daniel, she calls out to them with her customary exuberance.“You’re missing it, you guys.Come on, we’re going down to see where the slaves hid.”She holds her hand out.
“Let’s take a look,”Daniel says to Kate, taking Ruby’s hand.
Ferguson has seen to it that the cellar is well lit for today’s party—
there are standing and clip-on lamps every few feet—but he has not been able to dispel the dank gloominess ofthe place.With its packed dirt floor and thick, fabriclike cobwebs, it seems more like a cave than a part of someone’s house.It smells ofrain and mold.Strips ofpink fiberglass in-sulation hang from the ceiling.Generations ofbroken wooden chairs line the walls, awaiting repair.In fact, the entire place is a terminal ward for stricken furniture, some ofit too valuable to dispose of, some saved for no apparent reason.Old leather chairs ooze cotton, dozens ofold oak chairs stand along the wall with their cane seats torn, unraveled, or miss-ing altogether.There is a small QueenAnne sofa upon which someone seems to have poured white paint.There’s a rolltop desk missing all ofits drawers, and with one ofits legs replaced by an unpainted two-by-four.
There are skis, tennis racquets, a croquet set, sleeping bags, a punching bag covered in dust hanging from a beam.There seem to be literally hun-dreds ofpaint cans, some without their tops appear to be empty, others seem brand-new.There are at least twenty large cartons ofchina, a dozen rolled-up rugs secured with twine and stood up on their ends, drooping and leaning into each other like a family ofdrunks.In a corner, someone has abandoned an old, elaborate model train set, its tracks ravaged, its cars toppled, its miniature landscape oftrees, cows, and water towers scattered—it looks like the transportation system ofa country that has lost a long, ruinous war.
At the north end ofthe old cellar is a cast-iron coal-burning furnace, unused for decades.Some twenty feet to the side ofthe furnace, the dirt and stone wall is paneled over with wide wooden planks, newly painted white.Marie stumbles for a moment on her way to the wall, and then when she reaches it she rests her hand on it.“Is everybody watching?”she calls out.
She spreads her small hand out as far as her fingers will reach, and then, applying pressure, slides a false panel in the wall over a few inches.
Then she grabs hold ofthe edge ofthe opened panel and drags it further to the side, revealing a vast, dark emptiness.
A Ship Made of Paper Page 29
