To the Manor Dead

by Sebastian Stuart

  “Janet, this is Mad John,” George said, grinning.

  “Jaaaaaa-net!” Mad John said with a mad smile. Not a lot of tooth action there. He planted a big wet kiss on George’s cheek and said, “I love Georgie!”

  “Ready to face Vince Hammer?” George asked.

  “Don’t worry about that mothafucka—he builds that city, I’ll just torch it,” Mad John said.

  “I didn’t hear that,” George said.

  “What are they going to do? Throw me in the loony bin?” Mad John roared, rocking back and forth, rocking George right along with him. Then he leapt down and starting jumping up and down like an ecstatic Ritalin-addled three-year-old, singing, “Don’t worry, be crazy.”

  You hadda love him.

  Suddenly there was a commotion: Vince Hammer was making his arrival, climbing out of a fat silver SUV. He was tall, handsome, mid-thirties, over-groomed with shiny black hair and glowing skin, surrounded by aides and attorneys. Most of the crowd were adversaries, but Hammer’s M.O. was to kill them with charisma—he beamed, exchanged mock-folksy greetings. The guy was like margarine. I wondered why anybody ever bought this kind of bullshit—and then he caught my eye and smiled at me. Think Bill Clinton meets George Clooney.

  The city council chamber was jammed, so we stood in the back. The crowd was a Hudson Valley mix of country folk, townies, suburbanites, artsy-crafties, old hippies, bright young things, and a couple of loose screws who probably thought they were there to watch a movie. Mad John crawled down the aisle and sat cross-legged on the floor up front. The five town supervisors sat at a raised table.

  “Janet, this is Helen Bearse,” George said, introducing the woman standing next to us. “She’s a realtor in town.”

  Helen looked to be in her mid-fifties, small, thin, toned, wearing a stylish beige dress and a fair amount of country-chic jewelry—large stones in geometric silver settings.

  “This is going to be a tough one,” Helen said. “Vince Hammer has a lot of dough, and he’s very smooth.” She nodded toward the supervisors. “The two on the left are in Hammer’s pocket, the two on the right are on our side, the one in the middle—Beth Rogers—is going to swing this thing one way or the other.”

  Beth Rogers was bespectacled, middle-aged, with shortish gray hair, an erect posture, wearing a blouse and cardigan. She was making notes on a legal pad, looking every inch a librarian—except for that racy vermilion lipstick. Hmmm.

  One of the supervisors opened the meeting, explained that there was going to be a presentation by Mr. Hammer, testimony from experts, and then an open mike. He introduced Hammer, who loped to the front of the room and gave us an aw-shucks smile, his eyes twinkling with warmth and sincerity. He waited for the room to settle before be began.

  “It’s a sacred responsibility, isn’t it? To protect this glorious valley that we all love,” he began in a honeyed baritone. “A responsibility to our children, and their children. I fulfill that trust by providing harmonious, organic environments for people to live in, work in, play in, grow in.”

  “Waah-naa!” Mad John let loose a loud weird high-pitched sound that was part laugh, part snort, part honk—all crazy. Hammer looked down at him, rattled for a moment.

  “Yes!” George exulted.

  “I’d like to show a little movie I made that features an exact rendering of River Landing,” Hammer said. “I call it Through the Eyes of an Eagle.”

  The lights dimmed. Two enormous monitors on either side of the room came on, a lush instrumental version of This Land Is Your Land swelled, and we were treated to a panoramic, eagle’s-eye view of the Hudson Valley. As the sun rose in the east over the Taconics, the valley was bathed in radiant light and the bird flew over small towns and large estates, lighthouses and bridges, before swooping down to Sawyerville, so close that you could see every building and landmark—and there, on the banks of the river, was a harmonious, organic, digitally created, amazingly lifelike rendering of River Landing. The eagle flew over walkways that wound through a sylvan landscape dotted with ponds, birches, hillocks, and breathtaking river views. Directly across the river sat Westward Farm. The bird flew out over the river in an exhilarating final shot. Fade to black.

  The lights came up.

  Vince Hammer stood there in righteous silence, biting his lower lip, his eyes filled with reverence. “How blessed are we?” he asked in a beatific whisper.

  “Waah-naa!”

  Vince shot Mad John another rattled glance, but quickly recovered and said, “Did you notice that magnificent estate on the east bank? That’s Westward Farm, and it’s a piece of American history, the seat of the Livingston Family. It’s land can never be developed, ensuring River Landing a spectacular view in perpetuity.”

  Helen leaned into us. “Hammer has had his eyes on Westward Farm for over a decade.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “He wants to buy it and live there, has made unbelievable offers to the Livingstons, but some of them refuse to sell.”

  “But if he lived there he’d be looking at his own development,” I said.

  “He loves that. He wants to be the King of the Hudson, he’s planning developments at four other sites up and down the river.”

  Vince Hammer was just finishing up. “My door is always open, come and talk to me with any of your concerns. Let’s work together to protect this hallowed land.”

  “Waah-naa!”

  “I have a request,” George called out.

  “You’ll have to wait for the open mike,” the presiding supervisor said.

  George ignored him and strode down the aisle, all eyes on him. “Vince, being the good neighbor you are, would you please allow me two minutes of your time?”

  Anger flashed in Hammer’s eyes, but he smiled and said, “Of course.”

  George reached the front of the room. “Could we rewind the film to the place where the eagle is flying around River Landing?”

  The film started up. As the bird swooped across one of the development’s ponds, George yelled: “Freeze.” He walked over to a monitor and pointed out a barely visible shadow. “Vince, my man, could you tell us what that shadow is?”

  “What shadow?”

  “The one with my finger on it … duh,” George said, rolling his eyes and getting a laugh from the crowd.

  “I believe that would be the shadow of River Rhapsody,” Vince said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “And what is River Rhapsody?”

  “It’s a housing unit.”

  “What kind of housing unit?”

  “Multi-family.”

  “How multi?”

  “I believe River Rhapsody will contain seventy-five units.”

  “Waah-naa!”

  “Okay, seventy-five units. Now if I read your prospectus right, it will have three units to a floor, making it twenty-five stories high.”

  “Imagine the profound connection to the valley those lucky few living in River Rhapsody will feel,” Hammer said.

  “Yeah, imagine the profound connection to an ugly condo slab everyone else will feel. Forward again, please.” The film restarted. “Freeze! … Now look over to the right.” Sure enough, there was another long shadow. “What’s that shadow, Vince?”

  By now Vince had had enough. He did a little swagger-in-place and said with an edge of defiance in his voice, “That’s River Rhythm. It will contain the most luxurious apartments north of Manhattan.”

  “Waah-naa!”

  “What is your problem!?” Vince barked at Mad John.

  “Mirror-mirror on the wall, who’s the greediest of them all?” Mad John chanted.

  The room burst into gales of laughter, and Hammer gave George and Mad John a look that could freeze a lava flow.

  From there, things grew increasingly con
tentious as folks who both supported and opposed River Landing took to the microphone. Vince Hammer was clearly shaken by the ferocity of his foes. Beth Rogers, on the other hand, remained inscrutable, listening with those racy lips slightly pursed, occasionally taking notes.

  The board would convene in two weeks to take a final vote.

  George was proud as a gay peacock as we walked outside.

  “Me and Mad John nailed that creep’s ass pretty good, don’t you think?” he said.

  “Who is Mad John?”

  “He’s a river rat, lives among the reeds.”

  “You were both great,” I said. “Listen, what do you make of Hammer lusting over Westward Farm?”

  “He’s a pig from hell, of course he lusts over it—it’s one of the most amazing properties in the valley.”

  “But do you think he could possibly be connected to Daphne’s death? Helen Bearse said that some of the family were holding out from selling—what if it was Daphne?”

  George just looked at me.

  I walked into the store to find Josie vacuuming. I looked around—mirrors sparkled, wood shone, tchotchkes had been dusted.

  “This place looks great,” I said.

  Josie turned off the vacuum and gave me a proud smile. “I sold something.”

  “No kidding? What was it?”

  “A poster, it said Keith Haring on the bottom.”

  “Did they ask for a discount?”

  “Yes, but I told them no, that he was a great artist and it was valuable.”

  “Good work.”

  “Who’s Keith Haring?”

  I gave Josie a quick tutorial on Haring. Then I called Claire Livingston’s cell phone.

  “Hi, Claire, it’s Janet Petrocelli.”

  “Hi.” Her tone wasn’t exactly warm.

  “How are you?”

  “Holding up.”

  I waited for her to volunteer some more information. Nope. She didn’t.

  “I was wondering if there was going to be a funeral?”

  “No. But some of Aunt Daphne’s old friends, from the local families, are having a small memorial. It’s at Franny Van Kirk’s chapel Friday at ten in the morning.”

  “Did you make any decisions about looking for another place to live?”

  “Listen, I have to run.”

  What was that about? She was probably embarrassed that she had opened up to me. I’d seen that happen. People would come in for their first session, or just for an interview as a potential client, and they’d pour their hearts out, reveal their deepest secrets and shame. And then I’d never see them again. Of course, Claire’s chilly tone could also be something else—like a message to mind my own business.

  But who was Franny Van Kirk? And why did she have a chapel? And most important, why was I letting myself get pulled into this mess? I wanted to study Chinese history, learn to kayak, cook Italian, read Madame Bovary. Not get sucked into something that had nothing to do with me.

  I looked over to where Daphne had sat that morning, remembered her wistful reminiscences, how fragile and frightened she had been. I didn’t have the energy to minister to the living anymore, but I could at least try and find justice for the dead.

  The phone rang.

  “Hey, babe, want to come out for dinner tonight?” Zack asked. “I’ve got some good stuff in the garden, I’ll make pasta primavera and a gorgeous salad.”

  I was ambivalent about my relationship with Zack, but then again I was ambivalent about all relationships. With good reason. Both my parents had been hippies—they met, naked and body-painted, at a Be-In in Tompkins Square Park. My father was a tin-pot genius, a self-proclaimed East Village artiste who was too busy drinking, drugging, declaiming, and screwing to ever start—much less finish—that great novel, painting, play. He acted in incomprehensible off-off-Broadway shows and drove a cab three nights a week to pay his share of the rent on whatever tenement he was currently crashing in. He died when I was ten, when he drove his cab into the East River at three a.m.—his blood toxicology report ran to three pages. I didn’t find out for a month.

  My mom was about as maternal as a pet rock—she took off to India when I was six and as far as I knew was still a nomad—and I spent most of my childhood farmed out to more conventional aunts and uncles on Long Island, who fought, drank, and hauled their tired asses to jobs they hated. It all left me with a pretty warped view of marriage and family. My first husband was nice, safe, sober, reliable, and had his own star on the Boring Humans Walk of Fame. He was a classic over-correction after a chaotic childhood. When that sad union died a slow death, I fell hard for the Asshole. He was charming, smart, sexy, funny, narcissistic, arrogant, intolerant, promiscuous, and basically viewed marriage (and the wife that inconveniently came with it) as one more step on his march to the Holy Grail of “personal fulfillment.”

  The truth is I suck at relationships, which is not an easy thing for a therapist to admit. Fortunately I was able to see in my clients what I couldn’t always see in myself: the difference between a healthy give and take between two compatible people, and a desperate need to assuage loneliness and be validated in the eyes of family and society. With Zack, my expectations were realistic and my boundaries clear. I was getting my bearings in my new upstate life, and my second wind to carry me through middle age. I didn’t want a be-all-and-end-all relationship. Zack was a nice, randy guy—and that was enough for now.

  “Pasta primavera sounds great.”

  “We can have each other for dessert.”

  Just as I hung up a man walked into the store—around forty, strong but going to seed, the florid face of a boozer, a paunch, thinning blondish hair, wearing jeans, work boots, a sweatshirt.

  Josie stiffened and shrank.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said to her. Then he turned to me. “Hey there, Phil Nealy, Josie’s stepdad.” He attempted a smile, but it came out all oily.

  I stood up. “Janet Petrocelli.”

  He nodded toward Josie. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s doing great, she’s smart and hardworking.”

  “She is, huh?”

  “And attractive.”

  “If you like gimps.”

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Nah, I’m not interested in junk.”

  “Well, feel free to leave then,” I said, coming around the desk and approaching him.

  “I just came in to see where Josie was working.”

  “Well, now you’ve seen it.” I went to the door and opened it.

  “Are you kicking me out?”

  “Draw your own conclusions.”

  Just then two women, obviously a couple, walked past me into the store. As they began to look around, Phil Nealy and I exchanged glares. Josie was immobile. I put a hand on Nealy’s elbow, applied pressure, and led him out to the sidewalk. Booze wafted off him like vapors.

  “Listen, do me a favor—don’t come around here anymore,” I said.

  “It’s a free country and I’m her stepfather.”

  “Your freedom ends at my doorstep.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you’re messing with the wrong guy.”

  “Right back at ya.”

  I looked him dead in the eye. He glared at me before puffing out his chest, spitting on the sidewalk, and walking away.

  I went back inside. The two women seemed seriously interested in a set of Russell Wright china, but there was no sign of Josie.

  “I’ll be right with you,” I said.

  I went into the back. Josie was sitting in a straight-back chair, gulping air.

  “Hey there,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

 
“I’m sorry that I made you hire me.”

  “You didn’t make me do anything.”

  “You’re a nice person and you felt sorry for me.”

  “Bullshit. I hired you because I need help around here and you seem like you have a lot of potential.”

  She looked up at me with flashing eyes, “Oh, go fuck yourself.”

  I suddenly had a massive déjà vu—on all the deeply wounded people I’d taken on, people who needed their psyches rebuilt from the ground up, who had to somehow make peace with horrific childhoods and circumstances, on all the times I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t get involved again, that I would protect myself.

  I just couldn’t handle it anymore.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work out,” I said.

  Josie’s body heaved, she opened her mouth and a thin stream of vomit poured out.

  “Oh, poor baby,” I said, reaching for a stack of paper towels.

  Before I had time to wipe her off, she jumped out of the chair and ran out of the store. I took a couple of deep breaths and walked out front. The two women gave me a concerned look, but thankfully minded their own business.

  “We’ll take the Russell Wright,” the taller one said.

  “It’s cool stuff, isn’t it?” I said, grateful to have this simple transaction to ground me.

  “It is cool, and the price is fair,” she said.

  “We just bought a little weekend place up in Palenville,” her partner said.

  “We just love it up here.”

  “It’s magic.”

  Yeah—black magic maybe.

  Zack lived in West Sawyerville, right under the eastern flank of the Catskills, in a little cabin next to a stream on a dead-end road. When I first met him I figured that any guy who would buy the place had to have some soul. I arrived to find him strolling around his vegetable garden shirtless, with a drink in his hand, picking the lettuce for dinner.

  “Hey, little darlin’,” he called. Zack was from Levittown and like a lot of guys who grew up in cities and suburbs but settled in the country, he loved to use twangy slangy language.