Bulls Island

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Aw, come on, what did you say at my age? Groovy? Or ‘far out, man’?”

  “You’ve been watching that Woodstock documentary again, haven’t you? FYI, we said ‘cool.’”

  “You still say ‘cool.’”

  “Because I am cool.”

  “Maybe. I mean, all things considered…”

  “Rotten kid,” I said. “How’d you get so tall?”

  “All those asparagus you used to feed me.”

  The doorman buzzed again and I picked up the phone. “Delivery,” he said. “Fascino’s and Blue Smoke.”

  “Send them up,” I said.

  I picked up the two fives and went toward the front door, passing Adrian as he set the dining-room table. He was moving around the table, placing flatware, and his back was to me. Something made me pause—the slope of his shoulders or maybe it was his posture. The sight of him gave me shivers because there he was—J. D. Langley in the flesh. Once again I was consumed with dark guilt over keeping his existence a secret from J.D. If I could have rebuilt the world from scratch, I would have populated it with only the three of us. It would have been paradise.

  Adrian was already a young man and J.D. had missed his entire life. Adrian had never known a father. If they ever discovered the truth, J.D. and Adrian might kill me with their bare hands and no court of law in the land would convict them.

  My doorbell rang and I snapped out of my gloom. J.D. and Adrian would never find out about each other because I would never tell.

  It wasn’t long before we were settled at the table with Aunt Jennie and an international feast. I was taken aback by how frail and stooped she looked, but after all, I reminded myself, she was nearly eighty. On the other hand, her faculties were as sharp as a blade of marsh grass.

  “My word, Adrian, I just cannot begin to tell you how tickled to pieces I am for you! Columbia! My goodness gracious sakes alive! To think I changed the diapers of such an important man!”

  Her blue eyes twinkled with youthful mirth despite their red rims of age. Behind those eyes there still existed a vital young woman, probably reliving a moment of her own teenage years. She reached across the table and patted his hand in a gesture of affection.

  “Ah, Aunt Jennie. Thanks,” Adrian said. “Edamame?”

  “Who?” Aunt Jennie said. “You think I need a man at my age?”

  Adrian and I had a fit of giggles, and Aunt Jennie smiled and said, “I guess my hearing isn’t what it was.”

  “What?” I said, and we laughed again.

  “Edamame is this soybean Japanese side dish that I could eat like a billion of,” Adrian said. “See?”

  He demonstrated for Aunt Jennie by popping one in his mouth, sliding the beans from the pod with his teeth, picking off bits of coarse salt. Then he passed the dish to her.

  “Not bad,” she said, after a tentative taste. “Kind of like boiled peanuts.”

  “And just as fattening,” I said. “Everything good is bad for you, isn’t it? Hey! Did I tell y’all that I’m going to Charleston on assignment for a couple of months?” It was as good a time as any to break the news.

  “Awesome! Can I come visit? I hear the beaches are really, really good.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, fully aware that the only way Adrian was coming to Charleston would be to collect my dead body.

  I could see the surprise register in Aunt Jennie’s eyes, but she handled it with her usual aplomb. “Oh? And what will you be doing there, Betts? Charleston’s such a pretty place.”

  I would call her later to discuss the details and seek her sage advice. “Yes, it is. I’ll be building a very high-end gated community on Bulls Island.”

  “What the heck do you know about construction, Mom? I mean that with all due respect.”

  “No problem; but you’re right. I don’t know diddly-squat. I seem to have a long career of acquiring skills for the job as I take on the job. Crazy, right?”

  “Not if you’re well compensated for all the trouble,” Aunt Jennie said, and smiled at me. I knew she wanted the details.

  “My mom can do anything. Are you gonna eat that?”

  “Here.” I passed him some ribs. “Thanks for the compliment, sweetheart.”

  After Aunt Jennie got over her excitement about the news of my pilgrimage back to the land of my ancestors, the conversation limped along, but that limping wasn’t for our lack of interest in one another’s lives. It was that our worlds were so vastly different. Here was my Adrian, who lived in a high-tech sphere, fueled by the noise of pop culture, and who was on the verge of his college career. My world of calculations and risk was so fast-paced, diversified, and complicated that it was difficult to explain to an outsider what I did much less why I was so addicted to it. And Aunt Jennie lived quietly reading historical novels and biographies all winter and visiting gardens during the spring and summer. As much as we loved one another, coming together was a reminder that nothing lasted forever—Adrian’s youth, my role as the helicopter mother, and indeed Aunt Jennie’s days on earth were all running neck and neck to some kind of invisible finish line.

  Before Aunt Jennie left, she reached for her purse and took out an envelope. It was a greeting card with a check for fifty dollars made out in Adrian’s name. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted to burst into tears and it was only much later that I realized that if my mother had lived, she would have been the one writing that check. Sharing that dinner. Hugging Adrian’s neck.

  “Now, you be a good boy in college,” Aunt Jennie said when she was at the door. “Do us proud. And if you need a single solitary thing while your mother’s away, you know where to find me. And I have your cell-phone number, so I’ll be checking up on you!”

  “Thanks, Aunt Jennie. Call me anytime and thanks for the gift.”

  When we were alone we talked some more about me leaving for the Bulls Island project and Adrian was fine with it.

  “Mom, don’t worry about me. I’m sure I’ll be studying all the time—you know, except for when I’m doing lines and getting drunk.”

  “Adrian!”

  He started laughing and of course I knew he was fooling with me, but the reality was, drugs and alcohol were as readily available for anyone with the means as a soft drink was from a vending machine.

  Then my big lug of a man-child put his hands on my shoulders and looked me squarely in the face.

  “Mom,” he said, “don’t worry so much. I’ve been getting ready for this moment since the sandbox. I’m not interested in all that stuff. If I want to be president of the United States someday, I can’t be doing drugs and raising hell.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since when can’t the president be a hell-raiser? You’re kidding, right? Don’t you know that Shrub—”

  “No, no. Who cares about him? I mean, since when do you want to be president?”

  “Well, I don’t. But I know enough to understand that every single stupid thing I do is gonna haunt me forever.”

  I took a very deep gulp. My young Adrian had just dropped a truism of greater import than he could possibly have known.

  “You are so right. You’re a good kid, Adrian. Wanna help me clean up?”

  “Sure. Who’s gonna help you when I’m gone?”

  “I don’t know, baby, but I know I’m surely going to miss my boy being here.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll bring my laundry home every weekend.”

  “Well, I can’t wait for that!”

  The next morning Adrian and I went to Bloomingdale’s and spent a sentimental hour or so browsing the home-furnishings department, gathering together what seemed appropriate for a college freshman without resembling a layout from Architectural Digest that would put his sexual orientation into question.

  “You know, Mom, if I show up with everything all brand new, my roommates are gonna think I’ve been away somewhere, like a really expensive mental ward.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Well, I have to have
a comforter or something for a single bed because mine at home is like huge and the beds in Carman Hall take extra-long sheets, so we have to buy those.”

  “I get it. So, maybe what we should do is give you old towels to take to school and I’ll buy new ones for the house?”

  “Perfect. I just don’t want to show up looking like Richie Rich.”

  “Gotcha. No monograms? Actually that’s pretty smart. Who knows? Your roommates might be from some horrible third-world country, on a full scholarship. There’s zero gain in rubbing our filthy capitalism in anyone’s face.”

  “Exactly. I can always upgrade. I mean, it’s bad enough that my laptop costs like a billion…”

  “Yeah, well, you’ll have to keep your room locked or carry it around with you until you figure out how secure the dorm is, I guess.”

  “Actually, I register the serial number with the IT department, and well…you’re right. Big deal. They could sell it on the street in about ten seconds.”

  “My point precisely. Hey? Do you want one of those little refrigerators?”

  “Nah. I’ll rent one and split it with my roommate. Who needs the hassle of moving it at the end of the year.”

  “Good plan. God, you are so smart!”

  “Thanks, but I’ve read the admissions materials like over and over. Let’s get this stuff and I’ll make a pile of old stuff at home later. Can we go eat?”

  I often wondered if my son had contracted some twenty-first-century mutation of a tapeworm that forced boys to consume their full body weight approximately once a week.

  “Of course! You think I want you to starve?”

  “Can we go to Nicola’s?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Sweet.”

  I knew there wouldn’t be many more days like this one, shopping together, going out for lunch. We dropped our shopping bags off with our doorman and walked over to Madison Avenue. Throughout lunch I was impressed by how magnificently Adrian had matured. While he babbled on about different professors he had been checking out on the Internet—apparently there was a website for rating professors—I quietly reminisced. He had seemed so young just a few short months ago, when he took his SATs and went to his prom. How I worried! I couldn’t envision him grown so soon, looking like a man, mature enough to handle bank accounts, time management, and getting out of bed without someone giving him five more minutes. But here we were on the edge of a milestone and my boy couldn’t wait to leap from the tiny bosom of Horace Mann School into the abyss of serious living. Where had the years gone? I felt a tightening in my chest. How would it be to live without him around? How cavernous would our apartment feel? I had been so busy worrying about getting him into college that I had never thought about how it would feel to have him gone.

  “And there’s this history guy from London, Simon Sch—You okay, Mom?”

  “Yeah, baby. I’m just sitting here thinking that I’m gonna miss you, that’s all.”

  “Mom? I can be home for dinner in fifteen minutes if I hop on the subway.”

  “I know.”

  We had a moment of recognition then and I felt my heart creak a little more. I didn’t want my hesitation to dilute Adrian’s happiness and anticipation, and I didn’t want to shake his confidence. Let’s be real here; I was entitled to an episode of hard-earned despair, but I knew it would be healthier for everyone for me to mourn privately.

  “I’ll be okay, Mom, and if living on campus is totally gross, I’ll come home and take the train to classes.”

  “Adrian? I wouldn’t let you do that. It’s time for you to be out there. You’re ready. But let your mother just give you one piece of valuable advice.”

  “What?”

  “Get yourself a really obnoxious alarm clock.”

  “Good point.”

  After lunch, Adrian went off to meet up with some friends and I watched him disappear into the hundreds of people rushing up and down Madison Avenue. Everyone walked with such purpose in their stride, as though they were fully in charge of their lives and had to be somewhere five minutes ago. Were they so in charge of their lives? Was Adrian?

  It never ceased to amaze me that with all the millions of people in Manhattan, everyone seemed to have their place of belonging. Unfortunately, for some it was a cardboard box in front of a church or on a side street. But everyone else sort of magically found their way through the maze of organized chaos back to their beds at night.

  The bed I had not expected to find myself in was Vinny’s. Before you get all judgmental, let me tell you how it happened.

  I was to meet him downtown at Da Silvano’s for dinner. It was right around eight-thirty when my cab pulled up, and looking inside I could see the dining room was mobbed with fashionistas, paparazzi, suits, and Robert De Niro having a quiet dinner at a table outside on the sidewalk with a friend. But no Vinny. There was an Italian car show outside against the curb. Ferraris galore. All around me, handsome, smiling Italian waiters dressed in black moved through the crowd with bottles of Pellegrino and wine and platters of gorgeous food. It was some scene.

  Maybe, I thought, Vinny was in the Cantinetta next door, and sure enough, when I stuck my head in the door, I spotted him at the bar.

  “’Ey! There’s my girl! Betts, come say hello to my buddy Gino.”

  The resemblance between them was so strong, Gino could have been Vinny’s brother. Maybe he was.

  “Hi,” I said, “I’m Betts McGee.”

  “Look at you! How’d a bum like Vinny get such a gorgeous girl to have dinner with him?”

  “Shaddup, Gino. Betts is crazy about me, ain’t cha baby?”

  “Crazy? Maybe. About you? We’ll see…”

  I mean, you had to laugh. Like a serious laugh the whole way from your toenails to the split ends on your hair. These two made me feel like I had stepped onto the set of The Godfather and we were poised to launch into a discussion on waste management and cement booties. Here I was in one of Manhattan’s chicest watering holes with the Corleone boys. How about, it made me question my judgment? But somehow, Vinny had locked my imagination in overdrive and I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

  Vinny put a glass of vodka on the rocks with a twist in my hands, which was odd since I had never drunk vodka in front of him or recalled mentioning that I drank it, and I turned to Gino.

  “So what do you do, Gino?”

  “I’m the chief of heart-lung surgery at Columbia Presbyterian.”

  “Oh? I thought Dr. Oz was.”

  “Yeah, well, technically he is. But he’s on Oprah all the time and traveling for his books, so I’m the guy watching the store.”

  “Gino here saved my old man’s life,” Vinny said. “Did a heart-lung transplant and now my dad’s playing eighteen holes four times a week and he’s seventy.”

  Still suspicious that Vinny may have procured and delivered the donor’s organs, I had to admit that I had caught myself being an ass once again. Never judge the proverbial book by its Italian provenance, if you will. I soon learned that Gino was staying for dinner at Vinny’s insistence, which was fine with me. They talked. I drank. Not a good plan if one wants to stay above water.

  One vodka followed another and finally we were shown to our table. Vinny ordered for everyone. Grilled shrimp with a bottle of Pinot Grigio, penne all’arrabiata with more Pinot Grigio, osso bucco with a Barbaresco, and pretty soon I was stuffed and barely holding steady in the sobriety department. Thank God I wasn’t driving. But Vinny was. Somehow he paid the check without my noticing and the next thing I knew we were in his big SUV heading for his loft in Tribeca. I objected, but it didn’t register with him. Even in my cloudy state I recognized that Vinny was probably used to getting what he wanted. So rather than argue with him after a perfectly wonderful dinner and some of the most interesting conversation about health care I’d had in years, courtesy of Gino, I agreed to go look at the view from Vinny’s terrace. It wasn’t clear whether Gino was coming along, but it soon became obvious w
hen he said good night, adding that he had enjoyed meeting me and calling Vinny a lucky devil. I smiled at that because had I met Gino first, things might have been different.

  But I was draped on the arm of Vinny, and for the remainder of the evening that’s where I would hang.

  Vinny owned the penthouse of a loft building that overlooked the Hudson. The view was the single feature to recommend it. He opened the front door, flipped one single switch, and all the lights came on low and Tony Bennett started to croon from hidden speakers. The living room was enormous, with sliding glass doors everywhere. The sofas and chairs were white leather with chrome trim and the tables were glass with chrome trim. There wasn’t a book or a photograph in sight. It could have been a rental.

  “Here. Come see.”

  Beaming with pride, Vinny pressed a button on an electronic keypad that moved all the white billows of fabric back to reveal a wraparound view of the Statue of Liberty in the harbor and the Gold Coast of New Jersey. New Jersey was alive with the lights of so many lives and there stood Our Lady of the Harbor, the symbol of much of what we hold precious. It was magnificent.

  “Let’s go outside,” he said.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  He grabbed a bottle of some kind of cognac and two snifters. Well, I had already swallowed enough alcohol to fill my quota for a month, but I knew I wasn’t going to say no to this either.

  We stepped out onto the terrace and sighed as we took it all in. It was one of those kinds of nights that New Yorkers live for. Perfect temperature. Light breeze. And a dazzling view of every building.

  He put the bottle down on the dining table—chrome, glass, with white pleatherette chairs—and poured out a moderate measure for each of us. We touched the edges of our glasses.

  I said, “What or whom are we toasting?”

  “I don’t know, Betts McGee. Why don’t we drink to us?”

  Wanting to be the good sport, I said, “Why not? Here’s to us and the magic of the moment.”

  Well, I guess he took that to be an invitation to initiate a mating ritual and he began making the requisite moves. What can I tell you? Blame it on the wine, Tony Bennett, and the Statue of Liberty. Blame it on New Jersey and the fact that he had a round bed and a mirrored ceiling. (Yes, he actually had a round bed, and all I could wonder was where he bought his sheets.) Something triggered my abandon, and for a while there I thought I had met the love of my life. Around three in the morning, when he was snoring lightly, and when I panicked to realize where I was, I slipped out of his apartment, caught a cab, and went home. I was a scandal and a disgrace and I could not have cared less what my late-shift doorman thought.