"The Gate House" - читать интересную книгу автора (DeMille Nelson)

CHAPTER TEN

I exited Fair Haven Hospice House into the bright sunlight, and took a deep breath of fresh air, glad I was out of there, but happy I went.

Though Ethel and I never cared for each other, she’d been one of my last links to a long-ago past, and a link to George, whom I liked very much. So, to be honest, I was feeling a little sad.

Also disturbing were Ethel’s mentions of Susan. I was perfectly happy carrying around a grudge, and I didn’t want to hear that Susan was… well, whatever.

On that subject, it occurred to me that Susan could be coming here for a visit, and I didn’t want to bump into her, so I kept an eye out as I made my way to the parking area.

Also, I could imagine my mother coming to see her old socialist buddy. In America, politics crosses all lines – class, race, ethnicity, and levels of intelligence.

And regarding Harriet Sutter, I should explain, in my defense, that I’m not a bad son; she was a bad mother, more interested in saving the world than in raising her two children. My father was a decent if distant man, but his wife ran his life, and Harriet made little time for me, Emily, or my children. Oddly, though, Harriet was and remains close to crazy Susan, and Susan’s betrayal of me did not cause Harriet to change her favorable opinion of Susan; in fact, my mother suggested to me that I try to understand why Susan “strayed,” as she called it (I call it fucking another guy), and she also suggested counseling so that I could better comprehend my own failings, which may have led to Susan’s unfulfilled whatever.

I mean, pure bullshit. I could almost hear Ethel Allard and Harriet Sutter chatting over tea, wondering why silly John had his shorts in a knot over an unfortunate lapse of judgment by poor, sweet Susan. Ethel, I can forgive. My mother, never.

Anyway, the other person I didn’t want to run into was the Reverend James Hunnings, who was annoyingly cordial to me, and to everyone who disliked him. Hunnings always spoke as though he was on stage, and there wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in his voice or heart. But if I did see him, I’d drop a little hint that Ethel had put St. Mark’s in her will. Then I’d wink and nod.

I made it to the parking area without running into anyone, and I was about to get into my car when I heard a car door close, and a female voice said, “John Sutter.”

That’s me, so I turned and saw Elizabeth Allard coming toward me, carrying a small pastry box.

I walked toward her and said, “Elizabeth. How are you?”

We shook hands, then, by mutual consent, engaged in a clumsy hug.

She said to me, “You look great, John.”

“So do you.” In fact, she was, as I said, an attractive woman, and when she was younger, she’d looked like her mother in that wedding picture above the fireplace. As I also said, she looked enough like George so that I didn’t have to worry that she was my… what? Ex-wife’s grandfather’s illegitimate daughter, making her my children’s blood relative of some sort – and a possible Stanhope heir.

Actually, I realized that Elizabeth’s age would not comport with her mother’s World War II affair. But what if Augustus got in a post-war pop? Is that a Stanhope nose?

“Are you coming or going?” she asked.

“Huh? Oh… well, I never know.”

She smiled.

Stanhope mouth?

I said, “I’ve just come from your mother’s room. She looks well.”

“It’s very nice of you to visit.”

“Well… I’ve known your mother for a very long time.” I smiled and added, “We lived together once.”

Elizabeth returned the smile, then said, “John, I’m sorry about your father. I should have sent you a card.”

I replied, “I was at sea.”

“I know… that must have been very difficult for you.”

“It was.” And my mother made it more difficult. I wonder if she ever understood the irony of her calling me a son of a bitch.

Elizabeth said, “I meant to write to you when you got to London. I got your address from your mother.”

“Did you?” I wondered if Elizabeth asked for my address, or if it was offered. Probably the former, knowing Harriet. In any case, Elizabeth hadn’t written that condolence note, but if she had, what would she have said? Dear John, Sorry you couldn’t make your father’s funeral. Everyone was asking about you.

I was still feeling a little guilty after eight years, so I said, “I learned of my father’s death a month after it happened.”

She nodded.

I continued, “I’m going to visit his grave before I return.”

Again, she nodded and changed the subject by asking, “So, how is London?”

“Good.”

“How long are you staying?”

“I’m not sure.” I also wasn’t sure of my relationship with Elizabeth. Were we family friends as a result of me knowing her father and mother for decades? Or were we acquaintances because I’d hardly ever seen her, except now and then in the village and at a few social and family functions? I said, “Sorry to hear about your divorce.”

She shrugged and replied, “It was for the best.”

Elizabeth Allard, daughter of estate workers, had married well. His name was Tom Corbet, and he came from what’s called a “good family.” He’s a Yalie, like I am, and he worked on Wall Street, as I did, and in my past life I’d see him on the train now and then. Elizabeth, I recalled, used her maiden name for business, but socially she was Mrs. Corbet. Mr. and Mrs. Corbet had two children, a girl and a boy, both of whom must be in college now or graduated. Tom Corbet, by the way, was a crashing bore, and the only interesting thing about him was that he’d gone gay some years ago, so, yes, the divorce was probably for the best.

Elizabeth added, in case I didn’t know, “Tom has a boyfriend.”

“Right. Well…” That must have been very difficult for her when Tom sat her down and told her there was another man. I mean, that should have been her line.

She changed the subject and said to me, “Sorry about you and Susan.”

“Oh, did you hear about that?”

She suppressed a laugh and reminded me, “It was national news.”

“That’s right. It’s been so long.” Elizabeth owned three or four upscale clothing boutiques in the nearby villages, so I asked her, “How’s business?”

She replied, “Not too bad, considering the stock market has gone to hell, and people have been putting their money into hazmat suits and freeze-dried rations since 9/11 and the anthrax thing.” She smiled and continued, “Maybe I should carry designer gas masks.”

I smiled in return. I don’t usually notice women’s clothing, unless it’s really outrageous, but I recalled that Elizabeth used to dress conservatively, despite some of the weird stuff I’d seen in her shops years ago when Susan had dragged me into them. Today, however, Elizabeth had left her severely tailored business suits in the closet – or perhaps Tom took them – and she was wearing a frilly pink blouse that accentuated her tan, and a black silk skirt that didn’t reach her knees. Maybe she felt that her formerly mannish attire had been the reason that Tom… well, I shouldn’t speculate on that, but-

She interrupted my train of thought and said, apropos of her statement about hazmat suits and gas masks, “People are such wimps.” She asked, “What’s wrong with this country?”

“I don’t know. I just got here.”

I should also mention that Elizabeth was a local Republican activist, to the extent that Republicans around here engaged in any activity other than golf and drinking.

In any case, her politics, like her membership in The Creek Country Club and the Locust Valley Chamber of Commerce, may have been driven more by business than conviction. Nevertheless, Elizabeth’s affiliations had caused Ethel no end of grief and bewilderment, and I could imagine Ethel crying to George, “How could a child of mine be a Republican?” Adding, “It’s your fault, George!”

Elizabeth asked me, “What are they saying in London?”

“They’re saying they’re next.”

She nodded.

Elizabeth Allard Corbet, by the way, had wavy chestnut hair that she wore shoulder length, nice big brown eyes, a nose with slightly flared nostrils (like George’s), and lush lips that, now and then, flashed a slightly amused smile. Bottom line, she was a good-looking woman with a cultured voice and manner – the result of being an estate brat.

Men, of course, found her attractive, though she never rang my bell (and apparently not Tom’s), and women, too, seemed to like her. Susan, I remembered, liked her.

On that subject, against my better judgment, I said, “I assume you know that Susan is back.”

She replied, without any silly pretense of ignorance, “Yes. I’ve seen her here a few times. We actually had lunch once.” She asked me, “Have you seen her?”

“No.”

“Do you plan to?”

“I don’t – but I probably will.”

There was a lot more to talk about on that subject, if I cared to, and I was sure Elizabeth, like her mother, had things to tell me about Susan. But the last thing I wanted was for people to be carrying messages and information back and forth between the estranged parties. So I dropped the subject and asked, “How are your children?”

“Fine. Tom Junior is a senior at Brown, and Betsy graduated Smith and is in an MFA program at Penn.”

“You must be very proud of them.”

“I am.” She smiled. “Except for their politics. I think bleeding-heart liberalism skips a generation. Mom, however, is delighted.”

I smiled in return.

She informed me, “Susan has filled me in on Edward and Carolyn.”

“Good.”

On the subject of genes versus environment, Elizabeth could be a little severe and strong-willed at times, like her mother, but mostly she was quietly pleasant and straightforward, like her father, with her father’s strong work ethic. And did I mention that she’d gone to Bryn Mawr, all expenses paid by her secret and perhaps reluctant godfather, Augustus Stanhope? Augustus’ rolls in the hay barn with Ethel had cost him a few more bucks than he’d figured, and possibly a few sleepless nights.

Things were different then, of course, in regard to social and sexual rules of behavior; but even today adultery isn’t acceptable, and carries a high price tag. Ask Susan Sutter. Or John. Or Frank Bellarosa… Well, he’s not talking.

Elizabeth said to me, “Now that Mom is… at the end… I’m thinking more about Dad. I really miss him.”

“I do, too.”

George Allard and I could have been considered friends, except for the artificial and anachronistic class barrier, which was enforced more by George than by me. George, like many old-school servants, had been more royal than the King, and he truly believed that the local gentry were his social superiors; however, whenever they slacked off or behaved badly (which was often), George respectfully reminded them of their obligations as gentlemen, and he would gently but firmly suggest corrections to their behavior and manners. I think I was a challenge to him, and we didn’t become close until he gave up on me.

Elizabeth suggested, “If you have time, why don’t you come up with me – or wait for me? I’m staying only fifteen minutes tonight. Then, if you’d like, we can go for a drink.” She added, in case I was misinterpreting the offer, “I’d like to speak to you about Mom’s will, and whatever else I need to speak to you about.”

I replied, “I do need to speak to you. You are, as you know, the executrix of her estate, and her sole heir, aside from a few minor bequests. But unfortunately, I have plans this evening.”

“Oh… well…”

Actually, I had time to at least walk her to the front door, but I kept thinking that Susan, my mother, or Father Hunnings might pull up. On the other hand, that might not be a bad thing. I could imagine some interesting reactions from my ex-wife, ex-mother, and ex-priest if they saw me talking to the attractive divorcée.

To get another rumor mill going, I should have said, “I’m having dinner with a Mafia don,” but, in a Freudian slip, I said, “I’m having dinner with a business prospect.”

“Oh. Does that mean you’re staying?”

“I’m not sure.” I suggested, “How about tomorrow night? Are you free?”

“No… I’m having dinner with friends.” She smiled. “Thursday is ladies’ night out. But you’re welcome to join us for a drink.”

“Uh… perhaps not.” I considered asking her to dinner Friday night, but that would sound like a weekend date instead of a weekday business dinner, so I said, “I’d like you to do a quick inventory of the personal property – Mom and Dad’s – and look over some paperwork. Also, your mother asked that you… find the dress she wants to wear… so, why don’t you come to the house on Saturday or Sunday?”

“Saturday afternoon would be good. Would four o’clock work?”

“Yes. I’ll be sure my estate gate is open.”

She smiled and said, “I have the code.” She informed me, “You are sleeping in my room.”

“I know.”

“I’d like to see it, one last time. Is that all right?”

“Do I need to clean it?”

“No. If it was clean, I wouldn’t recognize it.”

I smiled. She smiled.

I suggested, “If you have a van or station wagon, we can get some personal things moved out.”

She replied, “I have that.” She nodded toward a big SUV of some sort. Maybe these things ate the other cars. She asked, “Will that do?”

“It should. Or we can make a few trips.” I added, “You should arrange for a mover for the furniture.”

“All right.” She suddenly asked me, “John, do you think I should buy the gatehouse? Is it for sale?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Mr. Nasim. Why would you want to buy it?”

She shrugged. “Nostalgia. Maybe I’d live there. I don’t need the big house in Mill Neck. The kids are gone. I got the house in the divorce. Tom got my shoes and purses.” She smiled and said, “Or I could rent the gatehouse to you, if you stayed.”

I smiled in return.

She looked at her watch and said, “I should go. So, I’ll see you Saturday, about four.”

“Right. If there is any change, you know the number.”

“Do you have a cell?”

“Not in the U.S.”

“Okay…” She handed me the pastry box, then fished around in her purse, found a business card, and wrote on the card, saying, “My home number and my cell.”

I exchanged the card for the pastry box and said, “See you Saturday.”

“Thanks, John, for all you’re doing for Mom.”

“It’s nothing.”

“And what you did for Dad. I never properly thanked you.”

“He was a good man.”

“He thought the world of you.” She added, “And your father was a good man, and he… he understood what you were going through.”

I didn’t reply, and we did a quick hug and air kiss. She turned, took a few steps, then looked back and said, “Oh, I have a letter for you from Mom. I’ll bring it Saturday.”

“Okay.”

I watched her walking quickly toward the hospice house, then I turned and got into my rental car.

As I drove down the lane toward the road, I replayed the conversation, as people do who are trying to extract some meaning beyond the words spoken. I also analyzed her body language and demeanor, but Elizabeth was not easy to read; or, maybe, as several women have told me, I miss the subtleties. If a woman says, “Let’s have a drink and talk business,” I actually think it’s about business. It’s a wonder I ever got laid.

Anyway, on to my next adventure: dinner with don Anthony Bellarosa.

Ethel, Elizabeth, Anthony. And, eventually, Susan.

An individual life passes through a continuum of time and space, but now and then you enter a warp that sucks you back into the past. You understand what’s going on because you’ve been there before; but that’s no guarantee that you’re going to get it right this time. In fact, experience is just another word for baggage. And memory carries the bags.

More importantly – egg drop or wonton? Chopsticks or fork?

I pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of Wong Lee’s Chinese restaurant.