"The Gate House" - читать интересную книгу автора (DeMille Nelson)CHAPTER SIXAt 5:00 p.m., I drove through the magnificent wrought-iron gates of my grand estate and headed south on Grace Lane in my Lamborghini. Reality check: not my estate, and not a Lamborghini. Grace Lane – named not for a woman, or for the spiritual state in which the residents believed they lived, but for the Grace family of ocean liner fame – was, and may still be, a private road, which means the residents own it and are supposed to maintain it. The last time I was here, my neighbors were trying to unload this expense on various local governments, who didn’t seem anxious to bail out the rich sons of bitches of Grace Lane, some of whom were no longer so rich, but who nonetheless remained sons of bitches. The issue seems to have been resolved in my absence because Grace Lane was now well paved. I continued south toward the village of Locust Valley, where I needed to stop to buy something for Ethel. One should never arrive empty-handed when paying a visit, of course, but I never know what to bring except for wine, and that wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion; likewise, flowers might seem premature. Ethel enjoyed reading, so I could stop at the bookstore, but I shouldn’t buy anything too long, like “Dear Ms. Post, I need to visit an elderly lady in hospice, whose time left on earth could be measured with a stopwatch. Why should I bother to bring her anything? (Signed) COLI. P.S. I don’t like her.” “Dear COLI, Good manners don’t stop at death’s door. An appropriate gift would be a box of chocolates; if she can’t eat them, her visitors can. If she dies before you get there, leave the chocolates and your calling card with the receptionist. It’s the thought that counts. (Signed) Emily Post. P.S. Try to make amends if she’s conscious.” I turned onto Skunks Misery Road, and within a few minutes found myself again in the village of Locust Valley. I hate shopping for anything, including cards and trivial gifts, so my mood darkened as I cruised Forest Avenue and Birch Hill Road, looking for some place that sold chocolates. I saw at least a dozen white SUVs that could have been Susan’s, and it occurred to me that she was good at this sort of thing, so if I ran into her – figuratively, not literally – I’d ask her for some advice. The last gift advice I’d gotten from her – at Carolyn’s graduation from Harvard Law – was that the T-shirt I’d bought for Carolyn in London, which, in Shakespeare’s words, said, “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers,” was not a good law school graduation gift. She may have been right. Anyway, I gave up on the chocolates, parked, and went into a florist shop. A nice-looking young lady behind the counter asked how she could help me, and I replied without preamble, “I need something for an elderly lady who’s in hospice and doesn’t have much time left.” I glanced at my watch to emphasize that point. “I see… so-” “I am not particularly fond of her.” “All right… then-” “I mean, cactus would be appropriate, but she’ll have other visitors, so I need something that looks nice. It doesn’t have to last long.” “I understand. So perhaps-” “It can’t look like a funeral arrangement. Right?” “Right. You don’t want to… Why don’t we avoid flowers and do a nice living plant?” “How about hemlock?” “No, I was thinking of that small Norfolk pine over there.” She explained, “Evergreens are the symbol of eternal life.” “Really?” “Yes, like, well, a Christmas tree.” “Christmas trees turn brown.” “That’s because they’re cut.” She informed me, “We deliver a lot of living evergreens to hospice.” “Really?” “Yes. They smell good. And the family can take them home as a memento afterwards.” “After what?” “After… the… person…” She changed the subject and asked, “Which hospice is the lady residing at?” “Fair Haven.” “We can deliver that for you.” “Actually, I’m on my way there now and that’s too big to carry, so…” I looked around, and in the corner of the shop was a shelf lined with stuffed animals, including a few Teddy bears, which are big around here because the man who inspired the bear, Teddy Roosevelt, lived in nearby Oyster Bay. I took the best-looking Teddy bear from the shelf, put it on the counter, and said, “I’ll take this.” “That’s very nice.” She put a pink ribbon around the bear’s neck and stuck a sprig of lavender in the ribbon. I paid in cash, and the young lady said to me, “She’ll like that. Good luck.” Back in the car, I headed west toward the hospice house in Glen Cove. I glanced at the fluffy bear sitting beside me, and suddenly I felt a rush of emotion pass over me. It hit me that Ethel Allard was dying, and that so many of the people I once knew were dead, and in an instant I remembered all of them and saw their faces from long ago, smiling, usually in some social setting or holiday occasion, a drink close by, like in the photos I’d just seen. Where, I wondered, had the years gone? And why hadn’t I appreciated those moments when my world was safe, familiar, and intact? Well, you can’t go back, and even if I could, I’m not sure if I could have or would have changed anything that led to the end of my life as I knew it, or the end of Frank Bellarosa’s life as he knew it. Frank Bellarosa, on a cold winter day a decade ago, was driving from Brooklyn and heading to a restaurant in Glen Cove with some business associates for a meeting. They got off the Long Island Expressway, became lost, and somehow wound up on Grace Lane. They spotted the abandoned estate called Alhambra, and, as Frank told me later, the Lombardy poplars that lined the driveway, and the red-tiled stucco villa, reminded him of his Italian roots. He made inquiries, and bought the estate. Then he moved in. Then I met him. Then Susan and I accepted his invitation to come by for coffee. Then a lot of things happened, ending with my wife murdering her new neighbor and lover. And now, ten years later, the original cast of this tragedy – -including the dead and the dying – has reassembled for the last and final act. |
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