I looked at Ethel now, lying there, her life ebbing from her wasted body, and then I thought of her as I’d seen her in the old photos—a young, pretty girl born into a world where lots of things could never be.
Now all things were possible—or seemed to be—but the happiness quotient hadn’t risen much despite, or maybe because of, our freedom to do pretty much what we wanted.
Ethel was looking at me and said, “I’m going to see him again.”
I wasn’t sure if that masculine pronoun referred to George or Augustus, and I also wondered how they handled love triangles in heaven. I said, “Yes, you will.”
Ethel said to me, or to herself, “I’m looking forward to seeing all my friends and family who went before me.”
I didn’t reply.
On the subject of reunions, Ethel informed me, “Mrs. Sutter would like to see you.”
I feigned confusion and replied, “My mother and I are barely speaking, Mrs. Allard.”
“I’m speaking of your wife.”
“Ex-wife.”
“She’s very disappointed that you haven’t called her.”
This came as a surprise, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. Actually, I felt pretty lousy, but I informed Ethel, “The phone works both ways.”
“Mr. Sutter, if I may be personal, I think you should forgive and forget.”
I slipped into my old master/servant tone of voice and said, “Mrs. Allard, I have forgiven and forgotten, and I have no wish to continue on this subject.”
But Ethel did, and since she was in a unique position to say whatever she wanted without consequence, she said to me, “You’re hurting her, and yourself.”
My goodness. Crotchety old Ethel Allard was seeing some sort of celestial light, and was determined to do something good before she got grilled by St. Peter.
Also, on a more earthly level, Ethel knew a thing or two about adultery and the weakness of the flesh, so she gave Susan a free pass on that. In other words, Ethel and Susan had something in common; to wit, they’d both crossed the Do Not Diddle line. These were two very different cases, of course, with far different results, but the bottom line was a pair of men’s shoes under their beds that didn’t belong there.
I was a little annoyed and said to her, hypothetically, “Would George have forgiven you if you—?”
“He did.”
“Oh . . .” I never thought that George knew about Augustus. Well, George was a forgiving soul, and I’m not. Plus, George got the free housing. I reminded her, “This subject is finished.” I looked at my watch and said, “Perhaps I’d better be going.”
“As you wish.”
I stood, but didn’t leave. Instead, I walked to the window and stared out toward the sinking sun. From here, I could see a glimpse of the Sound between the trees, and the sunlight sparkled on the water.
“What do you see?”
I glanced back at Ethel.
“Tell me what you see.”
I took a deep breath and said, “I see sunlight sparkling on the water. I see trees, and the leaves are glistening from the rain. I see the sky clearing, and white clouds blowing across the horizon. I can see the head of Hempstead Harbor, and boats, and I see land across the Sound, and there are flights of gulls circling over the water.”
“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“I should have noticed it more.”
“We all should.”
Neither of us spoke for a full minute, then I moved to her bedside.
She was clutching the stuffed bear, and I saw tears in her eyes.
I took a tissue from the box and patted her cheeks. She took my hand and said, “Thank you for coming, John.”
Her hand was very cold and dry, and this, more than her appearance, made me aware that she was closer to death than to life.
She squeezed my hand and said, “I never liked you, you know.”
I smiled and replied, “I know.”
“But I respected you.”
Deathbed confessions are admissible as evidence, and deemed to be truthful, so I said, “Thank you.”
She further confessed, “You’re a good man. There are not many left.”
I agreed with that, and said, “You are a lady.”
“You’re lost, John. Find your way home.”
“I’m trying.”
“Call her. And call your mother. And your children. Reach out to those you love, or once loved.”
“I will.”
She squeezed my hand again, and said, “Goodbye.”
I returned the grasp, then let go of her hand and moved away from the bed. Then I turned back, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek.
I left the room quickly and headed to the elevator.
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 . . . w
ell, 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 stayin
g 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?”
The Gate House Page 8