The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  And then something strange happened. Mrs. Cotter said to Susan, “Thank you, but I have no wish to speak to Mr. Stanhope.”

  Well, that stopped the show. Then Mrs. Cotter said to her nurse, “We can leave now.”

  Elizabeth walked with them to the lobby, and Susan and I went back to our seats.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. But, I thought, William must have been a particularly difficult employer, tight as a drum, and not overly generous with the severance pay. I was happy to have my very low opinion of William validated by Mrs. Cotter in front of his daughter.

  Susan did comment, “I seem to remember some friction between Dad and Mrs. Cotter.”

  To lighten the moment, I said, “She certainly put me in my place.”

  Susan smiled and said, “She doesn’t remember, but she liked you. She said I should marry you.”

  We left it there, and I went back to dividing my attention between my watch and the arriving mourners. I noticed now some people who were obviously friends of Elizabeth, male and female, and also a few women who were so badly dressed that they could have been her customers. I suppose I’ve been conditioned since childhood to look down on the nouveaux riches, but they themselves make it easy for people like me to make fun of them. I mean, they are a bad combination of money without taste, and conspicuous consumption without restraint. And they seemed to be taking over this part of the planet.

  After about half an hour, I was bored senseless, so I didn’t notice that my mother had arrived until I realized that Susan was speaking to Harriet, who was standing with Elizabeth in the first row.

  Harriet looked at me and asked, “Aren’t you going to say hello, John?”

  Bitch. I stood and apologized. “I’m sorry, Mother. I was deep in prayer.”

  She actually smiled at that, then she, Susan, and Elizabeth continued chatting.

  Harriet, by the way, was wearing a coarse cotton dress of multi-colors, and I was certain that it was the mourning dress of some fucked-up tribe that lived in some fucked-up jungle in some fucked-up country somewhere. Harriet was multicultural before it became fashionable, and any culture would do, as long as it wasn’t her own.

  So, before she started dancing around the coffin throwing burning bananas into the air or something, I excused myself and escaped to the sitting room. Tom and Laurence were taking a break, and I sat with them. I said, “Explain to me again how you can be partners and be in different businesses.”

  We all got a good chuckle out of that, and Tom confessed, “I thought I had a mother-in-law from hell, God rest her soul, but your two are straight from the inferno.”

  I replied, “Oh, they’re not so bad.”

  Tom said, “Well, I’m only going by what Elizabeth used to tell me, and she got most of that from Ethel. So I’m sorry if I misspoke.”

  I conceded, “They’re not the most likable people. But they do have some good qualities.” I was in a don’t-give-a-shit mood, so I explained, “They’re rich and old.”

  That got a good laugh, and Tom said, “Well, big congratulations on your coming marriage.”

  So I sat there awhile making small talk with Tom and Laurence, glad for the company. Then William walked into the big sitting room with an older gent, and he saw me, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Well, that wasn’t going to stop me from being polite and respectful to my future father-in-law, so I held up my hand and flashed two fingers.

  William turned away and sat with his friend.

  Tom asked me, “Are you leaving?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I thought you just gave William the two-minute warning.”

  “No, I was giving him the Peace sign.” I explained, “Sometimes I just give him the middle finger.”

  Tom and Laurence thought that was funny, so I expounded on that and said, “When I was dating Susan, William and I used to argue about the Vietnam War, and I’d flash the Peace sign, and he’d flash the Victory sign, which is the same thing. Right? Well, we got some laughs out of that, and then I started giving him the middle finger, which he didn’t think was so funny, so he started to shake his index finger at me as a warning that I was pissing him off, and then I would wiggle my pinky—like this—to make fun of his small dick.”

  Tom and Laurence were laughing, and people were starting to notice, including William, and also the Reverend James Hunnings, whom I just noticed, and who was giving me a look like he was about to shake his finger at me. Anyway, I thought I should leave, and I excused myself.

  Back in Parlor A, I sat in the rear and watched the comings and goings, and basically zoned out. The smell of the flowers was overwhelming, and the wall sconces had these stupid flickering lights that could bring on a seizure.

  My mind drifted back to George’s funeral again, and I recalled that Frank Bellarosa had actually shown up, which caused a little stir in the crowd. I mean, it’s not every day you get a Mafia don at Walton’s, and I wondered if the mourners knew he was there because of me. And for Susan, of course. I hoped everyone just thought that Bellarosa had come because he lived in the neighboring estate.

  In any case, Frank arrived with Anna and they knelt at the coffin, Catholic-style, crossed themselves, and bowed their heads in prayer. I swore I saw George trying to roll over. After paying their respects to the deceased, the Bellarosas turned and shook hands with everyone in the first row, expressed their condolences, and, thankfully, left.

  I had no idea why he’d shown up in the first place, except that it was my understanding that the Italians never missed a funeral, no matter how remote their relationship might be with the deceased. They must scan the obituaries every morning, then call around to see if anyone knew Angelo Cacciatore, or whomever, and then make a decision about going to the wake based mostly on not wanting to insult the family. Even if it wasn’t their family.

  Anyway, Frank Bellarosa had other motives for taking a half hour out of his busy criminal life to come to George Allard’s wake, and to send a huge flower arrangement; he wanted to ingratiate himself into my and Susan’s life. Actually, he was already screwing one of us, and at that point, it wasn’t me.

  But I promised Susan I wouldn’t think about those things, so instead I thought about happy things, like seeing Edward and Carolyn, being with Susan again, and the slippery bathtub in the Stanhopes’ guest bathroom.

  After about twenty minutes, I got up and checked out the floral arrangements along the walls. I knew a lot of the senders, including my old pals Jim and Sally Roosevelt, who I understood would not be coming to New York for Ethel Allard’s funeral, though they knew the Allards for forty years. Also in that category was my sister, Emily, who I wished had come in, just for the family reunion, but Emily has as little as possible to do with this world, having long ago decided that our mother is crazy, and that everyone else who lived here was stuck in the unhealthy past.

  And speaking of Harriet, I figured out right away that the potted geranium sitting on a stand had come from her. Harriet is very green, so no one gets cut flowers from her. Usually, for an occasion, she brings or sends something like potted parsley or dill, or whatever. I mean, she’s nuts, but at least she didn’t bring a tomato bush to Walton’s Funeral Home.

  I saw a very big arrangement whose card said it was from John, Susan, Carolyn, Edward, William, Charlotte, and Peter. I knew why the first four names were on the card, but I didn’t know why Cheap Willie, Airhead Charlotte, and Useless Peter couldn’t send their own flowers. Just being on the same card with them gave me stomach cramps. How was I going to spend the rest of William’s life being nice to him?

  I looked at the other flower arrangements, and it was nice to see so many names from the old days, people who may have moved on, but who had gotten word of the death of Ethel Allard, who, for all her faults, was a good church lady, a good friend to a select few, and one of the last links to the days of the grand estates and the ladies and gentlemen who once lived in them—a world that she detested, but which, ir
onically, she was more a part of than she understood.

  I glanced at the cards on a few other flower arrangements, then found myself staring at a small card pinned to a very large spray of white lilies. It said, Deepest Condolences, and it was signed, Anthony, Megan, Anna, and family.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  We stayed until the only one left in Parlor A was Ethel.

  We saw Elizabeth to her car, along with her son and daughter, and Susan asked her, “Would you like to join us at home for a late supper?”

  Elizabeth declined, but I pressed her, wanting company so I wouldn’t have to speak to the Stanhopes.

  Elizabeth sensed this, but told us that Tom and Laurence were going to stop by her house, which I thought was very civilized, so we invited them as well, and Elizabeth called Tom on his cell phone, and he and Laurence were happy to join us. I love spontaneous parties, and I suggested to Elizabeth, “Let’s invite Uncle . . . what was your uncle’s name?”

  Susan cautioned me, “We don’t want to overwhelm Sophie.”

  The Stanhopes didn’t seem too happy about the company, and that made me happy.

  So we all got on the road, and at about 9:30, I approached the gates of Stanhope Hall.

  My remote still worked, but as I drove through the opening gates, a young man in a silly sky blue uniform stepped out of the gatehouse—now the guard house—and held up his hand.

  I stopped, and he asked me, “Who are you here to see?”

  I replied, “Me. Who are you here to see?”

  I straightened him out and told him to leave the gates open for the next two vehicles, then I proceeded up the dark drive.

  William commented, “Well, that’s a fine thing. Can’t even get into your own property. In our community, Palmetto Shores, every security person knows every resident or their cars. Isn’t that right, Susan?”

  Susan replied, “Mr. Nasim just began this service, Dad.”

  But William went on, singing the praises of his and Charlotte’s, and I guess Susan’s, gated paradise. I really needed a drink. More importantly, I think Susan was already tired of Mom and Dad, and they’d been here only four hours.

  But to be nice, I said to everyone, “I’m really looking forward to Susan and me coming to Hilton Head. Palmetto Shores sounds great.”

  The back of the car fell silent, and I continued on, parked the car, and we all went inside.

  Susan had called ahead to Sophie, who was in the kitchen trying to rustle up enough grub for nine people—ten, if we could get ahold of Uncle What’s-his-name.

  I did my guy thing and set up a nice bar on the kitchen island, and Susan helped Sophie. But William and Charlotte, as always, were useless, and they sat in the living room with martini number five.

  Elizabeth arrived with Tom Junior and Betsy, and Elizabeth asked, “What is going on at the gatehouse?”

  Susan explained as I made drinks for everyone, and Elizabeth commented, “That’s sad . . . but I still have good memories of living there.” Elizabeth then asked if I had a Tuscan red, which reminded me of our first and last date. I asked her kids to raise their right hands and swear that they were twenty-one, which made them and their mother smile.

  I had a great idea, and went into the living room and got a framed photo of Carolyn and Edward and said, “They’ll be here tomorrow night. Maybe the four of you can go out.”

  Susan said, “John.”

  That means something different every time, but it usually means, “Shut up.”

  Elizabeth, however, said, “That would be nice.”

  Tom and Laurence showed up, and I had to explain about the guards and the paranoid Iranian. They both thought that was exciting, but I could see that Elizabeth was starting to think there was more to this, and she glanced at Susan, then at me, and I nodded.

  This gave me another great idea, and I said to Susan, “Let’s call the Nasims and ask them to come over.”

  “I’m not sure what they can eat or drink.”

  “I’ll tell them to bring their own food.” I added, “Mr. Nasim would love to speak to your father about Stanhope Hall.”

  “I don’t think my parents are up for much more company.”

  That was why I wanted to invite the Nasims. I said, “Amir and Soheila might be hurt or insulted if we didn’t include them in our funeral rituals.” I asked Elizabeth, “Would you mind?”

  She replied, “Not at all.” She added, “They knew Mom for nine years, and they were always very nice to her.”

  “Good.”

  Laurence was following the conversation and inquired, “Can we ask him who wants to kill him and why?”

  I replied, “Of course. He’s very open about that.”

  I felt the balance tipping in my favor, but then Susan said, “No. Some other time.”

  So the Stanhopes would have to forgo a multicultural experience. Maybe I’d invite the Nasims over for dinner and include my mother. She slobbers over third world people, and she’d be proud of me for having Iranian friends.

  Anyway, by 10:30, we were all a little lubricated, and we sat in the dining room and passed around platters of hot and cold salads, which I was afraid might agree with William and Charlotte. I’d insisted that they sit at opposite heads of the table, and to make sure they had no one to talk to, I placed Susan, me, and Elizabeth in the middle, and I placed Tom and Laurence on either side of William, and Tom Junior and Betsy on either side of Charlotte. I’m good at this.

  William and Charlotte excused themselves early, as I knew they would, and by midnight everyone left, and Susan, Sophie, and I were cleaning up.

  I said to Susan, “That was nice. It looked like everyone was having a good time.”

  Susan agreed, “That was very nice.”

  “Your parents seemed a bit quiet.”

  “They were tired.”

  “I think we’re out of gin.”

  “I’ll get some tomorrow.” She looked at me, smiled, and said, “This is like old times.”

  “It is.” But it wasn’t.

  We hugged and kissed, which made Sophie smile, and Susan said to me, “I’m so happy, John, but also sad.”

  “I know.”

  “But I know we can make up for all the lost years.”

  “We’ll stay up two hours later every night.”

  “And never take each other for granted, and call twice a day, and not work late at the office, and no more stupid nights out with the girls—”

  “Do you mean me or you?”

  “Be serious. And we’re going to have your mother for dinner once a week—”

  “Hold on.”

  “And meet Carolyn in the city for dinner and a show, and fly to L.A. once a month to see Edward.”

  “You forgot Hilton Head.”

  “And we’ll do that, too. And you’ll see, John, that my parents will accept you. They’ll never love you the way I love you, but they will come to respect you, and when they see how happy I am, they’ll be fine.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She said, “Admit that tonight wasn’t as bad as you predicted.”

  “It got a little rocky there over cocktails, and maybe we didn’t have to hear about Dan so much, and I could have done without the prying questions, or the lecture on working hard for forgiveness . . . but other than that, it was a pleasant reunion.”

  “But it could have been worse.” She predicted, “Tomorrow will be better.”

  “And Monday will be even better than that.”

  She kissed me and said, “I’m going up.”

  “I’ll check the doors.”

  Susan went upstairs, and I checked all the doors and windows and made sure the outdoor lights were on. Then I said good night to Sophie, got the carbine out of the hall closet, and went up to the master bedroom.

  Susan was reading in bed, and she glanced at the rifle, but didn’t comment.

  I’d loaded the shotgun earlier with the heavy game buckshot in one barrel and a deer slug in the other, and I too
k the gun from my closet, and with a weapon in each hand I asked Susan, “Would you rather sleep with Mr. Beretta or Mr. Winchester?”

  She continued reading her magazine and said, “I don’t care.”

  I leaned the carbine against her nightstand and rested the shotgun against my side of the bed. I said to her, “A full-perimeter security system will be in place in a week or so.”

  She didn’t reply, so I changed the subject and asked her, “Did you have a chance to look at the floral arrangements?”

  “I did.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “I saw it.”

  I said, “I wouldn’t read too much into it.” I explained, “I mentioned Ethel’s illness when I was there Sunday, and Anna remembered her. And Anthony isn’t even home. So I think that was just a nice gesture from Anna and Megan.”

  “Or maybe a thank-you for slashing the painting.”

  I thought about that and said, “I’m sure Anthony saw that first and got rid of it.”

  Again, she didn’t reply. So I got undressed and slipped on my Yale T-shirt.

  Susan inquired, “Am I going to have to see that every night?”

  “It’s who I am.”

  “God help you.”

  I guess that was a joke. But it was close to blasphemy.

  I got into bed and read one of the city tabloids that Sophie brought with her every morning to improve her English, which I think explained some of her problems with the language.

  Anyway, I was specifically looking for an article about John Gotti, and I found a small piece that reported that Mr. Gotti’s body had arrived from Missouri and was lying inside a closed coffin at the Papavero Funeral Home in the Maspeth section of Queens. The article seemed to suggest that there was no public viewing of the body, and that funeral plans were indefinite because the Diocese of Brooklyn had denied Mr. Gotti a public funeral Mass.

  That seemed a little inconsistent with the forgiving message of Christ, but, hey, it was their church and they could do what they wanted. Still, it struck me as a badly thought-out public relations move, and likely to backfire and cause some public sympathy for John Gotti.