The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Anyway, my brief criminal defense career was behind me—unless I gave Carmine Caputo or Jack Weinstein a call—and more to the point, Joseph Sutter’s whole life was behind him. And basically, it had been a good life, partly because he and my mother had had an oddly good marriage. They never should have had children, but they had sex before birth control pills, and things happen when you’ve had one cocktail too many. That was probably how half my generation was born.

  One time, when Joseph was in an unusually reflective and candid mood, he’d said to me, “I should have been killed in France about ten times—so every day is a gift.” Indeed. I felt the same way after three years at sea.

  Susan had her arm around me, and Edward and Carolyn stood off to the side, staring quietly at Grandpa’s grave.

  I placed the bouquet of flowers beside the other bouquet and said to him, “I’m home, Dad.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  My mother arrived first, and I could see that she and her grandchildren were honestly fond of one another. Too bad it wasn’t Harriet who had the hundred million.

  We sat on the patio with a pitcher of sangria, which was as close to a third world drink as I could come up with for Harriet. I said to her, “For every bottle of wine we drink, a rice farmer in Bangladesh gets a Scotch and soda.”

  Susan and Harriet are on the same page when it comes to organic food, so we snacked on bowls of bat shit or something, and chatted pleasantly.

  I was actually starting to like my mother, which was easy to do if I blotted out everything from my birth until about ten minutes ago. But seriously, she was a person who, if nothing else, cared; she cared about the wrong things, or cared about the right things in the wrong way, but at least she was engaged in life.

  On that subject, I wondered what she had spoken to Father Hunnings about. And who actually approached whom? Harriet, like Ethel, seemed to care more about the oppressed people of the world, whom she’d never met, and about animals and trees that never hugged her, than about the people around her, such as her son and daughter. But there seemed to be a new Harriet taking form—one who cared about her grandchildren, and who also spoke to her priest about her estrangement from her son. What was she up to? Well, maybe with Ethel’s death, Harriet had caught a glimpse of her own mortality, and she’d realized that the route to heaven began at home.

  Harriet was asking Carolyn and Edward about their jobs, and she seemed genuinely interested, though with Carolyn she had some problems with the criminal justice system. And on the subject of criminals, I wondered if Anthony Bellarosa had come out of hiding to be with his family for Father’s Day. Most probably not, but if he had, I’d know about it because, as per my suggestion to Felix Mancuso, the FBI or the NYPD were staking out the Santa Lucia church cemetery in Brooklyn where Frank Bellarosa had been laid to rest.

  Anna would be at the cemetery, and as per Anna, so would Frank’s other two sons, Frankie and Tommy, and maybe Megan and her kids as well. Although Megan never knew her father-in-law, one of the conditions of marrying into an Italian family was the requirement to visit the graves of every family member who’d died in the last century.

  According to Mancuso, Mom’s house in Brooklyn and Alhambra Estates were being watched all day. Personally, I didn’t think Anthony would come out of his hole, especially today when he knew the FBI would be watching his and his mother’s house. But Anthony might visit his father’s grave. And if Uncle Sal had the same thought, Anthony might be dead in the cemetery before he got arrested.

  Anyway, Harriet and Carolyn had exhausted the subject of a bachelor of arts degree in humanities for serial killers, and Harriet asked me, “Why are there armed guards at the gate?”

  I explained, “Mr. Nasim thinks the ayatollahs are after him.” I concluded, “I blame our government for that.”

  Harriet knows when I’m being provocative, and she never rises to the bait. More importantly, according to Susan, Harriet didn’t know about Anthony Bellarosa living next door; if she had, she’d insist that we share that disturbing fact with Edward and Carolyn. When we were young, Harriet used to say things to me and to Emily like, “Your father has a bad heart, and he may die at any time, so you should be prepared for that.” I think, perhaps, she’d gotten hold of a very strange book on how to raise children.

  In any case, Edward and Carolyn and everyone else just assumed that the armed guards had been hired by Nasim for his stated reasons; no one, so far, had thought there might be a second explanation for the security.

  Nevertheless, I changed the subject to Ethel’s wake and burial, which led me into telling Harriet, “We all went to visit Dad’s grave today.”

  My mother looked at me, but did not reply. Well, this was still a sore subject with her. I’d missed the funeral, and my reason for that—I was at sea and didn’t know my father had died—was not cutting it. As far as she was concerned, this was just another example of her son never missing a chance to cause his mother hurt and pain.

  I asked her, “Were you there today?” Say no. Please say no.

  She replied, “I left a bouquet on the headstone. Didn’t you see it?”

  “We did. But I know how you feel about cut flowers.” So I thought Dad had a girlfriend. “So I wasn’t sure that was you.”

  “Who else would leave flowers on his grave?”

  Maybe Lola, the receptionist with the big jugs, or Jackie, the hot office manager. I replied, “I don’t know. I’m just pointing out that you don’t approve of cut flowers.”

  “That was all they had for sale.”

  “Right. Anyway, it’s a very beautiful spot, and I’m sorry we didn’t coordinate going together.”

  “Well, I’m glad you went.”

  Meaning, I’m surprised you bothered. Some people spread sunshine and warmth; Harriet spreads guilt. Did I say I was starting to like my mother?

  On the subject of cemeteries and funerals, Carolyn commented that she had watched a few minutes of the Gotti funeral on a TV in the bar where she’d met her friends last night. She commented, “I understand the family, friends, and so-called business associates turning out, but those people on the street—waving and cheering, and making the sign of the cross—that was . . . depressing. And then they interviewed some people who were saying that Gotti was a hero, a man who cared about them, and who gave back to the community—like he was Robin Hood.” She asked, rhetorically, “What is wrong with those people?”

  Harriet had an answer. “People feel alienated from the traditional forms of governmental power, and they are looking for heroes who . . .” And so forth.

  Carolyn, a recent convert to law and order, wasn’t buying her grandmother’s explanation of why the downtrodden citizens of Queens, New York, gave John Gotti a hero’s send-off.

  Anyway, this subject was uncomfortably close to the subject of Frank Bellarosa’s life, death, and funeral. I was afraid Harriet was going to say something like, “John, you went to Frank Bellarosa’s funeral, after Susan killed him. Don’t you think that the common person felt that they had lost a hero?” I’d have to turn that question over to Susan. Whoops. Slap.

  I asked, “Did anyone see the Yankee-Mets game yesterday?”

  Well, before we could analyze the game, William and Charlotte arrived, punctually at 4:00 P.M., and fired up the party. Charlotte practically ran to Edward and Carolyn and smothered them with kisses. And Crazy William shouted to Carolyn, “You get more beautiful every time I see you, young lady!” Then he boxed playfully with Edward, and he gave me a manly swat on the ass and shouted, “Hey, big guy! Let’s crack open some brewskis!”

  Well, not quite. But William did accept everyone’s wishes for a happy Father’s Day with a forced smile. He even mumbled to me, “Happy Father’s Day.”

  William and Charlotte passed on the sangria and turned down my offer of martinis, but they each had a glass of white wine, which to them was like drinking tap water. We sat around the table and made small talk, which consisted mostly of Charlotte
telling everyone what she and William had been doing for the last few days. I was surprised she remembered, and no one gave a rat’s ass anyway. William was mostly quiet, thinking, I’m sure, about our past and future negotiations.

  I was actually glad that Harriet was there, because it forced the Stanhopes to act like normal people.

  I watched William closely for any signs that his sneeze had turned to a cough. You need to be careful at that age. But he seemed all right—maybe a little pale. Was that an age spot on his forehead or melanoma?

  I thought, too, about William and Charlotte’s meeting yesterday with Father Hunnings. The good pastor, I hoped, had told them to mind their own business, and to be generous with their wedding gift, pay for the reception, increase Susan’s allowance, and take up skydiving.

  Or William had successfully recruited Father Hunnings into the anti-John faction, and William had convinced Hunnings to intercede and counsel Susan about marrying a man who might be a gold digger, and was for sure mentally unbalanced and a wiseass. Hunnings and I never cared for each other, of course, and I hadn’t made any points with him the other night, so this would be a labor of love for him—Father Hunnings’ Revenge. Well, what you sow, you reap. Maybe I should learn to be nicer to people who could possibly screw me up. Maybe not.

  Susan had instructed Sophie to announce dinner no later than 4:45—how much of this could we take?—and Sophie appeared on the patio at the appointed time and said, “Dinner is served.”

  So we went into the dining room, and Susan seated us—the two dads in the places of honor at opposite heads of the table, so we had to look at each other. Susan sat my mommy to my left, and sat Charlotte to William’s right. We’d agreed to put the kids strategically to the left of Grandpa, and across from Grandma Charlotte. Susan sat to my right, and I announced, “The first course is a Polish dish called Trust Fund Salad.” Of course, I didn’t say that. But I did have a repertoire of money slang that I could work in during dinner to make the kids giggle, such as “green stuff,” “gravy,” “bread,” “dough,” and “liquid assets.” Well, I don’t know about that last one.

  Susan proposed a toast to the Greatest Dads in the World, and William somehow thought that included him and said, “Thank you.” Susan also said, “And to Joseph.”

  That brought a tear to my mother’s eye. And this is the lady who’d succeeded in crushing any paternal instincts that Joseph Sutter might have had. But as I said, she was becoming a good grandma, and I hoped that this grandmotherly love was reflected in her will. The whales don’t need the money.

  I took the opportunity to say, “I’m sorry Peter couldn’t be here.” I inquired of the Stanhopes, “Where is he working now?”

  William replied, “He’s in Miami, and he handles most of the family business from there.”

  I didn’t want to be the one to point out that there was no family business—only old money that was in the care of professionals—but I wanted some of that money for my wife and children, so I resisted saying, “Peter is a beach bum who couldn’t make change for a dollar bill without consulting a financial planner.” Instead, I said, “Please pass on my regards to him.” And tell him I’ll see him in court.

  On the subject of the Stanhope fortune, if William had worked for this money, I would not be so covetous of it; people can do whatever they want with the money they’ve earned. But this was inherited money, acquired solely through genetic succession, and not through toil, brains, or even luck. Therefore, it was my belief that Shithead needed to pass it on to his progeny—even to Peter the Useless—just as it had been passed on to William’s worthless self. This money should not be used as a weapon or as a Pavlovian doggy treat.

  Anyway, dinner proceeded well enough, and as I said, with Harriet there, the Stanhopes were not able to be complete assholes. For instance, they never brought up Susan’s deceased husband, who had also been my children’s stepfather. If they had brought up his name in front of my children, I know I’d have snapped and said, “Edward and Carolyn thought he was a boring old fart, just like you two,” and then dinner would be over.

  Ditsy Charlotte, however, did say, “We’re very anxious to get home.”

  We all felt the same way, but I replied, “I can’t wait to see your place in Hilton Head.”

  And they said . . . nothing. But William looked at me down the length of the table, and smoke shot out of his nostrils.

  Susan kept the conversation going whenever it sagged, but I didn’t like it when she said to the children, “Tell your grandparents about . . .” whatever. I mean, it was a little forced, though to be objective here, Grandma and Grandpa Stanhope weren’t eliciting much from their grandchildren, and I had the distinct impression that they’d put Edward and Carolyn on hold until the question of Mom and Dad was resolved.

  Susan had asked me to be cordial and not to sulk. I went her one better. I’m very good at theatrical good cheer (bordering on parody), and I really let it fly. I said to William, for instance, “I’m not going to have a happy Father’s Day until you let me make you and Charlotte a martini.” And at one point I addressed him as “Dad,” which made him twitch. Better yet, my expansive table chatter drove them both deeper into themselves.

  Harriet, I think, noticed that the Stanhopes did not like her son. She didn’t either, but I could tell she didn’t like it when it came from them. I was her idiot son, not theirs. That’s my mom.

  I was trying to decide if I should begin a chorus of “Oh, My Papa,” but we could do that later in the living room, where there was a piano—Susan and Charlotte both played, and they could do a duet while the rest of us stood with our arms around one another and sang.

  Well, dinner was finished by 6:30, which was the way Susan had planned it, and I’m sure no one felt that the time had just flown by.

  But we needed the Father’s Day cake, so we retired to the living room and sat around the coffee table. Sophie wheeled in the cart and served coffee, tea, and after-dinner cordials.

  Sophie also brought in a big cake that she’d made herself and decorated with the inscription, “Happy Father’s Day.” Unfortunately, it actually read, “Happy Fathers Pay.” We got a laugh out of that, and I said to William, “This is your cake, Dad.”

  He didn’t think that was so funny.

  Susan produced a gift bag with a designer’s logo on it and gave it to her father. “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”

  William smiled, happy to get some of his allowance back. He extracted the card, opened it, and read it to himself without sharing the message, or even saying that it was from all of us. What a swine.

  William then took the tie box from the bag, and figured out how to open it. He held up one of the most godawful ties I’ve ever seen. It was sort of an iridescent pink, and it changed colors like a chameleon as it swung from his fingers.

  He actually seemed to like it, and he said, “Thank you, Susan.”

  Susan said, “It’s from all of us, Dad.”

  I wanted to say, “I got a yacht,” but to be nice, I said, “I wish I’d gotten that.”

  Which caused Harriet to ask, “What did the children get for you, John?”

  I already had my answer and replied, “Two plane tickets to Hilton Head,” and I smiled at the Stanhopes, who twitched again. Neurological disorder?

  Well, the dysfunctional family festivities were nearing an end, unless I asked Susan and Charlotte to play the piano. Carolyn announced that she’d like to catch the 8:25 train so she could get home and do some work before an early morning trial conference. Harriet offered to drive Carolyn to the station, but Carolyn had been traumatized by her last ride with Grandma, and she said that Edward would take her, and see her off. Edward was then going to stop at a friend’s house, and he was leaving early in the morning for the airport, so he’d say goodbye now to his grandparents.

  We all went out to the forecourt, and everyone hugged and kissed and wished one another a safe trip. This is where the Stanhopes and the Sutters are at the
ir best—goodbye.

  Harriet said, “Well, we only seem to get together at weddings and funerals.” Then she added, provocatively, “And I hope the next occasion will be John and Susan’s wedding.”

  I hoped the next occasion was William’s funeral, but I said, “We’re getting married at Seawanhaka before the summer is over.”

  Harriet seemed genuinely happy, and she smiled at William and Charlotte, who looked like they’d smelled a fart, and asked them, “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Well, you could hear their denture glue cracking. Good old Harriet—she came through with a zinger at the end. And it wasn’t directed at me for a change.

  Anyway, I gave Carolyn a final hug and kiss and said, “I won’t be calling you from London anymore.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  William twitched again. Well, if the man had a heart, he’d understand this kind of family love, and he’d take me aside and say, “I bless this marriage, John,” then drop dead.

  Harriet drove off without killing anyone, then Edward and Carolyn followed in the Lexus.

  I looked at William and decided that the time had come. I said to him, “If you’re not in a hurry, we can have a drink in my office.”

  He glanced at his wife, then said to me, “All right.”

  We went back inside, and Susan said she and her mother were going to help Sophie with the cleanup “while the men relax,” which was very old-fashioned and very sweet. It was also bullshit; Charlotte didn’t know a dishwasher from a DustBuster. Hopefully, Susan would take this opportunity to work on Mom. As for William and me relaxing over a drink, I thought maybe I should go get the shotgun first.