Social Crimes

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  Nate visited us every Labor Day, but it occurred to me that he and Monique might get along, so I decided to invite him a little earlier. I somehow had it in my mind that if he and Monique hooked up, it would be a way of drawing her closer into the family. Nate gladly accepted my invitation to come out the following weekend.

  Chapter 5

  On a hot Friday afternoon in August, Nate sailed into the living room like a clipper ship, all smiles and breezy remarks, exuding a thick aura of houseguest charm. Dressed in pressed white ducks, tattered loafers, and a pastel pink T-shirt, he carried a canvas duffel bag from which the handle of a tennis racket protruded like an ax. Nate could be quite engaging when he chose to be, albeit in a cutting, preppy way. I learned from my ongoing contact with him that it’s possible to dislike someone and still find them good company. But I was always very careful what I said around Nate.

  “Traffic was murder”—meurh-dah, as he pronounced it in the exaggerated mid-Atlantic accent he cultivated. “Where do you want me, Lady Jo?”

  “Third floor, blue room. Mrs. Mathilde will take your bag up.”

  He made a long face. “No guest house?”

  “It’s occupied.”

  “Oh-ho! Important company, have we? Who’s here? Some royal-in-waiting, no doubt?” This was a sly reference to an occasion three summers ago when I’d bumped him from the guest house in favor of Nicky Brubetskoi, a relative of Tsar Nicholas II.

  Nate was in the middle of fixing himself a gin and tonic when Monique, out of breath and glistening with the sweat of exercise, pranced into the room in skimpy running shorts and a tank top. He took one long look at her leggy conformation and that, as they say, was that. He trailed around her for the rest of the weekend like an assiduous hound. Not that it did him much good. She wasn’t interested. She constantly referred to him as “that iguana in the pink shirt.”

  Nate’s essence was indeed reptilian, but on the surface he was an attractive-looking man. He had thick sandy hair, marsh-colored eyes, and an impish air common to aging boys. People liked him, but they were wary of him. His tendency to ace snide comments into a conversation put them off. Nevertheless, he was smart, rich, and amusing in a world sorely lacking in eligible men.

  Monique’s indifference and often downright rudeness to Nate failed to deter him. Throughout the weekend he tried to engage her attention, regaling her ad nauseam with anecdotes about his two appearances on Court TV, offering to take her to hear a case in the Supreme Court, inviting her to go swimming, play tennis, take a jog, anything to get her alone.

  She finally took him up on his offer to play backgammon. She fixed the stakes: five dollars a point. She and Nate played a round robin tournament with Lucius out by the pool. Monique was proficient at the game and lucky with the dice. A subtle toughness crept over her when she gambled. She was so good that Nate joked she could make a living at it. She won game after game. Lucius clenched his jaw and squirmed in his chair every time he lost. Nate’s cool gambler imitation was unsuccessful. He didn’t like losing any more than Lucius did.

  When Monique finally beat both men, winning close to three hundred dollars, it seemed to heighten Nate’s ardor. She got up and excused herself. Nate ran after her. I watched the two of them strolling across the lawn, laughing and talking. I was somewhat surprised she was acting so friendly toward him all of a sudden, given all the things she’d said about him to me behind his back.

  “Do we think Nate has found true love?” I said casually to Lucius.

  He glared at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.” I was surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. “He just seems quite taken with Monique, that’s all. He’s been following her around all weekend. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own damn business, Jo?”

  “What on earth’s the matter with you?” I said, perplexed. “You love Nate and you like Monique. I should think you’d be delighted if they got together.”

  “Quit matchmaking.”

  “She needs to meet someone.”

  “Why?”

  “So she can stay in New York.”

  “Why can’t she stay in New York anyway?”

  “I don’t think she wants to live with us for the rest of her life—although I wouldn’t mind, I must say. It’s wonderful having her here.”

  He looked at me rather oddly, I thought. “You really like her, don’t you?”

  “What a question. Of course I like her. Why? Don’t you?”

  “I guess,” he said tentatively.

  “I thought you really enjoyed her company. Even though I know you don’t like getting fleeced at backgammon. How much do you owe her now?”

  I knew he wasn’t listening to me. He heaved a weary sigh and said: “Are you sorry we never had a child, Jo?”

  Now I really was taken aback. “Where on earth did that come from?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been watching you two together. You’d have made a good mother.”

  I was utterly nonplussed. “Contrary to what you may think, I’m not really old enough to be her mother, thanks very much.”

  “I wish I’d been a better father to Little Lucius,” he said.

  “It’s not too late.” I edged myself down next to him on the lounge chair.

  I’d never heard him like this. Usually when an introspective thought got loose in the room, Lucius swatted it like a fly.

  I stroked his fine white hair and gazed into his troubled eyes, trying to fathom the cause of his mood.

  He looked down, tilting his head away from my caress. “When you think of all the rotten things that can happen to kids in this world . . .”

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

  “Nothing . . . nothing’s the matter.” He sighed deeply. “I was just thinking, that’s all . . . Do me a favor, will you? Quit butting your head into other people’s business, Jo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Quit matchmaking for starters.”

  “Oh, come on. Monique says she wants to meet someone and I just thought it was amusing the way Nate’s been following her around, that’s all. I mean, honestly. Aren’t I allowed to make an observation?”

  “Look, I’m tired. I need a nap,” he said, rising with some effort.

  I stood up and tried to help him to his feet. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

  He stuck his hand out in front of him, palm toward me, so I backed off. “Quit fussing,” he said.

  “Fine. I just thought it would be nice to walk with you, that’s all.”

  He stood up and pulled his shirt down over his shorts, smoothing out the wrinkles. “One day soon you and I need to sit down and have a serious talk,” he said.

  I cocked my head to one side. “What about?”

  “I don’t know. Values.”

  “What about them?”

  “Just . . .” He started to say something, then stopped out of sheer frustration. “Nothing . . . Never mind.”

  I watched Lucius as he hobbled on up to the house. He was acting mighty strangely. I attributed his mood to fatigue and too much sun and didn’t dwell on it until the following morning when Lucius summoned me to the library.

  He was sitting on the couch, wearing a white polo shirt, his thin white legs protruding from a pair of loose-fitting shorts like two sticks of kindling. His hands were folded across the top of the sleek gold-capped mahogany cane he sometimes used for support when he walked. Caspar stood in front of the window, gazing into space as usual, his arms folded across his muscular torso.

  “Sit down,” Lucius said to me as I entered. “We need to discuss something.”

  I sat down warily. Lucius handed me a letter. It was from Edmond Norbeau, the director of the Municipal Museum.

  Dear Jo,

  Just a note to let you know that the marvelous Fragonard painting we viewed together some months ago has now become available for purchase, as you hoped. We have just completed neg
otiations with the owner. I thought you’d be delighted to know that your pledge of one million dollars has made this acquisition possible. As always, you are a generous friend.

  Please give my best to Lucius. I hear he’s making a splendid recovery. Christine and I look forward to seeing you both when we return from our travels in September.

  With fondest regards,

  Edmond

  “What about it?” I asked, handing it back to him.

  “Where are you getting the money to honor this pledge?”

  “Where I always get it. From you,” I said.

  “Not this year. I really don’t want to do it this year.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “Lucius, are you in some sort of financial difficulties?”

  “Not at all. I just don’t want to do it. We’ve given them enough.”

  I let out an involuntary guffaw. “But that’s ridiculous! I have no money of my own.”

  “Then I suggest you call Edmond and tell him that before he goes ahead and gets the picture.”

  I was incredulous. “Sweetie, I’m sure it’s too late. You read the letter.”

  “I’m sorry, Jo. It’s not my problem,” he said, putting the letter aside. He slid the glasses he had perched on the top of his forehead down near the tip of his nose, picked up the newspaper, and started reading.

  I sat and stared at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment.

  “Lucius, am I missing something here? Is this supposed to be our conversation about values?” I said, recalling our odd discussion out by the pool. “Because if it is, I think honoring a pledge is about the most basic value there is. It’s a debt of honor.”

  He looked at me over the tops of his glasses.

  “That’s your business, Jo. This is your deal. It’s always been your deal—”

  “Oh now, that’s not true and you know it!”

  “Sure it is. You know what? I woke up this morning and said, fuck it. My priorities are all screwed up. Instead of supporting paintings, I’d like to support people for a change.”

  “You can do that if you want. I think that’s great. But this is a long-standing pledge. I’m on the board. This year we have to honor it, that’s all.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I want to give money to some of the unfashionable charities for a change. Okay? End of subject,” he said, screening himself with the newspaper.

  The charitable and institutional world in New York, like Caesar’s Gaul, can be divided into three parts: fashionable, unfashionable, and indeterminate. The fashionable institutions are the grand old ones that deal with art, music, and culture, like the New York Public Library, the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, the Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet, Carnegie Hall, and, of course, the Municipal Museum. Unfashionable institutions, which are too numerous to mention, deal with human beings and their problems, like poverty, substance abuse, disease, and education. Indeterminate charities, which encompass all the rest, are all those dealing with animals, minor museums, and small dance and theater companies. Occasionally, an unfashionable charity will come into fashion if the right people become associated with it. Of late, this has been true of breast cancer, dogs, and AIDS. Lucius’s reference to unfashionable charities was an allusion to Ruth, who was active in hospice care—a sphere, by the way, that Lucius sorely detested when I met him. He longed for the glitter and prominence of the fashionable world.

  It was inconceivable to me that he was serious.

  “Lucius,” I said after a time, “next year your money can go to the moon, for all I care. But this year, we have to honor our pledge.”

  “Your pledge. You honor it,” he said from behind the newspaper.

  It was all I could do to remain calm. “If we don’t honor the pledge, I’ll have to resign from the board. And when word gets out, it’ll be quite a scandal.”

  “I don’t really care.”

  “Lucius, would you mind putting the paper down so we can talk about this rationally?” He lowered the newspaper slowly. “What don’t you care about?” I continued. “The fact that it would be a scandal or that I would be personally humiliated?”

  He was staring at me with a vacant, sullen expression. I had no idea what he was thinking. I went on, occasionally biting my lower lip to contain my rising anger.

  “If I renege, it’s just the same as if you did, you know. I pledge money every year. They all know it comes from you . . . Look, sweetie, what’s this really about? Are you upset with me about something? Is there something going on here I don’t know about?” I heard my voice cracking from the strain. Lucius turned his head and looked out the window.

  “Lucius, look at me, for heaven’s sake!” I was beginning to lose my temper now. “What’s this all about?”

  He turned sharply and pinned me with his gaze. “What’s it about? What’s it about?” he cried, sounding like a macaw. “It’s about things, Jo, things. You care more for things than you do for me. Our life is stuffed to the gills with objects, paintings, furniture, pledges . . . Things. I’m so fucking sick of things!” He raked his hand through his hair and stared out the window again.

  I really thought he’d gone mad. We both knew that our collection brought pleasure and knowledge to thousands of people every year. The Slater Gallery was a shared legacy and in many ways the child we never had. It was our contribution to posterity. And although Lucius liked to downplay it, affecting an offhand attitude about its immense monetary value and its historical significance in order to appear grand, he wasn’t kidding me.

  Through the Slater Gallery, Lucius proclaimed his worth and taste to the world without having to say a word. When he’d been married to Ruth no one had ever heard of him. Now he was a king, in no small part thanks to me. If I had used his money, he had used my eye. It was a very successful partnership. I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand this outburst.

  “God only knows what’s gotten into you,” I said, rising. “But if I have to hock everything in this house, we’re going to honor that pledge.”

  “The hell with it. Never mind,” he said dismissively.

  “What does that mean? Are you going to honor it or not?”

  He heaved a weary sigh. “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  He grunted and went back to his paper. I gave him a hug. “Don’t scare me like that, sweetheart. Next year you can decide where the money goes.”

  Later on, when I thought about this encounter, I marveled at how Lucius had managed to manipulate me. He had made me grateful for something that was a given in our life.

  Chapter 6

  Later that week, June invited me over for tea. I was relieved to get out of the house. Lucius’s erratic behavior was exhausting me. It was a damp day. We sat in the library, where June had lit a fire. The house was like a Madison Avenue antiques shop, cluttered with gilt furniture, overstuffed couches, and expensive bric-a-brac—to my mind, nothing like a beach house ought to be. Clara always said that the definition of real elegance is the appropriate made supremely comfortable. June’s house was inappropriately grand even by Southampton standards. But she adored it.

  “Betty and I had a long talk this morning,” June began as she poured the herbal tea she swore by, which smelled like manure. She handed me a cup. “She made me promise not to say anything, but I really think I have to talk to you, Jo—as a friend.”

  I braced myself.

  “Jo, dear, this may be kill the messenger, but I think you should know what’s being said,” she began.

  “Okay.”

  Her face contorted with concern. This was obviously difficult for her.

  “Jo . . . How well do you know Monique?”

  Uh-oh, here it comes. Having suspected for some time that Betty and June were jealous of my close friendship with the Countess, I put down my cup and folded my arms across my chest defensively. “What do you mean?”

&n
bsp; “Well, I don’t know if you know this or not, but the reason Betty got rid of her is because she made a pass at Gil.”

  “Betty told you that, did she?”

  “She did. She overheard Monique propositioning Gil.”

  June studied my face for a reaction. Far be it from me to betray a confidence, however. I just sat there, trying to look sphinxlike, saying nothing.

  “I must say, you don’t seem surprised,” June said, probing.

  “Well, I think it’s a pretty awful story if it’s true.”

  June narrowed her eyes. “Okay. What did she tell you . . . ? Come on. Monique obviously told you something. What did she say?”

  “Nothing,” I lied.

  June put down her cup. “Jo! We’ve been friends for too long. I know when you’re lying. Come on.”

  It was no use trying to escape from June. “Well, isn’t it just possible that Betty may have misinterpreted the situation?”

  June scowled and shook her head. “Oooh! She’s such a manipulating so-and-so, that one! I’ll bet she told you Gil made a pass at her.” I was silent. “She did, didn’t she? And that’s because she knew you were going to hear the truth from one of us eventually so she covered her damn tracks!” June was seething.

  “And Betty’s never been known to exaggerate, I suppose.”

  June looked at me intently. “Jo, who are you going to believe? Betty and me or someone you’ve known for five minutes? Wake up! She’s a viper. Don’t you have any idea what’s going on?”

  “No. Enlighten me.”

  “Jo, you know I love you—”

  “Please do not preface malice with affection. Just spit it out, June.” I was pissed.

  “Okay,” she said curtly. “Monique and Lucius.”

  I bridled for an instant. “What about them?”

  “Everyone knows they’re having an affair.”