Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  Jack interrupted her musing. “Excuse me, won’t you,” he said. “I’d better see how the Champagne supply is holding up.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Beverly’s gaze remained on Clio. More than a dozen people stopped her on the way out for a final comment. Each one appeared more interested than the last in establishing a connection before she disappeared into the night.

  Life is easy for some people, Beverly thought as she emptied her wineglass. The oaky alcohol soothed her hot throat. She nodded at the bartender for a refill.

  “I don’t understand why you spend any time at all with that woman.” Valerie Moravio’s Texas drawl startled her.

  Beverly turned to face her friend and smiled. Valerie, a former Dallas Cowgirl, had a flair for the dramatic. Tonight was no exception. A fountain of blond curls cascaded from the top of her head. Heavy makeup accentuated her blue eyes. She wore a yellow sleeveless dress that clung to her ample bosom. Her neck and earlobes dripped gems. A diamond ring, easily five carats, dwarfed her long-nailed fingers. This farmgirl had struck gold when she married Luca Moravio, a sports agent, whom she met at the Super Bowl in 1978. When the Dallas Cowboys defeated the Denver Broncos, Luca turned his attention to the nineteen-year-old cheerleader performing her synchronized splits, jumps, and cartwheels. Valerie was set for life.

  Despite the fact that Luca and Valerie didn’t belong to a single country club, Luca’s outrageous humor and endless anecdotes about major sports figures ensured that they were included on every guest list. Beverly admired the fact that Valerie, easily bored by most of the cocktail parties, actually turned down invitations. That took confidence.

  “How are you?” Beverly asked.

  “Clio Pratt has done you wrong, and you’re the fool if you waste time on civilities.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, sugar. Maybe this soiree is not the time for conversation. I can respect that. God knows I should learn to be as discreet as you, but I can’t stand to see a woman humiliated, especially by another woman. It’s not right.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Clio Pratt is playing you for a fool.” Valerie put her hands on Beverly’s shoulders and turned her slightly. “You listen to me. That woman’s told everyone who would listen to her that you were responsible for Dudley’s death.”

  “Dudley committed suicide.” Beverly coughed out the words.

  “May he rest in peace.” Valerie looked upward, seemingly to the heavens, crossed herself, and then returned her gaze to Beverly. “Clio says you drove him to it. She told me just the other day that you planned to leave Dudley, for another man, maybe, she didn’t know, but leave him nonetheless. That set him off. Made him do it.”

  Beverly couldn’t breathe.

  “Apparently, Dudley told Richard that he couldn’t stand the thought of getting sicker, dying, alone.”

  Valerie’s words stung. Dudley’s debilitation, his protracted, worsening emphysema, had consumed their lives, but they had kept their problems quiet, or so she thought. Beverly was stunned to hear that Dudley had confided in Richard, a friend to be sure, but hardly to that degree. As if the humiliation of his suicide had not been painful enough, Beverly now felt her wounds reopen.

  “When I saw you being so sociable and all with Clio, well, I just thought I should let you know.”

  Beverly felt dizzy. Why was Clio circulating such a rumor now, three years after Dudley’s death? She reached for the edge of the bar for balance. “Look, honey, Luca and I are leaving for dinner. He’s had enough of all this finger food hors d’oeuvres stuff. He says that itty-bitty bites of nothin’ just make him hungrier for a meal. A nice fat sirloin, although tonight I may be able to get him to settle for a veal parmigiana. You want to join us?”

  “No. No, that’s okay.”

  Valerie leaned forward to kiss her friend. “Oops, sorry.” She wiped red lipstick from Beverly’s cheek. “You watch yourself. Call me tomorrow.”

  Beverly turned away from the house and walked across the lawn. Rage ripped through her. Nearly three years of trying to put Dudley’s death behind her, to resurrect the semblance of a life for herself, had been undone in a moment. She had lived through the whispering, the gossip. She blamed herself for his death because she’d wanted a divorce, but no one understood that their marriage had fallen apart long before Dudley ever grew ill. She had nursed him, washed him, and comforted him even after she’d stopped loving him, only to be subjected to insincere condolences upon his death. She knew that most people would have preferred that she, not Dudley, had been found at the bottom of the swimming pool strapped into a wheelchair. But she had survived. She wouldn’t go through all of that again.

  Dew seeped through her sandals as she stood on the lawn trying to collect her thoughts. The cool air stung her flushed face. She had to confront Clio. She had to stop the rumors. She had to shut her up.

  Sunday, May 24

  George Welch, vice president of the Fair Lawn Country Club’s Membership Committee, turned the leather-covered steering wheel to the left. As his silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway, its tires crackled on the broken shells bleaching in the sun. He pressed the power button in his center console to lower the window and inhaled the smell of the ocean. There is nothing like it, he thought, relishing the moist, salty air in his nostrils. Proximity to the water invigorated him. Each morning he drove from his house on South Main Street to the end of Dune Road, parked at the landing, and spent the next thirty-eight minutes walking, a mile with the water on his right, then a mile back, retracing his steps. These beach walks did more for his mental health than years of counseling had begun to do. His anxiety and aggression shed as he dug his heels into the sand. He returned home relaxed, tranquil. Some might even call it happy.

  George pulled up to the shingled home and turned off the engine.

  The cloudless sky accentuated the edge of the gambrel roof. Trimmed in white with navy blue shutters, the house looked well maintained, especially for one exposed to the battering of sea winds. No paint peeled. No shutters hung askew on their hardware. The glass in window after window sparkled in the sun. The landscaping was similarly meticulous. Surrounding the house in beds mulched with cedar chips, rhododendrons bloomed cottony white flowers. Between each shrub grew clusters of purple iris and pale pink peonies. The lawn had been recently mowed, leaving neat lines in the grass. Not a single weed marred the brick walk. Picturesque, George thought.

  Standing by the entrance, George could hear the ocean, the sound of the surf just on the other side of the house. He had dreamed of living right on the beach, watching the Atlantic from every room, hearing the rhythm of the waves. George remembered the sound machine that he had bought for his daughter, now so many years ago, when she was just a baby. The small box had several natural noises selected for their soothing qualities, the ocean, the rain, birds, a fire. He had used it to help put her to sleep, especially when her mother wasn’t around. Like most things in his life, it had been a success.

  His wife hadn’t wanted to live by the ocean. “It’s a maintenance nightmare. You think upkeep is expensive now,” she’d warned. “All of the furniture will have to be reupholstered every three years. We’ll have a constant mildew problem. Plus, I’ve read that excessive moisture is bad for the trachea.” That was Mary. Economical, orderly, she ran the house much as she had run her second-grade classroom: tidy, punctual, planned. Their neighborhood near Southampton village had the characteristics of an affluent suburb, not the windswept feel of a coastal town. They could be anywhere. Mary’s idea of a water view was a glance at their gunite swimming pool.

  Although the front door was slightly ajar, George Welch rang the bell. Almost immediately Henry Lewis opened it. Trim and athletic, Henry looked younger than forty-three. He had cocoa-colored, smooth skin, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and close-cropped hair. He wore beige linen pants, a green polo shirt, and loafers. George fought back th
e urge to think Henry handsome. He had always believed it was inappropriate for men to notice other men’s looks.

  Henry extended his hand. “George, good to see you.”

  George shook hands and felt Henry’s grip tighten around his.

  “Come in, come in. Is Mary with you?”

  “No. She’s at home, straightening up from the weekend. She cleans before the cleaning lady arrives. Don’t ask me why. She sends her best.” He hoped the nervous edge to his voice did not reveal his anxiety.

  “This way.” In response to Henry’s gesture, George stepped forward into the living room. Two taupe couches straddled the field-stone fireplace. A slab of glass on a chrome stand formed a table in between. George looked around for the customary clutter, the figurines, magazines, and knickknacks of people’s lives. The room was spare. The breaking surf appeared to roll in through the far wall of glass.

  “Pretty dramatic views you’ve got here,” he murmured.

  “Thanks. It’s a nice change from Manhattan. Have a seat. What can I get you? Iced tea? A beer?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. I’m fine.” George perched on the edge of one sofa.

  “Okay, then. I’ll just get Louise. Make yourself comfortable.” Henry turned to leave.

  “Actually, I thought we should talk for just a moment. Alone.”

  Henry stopped. His gaze mixed curiosity and concern. George hadn’t meant to sound an alarm, but the firmness in his voice gave him away. He had been dreading this meeting all weekend. Although the Lewises would receive official notification from Gail Davis that the Membership Committee had declined to act on their application for membership to the Fair Lawn Country Club, George had wanted to tell Henry in person. It seemed like the right thing to do. He now had the sinking feeling that it would be far worse than he had anticipated.

  Henry sat opposite him and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. George couldn’t look straight ahead. He let his eyes drift to the end table and focused on several pictures of the two Lewis girls. Their teeth-filled grins jumped from the silver frames. The images of two children in bikinis with a sand castle in the foreground, of one pushing the other on a swing hung from a tree branch, of both with arms wrapped around their beaming father, were familiar, timeless. No different, these girls are no different from my own, he thought.

  “They’re good. Both of them. We feel very lucky,” Henry said.

  “How old are they?”

  “Eliza is seven and Madeleine will be four in August.”

  “They must like it out here.” George stumbled over his own small talk.

  “We all do.”

  Silence passed between them. George could feel Henry’s gaze fixed on him.

  “Are you staying out through Monday?” George searched for conversation. He wanted to ease into the discussion, backtrack from the clear indication he had given moments earlier that something was wrong.

  “Louise and the girls are going to stay, but I’m heading back to the city tonight. Memorial Day doesn’t get much observance where I work.” He smiled. “Actually, a transplant candidate is being transferred from a hospital in the Midwest.”

  A heart transplant, somebody flown in from halfway across the country to get another man’s heart; the concept was hard for George to imagine.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to bring the heart to him?”

  “To her,” he corrected. “But to answer your question, she’s been my patient for quite some time. Her husband wasn’t happy with the care she got in Chicago, and brought her to New York last February. He wants us to see her through.”

  “Do you actually do the transplant?”

  “I’m part of what’s called a transplant team. I’m one of several surgeons involved, each with a specific role. Let’s say it’s a group effort.” He paused. When he spoke again his voice was matter-of-fact. “Despite my pleasure in seeing you, George, I’m quite confident that you did not give up a Sunday afternoon to come chat about organ transplantation. What’s on your mind?”

  George felt his heartbeat quicken and wondered whether Henry’s cardiac perceptions were astute enough to notice. Apparently Henry wouldn’t tolerate further delay. “As you probably know,” he began, “the Membership Committee met last Wednesday.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, well, we had to act on a number of applications. It really was a startling number, more than I’ve seen in years.” He couldn’t look at Henry. “Sometimes, I wonder to myself why people are even interested in joining Fair Lawn. I ask myself that question when I’m faced with folder upon folder of people, all really nice, decent people, knowing they may be rejected.” George’s words gathered speed as he rambled. “It’s so hard to make decisions. Many of us wish that we could just admit everyone, open it up to all the wonderful younger families like yourselves wanting to come in.”

  “Just say it, George. We weren’t accepted.” The words fell flat.

  George inhaled deeply. “Henry, if it had been up to me, you know it would be different, but I’m only one of six. People are very reluctant to let in anyone new, complaints of the club being too crowded, parking problems, you name it.” He hoped that he sounded sincere. “You know how people are. Figure they’re in so they pull the ladder up behind them. In fact, there was a concerted effort to admit only legatees, given the numbers.” As the words escaped from his mouth, George realized his mistake.

  “Louise’s parents have been members for years.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right. What am I thinking?” George mumbled. Then he changed his tack. “The issue, Henry, is that Louise is well-known. She grew up here, has been a junior member. People don’t know you in the same way.”

  “Come on, George. Don’t bullshit me.”

  “I’m not, really,” George pleaded. “I’m optimistic about your chances for admission next time round. You know politics.”

  Henry stared down at his folded hands.

  “We both know that there are six very different people on the committee. You had Wally, Wally Lovejoy. He’s crazy about you both. You had me. Of course you had me, but for people like Jack Von Furst, Gail Davis, you’re just a name on an application.” George could not bear to identify the true source of the problem. “Maybe Louise could work on Gail, play a little ladies’ doubles, have a drink afterward, you know how it is, talk charities. Isn’t Louise involved in…what’s that charity? YOUTHCORE, that’s it, I knew the name would come to me.” Henry didn’t respond. George continued, “I’m pretty sure Gail volunteers there. Anyway, next time the focus has to be on gathering momentum, getting a real show of support across the board.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Oh, come on, that’s ridiculous, lots of members have to go two, three years—”

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” Henry interrupted. “I’m a black man, a black man married to a white woman, and that won’t change. Not next year. Not any year.”

  George sat without moving. He felt numb.

  Henry’s voice, low and controlled, resonated. “I shouldn’t be surprised, now, should I?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. “In fact, as I think about it, Louise and I must have put you all in an awkward position. Here we are, a decent, successful, some might say prominent family, and for you to refuse us, you’d have to admit to yourselves that race is still an issue. That couldn’t have felt too good, now, could it?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” George tried to reason, although he knew his efforts were futile.

  “What I wonder is, who was willing to admit that? Were you? Were you at least honest?”

  George didn’t reply.

  “It’s not as if I hadn’t imagined it could happen this way. In fact, if I let myself, I can hear the conversation. ‘We’ll be filled with coloreds before we know it.’ ” Henry mocked imitation. “Was that it? What did they say about Louise, George? Were you all sorry she married me? What did they say about my girls? I want to know what was said
about Eliza and Madeleine.”

  “Nothing. Not a thing. The girls weren’t discussed.”

  “Well, then what happened?”

  “There wasn’t a vote,” George whispered.

  “What?”

  “We abstained. We moved to abstain. So that you could reapply next year.”

  “I’m not a fool.” Henry knew the procedures.

  George looked down. He hadn’t wanted to explain about the threatened blackball or any other details of the deliberations. He already had breached etiquette by breaking the news to Henry himself. “It wasn’t going that way.”

  “Who kept me out?”

  “I—I can’t tell you,” George stammered. “The meetings are secret. You know that. My hands are tied.”

  “Tell me!” The words seemed to boil in Henry’s throat. He had gotten up from his seat on the couch opposite George and walked behind him, out of George’s sight. George wanted to turn around, but his shoulders froze. His torso wouldn’t move. “Tell me who it was.”

  George felt his nerves crumbling. He reminded himself that he had been angry. Anger still burned in him over how Henry and Louise had been treated. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right. He felt ashamed. “Clio, Clio Pratt, Richard’s wife. She was going to blackball you. There was nothing for the rest of us to do.” There, the words were out.

  “What’s going on?” Louise Lewis appeared in the doorway. She looked frightened.