The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

  Demi called him at work. He could hardly believe his good fortune. “Owen, did you see the piece in the Sphere this morning about the dog? I’ll read it to you: ‘Inner city child mauled by dog in Back Bay.’ Well, it goes on to say a large dog pulled a juvenile off his bicycle and attacked him. The police arrived and saved him from serious injury, but the dog escaped. A witness said a homeless man in torn clothing ran away with the dog. The child told witnesses he is afraid to ride the streets in Back Bay anymore. It’s just that I wondered if you had seen it. It happened only a few blocks from your apartment. Keep your eyes open. I wouldn’t want you or Tasha to be hurt … No, I can’t … I’m busy. Call me later in the week. I have a meeting now. Please … Owen. I have to run … Yes … So do I.”

  Thomas Appleyard’s voice quavered with unaccustomed emotion. “Really outrageous. My wife had just stopped that evening to go into Conran’s to pick up a towel rack. She found a spot on a side street a few blocks away. Only gone about fifteen minutes, and when she got back she found the windshield of the car smashed with a can of dog food. No, she had lost the radio the month before. This was just senseless vandalism. Someone saw a homeless throw it at the car. They get dog food to eat, you know. It’s cheap and nutritious, I suppose. It was a protest. Just fired it at the first 300 SEL he saw. Shall we go into the dining room? Listen to the hubbub. No, my wife put me on one of those low cholesterol things. I can’t eat much of anything anymore, spoils everything. A bore.”

  ON THE SHANK OF THE HUB

  by Leonard Lapstrake

  BOSTON. Special to the Boston Sphere. Copyright San Francisco Clarion, 1987.

  NIGHT THOUGHTS: It’s a tough city and a mean city. Sometimes the stories can break your heart. Two kids out in the evening on their bikes. Okay, so they should have been at home doing homework. How many times did you sneak away for a quick look at the night when the books got to be too much?

  Out of their neighborhood, pedalling down the quiet streets of Boston. Quiet, did I say? A berserk homeless leaps out in front of them and both kids are down. He has a dog who is at their throats. He shouts incoherently. One kid’s knee is smashed. The other, savaged by the dog. The beloved bikes, wrecked. And—bizarre even for this City of Contrasts—the homeless takes cans of dog food from the pockets of his tattered coat and throws them at the passing cars. A cry of hopeless rage in a city where affordable housing has never been much more than election rhetoric. Where crazed men must eat dog food to survive. Where tooth and claw rule the night.

  Nice note: The city does have a heart. The local rag is raising a fund to replace the two bikes. A buck will make you feel the world is not a totally rotten place for a couple of kids.

  Local forecast: I want to say a word about Boston’s weather. Problem is, they won’t print this particular word in the family fishwrap. No other city in America suffers weather like this benighted town. Not only is the weather uncomfortable, frightening, noisy, dangerous, boring, shocking, and unhealthy. It is also plentiful. Abundant. Fulsome. Copious. In oversupply. A redundance. Altogether, a bad joke.

  Late update: Remember the one about the Boston men’s clubs? Well, the latest rumor heard in the Members’ Bar is that one enterprising club has sent one of their better-looking young bucks to plead their case, out of court so to speak, with the beauteous official who is forcing them to choose between gender integration or alcoholic extinction. The smart money says Prohibition is just around the corner with no hope of Repeal.

  But I don’t want you to think I haven’t enjoyed my stay. It’s been interesting. Boston is different. The natives pride themselves on the fact they never have to travel. They have diversity here. If one more New Englander; asks me, “Isn’t it boring to have sunshine all year round?” I’m going to clout him with a snow shovel.

  “What about the foliage?” they bleat. It’s true, New England has collected more dead leaves than any region in the U.S. of A. Maybe in the world, if you don’t count what’s going on in the rain forests of Brazil.

  “Do you really eat flowers in California?” someone asked me at dinner the other night, while he scooped up something called Indian Pudding.

  Anyone who has tried it knows it is the ultimate slur on the Native American. Give me a nasturtium anytime.

  “You know, Gland,” said Walter Junior, “I thought he was way out of line on seafood. But I have to admit he’s right about crime in the city. There was a shocking outbreak the other night, just a few blocks away from the club. A very expensive car was almost destroyed. And, I must confess, I sometimes share his impatience with the weather. We’ve had almost three inches of rain since just before noon. I didn’t like him at first, but he grows on you. I suppose that’s what pee-ah is all about.”

  Chapter 18

  Avery Coupon had moved that summer from New York to accept a position with the Old Currency Bank. He was accustomed to the mantle and trappings of authority, which lately, due to his relocation, seemed to have diminished. A new member of the Charles, his views on the Central Topic had not been sought until he rather curtly offered his services to the Strategy Committee. “Please join us by all means,” said Walter Junior. “We are in point of fact meeting tonight for coffee, about eight o’clock. We have just refilled the humidor with some,” he tittered, “contraband, which you may enjoy.” Coupon, who indulged himself in every pleasure of the flesh save tobacco, nevertheless accepted with alacrity.

  That evening, in the Small Reception Room on the second floor where the lesser of the two Sargents hung above the fireplace, he viewed through an aromatic haze the array of brainpower—largely self-appointed—which had been massed to defeat the Forces of Evil. Included in the gathering were Walter St. Henry Thomas Junior; the Eldest Member; Roger Dormant; Seymour Gland; Eduardo DePalma; Thomas Appleyard; Owen Lawrence, also new to the group; the Distinguished Poet; and himself. He poured a cup of black coffee wishing the while for a drop of something, noticed a decanter at Dormant’s elbow, and employing a series of discreet nudges and gestures soon found a glass of port in his other hand as he sank carefully into the last unoccupied chair. Most of the group were talking. Only Coupon and Owen, the two new members, sat silent. Umbrage vied with outrage.

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” The Eldest Member as usual rose effortlessly above the din.

  “I said it has been a complete failure, a waste of money, and worse yet, has blackened the club’s reputation.” DePalma, who sometimes referred to himself as the club’s commitment to Affirmative Action or more simply as the Resident Spic, seldom raised his baritone voice. A successful litigator, when he so chose, his words penetrated. The room fell silent.

  Before the conversation broke out again Roger Dormant hastened to speak. “Shouldn’t we appoint someone to run this meeting? This is the third time we have met. Each time the group is different and we all talk at once.”

  Gland removed from his mouth the Cuban panatela, a gross of which—in his capacity as head of the Cigar Committee—he had triumphantly procured from an enterprising travel agent. “Our need is not for Roberts, it is for a concerted plan.” He described an oval trail of smoke in the air into which such a plan might fit. “I believe,” he emphasized his personal pronoun, “as a matter of fact, we are well advanced with our campaign.”

  Before he could proceed Dormant pressed his point. “I suggest we ask Walter Junior to serve as de facto chair—I believe the correct term these days is—person.”

  “Well, is that not precisely the problem?” cried the Distinguished Poet. Chairperson, indeed! Why we, or any other group of civilized humans should have to abandon the ancient traditions of the language to mollify a militant …” he searched his lexicon for the word—“micro-fringe” was the best he could summon—“is beyond my ken. I will gladly give my assent to Walter Junior, as chairman, but no pandering solecisms, please.”

  Without further dissent Walter Junior called the group to a still noisy order. “We; of course, are not the only organization caught up in this dil
emma,” he said when he felt he could be heard. “I speak of it as a dilemma because I believe we are all,” he glanced around the room and seemed about to modify his last words, but went on, “men of goodwill. Perhaps the world has changed around us more rapidly than we realize, but we are not, I feel, chauvinistes, nor bigots, nor misanthropes, nor misogynists. However, the Club has always defined its own membership, hence has always defined itself. Now we are being told that our traditional definition is no longer acceptable to, ah, others in our society.”

  At this the room burst into an emotional characterization of their principal tormentor. Owen’s cheeks burned.

  Walter Junior, after a moment, continued. “Many of us belong to other clubs, have other associations which have been subjected to, which have had to face this, ah, new, ah, how shall I put it, trend. Perhaps it would be instructive to hear of some other situations. Please raise your hand to be recognized,” he added hastily.

  Avery Coupon was gratified to be called upon first. He sipped his port until the room was quiet. This paltry club at least has a decent cellar, he thought. “I belonged, still belong in fact, to the Garden Country Club in Garden Village.” Noting blank stares where he expected appreciative nods, he added, “on Long Island.” Still no reaction. “We have male members only. A single locker room. No social events which include women. With one exception. Once a year, on the day after Christmas, we have a tailgate picnic for wives and female friends.” He sipped his port appreciatively. “In the parking lot.”

  The chair did not need to call the group to order. Silence swirled in the Cuban fumes above the room as they contemplated this concept. “The parking lot?” asked Gland.

  “Yes.”

  “On the day after …?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do many attend?” Appleyard inquired.

  “Some do. Some don’t. Seems to depend a lot on the weather.” Coupon paused, conscious of the rapt attention of his audience. “My wife doesn’t care much for it. Says it’s too cold. And there’s usually too much to do after Christmas.”

  “Are any special efforts made for the comfort of the guests? A tent, perhaps?”

  “No tent. A fire. In an oil drum.”

  “Is the club going to change its membership?”

  “No.”

  The monosyllable lay in their laps like a flat stone from the parking lot at Garden Village, a more interesting community than they had imagined even though it was somewhere to the south.

  Roger Dormant raised a tentative hand. “I have never understood what has been happening to the schools and colleges.” Since his friends and acquaintances were cognizant of many things he did not understand this pronouncement did not cause a stir. Walter Junior, however, encouraged him to go on. “It would seem,” Dormant said with emotion adding an uncharacteristic vibrato to his voice, “that childhood is so brief, youth so short, that young people might be able to choose how they wish to spend it. I went off to Exeter when I was fourteen. It was a wonderful period in my life. I remember the Headmaster as vividly as I remember my father. He stood for authority. Responsibility. Tradition. It was a boys’ school then, of course, had been for more than a hundred years when I arrived. Now it is, ah,” he looked around for assistance in finding the correct word.

  “Integrated.”

  “Co-educational.”

  “Ruined.”

  “Well, it has girl students, and now a female is Headmaster. I mean,” he said, “Head. Of the school. I don’t know of any private school that is still of but one gender. Why has this all changed so suddenly, so completely? Do people no longer want a choice? Was my experience so unusual? Hasn’t something been lost?”

  The hubbub broke out again as member after member attempted to give testimony. Appleyard stood up. “I have a son who is going to Vassar.” He sat down with the air of someone who has just got something off his chest.

  DePalma spoke without raising his well-manicured hand. “My sister is an alumna of Wheaton. As you probably know, the college is about to admit men for the first time. They just completed, a major capital campaign. Somehow, the board neglected to tell the alumnae of their decision to change the composition, the personality, if you will, of the college until the campaign was successfully concluded. My sister is angry. She, and some others, have demanded their gifts be returned. She thought of her years at Wheaton as rather idyllic. She is very angry with her college.”

  “Why?” asked Owen.

  “She says she has had to live with men all her life. Four years of feminine society was to her, as I said, an idyll.”

  “So that’s the end of her association with Wheaton.”

  “Actually not. Her daughter has applied for early admission next year.”

  “Holderness was a boys’ school when Seymour and I first attended,” said Owen. “I enjoyed it thoroughly. It was almost home to me. I was what they called a lifer, I spent four years there. Before we left they began admitting girls. I can’t see that it has hurt the school. Quite the contrary. And the academics are up.”

  “Holderness is very sports-oriented, is it not?” asked Dormant.

  “Very. Skiing, ice hockey, football, baseball, lacrosse.”

  “What sports do the girls play?”

  “All of them, I believe.”

  “Hockey? I mean, ice hockey? Football?”

  “I’m not sure about football. I am sure about lacrosse. The girls’ team won the conference championship last year. They demolished Exeter.”

  “It would seem that the school has retained a rather masculine personality,” said DePalma, glancing at Appleyard.

  “Perhaps those sports are no longer considered the sole property of the boys,” Owen answered.

  “Perhaps the girls are becoming more masculine than I remember,” Gland interjected in a stage whisper that carried across the room.

  Owen was about to reply when Walter Junior held up his hand. “I think we are straying a bit afield, interesting though these subjects are. I would like to return to the club scene, if we may.”

  “I also belong to the Union League,” said Coupon. He did not have to elaborate. The Union League Club was known even in Boston. “We are awaiting the Supreme Court ruling. We will not cave in.”

  “The New York situation, however, is quite different from ours,” explained Appleyard, pleased to regain a legal footing. “The city has passed a statute, Local Law 63, if I am not mistaken, which bars discrimination on the basis of, ah, race, religion, sex, sexual orientation, and other grounds in private clubs with a membership of four hundred or more.” He was about to proceed, when Gland interrupted.

  “What do you mean by sexual orientation?”

  “What I suppose the wording of the statute to mean is sexual preference.”

  “You mean queers?” Gland’s voice rose. “The clubs in New York have to admit queers?”

  “I don’t mean anything. I’m simply trying to explain the legal issue in New York.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “New York is quite another kettle of fish,” said Dormant. This statement provoked no dissent, not even from Coupon.

  Appleyard continued. “Clubs of over four hundred members, as I said. They are deemed to play an important role in business and professional life. They receive a good deal of income for meal service, luncheons and dinners, which may include business meetings. The New York City Human Rights Commission is the body which is involved here …”

  “Is it a right of all humans to join the Union League?” asked Coupon rhetorically to the cloud above his head.

  “… some of the local clubs have already achieved compliance by changing their admissions policies. They will periodically report to the Commission on the number of women applicants, as well as the number of women admitted.”

  “And queers? The number of queers admitted as well?” Owen suspected Gland had been punishing the decanter. “Is there a quota?” A bit of cigar adhered to the corner of his mouth.

 
“The Union League will stand firm.”

  “Other clubs are opposing the law. The New York Athletic Club, for one. They have a membership of over ten thousand, I believe,” continued Appleyard.

  “All close friends, no doubt,” remarked the Eldest Member, who had been enjoying the emotional currents if not all the details of the discussion.

  “The suit against several clubs will be heard sometime next year by the Supreme Court.”

  “How does this affect us?” asked the Distinguished Poet.

  “It doesn’t appear to affect us at all,” said DePalma smoothly before Appleyard could continue his dissertation. “A, we have fewer than four hundred members. B, we have a prohibition against the display of business papers in the common areas of the club as specified by our bylaws. C, and most important, we are not ruled by the laws of New York City.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Appleyard hotly. “If the New York law is upheld, other cities will rush to follow suit.”

  “And, in the meantime, our problem is not created by law,” said the Distinguished Poet from his corner, “but by a simple ruling, promulgated by an individual, affecting only one aspect of club life.”

  “Pass the port,” whispered Dormant.

  Gland leaped to his feet. A rush of emotion seemed to give his words wing. “So, here it is, the new age, the age of compliance, in which we cannot choose our associates, we must admit one and all: women, queers, paroled criminals, used car salesmen, to our clubhouse, to our table, to our councils, to our innocent revels, and, mark you, not only admit them, but report regularly to some loathsome, self-important, self-righteous, ego-inflated, do-good, state functionary, ensconced behind an expensive desk, smoking ten-cent …” Gland glanced at the instrument with which he was emphasizing each point, jabbing it as it were into the face of the enemy, “… sucking snuff, and filling spittoons like some New Hampshire farmer, surrounded by the tawdry trappings of political power, never having turned a hand to attempt an honest day’s labor …” As he soared, Owen relaxed to some extent. It didn’t sound as though Gland were describing the woman he loved. Perhaps he was referring to someone in New York. But Gland was in full spate.