The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

  He stared at them impassively. “Peg,” he said finally. “Dogpoop.”

  “Adam, isn’t this a lovely idea? I haven’t seen you since the Monet opening. Whose idea was this? You know, I haven’t been here in twenty years.”

  “Nor have I. I’m George St. George,” said the Taverner to the Pilgrim.

  “Dogpoop,” repeated Winchester. He seemed to be studying something about eighteen inches from the end of his nose which was the shape and color of a lightly boiled new potato. As Abel’s tray floated by, however, hand unerringly sought glass.

  “Peg Cartright. I’m president of the Pilgrim Club. You’re Walter Junior’s cousin are you not?”

  “Yes. One of the delegation from the Tavern. This is quite a summit meeting.”

  “Dogpoop.”

  “Thank you, Adam. He is reminding us all of my undergraduate nickname. I believe until a few minutes ago he and I were the only ones in the room who shared that important piece of information.”

  “What do you think of all this, Adam? The club business I mean. Are we going to have to elect men to the Pilgrim? Who would want to join? I mean we spend a lot of time on subjects like grafting fruit trees and genealogy and bridge.”

  “Sounds quite fascinating. I may be your first applicant.”

  “How many clubs do you belong to?”

  “I have no clear memory. Perhaps a dozen. Some are no longer in existence. The India Wharf Rats, the old T&R.” He sighed and swigged. “I am fascinated by genealogy. Dogpoop is actually Walter Junior’s second cousin. The St. Henrys and the St. Georges are connected by marriage. Made in heaven one presumes.”

  “Can I refresh your drink, Peg?” asked Cousin Dogpoop, but Abel was ringing the chime and they began drifting through the sliding doors to find their places.

  Abel had chosen three wines and a Champagne. A little recognized but well received California Chardonnay poured with the Petrale sole, which itself had been flown in from San Francisco the night before, vindication for Lapstrake if the members had known, provoked the first toast. Walter St. Henry Thomas Junior, in his role as host President, rose glass in hand. The room was resplendent with silver and red roses, ringed with flushed, masticating faces upon which the candle flames danced. He studied them as they fell silent rather as a headmaster might view his alumni grown older if not necessarily wiser. His voice, pitched low, barely carried above the restless cutlery. The Eldest Member cupped his ear ostentatiously. “We are here tonight to celebrate an experience, a, uh, pleasure, which is not unique to Boston, but is perhaps more precious here than in some other locales. The pleasure of which I speak is that of adult companionship and conversation with the friends of our choosing.” Old Jane popped through the swinging door and headed for the nearest fish plates, but Abel caught her apron strings. “Boston has many clubs. Perhaps it is because we somehow need a special place to allow us to exercise those rituals of warmth and friendship which visitors often feel we lack.” He stared at his glass, the Chardonnay golden green in the candlelight. “Something more than celebration brings us together this evening, however. There is a threat which hangs over this otherwise delightful dinner party. That threat could alter forever the nature of our club traditions. Certain, uh, forces threaten these traditions, certain forces such as politics and,” he almost swallowed his words as his audience strained to hear him, “social change.” With an effort, he drew himself up and ventured a smile which briefly lit the steep Yankee planes of his face. “Shall I make a confession? Politics alarms me. Social change is, of course, a fact of history, but one which at my time of life I do not often welcome.” A long pause ensued. Owen found himself counting, he was not sure what, his heartbeats perhaps? Walter Junior swallowed and continued. “Howsomever,” and he smiled again, bifocals twinkling in the candlelight, the unfamiliar exercise straining his jaw and neck muscles, “I welcome you all to the Charles and offer you the hospitality of this club.” Abel released Old Jane as murmurs of appreciation rippled round the table.

  Roger Dormant, registering this as the longest utterance of their acquaintance, applauded his friend then turned to Peg Cartright. “Hullo, Peggy. Nice to see you again. When was it last, the Monet opening?”

  “It was Symphony two years ago. Leinsdorf was back. How is Celia?”

  “I’m not sure. I think we may be separated. I haven’t seen her in a month or so.”

  “Oh, Roger, how awful.”

  “She may be in California with Ann. But anyway I meant it when I said it was nice to see you. What’s wrong, by the way, with meeting a woman friend at your club?”

  “Nothing. I do it all the time.”

  The Bordeaux, an ambitious second growth which had reached adulthood in the Charles’ cellar, was efficiently dispensed as lamb with mushrooms and truffles arrived. Seymour Gland seized the moment and his glass. “Single-sex clubpeople!” He did not have to wait for silence as the table gazed at his unsteady figure with fascination, “I give you the sturdy New England values which have always stood tall, and must continue in this grave era,” he was shouting now, “to sturd against the resurgent dark fundamentalism of the hoathsome lordes,” he sensed something awry but could not quite put his finger on it, “wholesome hordes.” He looked around for Owen but could not find him. “The lonesome wards of the ancient world. In closing,” he felt a hand at his coattails which pulled him inexorably down until he met the seat of his chair with an audible impact, “I thank you.” Miraculously he had not spilled a drop so he poured it into his face in triumph.

  The Bull Elk raised himself to his considerable height, the blue tuxedo lending emphasis to massive shoulders and a formidable midsection. “I certainly agree with both of the previous speakers, and I can only add that if GM in Framingham stays shutdown, we can blame it on the Japs and all of those who don’t buy American.” He resumed his place with dignity.

  Abel moved like an athlete stitching the table together with deft jabs of Pichon-Longueville-Baron. He had committed two cases of the 1966 to this meal and was determined to use them to the fullest. He danced behind Owen, who had switched his card to put himself between an Elk and a Pilgrim. Owen turned to the former. “Are there any women Elks?”

  “No, that’s the whole point. Say, this is some kinda wine.”

  “What will you do if they make you add women to the, uh, herd?”

  “I dunno. It’s a tough one. Prolly go to the VFW. I don’t think they can touch that. It’s a real problem. We got such a great setup. Good bar. Big screen with the dish. Gets everything including Australia fergodsake. It’s just the best place for an evening away from the wife and kids. Not that I don’t love my family, don’t get me wrong, but you need a place to get away. Am I right?” He leaned forward and addressed the Pilgrim, who had been following intently, perhaps in part because Seymour on her left was wrapping up Iran and Libya. “Am I right?”

  “Yes, I think actually you are. Everyone needs a haven. I rather depend on mine. I don’t use it too often, but when I need to get away for awhile, it’s there.”

  “Exactly. Exactly my point.”

  “But look at us this evening.” Owen gestured around the table whose acoustic power had risen dramatically in the past few minutes. “This is a great evening … Yes thank you just half a glass. Whoa! No harm done … Now what’s wrong with a club that includes men and women?”

  “Are you married? Where’s your wife?” asked the Pilgrim.

  “I’m divorced.”

  “Well easy for you to say,” said the Elk. “No problem there. I’ll tell you where my wife is. She’s home and she’s steamed.”

  “Does she want to be an Elk?”

  “Hell no. She wanted to come here, but she wouldn’t set foot in our clubhouse except it was the Christmas party or like that.”

  “My husband is not steamed, he’s in London, as a matter of fact, and he may be boiled but that’s another matter. He’s never set foot in the Pilgrim Club and never will. The problem, young man, Owen
is it, is that if you have men and women in the same club, do you have husbands or in your case,” she nodded to Owen and the Elk, “wives as members, too?”

  “No way.”

  “Then you have other women as members but not wives?”

  “I’d be killed in my bed.”

  “Is that the way you feel?” Owen asked her.

  “Not that I fear for my life, but he’s right. It raises an awkward problem. What’s the point of a haven if it’s not a haven?”

  “Exactly my point.”

  Adam Winchester struggled to his feet, a newly refreshed glass of claret in hand. He stared out into the clamorous room, a riot of candles and flashing forks. The roast lamb had proved a signal success and hearts of palm had just appeared. He stood immobile bearing his evening clothes with all the authority of an umpire in mask and pads. “I rise in praise of Yvonne,” he said in his raspy voice. The din subsided as most of the audience with the exception of the Elks realized Adam, a bachelor badboy of repute, was about to do something naughty. “As I am sure you all know Yvonne has graced the grillroom of a certain Boston restaurant, a room which—until a few years ago—was traditionally reserved for men. Now, for better or for worse, but apparently forever, that room serves all and sundry. Yvonne is still there in her glory. What the new guests think of her is a matter of conjecture.” He smiled a badboy smile and began to recite:

  “Demure despite her nudity,

  She gazes quite sans crudity

  Upon the skulls both thatched and bald

  Of patrons who are often called

  Great Gourmets.

  “She’s not the Lady of Shalott,

  She’s what a wife is often not,

  She silent hangs with mellow eye

  Watching the world come and go by

  Without Emotion.

  “She is the ideal of our dreams,

  When brain with wine and food careens,

  Yet always does she stay quite chaste

  And never does she make least haste—

  The Lady of Locke-Ober’s!”

  Adam sat down to much clinking of glasses and raucous applause.

  Charlotte Coupon, who had addressed not a word either to Seymour on her right or to her husband across the table, both of whom were so busy talking themselves as to be oblivious of this deprivation, leapt to her feet. With no preamble she launched into a sweet but forceful soprano:

  “They talk about a woman’s sphere as though it had a limit;

  There’s not a place on earth or heaven,

  There’s not a task to mankind given,

  There’s not a blessing or a woe,

  There’s not a whispered yes or no,

  There’s not a life or birth,

  That has a feather’s weight of worth—

  Without a woman in it.”

  She sat down flushed and breathless as the applause exceeded even Adam’s, the Elks feeling clearly she more than held her own. Seymour, noticing her as if for the first time asked, “How many children do you have?”

  By the time the Sauterne and the Baked Alaska made their appearance the American Flag, the Charles Club, the Boston Council for the Arts, the Crimson, and the Celtics had been saluted. Abel, now somewhat concerned at the obvious success of his efforts, sent Old Jane and her squad scurrying for coffee. Seymour, however, was calling for port and cigars. No one, least of all the Pilgrims, suggested the women retire. Abel returned from a hasty trip to the bar with four bottles of Cockburn’s and a handful of glasses. He knew it would not be enough.

  “Do you mind if I take a cigar?” asked Roger Dormant.

  “Not in the least.”

  “Would you …?”

  “Thank you, no. I did once and regretted it instantly.”

  “Oporto?” Seymour asked Henry Handle, who had ingested whatever had come his way with enthusiasm and no apparent ill effect—in fact no effect at all. Lacking another glass, the Bull Elk extended his empty water tumbler and Gland topped it up.

  Owen joined a general movement around the table. Glasses at the ready, reluctant to break the spell, the guests strolled from one conversation to another through a jumble of chairs.

  “Did you play hockey?”

  “I was in the Beanpot in ’fifty-two.”

  “Last real sport left. The rest is ruint with money.”

  “Do you garden?”

  “Vegetables. Tomatoes and cukes. Carrots, radishes, beans. Squash. No zucchini, though. It’s a weed.”

  “I miss mine so. We’re in town now. I miss my garden so. And then we’re in Maine and I never get things in early enough.”

  “Nothing like a fresh radish with some black dirt sticking to it.”

  “I hate goddamn windowboxes.”

  “Followme.” Seymour shouted. “Ifyoucarepor. Ifyoucareporfort. There’s a bottle in the cellar. We can. There’s a bottle in the cellar we can find. No one knows where it is. We can find it because I hid it. EIGHTEEN NINETY-NINE.” At this, the Eldest Member, who was resting his eyes for a moment, snapped to attention. Seymour and the Bull Elk followed by Peg, Cousin Dogpoop, Dormant, Charlotte Coupon, and Owen departed through the kitchen door. Walter Junior smiled at their antics from his place at the head of the table. The Eldest Member decided to rest his eyes again for a moment.

  Anton, lolling on his throne with Miss Ontos standing close holding the great man’s hand, watched as they trooped by heading for the basement stairs. Guest after guest hurried past the overladen sink and the cooling ovens. The Boston Cat stared at them with disdain from atop a cupboard. Down the old stairway they rattled, howling with laughter, clutching the remnants of the port, the Sauterne, the Pichon-Longueville, the Chardonnay, the Champagne, whatever in fact they could find; past the empty coalbin filled with furniture broken at forgotten parties, past an impassive Nilson, long since beyond astonishment, who set his wooden tooltray on the bench and watched them disappear into the wine room. It took a long time to locate the bottle of 1899. Several others were opened for good luck. The rats stayed in their holes.

  Chapter 30

  It was a strange evening even for March. The temperature had risen twenty degrees in the past several hours and warm air pushing up from some foreign place brought with it rain which would become dangerous if the temperature dropped back to normal. “Oh please,” panted Leslie, running down Newbury Street as best she could in a heavy black wool coat with her purse and a Lord and Taylor box under her arm. She felt the coat, new and more expensive than she had planned, soaking up the warm rain like a blotter. “Oh come on,” as the shower intensified then suddenly sluiced down as a whole pailfull was dumped out of the black heavens. She held the box over her head, then remembering its contents tried to shield it again under her arm. No one on the street had an umbrella, umbrellas were a month away. The trees offered scant shelter, their branches bare except for little white light bulbs and junction boxes. Just as she neared the corner of Fairfield—planning to dash to Boylston and the cabstand in front of the Lenox Hotel where she just might find a taxi—she broke the heel of her right shoe on an upthrust tectonic plate. The heel skittered under a parked car where the torrent bore it away to the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Oh SHIT,” said Leslie. She refused to let herself cry although tears would have been invisible on her wet wreck of a face. Rather, she acknowledged defeat at the hands of the Boston weather and staggered like a flood victim up the stairs into a restaurant she had never entered before. She stood dripping unevenly on the marble floor of the entryway.

  The maitre d’ opened the inner door and smiled. “Come in and catch your breath.” Huge, handsome in a hunky way, a nice smile.

  “Will you tell me where the Ladies’ Room is?”

  “Just upstairs to the left. Want me to take care of that?”

  Gratefully, she handed over the box and trudged up the stairs, miserable from top to toe. In fifteen minutes she returned, limping like Walter Houston coming down the mountain from his diggings, the sodden
coat over her arm, some damage control achieved on hair and face. She entered the restaurant looking for her box but neither it nor the man at the door were in evidence. A girl with menus and long dry blonde hair approached. “Would you like dinner?”

  “No. I’m just looking for, I’m just looking for the man who was here.”

  “Brent? He’ll be right back. Would you like to sit at the bar? Can I hang that up for you?”

  Leslie surrendered the coat and climbed wearily on a barstool, at last on an even keel. “Perrier and lime.”

  “We have Poland Spring if that’s okay?”

  “Anything.” She sighed and glanced out the windows at Newbury Street in flood.

  Brent reappeared. “Your box is around the corner by the register. Just let me know when you want it. Would you like to have dinner?”

  “No thank you. I think I’ll just wait for a few minutes until it lets up. If it does. What’s the name of this place?”

  As he picked up the ringing telephone at the desk by the door he held up the menu, which said Ciao Bella, and smiled at her again. She looked around the room. The music was not great—show tunes or something—but the rest was nice. Those strange little light fixtures, lots of marble, very modern, very Italian. She reminded herself that she had decided to avoid things Italian. The people were friendly though. It had the feeling of a comfortable neighborhood place but upscale, definitely upscale, thought Leslie. The door burst open and Lawrence Owen came in, or was it Owen Lawrence, hair streaming down his forehead. He muttered something and brushed the water out of his eyes. A clap of thunder shook the building. Well, well.

  He peeled off his coat, shook it, and hung it on a brass stand, holding on to a dilapidated, overstuffed briefcase. His eye wandering around the room fell on Leslie, and she smiled at him. He was the divorced one Ann had mentioned, she was quite sure. He had nice shoulders although not to be compared with the maitre d’ who must lift weights during the daylight hours. Owen blinked at her several times. Was he nearsighted or something? Then he walked over to the bar.