The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

  “Dad, you’re the guy here. They’re depending on you. You can’t duck this.” Another shout, followed by a collective groan, greeted a save by Moog, who couldn’t smother the rebound, which was promptly stuffed back in the net by one of the Montreal forwards camping in the crease. The Forum went crazy. “Where’s the HITTING?” Hankie Handle asked God, the Bruins, the room at large, his father.

  “You don’t know who to hit when they change the rules on you,” answered the latter.

  Gland was talking on the telephone in the little cabinet off the lobby. It was stuffy in the booth, but he kept the door resolutely shut. Perspiration stood like drops of rain on the alabaster forehead, unmarred by line or wrinkle. His voice, however, was anything but smooth. A furious whisper, it contained as much emotion as could be expressed without being audible outside the door. “Lester,” he hissed, “you gave me your word. You told me you could fix it. I have been working like a dog on my end. I will be able to get the license transferred. No, I haven’t got anything in writing, but I can do it. Trust me in this. But I have to ask you, what good will it all do if they won’t accept our price? You told me …” Gland glared into the wall-mounted bakelite mouthpiece of the old instrument as he listened to the words pouring out of the receiver pressed like a black cucumber to his ear. A member peered in the window of the booth and was waved peremptorily away;

  “Lester, I shouldn’t have to tell you again that this is the deal of a lifetime. In six months Boston is going to wake up to the fact that some of the best located land in the city is underneath those sex shops and porno bookstores. For years everyone has thought of it as a ghetto, yes, that’s it, a sex ghetto, right in the center of downtown Boston, and now the VCR has put them out of business. It is technology, you see, the march of technology which inexorably causes …” His eyeballs bulged as he stared into the telephone.

  “How can you say that? How can you sit there in your Mercedes and tell me that we do not have a deal? I need this deal, Lester, I am counting on this deal, and I am going to have this deal, or you are going to be making your calls from some drugstore phone booth in the future …” He glanced around in apparent surprise. “No, I’m at my club. You can’t meet me here. I’ll be at my office in an hour. No, you better not meet me there either. Call me there and I’ll tell you where to pick me up. We can meet in your car. We are going to do this deal, Lester, don’t think for a minute that anything …” Gland pulled the receiver from his damp ear and glared at it. Then he slammed it down on its hook. He straightened his necktie which was slightly askew, examined his reflection in the window and stepped out into the cool tranquility of the Charles Club lobby. He ordered a drink and headed for the usual group gathered in the Library.

  “What did you think of the party last evening, Seymour?” asked the Poet as Gland entered the room.

  “One of the best dinners we’ve had in years,” said Gland.

  “It was useless,” said DePalma, “a waste of time and good wine.”

  “Not much got settled,” said Owen.

  “At least a little spice got added to the pot,” said Dormant.

  “The Pilgrims weren’t very spicy, except for Charlotte Coupon. Hidden depths there,” Gland smiled enigmatically. “And, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t a waste of time. A few seeds were judiciously planted.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “We’ll wait and see, won’t we?”

  “We don’t have much time, do we?” responded Roger. “I thought, if you care to know, that you rather made an ass of yourself in the course of the evening.”

  “Thank you for your comments.”

  “You were shitfaced, to be explicit.”

  “And thank you for all the constructive work you have put into solving this problem. I’m surprised you didn’t try to smuggle that baggage into the party.”

  “Smuggle?”

  “Smuggle.”

  “Baggage?”

  “Baggage.”

  “I hope, Gland, that you are not referring to Miss Sample.” Roger, badly hung over, felt his cheeks redden with anger.

  “Who else would I have reference to? Are you trying to smuggle in other baggages as well?”

  “I am not trying to smuggle in anyone. There is no question of smuggling. I have proposed Miss Sample for membership. Everyone votes on new members.”

  “They certainly do.”

  “And if the seeds you are planting are as productive as the ones you have flung about in the past, we can expect another crisis.”

  “You can’t make an omelet without breaking …”

  Owen stood up in the midst of the flying metaphors. “I’m going in. Does anyone want to join me?” He walked out of the room without waiting for a response. A sandwich with his dog seemed an attractive alternative.

  Chapter 32

  The first problem occurred on the street corner. Walter Junior and DePalma turned up Berkeley Street. Gland continued down Commonwealth a few paces, then stopped. “Hold on. Where are you going?”

  “The entrance is over there.”

  “The entrance is right up here.”

  “Seymour, that is the main entrance. The Men’s Entrance is over there.” Walter Junior indicated a small door on the Berkeley Street side near the alley.

  “We are going to use the main entrance. I am not going to sneak in the back way.”

  “Well, of course, the Pilgrim Club has their own traditions. We may not be off on the best foot if we ignore them,” said DePalma in what he assumed was his reasonable manner.

  “I am entering by the front.” Seymour marched up the front steps and rang the bell. The other two watched him for a moment then retraced their steps up Berkeley. As they approached the unprepossessing doorway DePalma asked, “Have you been here before?”

  “Several years ago. I attended a bridge lecture. Harriet thought we should get interested in bridge. Sheinwold was there. I didn’t understand a word.”

  “Do you play?”

  “My wife does. Not I.” They paused then entered a foyer which opened into a small sitting room. “Isn’t that a Marin?”

  “I have no idea. What is a Marin?”

  Walter Junior nodded at a small splash of color above the ornamental stone fireplace. “One of his Maine scenes. I’ve always enjoyed them.”

  DePalma was annoyed. “You know, you must recognize the importance of this meeting. I believe Seymour has hit upon a viable solution here. And it has unarguable advantages for the Pilgrim Club as well, of course. But I think we have to press for a timely resolution. A quick closing so to speak. I am prepared to address all the salient …”

  “I wonder where Seymour is. I don’t think we should go in without him.”

  The door banged and the missing member stamped in. “Do you know I was denied entrance?” He stripped off his dark blue cashmere coat and flung it on the sofa. “Some old harridan barred my way. Wouldn’t even open the door. Just shouted at me through the glass. I’ve never had such an experience.”

  “I wonder which way we go,” said DePalma. With some hesitation they started down a hallway, up a short flight of steps, then emerged into the imposingly columned central room of the Pilgrim Club. A dignified man in a white coat approached them. He said nothing but raised his gray eyebrows in question.

  “Peg Cartright,” said the President of the Charles Club firmly.

  “Missus Cartright is busy at the moment, but she axed me to show you into the Guest Parlor. She will be with you shortly.” He ushered them into a spacious sitting room with a view of the Mall. “You will be having tea with the president. May I bring you anything in the meantime?”

  “I’d like a …”

  “Nothing, thank you,” said Walter Junior

  “Madam President will join you in a moment.” He nodded at a door off the main room. A brass plate beneath the richly engraved Victorian glass proclaimed it the President’s Office.

  “What a good idea,” murmured Walter Junior.
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  Twenty minutes later, they were shown into the Conservatory. Peg Cartright was seated at a sumptuous tea table. After greetings they took the three chairs opposite her. “Tea, gentlemen?”

  Seymour stifled his desire for something more substantial. Cups were filled and the requisite flavorings and dilutions added. A plate of tiny sandwiches was offered and refused. Another plate laden with a variety of cookies was accepted by Gland and circulated no further.

  “I understand you met Miss Dana,” said Peg to Seymour.

  Gland took a hasty swig of tea to wash down a ladyfinger and choked momentarily as it scalded his tongue. “Woo?” he asked.

  “Katherine Dana. She said you were a little confused, seemed to be lost. She lives here, you know, one of our senior members.”

  “Yes, I encountered her,” said Seymour, swallowing busily. “Lovely lady.”

  “We’ve come, Peg, to present an idea,” began Walter Junior.

  “An idea which will solve the problem which is confronting the Pilgrim Club,” added DePalma. “We’ve given a great deal of thought to your situation, as a matter of fact.”

  “How kind of you.”

  “The solution,” interjected Seymour, his voice pitched for the boardroom, “is, of course, quite simple.” A look on Walter Junior’s face, however, interrupted his flow.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Peg, noticing his expression, which suggested a large species of dog asking to be let outside.

  “Please excuse me for a moment.” Walter Junior unfolded himself and bolted, ducking under the overhanging branch of a rubber tree. The other guests sipped nervously as Peg made conversation.

  “Is there a Men’s Room?” he asked the majordomo.

  “Downstairs, next to the storage closet. Right through that door.”

  The President of the Charles Club ventured down a dark flight and found an unmarked door. The Victorian elegance of the Pilgrim Mansion was greatly diminished in the lower regions; the hall was lit by a single bare bulb protruding from a converted gas fixture on the wall. He opened the door to utter darkness. Locating a switch, he revealed floor-to-ceiling shelves of linens, rolls of toilet paper, unopened boxes marked Drano and BonAmi. He switched off, ducked around the corner and tried a second, identical door. This time, he found what he was looking for. “Hello, Adam.”

  Adam Winchester dried his hands on a little towel whose corner was threaded on an angle of brass rod which directed it into a wicker container when he let it go. “Walter Junior, as I live and breathe. What are you doing skulking about in the bowels of the Pilgrim Club?”

  “The same thing as you, I’ll wager.”

  “I was peeing, in point of fact. They fill you with tea here.”

  “Yes, I know. But that’s not all you were doing.”

  “Is it any of your business what I do, or where I pee?”

  “I saw you upstairs. I imagine you are here to suggest something to the Pilgrims.”

  “Perhaps I am. And perhaps you are as well. Great minds with but a single, et cetera.”

  “This was Seymour Gland’s idea.”

  “Then I retract the observation.”

  “I’m sure you know the Pilgrims cannot join forces with more than one club.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I believe we made the first approach.”

  “You have already suggested such a proposal then?”

  “Well, no. But Seymour has alluded to it.”

  “Is that so? Yes, I believe I heard him blabbing about something of the sort at that charming dinner party you gave the other night. What an original notion, to entertain the ladies in the wine cellar. The Pichon-Longueville-Baron was commendable, although as a rule I prefer the Pichon-Longueville, Comtesse de Lalande. Usually a very consistent performer. Alluding is one thing. Proposing is quite something else.”

  “And you have proposed?”

  “Why, my good friend, surely that is a matter between the lady and myself? Or, at least between the Pilgrim and the Somerset?” He chuckled as Walter Junior clattered up the stairs.

  When he rejoined the group in the Conservatory Seymour, impatient of delay and facing a conference with his private banker across town in an hour, had launched his pitch. It was whizzing at the batter who, when she understood what he was saying, hit it high and deep to left field. “I am afraid it is out of the question,” she said as Walter Junior settled into his little gilt chair again.

  “What, if you will forgive me, is out of the question?”

  “Are you all right?” asked Peg solicitously. She had known him since dancing school. “You look a little flushed.”

  “I am all right, but Peg, please don’t make a hasty judgment in this matter.” Gland and DePalma, a little put out because they had not been able to give voice to the forceful arguments they had rehearsed at lunch, looked at each other.

  “Hasty judgment?” said DePalma.

  “Yes,” said Walter Junior. “The Somerset has been here.”

  “Margaret. May I call you Margaret?” asked Seymour to their hostess, who detested the name. “Surely you recall we asked you first?”

  “Yes, the night of the dinner party,” urged DePalma.

  “As a matter of fact I remember very little of that evening except singing some vile song when we were sitting around on boxes in the cellar, and being taken home by the nice man from Somerville.”

  “It was a lovely party,” agreed Gland. “Reminded me of the dinners we used to have at the Fox Club when I was an undergraduate.”

  “Yes. That’s what it reminded me of also. I haven’t had such a headache in years. Really, Walter, it is out of the question. Please carry that message back.” She patted his hand. “You are bad but lovable boys, some of you, but it was not to be.” She rose.

  Mouths slightly agape, they followed her into the grand hall. She shook hands with Gland and DePalma and gave Walter Junior a peck on the cheek such as Hamilton might have bestowed on Lafayette. “Please use the Men’s Entrance when you leave. Sometimes you can pick up a cab there if you need one.”

  Peg and Katherine Dana sat together on a Louis XIV sofa in the Music Room. Two sherries were extended to them on a silver tray. “Thank you, Matthew. Well, Peg, you’ve had quite a day.”

  Peg smiled and knocked hers back then nodded in a meaningful way at Matthew.

  “Two proposals within an hour of each other. Many girls never receive one.”

  “Katherine, I know you received a splendid one, which you have always treasured.”

  “Yes, I did. It was that boy, Walter Junior’s uncle, his father’s brother. He died of the influenza at camp during the World War. Never went to France, never fired a shot in anger, but he was a great hero to me, nevertheless.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “We lost so many of our set that year, and the next.” She brightened a little and lifted her glass with trembling fingers. “But why are we being so blue? I thought you did a masterful job.”

  “Thank you,” said Peg. “It’s really quite comic when you stand back and look at it all.”

  “You’re wondering if we should accept either offer. Perhaps we’ll hear from the Tavern or the St. Botolph, as well.”

  “Perhaps we will. I think we should consider the Somerset proposal, discuss it with the members. Certainly not the Charles Club. That wouldn’t do at all.”

  “Who was the fat one who tried to push himself in the front door?”

  “Seymour Gland.”

  “Oh, yes, from Pride’s Crossing? I don’t really know that family. And the other one you said is a lawyer? You’re right, it would be laughable if it weren’t rather sad. It’s the end of an era, you know.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Not your era, Peg, mine. I’m afraid you are condemned to experience quite a bit of the new era. I, fortunately, am not.”

  “Oh, Katherine.”

  “Don’t oh Katherine me. I’ve had the best of it. I don’t want the rest of it, as
they say.”

  “What do you think the Club should do?”

  “Well, a merger with the Somerset would be a convenient fiction. It might serve for a while, but in the long run I don’t think it would satisfy those who want to see these old relics dismantled. As an old relic myself, I know that compromise is not my fate. I’ll have another, as well, Matthew. I know I shouldn’t but I’m not in the mood to be good this afternoon.” She smiled at the younger woman in the waning afternoon light, the structure of her face breath-catchingly beautiful beneath the old skin.

  “Then what should we do?”

  “Give up. Accept your fate, which is to be mixed and mingled. That is what society—I don’t mean Society, of course, that’s dead and buried—wants. Pick some one or two or a dozen men who are not uncongenial and invite them to join. You saw some candidates today. Adam is a charmer. Walter Junior is pleasant, if a bit of a stick. Roger Dormant has a streak of romanticism which makes him rather intriguing.”

  “Katherine, I didn’t know you were so, well, perceptive about men.”

  “Oh, tush. I’ve known them all since they were children. That’s really the problem. We’re such a small group. The rest of the world wants in, you know.”

  “Not the men. Not really.”

  “Of course not. But the women. They’re tired of looking at the outside of this old place.”

  Chapter 33

  Evening light lingered. The faintest intimation of spring hung in the air. Tasha could detect it not so much in the monoxide of the street, but from the old ground itself, which she read with insistent, repetitive sniffs. This meticulous study made for slow progress on the walk towards Hamilton, but Owen’s mood was in tune with their halting progress. The high point of his day had been an unexpected encounter with Leslie Sample on the sidewalk outside the Vendome. She was emerging from the John Coster Co. office on the lower floor. He was walking home to the badger hole, thinking about a can of Progresso beef and barley soup preceded by six ounces of bourbon followed by homework as long as he could stay awake. Leslie read him like a listing: “Lighten up, for godsake.” The sound of her voice, soft, rich, unexpected, almost accomplished her demand but she had to rush off to meet a client and he continued, preoccupied as before.