The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

“Passable, thank you for asking. In point of fact, I have a criminal headache this morning. What should I take for it?”

  “Is it a headache related to the weather, caused by germs or bugs, or perhaps more of an alcoholic nature?”

  “The latter I fancy.”

  “Is Mrs. Dormant still travelling, if I may enquire?”

  “You may and she is.”

  “Then I suggest a sturdy base of vodka with V-8 Juice, Tabasco, Worcestershire Sauce, ground pepper, a squeeze of lime, and a raw oyster added. This is a mixture suitable to brighten your outlook before lunch.”

  “It sounds a little frightening.”

  “Strong measures may be required.”

  “You’re probably right. Please have a second one underway before too long.”

  “The Cape scallops look excellent today.”

  “I don’t think this is a scallops kind of day. It seems more like a corned beef hash kind of day to me.”

  Abel nodded gravely, finished his labors and vanished. Roger pondered the choices which lay ahead of him. For the first time he was not entirely certain of his welcome at the Club. He had stayed away for three weeks since he and Owen had forced the issue of Leslie Sample with the Nominating Committee. Now, he had heard, the floodgates were open. No less than five women had been nominated, whisked through the approval process, and invited as members. He wondered what effect this—there was no other way to describe it—tidal wave of females would have on the old place. Roger had expected a more gradual transition. It had taken a significant hangover to bring him back to the Club. So far all had seemed as it should be although it was only just past eleven o’clock. He felt no desire to open the Sphere or any of the other papers. To everyone’s relief the Charles Club was out of the local news now, replaced in part by the Department of Motor Vehicles head who had been arrested again for driving with a suspended license. The Library was quiet, the light filtered by curtains thoughtfully drawn by Abel. The promise of the soon to be delivered medication had begun to alleviate the uproar in his head. He hoped this fragile equilibrium would survive the morning. He heard a step behind his chair and turned to take his medicine.

  “Good morning. Do you allow women to come in here?”

  “Why, yes. That is, I suppose so.”

  “Don’t you know? Aren’t you a member? You look like what I imagine members of this club to look like.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I am a member. Won’t you sit down?”

  Margo planted her expensively exercised haunches in Walter Senior’s memorial and draped her Bill Blass coat over the back. “I’m grateful. It hasn’t been one of my best days so far.”

  “Would you like a drink?” He rang for Abel. “I’m sorry to be a little vague about the rules of the club. I have been a member for, well, for a long time, but things have changed around here of late.”

  “Oh, really?” said Margo with evident lack of interest. “At least no one accosted me at the front door.”

  “Yes, we have women members now. And they use the front door.”

  “Do you? Do they? How advanced. Yes, I think I heard something to that effect.”

  “You don’t sound very impressed.”

  “This is the next to last decade of the twentieth century, is it not?”

  Roger picked up a copy of the Wall Street Journal from the table and glanced at the masthead. “Why, so it is.”

  Margo laughed, ordered a kir from Abel, and looked at her companion with a little more interest. “I am Margo Hunsikker. What is that extraordinary concoction?”

  “Very pleased to meet you. I am Roger Dormant.”

  Abel said, “Called the Hair of the Jamaican Dog.”

  Roger took a gulp. “This is for a little headache. It has a raw oyster in it.”

  “My God. We never made them that way in Chicago. Have we met before? Your face looks familiar.”

  “People often say that to me. The other day I paid a visit to my lawyer and a young woman in the elevator asked me if I was somebody.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Well, of course, I told her I was not, but she didn’t believe me. She, well, she asked me for my autograph.”

  “How flattering. Did you give it to her?”

  “I signed Adam Winchester, which seemed to satisfy her.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Just an old friend. Not somebody.”

  Margo sipped her aperitif and looked about her. “What a lovely Sargent. This is a very pleasant room. I don’t think an old friend is not somebody, myself.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. He looks a little like Margaret Thatcher, as a matter of fact.”

  Margo laughed again. “Do you know, the last time I was in your club an officious little man tried to throw me out? I swore I’d never set foot here again.”

  “Yes, I think I heard something to that effect. What made you change your mind?”

  “I was invited to lunch today by a friend of mine, one of your new members. She persuaded me to come back and take one more look.”

  “With a view to becoming a member yourself?”

  “Oh, no chance of that. But I said I would come. Out of curiosity, I suppose.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “So am I. I’m enjoying it more than I expected. Have you ever worn a moustache?” Abel returned and handed her a slip of paper.

  “No. When is she meeting you?”

  “As it turns out, she’s not. She just called to say she had to go to the hospital. The baby is arriving a little early.”

  “She’s having a baby?”

  “Delivering. She’s an obstetrician.”

  “In that case, would you care to have lunch with me? Afterwards, I can show you around a bit if you like. Although most of the members don’t think so, the Sargent upstairs is even better than this one.”

  “How nice. I’d be delighted.” Roger handed her a menu and they began to discuss the Cape scallop situation. The Hair of the Jamaican Dog had worked wonders.

  Old Jane showed Margo and Roger to the Long Table, which was lively as usual with the unusual addition of three women engaged in spirited conversation with six men and each other. “Did you say you were from Chicago?” Roger asked as they sat down.

  “Yes, I’ve been in Boston less than a year. I joined a bank here, the Old Currency, as a loan officer.”

  “Oh, do you know Avery Coupon?”

  “He works for me.”

  “Well, if you enjoy Sargent, you have come to the right city. There are some wonderful canvasses at the Gardner, and at the Museum of Fine Arts, of course.” He was about to describe the murals at the Boston Public Library when the member at his right introduced herself.

  “Claudia Gammage. You must be Roger Dormant.”

  “Yes, indeed, a pleasure.”

  “I’m Peg Cartright’s niece. She told me I’d meet you. You look just like her description. Are you sure we haven’t met before? I see you’re having hash with poached eggs.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your cholesterol count? I’m working so hard on mine.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “I’ve come down from 249 to 221, but I’m determined to get under 200.”

  “Good for you.”

  “But now I’ve been hearing that the real villain is triglycerides, the neutral fats? I’m above 150 there, and that seems definitely excessive, don’t you think?”

  Roger put down his fork and waved at Abel, who magically produced another tall red glass. Dormant drank half and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Do your children like you?” he heard someone down the table ask.

  “Well, the answer is yes and no. They’re both at home again. It makes for such a trying situation. Our son has dyslexia and he’s dropped out of Bates again. He’s very, very resentful. I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “Have you had him tutored?”

  “Yes, we sent him to a special needs summer camp in Colora
do a year ago, but he dropped out of that, too.”

  Roger turned to Margo, who was polishing off the last of the scallops and breadcrumbs. “Delicious,” she pronounced, and smiled at him. “You haven’t touched your hash. Has the Club changed much since, since you entered the twentieth century?”

  “In little ways,” said Roger. “Let’s take our coffee with us. I want to look at my favorite painting.”

  “CIGAR?” The Eldest Member pushed the humidor to Walter Junior as he sat down in the appropriate chair. It was late in the day and they had the Library to themselves. A cocktail party was in progress in the lobby, the sound of laughter mixed with eager disclosures about winter vacations just completed.

  “Thank you.” Walter Junior picked up the nipper and nipped. He mouthed the end then clamped it between his long teeth. He opened a Charles Club match box, extracted a wooden match, struck. Fire applied, he drew it through the barrel of the last of the Havanas. It had stored well. Walter Junior sighed and settled back. The Library, already dim, slowly filled with blue smoke.

  “Cayman Islands,” shouted someone in the next room.

  “Vail,” came the sturdy reply.

  “Do you feel the Club has changed much?” asked Walter Junior.

  “IN LITTLE WAYS,” said the Eldest Member.

  “Some of the new members have asked that we not smoke in the Dining Room. Not the end of the world, I suppose. We can always come in here. Yes, I agree. Little ways. Nothing to be concerned about.” He smiled at the older man but discovered he was resting his eyes. Walter Junior reached over and touched his hand. A pulse, all is well. He tried to extract the smoldering cigar from his fingers gently at first then with increasing force. Amazing how he doesn’t want to let go of it, thought Walter Junior. Just like Papa.

  Chapter 38

  Spring, which had been fickle to Boston, spread her arms. From his taxi Leonard Lapstrake marvelled at the lushness, the greenness, the warmness. Spring was the coldest season of the year in San Francisco and in a microclimate dominated by clammy Pacific fog he had packed a protective wardrobe. Damn, he thought as he wound the window down to admit zephyrs flavored by cherry blossoms, dogwood and a myriad of tulips, I never seem to get it right here. Sitting comfortably sideways in the cab, his feet on the seat, his arms braced fore and aft to accommodate the tactical maneuvers of the swarthy lascar, can it be the same driver he wondered, he admired Boston for the first time. It’s really lovely. Could I have missed something?

  The flight had been wretched. He had been forced to book the redeye, which meant a late departure and an early arrival in Boston with whatever sleep possible en route interrupted in Dallas. The takeoff from SFO was delayed by “equipment” which entailed a sprint along the crowded venue of DFW to make the connection by a whisker. His stewardess friend had not been forthcoming with little gold stickers, so he had flown in the back of the airplane on both legs of the trip, crying babies and large men who wore their hats throughout the flight surrounding him. To lessen his discomfort he had ordered two martinis. Two on each flight, he recalled without remorse. At Logan next morning he floated down the jet-way still airborne, into a cab with Iranian markings, a two-suiter—perhaps his own—firmly in his grasp. On this day late in April he saw a different Boston as they rocketed down Commonwealth, shaving the lights on yellow, sometimes on the cusp of red.

  Fifteen more syndication customers under his belt, he now firmly controlled his destiny. Only the Great Caen, also known as Genghis to some of his peers, commanded more readers in San Francisco columndom than Leonard Lapstrake. Much as he loved the smorgasbord served to him daily by the City by the Bay, however, he wanted to vary his fare occasionally. Why not see other cities, write about other people? When he signed with his twenty-fifth paper—most of them west of the Rockies, he drew up a list of the cities he wanted to do: Paris, London, Moscow, Rome. Santa Fe, Jerusalem, Oslo, Venice. Inexplicably, Boston rose to the top of the list. The Hub had left a sort of gunpowder taste in his mouth. Something told Lapstrake he had only part of the story. In an attempt to recreate his first visit he had called the Charles Club and, speaking to Miss Ontos, arranged for a room within walking distance of a bath. The Iguana remembered him and she said they would be only too pleased to have him back. When the cab pulled up at the corner of Hereford he recognized the soberly graceful Georgian front. He gave the driver a twenty, got two dollars back and called it quits. The cab bounced away, the driver smiling, the passenger once again marveling at an airport only fifteen minutes from downtown. As if we built a flight deck on Alcatraz, he thought, liked it and decided to use it. The sun was up above the skyline, its rays diffused by the half-furled leaves of Commonwealth’s linear wood. As he mounted the steps and reached for the doorknob he was almost knocked back to the curbstone by a bustling figure. “Sorry,” Lapstrake gasped, although clearly not in the wrong.

  “Quite all right. My fault, I’m sure. I was just leaving. But you can see that, can’t you? Club’s as empty as an old shoe. An empty shoe, that is,” he added lamely. “By the way, aren’t you …?”

  “Leonard Lapstrake.”

  “Yes. I knew it. We met the last time you were here from …”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Quite right! But, here, I’m keeping you on the doormat holding your bag. Come in. Come in. Let me buy you a drink. I had about given up. No one to talk to. No one at all. Allow me.” The Architectural Critic held the door and the traveller entered and looked about. Abel’s impassive face greeted him from across the registration desk. The little brass lamp was lit, no animal of any description to be seen. Lapstrake rested his luggage and signed the book. Over the line marked “Sponsoring Member” he thoughtfully wrote “Seymour Gland.”

  The elevator was working. Lapstrake floated up to his room, washed, changed his shirt. In spite of only a few hours dozing fitfully in the shade of a Stetson he felt surprisingly good. He skipped down the well-remembered stairs and met his host at the foot ordering the first drink of his day from Abel. Nothing loath, Lapstrake asked for a vodka and orange juice and they strolled into the Parlor, which was sunny.

  “I’m pleased to see you again. Are you here on another assignment?”

  “Yes, my own this time. I’m going to visit two cities each year and write about them for the Clarion. That’s the hometown sheet. And some other papers, as well.”

  “So you’ve come back to Boston. I thought you did us.”

  “So did I. Now, I’m not sure.”

  “Do you think you missed something?”

  “Perhaps. And saw some things that may not have been there.”

  “All else aside, dear chap, I feel you were quite mistaken about the seafood. Have you tried the bluefish, by the way?”

  “No.”

  “The halibut, the haddock, the flounder?”

  “I had lobster.”

  “There, you see. Tourists eat lobster. Natives eat bluefish or scrod.”

  “What is scrod?”

  “Well might you ask.”

  “Well, I am asking. I don’t think we have that in San Francisco.”

  “Of course you don’t. Scrod is one of the mysteries of Boston.” Lapstrake looked at him, pencil mentally poised. “There is no species of fish called scrod.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Yet you will find it on all the better menus. As I say, we locals prefer it to the more exotic dishes. In fact, scrod is a market name. It refers to any small, white fish of the cod family which comes from northern Atlantic waters. If you will take lunch with me, we will have it broiled with lemon and butter.”

  “All right, I will. There seem to be a number of Boston mysteries. The way people drive here, for instance.”

  “Do you find that mysterious? So do I. When I first went to Paris, I was fortunate enough to meet a young Frenchman whose English was better than my French. We had like tastes and I had a little money. Bertrand undertook to show me what he called ‘les mysteries de Paris.’ Bo
ston has its own secrets. Visitors don’t discover them on the sightseeing buses or the Freedom Trail.”

  “Tell me another one.”

  “You are sitting in one right now.”

  “The Charles Club?”

  “Yes. This is a vestige. Perhaps in its terminal phase.” There was a pause in which Lapstrake had a fleeting mental impression of a great flywheel gathering speed. “Boston has had its clubs since it was a colonial capital,” the Architectural Critic continued. “The Revolution came and went, as did westward expansion, the Industrial Revolution, the Civil War, Bubbles, Panics, world wars, Roosevelt, the sexual revolution, feminism, all those great forces and events of the past two hundred and fifty years. Still, in spite of all, a few of the clubs survive.”

  “But in somewhat altered form, surely?” Lapstrake was making surreptitious notes on his vestpocket pad: war, Roosevelt, sex, he wrote.

  “No. No significant evolution. The men’s clubs have been like some of the smaller creatures, the Common Loon, the armadillo, survivors from a much earlier age. Essentially harmless. Usually unregarded, left alone. Tyrannosaurus and sabretooth were too dangerous to escape their fate.”

  “Yes, I used that metaphor,” said Lapstrake as the great wheel sped ever faster.

  “They, we, have done little harm to society in all this time, and little good. That, in fact, has been both our strength and our weakness. Now, I fear, we have entered an era, even in crusty old Boston, in which good, or the appearance of good, is expected from all social institutions. That is why we will soon disappear.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Oh, yes, we are not organized to do good, in fact to do anything of consequence. You might as well ask a bocce game in the North End to raise money for AIDS education.”

  “Well, shouldn’t they?” asked Lapstrake, mindful that AIDS was discussed on milk cartons and cereal boxes back home.

  “Exactly, exactly. They probably should, but they can’t and continue to be the bocce club the members were born into. We don’t even play a game. We’re not a golf club, or a tennis club, or a bridge club, or a curling club. Aside from the occasional game of billiards on that table on the third floor, which is sadly out of true I fear, the table that is, but the floor as well now that I think about it, we have no club games. We exist as a club only to eat, to drink, to talk, to smoke, to read, to ruminate, to go away, to come back …”