Lapstrake began to feel a strong urge to go away. As the Architectural Critic rolled on, his audience slipped notepad and gold pencil unobtrusively into his pocket and finished his drink. The headache which he had come to associate with Boston began to reassert itself. From somewhere in the region of the back of his shirt collar it lanced upward into the soft fatty undertissue of his brain. Recognizing this as an exploratory probe Lapstrake attempted an interruption.
“… to enjoy a fellowship, a clubship call it, which is not demanding of anything but a consistent absence of demands …”
“I think I’m going to excuse myself.”
“What about lunch? What about scrod?”
“Thank you. I’ll pass on the scrod. I think I need a nap. I’ve been up all night on an airplane.”
“Perhaps another time. I’m here most mornings.”
“Perhaps. It’s been very interesting.” Lapstrake walked carefully to the bar, pondering les mysteries de Boston. “Could I have another one of these?” While Abel poured the orange juice Lapstrake said, “I think he was telling me that something has happened to the Club.” It came out as not quite a question.
“Well, we now have a few lovely ladies as members.”
“Really? And has that changed things much?”
“In little ways,” said Abel.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing of consequence. The elevator is now in a current state. We installed a new device to regulate the heating system. Small changes which should have been made before.”
“What about the men?”
“The old crowd is still here. Most of them. Most times.” Lapstrake took a thoughtful drink. It seemed to help. “Will you sojourn long with us?” asked Abel.
“Just until tonight. Then I’m moving to the Ritz.”
Chapter 39
The sartorial lustre of his new brown suit was a little diminished in Owen’s eyes, but he wore it for lack of a better alternative. Before he left he stopped at the door to survey the badger hole. A stack of empty wine and grocery boxes from the morning pile outside DeLuca’s sat in the corner. Earlier that evening he had begun to pack books, a melancholy exercise which brought depression back with a rush. What’s to keep me here, he asked himself. What are the alternatives? To return to Santa Fe had not been much of an alternative until now. That it suddenly seemed his only real choice surprised him. The books might fill about six of the cardboard Chardonnay cases. Why am I still hauling around old MIT engineering texts? He lifted a tome from the pile on the birchlog table, Digital Computer and Control Engineering by R.S. Ledley. Its burgundy binding, its unmarked pages, the price of eighteen dollars and fifty cents on the inside cover in pencil evoked not the slightest flicker of memory. Might be worth a few dollars if it’s not completely out of date which I’m sure it was fifteen minutes after I graduated. He dropped the book back on the pile. Tasha opened one eye, regarded him with an evident lack of enthusiasm since she knew she was not invited, and resumed her meditations, muzzle on outstretched paws. Owen glanced at the kitchen clock, opened the door to a cool spring evening and bounded up the mossy stone steps.
Since he did not want to keep Leslie waiting, he propelled his lanky frame, now mysteriously devoid of winter fat, at a lope across eastbound Commonwealth, cars honking at him, under the dark trees, then across the westbound side. In spite of his cheerless mood he smiled. This was to be the long-contemplated first visit by the new member. After discussion they had agreed it should be in the evening, usually quieter in the Club than at the middle of the day. Dinner, said Leslie, if you will show me how to do it. Do what, he had asked. You know, she said, like order and pay and where we sit. All those things. My treat, she insisted. If I can buy drinks, he responded. I’m unemployed, but I’m not broke—which was not the literal truth after he had purchased the Amtrack ticket to Santa Fe. He ran up the Charles Club steps and swung open the big front door to discover Leslie standing in the vestibule staring in dismay at the closet chamber, its door indiscreetly ajar.
“Is that …?” she said, peering in to decipher the legend on the little tent card.
“Hello. Yes.”
“But it looks like marble.”
“It is.”
“Is it for …?”
“Any and all members. Feel free …”
She gave a shudder and took his arm as they entered the lobby. “I just know this is not going to work.”
“Why not? It worked for me. Good evening, Abel. The usual,” said Owen in his best imitation of a Boston clubman’s voice.
“Then why are you leaving? Are you still leaving? Perrier and lime, I mean Evian,” she said to Abel.
“Good evening, Miss Sample, Mr. Lawrence. What a pleasure to see the two of you. We’re quiet tonight.” He handed them drinks.
“We’re having dinner, Abel,” said Owen, signing the slip which he knew despite Miss Ontos’ best efforts would not be reflected in a bill for at least a month then mailed to New Mexico, perhaps to be paid when he found a job. He would miss the Club float. He would miss the Club. “Follow me,” he said to Leslie, cheerfulness draining away. “Yes, I am going back,” he told her as they headed for the Library. Maybe they’ll take me back at the library, he thought with a flash of the stacks and the oaken bookcart with its squeaky casters. Leslie clutched his arm.
“Not in there,” she whispered as she took in the regulars framed in the dark windows.
“Oh, yes. You can’t hang back. You’re a member now. You’ve met them all, anyway.”
“No, I haven’t. I’m sure I haven’t. And there aren’t any other women. I can’t.”
“Stop thinking of yourself as a woman. Think of yourself as a member.”
She was going to say I can’t again, but Owen pushed firmly in the small of her small back and her heels clicked on the wood floor. Conversation ceased as four heads swivelled to the doorway. After a pause several voices spoke at once but Gland’s was quickest off the mark.
“Well, Owen, I thought you were leaving us.” He seemed not to notice Leslie.
“Miss Sample, welcome,” said Walter Junior.
“I must be off,” said the Distinguished Poet.
“I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT SO,” remarked the Eldest Member, whose voice as usual filled the room. Owen propelled Leslie into one of the leather and wood chairs at the end of the semicircle, took the one vacated by the departing Poet for himself. Leslie, who was wearing a navy silk dress, pearls, and navy hose, almost disappeared when she sat down. As much of her as could be seen was spectacularly female against the dark leather. The Eldest beamed at the Youngest. “Well, I never thought to see the likes of you sitting here,” he said, contemplating her superb blue knees.
“Neither did I,” she whispered from behind her glass of water.
“Rather lights up the room, don’t you agree?” He addressed the group at large, all of whom were staring at Leslie.
“Could I have some more, uh, Evian?”
“Just ring that bell,” said Owen, “and Abel will appear.” She did and he did. After ordering, she turned again to Owen and whispered something. “You don’t pay,” he answered. “It’s one of the nice things about a club.” The others listened with interest. ‘You just sign a slip.” She whispered again. “There’s no tipping. At Christmas we all give something to the Box.” She looked a question at him.
“The Christmas Box,” explained Walter Junior. “It is divided among the staff as a year-end expression of our, uh, gratitude for their service.”
“If that’s what you choose to call it,” said Gland, gesturing with his empty glass. “I really think the time has come to say something to Abel, Old Jane, in fact the entire …”
“I am,” said Owen.
“Going to say something to the …?”
“Leaving you.”
“So I’ve been told. And when can we anticipate your departure?” The walking stick was nowhere in evidence.
“Not to be permanent, I
trust,” said Walter Junior.
“Sometime next week.”
“And where are you going?”
“Back to New Mexico. To spend some time with my father. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” He looked at Leslie.
“Perhaps he’ll stay there,” said Gland. “I believe it’s called the Land of Enchantment.”
“Let’s go in to dinner,” said Leslie with a bright smile. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.” She gritted her little teeth at them in her best imitation of a Boston clubman’s manner, took Owen’s drink as well as her own and marched out of the Library, heels clicking on the parquet, Gland smirking in her wake.
They lingered over coq au vin until the Dining Room emptied. Then Owen took her hand and led her into the kitchen. Feeling proprietary, he presented her to Anton. He bowed over her hand and stopped just short of clicking his heels. The aftermath of dinner surrounded them, but his apron and white shirt were resplendent. “Charmed,” he said, eyes snapping.
“So am I,” she whispered to Owen as they returned to the Dining Room followed by a curious Boston Cat. Owen showed her the paintings, the silver mugs and trophies, the guest book whose entries went back a century. They went down to the basement and into the wine cellar. Owen described the finale of the Single-sex Club Dinner as best he could reconstruct it. They emerged laughing and climbed the main stairs to explore the upper floors. Leslie revisited the Small Reception Room and stared at the lesser Sargent as if searching for the face of a friend. She ran her fingers over the green felt of the billiard table but declined a lesson. Owen summoned the birdcage, explained its idiosyncrasies and to Leslie’s delight they descended in state through the brass tangle of leaves and vines. It was late and Abel had retired. Most of the lights were extinguished save the brass banker’s lamp burning on the desk. From its pool of radiance the Boston Cat contemplated their approach with an arrogance which melted as Leslie touched his ruff. “What is this?”
“The register guests sign when they stay the night.”
The Boston Cat rolled on the open pages, extending his legs in the air, exposing a fuselage distended by years of Anton’s cuisine. Leslie dug her nails into this ripeness and was rewarded by a display of toes and claws. “Have you ever stayed over?”
“No. I live right across the street, remember?”
Silence, broken only by a harsh rasping from the cat’s interior, reigned.
“There are some, uh, guest rooms on the top floor,” he added. After a pause: “Would you like to see them? We’ve seen everything else.”
“Let’s walk up,” she said. “The elevator is so slow.”
Owen turned on the light by the stairway, glancing curiously at the buzzing switch. An electrical short, thought the engineer as he followed her, followed in turn by the Boston Cat. When the light went out their excited laughter echoed in the old house as they groped their way from floor to floor.
Gland collected his topcoat from the hallstand. He had dined hastily and too well alone in the corner of the Dining Room, glancing often at the couple by the fireplace who seemed to think they had the room to themselves. He is quite absurd in his Robert Hall suit, thought Gland. Who does he think he is bringing that, that … none of the words which popped into his mind seemed exactly to fit. Seymour remembered the renegade Dormant was the one who had actually brought her into the club. He dismissed the train of thought, pulled on his black gloves—incongruously perforated at the knuckles motor-racing style—and retrieved his stick from behind the coatrack where he had hidden it to forestall theft. He had become more cautious, more street-wise, a phrase he had lately added to his vocabulary, since the ugly incident at the Ritz. No one had spoken to him about that evening, but he was sure it was common gossip at the Club. Gossip, he knew, was the second most popular activity of the Charles Club. But he had hardened himself, having seen the lengths to which an erstwhile friend would go to cause pain and public humiliation. When would he learn the lesson? Seymour let himself out the door and, checking to be sure it was locked behind him, walked thoughtfully down the steps. When would he finally learn to be less open, less trusting, less vulnerable to the attacks of supposed friends and the ruthless schemes of business associates?
Seymour decided, since it was neither cold nor raining, to walk down the Mall and catch a cab in front of the Ritz. A few blocks would do him good although he was in excellent shape. He stepped out briskly, breathing in the night air, tripping along with a flourish of his stick. Demi had complimented him on his prowess on the dance floor. She had looked quite smashing at the party. He could still remember the expression on Owen’s face when he saw her in the lobby. There were real possibilities there, not for something foolish like marriage; but the advantages which could accrue from a well-managed relationship might well help to solve the problems with which he was struggling. What matter if she were a little taller? Gland knew his own stature in the city. He no longer needed the lifts he wore in his shoes in college. A man’s true height had to do with other things: money and power and women and clubs and cars and boats and houses and offices and favors owed and coerced from others. He knew what he could do to people. He was actually, now that he thought about it, as invulnerable as anyone in his acquaintance except, perhaps, the governor, who, it was rumored, might seek the presidential nomination. Gland had no need for public office. Private office was more to his liking. By the time he had walked from Sarmiento to Morison to Garrison his mood had lightened. His false friend was gone, exiled. Demi had promised to come to a reception at the Four Seasons next week where she and Gland would certainly be noticed. He had London to look forward to. Perhaps Demi would accompany him. He glanced at the lighted windows on either side, some bare student rooms, some elegantly decorated. His thoughts drifted to real estate, always a stimulating subject, and he smiled.
Chapter 40
Abbie looked terrific. He almost walked past her, not recognizing the short haircut, the unexpectedly stylish suit, the billowing raincoat. What the hell, Owen asked himself. It was as if she had disguised herself as a knockout. She was paying off a Weston taxicab on the corner of Newbury and Dartmouth attracting a certain amount of attention. Owen wondered why the sight made him angry. Then she caught his eye and frowned back at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I more or less live here.” She stared at him, apparently expecting a fuller explanation, which he supplied in spite of himself. “Going to the liquor store, to the drug store, buy a copy of the Sphere, go home and walk my dog.”
Abbie was peering into her leather bag fiercely rearranging its contents. “So, how is she?”
“Bored. Doesn’t get enough exercise. She’s at me all the time.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Her purse closed like a trap. “Quite beautiful, I imagine.”
“Yes, she always looks good. Her coat is amazing.”
“I really don’t want to talk about her, or her damn coat.”
Owen looked at her, puzzled. “Nice to see you again, Abbie. You’re looking great. I’ve got to be going.”
“Yes, well, I’m meeting someone myself and I’m late. We’re going to see something at the Colonial this evening, I can’t remember what it’s called, Penn and something, I think. It’s so hard to get into the city. Thank God he’s driving me home.”
“Well, have a nice evening.”
“Oh, it’s no one you know. He doesn’t get his name in the newspapers. Like the ones you date,” she added.
“How do you know who I date?”
“You’d be surprised how much I know about you. Hear about you.” They looked at each other for a moment. “Father asked about you.” He was afraid she was going to cry.
“Give him my regards.”
“Do it yourself.” She started to walk away. To Owen’s discomfort, she was walking in the direction he was going. He could turn and run or he could go on living his own life. Clenching his teeth, he walked beside her toward the liquor store, looking for an opportu
nity in the traffic to bolt across the street.
“Where are you heading?”
“I’m meeting him at the Copley Plaza. Is that far? I got out of the cab too soon.”
“It’s right over there. Why did you get out of the cab?”
“I thought I saw someone I knew. You should call him, you know.” To his consternation Owen saw her eyes were brimming.
“Call who?”
“Daddy, you idiot.”
“Good-bye, Abbie, you really look nice,” he said as she ran unsteadily away from him on her high heels. She usually wears short heels in the city, he thought. Why should I call old man Sells?
By the time he had completed his errands, dumped his few purchases on the birchlog table and picked up Tasha’s leash, the thought occurred to him: why should I not?
The next day Owen was to meet Roger Dormant at the club for lunch. Having no job to fill the morning and unable to confront the half-filled cartons any longer, he decided to cross the street a little early. Before he left the apartment, however, he picked up the phone and punched the number of Portman and Sells into the keypad. Staring at the clock over the kitchen sink, he suddenly found himself connected to John Sells. The gruff voice was so familiar it took him a moment to bridge the chasm. Sells was talking to him in a worried tone, as always, chopping his words like carrots into a stew.
Owen remembered how he had met him almost fifteen years ago, two months before Owen was to receive his degree. He had been summoned to the office of Doc Martin, Chairman of the Electrical Engineering Department. Owen had been surprised by the invitation and unsure of the reason. He knew he was not in trouble. On the contrary, he was fairly certain he was doing well. How well he hadn’t guessed until Doc introduced him to Sells, who was sitting in the shabby window seat drinking tea. Sells, although not as tall as Owen, looked bigger than he was. His large head seemed shaped by a rough file. Wisps of red hair were pasted to his pate. Owen was the young man, said Martin, he had been telling him about. John Sells had asked to meet some of the more interesting of the new crop. The two of them should get acquainted. Martin had a lab seminar down the street. Stay in the office as long as you like, Doc said, and ambled out the door. Before Owen realized he was being interviewed he had been offered a job. Small wonder, he thought, staring at the hands of the kitchen clock, the big hand at nine and the little hand at twelve, that he was no good at job hunting. He had never tried it. “Sorry, what did you say?”
The Last Bastion Page 25