The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

  “Concerned. Didn’t have a chance to talk. Wondered what you were doing. How it was going.” A pause. “Hello?”

  “Yes, John. Well, I’ve been doing some business analysis lately.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ah, business analysis, looking at investment opportunities in second and third stage companies, some startups.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “I’m not anymore. I decided it wasn’t for me.”

  “What’s for you?”

  “I’m in the process of deciding that.”

  “How long does it take you? Hello? Want to do engineering?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come in and see me.”

  “Well, I’d be happy to talk to you if …”

  “When?”

  “I’ll give you a call next week, John.”

  “Good. Don’t worry about the, about the other thing. Between you and her. Hello?”

  “I’ll call you, John. And thanks.” As he walked over to the club, Owen thought it might be extremely pleasant to get his hands on a set of engineering drawings again.

  He found Roger and Walter Junior leaning over the library table. The president of the Charles Club seemed unusually burdened. He acknowledged Owen’s greeting, and the two turned again to some sheets covering the periodicals on the table. “What, for instance, is that?” asked Roger pointing.

  “I really don’t know. I think it is the bar.”

  “Well, it seems to be marked ‘cellar egress.’”

  “Then, obviously it is the basement stairway,” said Walter Junior, with unaccustomed asperity. “I am quite at sea with all this. Owen, please take a look.” Owen leaned in. “Are you mechanical, structural, or civil?”

  “I’m electrical.”

  “Pretty much all the same thing, I’m sure.”

  “No, actually worlds apart,” said Owen studying the ancient set of blueprints. “This is the Club,” he said after a moment. The sheets were limp and mildewed.

  “Yes, Miss Ontos found these in the back of the storage closet off the Billiard Room.” Walter Junior cleared the extensive passages of his throat. “I believe, Owen, you are the only person with engineering training of any sort among our entire membership.”

  “They’re beautifully drawn.” Owen leaned closer to trace the faded outlines with his fingers, trying to read the identifications and specifications.

  “Walter is appointing some new committees,” said Roger.

  “One is an Architectural Committee.”

  “Perhaps Owen would consider …”

  “I’d be happy to be on it,” said Owen, admiring a rendering of the portico in the corner of the topmost print.

  The two older men looked at each other. “We need a chairman, as well,” said Walter Junior, “but we are also forming a Long-Range Planning Committee. Perhaps that would be more to your liking?”

  “I’ll take the Architectural. And I’ll be the chairman, if you like.” Santa Fe popped into his mind. “Perhaps on a temporary basis. I’m not sure about my own long-range plans at the moment.”

  “Most of our appointments are on a temporary basis,” said the president.

  “What’s the purpose of all this?” asked Owen, as he floated one sheet in the air and deftly extracted the print beneath it.

  “The Long-Range Planning is to examine the future, uh, evolution of the Club now that we have, taken the, uh, step.”

  “Now that the women are in,” said Roger. “Someone’s already proposed that we stop smoking in the Large Dining Room. I mean, we have to go slowly here.”

  Owen smiled at his friend. “Roger, you’ve been one of the firebrands.”

  “That’s a little strong. I have been, still am, in favor of change. But it has to be gradual. We need to look carefully at things, discuss them.”

  “Sounds like Roger should be head of Long-Range Planning.”

  “He has declined, I’m afraid.”

  “What do you want the Architectural to look at?” asked Owen. The minute the words were out of his mouth he knew the answer.

  “Bathrooms,” replied Walter Junior, gloomily. “One Ladies’ Room won’t suffice now. Perhaps we should combine the two committees. Would you take them both?”

  “Good idea,” said Roger. “Call it Bathroom Planning.”

  Owen and Roger sought a private corner, avoiding the Long Table which was half full. Women were present. Both men could not refrain from counting them. “Six,” said Roger in a low voice. Conversation in the room was subdued, reflecting the weather which was cold, and damp, and dark. Spring was on hold. As they set their drinks down and seated themselves, however, Owen felt his spirits lift. He looked across the threadbare but brightly starched cloth at Roger. “Good to see you, pardner. You look a little down.”

  “It’s good to see you, Owen. Cheers.”

  “How’s your family?”

  “Ann is still in California or Nevada or someplace. Celia is back in Dover.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Actually not. Things are rather strained. I didn’t realize the club business would cause such an uproar.”

  “Why is she upset? I’d think most women would see it as, well, as a victory of sorts.”

  Old Jane hovered over them. They looked hastily at menus, elegant as always in Miss Ontos’ crisp typography. Roger wrote out their order slip and handed it to Old Jane. “Celia often sees things in a different light. She is, as my daughter would say, pissed.”

  “About what?”

  “My leadership role, as she puts it. By that she means Leslie Sample. By the way, I haven’t seen her at the Club since you brought her by the other evening.”

  “She’s a little shy. She’s coming to New Members’ Night, though.”

  “So is Margo Hunsikker.” Roger brightened a little. “She just joined, you know. I’ll be blamed for that as well, no doubt. But at least we’re finding some interesting people. You and I, Owen, we’ve changed this old place.” They started on the fish chowder. “What did you mean about your own plans a few minutes ago in the Library?”

  “I’m thinking of going home to Santa Fe. To look around. I’m not working for Seymour anymore.”

  “So I heard.”

  “There seems to be a lot going on in Boston, but I think maybe I need a change of scene.”

  Old Jane, looking out of sorts herself, set eggs benedict in front of Roger and sole in front of Owen. They glanced at her in surprise, at each other, then began eating. “What do you want to do, Owen?”

  “Get back to engineering. That’s what I’m good at. Good for. I want to get back in harness.”

  “Why don’t you set up your own firm?”

  Owen looked at him in surprise, a morsel of fish poised in midair. “I’d like to do that, but I haven’t the resources.”

  “What resources are you lacking?”

  “Financial resources.”

  “Could you make it work?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. Yes. Damn right. I have the energy and probably the brains. But not the rent money. It would take a while to get some clients, to get myself established.”

  “I might know some people who might invest in an engineering enterprise.”

  “Are you one of them?” asked Owen, a smile breaking across his face.

  “Yes, and the rest are related to me in one way or another. I more or less manage a family investment trust.”

  “Roger, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Give it some thought before you decide to go back out there, wherever it is.”

  “I certainly will. And thanks. No matter what happens, thanks.”

  “New Members’ Night should be fun,” Roger said finishing his drink. “Margo and Leslie and Peg Cartright and the Pilgrims and the brethren all mixed up together. I wish Celia could be there to see it, but she won’t.”

  “Why not?”

&nbs
p; “Because spouses are not invited,” said Roger smiling.

  Chapter 41

  The Charles Club was incandescent, light spilling from every window. A passerby on a dog walk or returning late from work took refreshment from the beauty of the house illuminated. Through the lacquer portal, its great brass hand gleaming like a jewel as the door opened, passed a stream of black-clad men and dazzling women. Dazzling mostly by comparison, amended Owen, as he watched the scene from the sidewalk. A few indeed dazzled. Margo swept up the steps from her cab in a long red coat which caught every ray and every eye. Most of the women, however, wore what Talbot’s told them to wear to a party. But they were brighter to Owen’s eye, more animated than the men, who showed only a spark of white collar or a patent leather reflection to relieve the black. What was the symbolism of the doorknocker, Owen wondered not for the first time. He remembered his surprise when one of his schoolmates identified the weathervane above the library cupola at Holderness as the Holy Ghost. Owen had seen it as an iron feather. Did the finger of the doorknocker warn sinners of their ultimate destination? It seemed unlikely. Many passed through the front door of the Charles beyond doubt, but they were minor sinners in Owen’s judgment. An exception or two certainly came to mind, but he thought them unlikely to be intimidated by a doorknocker. Perhaps it said something about New England housekeeping. Wipe your feet, Owen’s mother had always called to him when the screen door banged. By then, of course, it was too late. It was a routinely affectionate greeting, mother to boy, who always glanced down at his dusty boots as he headed for the kitchen. He knew a little grit would pass unnoticed in the house beside the river. But now, reflexively, he rubbed his shoes on every doormat over which he passed. Blessed with a good mother, he reflected. A good father as well, I guess. Stand up straight, he always said. I think I’ll call him, thought Owen. He thought of the boxes of books stacked in the apartment. Hell, I’m not going back. Why should I go back? Everything I want is here. But I should talk to him. Is he lonely? I should ask him to come to Boston. He always seemed so self-sufficient. So was I until recently, Owen thought. Leslie popped out of a taxi. There she is! “You’re dazzling,” he said with a wide grin.

  He took her elbow as they mounted the steps, but she shook it loose and threaded her hand through his arm. “That should be my line,” she said, looking at his tux appreciatively. She was wearing an emerald dress under a stiff white evening coat. He had never seen her so spectacular. “You really are,” he said close to her ear as they entered the confusion of the foyer.

  “A little Fiandaca something,” she said happily.

  “What’s a Fiandaca?” he asked.

  She laughed, a good beginning for New Members’ Night. “Owen, you do look wonderful. I’ve never seen you in anything but a brown suit or a gray suit.”

  “This is my black suit.”

  “You should wear it more often. Thanks for waiting for me,” she whispered as he helped her out of her coat and struggled with the crowded coatrack. Making their way toward the bar, they found Margo with Roger Dormant. “Hello, Mr. Dormant,” said Leslie laying her hand on the sleeve of his tuxedo.

  Roger found himself unable to make introductions. He looked beseechingly at Owen. “Leslie Sample, Margo, is it Hunsikker?”

  “Yes, with two k’s. Nice to see you again, Owen. I’m delighted to meet you, Leslie. You don’t look anything at all like a Charles Club member.”

  “Oh, thank you. Neither do you. I love your dress. These are my two sponsors. Aren’t they gorgeous?” No one had ever called Roger gorgeous. He vibrated quietly. “They’re the reason I’m here. I really never thought I’d become one. I’m still surprised. Aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes I am. I was recruited. Like an athlete. They didn’t quite offer me a contract, but,” she looked at Roger who seemed incapable of speech, “pressure was brought to bear.” She took Roger’s other arm. “He’s one of my sponsors, too,” she said as she led them through the press to the bar. “I don’t usually respond to pressure, but this time I did.”

  Abel was dispensing Champagne with the assistance of one of the women from the Dining Room. “Good evening, Ms. Hunsikker, Miss Sample,” he said, not missing a glass, “Mr. Dormant, Mr. Lawrence. I expect you ladies will have Champagne.” He suited action to words, then grounded the wine bottle to quickly assemble Roger a dark scotch and Owen a similar bourbon.

  They moved away from the bar and stood together, sipping. A dozen women and some forty or fifty men were doing the same. A knot of Pilgrims clustered in a corner. The noise level was moderate, even a little subdued.

  “Cozumel,” said a quiet voice behind Owen.

  “Sun Valley,” someone responded thoughtfully. No one disturbed the mushrooms wrapped in bacon cooling on the sideboard.

  Margo’s eye swept the room, then fastened on her companions as if unwilling to let them slip into the general lethargy. “Tonight feels like spring,” said Margo. The little group looked at her in silence. “One of my favorite seasons,” she added resolutely.

  Roger managed to regain the power of speech. “Mine too.”

  “Then let’s kick back,” said Leslie.

  Abel moved into the Dining Room to forestall placecard swapping. The tables were to be as eclectic as possible, and he was determined not to allow the groups which had already formed to continue through dinner. It did not look to him as though this party had happened as yet. He glanced at his remedy being uncorked at a serving table by one of the temporaries. Anticipating problems with the first New Members’ Night of the New Era, Abel had spent the morning in the cellar. He had emerged with six cases which he knew to have been overlooked and undervalued. A ferocious Napa Cabernet Sauvignon had lain in the corner since its acquisition ten years earlier. Abel had been the only one to try a bottle. The first glass opened his eyes. The second closed them in gleeful appreciation. Titanic was the word which came to mind. As the diners straggled in, he was ready. He began filling glasses as soon as a table was seated. He knew that if conversation lagged people reached for whatever lay in front of them. Nothing happened for almost five minutes. Then the room began to buzz.

  Margo found herself seated next to the Eldest Member. They ignored the mulligatawny set in front of them as they sized each other up. “WOULD YOU GET ON MY GOOD SIDE?” he asked.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “NO, I MEAN MY GOOD EAR. THANK GOD I’VE GOT ONE LEFT.” He rose, pulled her chair out with a courtly gesture and seated her as they traded places. “SO YOU’RE A MEMBER. IT’S AMAZING.”

  “What’s amazing, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “OF COURSE, I DON’T MIND. I’M DELIGHTED TO TELL YOU. YOU ARE AMAZING TO ME,” he said, the rising noise of the room overriding whatever acuity might be left in his good ear. “THIS PLACE HASN’T CHANGED SINCE I WAS THROWN OUT OF HARVARD. NOW IT’S BEEN TURNED DOWNSIDE UP. OVERNIGHT.”

  “And you find that troubling?”

  “NO. I’M DELIGHTED. DELIGHTED. TO BE SITTING HERE NEXT TO A BRIGHT, BEAUTIFUL, YOUNG,” Margo glowed, “PERSON AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, ALL THESE SAME OLD BORING YEARS. IT’S WONDERFUL.” They toasted each other and took a sip of wine which caused them to lift eyebrows and glance down at their glasses. “YOU CAN’T IMAGINE HOW BORING IT IS HERE SOME EVENINGS. WE’VE BEEN SAYING THE SAME THINGS TO EACH OTHER, TELLING THE SAME STORIES OVER AND OVER FOR YEARS. NOW IT’S ALL CHANGED.”

  “I’m sure your stories aren’t boring. I’m looking forward to hearing them.”

  “NO. NO, I WANT TO HEAR YOUR STORIES. YOU’RE OUT IN THE WORLD. A WOMAN IN THE BUSINESS WORLD. WHAT IS IT?”

  “Banking.”

  “YES. WELL I MUST DISCOVER WHICH BANK. MY BANKER IS OLDER THAN I AM, IF YOU CAN IMAGINE SUCH A THING. HE REMEMBERS MY MOTHER. I THINK THEY HAVE PREVENTED HIM FROM RETIRING JUST TO DEAL WITH ME.”

  “I’ll give you my card later, but I don’t want to tell business stories. Isn’t there a rule about that at the club?”

  “OF COURSE
THERE IS. WE HAVE RULES FOR EVERYTHING. THAT’S ONE OF THE THINGS THAT MAKES IT BORING. I LOVE TO TALK ABOUT BUSINESS.” He drained his glass, which was mysteriously refilled before it touched the table.

  “Well, we will not talk about business at this party. We’ll talk about you. Are you married? Do you have a family?”

  “OF COURSE. OF COURSE I DO. DID. ONE SON LIVES IN SWITZERLAND, ONE IN JAPAN. HAVEN’T SEEN THEM FOR YEARS. MY WIFE DIED TWO YEARS AGO. SO I COME HERE FOR WHATEVER AMUSEMENT I CAN FIND. WHICH HAS BEEN PRETTY THIN UNTIL RECENTLY.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your wife. How long were you married?”

  “THIRTY-FIVE YEARS, ALTHOUGH IT SEEMED LONGER.”

  “Oh,” said Margo, sipping her Cabernet. “Well since you’ve had so much experience at it, perhaps you should get married again.” She smiled sweetly at him.

  “NEVER GAVE IT A MOMENT’S THOUGHT.” One of those vagrant hushes wafted across the room as almost everyone took breath or food at the same instant. “WILL YOU MARRY ME?”

  “What an attractive proposal. I am immensely flattered.” Margo’s cheeks were as bright as the wine. “I’m afraid, however, I must decline your gallant offer.” She leaned closer, as did every guest. “My heart, you see, belongs to another.” A collective sigh was followed by conversations resumed. The Eldest Member grinned like a boy who has had his cake and tasted it too.

  Leslie emerged from the bathroom on the second floor which, in the current concern over allocation of facilities, bore a card affixed to the door by an upholstery tack. The card said LADIE’S ONLY, the calligraphy and the punctuation Nilson’s. As she pulled the beaded chain which extinguished the ceiling fixture, she caught sight of a figure framed in the light at the end of the hallway. She tasted the humiliation of the Candidates Reception in the back of her throat as she recognized Seymour Gland’s silhouette. For a moment she thought of slipping back inside and locking the door but only for a moment. Squaring her almost bare shoulders and giving the green taffeta a hike at the bosom, she advanced.