The Last Bastion
Page 27
Seymour did not move, his rotundity effectively blocking the passage. She could not see his eyes but she thought he was smiling. “Good evening, Mr. Seymour.”
“Gland, Seymour Gland. Call me Seymour.”
“I did.” What a colossal turkey, she thought. So I got the name wrong.
“It is such a problem to learn all the members when one joins a club. Have you ever joined a club before?”
“Of course. Several,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me I think I should get back to my table.”
Seymour did not move. “Really? How fascinating. I belong to a few myself. What clubs, if you don’t mind my asking?” He extracted his watch by its chain, flipped, clicked, glanced, clicked, and tucked away. “It’s early. We have plenty of time before the speeches begin.”
Leslie took a deep breath and smiled sweetly. “CYO, Rainbow, Cheese of the Month, CDs Unlimited, the Woman’s Industrial and Educational Union for the cooking class, and the BCAE for Great Buns.” She studied him and them attempted to squeeze by. He stood, thumbs and forefingers in the pockets of his waistcoat, his elbows just at the level of her breasts. He did not move. “The Charles Club was someone else’s idea,” she added.
“Not a very good one, I’m afraid. I don’t see it working out for you. Not unless you become a little better acquainted with some of the, well, more influential members.” Seymour’s face was as smooth and shiny as an apple. As was his custom, he had shaved that evening with meticulous care. Although not hirsute, he often shaved twice a day and always before a dinner or a party. It made him feel ready for a social occasion. Others were seldom as well prepared as he. Usually, he thought, quite unprepared.
“I am very well acquainted with several members.”
“I suppose you are referring to Dormant and Lawrence. They are hardly the leadership of the Charles Club. Lawrence is dropping out, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, I’m not.” She stamped on his instep with a needle-like heel and gracefully eluded his spasm. Once on the stairway side of him she turned and looked at the fat figure, standing like a dancer one foot on point. “I won’t mention this to Owen. He’d dim your lights.”
“Owen is a coward. I’ve known him all my life. Owen just watches. He doesn’t participate.”
Leslie swept down the stairs, the odor of Gland’s heavy cologne in her nostrils. A blast of sound greeted her from the Dining Room. Abel had indeed found the key. The evening was happening. Leslie paused for a moment to control the trembling in her clenched hands and to locate her table. Maybe I haven’t known Owen long, she thought as she threaded her way to her chair next to Walter Junior, who was grinning at her like a horse with a digestive blockage, but I know he sure as hell can participate. Before she sat down she swept the crowded room with her glance. There he was. She felt a little twinge as Owen looked up and smiled. The knot in her chest dissolved as she smiled back. Later, she thought, I’m going to straighten you out. She sat down at her table and looked at the president of the Club, who simpered back at her. In the meantime what do I do with this one?
The speeches had been unremarkable, the effects of the Cabernet almost overriding Walter Junior’s tentative welcome to new members and virtually trampling Paul Subito’s lengthy response on behalf of the newcomers. The Eldest Member was resting his eyes at the close of these remarks, so Margo rose glass in hand to look for Roger. Leslie was about to leave her table when Owen dropped into the empty chair on her left. “Congratulations, kid.”
“Yes indeed, from all of us,” said Walter Junior. “By the way, Owen, Margo Hunsikker expressed a wish to join your Architectural and Long-Range Planning Committee. She seems to have some provocative ideas to contribute. She mentioned,” he leaned forward frowning, “bidets.”
“All of architecture is provocative,” said a voice behind them.
“Would you consider joining us?” asked Owen.
“Delighted,” cried the Architectural Critic as he grabbed another empty chair and refilled his glass, beaming at the fresh audience ranged in front of him. “Yes, architecture has throughout history provoked the very strongest emotions of any of the arts. Unlike painting, sculpture, music, poetry, the dance, it will not, cannot disappear upon command. Those who live with it are destined to live with it forever. Unless …”
Owen leaned forward and made a determined effort. “Actually, I was wondering if you would join this new committee. We’re looking at the need for some structural changes in the clubhouse and some issues of …”
“… one happens to live in Boston. Then the terms are seemingly less onerous. One has but to wait the requisite four to six years before dynamite, the wrecker’s orb, and inflated land values combine to remove the source of provocation, alas only to be replaced with something almost sure to be worse.” He paused only to lubricate the machinery, then the great wheel rolled on.
Owen grabbed Leslie’s hand and they bolted. Before they reached the lobby they bumped into Margo and Dormant. “Come on, we’re leaving,” said Owen.
“We are?” asked Margo and Leslie together.
“Yes. We’re going out on Newbury Street to celebrate the end of winter.”
“Well, I’ve hardly had a chance at the Charles Club yet,” said Margo. “I want to sit in the Library and complain.”
“Plenty of time for that,” said Owen, searching for coats. “I’m staying,” he added in Leslie’s ear as he helped her into her white evening wrap.
“Excuse me? Well then, I’m staying too.”
“I want to play billiards,” said Margo plaintively, as Roger held her red coat.
“We’re already beyond the vernal equinox, halfway to the summer solstice,” said Roger with some urgency. “The sun has assumed a northerly motion. We haven’t much time.”
“Of course, you’re staying,” said Owen, pushing Leslie out the door. “I’m not going. It hit me tonight when you got here.”
She stopped in the front door, people crowding past. “Owen, what are you saying? Will you make sense? Stand up straight.”
Instead he leaned over and kissed her, then pulled her down the steps, his raincoat flapping behind him, Seymour’s walking stick magically in hand. Margo and Roger followed more sedately. “How do you know so much about spring?” she asked him.
“Inestimable advantages of an expensive education and late night radio.”
Abel stood behind the bar and watched the last of his guests blow noisily out the door. It slammed for the hundredth time that night with a sharp metallic rap as the hand tapped its finger against the plate, the stroke echoing in the empty foyer. He switched off the lights and the almost-Bulfinch ceiling receded into darkness, relieved only by the yellow shade of the banker’s lamp on the desk. Abel plucked an empty wine bottle from the sideboard and automatically wiped the mahogany with a napkin. He glanced at the label and filed it in the cellarbook of his memory. Titanic is the word, mon, but definitely a fast finisher. The dinner had ended more quickly than expected. His people had peaked, then departed in a rush. It was just past nine o’clock as he walked into the Dining Room, where most of the tables were cleared. He noticed the Eldest Member alone in the corner resting his eyes. One of the women came in from the kitchen with a tray to clear the last tables. An impulse prompted Abel to wave her out of the room.
He walked over to the figure slumped in a chair, studied him intently for a moment then sat down beside him. Abel reached for the half-smoked cigar between the blue veined fingers. “Against the rules now, you know,” he said gently. There was no response. He carefully extracted it and set it on a plate of macaroons next to a half-empty pony of Cognac. The old man was quite still. Abel saw that he was not breathing. Abel glanced at cigar, glass, cookies, sighed, patted the hand, and rose to go to the kitchen for help.
Acknowledgments
The author’s thanks to Andrea, Patrick, Esther, Lorraine, Donna, and most particularly to my brother, Erik.
The verses to Mademoiselle Yvonne were writte
n by Lawrence Dame. I have not been able to track down the author of the lines beginning, “They talk about a woman’s sphere as though it had a limit.” My thanks to Jack Thomas for his researches into Boston tours as reported in his column in the Boston Globe. Homage to Alexander Williams and his charming and invaluable A Social History of the Greater Boston Clubs (Barre Publishers, 1970), which has provided inspiration. (When Alex and I were working together at a Beacon Hill publishing house, he a senior editor, I the most junior promotional assistant, we had an exchange which has since passed into legend. In the old mansion which served as our offices I asked, “Mr. Williams, could you tell me where the Men’s Room is?”
“Actually, I’m not sure. I always go down the street to the Somerset.”)
Several real clubs in Boston and other cities are mentioned in this tale. The Charles Club, the Pilgrim Club, and the Elks Lodge in Somerville, however, are entirely fictional, as are all the events and characters recounted here.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by Peter C. Wensberg
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2867-7
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