She looked at me as though that were a silly question. “He destroyed us. You know that.”
Okay. So leave it at that. From that we had a chance to rebuild our lives together if we chose to. She did it for us. End of story. But you can’t build on lies, so I said, “Susan, don’t lie to me. Did he tell you he was leaving you? Did he tell you that he was not leaving Anna for you? That he was not taking you with him to Italy? Did he tell you that he only used you to get to me?”
She stared at me, through me actually, and I saw she was off again in Susan land. I suppose we could have this conversation some other time, though I was curious to discover if Bellarosa’s telling Susan that he only used her to get to me was the proximate cause of his death. And you may wonder if I knew or suspected what would happen when I set that in motion. That is a complex question. I’d have to think about that.
I looked at Susan. “If you did it for us, Susan, then thank you for trying to save our marriage and our life together. But you didn’t have to kill him.”
“Yes, I did. He was evil, John. He seduced us both. Don’t take his side. He was always taking your side about something or other and now you’re taking his side. Now I’m angry with you both. Men are all alike, aren’t they, always sticking up for one another, but he was different from other men, and I was obsessed with him, but I tried to control myself, I really did, but I couldn’t keep away from him, even after you asked me to, and he took advantage of me, and he used me, and he promised me he was going to save Stanhope Hall, but he didn’t, and he used you, too, John, and you knew what was happening, so don’t look at me like that.”
Susan went on like this for a while, and I realized I could enter an insanity plea, but by morning she’d be herself again, which is not to say any less crazy, but at least she’d be quieter about it.
I took her head in my hands and played with her soft red hair. She stopped babbling and looked at me. Those catlike green eyes stared right into me, and with crystal-clear sanity now, she said to me, “I did this because you couldn’t, John. I did this to return your honor to you. You should have done it. You were right not to let him die, but you should have killed him.”
Well, if we had been living in another age or another country, she would be right. But not in this age, not in this country. Though perhaps like Frank Bellarosa, and like Susan, I should have acted on my more primitive instincts, on fifty thousand years of past human experience. Instead, I rationalized, philosophized, and intellectualized when I should have listened to my emotions, which had always said to me, “He is a threat to your survival. Kill him.”
I looked at Susan and she said, “Kiss me,’’ and pursed those magnificent pouty lips.
I kissed her.
She pressed her head into my chest and cried for a minute, then stepped back. “Well,’’ she said in a crisp, cool voice, “off to jail. I want to be out tomorrow, Counselor.”
I smiled.
“Tell me you love me,’’ she demanded.
“I love you.”
“And I’ve always loved you, John. Forever.”
“I know.”
The policewoman approached and took Susan’s arm gently, then led her toward the front door.
I watched until she was gone, but she never looked back at me. I was aware of a lot of quiet people around the palm court and thought it best if I left quickly so they could get back to their business.
I turned toward the rear of the house to go fetch Zanzibar as I had promised. As I walked across the court, I could hear my footsteps echoing on the tile floor, and I saw out of the corner of my eye Bellarosa’s body still lying off to my left, uncovered. Frank Bellarosa was surrounded by people who found him interesting: the police photographer, two laboratory women, and the coroner.
As I walked past the body, I passed something off to my right. I stopped and turned back to look at it. It was a large brass display easel that held an oil painting framed in a soft green and white lacquered frame, quite a nice frame actually. The painting was of Alhambra’s ruined palm court, of course, and I studied it. It was really quite good, perhaps one of the best that I’ve seen of Susan’s works. But what do I know about art?
I stared at the painting of the ruined palm court, the streams of sunlight coming in from the broken glass dome, the decayed stucco walls, the vines twisting around the marble pillars, and the cracked floor sprouting scraggy plant life amid the rubble. And I saw this now not as a whimsical or romantic rendition of physical decay, but as a mirrored image of a ruined and crumbling mind; not a vanished world of past glory, but a vanished world of mental and spiritual health. But what do I know about psychology? I hauled off and put my fist through the canvas, sending it and the easel sprawling across the court.
No one seemed to mind.
Thirty-eight
It was January, and the days were short and cold. It was about four P . M ., and already the sunlight was fading, but I didn’t need or want much light.
The wrought-iron gates of Alhambra had been sold by the developer and replaced with steel security gates that were fastened together with a chain but not tightly enough to prevent me from slipping through.
I walked past the gatehouse, which was now being used as the builder’s sales office, but it was Sunday and the small house was dark. I walked up the long drive, bundled in my wool parka. The cobblestones, too, had been sold, and the drive was frozen mud, slippery in places, so I took my time. The flowers that bordered the drive were all gone, of course, but the poplars still stood, bare now, gray and spindly.
In the forecourt at the end of the drive, the ornamental fountain was still there, but someone had forgotten to drain it last autumn, and the marble was cracked and filled with dirty ice. And beyond the forecourt, where Alhambra had once stood, was a great heap of rubble: red roofing tile, white stucco, rafters, and beams. Indeed, they had bulldozed the entire mansion as Bellarosa had said they would. But I had no way of knowing if it was a spiteful act or if the developer simply wanted to be rid of the white elephant.
As it was Sunday, the earth-moving equipment was silent, and no one seemed to be around. It was very quiet, that sort of deep winter quiet where you can hear the ground crackle underfoot, and the trees creaking in the cold wind. I could tell you I heard ghostly hoofbeats on the solid earth, too, but I didn’t, though I thought about Susan and me on one of our winter rides.
I thought, too, of last January, and of the black Cadillac that was here, or wasn’t here, and the man whom I saw or didn’t see. And it occurred to me that if he hadn’t been lost that day and hadn’t seen this place, then things would have been different today, most probably better since I couldn’t imagine how they could be much worse.
Regarding Bellarosa’s death, I still had mixed feelings about that. Initially, I had been relieved, nearly glad, to be honest. I mean, the man had caused me much unhappiness and had seduced my wife (or was it the other way around?), and his death solved a good many problems for me. Even seeing him lying there on the floor, half naked and covered with gore, had not affected me. But now, after some time, I realized that I actually missed him, and that he’s gone forever, and that I lost a friend. Well, but as I say, I still have mixed emotions.
Anyway, I noticed four long crates lying near the rubble and moved closer to them and saw that they held the four Carthaginian columns, all ready for shipping, though I didn’t know where they were headed this time. Not back to Carthage, that was for certain, but maybe to a museum or to another rich man’s house, or maybe the government had declared them a salable asset and they’d sit forgotten in a warehouse forever.
I continued my walk, veering around the heap of rubble toward the rear of the property. All around me were stacks of building materials and earth-moving equipment. I noticed engineer stakes stuck in the ground, connected by string with white strips of cloth hanging from the string, and there were surveyors’ stakes as well, and masonry stakes and all sorts of other things stuck in the ground like dissecting p
ins on the carved-up earth.
As I walked, I could see that most of the fifty or so foundations had been dug and poured, and though many of the trees had been spared, the land was irrevocably altered, suffused with water and gas pipes and cesspools, and crisscrossed with power lines and paved with blacktop and concrete. Another few hundred acres had gone from rural to suburban, from pristine to scarred, and hundreds of people from someplace or another were on their way here, though they didn’t know it yet, bringing with them their worries and their future divorces, and their propane barbecue grills and their mailboxes with numbers on them, and their hopes for a new life in a nicer place than the last. The American dream, you know, constantly needs new landscapes.
Stanhope Hall’s acreage is gone, too, of course, and a few of the houses there are nearly complete, wood and Thermopane contemporaries with lots of skylights and oversize garages and central air-conditioning; not too bad, I admit, but not too good either.
The big house, the former Stanhope Hall, has indeed been sold intact to a Japanese firm of some sort, but I see no sign of twitchy Nipponese businessmen strolling around the paths or doing calisthenics on the great lawn. In fact, the place looks as deserted as it has been for nearly twenty years. Local rumor at McGlade’s Pub, where I spend too much time, has it that the little people are going to dismantle the mansion stone by stone and send it to Japan, though nobody at McGlade’s seems to know why.
The love temple, too, has survived, and the developer of the Stanhope acreage has used a picture of it in his ads, promising the splendor and the glory of Gold Coast living to the first hundred people who can come up with the down payments and mortgages on the half-million-dollar tractor sheds he’s building.
The sacred grove is gone, however, as no one is interested in ten acres of dying plum trees in their backyards. But the gazebo and hedge maze are part of the great house, so they might survive, though I don’t recommend the maze for strung-out Oriental businessmen.
So the Stanhope and Alhambra estates are divided like spoils in an ancient war, their walls and gates no longer useful for keeping people out, and their great structures destroyed or used for sport or for building material elsewhere. But that’s not my problem anymore.
I kept walking over the hard ground until I came to where Alhambra’s reflecting pool and fountain had been, or where I thought they had been, but there was an open foundation there, and an unpaved road passed through where the classical garden and imitation Roman ruins had once stood. Neptune and Mary were gone, probably having left in disgust.
I turned around and headed back toward the rubble heap, walking along the path on which Anna had walked when she spotted me that Easter morning, and a smile came to my lips. I continued on and reached the back patio, which was still intact, though the post lights and pizza oven were gone.
I walked across the patio and looked at the demolished house. Half the rubble had been carted away, but I could still identify most of the rooms, especially the central palm court, and I could actually see where Frank Bellarosa had lain dead.
To my right was the kitchen and the breakfast room where the Bellarosas had entertained us in more ways than one, and to the left was the ballroom, sometimes known as the living room, where I had done a little soft-shoe for Susan. Behind this room was the conservatory, crushed now, a pile of broken glass, plant tables, and clay pots.
I turned away from the house and picked my way around the construction debris in the failing light until I was back in front of the mansion, in the forecourt, near the broken fountain, where Susan’s Jaguar had once sat and where she and I once stood, in a picture-perfect setting, like an ad for something good and expensive, and I fancied I saw Susan and me standing there waiting for someone to answer the door on that spring evening.
I walked back down the long drive hunched against the wind. Beyond the gates and across Grace Lane I saw the DePauw house, lights shining from its big colonial windows, a cheery sight unless you weren’t in the mood for cheery sights.
As I walked, I thought of Susan the last time I’d seen her. It was in November, in Manhattan. A hearing had been convened at Federal Court in Foley Square, at which I was present, though not as Susan’s attorney or husband, but as a witness to the events surrounding the death of a federal witness, Mr. Frank Bellarosa. As it turned out, I was not even asked to give testimony, and the commission took only a few hours to recommend that the case not be presented to a grand jury, finding that Susan Sutter, while not justified in her actions, was not responsible for them. This seemed a little vague to me, but there was some talk of diminished capacity and a promise from the Stanhopes to seek professional help for their daughter. I hope William and Charlotte don’t think that means art lessons or pistol practice. Anyway, the government took a dive on the case, of course, and Lady Justice didn’t miscarry; she had an abortion. But I don’t blame the government for aborting this tricky and sensitive case, and I’m happy they did, because my wife doesn’t belong in jail.
I had made a point of running into Susan on the steps of the courthouse. She was surrounded by her parents, three of her parents’ lawyers, and two family-retained psychiatrists. William didn’t seem awfully thrilled to see me for some reason, and Charlotte stuck her nose in the air, I mean literally, like you see in old movies. You’ve got to be careful when you do that walking down steps.
Anyway, Susan broke away from the Stanhope guard and came over to me on the steps. She smiled. “Hello, John.”
“Hello, Susan.’’ I had congratulated her on a successful court appearance, and she had been cheery and buoyant, which was to be expected after walking free on a murder that was witnessed by about six federal agents, who fortunately couldn’t seem to recall the incident clearly.
We’d spoken briefly, mostly about our children and not about our divorce. I asked her at one point, “Are you really crazy?”
She smiled. “Just enough to get me out of that courthouse. Don’t tell.”
I smiled in return. We agreed that we both felt bad for Anna, but that maybe she was better off, though that wasn’t true, and Susan asked me if I had gone to Frank’s funeral, which I had. Susan said, “I should have gone, too, of course, but it might have been awkward.”
“It possibly could have been.’’ Since you killed him. I mean, really, Susan. But maybe she had already disassociated herself from that unpleasant incident.
She was looking very good, by the way, dressed in a tailored gray silk skirt and jacket, appropriate for courtroom appearances, and wearing high heels, which she probably couldn’t wait to kick off.
I didn’t know when or if I’d see her again, so I said to her, “I still love you, you know.”
“You’d better. Forever.”
“Yes, forever.”
“Me, too.”
Well, we parted there on the steps, she to go back to Hilton Head, and me to Long Island. I was sharing the Stanhope gatehouse with Ethel Allard, who had insisted on taking me in when Susan sold the guesthouse. Ethel and I are getting along a little better than we had in the past. I drive her to the stores and to church on Sunday, though I don’t go to stores or churches much myself anymore. The arrangement seems to be working out, and I’m glad for the opportunity to help someone who needs help, and Ethel is glad she finally got a chance to take in a homeless person. Father Hunnings approves, too.
The guesthouse, incidentally, where Susan and I had spent our twenty-two years of married life, and where we had raised our two children, has been bought by an intense young couple who are here on a corporate transfer from Dubuque or Duluth or someplace out there, working their way up the corporate game of chutes and ladders. They both leave for Manhattan before dawn and return after dark. They’re not quite sure where they are geographically or socially, but they seem anxious that the Stanhope subdivision be completed so they can have friends and start a bowling team or something.
Jenny Alvarez and I still see each other from time to time, but she’s involved with a b
aseball star now, a Mets infielder of all things, but I don’t rub that in when I see her.
I had actually gone to Bellarosa’s funeral as I told Susan. The Mass was at Santa Lucia, of course, and Monsignor Chiaro gave a beautiful service and spoke well of the deceased, so I guess the check cleared.
The burial itself was at an old cemetery in Brooklyn, and it was a real mafioso affair with a hundred black limousines and so many flowers at graveside that they covered a dozen other graves in all directions. Sally Da-da was there, of course, and we nodded to each other, and Jack Weinstein was there, and we made indefinite plans to have lunch. Anthony was there, too, out on bail for some charge or other, and Fat Paulie was there, and a guy whose face was half eaten away who I guess was my godfather, Aniello, and there were whole faces, too, that I recognized from the Plaza soiree, and from Giulio’s. Anna did not look particularly good in black, or particularly good at all for that matter. She had been surrounded by so many wailing women that she never saw me, which was just as well.
Also with Anna, of course, were her three sons, Frankie, Tommy, and Tony. I recognized Frankie as the oldest, a sort of big lummox who looked more benign than dangerous. Tommy, the Cornell student, looked like an all-American kid, the sort who might wind up working for a Fortune 500 company. Tony, whom I had met, was in his La Salle uniform, looking very ramrod straight and clean-cut, but if you looked past the uniform and the short hair, you saw Frank Bellarosa. You saw eyes that appraised everyone and everything. In fact, he looked at me for a while as though he were sizing me up, and the resemblance to his father was so uncanny that I actually had to blink to make certain I wasn’t seeing a ghost. At one point in the graveside service, I saw Tony staring at his uncle Sal, aka Sally Da-da, and if I were Uncle Sal, I’d keep an eye on that kid.
The Gold Coast Page 63