by Stan Hayes
“Pretty soon. Four-five days, maybe. I’ll make it a point to be back.”
“Oh, that’ll be great. Why don’t you give us a call around the first of the month? He certainly should have orders by then.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Terrell.” Jack glanced up at the ancient Steinerbru clock on the far wall. “Time for another one? On me. Hey, Rib!”
14 MILADY’S BUST
Jack was on the road to New York at sun-up, Bisque receding behind him in streaks of tenacious morning fog. More than any other time that he’d served there as an adult, he ended this one feeling that he’d be spending very little of the rest of his life there. He’d invited Nick to join him, but his ectoplasmic descendant demurred, saying he’d join him in New York. Jack filled this welcome solitude with the onrush of US1, giving the Cunningham its head, gear-shifting at every opportunity, exulting with its engine’s ready run up and down the decibel scale. He’d delayed the call to his mother until last night, reducing the chance of second-guessing phone calls from her on the nature of the trip, potential hazards, and the wisdom, or lack thereof, in his decision to drive there. He would, she said, need to call her at his overnight stop, which would probably be somewhere in Virginia, by which time she’d have gotten Hap to check on off-street parking for him.
Serena Mason paused briefly at the full-length mirror before answering the door. Her five-foot-seven reflection registered grudging satisfaction at the effect of Repp-silk pullover tucked into denim jeans that were snug but not unseemly for the job at hand. A quick peek through the spy-hole confirmed the identity of her rangy son. Opening the multiple locks that are de rigueur for New York apartments, she swung the door wide. “Get in here, boy,” she admonished, wrapping her arms around him before he could, entangling their feet with the shoulder-strap of the weatherbeaten canvas bag sitting beside him on the threshold.
“Hey, Mama,” Jack said, returning her emotion. “Great to see you.”
“You’re a sight for sore eyes yourself, Stretch. Come on in and set a spell.”
“Soon as I make a head call.” He dropped the bag just inside the door. “Which way?”
“Last door on the right. Where’d you get the godawful bag?”
“It’s Gene Debs’s,” Jack said,, disappearing into the bathroom.
“Sorry the garage’s so far away, Honey, but Hap said that it was the best he could do on short notice,” Serena said over her shoulder from the stove as she turned strips of bacon for the “light supper” she’d promised him when he called from the garage, up on East 36th Street. “What kind of a building is it in?”
“Looked pretty decent on short acquaintance,” Jack answered from the ottoman in the living room/studio as he took off his shoes. “White brick. Your a-cut-above-average East Side apartment building. Be sure and thank Hap for me; it’s not all that far away and it’s definitely off the street. They’re gonna wash it, of which it’s in dire need. Didn’t want to show ’er to you with 800 miles of road dirt getting in the way.”
“Oh, no; I want to see this little rascal at its best.” she said, pushing a long-neck Schafer toward him through the breakfast bar gap. “Buster called me after you left, just to tell me about it. Said to make sure you didn’t tear it up, because it was ‘real rare.’ I think he wants to make you an offer on it when you get back. What’re you going to do with it while you’re in the Navy, anyway?”
“Guess I’ll drive it; after all, a naval officer’s got to get around, like everybody else.”
“But I thought they wouldn’t let you have a car while you’re in training.”
“That’s just for the 16 weeks of preflight, when we’re not allowed to have a car on the base. After that, Ensign Jack and his little Cunningham will be inseparable. You’ll understand once I take you for a ride.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind running up to the Cape for a day or two, once this Luce bust’s off my hands,” she said, indicating a sturdy crate standing near the front door. “The Tiffany people’re picking it up tomorrow to show it to her, and once she OKs it I’m going to need a few days off. It’d be fun, just the two of us, particularly since I won’t be seeing you for awhile.”
“Sure,” Jack said, scrutinizing the crate. “Clare Boothe Luce, huh? Pretty high cotton for a Bisque girl. Guess Hap had a hand in getting the two of you together.”
“Well, since I do show exclusively in his gallery,” she said, betraying a trace of exasperation, “he’s had a lot to do with my exposure to the art world of New York, and there’s no doubt that he’ll continue to be successful in doing that. In Clare’s case, though, the commission to do this bust came from meeting her last year at one of their parties. They probably have a hundred or more in any given year; you know who her husband is, don’t you?”
“Sure; Henry Luce. Time, Life and Fortune.”
“With more money than God. Come and get it, bub!”
They sat down to bacon, eggs and croissants and she continued. “You’d think that after all she’s done, in publishing, politics and just being Clare Boothe Luce, she’d be happy as hell, but it seems she and Harry work overtime making each other miserable. A mutual friend who worked with her at Vogue, and who got Hap and me onto the guest list for the Luce party, says they’ve both had multiple affairs almost since the honeymoon. Now it seems that he’s found someone he wants to marry. She’d found out about this woman recently, and while I can’t say for sure that’s what put her in the market for a bust of herself, I’d give long odds that that, along with resigning the ambassadorship to Brazil just days after Congress had confirmed her, had a lot to do with it. Our friend says that she’s the queen of the snap decision. A day or two after the party, Thomas Hoving’s assistant- he’s president of Tiffany’s- called Hap and asked if we could join him and Clare for lunch in the Tiffany dining room. Turns out that besides wanting to have her bust done, she’s underwriting 500 quarter-scale reproductions by Tiffany’s, either in crystal or china. We made the deal over champagne and Crepes Suzette; a $35,000 fee and a $70 royalty on each reproduction.”
Jack’s eyes widened as he did the arithmetic. “$70,000, if they sell out the reproductions. That’s quite a deal, Mom; congratulations!” He raised his beer, inclining it toward her in salute.
“Thanks, sweetie; the beer business kept your math sharp, huh? And the money’s really frosting on the cake. Once Tiffany’s PR and advertising cranks up, I’ll be head and shoulders above my peers, at least for a while.”
“You forgot to say ‘no pun intended’,” Jack said, grinning as he buttered a croissant.
“That’s because one was. So tell me about Miami.”
“I thought I did.”
“You told me you that you’d sold Moses’ old Buick to a buyer in Miami, and that you were driving it down there. I haven’t heard anything at all, at least from you, about the fancy lady buyer bringing you back to Bisque on her boat, or your jumping back on board and returning to Miami with her.”
“Shoot,” Jack said, “I figured you’d get all that from Cordelia. Which you obviously did.”
“Of course. But you know Cordelia’s point of view’s always somewhat unique. In this case, her rundown of your and Miss Green’s- or is it Mrs. Green? Oh, forget I said that. Anyway, she left out all of the prurient details she’s famous for; said she liked her, and couldn’t imagine anything romantic going on between the two of you, given the age difference. But I know Cordelia, and I know you, and as chivalrous as you always are, that’s a lot of boat-riding for a platonic relationship.” She halted herself momentarily with an upraised hand. “Sorry, bub; guess I should’ve waited to see what you had to tell me about it. But, goddammit, I didn’t.” He hadn’t seen what he used to think of as her ironic smile for a long time. “Wanta talk about the weather?”
Wish I could give you the whole story, he thought, beginning with the fact that old Mose’s alive and kicking, and screwing ‘Miss Green’ silly as we speak. And that your precious sister-in-law and �
�Miss Green’ were tag-teaming old Rick at just about the same time she was giving you her version of the Bisque Follies of 1959. And that if you’d gone ahead and divorced Dad and married Mose before Dieter showed up, none of this would be happening; including, admittedly, the financial independence of one John Henry Mason. “No, let’s stay with the Miss/Mrs. Green situation, and least for long enough for you to understand it from my point of view. She’s a fascinating woman, all right, but for once Cordelia’s batting a thousand. All Linda’s ever been to me’s a car collector, and all I’ve ever been to her’s a prospective boat buyer. If she was 10 years younger, then sure I’d be interested, but c’mon, Mom, not in a lady nearly as old as you are, even if she does look almost as good as you.”
This time her smile, while it bordered on indulgent, ignited Serena’s green eyes. “You do say the nicest things, sonny boy. I’ll let it go if you’ll answer one more question for me; how does this particular nearly-as-old-as-me lady happen to be in good enough financial shape to afford all these exotic conveyances? Cordelia said that someone at the marina told her that Miss Green’s boat was the biggest pleasure craft that had tied up there in years.”
“Told me her divorce settlement, which is a couple years old, left her in real good shape. Seems that she had a good lawyer, and the lawyer had a good private eye.”
“How nice for her. Is she a little masculine or anything? I mean, boats and cars? Those are things you’d expect a man with money to spend to be interested in.”
“If she is, she hides it pretty well.” Giving in to the temptation, Jack added, “She’s also a pilot.”
The green eyes widened. “Good lord! What a picture I’m getting; she takes the boat out, lands a Marlin single-handed, hoists it onto the dock, tosses it into the Buick’s trunk, drives to the airport, loads it into a plane, flies over a cruise ship and drops it into the swimming pool in time to be filleted for dinner. She sounds like the ideal customer for a hopped-up Buick limousine.” She paused, looking out her studio window at a trio of fat pigeons caucusing on the ledge. “I couldn’t believe what a job you did resurrecting that old Buick; I’m sure the picture that you sent me only tells part of the story. Even though the color’s different, looking at it takes me back to what was best about the old Bisque days. I truly hope that she enjoys it.”
“I hope so too,” Jack said. “It made a lot of people happy back then, in one way or another, the Bishop twins probably most of all, since they had it all that time. You know they live here now...”
“Yes, I do. Cordelia…”
“Told you,” he said with a grin.
“That’s right,” she said, the words catching in her throat. “Oh, honey, if only Moses…”
“I know. A lot of things would be different if he were still around,” Jack said, “Still, he’d be happy that you’re succeeding at what you set out to do. He was probably the only person in Bisque, besides me, who understood that your art was way more than a hobby.”
Putting down her fork, Serena’s face acquired a new softness; she looked at him as though she were refocusing through a newly-mounted filter. Several seconds later, she said, “Could I be wrong, sweetie, or have you joined him in that opinion?”
Jack, too, was slow to respond. “Yes, Mom, I have. Guess it’s been sneaking up on me for quite awhile,” he said, substituting a wry smile for the tears he couldn’t yet shed over the love that he’d withheld from her, and of that that she’d withheld from Moses. And, excruciatingly, what about Linda’s misgivings, if any?
15 RETURN TO CROTCH ISLAND
Jack slept with his door open, taking Serena’s advice. “This time of year,” she’d said, “the weather’s so damn changeable that it confuses the old relic. I’m sick of fighting with the super about it; this seems like a good time to look around for something else, a little bigger and with better light. Gramercy Park’s nice, but a loft somewhere farther downtown would suit me a whole lot better. Moving’s such a pain in the ass, though...”
He was aware of her moving around, rattling a dustpan and making other random cleaning noises, while he was still half asleep. By the time he was on his feet, his watch said ten past nine. They exchanged a wave as he made his way into the bathroom.
“Sorry to wake you up, bub,” she said, “but I told the Tiffany people that they could come at eleven, and I still have to vacuum this joint.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Nope. You take a seat at the counter and eat your breakfast. Hope lox and bagels suits your fancy.”
“Always has, always will,” he said, happy to see the cream cheese at room temperature. “Remember Mose’s bagel runs to Atlanta?”
“Oh, yeah. He was convinced that that place way out Peachtree- Nosh O’Rye- had the only decent bagels in the state. They always had nova, too.”
“And he always had it in the refrigerator,” Jack said, spreading cream cheese as he spoke. you can take the Jew out of New York, but...”
“Yeah, yeah. You know he planned to move back here.”
“Matter of fact,” Jack lied, “he did mention it a time or two. If you did, that is.”
“Oh, he knew I was going to. It was just a question of when. Had to get you into school and so forth. ‘I’ll sell out the Hamm County Beverage Company, lock, stock and barrel,’ he used to say, ‘and keep you in a style that you’ve yet to become accustomed.’”
“That’s Mose, on the nose.” In a pig’s eye, he thought. By then, your chance had come and gone. But art for art’s sake. “I’d sure like to hear what he’d have to say about the Tiffany deal.”
“Oh, Jesus! Eat! I’ve gotta get this place looking halfway decent for these society types. By the way, one of them, Letitia Baldrige, was Clare’s factotum when she was ambassador to Italy. So be on your best behavior.”
The doorbell rang at eleven o’clock. Serena opened it to greet the Tiffany representatives, two women who, except for their relative size, were nearly identical. Gaunt, rock-coiffed and purposeful, they reciprocated her greeting and looked at Jack, affably quizzical, as he approached. “This is my son, Jack Mason,” Serena said, extending a hand in his direction. “Don’t let the accent fool you; he’s a New York native and Phi Beta Kappa, but you’ll never hear it from him. Jack, this is Letitia Baldrige,” indicating the taller one, and ...”
“Mary Briscoe,” the shorter, younger one said, taking his hand when her boss released it. “Do you live in New York, Mr. Mason?”
“No, just up for a visit before I give myself up to the Navy,” Jack said, returning her smile.
“Jack’s going into the flight program, as if I didn’t have enough gray hair already,” laughed Serena.
“Really?” Letitia said, looking at Jack with heightened interest. “How very exciting! Serena, please let us know when Jack’s in town again. I’d love to hear, first-hand, how you like landing on a carrier.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” Jack said with a grin.
“I hope you ladies have time for coffee,” Serena said, inclining her head toward a layout of brioche, butter and preserves on the dining table.
“Normally, we’d like nothing better,” Letitia responded, “But I’m afraid that we find ourselves in a bit of a crisis. We were driven down here by an unquestionably drunk cabdriver, whom we sent on his way. Now we have to get Clare- I’m assuming that’s she in the crate- down to the curb and into another cab. We’d have used Mr. Hoving’s car, but he’s halfway to the Hamptons in it by now. Could we borrow your phone to call another cab?”
“Might be quicker,” Jack interjected, “If I just take it down for you. Gramercy Park seems like it’s full of cabs, particularly at this hour.”
“You know,” Serena interjected, “I’d feel a lot better if Jack took it down for you, too. And if he’s got the time, it might make sense for him to go with you. That way, if anything happened to my Clare, I wouldn’t be forced to kill a non-relative. Would you do that for me, honey?”
“Sure. That is, i
f you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding ...”
“Are you kidding? I should’ve thought of that. If Clare missed the chance to meet a Phi Beta Kappa, soon-to-be carrier pilot who also happens to be the son of the artist to whom she’s entrusted her image, she’d be the one doing the killing. Do you have a dolly or hand truck or anything, Serena?”
“Hang on for a minute,” Jack said, squatting to get hold of the bottom of the crate. Standing up, he cradled it in his hands, jogging it up and down a couple of inches. “No truck necessary. Shall we go, ladies?”
The cabdriver edged his yellow Checker into a niche in the Waldorf Towers’ loading dock, next to a set of steps that led to dock level. Two uniformed porters came quickly down the steps; the first one opened the rear door closest to him. Smiling, he looked into the car and asked, “Are you the Luce party?” At Letitia Baldrige’s positive response, he extended his hand, saying “We have a cart up on the dock for your parcel.”
Taking the proffered hand, Ms. Baldrige exited the cab, saying “Thank you; please be very, very careful.” Jack, who had been in the front seat, opened the other rear door for Mary Briscoe. The three waited at the rear of the cab as the porters, with studied slowness, removed the crate, carried it up to the dock and placed it into a deep, canvas-sided laundry cart. Only then was the cab dismissed, the Sisters Tiffany and Jack trailing porters and cart into the elevator at the far end of the bay, whose doors carried the red words “freight only.” Catching the porter’s eye during the elevator’s long ride to the thirty-sixth floor, Ms. Baldrige said, “I hope we’re not breaking any rules, riding up with you in the freight elevator.”
“Oh, no ma’am,” the porter, a tall, fiftyish man whose bearing suggested that he’d been born to the job, responded with a deprecating smile. “Well, let’s just say that when it comes to Mrs. Luce, the normal rules don’t apply.”
The doors opened to a reception area lined with white-streaked black marble. A trim brunette woman dressed in something gray that might very well have had a Chanel tag attached, smiled a greeting at them. “Good day, Ms. Baldrige; Mrs. Luce is waiting for you in the main salon. Please excuse me while we see to the uncrating. This way, Eugene,” she said, indicating a set of double doors some fifty feet behind her.