by Ames Sheldon
“Oh dear.” Eleanor blinks rapidly. “Are you certain this is necessary? Perhaps you’re overreacting to the fact that George is simply getting older. He’s not the man he was in his prime.”
This stops Harriet. “I suppose I am mad at Father for losing his grip on some things—for aging, I guess. But that doesn’t change the facts.”
“George considers Tuck his protégé, so he may not be able to see him objectively. And he’s not going to like being asked to give up chairing the board one bit.”
“I know, Mother! I feel terrible even thinking about it. I’ve spent most of my life trying to please Father. How can I ask him to step back from the foundation he’s so proud of creating?” She could cry. “But I have to. It’s the ethical thing to do.”
“I agree with you, dearie, and I admire you for speaking up. You are George’s daughter in many ways, aren’t you? You’ll do what you feel you must, even if it doesn’t make you happy.”
Her mother’s response feels like a vote of confidence.
“Be gentle when you talk to your father, Harriet.”
“I’ll try.”
“We are bound/As if by the parts of a round/Family harmony.”
In Harriet’s family one doesn’t argue in front of an audience, so she needs to find a time she and Nat can be alone with their father. Because she dreads this confrontation, she keeps putting it off. Finally on her last day at Sea View, she corners George when he’s alone in the kitchen, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
“I need to talk to you, Father.”
“Sounds serious, Harriet. What’s on your mind?”
“Let’s go to the study. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
Her father shuffles down the hall. When did he start moving so slowly?
Quickly refilling her mug, she grabs Nat, and together they head for the tiny room off the dining room.
George is already seated on a rickety club chair, which creaks as he shifts his weight. When he sees them enter together, he says, “Uh oh, I don’t like the looks of this.”
She and Nat sit. After taking a deep breath, she says it straight out. “Father, you’ve got to fire Tuck. He’s defrauding us.”
“That can’t be right,” George replies. “He reports to me on his activities every single week.” His hand shakes as he raises his cup to his mouth.
Harriet insists, “Tuck’s brokers should not churn our stock holdings the way they’ve been doing.”
“Churning?”
Nat says, “Buying and selling with great frequency, Father.”
“We should make thoughtful investments in solid companies,” Harriet says, “and hold on to those stocks for years.”
George replies, “We can instruct Tuck accordingly. Perhaps we’ve given him too much leeway.”
“He knows what he’s doing. He’s cheating us,” Harriet states.
Nat says, “Tuck’s investing in over-the-counter stocks I’ve never heard of.”
“How do you know where Tuck invests our assets?” George counters.
“Harriet shared her concerns with me, Father, and I have to say, I’m concerned too. Risky investments make no sense for a philanthropic foundation.”
George counters, “Tuck says that’s where we can get the best returns.”
Nat states, “Foundation assets should be invested conservatively, Father.”
“Et tu, Brute?” asks George.
“That’s what Mother said to me when we asked her to go into treatment,” Nat replies.
Her voice trembling, Harriet says, “It just isn’t appropriate, Father! Listen to me!” He isn’t really listening. He doesn’t respect her opinion.
“Harriet’s right, Father!” Nat maintains, gripping the arms of his chair. “Listen to her.”
She goes on. “You don’t think I know what I’m talking about, but I do! Over the years I’ve tried really hard to earn your respect, but you still don’t believe in me. What’s it going to take?” All her old feelings of frustration and anger at him surge up so strongly that she wants to scream at him, but then she remembers how fragile he seems these days. She doesn’t wish to hurt him too badly.
“I’m listening.” His lips are pressed tightly together.
Harriet says, “If Tuck’s brokers invested in companies like Eastman Kodak, IBM, and Xerox, the foundation would have been worth $15 million today. Instead, it’s hardly grown at all.”
“I’ll say it again. I think Tuck’s doing a good job.”
How can she get through to him? “All right, Father, let’s look at this from a different angle. Tell me, does Tuck have family money?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then how can he afford a top-of-the-line Rolex? How does he get to play golf at Baltusrol?”
Nat puts his hands in his lap. “We think Tuck must be getting perks from the brokers he uses for foundation business.”
George looks a little unsure now. “I’ll speak to him.”
“He’ll deny everything,” she asserts. “Just because Tuck went to Yale doesn’t guarantee that he’s an honest man. This is your responsibility, Father.”
His face suddenly looks haggard. “What do you want me to do?”
She reaches over to touch his arm.“ You should resign as chairman of the board, Father. I hate having to even suggest such a thing, but it would be best if you step aside now.” Her eyes fill.
“I agree with Harriet, Father. It’s time.”
She suggests, “You could be the emeritus chairman.” She hopes this would make his resignation easier to swallow.
Shaking her hand off, he shouts, “How dare you! I created this foundation. I gave you this job.”
Trying to stay calm, she says, “When you come home, I’ll show you all the facts and figures. Then you can decide what you want to do.”
“Think about it after you see the numbers, Father,” Nat says.
“I’m certain that when the board reviews the outside audit,” she says, “it will prove that Tuck has been feathering his own nest at our expense. He and his brokers are eating up a huge percentage of our earnings. This impacts how much money we can give to nonprofits. And isn’t grant making what this foundation is supposed to be all about?”
“Of course it is.”
Harriet adds, “I think we should bring Nat on the board. Wouldn’t that make sense? He’s been a great advisor on medical matters.”
George thunders, “You’re just getting back at me now for the Hartley-Warden merger!”
“No, Father, that’s not what this is about—not at all. I wouldn’t be saying anything if I didn’t have to.”
He rises from his chair unsteadily. “I take it we’re done here.”
She stands quickly. “May I give you a hand?”
With great dignity, he replies, “No thank you, Harriet. I can manage by myself.”
Nat hurries back to the living room.
Her heart hurts. This is so hard. Her father is getting old—he’s not the capable man he used to be. She detests having to suggest that he retire. If she didn’t work for the foundation, she’d happily overlook his errors of judgment. Will he hate her from now on? That would be unbearable.
They don’t speak as they move to the porch, where George takes a wicker chair. She sits down next to him. She feels sick. She doesn’t speak.
Eleanor emerges from inside the house. She walks over and places her hand on George’s shoulder.
The three of them stare silently at the sea.
Inside, the music starts up again.
June 1971
The house at Sea View is buzzing with activity much earlier than usual this year. Nat wants to attend his twenty-fifth reunion at Andover, so the whole family decided to come in June.
Now Nat and his and Harriet’s children are busy in the living room preparing to perform their Sea View songs in a concert for the older generation on Saturday night. He invited Aunt Jessica, Uncle Drew, and their children to join them for su
pper and the show. The kids are rehearsing their parts. He found an instrument for Olivia too—she’s playing the handbells. Eleanor and Lucy have gone out to buy groceries.
After three cups of coffee, Nat is practically levitating. He dashes out of the living room and onto the porch, where Harriet and Gus sit with George. They don’t interrupt their conversation to attend to him. He stands there vibrating.
Harriet says, “Tell me what you think about this, Father. I believe we should consider refocusing our giving priorities in order to make more of an impact with the grants we do make.”
George, who has accepted the role of emeritus chairman of the Sutton Foundation, replies, “Are you suggesting we eliminate some priorities?” His voice is as resonant as ever, but his body seems to have shrunk since last year.
“I thought we might drop our focus on the arts,” Harriet says. “If we stop giving to museums and musical groups, we could do more in the areas of medicine and education.”
“What are you talking about?” Nat exclaims. “You can’t drop the arts! I’ll vote against that.”
“We could still fund arts education,” she says.
Leaning back in his chair, George crosses his legs. “Don’t ask me. As executive director, Harriet, you must present your thinking to the full board.”
Unable to contain his impatience any longer, Nat says, “Harriet, I need someone to go make Xerox copies of the lyrics so the audience is able to follow along. Olivia typed up two sets—would you take one to the copy place and make more? Please?”
Harriet gets to her feet. “Sure. Come with me, Gus?”
“Of course, honey.”
She follows Nat back into the living room, where little scraps of paper with words on them litter the floor. When he hands her a stack of pages, he notices the sapphire on her left hand. “Nice ring, Harriet. Have you and Gus set a date yet?”
“We’re thinking about getting married in October, but we don’t want to make a big fuss.”
“That’s great, Harriet! He’s a good man.”
She says, “I think I’m finally learning how to do the dance between independence and intimacy. Sometimes you just have to compromise.”
He lifts his glasses to look at her more directly. What is she talking about?
She grins. “Anything else while I’m out and about?”
“I don’t think so.” He turns his attention back to his musicians. Retta and Abby have their heads together. Since his daughter followed Retta to Mt. Holyoke, the cousins seem to have grown very close.
“All right,” says Harriet. “I’m off.”
He glances at her. “Thanks for your help.” He takes another sip of his coffee, which is cold. He doesn’t care. He’s having a wonderful time. “Okay guys, let’s get back to work.”
Friday afternoon Nat sits at one of many round tables under a large white tent on the campus of Phillips Academy drinking martinis with his best friend, Peter. On the table rests the program Peter designed at the behest of their class’s reunion committee. It features a large image of Sammy Phillips—a cartoon character wearing a hat tilted back, a wrinkled jacket, a drooping cigarette, a necktie for a belt, and shoes with laces dragging.
“Peter, I love it! Sammy looks even more disheveled than ever.”
“I’m glad you like it, Nat, because I have lots more in my briefcase.”
Peter is wearing a white suit with a pale blue shirt and a navy silk tie with lots of little red squares printed up the diagonal. His shoes look expensive.
“That’s a smashing tie, Peter. As usual.”
Peter teases, “Your tie is askew, as usual.” He smiles warmly. “You certainly seem better than the last time I saw you.”
“I’m very happy. As you know, Lucy and I married as soon as my divorce was final. She’s so good for me and my kids.”
“That’s great news.”
After taking a drink from his martini, Nat says, “And you, Peter—how are you and Stephen?”
“We’re living together, but I thought bringing him here would be awkward.”
“I’m sorry it’s like that, but I understand. And your job is going well?”
“Absolutely.” He ducks his head a moment, then looks back at Nat. “I’m the curator of drawings at MoMA now,” he says proudly. “We’re working on an exhibit scheduled to open in September that’s terribly exciting. We’re assembling four hundred drawings, paintings, sculptures, prints, posters, and photographs from the museum’s collection that have to do with social protest movements on subjects such as urban poverty, war, and revolutions.”
“That’s right up your alley,” Nat remarks.
“I’ll say! And I finally feel confident enough in my position to participate in anti-war activities. I marched in Washington, DC, last month. It was great—really inspiring—to be part of such a huge crowd. Why don’t our leaders listen to the people? What’s it going to take to get us out of Vietnam?”
“Good question.”
“The Walker Art Center tried to recruit me for a position there, and I was tempted because I’d get to see more of you. I thought about it, but I just can’t imagine living anywhere but New York.”
“You must be highly regarded in your field. I’m glad—though not surprised—to hear that.”
“What about you, Nat?” As Peter lifts his glass, Nat notices the gold ring on his right pinky finger. He’s never seen Peter wear any jewelry.
Nat says, “I’m spending more time on research these days so I can be available to my kids. I like doing research. And I’ve been having a ball putting songs together with my family about our summer place at Sea View.”
“I remember some of your songs from our days here at Andover. ‘Baggy, tattered rayon hose!’”
“We didn’t really fit in very well, did we? We weren’t exactly popular with our peers when we were here.”
“We were misfits,” Peter says. “At least we had our friendship with each other.”
“Thank God for that.” Nat looks at the men in their jackets and ties, standing in front of the bar. Other guys circulate around the perimeter. No one has come to their table. “I’m only here for the dinner tonight, then I’ll go back to Sea View. If things get slow here on campus tomorrow or if you get bored with our classmates, why don’t you come out to Sea View tomorrow night? We’re mounting a performance of the songs we’ve been writing. It would be fun to have you in the audience. You could meet Lucy.”
“I’ll see how it goes here, Nat. Thanks ever so much for the invitation.”
“Please come if you’re interested. Here, I’ll write out the directions on this napkin.”
Late Saturday afternoon, Nat directs the young people to move all the furniture off the porch and onto the lawn facing the porch—which is where the audience will sit. His sense of excitement rises as he surveys the “stage.”
Joe has become invaluable to Nat. Since last fall they’ve been exchanging tapes and talking on the phone, tweaking the tunes to fit lyrics Nat wrote. He’s proud of how polished their songs have become.
Now the screen door to the living room slams as Joe brings in amplifiers while Ned carries his drums and hi-hat. Abby has her new electric piano in its carrying case and Joe’s guitar in hand. Ernie puts down a speaker and returns for more. Nat gets his saxophone case and Ernie’s electric bass and places them at the back of the space.
Holding a microphone stand in each hand, Vi asks, “Where should I put these, Dad?” Now that she’s a teenager, his youngest no longer calls him Daddy, which makes him a little sad.
“Ask Joe,” he replies.
Retta appears with her flute and Olivia with her bells.
He says, “Your instruments can go over on the ledge.”
After everything has been brought out, he repositions the microphones and strings cords from each to the amplifiers that sit on top of the speakers, while Joe sets up the recording equipment in the corner.
When Aunt Jessica, Uncle Drew, and cousins Su
san and Brooks arrive, he waves them into the house.
Retta brings out the music stands and places them by the mikes.
Then Lucy comes over to him. “Do you think you can tear yourself away? Supper’s ready.”
“All right, kids, put down your instruments. It’s time to eat.” He’s too keyed up to eat anything, but he makes himself a strong drink and returns to the porch.
Before long, the musicians return. Abby plays scales on her piano, while the others start tuning. Susan and Brooks sit down in front and watch the activity.
After testing the microphones, Joe moves close to Nat and whispers, “I’ve got a joint if you want to join me after the show.”
Mildly, Nat replies, “You don’t want to make a habit of smoking that stuff.”
“Right.” Joe goes back to fiddle with the tape recorder.
Nat is beginning to feel slightly anxious. He turns his back to the audience and asks the kids, “Does everyone have their music? Abby, play a riff on the piano so Joe can adjust the volume on the amplifiers.”
Eventually the band is ready, and it sounds like the adults have taken their seats. When he turns to face the audience, he sees his father and mother, Harriet and Gus, Lucy, Aunt Jessica and Uncle Drew, and Susan and Brooks, all watching him expectantly. The women in his family are wearing bright colored summer dresses that make him think of sherbet.
He takes a deep breath. Suddenly he feels very calm. He flashes back to the way he felt when he and Eddie and friends performed H.M.S. Pinafore in their living room at home during the war.
Taking another deep breath, he says, “I would like to dedicate this show to my brother Edward Stevens Sutton.” His mother clutches his father’s hand. Harriet smiles tremulously. Glancing back at his musicians, he sees confusion on a few faces, especially Ned’s. He marvels again that he ever got such a handsome son. He realizes now that he needs to tell Ned a lot more about the uncle he was named after.