The Heirs

by Susan Rieger

  “Why did we all follow Harry to Princeton?” Tom asked Sam when his fifth reunion was coming up. He wasn’t planning on going.

  “Habit,” Sam said. “We always did what Harry did back then. Also laziness.”

  Will graduated summa and won a Marshall, spending three years at Cambridge, which pleased Rupert no end. Harry and Sam graduated magna and went on to Yale, Harry for law, Sam for medicine. That too pleased Rupert, who joined the Corporation after Sam was admitted. Tom graduated cum and was awarded the Scholar-Athlete Award at graduation. “Rafa Kohn, the soccer player, should have got it; he’s brilliant. I just wallop the ball,” he told his parents. He went to Berkeley for law school; “I want sunshine and fresh air,” he said. Jack graduated “with great relief,” but clinched his place in the Princeton pantheon by being invited onstage to play with Wynton Marsalis at a jazz concert his junior year. Marsalis told the crowd he’d heard there was a “white trumpet prodigy at Princeton.”

  The family money was part of the constellation—the boys all had Phipps as one of their middle names, a kind of calling card of its own—and Rupert and Eleanor gave generously. But there was more to them than the obvious markers; a dashing, romantic aura hovered about the five Falkeses, the kind usually ascribed to quivers of remarkable or highly marriageable sisters, like the Mitfords or the Cushings; other boys and men were always having crushes on them.

  They’d all married or partnered in their twenties or early thirties, and there was the whiff of Eleanor or Rupert in all their choices. Except for Sam’s boyfriend Andrew, they were all fond of their in-laws, who went the second, third, and fourth mile to welcome them to the family. Andrew felt toward Eleanor and Rupert the antagonism of the provincial boy. “Who still uses fish forks?” he asked Sam the first time he had dinner at West Sixty-Seventh Street. “And is there always a maid serving dinner and a cook cooking it?” Sam regarded both questions as rhetorical bloodletting and didn’t answer them directly. “My father was an orphan, left on the church steps,” he said. Andrew snorted. “He’s a hero, then, completely self-made. I know where I came from, and so do they: the other side of the tracks.” When Eleanor and Rupert gave Andrew an elegant Omega gold watch for his thirty-fifth birthday, an expensive gift but not embarrassingly expensive, Andrew decided the acuity of the choice was an insult. “It’s too thoughtful,” he said to Sam. “I’ll tell them not to get you any more gifts,” Sam said. “No, no,” Andrew said. “I don’t want to be thought insulting.” Andrew had wanted a Cartier tank watch like Sam’s.

  —

  Eleanor insisted on a family dinner the night before Harry left for Princeton his freshman year. “No dispensations,” she said at breakfast. “That includes everyone.” Rupert nodded. “All hands on deck at 23:00 Zulu,” he said. The boys groaned. “How does Zulu work with daylight saving time?” Sam asked, working the calculation in his head.

  Dinner was all of Harry’s favorite foods: strip steak, artichokes, skinny French fries, and chocolate mousse. Drinks were ginger beer shandies and Brunello. The three older boys were allowed to have wine that night. Harry, at eighteen, was legal in New York; he could drink as much as he wanted. Will and Sam, weighing over 130 pounds, were each given a glass. “I want you to learn to drink before you go to university,” Rupert had said to the boys. He had spent a good deal of time at Cambridge snockered, a way of fitting in. “Was it worse at Cambridge,” he had asked himself, “to be a Jew, the son of a butcher, or a foundling?”

  At Longleat, Rupert had come up with a workable response to inquiries into his origins. He would say that he’d been orphaned as an infant and raised as the ward of the Reverend Henry Falkes, St. Pancras Church, Chichester. The shared name was reassuring to his interrogators, and Rupert regularly offered up silent thanks to the reverend for giving him his last name. The other orphans who’d arrived storklike at St. Pancras had last names from Dickens. “True,” Rupert said. “I’m not pulling your leg.” His infant schoolmates included a Copperfield, a Nickleby, a Dombey, a Harmon, a Jaggers, a Carstone, and a Trotwood. Reverend Falkes gave them the names of worthy if flawed characters, a kind of literary blessing on their heads. He liked naming and took it seriously; it was, after all, the first task God set Adam. He told Rupert his only regret was wasting Summerson on a small pockmarked bully. “I should have called him Murdstone.”

  Rupert never asked the reverend why he alone had his last name. He feared he would appear presumptuous or, worse, Heepish; he suspected Reverend Falkes would be acutely embarrassed. From his seat on the sidelines, Rupert observed that embarrassment or, more accurately, the avoidance of embarrassment was the chief moderator of English social arrangements among the upper middle classes. So many of the Englishmen he knew were embarrassed by the smallest things: wearing the wrong pair of shoes (brown in town instead of black), saying the wrong word (“wealthy” instead of “rich”), playing the wrong game (football instead of rugby). Rudeness was the antidote, injected into the conversation at the merest hint of encroaching embarrassment.

  America cured Rupert of the last vestiges of embarrassment; it became superfluous. As far as he could tell, Americans were embarrassed only by public nakedness, a situation he felt he could easily avoid. His rudeness adapted to the New World, propagating, kudzu-like, into an instrument against stupidity, carelessness, laziness, and boredom, especially boredom. One of the other reasons Rupert married Eleanor was that she didn’t prattle. He’d found that rare in a girl as beautiful as she, used to attention and admiration. His mother-in-law had been beautiful, he was told, which helped him understand his father-in-law, smote by forget-me-not blue eyes.

  Dinner was roisterous on Harry’s last night. He was excited and nervous for himself. He couldn’t eat; he drank. His brothers were excited and nervous for him. They ate enormous amounts.

  “It’s Harry’s last meal,” Will said. Harry grinned like the Cheshire Cat and drew his index finger slit-like across his throat. Everyone laughed, except Sam.

  Sam shook his head. “No, no,” he said, his voice cracking, his eyes filling with tears. “This is serious. This is the end of normal life.” Silence fell on the table.

  At that moment, Harry decided that his brothers would follow him to Princeton. Normal life would continue, only shifting its center of gravity seasonally, between the Hotel des Artistes and Nassau Hall.

  “I can’t believe in ten years, you’ll all be gone. Pfffft,” Eleanor said. She looked at Rupert. “Short of a cricket side, but not a bad lot.”

  “No duffers,” he said softly. She nodded.

  “I should play taps, shouldn’t I?” Jack said. He went to get his trumpet.

  “Just a minute,” Harry said. He poured himself another glass of wine. “To Mom and Dad.”

  “Hear, hear,” the others replied.

  Eleanor cleared her throat. Rupert covered her hand with his own. From the far end of the apartment, they heard the first melancholy notes of the bugle call. They looked at each other, then looked away, too happy to speak.

  —

  Rupert lingered for four months, three more than anyone expected. His doctors said it must have been the last powerful chemo combination and wanted to write him up. Eleanor wondered at their notion of success. He’d been dying the whole time. He died on a Saturday morning in April. The floor nurse called Eleanor at seven a.m. to say the end was near. Eleanor called all the boys. Harry and Sam went to the hospital with her. Eleanor said to Rupert, “I’m here. It’s all right.” Harry held his hand. Sam kissed his forehead. He died ten minutes later. Pulled under by a wave of grief, Eleanor wept.

  Rupert did not die on the front page of the Times, a private wish, but he was given a two-column obituary inside with a photo. He’d been a prominent lawyer and a good one, and he’d given away a lot of money to good causes. The death notice Eleanor submitted to run for a week was characteristically succinct. No lovings, no beloveds.

  Rupert Falkes. Born February 2, 1934, Chichester, England, died April 14,
2000, New York, NY, of cancer. Graduate of the Prebendal School, Longleat College, Cambridge University, and Yale Law School. Senior Partner, Maynard, Tandy & Jordan. Trustee, Trinity School. Corporation Member, Yale University. Board Member, New York Public Library. Survived by his wife, Eleanor Deering Phipps; his sons, Henry, William, Samuel, John, and Thomas Falkes; their wives and partners, Lea Abrams, Frances Gore, Andrew Lanahan, Katherine Ellway, and Caroline Steinway; and two granddaughters, Alice and Elizabeth Falkes. Funeral Friday, April 18, 11 a.m., St. Thomas Church, Fifth Avenue at 53rd Street. No flowers. Donations in his name may be made to the Soup Kitchen, Holy Apostles Church.

  —

  “I see you’ve taken back your maiden name,” Harry commented when he read the notice. “Inspired by my daughters-in-law,” Eleanor said. “I’m giving it a trial. I always disliked the awkward alliteration of Eleanor Phipps Falkes. Like a rude limerick.” Harry stared at her. “We’re all Phipps Falkes,” he said. “Yes,” she said.

  Eleanor bought the coffin she wanted from Herbert Brothers Funerals, a plain cedar box, lined in white linen. Will came along to close the deal. She liked that Herbert’s had the word “funerals” in their name and not “chapel,” but when the salesman pointed her toward their collection of Chinese ginger jars, sized perfectly for her “loved one’s cremains,” she almost bolted. Will put his hand on her arm, as if to say, “I’ll take care of this.” Herbert’s wanted to sell her one of their deluxe models, the Porsche of caskets, a spruce burl number, hand carved, silk-lined, and priced just below a Steinway grand. “It’s wrong for my husband,” Eleanor said. “He’d want something along the lines of a Jewish-type coffin, a simple wood box.” When the salesman demurred—“Your husband was such a distinguished man, so many important people will be attending the service”—Will took over. “If you don’t have what we want, Mr. Herbert, please tell us,” he said. “We’ll go somewhere else. This is tiring my mother out.” His voice was even, almost pleasant, no trace of annoyance or irritation creeping in. Rupert would have done exactly the same thing, Eleanor thought, but sooner and with an edge of menace.

  The funeral at St. Thomas was longer than Eleanor would have liked, but she wanted music, Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor and, of course, “Jerusalem,” and she knew the partners and parishioners expected orations on Rupert’s passing, as they called it. Passing to what? she thought. Jim Cardozo showed up. Harry and Sam spoke, along with Rupert’s closest friend, Dominic Byrne, a Cambridge don, and his oldest friend, John Earlham, a cricket buddy from his first years in New York. She had told them all they could speak no more than seven minutes each—twice the length of the Gettysburg Address seemed a generous allotment—and they obliged. Harry spoke humorously about sailing with his father and grandfather. “Both wanted to captain. They had this unintentionally comical Alphonse/Gaston routine. Too polite to seize the wheel, each waited for the other to defer. Sometimes, I’d just take over,” he said. “Excessive good manners can provide an opening for a young brute.” Sam was the most affecting. He had come out to his dad when he was fourteen. They were walking to church. “I’m gay,” Sam had said, not looking at his father. “Yes,” said Rupert, nodding. They kept walking.

  Among the mourners, the most visibly bereft were the old Maynard associates who believed he’d made them into lawyers. He was cremated, according to his wishes, and his ashes cast upon the waters of Long Island Sound.

  Two months after the funeral, Eleanor decided to refurbish the apartment. She laundered all of Rupert’s clothes, then gave them away to Housing Works, along with his personal effects, except his watch, an antique Patek Philippe. None of the boys wanted her to sell it but none of them wanted to own it. “Too Dad,” Harry said. “Too East Coast lawyer,” Will said. “I’m not mature enough to wear it,” Sam said. “I’ll never be mature enough,” Jack said. “I have a Timex,” Tom said. They looked to their mother to decide. Eleanor shook her head. “I won’t play Solomon,” she said. Harry stepped up. “Sam should take it,” he said. “Yes, Sam should take it,” Tom said. Jack nodded. “Sam, by acclamation, then,” Will said. Sam took it home and put it in his top dresser drawer. Andrew eyed it.

  Eleanor bought a new bed and new linens. She had the apartment professionally cleaned by a housekeeping service. It took a team of four three weeks to bring it up to her standards; she had them wash down all the walls and woodwork. She took the posters and paintings to be reframed and sent the furniture out to be reupholstered. She trashed the heavy silk curtains and put up museum shades. She bought a Christopher Farr rug for the living room and gave the old Persian, freshly steamed, to Tom, her sentimental child. The other Persians she had cleaned and put in storage. When she was finished, five months later, the apartment, like a great face-lift, looked the same but better. Every sign of Rupert, except for books and family photographs, had been purged. It smelled different.

  —

  Rupert’s will held no surprises. He left Eleanor his law firm pension and 401(k) plan. His investments, which were substantial, he left as a life interest to Eleanor and then in trust to “my sons or, if they do not survive me, their issue per stirpes.”

  Six months after Rupert’s death, Eleanor received a letter from a woman living in Brooklyn.

  October 8, 2000

  Dear Mrs. Fawkes,

  For some years, I had a relationship with your husband, Rupert Fawkes. We met in 1975 and had two children together, Hugh, 24, and Iain, 23. Rupert always said he would provide for them. I have advised them to contact a lawyer. As sons of your husband, they are entitled to their share of his estate.

  Yours very truly,

  Vera Wolinski

  The letter temporarily threw Eleanor off stride. She didn’t know what to think. After two days of mulling it over, she decided she couldn’t know. She knew that “laughing heirs” often appeared on the death of a rich and prominent man. If this Wolinski woman were a fraud, her army of Maynard lawyers would beat her back.

  Shortly after hearing from Vera Wolinski, she received a letter from a lawyer in Brooklyn. He informed her he had filed a petition in Probate Court on behalf of his clients, “Hugh and Iain Wolinski Fawkes, the natural born sons of Rupert Fawkes.”

  Rupert’s name did not appear on the birth certificates of the Wolinski boys. Nor had he acknowledged paternity. Vera said he had provided support of a thousand dollars a month for each boy and a thousand dollars for her until the younger one reached the age of twenty-three. Her account showed deposits for these funds but not from Rupert, not from anyone. The money, in a monthly lump sum of three thousand dollars, had been wired anonymously, directly into her account from a bank in the Caymans.

  The only evidence Vera could produce was an old blurry sepia photograph of herself and a man in fisherman sandals, who might be Rupert, standing in front of Toffenetti Restaurant in Times Square. Vera had never told the boys who their father was until she told them to sue Rupert’s estate.

  A hearing was set to review the claims. Harry and Will went with their mother. The Wolinski boys were blond and fair, as Rupert had been, as was their mother. A disquieting aspect for Eleanor was Hugh’s gait, which was like Rupert’s, at once languid and athletic. Both young men had graduated from the US Coast Guard Academy and were serving in the Coast Guard.

  The case was reported in the Post and Eleanor’s friends rallied around her in indignation. Eleanor remained cool and steady. The more she thought about the Wolinskis’ claim, the more she thought it not impossible that Rupert had fathered these children. Vera’s misspelling of his last name, oddly, made the relationship more likely. So did the fisherman sandals, so un-Rupert but so English schoolboy. Then there were the boys’ very British names and the spelling of Iain.

  Maynard’s lawyers swung into action, accusing the Wolinskis of fraud and threatening to countersue. They were ferocious in their attack, bombarding the petitioners with discovery requests for interrogatories, depositions, mental examinations, tangible evidence. Ele
anor began to feel sorry for Vera. She was so dogged in her pursuit of what she considered her sons’ rightful inheritance. The young men were ready to withdraw. They found the experience humiliating. It was plain they were only doing it for their mother. Rupert’s sons would feel that way, Eleanor thought.

  Eleanor’s sons were at first astonished, then bemused, then upset. They couldn’t believe their father could have had a mistress and a second family. He was so correct, so reserved, so devoted to them all. The money wasn’t an issue for them. They all had Phipps trust funds—Eleanor’s father had invested in McDonald’s too—and whether they got one-fifth or one-seventh of their father’s estate didn’t matter to any of them; there was enough money for a slew of heirs. The blow was to the family amour propre, their idea of the five brothers. They saw it too as a betrayal of their mother, except for Jack, who thought it was cool. “Who knew Dad was a Romeo?” Will punched him hard in the arm. “What was that for?” Jack said. “What did I say wrong?” Harry saw a resemblance to his father in the older boy, in his blondness and high coloring. Sam didn’t know what to think. “Could they be his?” he asked Harry. “I don’t know,” his older brother said. “They’re more like him than any of us. We’re a gaggle of mama’s boys.” He paused. “Maybe we’re not his, and they are. Kidding. Sort of.”