Authors: Nelson DeMille
The elderly, God bless them, can and do say whatever they want, even if they don’t get it quite right. I replied, politely, “I’m back.”
“Well, you never should have left in the first place. Miss Stanhope had all the suitors she wanted, and from some of the best families.”
Everyone was suppressing smiles, and Mrs. Cotter, happy for the opportunity to speak up for Miss Stanhope, continued, “This is a fine young lady, and I hope you appreciate her.”
“I do.”
Mrs. Cotter seemed content to leave it at that, and Susan said to her, “My parents are here, Mrs. Cotter, and I know they would want to say hello.”
And then something strange happened. Mrs. Cotter said to Susan, “Thank you, but I have no wish to speak to Mr. Stanhope.”
Well, that stopped the show. Then Mrs. Cotter said to her nurse, “We can leave now.”
Elizabeth walked with them to the lobby, and Susan and I went back to our seats.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. But, I thought, William must have been a particularly difficult employer, tight as a drum, and not overly generous with the severance pay. I was happy to have my very low opinion of William validated by Mrs. Cotter in front of his daughter.
Susan did comment, “I seem to remember some friction between Dad and Mrs. Cotter.”
To lighten the moment, I said, “She certainly put me in my place.”
Susan smiled and said, “She doesn’t remember, but she liked you. She said I should marry you.”
We left it there, and I went back to dividing my attention between my watch and the arriving mourners. I noticed now some people who were obviously friends of Elizabeth, male and female, and also a few women who were so badly dressed that they could have been her customers. I suppose I’ve been conditioned since childhood to look down on the nouveaux riches, but they themselves make it easy for people like me to make fun of them. I mean, they are a bad combination of money without taste, and conspicuous consumption without restraint. And they seemed to be taking over this part of the planet.
After about half an hour, I was bored senseless, so I didn’t notice that my mother had arrived until I realized that Susan was speaking to Harriet, who was standing with Elizabeth in the first row.
Harriet looked at me and asked, “Aren’t you going to say hello, John?”
Bitch
. I stood and apologized. “I’m sorry, Mother. I was deep in prayer.”
She actually smiled at that, then she, Susan, and Elizabeth continued chatting.
Harriet, by the way, was wearing a coarse cotton dress of multi-colors, and I was certain that it was the mourning dress of some fucked-up tribe that lived in some fucked-up jungle in some fucked-up country somewhere. Harriet was multicultural before it became fashionable, and any culture would do, as long as it wasn’t her own.
So, before she started dancing around the coffin throwing burning bananas into the air or something, I excused myself and escaped to the sitting room. Tom and Laurence were taking a break, and I sat with them. I said, “Explain to me again how you can be partners and be in different businesses.”
We all got a good chuckle out of that, and Tom confessed, “I thought I had a mother-in-law from hell, God rest her soul, but your two are straight from the inferno.”
I replied, “Oh, they’re not so bad.”
Tom said, “Well, I’m only going by what Elizabeth used to tell me, and she got most of that from Ethel. So I’m sorry if I misspoke.”
I conceded, “They’re not the most likable people. But they do have some good qualities.” I was in a don’t-give-a-shit mood, so I explained, “They’re rich and old.”
That got a good laugh, and Tom said, “Well,
big
congratulations on your coming marriage.”
So I sat there awhile making small talk with Tom and Laurence, glad for the company. Then William walked into the big sitting room with an older gent, and he saw me, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Well, that wasn’t going to stop
me
from being polite and respectful to my future father-in-law, so I held up my hand and flashed two fingers.
William turned away and sat with his friend.
Tom asked me, “Are you leaving?”
“No.”
“Oh, I thought you just gave William the two-minute warning.”
“No, I was giving him the Peace sign.” I explained, “Sometimes I just give him the middle finger.”
Tom and Laurence thought that was funny, so I expounded on that and said, “When I was dating Susan, William and I used to argue about the Vietnam War, and I’d flash the Peace sign, and he’d flash the Victory sign, which is the same thing. Right? Well, we got some laughs out of that, and then I started giving him the middle finger, which he didn’t think was so funny, so he started to shake his index finger at me as a warning that I was pissing him off, and then I would wiggle my pinky—like this—to make fun of his small dick.”
Tom and Laurence were laughing, and people were starting to notice, including William, and also the Reverend James Hunnings, whom I just noticed, and who was giving me a look like he was about to shake his finger at me. Anyway, I thought I should leave, and I excused myself.
Back in Parlor A, I sat in the rear and watched the comings and goings, and basically zoned out. The smell of the flowers was overwhelming, and the wall sconces had these stupid flickering lights that could bring on a seizure.
My mind drifted back to George’s funeral again, and I recalled that Frank Bellarosa had actually shown up, which caused a little stir in the crowd. I mean, it’s not every day you get a Mafia don at Walton’s, and I wondered if the mourners knew he was there because of me. And for Susan, of course. I hoped everyone just thought that Bellarosa had come because he lived in the neighboring estate.
In any case, Frank arrived with Anna and they knelt at the coffin, Catholic-style, crossed themselves, and bowed their heads in prayer. I swore I saw George trying to roll over. After paying their respects to the deceased, the Bellarosas turned and shook hands with everyone in the first row, expressed their condolences, and, thankfully, left.
I had no idea why he’d shown up in the first place, except that it was my understanding that the Italians never missed a funeral, no matter how remote their relationship might be with the deceased. They must scan the obituaries every morning, then call around to see if anyone knew Angelo Cacciatore, or whomever, and then make a decision about going to the wake based mostly on not wanting to insult the family. Even if it wasn’t their family.
Anyway, Frank Bellarosa had other motives for taking a half hour out of his busy criminal life to come to George Allard’s wake, and to send a huge flower arrangement; he wanted to ingratiate himself into my and Susan’s life. Actually, he was already screwing one of us, and at that point, it wasn’t me.
But I promised Susan I wouldn’t think about those things, so instead I thought about happy things, like seeing Edward and Carolyn, being with Susan again, and the slippery bathtub in the Stanhopes’ guest bathroom.
After about twenty minutes, I got up and checked out the floral arrangements along the walls. I knew a lot of the senders, including my old pals Jim and Sally Roosevelt, who I understood would not be coming to New York for Ethel Allard’s funeral, though they knew the Allards for forty years. Also in that category was my sister, Emily, who I wished had come in, just for the family reunion, but Emily has as little as possible to do with this world, having long ago decided that our mother is crazy, and that everyone else who lived here was stuck in the unhealthy past.
And speaking of Harriet, I figured out right away that the potted geranium sitting on a stand had come from her. Harriet is very green, so no one gets cut flowers from her. Usually, for an occasion, she brings or sends something like potted parsley or dill, or whatever. I mean, she’s nuts, but at least she didn’t bring a tomato bush to Walton’s Funeral Home.
I saw a very big arrangement whose card said it was from John, Susan, Carolyn, Edward, William, Charlotte, and Peter. I knew why the first four names were on the card, but I didn’t know why Cheap Willie, Airhead Charlotte, and Useless Peter couldn’t send their own flowers. Just being on the same card with them gave me stomach cramps. How was I going to spend the rest of William’s life being nice to him?
I looked at the other flower arrangements, and it was nice to see so many names from the old days, people who may have moved on, but who had gotten word of the death of Ethel Allard, who, for all her faults, was a good church lady, a good friend to a select few, and one of the last links to the days of the grand estates and the ladies and gentlemen who once lived in them—a world that she detested, but which, ironically, she was more a part of than she understood.
I glanced at the cards on a few other flower arrangements, then found myself staring at a small card pinned to a very large spray of white lilies. It said,
Deepest Condolences
, and it was signed,
Anthony, Megan, Anna, and family
.
W
e stayed until the only one left in Parlor A was Ethel.
We saw Elizabeth to her car, along with her son and daughter, and Susan asked her, “Would you like to join us at home for a late supper?”
Elizabeth declined, but I pressed her, wanting company so I wouldn’t have to speak to the Stanhopes.
Elizabeth sensed this, but told us that Tom and Laurence were going to stop by her house, which I thought was very civilized, so we invited them as well, and Elizabeth called Tom on his cell phone, and he and Laurence were happy to join us. I love spontaneous parties, and I suggested to Elizabeth, “Let’s invite Uncle . . . what was your uncle’s name?”
Susan cautioned me, “We don’t want to overwhelm Sophie.”
The Stanhopes didn’t seem too happy about the company, and that made me happy.
So we all got on the road, and at about 9:30, I approached the gates of Stanhope Hall.
My remote still worked, but as I drove through the opening gates, a young man in a silly sky blue uniform stepped out of the gatehouse—now the guard house—and held up his hand.
I stopped, and he asked me, “Who are you here to see?”
I replied, “Me. Who are
you
here to see?”
I straightened him out and told him to leave the gates open for the next two vehicles, then I proceeded up the dark drive.
William commented, “Well, that’s a fine thing. Can’t even get into your own property. In our community, Palmetto Shores, every security person knows every resident or their cars. Isn’t that right, Susan?”
Susan replied, “Mr. Nasim just began this service, Dad.”
But William went on, singing the praises of his and Charlotte’s, and I guess Susan’s, gated paradise. I really needed a drink. More importantly, I think Susan was already tired of Mom and Dad, and they’d been here only four hours.
But to be nice, I said to everyone, “I’m really looking forward to Susan and me coming to Hilton Head. Palmetto Shores sounds great.”
The back of the car fell silent, and I continued on, parked the car, and we all went inside.
Susan had called ahead to Sophie, who was in the kitchen trying to rustle up enough grub for nine people—ten, if we could get ahold of Uncle What’s-his-name.
I did my guy thing and set up a nice bar on the kitchen island, and Susan helped Sophie. But William and Charlotte, as always, were useless, and they sat in the living room with martini number five.
Elizabeth arrived with Tom Junior and Betsy, and Elizabeth asked, “What is going on at the gatehouse?”
Susan explained as I made drinks for everyone, and Elizabeth commented, “That’s sad . . . but I still have good memories of living there.” Elizabeth then asked if I had a Tuscan red, which reminded me of our first and last date. I asked her kids to raise their right hands and swear that they were twenty-one, which made them and their mother smile.
I had a great idea, and went into the living room and got a framed photo of Carolyn and Edward and said, “They’ll be here tomorrow night. Maybe the four of you can go out.”
Susan said, “John.”
That means something different every time, but it usually means, “Shut up.”
Elizabeth, however, said, “That would be nice.”
Tom and Laurence showed up, and I had to explain about the guards and the paranoid Iranian. They both thought that was exciting, but I could see that Elizabeth was starting to think there was more to this, and she glanced at Susan, then at me, and I nodded.
This gave me another great idea, and I said to Susan, “Let’s call the Nasims and ask them to come over.”
“I’m not sure what they can eat or drink.”
“I’ll tell them to bring their own food.” I added, “Mr. Nasim would love to speak to your father about Stanhope Hall.”
“I don’t think my parents are up for much more company.”
That was why I wanted to invite the Nasims. I said, “Amir and Soheila might be hurt or insulted if we didn’t include them in our funeral rituals.” I asked Elizabeth, “Would you mind?”
She replied, “Not at all.” She added, “They knew Mom for nine years, and they were always very nice to her.”
“Good.”
Laurence was following the conversation and inquired, “Can we ask him who wants to kill him and why?”
I replied, “Of course. He’s very open about that.”
I felt the balance tipping in my favor, but then Susan said, “No. Some other time.”
So the Stanhopes would have to forgo a multicultural experience. Maybe I’d invite the Nasims over for dinner and include my mother. She slobbers over third world people, and she’d be proud of me for having Iranian friends.
Anyway, by 10:30, we were all a little lubricated, and we sat in the dining room and passed around platters of hot and cold salads, which I was afraid might agree with William and Charlotte. I’d insisted that they sit at opposite heads of the table, and to make sure they had no one to talk to, I placed Susan, me, and Elizabeth in the middle, and I placed Tom and Laurence on either side of William, and Tom Junior and Betsy on either side of Charlotte. I’m good at this.
William and Charlotte excused themselves early, as I knew they would, and by midnight everyone left, and Susan, Sophie, and I were cleaning up.