“Yes, she probably is. But she has taken me for granted.”
“Ah,’’ said the perceptive Emily. “Ah.”
“Don’t ‘ah’ me.’’ We both laughed, then I said seriously, “But I’m not
acting
different to get her attention. I really
am
different.”
“How so?”
“Well, I got drunk last night and slept outside, and I growled at a woman.’’ Since Emily is my good friend, I was happy to tell her about my morning, and we were both laughing so hard, someone—I couldn’t see who—opened the door a crack and peeked in, then shut it.
Emily took my arm. “Do you know that joke—‘What is a real man’s idea of group therapy?’ Answer, ‘World War Two.’”
I smiled tentatively.
She continued, “Beyond midlife crisis, John, and male menopause, whatever that is, is the desire to simply be a man. I mean in the most basic biological sense, in a way no one wants to speak about in polite company. To fight a war, or knock somebody over the head, or some surrogate activity like hunting or building a log cabin or climbing a mountain. That’s what your morning was about. I wish my husband had let himself go once in a while. He started to believe that his paper shuffling was not only important, but terribly challenging. I’m glad you cracked up. Just try to make it a constructive crack-up.”
“You’re a very bright woman.”
“I’m your sister, John. I love you.”
“I love you.”
We stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, then Emily asked, “Does this new fellow next door, Bellarosa, have anything to do with your present state of mind?”
It did, though I didn’t completely understand myself how the mere presence of Frank Bellarosa on the periphery of my property was causing me to reevaluate my life. “Maybe . . . I mean, the guy has broken all the rules, and he lives on the edge, and he seems at peace with himself, for God’s sake. He’s completely in control and Susan thinks he’s interesting.”
“I see, and that annoyed you. Typical male. But Susan also tells me he seems to like you.”
“I guess.”
“And you want to live up to his estimation of you.”
“No . . . but . . .”
“Be careful, John. Evil is very seductive.”
“I know.’’ I changed the subject. “How long are you staying?”
“Gary and I fly out early tomorrow. Come out and see us. We have a perfectly horrible shack near the water. We eat shrimps and drink Corona beer, we run on the beach and swat mosquitoes.’’ She added, “And make love. Bring Susan if you wish.”
“Maybe.”
She put her hand on my arm and looked me in the eye. “John, you have to get out of here. This is the old world. No one lives like this in America anymore. This place has a three-hundred-year history of secret protocols, ancient grievances, and a stifling class structure. The Gold Coast makes New England look informal and friendly.”
“I know all that.”
“Think about it.’’ She moved toward the door. “Are you going to hide in here?”
I smiled. “For a while.”
“I’ll bring you a drink. Scotch and soda?”
“That’s right.”
She left and returned in a minute with a tall glass filled with ice and soda water and a whole bottle of Dewar’s. She said, “Don’t leave without saying good-bye.”
“I may have to.”
We kissed and she left. I sat on a stool and drank, surveying the room filled with table linens, silver pieces, crystal, and other objects from what we call a more genteel age. Maybe Emily was right. This world was half ruin and half museum, and we were all surrounded by the evidence of former glory, which is not a psychologically healthy thing, or good for our collective egos. But what lies out there in the American heartland? Dairy Queens and Kmarts, pickup trucks and mosquitoes? Are there any Episcopalians west of the Alleghenies? Like many of my peers, I’ve been all around the world, but I’ve never been to America.
I stood, braced myself, and made another foray into the caldron of boiling family blood.
I walked upstairs where I knew there would be fewer people and went into the turret room, which is still a playroom for kids as it was when I was a child. There were, in fact, ten children in there, not playing make-believe as I had done, but watching a videotape of a gruesome shock-horror movie that one of them must have smuggled in. “Happy Easter,’’ I said. A few heads turned toward me, but these children had not yet learned intelligible speech and were picking up points on how to become ax murderers.
I shut off the television and removed the videotape. No one said anything, but a few of them were sizing me up for the chain saw.
I sat and chatted with them awhile, telling them stories of how I had played in this very room before it had a television. “And once,’’ I said to Scott, age ten, “your father and I made believe we were locked in here and it was the Tower of London and all we had was bread and water.”
“Why?”
“Well . . . it was pretend.”
“Why?”
“Anyway, we made paper airplanes with messages written on them, asking for help, and we sailed the planes out the window. And someone’s maid found one and thought it was for real, and she called the police.”
“Pretty stupid,’’ said Justin, age twelve. “She must have been Spanish.”
A little girl informed Justin, “They can’t even read English, you dope.”
“The maid,’’ I said with annoyance, “was black. There were a lot of black maids then and she read English and she was a very concerned woman. Anyway, the police came, and Aunt Cornelia called us downstairs to talk to them. We got a good lecture, then when the police left, we got punished by being locked up for real, in the root cellar.”
“What’s a root cellar?”
“She locked you up? For what?”
“Did you ever get even with the maid?”
“Yes,’’ I replied, “we cut off her head.’’ I stood. “But enough about last Easter.’’ No one caught the subtle humor. “Play Monopoly,’’ I suggested.
“Can we have the tape back?”
“No.’’ I walked out into the hallway with the videotape, sadder but wiser.
I felt like sitting in the root cellar again, but as I made the turn in the hallway, I ran into Terri, a stunning blonde, married to my cousin Freddie, one of Arthur’s brainless sons. “Well, hello,’’ I said. “Where are you heading?”
“Hello, John. I’m checking on the kids.”
“They’re fine,’’ I informed her. “They’re playing doctor and nurse.”
She gave me a tight smile.
“Have
you
had your complete physical yet?’’ I inquired.
“Behave.”
I walked over to a door across from the stairs and opened it. “I was on my way to the attic. Would you like to join me?”
“Why?”
“There are beautiful old gowns up there. Would you like to try some on?”
“How’s Susan?”
“Ask Susan.”
Terri seemed a little nervous, but I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or considering the possibilities. I closed the attic door and moved toward the staircase. “I guess we’re too old for make-believe.’’ I started down the stairs, slowly.
“What’s that?’’ she asked, pointing to the videotape in my hand.
“Trash. It’s going in the garbage.”
“Oh . . . those damned kids. . . .’’ She added, “I’m glad you took it away from them.”
“That’s my job. Uncle Creep.”
She laughed. “I wish Freddie would do that once in a while.”
“It may be a lost cause. But it’s our duty to civilization to try.”
“Yes.’’ She looked at me and smiled. “You’re very casual today, John.”
“I’m having an identity crisis, and I don’t know how to dress for it.”
“You’re crazy.”
“So what?’’ I stared at her.
She didn’t reply, and I could see the hook was in, and all I had to do was reel up. This, you have to understand, is a woman who is used to men sniffing and drooling around her and has about fifty polite and impolite ways of handling it. But now she was just standing there, looking defenseless and ready for my next move. I started feeling guilty or something, so I said, “See you later.”
“John, could I talk to you about a will? I think I need a will.”
“You do if you don’t have one.”
“Should I call you?”
“Yes, I’m in the city Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Locust Valley Monday and Friday. We’ll have lunch.”
“All right. Thanks.”
I went down the wide winding staircase, my feet barely touching the steps. I was on. I was magnetic, charismatic, interesting. I believed it, and that made it so. And I didn’t even need my thousand-dollar cashmere sport jacket or my ninety-dollar Hermès tie. I had power over men and women. Children next. I wanted to tell Susan, but maybe I should keep my mouth shut and see if she noticed.
I also knew I should quit while I was ahead, before I got cornered by old people who are very good at scoping out a room, sizing up their prey, and making telepathically coordinated moves until they’ve got you cornered.
I dashed for the front door, pretending not to notice two male cousins who were calling my name. A lot of people are named John.
I got outside, bounded down the porch steps, and hurried down the street, stopping only long enough to throw the videotape down a storm drain. I jumped into the Bronco and drove off.
It was twilight, and I drove slowly with the windows down, breathing in the cool air.
I like to drive, because it is one of the few times I am unreachable. I have no car phone with answering machine, call-waiting, and call-forwarding, no CB, no car fax, ticker tape, telex, or beeper. Only a fuzz buster.
I do have an AM radio, but it’s usually locked into the U.S. Weather Service marine forecast out of Block Island. I like weather reports because they are useful information, and you can check the accuracy for yourself. And the guys who deliver the marine forecast talk in a monotone, and they don’t make jokes, like the idiots on regular radio or TV. They report an approaching hurricane in the same tone of voice they tell you it will be sunny and mild.
I turned on the weather station, and the voice recapped the day’s weather without telling me what a nice day it had been for the Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue. I learned that cumulonimbus clouds were on the way and that heavy rains were expected for Monday morning, with winds from the northeast at ten to fifteen knots, and there were small-craft advisories. We’ll see.
I drove for another hour or so, but traffic was starting to get heavy, so I headed home. Sunday evenings have never been a good time for me, and under the best of circumstances I’m moody and turn in early.
Susan came home after I’d settled into bed with the lights out. She asked, “Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
“Are you feeling well?”
“I’m very well.”
“Your mother and Aunt Cornelia were wondering if there was anything wrong with you.”
“Then they should have asked me, not you.”
“You avoided them. Your father was disappointed he didn’t have a chance to speak to you.”
“He’s had over forty years to speak to me.”
“Do you want to speak to me?”
“No, I want to snore. Good night.”
“Emily passes on her best wishes. Good night.’’ Susan went downstairs.
I lay very still and looked up at the dark ceiling, feeling about as good as I’d felt in a long time, and about as bad as I’d ever felt in my life. What had happened to me in the last few days, I thought, was both apostasy and apotheosis; I had abandoned my old faith, and in the process had acquired new godlike powers. Well, that might be overstating the case, but certainly I wasn’t the same man I had been a few weeks ago.
After a few minutes of metaphysics, I closed the door on the day. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, and I imagined myself out on the ocean at night, alone with my boat, the waves breaking over the bow, and the sails filled with wind. It was a good feeling, but I knew that ultimately, when the storm broke, I could not handle the helm and the sails alone. Wondering what to do about that, I fell asleep.
We left the library, and as we walked along the mezzanine, I said, “Why don’t you go right to the Colombians and explain that you’re being set up?”
“Caesar does not go to the fucking barbarians and explain things. Fuck them.”
I could see that my straightforward Anglo-Saxon logic was not what the situation called for, but I said, “A Roman emperor
did
go to Attila the Hun to talk peace.”
“Yeah. I know that.’’ We started down the sweeping stairs, and Bellarosa said, “But what good did it do him? Made him look bad, and Rome got attacked anyway. Look, when people go for your balls, they’re saying you got balls. As soon as they think you got no balls, they treat you like a woman. You might as well be dead.”