Shadow of the Son, page 7
“We had dinner, the three of us. In spite of the awkward beginning, it turned out to be an entertaining experience.
“I am not a particularly jealous man. I don’t know why that is, but I am not. What Anne had done before she and I met was hers. I played no part, and any relationships she might have had, I was quite able to put aside under the heading of ‘before.’ The ‘after’ belonged to me, and I will always be grateful for that blessing. I don’t think I am belittling her by saying that I was not her first lover. Perhaps I should not be talking about this, but we are adults, and people are people.
“I suppose all would have ended well, and this would be all I have to tell you, but Bromley had brought his own car and offered me a lift to the train station. I agreed. I had not pushed Hugo to tell me what he knew for the simple reason that I felt it would upset him, and such is our relationship. I would rather err by not pursuing a hurtful subject, even if it was about Anne’s past. Bromley had a Porsche sports car. He drove it immensely fast and with the top down. There was little chance for conversation. I got out with my bag, but before he drove off, he said to me as if we were discussing the weather or a horse, ‘That girl of yours enjoys the whip. Something to put in your file. Safe trip.’ And off he drove, as if there was nothing in the world the matter.”
I looked at Johnny. He had a lost look on his face. John Sr. caught his expression as well and said, “I am sorry you had to hear that, but it is what we don’t know, those things that are so unknown we can’t even conceive of them, that are most likely to cause us harm. It was certainly true for me at that moment as Bromley drove off. If either of you would prefer to take a break at this point, I can do that, but know that there is more.”
Johnny said he wished to visit the bathroom but would like to hear the rest of what his father had to say. I elected to stay.
When Johnny had left, I said, “This is hard on him. He is quite sensitive when it comes to her.”
“He is, but as I said, this man will test us all. Don’t think for a second this won’t come up. He’ll find a way when Johnny is the most vulnerable to spring it on him and then what? Johnny explodes and exactly at the wrong time. Action. Reaction. With the truth known, we no longer need react to the collapse of what we thought we knew when it is confirmed. We are less likely to be compromised. I have debated telling both of you, him in particular, but a little pain now will prevent a great deal later on, when you will have need of all your faculties—and believe me, you will need them this weekend.”
Johnny entered the room. He looked out of sorts, but he had a resolute expression on his face, and that was the best I could hope for.
“I’ll continue with my story,” said John, Sr. “I did not immediately seek out Anne but decided to keep Bromley’s comments to myself. I canceled the trip to Geneva, including my business there, and went in search of your mother, Percy. She lived in Florence, and I went to see her to find out what Bromley knew that I didn’t. She told me what had happened, but only after a great deal of effort and emotional turmoil.
“The story she told was this. In her final year at school, Anne had a dark period. She and Mary were roommates in Lausanne. Anne had been depressed but had seemed to make an unexpected recovery. She was less gloomy but more prone in the opposite direction. She would take constant risks, even in as simple a matter as crossing the street. She would giggle at her close escapes from being run over. She had also started drinking early in the day, and Mary grew alarmed. One afternoon, Mary came back unexpectedly to the room they shared, and Anne was in the shower. Anne stepped out, not knowing Mary was there. Mary saw that much of Anne’s body was covered in welts, as if she had been struck forcefully many times. Anne tried to cover herself, but Mary saw what she saw and demanded to know the answer. Anne explained that she was seeing a man, and that by feeling pain, she felt better. In fact, she liked the sensation very much. I will spare you the details. Mary then did a very brave thing. She confronted the man in person and threatened to expose his abuses to the school unless he left her alone. An agreement was reached, and that was that. Hour by hour and day by day, Mary helped Anne through her crisis.
“She hardly left Anne alone until she recovered. Anne in many ways owes Mary her life. They graduated from the school and moved to Florence to study art and work in the auction business. There, they learned the ins and outs of the art world. What Mary hadn’t told Anne was that she had fallen under the man’s spell, and they had become lovers. She kept her affair secret and made sure that Anne had no further contact with him. That man was Lord Bromley, your father, Percy, whom Anne hasn’t seen since. As I said before, we will all be tested.”
Johnny threw his cigar into the fire and stood up. “I think I’ll kill him,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Sit down!” commanded John Sr. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“The guy’s an abomination!”
“That he may be,” John Sr. replied.
“I’ll still kill him,” said Johnny, scowling as he sat back down.
John Sr. took a drag from his cigar before continuing. “Do you know why I have only a single painting in my office and no other, Johnny?”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“You’ve seen it. Describe it to me.”
“It’s a large Lichtenstein of a smoldering wreck in the far distance and the words ‘This is going to cost me!’ in one of those cartoon bubbles from someone in the wreck.”
“That is correct, and do you know why I have that painting, and only that painting, on my office walls?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I have it because of my decision to cancel that meeting in Geneva. The bitter truth is I was played. Guess who drove to Switzerland and picked up the deal that I’d abandoned?”
“My father,” I said.
“What?” said Johnny.
“Precisely. I never want to forget that. Bromley showed up at the exact right time and said the exact right things, and what did I do? I let my heart rule my head, and it cost me personally a large sum. It cost Dodge Capital many times more than that. He knew exactly what he was doing. This is the man who will be coming to this house and come he will. It’s time to settle accounts, but it won’t be done with emotion. It will be done with brains, because in the end that is all we really have to keep us from becoming like those we dislike most. Johnny, your mother did what your mother did. Was it wrong? How can we know? We are not her. She has her shortcomings, as do we all, but she is the complicated woman that I love, and that is good enough for me. And it has to be good enough for you, too, Johnny.”
I watched Johnny take hold of his rage. Finally, he nodded and said, “I’m sorry, Father. And I’m sorry Percy. We’re in so much trouble.”
“Maybe,” said John Sr., “but maybe not. We need to work together, and above all, we need to play smart. It’s either that or become like him, and then we’ll all go to jail for having killed him.”
13
I left father and son together in the library and found Dagmar in the kitchen sitting at her table, the spot she reserved for serious conversations.
“Dagmar, I’m sorry if I’ve kept you up.”
“Not at all,” she said. “I was making tea. Please sit down.”
Dagmar laid out a service. When all was prepared, and the tea poured, she seated herself and said, “You’re back earlier than expected. Stanley has spoken to me of your concerns. Perhaps you can tell me more specifically?”
I briefly sketched out the events of the last week.
Dagmar looked thoughtful when I had finished, although I had told her much that she likely knew already. The kitchen was the information center of all that concerned Rhinebeck. What was known there was often surprising in its details, but Dagmar as well as Stanley understood that taking the emotional pulse of those in their charge and managing the fluctuations, was as important as the accumulation and processing of information. Dagmar looked at her hands and then at me before she spoke.
“If you’re looking for what to do specifically as to the several points you mentioned, I cannot tell you, although I have some thoughts, and perhaps some words that you should heed. Would you like to hear them?”
“I think anything you say would be helpful.”
“Very well. I’ll be brief, for it is late. In regards your fiancée, the most useful tool to have in a kitchen is a sharp knife. Your lady has a hard edge, and she has likely done things that many would object to. She is both smart and beautiful, and that is as much a burden as a help. Likely she has had to use that hardness to keep her place in the world. Her ladyship was no different in that regard. If I had to choose a life’s companion, I’d pick a sharp knife with a hard edge to have by my side. I keep no dull knives in my kitchen, and you shouldn’t either, but yours is not my kitchen.”
Dagmar paused and sipped her tea.
“Now, this weekend is likely to be filled with tension. I’ll keep that in mind when I prepare the menus, which I would rather you leave in my hands. Stanley has briefed me on the participants and his decision to allow your father to set foot here. I make no objection on that point, but as to the running of the house, the less you need to decide on, the better. Leave everything to us—all of it. Your wits are best applied in other directions, judging from what you’ve said.”
Dagmar continued, “In that regard, Johnny will need minding. He’s a good boy, but loses his way when it comes to women, particularly his mother. He broods, like you. Keep him busy, even if you have to make up tasks for him to complete. It happens often enough. A kitchen maid feels low, boyfriend troubles, who knows? I will have her make the dish again, not because she got it wrong, but because she didn’t get it right. Her attention was on her hurt. I’ll shift her mind until all that’s left are the working hands. No sorrow goes out to those that eat what I prepare, unless I choose it. Being in charge is as much about finding suitable work to do as managing what is done. Does what I’ve said make sense?”
“It does,” I said. “I’ll leave all the arrangements for this weekend up to you and Stanley. I’ll also speak with Bruni. You and I are of similar minds regarding her, but I doubt it will be easy. She is not for the meek, but as you pointed out, there is a price to everything.”
“I am pleased to hear that, although I fear you may be tested. Understand that it is our own willingness to accept what we’ve received that determines how we feel, and whether we are truly happy with it. Now, you wish to know whether your intuitive gift will return?”
We had arrived at what was foremost in my mind.
“Will it?” I asked.
“It is the question. Gifts and aptitudes of the kind we’re speaking about are strange things. They can slip through our fingers if we’re not careful. Often when they’re gone, they’re gone. Having said that, I may have a way, but know that such a method is by no means guaranteed. What you may receive might be different from what you expect. Consider carefully your decision before you choose. Is that understood?”
“It is.”
“Very well. Before we spoke, I gave Stanley something to leave by your bed. Drink it before you sleep and remember: all remedies can harm as well as heal. I’ve answered your questions and said what I’ve had to say. I will say good night now as I’ll be up early.”
14
I stopped by the library to see if Johnny and his father were still up, but the lights were out. I went in, poured myself a small single malt, and lit a cigar. I sat in one of the leather chairs in front of the fireplace and gazed into the orange glow of the dimming coals. I smoked, drank, and considered what to do.
John Sr. had said that I might find a way out of my labyrinth by being clever and bright. The truth was I had always felt that Johnny had those qualities in far greater quantities than I. Often I was jealous of his brilliance. The troubles he created for both of us were the result of a mind that needed excessive stimulation to feel alive. I was smart enough to see that need in him, but not clever enough to avoid its consequences. Rather than learning to think for myself, I remained content to be an audience of one, even if the price of admission included being dragged onto the stage as a participant in his adventures as if they were my own.
Our relationship had changed when I had fled to California, but having returned, I still depended on him a great deal. This was not necessarily a weakness, I realized. Utilizing the talents of those around me was not something to be cast aside merely to prove my own specific worth; nonetheless, tonight’s decision was mine, and mine alone. I was elated by the possibilities the opportunity might afford me, but equally anxious as to the possible results.
The dilemma was familiar. I was often too afraid of losing to take many chances. Decision-making, I had once naïvely reasoned, ought to be established on a firmer foundation than trusting to chance and subjective probabilities, but reality had proved altogether different. Success, I discovered, depended as much on luck and on taking calculated risks as hard work. It was a truth that I’d protested, and my many attempts to better myself at risk-taking had only perfected my capacity to worry and grow anxious.
The intuitive gift I had received when I was last at Rhinebeck had changed all that. It had allowed me to understand that luck ebbed and flowed through everything, and with it something else. I could see the patterns that lay before me and was able to risk more while worrying less. I had also felt wonderfully alive and connected to the world.
I debated whether that intuition had been a crutch—another excuse to give up thinking for myself to avoid personal responsibility. Perhaps it was, but like the relationship between Johnny and me, I needed to strike a better balance. As I considered that, I knew that I would give anything and everything to regain that sense of certainty. I thought to myself that if death was the only long-term outcome, then why not be brave, and trust that all would turn out well? It surely beat dying incrementally each and every day.
I arose and threw my cigar into the fireplace. It was now or never. I left the half-finished drink for someone else to clean up. I was certainly paying people enough to do so. I’d had enough of being afraid.
I walked down the hall from the library and stopped for a moment before the door of Alice’s apartment. I had some trepidation about sleeping in what used to be her bed, but it was either that or climb the several flights of stairs to my old room at the top of the house. There was also the drink that Dagmar had concocted that Stanley in all likelihood had placed on the nightstand. I reaffirmed my decision and opened the door.
Once again, I admired the tasteful mixture of gray and black and the unusually thick carpet. Stanley, or one of the staff, had left the light on for me in the sitting room. The hidden library beckoned silently, but waking Stanley because I set off an alarm was something I didn’t want to do. I turned off the light and made my way to the bedroom through the connecting door. The lights were on, and the bed turned down. On a side table was a small, cut crystal glass containing a dark liquid placed in the center of a small white linen napkin. Beside the drink were two modest but ancient-looking volumes. I took off my jacket and tie and draped them over the chair in front of the table and mirror that Alice had used to apply her makeup. All her cosmetics, brushes, and combs had been removed. The picture of Alice in fancy dress wearing the Egyptian necklace had been placed there instead. I picked it up. She gazed back at me from beneath the glass inside a polished silver frame. I touched the surface above her face and thanked her for all she had done for me. I said a silent prayer to help me, if she could, and put the picture down. A pair of pajamas and a bathrobe had been laid out for me. Stanley had thought of everything.
Having changed and gotten ready for bed, I sat down on the side closest to the little table and the drink. As usual there were no directions or indications of what would happen if I drank it. Perhaps that was just as well, I thought. I picked up the glass and sniffed it. There was a hint of alcohol, which meant it was a tincture of some kind, but I couldn’t anticipate its taste from the smell. I looked at the liquid closely, but other than being opaque and reminding me of black coffee, the contents gave no further information, even after holding the glass up to the light. Resolved to carry through, I downed the mixture in one swallow. The taste was one I wouldn’t recommend: a hint of mint and cinnamon perhaps, but with a strong, earthy aftertaste. I waited for an effect, but there was none.
Stanley had placed a two-volume set of Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria for me to read. To my delight, they looked to be first editions published in 1817. There was a note in Stanley’s spikey script beneath them advising me to read chapter XIV concerning the “willing suspension of belief.” I thought that entirely appropriate. I lay down on the bed and began to read Coleridge’s lengthy prose. Whether it was his words or the tincture, I felt myself slipping away. I was barely able to switch off the bedside light before I felt myself falling.
15
I awoke disoriented and barely able to move in what appeared to be early morning. I was lying on my back looking up at the dark trunks of cypress trees that stretched up toward the streams of gray clouds that scudded above.
Where am I?
I lay still to try and orient myself. I watched the wind gusts whip the treetops and heard the surrounding grove moan and sigh in answer. The trees bent and straightened in a syncopated rhythm above me, calling out to each other for reassurance in stuttered groans.
If I’m quiet as a mouse, I thought, no one will find me.
