"Shark?" I said. "I thought he was fighting the dead chicken." Susan smiled and put her arm around her son. She said, "You're as stubborn and pigheaded as your father."
"Thank you," said Edward.
We sailed into The Seawanhaka Corinthian late Monday afternoon, sunburned and exhausted. A boat is sort of a litmus test for relationships, the close quarters and solitude compelling people into either a warm bond or into mutiny and murder. As we tied the Paumanok up to its berth, the Sutters were smiling at one another; the sea had worked its magic.
But you can't stay at sea forever, and most desert islands lack the facilities for a quick appendectomy. So we tie up our boats, and we tie ourselves to our electronic lifelines, and we lead lives of noisy desperation. I knew that the bond that the Sutters had renewed on the Paumanok, while solid in most respects, had a serious fissure, a fault line if you will, which ran between husband and wife. The children were not holding us together, of course, but they did draw us together, at least while they were around. But that evening, as I sat by myself in my study, I realized that I wanted this summer to end; I wanted Carolyn and Edward back at school so that Susan and I could talk, could connect or disconnect.
On Friday, the four of us drove out to the Hamptons, and I listed our house with the realtors for a quick summer sale. Alas, the summer was already a few weeks old, and most of the Manhattan turkeys had already been plucked. This, combined with a shaky stock market, high mortgage rates, and some nonsense about an income tax increase, was depressing the summer-house market. Nevertheless, I asked for a cool half million, which the realtor wrote down as $499,900. "No," I said, "I told you half a million."
"But -"
"I'm not looking for stupid buyers. List it my way." And he did. Even if I got the half million, I wouldn't see-much profit after I paid off the existing mortgage, the realtor's commission, Melzer, the IRS, and, of course, the, new capital gains. God, how depressing. More depressing still was the fact that I liked the house, and it was the only solid piece of the earth that I owned. So we spent Friday afternoon on our shingled bit of Americana, packing a few personal things that we didn't want around when the realtors brought customers through. Everyone was sort of quiet, and I suppose the reality of the situation was sinking in. Another reality, in case it crossed your mind, was that Susan could indeed come up with the money to pay off our tax debt. I don't know exactly how much the woman has (I'm only her husband and a tax lawyer), but I estimate about six hundred thousand dollars, which spins off perhaps fifty thousand a year for pin money. She doesn't spend that much, and probably it is ploughed back into the stocks, bonds, and whatever. But asking an old-money heiress to touch her principal is like asking a nun for sex. Also, I don't think Susan is as fond of the Hamptons or our house there as I am. There are some practical reasons why this is so, but I think there is a psychological thing going on there that she is barely aware of, which has to do with whose home turf is whose. Anyway, we took care of the house, shopped for groceries, then had a drink on the porch. Edward said, "If you don't sell it by the time I get back from Florida, can we come out for a few weeks?" I replied, "If I can spare the time."
Carolyn said, "Dad, you take every August off."
"Yes, because taxes, though as inevitable as death, can be put off for a month. This year, however, I have a client with more serious problems than taxes, and I have to stay flexible. But we'll see."
They both groaned, because 'we'll see' is father talk for 'no'. I said, "No, really. We will see what happens." I added, "You can both come out on your own if we haven't sold the place. Perhaps your mother would like to join you." Susan said, "We'll see."
And that seemed to be the phrase of the moment, because the future was beginning to look tentative, subject to change without notice.
At seven P.M. the Sutter clan dutifully made the short trip to Southampton to visit Grandma and Grandpa Sutter, who were so overcome with joy at our arrival that they shook our hands. They own one of those glass and cedar contemporaries with every convenience known to late-twentieth-century American civilization. The house is actually on a computer/timer sort of thing, with all types of sensors that draw blinds open and shut depending on the sun, water lawns if they need watering, shut off lights if no one is in the room for more than five minutes, and so on. But as there are no uric acid sensors, you do actually have to flush your own toilet.
My mother announced that she would rather go directly to the restaurant instead of sitting and having a drink there, so we turned around and left in separate cars, meeting in the village of Southampton on Job's Lane. This is an interesting street, one of the oldest in America, going back to the 1640s, though none of the buildings actually go back that far. But speaking of Job, of all the miseries that God visited on that poor man, none – I repeat, none – could have been as bad as having to go to dinner with Joseph and Harriet Sutter. Well, perhaps I exaggerate. But I do say this: There are times when I would rather eat worms in a root cellar than go to a restaurant with my parents. Anyway, we had reservations at a trendy new place called Buddy's Hole. In the Hamptons, the more modest the name, like Sammy's Pizza or Billy's Burgers, and/or the more loathsome the name, like Buddy's Hole, the more pretentious the place will be. My parents, always avant-garde, seek out these dreadful places, filled with the dregs of the American literary world (which is barely distinguishable from the cream), and has-been actors, never-been artists, and a smattering of Euro-trash who probably swam here to sponge off the millionaires. I myself, oddly enough, prefer the old-guard places of the Hamptons, dark, civilized sort of establishments with no hanging asparagus plants, and a menu that could be described as ancienne cuisine, heavy on the fatty Long Island duck and light on the kiwi fruit.
Be that as it may, we were shown to a nice table for two with six chairs around it and no tablecloth. On the floor under the table was a cat, which is supposed to be cutesy, but I know they rent them and rotate them like they do with the hanging plants. I've seen the same fat tiger cat in four different restaurants. I have little tolerance for these hip places, as you may have gathered, which may explain what happened later.
Well, to continue my complaining, the noise in the place sounded like the soundtrack in the Poseidon Adventure when the boat flips over, and the air-conditioning engineers hadn't taken into account that people might show up. We ordered drinks from an irrepressibly friendly little college girl who didn't seem to realize we were not nice people.
My father, as patriarch, held up his glass as if to propose a toast, and we all did the same. But as it turned out, he was only checking for water spots, and having found some, he called the waitress over and reprimanded her. She was so bubbly and fascinated by the water spots that I began to think she was on a controlled substance.
New drink in hand, Dad examined the glass again, then set it down. So I proposed a toast. "Here's to being together, and to a summer of love, peace, and good health."
We touched glasses and drank. A vicious hanging fern kept trying to get its tendrils around my neck, so I ripped some of them off and threw them on the floor where the rent-a-cat was rubbing against my leg. Just as I was about to punt the fuzzy beast across the room, a college kid, probably on Quaaludes, dropped a full tray of food, and the cat, who like Pavlov's dogs, knew by now that this sound meant food, took off like a shot. I said to Susan, "I'm going to recommend this place to Lester and Judy."