Rodin's Debutante (5 page)

Bert Marks cleared his throat and said, That's a marvelous idea, Tommy. Really generous and farsighted. Naturally it'll take some time, getting things started. Extensive renovations to the house and outbuildings, recruitment of a headmaster and faculty. Recruitment of boys. It can't happen overnight. Bert smiled gamely. His great skill as a lawyer was delay and obfuscation when an unmanageable, potentially dangerous problem presented itself. A problem he wanted to make go away. Amazing how many problems vanished when you drew them out, taking one baby step at a time, finding difficulties within difficulties, and all the while toiling away at out-of-town trips, depositions, and necessary fact-finding, a remorseless search for precedent. It wasn't called due diligence for nothing. Still, it was also a fact of life that Tommy, once settled on a course, was hard to divert.

Nonsense, Tommy said. I expect these matters to be completed by September, latest.

I'm not sure about that, Tommy, Bert said. It'll be hard getting all our ducks in a row ... Bert wondered where in the world Tommy Ogden had hatched such a scheme. Only once had Bert ever heard him talk about education and that was this very evening, another context entirely, something about a headmaster—my God, how many schools had Tommy been to?—from Ipswich. He never went anywhere except for shooting expeditions and South Side Chicago for evenings Chez Siracusa. He never read a newspaper. He had no thirst whatever for information unless the information related to firearms or wild animals. He knew no educators or, for that matter, boys. And then Bert wondered if it was one of the tarts Chez Siracusa making mischief, talking sadly about opportunities that had come and gone owing to bad luck, bad cards, unreliable men, and a shabby education. Maybe one of them had said something about school, a nasty incident that had prevented a career on the stage or a Michigan Avenue dress shop.

You can have all the help you need, Tommy said.

Bert nodded.

You're in charge. I'm giving you an open checkbook.

Bravo, Tommy, Susan Billington said. A wonderful idea.

Are you going to be headmaster, Tommy? Marie's voice was a silky purr filtered through a cat's malicious grin. I can't wait, she went on. Headmaster Tommy Ogden. It's a simply thrilling idea. I'm especially looking forward to my duties as headmaster's wife. Are we going to give your boys afternoon tea?

That's idiotic, Tommy said. I'm giving them Ogden Hall. I'm giving them an endowment. I'm giving them Bert. And I'm walking away. I will have nothing more to do with Ogden Hall except make damned sure that it doesn't fail.

It's going to cost a lot of money, Bert said.

I've got a lot of money, Tommy said.

I don't think you realize—

Don't tell me what I can or can't realize. This school can't cost more than I've got. You worry about the school and I'll worry about the money.

Yoo-hoo, Tommy. I have a question, Marie said, raising her hand as if she were a student in a classroom eager to participate in the discussion. Who's "them"? Who exactly are you giving Ogden Hall to? Who are the lucky beneficiaries?

That's Bert's job, Tommy said.

What do you think, Bert? Are you going to put an ad in the
Trib?
Marie smiled brilliantly, false to the core. You'll need a board of trustees along with Tommy's second-to-none faculty and the wonderful wellborn boys who'll constitute the first class. Where do they come from? All those boys so hell-bent on discovering how the world works. Marie took a moment to look around the vast dining room with its portraits of Lily and Henry flanked by sporting scenes, men with firearms stalking elk, elephant, duck, and pheasant. One fine Indian miniature proposed a maharajah skewering a tiger with a ten-foot lance. She tried to imagine refectory tables and raucous adolescent voices, a solemn grace before meals. Boys throwing buns.

I will make inquiries, Bert said quietly.

Stay out of this, Marie. You don't know what you're talking about. Tommy reached again for the whiskey decanter.

It's a fine gesture, Susan Billington said.

Bert Marks coughed and said he had to be going.

Good luck, Tommy, Bill van Horne said.

You could be one of the trustees, Billy. Man of your experience and tact, you'd be a natural. Tommy and I would be grateful. Help us out in this way.

I'm retired, Bill van Horne said.

It's a retiree's job, Bert said.

Yes, Tommy added. It's time we all gave something back.

Back to what? Bill said.

Back,
Tommy said and seemed to falter at giving further explanation. To Illinois, he said finally.

Well, Bill said, we can think about that later when everything's in order. When Bert has his ducks in a row.

Forget about the ducks, Tommy said.

What about me, Tommy? Marie's voice was seductive. Can't I have a role? I could take charge as the school nurse, all decked out in a white uniform and a wimple. I took a course once in emergency medicine. Filthy boys, they pick up all manner of disease. They are unclean. They must be watched constantly.

Tommy looked sharply at Marie, believing she had said "washed," washed constantly, exactly the sort of coarse remark expected from one who had grown up among Indians. Tommy opened his mouth to reply but in the end said nothing, rising instead to signal that the evening was ended. The company was already in the hallway collecting coats from Francesca and retreating to the porch. The evening was chilly, unusual for the season. Feathery mist, white as a shroud, rose from the wet grass and hung in the heavy air. The night was still. Tommy stood in the doorway of the dining room, placidly sipping his drink, watching his friends file into the night. From his look there was one last thing he wished to say but did not know how to go about it. From somewhere in the forest came the cry of an owl, the sound reminiscent of a train's whistle.

Good night, Tommy. Good night, Marie.

Good luck with Rodin, Bert said.

Tommy barked a laugh. Forget it, he said loudly. There won't be any Rodin, not now and not a month from now. That's finished. I have news! I got word just before dinner, my agent in New York. Tommy stepped onto the porch, still holding his drink. Now he lit a cheroot and watched the flame and the smoke rising in the darkness. No one had ever seen him use tobacco. Tommy blew a thick smoke ring and said, There're troop movements all over Europe. The Hun is marching south to the Somme. He paused, allowing the news to register. He had followed events in Europe with care, paying attention to weapons and tactics, the order of battle, paying particular attention to regions he knew well—the Dordogne for boar, the Kleinwalsertal for mountain goat, the Pripet Marshes for duck, and now he decided to give his guests the benefit of his expertise. You see, first Germany declared war on Russia, already mobilizing to defend little Serbia. In support of Russia, France mobilized against Germany. Germany invaded Belgium. The British swine have declared war against Germany and the French have declared war on Austria-Hungary. Now everyone is mobilized and there's more to come, Italy and the Netherlands ... And here Tommy foundered. Where exactly did Italy fit in? And Japan was somewhere in the mix, he couldn't remember where. Hard to keep them straight, the wretched nations of Europe. Tommy said, There's cheering in the streets of Berlin and Vienna. They're saying that the war will be over by Christmas, but it won't be over by Christmas this year or next, mark my words. The blood's up. The cat's among the pigeons.

Satisfied, Tommy stopped there, amused at the disbelieving faces of his dinner guests. This news was hard to credit on a quiet summer evening in Illinois. It was difficult to imagine armies on the march and the roar of cannon and harder still to understand public jubilation. My God, thought Bert Marks, did no one remember Antietam barely fifty years past, twenty-three thousand dead and wounded from sunup to dusk, the battle fought to a stalemate. But Europeans had no memory of anything outside their own orbit. They were obtuse, dumb as oxen. Perhaps Tommy had his facts scrambled. It wouldn't be the first time. The war had been predicted for so long that it was hard to take seriously now, and in any case it would be fought over there, Berlin, Brussels, Vienna, even Tokyo if Tommy was to be believed. And to think he had kept this news to himself all evening long, preferring instead to discuss his ridiculous boys' school. For a moment no one said anything and the party trooped to their cars amid tepid good-nights.

Tommy turned to Marie. So you can forget about your damned Rodin and your villa in the south of France. You can't get there from here, my pet. Europe's cut off. The boats won't be sailing.

You're crazy, Marie said. You're as crazy as that hoot owl. She turned and went back inside the house.

Bert Marks heard her and looked up to see Tommy Ogden standing alone on the porch of his vast domain. He seemed to savor the evening air, so soft, so seductive. The owl cried once again, a kind of swoon. Tommy cocked his head as if listening to distant gunfire. And then he wheeled and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. Bert remained alone in the driveway, waiting for the denouement that was soon to come. He was thinking of Antietam but listening to the raised voices inside Ogden Hall, Tommy and Marie having at each other. Tommy's bass rumble, Marie's screech.

And the next sound was an explosion of splintered glass and a moment later Marie's wild laughter, rising and falling and rising again, laughter that went on and on. Bert did not linger. He had heard it before.

T
HE TOWN OF
New Jesper was located on the western shore of Lake Michigan north of Chicago, named for the same eighteenth-century French missionary who had founded the smaller Jesper downstate. A megalomaniacal missionary and sensualist, according to my father, probate judge and civic leader, and self-described amateur historian. The Abbé Jesper left his name wherever he went and he was widely traveled: farther west was Jesperville and other variations north into Wisconsin and Minnesota. Haut Jesper and Lac du Jesper were fashionable fishing camps north of Green Bay. Most of the settlements had long vanished. There was not much history in our New Jesper or around it for my father to explore. Indian tribes had roamed the region for a thousand years, but of them little was known. The Fox and the Sac were peaceable for the most part but after an uprising in the early nineteenth century were expelled from the territory, pushed west and north—and the trail ended there. They were not industrious Indians, leaving little account of themselves; or perhaps they were only discreet and suspicious, clannish like the Roma. They had no written language. They left no high art or architecture of the sort characteristic of the more flamboyant southwestern tribes. Nor had they any military skill. Here and there were burial grounds and odd bits of sculpture from religious sites, not much that was notable or collectible. The Sac and the Fox were presumed to have a nomadic civilization but evidence was scant; at least, not much came down. One thousand years of traveling but no souvenirs.

My father was not sentimental about the Indians—"damned savages"—but he was perplexed, spooked, as he said, by their mysterious history, how they organized themselves, their family life and religious beliefs, how they got on from day to day. Were there courts of law? My father had a fine appreciation of ambiguity, eccentricity, love, ambition, and spite, having dealt with wills and trusts for most of his adult life, but he could not figure out the Indians. In our part of Illinois they had left virtually nothing of themselves, only now and again an arrowhead or skull discovered in a farmer's field—and who knew if the skull was Sac or Fox or one of the violent pioneer homesteaders, even Abbé Jesper, whose fate was also unknown, though communities in both Wisconsin and Minnesota claimed him.
They were here first,
my father said—and he said it with the awe and respect a scientist might express in reference to a groundbreaking colleague, a Pasteur or a Newton. They were here first yet almost nothing was known for certain. Where is their Stonehenge? My father was a practical man, no way a romantic or friend of the occult. But he did believe that the wandering souls of the Indians were present in New Jesper and the surrounding countryside. The souls were not malevolent. They did not cause grief or misfortune. But they were disappointed and most watchful, especially in the autumn, Indian summer. My father believed they were souls in turmoil, unreconciled with themselves or their territory. This led him to suppose that New Jesper was like a game board with a piece missing, leading to the usual asymmetric results. My father believed our town was not quite whole.

NEW JESPER'S SITUATION
was attractive. When the great glacier retreated in millennia past it left an escarpment straight as a ruler for twenty miles. Below the plateau—"down below the hill," we called it—were railroad tracks that ran from Chicago to Milwaukee and beyond. We thought of the tracks as bound north because they originated in Chicago and everything north of Chicago was wilderness, more or less. We stood with our backs to the wilderness, an open door with nothing behind it but lakes and forests and small towns like our own. The open door led nowhere with its terminus the Arctic. On clear nights we saw the white hell-born glow of Chicago, an unvirtuous city prodigious in its turbulence and variety, its dash, the capital of our region, at times magnet, at times repellent. Chicago was uncomfortable as the wilderness was uncomfortable. We in New Jesper were poised between two eternities, neither here nor there. My father believed we were superior to both, being small and therefore manageable. We charted our own course, taking care always to avoid Chicago's muscle to the south and the forbidding wilderness to the north.

This is what we had in New Jesper. Behind the railroad tracks were the steel mill and the auto parts plant and the Bing Company that made tennis rackets and the harbor that brought raw materials to those industries. And behind them was the vast gray lake with its befouled beach. The industries discharged waste directly into the lake, oil and chemicals and sludge that contaminated the water and caused fish to die. There was a suspiciously high incidence of cancer among the residents of New Jesper but that was not evident until much later. In any case, the lakeshore was littered with dead fish. New Jesper was a mill town, neither more nor less. Chicago was a mill town too, but its farsighted founders saw to it that the lakefront was kept pristine, conceiving of Lake Shore Drive as a kind of prairie corniche. The North Shore suburbs followed suit, their lakefront reserved for sandy beaches and above the beaches the sprawling mansions of meatpacking barons and merchant princes, even a cemetery or two.