Stone 588 (7 page)

For the rest of the trip Phillip saw very little of London. Whenever his father inquired about how he'd spent the day he was prepared with places and descriptions borrowed off the pages of a tourist guidebook. He disliked having to fib.

Phillip gained some useful insights from his brief, fiery entanglement with Lady Irith. He learned that women were not really so physically mysterious, and that, with them, he should always have the confidence to rely on tenderness. They were so easy to please when they wanted to be. He also learned from a phone call Lady Irith made—while bare in bed with him—to her husband in Sussex, sweetly informing him that she'd decided to do a few more days' shopping in town. "Might as well get what I need while I'm at it," were her exact words Phillip would remember.

That fall Phillip began at New York University. Every weekday morning he subwayed downtown to his first class, and often he felt he got more from that ride and those making it than from the droning lectures he had to endure. He had difficulty deciding on a major study. He thought he'd head into law until he had a dull talk with a couple of bored lawyers. He finally settled on business and that turned out badly. He found the courses uninspiring. Time Management, Effective Supervision, and Marketing Plans were unrealistic and overcomplicated. He'd already been exposed, too influenced by the simpler honor-of-word no-cash-register 47th Street way of doing business. Nevertheless, he persevered, received his B.B.A. degree, and that was that. He went right to work full-time at Springer & Springer.

Edwin was relieved. His shaping had paid off. Careful not to spoil, he started Phillip out with more responsibility than salary.

Meanwhile, Phillip's older brother Norman was practicing medicine in Washington, DC. Norman had determined his direction early and never swerved from it. He had taken his premed at Cornell and graduated at a precocious eighteen; he also got his M.D. there with highest honors. He interned spectacularly at Mass. General, became a favored assistant to the Head of Cardiology. To add extra icing to his already impressive credentials he spent two years at the Center for Cardiac Care in Lyons, France, reputed to be the most advanced clinic of its kind in the world.

Dr. Norman B. Springer.

Washington was quick to take him to its most important hearts. Their anginas and hypertensions and infarcts became his charge. All the better that he was young: He was up-to-the-minute in knowledge. Good that his fees were high: It expressed self-confidence and kept him exclusive. A medium-high-up in the State Department was first to find him, and from then on he was a badly kept top secret.

"The Ambassador just got back from two bad weeks in Cairo. He's feeling shaky and his eyes look like pissholes. We're worried. Can you fit him in this afternoon? Doesn't matter how late."

Norman rarely got up to New York except for the big holidays, and he even had to miss some of those. He phoned often, talked to his parents and brother, asked about Janet, became more of a voice than a person. "If you need me for any reason I'm here," he would say long distance and Phillip would hold back from saying, "Exactly."

One Christmas visit he and Phillip went out together for a drink. Phillip wanted to go to a casual neighborhood place where they could talk easily and recoup some of their relationship. Norman chose the Oak Bar at the Plaza.

The Oak Bar was jammed with serious drinking well-offs. Cigar smoke and babble. Phillip suggested they go someplace else. Norman parried with the excuse that they'd already checked their coats. He seemed in his element, the way he apologized as he forged roughly through the crowd, aggressively wedged into and widened a space at the bar, demanded a pair of Dewar's on the rocks as though he'd been long slighted.

They touched glasses.

Norman said a perfunctory "cheers" and took a gulp.

They had thought they'd have a lot to talk about, but now they didn't know where to start. Actually they didn't have much in common, not even in their looks. Norman was shorter, about five-eight. His upper body was too chunky for his legs. The gray in his hair and the natural slackness of his mouth added years to him. On the starting line of going to jowls, was the impression he gave. The one obvious resemblance between these brothers was their eyes, of an identical shape and slate-blue shade.

"You look tired," Phillip said.

"Thanks."

"Been going with anyone?"

"Not seriously. No time for it. You?"

Phillip nodded. "You don't know her." He waved away a puff of cigar smoke that had floated into his face. "You know, you ought to at least be hving with someone, have her take care of you."

"I've got a housekeeper," Norman said with a tinge of insinuation in case Phillip let it go at that.

"I hope she's blond, Swedish, and grateful."

"Gray, Irish, and dependable," Norman admitted.

Phillip imagined what Norman's routine was like, thought he probably ate and fucked on the run, looked after everyone's heart but his own. Numerous times over the years he'd envied Norman's independence, Norman's having a profession that, no doubt, evoked more response than was possible from his own mute stones.

But not any more.

The way he now saw it Norman was the less fortunate, leading a sacrificial existence. Phillip wished there was some way he could come right out and express his empathy without the chance of its being taken as belittling.

"I've got a shot at the White House," Norman said.

"You're going to make an attempt on the President's life?"

"You might put it that way—but don't!" He glanced around. "Not in a place like this. Full of spooks."

"Sorry."

"What I meant was I might have the President as a patient. Nothing definite yet, but there have been overtures."

"How do you know?"

"His people have been checking, stirring up my background, authenticating it. Making sure I'm really who I am. Besides, the Secretary of State tipped me off on it and he's not the mind-fucking sort."

"I hope it works out."

"It could mean a lot."

Norman was obviously delighted with the prospect and Phillip was proud of him, but they kept it light.

"I thought you didn't make house calls," Phillip quipped.

"Only White House calls."

"Anyway, congratulations. I hope it works out." Phillip extended his hand.

"It's too early yet. Don't want to jinx it." Norman declined the handshake and ordered another round of Dewar's. "Sorry I didn't get up to see Janet this time," he said. "For sure next time."

"Next time," Phillip repeated as he envisioned Norman stethoscoping the chest of the most powerful man in the world and telling him to hold his breath.

In 1980, in the very early hours of August eighteenth, Edwin Springer died. He died the kindest way, of a sudden stroke while he slept. To spare his mother, Phillip took care of arrangements. Services would be held at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel at 81st and Madison.

Norman came up from Washington as soon as he got word. Phillip met him at LaGuardia. In the corridor of the off-ramp they embraced and drew solace from one another, patted backs.

Norman asked how their mother was taking it.

Her beliefs would see her through, Phillip said.

During the service at Campbell's both Phillip and Norman gave extemporaneous eulogies. They took their time about it because for this purpose there would be no other time. Said what they felt as it came to them and were not self-conscious when grief choked their words. They just paused and cried.

All one hundred of the foldaway seats in the chapel were occupied and there were people standing. Many of the diamond trade, from important dealers to journeyman cutters, had come to pay respects. Six high-ranking members of the Diamond Dealers Club acted as pallbearers. They bore the bronze coffin out onto Madison Avenue and into the waiting black Cadillac hearse. A black stretched limousine was for family. Phillip and Norman rode with their mother, Matilda Springer. It was a two-hour journey to New Milford.

The open grave that awaited was on the hilliest part of Center Cemetery; in a plot with an old but still mostly intact fancy cast-iron border. The long-ago farm-supply storekeeper Ephraim Springer, his sons, Bernard and Willard, and their wives, already lay there. Grassy thick, sunken uneven in places, the ground had grown used to having them. The mound of dirt that had been shoveled out for Edwin was off to one side, partially covered by a green canvas tarpaulin.

The family stood around the poised coffin. Cemetery attendants bided their time nearby.

No minister.

Matilda hadn't wanted one. There would be no worn religious mutterings. There was no need to impress anyone, she said; the fact was that Edwin had merely passed from this life to another just as he had passed into it from another. No reason to say farewell forever to Edwin. They were all related recurrences; they would all, sooner or later, be with him again, she promised.

Matilda Springer's sadness was like that felt for someone greatly loved who would be away for quite a while. Her eyes cried as they smiled.

The coffin was lowered.

The Springers, silent prayers said, turned and walked away. Except Phillip. He was aware that the cemetery attendants wanted to be done. He gestured them to come forward and begin. Dirt was shoveled down onto the coffin. Phillip heard the pebbles in it striking the bronze surface. He saw, protruding from the dirt along the sides of the grave, various-size common Connecticut rocks. His father deserved better.

Phillip took up a fistful of dirt. He made sure of the shovelers' eyes before he flung it down upon the coffin, where it was immediately covered over. Along with it had gone twenty-five carats of diamonds, ten of the finest-quality stones from the Springer & Springer inventory.

Now in his office in the diamond district, Springer tidied his desk. He tore off and discarded the top sheet of his large white sorting pad so, come Monday, he'd be starting fresh. The small black-faced quartz clock that was almost hidden behind the phone told him eleven forty-three. He knew it was lying, that it was always exactly sixteen minutes ahead of the truth.

He had told Audrey he'd be out at eleven thirty sharp. He'd make it this time. He called for Linda. She came in. He asked, "Will you be needing anything from the safe?"

"I doubt it. Schiff said he was coming by but he's bringing back, not taking. I've got a few things out." She had a small raised-border sorting tray in her hand. "You want to close the safe now?"

"I suppose Mal can close it when he gets here."

"Close it," Linda advised.

Offhand, Springer couldn't remember what the dealer Schiff had, and he didn't want to take the time now to go looking through the memo book.

"Only a few carats," Linda told him, then said archly, "I'll hide them somewhere on my body."

"Where they will surely be found."

"I wish." She put her tray and its contents into the safe, careful with it, so as not to disturb the sorting she'd done.

Springer's intercom buzzed. One of the phone lines was blinking on hold.

"Who is it?" Springer shouted out to the receptionist, who was actually only ten feet and a partition away.

"It's Gayle," the receptionist shouted back.

"Tell her . . ." His intentions seemed to hit a wall. "Oh, shit," he muttered and picked up the receiver, said a mannerly hello.

"Where the hell are you?" Gayle asked.

"You dialed."

"You said you'd be here midmoming. Jamie's been waiting over an hour."

He knew what she was pulling. "You bitch," he said.

She wasn't fazed. "Jamie is extremely upset with you. He asked me to call."

"Gayle, last Tuesday I told you I'd have to be out of town this weekend."

"Nothing of the sort. You told me you'd be here Friday midmoming."

"No."

"I'm a liar then, is that it? You're calling me a liar again."

"If the pot fits, sit on it."

That got to her. Her biggest battle with her body was her butt. "You don't deserve visitation," she said.

"Where's Jake?"

"He's right here, but don't call him Jake."

"He's hearing all this?"

"What do you expect?"

"Put him on." The phone was handed.

"Hi, Dad."

Springer detected an undertone of disappointment in the eight-year-old's voice.

"What do you say, Jake?"

"Not much."

"How's the elbow?" A grass-burned elbow from some volleyball they'd played last weekend.

"Almost gone."

"I can't be with you this weekend, Jake."

"Where you going?"

"Out of town," Springer said evasively.

After a pause Jake told him, "That's okay."

"You sure?"

"Next time can we go up to see Mr. Malo and Mr. Bueno and those guys?"

"Maybe. You weren't supposed to mention that."

"She didn't hear me. She went to the bathroom for a minute."

"Everything's Jake, right?"

"Sure."

The disappointment was gone from his voice.

"You're not miffed?"

Jake laughed. "Not at you."

"That's my boy."

"Here she is."

Gayle came back on. "Well"—she sighed, a martyr—"now I'll have to cancel my plans. But that doesn't matter. Jamie comes first." Her voice brightened purposely. "We'll treat ourselves to a good show and have some Japanese afterward."

For perhaps the five thousandth time he wanted to strangle her.

Gayle.

Springer had made, he figured, nine or ten major mistakes in his life. She was the worst. Up until the moment they were married she was sweetness and light and willing passion to the bone. It was as though the vows that were said in that ceremony were an incantation that transformed her. Shrewed her face, voice, body, and disposition. Springer chalked it up to newlywed nerves for as long as he could. Then he began questioning his judgment. It seemed impossible to him that he hadn't perceived the way Gayle really was. Had he been that blindly smitten? Of course, she wasn't shrewish all the time. To treat someone badly with maximum effect, he has to be granted a portion of good treatment every so often.