The Keeper of Dawn (14 page)

We reached the Mayhew Estate by way of a narrow lane on the
outskirts of town. Elm trees, placed at such regular intervals that we never
entirely left their shade, flanked the road, the dull yellows and browns of
early autumn mottling their leaves. By the time we reached the three-story
Gothic Revival mansion that crowned the hilltop, the length of the drive and cover
of foliage made it feel like we had left Greenwich far behind.

The home had been built by an Austrian count of Hapsburg
lineage. After fleeing his homeland during the First World War, the count
oversaw much of the estate’s construction, including planting the Avenue of
Elms and shipping the home’s stately furniture from Europe. The estate stayed
in the family until 1975, the year Anna-Magdalena, the count’s widow and a woman
greatly admired throughout the community, died peacefully in her sleep.

The ground floor was occupied by a succession of dazzling
chambers, each as enormous and ornate as the last. Built for European nobility,
the rooms were as beautiful as they were unlivable. The furniture—all of it
dark, heavy wood that looked like it had been pulled out of a cathedral—were
the original pieces brought over from Austria. Being much too large for all but
the most magnificent homes, and too monstrously heavy to move, the furniture
had remained in the house when the Mayhews moved in.

We were introduced to Derek’s three older brothers—Zack, Todd
and Travis—on the second floor where the furniture was considerably smaller and
more modern. Handshakes, slaps on the back, and even a bear hug took place as
they welcomed Derek home.

Todd was loud, authoritative, always talking on the phone,
his Adam’s apple protruding from his broad neck like a chiseled arrowhead. Travis
was jovial and laid-back, shouting a string of profanities at the
Michigan-Notre Dame game on TV. The only time he got up was to jump on Derek’s
back, which started a wrestling match that ended in Derek pinning his older
brother to the floor. This would be the first of many wrestling bouts between
the brothers, who were constantly testing their strength against one another. Later
that night, an inebriated Travis would grab Roland from behind and hoist him in
the air. Startled, Roland hung there like a lifeless doll until Travis got
bored and set him back down.

Zack, Derek’s oldest brother, happened into the room with a
.22 caliber rifle slung over his shoulder. “Hey, aren’t you the son of that
governor?” he asked Chris, taking a bite out of an apple.

“That depends,” Chris said.

“On what?”

“On if you’re a left-wing Commie bastard who plans on
shooting me with that .22,” Chris replied.

“Quite the opposite,” Zack said, his broad grin revealing a
sliver of apple peel. “I always vote Republican.”

“You wouldn’t if you knew the dirt I had on the Governor.”

“Everybody’s got dirt on their old man.”

“Ain’t that the truth. What’cha hunting?”

“This? Oh, it’s just for shits and giggles. Here, let me
show ya.”

Zack led us over to the French windows that overlooked a
crescent-shaped swimming pool in the rear of the house. Surrounding its
perimeter were stone statues of the Greek deities.

“Popped one right after the other,” he said, pointing to a
pair of dead sparrows by the pool. “The second one was too stupid to fly away.”
He laughed and took a loud bite out of his apple.

Roland looked stunned, but Derek just shrugged and said,
“Zack’s a sniper.”

“You partial to birds?” Chris asked.

“Anything that moves,” Zack said.

“So squirrels are free game?”

“Absolutely. I’ve been hunting one all morning.”

“Then this is your shining moment, Ace,” Chris said,
positioning himself behind Zack. “Your next victim just so happens to be
sitting on Artemis’ shoulder.”

“Who?” Zack asked, gripping the gun with both hands.

Chris pointed over Zack’s shoulder to a statue of a woman
aiming a bow skyward. A small squirrel sat on her right shoulder, both paws
held to its mouth as if in prayer.

Zack slowly raised the gun, bringing the barrel level with
Chris’ arm. But then the squirrel scurried behind Artemis’ head, leaving its
bushy tail curled around the statue’s throat like a necklace of grey fur.

“Patience,” Chris whispered.

Zack remained motionless, his eye pressed to the gun’s
scope.

Everyone in the room crowded around the window, eyes
transfixed on the statue. The only noise was the football game playing in the
background. Then, proceeding with caution, the squirrel scurried to the top of
Artemis’ helmeted head.

CRACK!

Everyone flinched. The squirrel dropped to the ground,
nearly falling into the pool, and I realized Zack had missed his mark only when
it doubled-back and shot into the bushes.

“DAMN!” Zack shouted, knocking over the chair. “Damn! He was
mine. All mine!”

Everyone groaned their disappointment.

“Dumbass,” Todd said. “You shot the statue’s nose off. Mom
is gonna kill you when she finds out.”

“Well she’s not gonna find out,” Zack said. “She never even
goes out there.”

“Then maybe I’ll tell her.”

“Then maybe I’ll shoot
your
nose off.”

This led to yet another wrestling match, during which Derek
took us down to the pool. “She needed a nose job anyway,” Chris said, examining
Artemis’ face. Zeus and Hades stood nearby; Hercules and Dionysus faced off
from the other side; at the far end, Poseidon rose from the water, brandishing
his trident. Derek looked at the mutilated statue with a knowing smile, as if
to say, “Zack’s done it again.” Roland kept his eye on the second-story window,
perhaps fearing that the barrel of a gun was bearing down on him. Before we
left, he scooted the dead sparrows under a bush with his foot.

Derek led us on a brief tour of the estate. There were
flower gardens, formal gardens, an orchard, a greenhouse no longer in use, a
stable and adjoining pastures, two spring-fed ponds, and a reflecting pool. A
black lab named Shadow accompanied us, at ease in her regal surroundings.

The tour ended with an introduction to Wolfgang and Strauss.
Derek led us back to the library, talking like the famous conductors were still
alive and performing for the Mayhews. Two hyacinth macaws were perched in
separate cages, their bright tails standing out in the drab library. Wolfgang
and Strauss had belonged to the previous owners. No one knew their exact age,
but they were rumored to have been alive before the estate was built. Derek
told us that in the final year of her life, Anna-Magdalena, suspecting that her
beloved pets would outlive her, had it written in her will that whoever
purchased the estate would care for the birds. The Mayhews were more than happy
to oblige, though it wasn’t until after they had moved in that they learned how
ill-tempered the macaws had become in their old age. But what they lacked in
congeniality, they made up for with an extensive vocabulary. Over the years,
Anna-Magdalena had read many of the books in her extensive collection to her
children. These readings had always taken place in the library, with Wolfgang
and Strauss repeating bits and pieces of what they overheard. Anna-Magdalena’s
favorite author had been Charles Dickens, and she had continued reading his
novels aloud even after her children had died, partly out of habit, but also
because it kept the English language fresh in her mind.

Much to Derek’s disappointment, the birds were fast asleep. The
only time they moved was to crack open an eye when we approached their tall
cages. This changed, however, the moment Zack entered the room.

“Hey, Todd is looking for you,” he told Derek. He had a beer
in one hand and the .22 in the other.

Both birds immediately became alert. Strauss began pacing
back and forth; Wolfgang fluttered his wings.

“What about?” Derek asked.

“Didn’t say,” Zack said, taking a drink. “You showing ‘em Tweedledee
and Tweedledum?”

“Yeah, but I can’t get them to talk.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

As soon as Zack approached Wolfgang’s cage, the agitated
bird let out two piercing chirps that echoed from the vaulted ceiling. “He’s
sick to me!” the bird shrieked. “Two legs, two legs! REEEE! REEEE!”

“Man, I forgot how much they hate you,” Derek said,
laughing.

“The feeling is mutual,” Zack said. He finished his beer and
tossed the empty can into the fireplace. Then he reached forward and gave
Wolfgang’s cage a good shake. The bird reared his wings back and lunged his
beak at Zack’s fingers, but Zack moved his hand just in time.

“Starting talk!” Strauss chirped. “His talk come again! Wolfgang
teaching talk! REEEE! REEEE!”

“Not so fast, are ya?” Zack continued to tease Wolfgang,
repositioning his hands and giving the cage another shake.

“I’m surprised you still have all your fingers,” Chris said,
looking amused.

“They’re too slow. And stupid. Aren’t ya? Aren’t ya, stupid?”
Zack shook the cage again.

“More! I want some more!” shrieked Wolfgang, his talons
scurrying over his perch. “Please sir, replied Oliver, I want some more!”

“I’ll give ya some more, featherhead!” Zack taunted. “They
go on and on like this. Who knows what the hell they’re talking about.” Then he
shook his gun at the caged animals. “I’d shoot ‘em both if I could.”

Out of friendship toward Derek, I had silenced my mother’s
criticisms that so quickly came to mind. I had never been to Greenwich before,
but thanks to Mother, I already knew what the neighbors were thinking. If the
sporadic gunfire hadn’t kept them away, the unspoken rules of established
families surely had. Even the two opinionated macaws seemed to be aware that
something was out of sorts.

“Come again! Come again!” shrieked Wolfgang.

“Yeah!” Zack shouted. “Let’s get this party started!”

People started to arrive after dinner, filling the cavernous
rooms with a college-aged crowd. We sat in the over-sized furniture of the
formal room, content to watch the guests arrive. Girl after girl swung open the
walnut-paneled doors and crossed the Italian marble entryway to the rear of the
house as if magnetically pulled by the reverberating bass of the music.

As much as Chris and Derek bragged about sex, it seemed
uncharacteristic for them not to socialize. Perhaps all the dry, sexless weeks
at Wellington had rendered them numb. It was enough to sit and watch; we needed
something to push us back into the social norm. Alcohol seemed the perfect
solution. Drinks were served poolside from a swan-shaped, crystal punchbowl. We
lingered by the stereo before migrating downstairs to a mahogany bar to watch
Derek’s cousins shoot pool.

“A Cuban?” Roland asked when Chris pulled out a cigar.

“No idea.” He smiled devilishly. “Lifted it from a guy
outside.” He closed his eyes and ran the cigar beneath his nose. “You want
half?”

“You know I can’t,” Roland said.

“Not a smoker?” Derek asked.

“I promised my father I’d smoke my first with him if I get
accepted into West Point.”

“What do you mean
if
?” Chris asked. “The day General
Van Belle’s only son doesn’t get into West Point is the day this country
renounces its red, white and blue.”

“My father doesn’t believe in favoritism. If I get in, it’s
by my own merit,” Roland said, his eyes watery from the punch.

“I can’t picture Roland at the Point,” Derek said after
Roland had left for the bathroom.

“You heard the deal about sealing letters with blood, right?”
Chris said, slicing the tip off his cigar. “All true. His father’s a born soldier.
It wouldn’t surprise me if he slept in his uniform. The man’s a legend at West
Point. They say the men in his platoon didn’t mind dying for him one bit.”

“I’ve heard horror stories about that place,” Derek said,
shaking his head.

“Boys go in, and men come out ready to die for their
country,” Chris said, lighting his cigar. “And then there’s Roland. Last year
his old man enrolled him in a military school in upstate New York. He lasted
three weeks before his mother pulled him out. And you have to know Mrs. Van
Belle to appreciate that. She doesn’t even speak unless given permission. No
one disobeys orders in that family. Roland never talked about what happened. Not
even to me, and he tells me everything.”

It baffled me that Roland was the product of such a strict
military family. He had witnessed the far-flung, inflamed corners of the
globe—military camps of West Berlin, soldiers marching at dawn in South Korea,
weary veterans returning home from Southeast Asia. But if these experiences had
left their mark, it was only on the surface. Instead of telling Mr. O’Leary’s
class of Vietnam or the Blood of Kings, Roland talked of his friendship with a
Jesuit priest from South Africa, which had left the classroom too confused to
form an opinion. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see an ounce of soldier
in him. Roland Van Belle III was tragically incompetent, and I admired him
greatly for it.

When he returned, Derek wisely changed the subject by asking
if we had seen Samantha.

“Who?” I asked.

“Samantha,” Derek said, sounding insulted. “You know, the
girl next door.”

How could I forget? He had talked about her for nearly the
entire ride to Greenwich.

“Have I showed you this?” he asked, unfolding a picture. It
depicted a model in a camisole and metallic skirt walking down a runway. “It
was taken in Milan.”

Chris whistled. “Damn. You don’t fool around.”

“This girl is going to be
here
?” Roland asked. “Tonight?”

“Yep,” Derek said.

“She shouldn’t be too hard to spot,” I said.

“All right, back off. I don’t want any drool on it. Just
tell me if you see her.”