The Last Summer of the Camperdowns (3 page)

“I hear they’ve done so much work at the house in Truro in anticipation of the great homecoming. Apparently, he’s bringing some of the horses up from Virginia. Can’t wait to see them. Brooklyn is expected to take the Derby. I’m not surprised. Even as a boy, Michael always was the first to cross the finish line.”

I glanced at her sideways. Italics became her. “Who is Michael Devlin?” I asked.

“Well, good luck to Michael Devlin, Esquire, and his fantastic horses,” Camp said. In Camperdown-speak, “esquire” was a pejorative.

I repeated the question. “Who is Michael Devlin?”

My parents continued to ignore me. Camp turned back to his newspaper, the reading of which was a form of ornate daily ceremony that would have impressed the Aztecs. My father took current events personally. Every day brought some new confrontation with a foreign leader with his head up his ass. I watched, flinching in anticipation as his demeanor abruptly changed, his eyebrows meeting at a bitter point of consternation. Uh-oh. I braced for point of impact. Looked as if another CEO son of a bitch had backhanded the proletariat.

“Goddamn it,” he said.

“What is it now?” my mother asked warily, glancing over at me, trying to recruit my silent commiseration.

“Looks like we have our answer for why Michael is back.”

“Would someone please tell me who Michael Devlin is?” I asked.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Riddle,” my mother said. “You’ve heard me mention him in the past. You’ve read about him, I’m sure. Everyone’s heard of Michael.”

“I probably blocked him from my mind after hearing you talk about him so much.” I spoke flippantly enough, though even as I said it, it occurred to me there was some truth to the allegation.

Camp folded the newspaper in half and handed it to me, vigorously pointing to an article, the tips of his fingers sparring with the newsprint.

“Here, Riddle, read this.”

I grimaced—in those days, my range of expression was limited to eye-rolling and sneering—my deepening curiosity about Michael Devlin wrestling with my contrived ennui. Why should I read it? What did I care? I looked into my father’s eyes and saw simmering lakes of lava just looking for a reason to overflow. Choosing the prudent course for once, I kept my thoughts to myself and did as I was told. “International playboy and renowned horseman Michael Devlin, heir to . . .”

My mother interrupted. “Well, don’t read the whole thing verbatim. This isn’t a home for senior citizens. I loathe listening to people read aloud, especially when it’s poorly executed. Such a bore! Next thing you’ll be telling me what you dreamt about last night.”

“I dreamt that I murdered my parents,” I mumbled to an unappreciative audience.

“Condense it, for heaven’s sake!” She was still carrying on.

“All right. All right. Hold on,” I said, scanning quickly. “It says that he’s finishing up a book about his war experiences . . .”

“Jesus Christ!” Camp’s anger rattled the chandelier overhead. I could practically hear him ticking.

“The book promises to be controversial . . .”

“Ha!” Camp snorted.

“Rumor has it that it contains explosive content . . .”

“Let’s hope it blows up in his face,” Camp said.

“Should I keep going?” I said.

“Well, of course, keep going,” my mother said.

“Um, it says here that he got a big advance from Simon and Schuster. Oh, and that he’s going to donate the money to some charity for the preservation of wild horses.”

“Good for him,” my mother said. “He has been a marvelous force for good in the racing world, Riddle.”

“Alert the world press! Contact the Vatican. We have a saint that needs crowning. St. Michael of Bullshit.” My father spoke directly to me. “Riddle, do not listen to your mother about Michael Devlin. She has a splinter in her eye the size of a two-by-four when it comes to that man.”

“Riddle, look at me,” my mother ordered, going so far as to physically turn my head in her direction, my chin cupped in her hand. “Your father has been jealous of Michael since we were children. It’s embarrassing.”

“You listen here, Jimmy,” my father countered, invoking my pet name, his hand on my wrist. “That is a goddamn lie. This book, as your mother well knows, is a deliberate act of sabotage.”

My mother leaned back in her chair. “It’s not the end of the world, Camp.”

“This is a direct threat against me and my election bid. Devlin’s out to get me. Well, he’s not going to get away with it.” My father jumped up from the table, spilling a mug of hot coffee in the process. “Jesus Christ!” he said, grabbing a napkin and wiping the top of his pant leg.

“Calm down, Camp, for heaven’s sake,” my mother said, patting the seat of his chair. She looked over at me. “Please, tell him to take a deep breath before picking up that phone.”

“Are you serious?” I was fuming. “Tell him yourself. Talk to each other. Leave me out of it. I’m not the referee.”

“Someone is a little touchy today,” my mother said before turning to speak to my father directly. “Camp, relax, have lunch, cool down and then deal with it.”

Acceding reluctantly, Camp sat back down in his chair as my mother poured him another cup of coffee. “Here,” she offered. “Have a piece of chocolate cake. It might cheer you up.”

“He’s picked the wrong man to tangle with,” Camp said. “I haven’t worked this hard, come this far, to have it all undone by some effete occasional expat with a gift for revisionism.”

“Why do you hate Michael Devlin so much?” I asked as I bent down to disentangle little Vera from my shoelaces. My father’s dislikes were interesting to me. My mother, on the other hand, loathed everyone, which had the effect of curtailing my curiosity.

“I don’t hate him,” he said, a tad unconvincingly.

“How do you know him, Camp?”

“His family lived on the estate across the road, before they sold the place to the Whiffets. We played together as kids, went to the same schools, the usual nonsense.”

“Oh,” I snapped my fingers. “That Michael Devlin.”

My mother couldn’t resist chiming in. “The Devlins are enormously rich . . .”

“For Christ’s sake, Greer, rein in your fetish. I won’t have you talking to Riddle about money.”

“Relax, will you?” I could stand no more. “Why are you two so obsessed with him?”

“We are not obsessed,” my mother said. “He and your father were best friends. They even served together overseas.” She paused, considering. “I’ve known him for years. He’s an interesting man. Good-looking, too. You should have seen him when he was young.”

My father laughed in some disbelief and stared at her, a pattern of response that tended to act as precursor to the sudden appearance of a mushroom cloud.

“Ha! Inherited wealth is all that stands between him and a sink full of dirty dishes in some greasy spoon in Dorchester.”

“Ignore that man behind the newspaper,” my mother directed me. “Gin says the Devlins are the richest family on the eastern seaboard.” Gin was my mother’s combination best friend and worst enemy. He lived across the road and made a point of knowing everyone’s business. Gin was also the official president of her fan club and was frequently called on to deal with avid admirers who showed up on our doorstep, pleading for her to fulfill her regular threats to stage a comeback.

Greer was eighteen when she starred in
The Heir and the Spare
in 1946, her first big role. She won a supporting Oscar for
Brazen
in 1957 and except for the occasional stage appearance retired from performing when I was born two years later, claiming that she couldn’t be bothered any longer. No one believed her and there was ongoing speculation about why she had abandoned acting at the peak of her power and popularity, all that speculation only contributing to her mystique.

The truth is, she really couldn’t be bothered.

M
Y MOTHER CALLED FOR
Lou and then, exhausted by the thirty-second wait, impatiently poured herself a glass of ginger ale.

“Did your good friend Gin also say how they acquired all that money?” my father said finally, intruding on her money-induced reverie. “Devlin-owned factories were a disgrace, violating every tenet of decency in the history of labor relations in this country. Riddle, did you ever hear of the Thanksgiving strike in 1923?”

“Uh, I think so,” I said, pretending knowledge, a hobby of mine that has persisted into adulthood.

“Michael’s grandfather presided over one of the most violent strikes in the country, all designed to break the union. Four strikers were killed by company security men when they brought in a group of scabs to cross the picket line. And the old bastard laughed about it as he carved the turkey.”

“Pardon me if I don’t lose sleep worrying about people who buy their wine in gallon jugs,” my mother said. “Anyway, that’s just one more example of your father’s infuriating union propaganda. It’s positively un-American, Camp.”

“Oh, is it? You had better take up your concerns with your capitalist hero. He’s the one who told me and quite cheerfully, too. Recited it as if it was a recipe. He’s a pirate at heart, just like his old man. Just like his old man’s old man.”

“Michael was telling you what you wanted to hear. A common affliction among those close to you, I might add. Anything to stave off the effects of another spirit-grinding sermon.”

My mother twisted the end of her cigarette into an ashtray and reached for her omnipresent antique cigarette case, expertly extracting a fresh recruit. “Riddle, Michael has been a very successful businessman. A diplomat, too.”

My father, who had resumed his lunch with some relish, stopped eating and dropped his knife and fork. They landed with a dull thump on the tablecloth.

“Unbearable. Just intolerable. The truth is he inherited the family business, sold it for a fortune, made a phony show of abandoning his father’s politics, reinvented himself as a liberal democrat and got a sweetheart diplomatic appointment as a result of enormous campaign donations. Now he fancies himself a historian and an author, a Jesuit, too, if I’m not wrong, and a fashioner of public opinion.” Steam from his coffee curved round his lips, creating the illusion of smoke, as if he was setting fire to each word. “Despite his highly vaunted sense of self-importance and his desire to be seen as a serious man, the truth is that he’s playing tennis, for Christ’s sake. His life is one, long, achingly dull tennis match among lesser players. End of story.”

“Well,” my mother said, running her fingernail around the rim of a coffee cup, “at least he’s in the game.”

Grinning like a big cat poised to strike, my father said, “Just once, Greer, I would like to see you defend me with the same enthusiasm as you do the great Michael Devlin.”

“Why do you court disaster by being so abrasive? Michael has his weaknesses and you could use them to your advantage. He never could resist flattery. Strike a conciliatory note. Appeal to his sense of himself as the good and compassionate king. Approach on bended knee. I’m telling you, a little humility on your part and a couple of moonlit dinners with your wife will do the trick.” She smiled as I looked at her in disbelief. “I know just the outfit, too. Think how advantageous it would be if he were to endorse you for the House or throw his weight behind the campaign financially.”

“I don’t need any favors from Michael Devlin and I’ll be damned if I will abase myself to get them,” my father said. “The kind of people in the party that support me have long memories and would be appalled to see me crawling before Devlin. Anyway, you’ve lost your mind if you think Michael intends to do me any favors when it comes to getting elected. In case it escaped your notice, his support and his friendship have been conspicuously absent for many years. He’s made it quite plain where he stands concerning my candidacy.”

A look passed between them. Its intensity was bewildering—and compelling.

“What do you mean? Doesn’t he like you?” I said, unable to resist all that was going unspoken between them. Their silence frustrated me. “Camp, why do you have to run anyway?”

“I’m running for office because the like-minded bastards have taken over and . . .”

“And it’s time for a different set of like-minded bastards to assume power,” my mother finished the sentence. “Michael doesn’t like your father because . . .”

“Because I know where the bodies are buried, which is a powerful position to be in and a vulnerable position. Makes a person both predator and prey at the same time.”

“Interesting interpretation,” my mother said, savoring some secret amusement clearly designed to be provocative.

“Son of a bitch!”

I jumped as my father slammed his fist down on the table, sending the dogs scurrying beneath it. The puppy, Vera, sought refuge at my mother’s feet.

“I don’t understand,” I said, feeling confused and even a little unsettled.

“You’re not meant to,” she answered.

“Always the loyal wife. Greer, you amaze me. Your pragmatism is astounding. Which is why I leave the cultivating of others to you.” He turned to address me. “Your mother could make corn grow on Leonid Brezhnev. But then she is a performer, after all. There is a reason she was picked to play all those treacherous dames in the movies.”

“Is it treachery to want the best for your children?” Now she was mad. “For yourself?” Hissing, she recoiled deep into her chair. Yikes. I nibbled on a piece of toast as, face flushed red, skin so fair you could see the blood boil, she sprang forward, striking out. “I didn’t sign up for a lifetime of cotton-knit sweaters, coupon clipping and date squares.”

My father for once chose to ignore the sweeping theatricality of her declaration, continuing to talk to me instead of her. He had a preacher’s instinct for the teaching moment. “You listen to me, Riddle. Money does not equal success. Criminals have money.”

“It would seem we’re the only ones that don’t have any money. But thank God, your father’s integrity is intact,” my mother interjected, calmer now, basking, her natural chilliness restored, the reptilian coolness of her denunciation a familiar poison.

There it was, making its daily cameo. The M word. Our secret shame. No money. We didn’t have any money. What we did have was debt. Of course, it’s clear to me now as an adult that a bigger problem than not having any money was behaving as if we did. You might as well have told my mother to join a bowling league as suggest that she live within her means.