A Dual Inheritance (61 page)

The breeze kept steady, the boats continued sailing, and Ed felt—why?—that he had to keep this conversation going. It was as if he was trying to get through whatever this kind of talk could be called (was
there any other word besides
bullshit
?) and get to the other side, another shore. It felt somehow necessary to get there, as if
there
were a particular place—like
the club
, where they’d been met with towels and cheers and hoppy cold beer after swimming through a mess of seaweed. As if
there
were not simply a shared authenticity, which they’d both abandoned long ago.

“You know,” said Hugh, clapping Ed on the shoulder, “I’m going to tell you something, Ed. I have thought, you know, over the years, that maybe, if I cared so much about
contributing
to the world—and I did, you know—that’s what I’ve wanted to do—even when I loved those boring, useless films, because you’re right, I did love them—I have wanted to
contribute something—
”

“I know you did,” Ed reassured him. “I know. And who says those films are useless? You know I’ve always been a goddamn Philistine. You were probably right to love them.”

“I’ve thought—I admit it—maybe I should have done what Ed did. Maybe I should have gone and made some
real dough—
”

“Okay,” said Ed, forcing a laugh, not wanting to continue with this particular theme.

“You remember that’s what you said to me that first night at Cronin’s? I couldn’t get over it.” Hugh smiled. “No one I knew ever talked about money.”

“Now, listen here,” said Ed, not only keen on redirecting the conversation but suddenly downright pissed. “You and I both know that you don’t mean a word of this nonsense. If you’re trying to stick in the knife further, why not just come out and say it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Prison,”
hissed Ed. “My stint in prison.” He looked around, anxious to have mentioned it.
“Jesus.”

“I only meant—”

“You’ve just won a goddamn seriously impressive award for a fucking lifetime of selfless service. And whatever mood you’re in—excuse me, but you need to pull it together, because as far as I can tell this is a
goddamn happy occasion.” He was not up to this kind of bitter talk right here, right now, although he did realize this was childish. Because—aside from the most banal chitchat, of which he was nearly incapable—what other kind of talk did he think might transpire today, nearly fifty years since their first conversation, their lives still improbably entwined?

“But you know I could have done that,” Hugh persisted. “I could have made some real dough, like you. Doesn’t mean I would have made the same choices.”

“Right,” said Ed. But he was
still
unable to walk away.

“I could have,” said Hugh, “especially with times what they were when we graduated, before the world woke up—I probably could have inserted myself into any number of firms, even despite my awfully meager academic achievements.
You
know—what with all those
family connections
, which I now shamelessly tap for contributions to my clinics.”

“It’s not as easy as you think,” said Ed.

“I should have made some real money,” said Hugh, clearly not even making a pretense of listening to what Ed might have to say. “I should have made money and I should have given it away,” said Hugh. “
Bam. Contribution
. That’s what I should have done.”

Ed had settled into nodding, into a pattern of nodding and shifting weight and drinking his glass of champagne. “Maybe,” said Ed tightly. “But I don’t think you mean that.”

“No?” asked Hugh, and his tone sounded conspiratorial now, as if they’d gone into hiding together, far away from this celebration that either was or was not responsible for sending Hugh into anything but a celebratory state. “No?” he repeated. “You don’t think I mean what I say? Why? Because you know me so well?”

“Of course not.”

“Because we both know you don’t know me at all.”

“True,” Ed said. He let himself look at Hugh directly. “Or,” he let his eyes apologize, “I might.”

Hugh breathed the saddest kind of sigh. Then, as if refusing to be sucked under by this display of sentiment, he kicked at the ground; he
shook his head. “We both know,
actually
, that as soon as you met Helen’s father and had every connection you could ever need, you were done with me, done with both of us.”

Ed swallowed hard, stupidly stunned. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Hugh shrugged, as if there was so much more that he wanted to say but he was choosing not to.

Ed knew he should have taken this insult as his cue to excuse himself, if not to simply walk away, but he didn’t do either. There was a part of him that felt oddly more relaxed now, having heard what Hugh really thought of him all this time and hearing it with little to no provocation.

They stood not together exactly but side by side, looking out to sea like a pair of whaling widows. And when the water no longer held the attention of either of them, they still didn’t part ways. Instead, they turned and shifted their focus up the lawn, where people seemed to be enjoying themselves tremendously. Men in their prime held babies on their shoulders. Women held their long hair off their damp necks. An Indian woman was playing croquet in an emerald-green sari. Vivi and Brian’s friends belonged in one of those politically correct fashion ads for a fantasy version of a picnic on a country estate or an otherworldly kind of tailgating—where several ethnicities were represented and pretty much everyone looked interesting if not overtly attractive. But this wasn’t an ad; this was their life, and Ed could not get over it. The physical landscape of this island had not changed one bit as far as he could tell, but time had left its mark here, at least at this one house. Because at this generation’s Ordway house party, Ed was not a remotely exotic visitor. In fact, in the eyes of some of today’s guests, he might have even belonged on the side porch, where the older folks—decidedly less colorful—were seated at rented chairs and tables, eating deviled eggs in ample shade.

When Ed saw the woman with the pixie-short hair, he recognized her instantly, even though she was across the lawn with her back turned. He saw her pale narrow shoulders and her long neck and felt his heart
not in free fall but rather exploding into his knees and throat. She was wearing a blue sundress. Her figure—at least from this vantage—looked the same. He realized that some might have said the dress was better suited to a younger person, and yet he also saw that on Helen this dress was perfect. When she turned around, her face was just as he’d imagined: bright eyes, high cheekbones, no discernible help from science and thus—older. And still … pretty. Oh my God, was she pretty. As he watched her cross the lawn and give the Indian woman a warm embrace, as she behaved perfectly normally and the party continued as if there were not an asteroid breaking up inside a man pushing seventy standing near the bar, Ed tried not to look so obviously focused. He had come here to see her and here she was—older, with short silver-blond hair—and though he tried to remain at least a little bit tough, steeled against her more than probable lack of interest, he felt weak—even inexperienced—at the sight of her. He forced himself not to ask Hugh about her, not to start the inquiries.

“I still can’t believe it,” said Hugh.

“Can’t believe …”

“That she really left me.”

Ed wanted to ask if Hugh had deserved it, but he refrained. He knew how idiotic such a question was. He, of all people, knew.

She’d gone and cut her hair. If anyone had told him she’d cut her hair, he would have mourned the corn-silk loss of it, but he mourned nothing, not even the passage of time, when he saw her now standing on that lawn. When she spotted Ed standing with Hugh, her expression didn’t change. If she was startled, if she was happy or disconcerted, her face did not reveal it. He wanted to go to her immediately, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He waited with Hugh, if not patiently then quietly, until she made her way to the bar.

“Gentlemen,” she said; her smile was contained. He was on high alert, watching for hints of what remained between Hugh and her. They seemed neutral enough with each other, but he wanted surety. They were divorced, he reminded himself, which oddly didn’t help. If he
could get definitive proof that there was nothing left between them, he’d feel—what? Free to proceed and be rejected?

“Congratulations, Helen,” said Ed. And he offered a kiss—his lips landing on the air next to her slightly flushed cheek. All these years he’d assumed that she understood exactly why he’d bowed out of their life, but as he stood facing Helen now, he suddenly wondered if she didn’t share Hugh’s clearly mixed if not completely harsh opinion of him. It took all he had not to ask for her judgment right there and then. “I still haven’t seen your daughter.”

“Oh, she’s around,” Helen said. “Probably with one of her children somewhere—putting out fires, you know.”

“Cute kids,” said Ed. “Do you see them much?” he asked both of them.

“Yes—I’m afraid I can’t get enough,” said Helen.

He noticed that Hugh was keeping his gaze on the water, as if watching for signs of a squall.

“And,” she continued, seemingly unruffled by Hugh’s disengagement, “you must be so proud of Rebecca.”

“Very proud,” said Ed. And even though he
was
, he realized he sounded oddly reserved about expressing it. As a rule, he generally disliked people who were too modest about their children. Jill, for instance, was accomplished in this regard. Plenty of people who’d been seated to her right and left at dinner parties in Manhattan, Palm Beach, Southampton, Milan, hadn’t a clue she even had offspring. So why did Ed now have the unfamiliar impulse to deflect any praise about his kid?

He hated to think it was because Hugh was keeping disconcertingly quiet on the subject. He hated to think that, after all, Hugh Shipley still basically intimidated him. Or, worse, that Hugh’s silence was due to the fact that Hugh and Rebecca had discussed him during her trip to Tanzania—that they’d torn Ed apart, examining his many flaws.

“Hugh had the chance to see what Rebecca is capable of. She still says that trip changed her life.”

Hugh only nodded.

“She worked hard, I guess?”

“Sure,” said Hugh. “Sure she did.”

Ed felt like asking:
Really? Who can’t find at least one nice thing to say about Rebecca Cantowitz?

But he also knew this had nothing to do with his daughter or her trip. Hugh
actually thought
that Ed had been some kind of social-climbing, ambitious mercenary. The way Hugh had said it, Ed could tell he meant it.
Was
it possible that Helen agreed?

“Excuse me,” Ed said, “I just realized I have an appetite.”

“You just realized this?” asked Hugh, and Ed still couldn’t tell if he was trying to be chummy or cruel.

“I think I’m going to help myself to some of the brunch that invitation promised.”

“That invitation …” said Helen, with the lightest touch of an eye roll, making it perfectly clear that she had not been a fan, either.

He turned away, taking with him the slightest dose of immature pleasure both in their shared reaction to the invitation and that, for the first time since he’d known them, Hugh and Helen were not a couple. There was a line snaking down the hill from the buffet table, and he took his place in it, watching from afar as his old friends parted quickly, though neither of them joined him. He waited, listening to snippets of people greeting one another, reporting on their summers as if it were the first day of school. He made himself a plate and, in lieu of sitting, hovered at the side of the buffet table, not wanting to get stuck talking to anyone. He considered the house from a distance. It was not smaller than he remembered. It was still sprawling, still as magisterial as it was faded. While looking for Rebecca, he somehow failed to notice the oncoming woman until she was literally in his face.

“Ed!” she cried, before positively enveloping him. She held on a tad longer than was socially acceptable on the East Coast, and when she drew away, she still held on to his hands. “Ed Cantowitz. Well, look at you! You know, I have to say, I didn’t know you’d age so well.”

He greeted her warily, failing to see what was—seconds later—so
obvious. Her bosoms had bosoms; her freckles had freckles; the hair was spiky and layered but still red, dyed even redder.

But after some initial banter about how insulted she was that he hadn’t recognized her, they defaulted quickly to politics, and shortly after laughing surprisingly hard at her dead-on imitation of Sarah Palin, Ed found it almost difficult to conjure what Kitty had looked like as a young woman. It was hard to be wistful in the face of such a commanding presence.

Here she was in a dramatic white silk blazer, with her throaty voice and complicated necklace and rhinestone-encrusted reading glasses suspended on a chain. Here she was, referencing a dizzying number of friends (two of whom were ex-husbands) and insisting he ought to come visit her in Santa Fe.

“I have a ranch,” said Kitty. “Do you ride?”

“Me? No,” said Ed. “I fall off horses.”

“Oh who cares,” said Kitty. “To tell you the truth? I don’t ride, either.” She gave a wayward smile. “Oh, Ed, I’m glad to see you’re okay. I know a fellow in securities, and they put him away for
twenty
.” She made a tragic face and he must have looked confused, because she said, “I do
read
, you know.”

“Right,” he said.
Jesus
, he thought, but he was also frankly touched by her decisive sympathy. “I’m a-okay,” he said.

“You’re out!”

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m out.”

Before dessert, Brian called everyone into the living room. He was a handsome fellow with a beard that made him look, if anything, younger. Ed idly wondered if Hugh had managed to sail through the seventies and eighties without a beard or the inexplicably popular bushy mustache. “Well,” Brian deadpanned, “Vivi finally said yes.”