Misfortune (36 page)

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back yesterday,” Frances said. She spoke softly as she approached so as not to startle him. Richard made no physical sign that he heard her or even recognized that she was in the room. She looked at Lily, who pursed her lips and shrugged. Lily looked equally exhausted. “I wanted to, but there are a lot of people to talk to, a lot to do in this investigation.” Her father still didn’t move. “Blair stayed with you, right?” Silence.

“She was here until quite late,” Lily said.

“I talked to Henry and Louise Lewis.” Frances walked around in front of her father. He remained still, staring blankly ahead. She pulled a straight-backed chair over from the far wall and sat beside him with one leg curled under her. “Louise Bancroft, and her husband. As a child, she used to play with Blair.”

Slowly her father turned his head toward her. “They had a clubhouse in the attic.” He paused between each word.

“I remember. The walls were taxi yellow,” she added, hoping he might smile. There was no reaction. “I need to ask you something.” She felt her pulse rise. “I hate to ask this, but I need to know why Clio didn’t want the Lewises in the Fair Lawn Country Club.”

Richard said nothing. Lily rose and excused herself, taking the supper tray with her. She would be in the kitchen if either of them needed anything.

“Can we talk about it?” Frances asked. “Please.”

Richard seemed to stare past her. When he spoke, his voice sounded more strained than usual. It was a forced sound, as if the words pained him.

“Fair Lawn isn’t ready for a black member,” he said. “We admitted the first Catholic…1979. Southampton had changed by then. We knew that, but it was still a big step. A few years ago, the first Jew joined. There was a lot of opposition to that. We don’t want Hollywood here. We don’t want to become East Hampton.”

Frances needed to move. She jiggled her foot.

“The membership needs time to assimilate change.”

Frances felt her stomach turn. She didn’t want the conversation to continue, yet she knew she needed to hear what her father had to say. Whether it ultimately helped in solving Clio’s homicide, whether Clio’s thinking had played any role in her murder, were less important than for her to listen to her father’s views. She didn’t have to agree, but she needed to hear what he had to say.

“It was for Henry’s own good. He would be ostracized.” Richard paused and looked directly at her. “You can’t know what that’s like. Nobody can, until they’ve been there themselves.”

It was the first time Frances had ever heard her father make even an opaque reference to his own handicap, the exclusion he felt.

“But wasn’t that Henry Lewis’s choice to make? He wanted to join.”

“He wants to belong. There’s a difference.” Richard ran his tongue over his dry lips. “I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve lived your life without social institutions, but they matter to some of us.”

His accusation was unfair. Frances didn’t belong to country clubs, church congregations, or even professional organizations, but that didn’t mean she didn’t venerate institutions. Take the Supreme Court of the United States. She believed in the nobility of that as an institution, didn’t she? She believed in marriage, certainly, despite what had happened with Pietro, but she couldn’t speak in her own defense. Her father’s “us” symbolized the inclusion of some within his carefully guarded universe and the exclusion of others. She was the disappointing child. Despite her efforts, nothing would change that.

“Did you or Clio know Henry Lewis? Did you know anything about him?” Frances realized that she had an easier time confronting her father’s unacceptable bigotry than she did understanding why he felt the way he did. She looked at her father, old and infirm beyond his physical years.

He nodded, then bit his lip. She could see his nose twitching.

“Your opinions, Clio’s. How she treated people. It’s all important for me to understand,” she said. “Although I wish it weren’t the case, it seems possible that you, or Clio, may have made someone extremely angry by taking the positions you’ve taken. Don’t you see that?”

Richard didn’t look at her when he asked, “Do you ever experience shame?”

“Shame?” What does that have to do with anything? she wondered.

“You won’t understand what I’m about to tell you if you don’t understand the term.”

“Embarrassment? Guilt? Self-loathing?” Frances searched for words, hoping to find one that would satisfy her father and allow him to continue. He didn’t acknowledge the adequacy of her synonyms.

They sat in silence for what seemed an interminable period before Richard began to speak. “Clio was a more complex person than you or your sister gave her credit for being. I know what you thought of her. I know you weren’t fond of her, but you didn’t know her. Clio lived with a lot of demons.”

“I was—” Frances stopped, as her father’s knowing look prevented what was sure to be a disingenuous rejoinder.

“What I’m going to tell you may not make sense to you. You’ll have to step outside your own sense of morality and try for once to empathize.” Frances felt the painful jab of his words, but she didn’t stir. “Clio developed a condition, a medical condition, something serious and debilitating although, unfortunately, not the type of condition that generates much sympathy. Cancer would’ve been easier in many ways. People feel sorry for cancer victims. They show compassion.” He closed his eyes momentarily, then continued. “It started shortly after Justin’s death. She believed Henry knew about it. She felt ashamed, and that made her vulnerable. She didn’t trust him.”

What was he talking about? There was nothing wrong with Clio. The medical examiner would’ve found any sign of disease.

“It became significantly more serious after my stroke. Clio had a very difficult time, as anyone would. She was convinced that something awful would happen to her. First Justin, then me. In her mind, she had lost us both. She developed fears. At first they were minor, passing nightmares, that didn’t interfere with her day-to-day life, but they escalated until she became certain that the slightest headache was a brain tumor. Back pain was bone cancer. Someone who was late for a visit had been killed on the highway. She seemed to look for disaster, to expect the worst. It was irrational. I didn’t pay much attention at first.”

Richard lifted his hand to the corner of his mouth and wiped away spittle with his palm. As his fingers dragged across his face, they pulled on his lips. He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his words were clearer. “I had my work. I was busy. Later, when Clio got much sicker, I had my own physical problems to distract me. Still do. I thought Clio needed attention, but I couldn’t give it to her. As time went on, though, I realized something was horribly wrong. She wept constantly, came in to show me every lump, bump, and freckle that she claimed had just appeared. Each mole was a melanoma, each bruise a sign of a fatal blood condition. She wasn’t sleeping. She lost weight. I was unable to help. It was difficult to watch.” Richard gazed straight ahead at the glass in front of him. “Finally, I spoke to Marshall Bancroft. He’s been a dear friend, a constant visitor. From where I am, it’s hard to get help, but I figured Marshall might be able to give me some advice. He did. He spoke to Henry Lewis, his son-in-law. Henry recommended a psychiatrist. Clio was very reluctant to see anyone, any mental health professional. She was suspicious. She’s a very private person. She never liked to talk about her emotions. Not like your mother.” He paused. His reference to Aurelia hung in the air, and Frances wondered why he thought of his first wife at this particular moment. “I was suspicious, too, but I had seen the transformation come over her, and I was worried. Marshall assured me that this doctor was a first-rate professional, not a quack. He helped Beverly Winters when Dudley died. He also explained that the doctor used medication to manage a lot of anxieties.”

“Did Clio ever talk to Marshall Bancroft herself ?”

“No. In fact, when I first told her about Marshall’s suggestion, she was furious that I confided in him. She viewed my disclosure as a huge betrayal, but I knew it would be all right. Marshall is discreet. He’s also a very dear friend. I finally convinced her to go see this psychiatrist. The office was out of the way. She wouldn’t run into someone she knew on 168th Street. Not like the risk of a midtown doctor.”

“Was the doctor’s name Prescott?” Frances asked, remembering the prescribing physician listed on Clio’s bottle of Nardil.

“Yes. Prescott….” Richard rolled the name around in his mouth. “Clio started seeing him once a week, sometimes more. He put her on medication. She was more herself. She went out, saw friends. She got involved in Pratt Capital. She almost seemed happy at times. Again. She looked more radiant than ever.”

What did all this have to do with shame? Frances wondered, recalling the origin of this conversation.

“Even though the doctor was a positive experience, Clio remained extremely nervous about anyone finding out. She was convinced that Henry Lewis knew about her situation. That was why she didn’t want Henry anywhere near her, or anywhere near her friends. She was afraid he would gossip.”

“Did Henry know how she felt?” Frances asked, disoriented by the slow pace and difficult cadence of his speech, plus the candor of their conversation. She had never before heard her father talk so openly about his wife.

“I’m not sure Henry even knew the referral was for Clio. I never talked to him myself, and Marshall never said a word to me again. It’s quite possible he asked Henry for advice without ever identifying Clio.”

“Why do you think it mattered to her, all the secrecy?”

“You didn’t know Clio well, but you had something very much in common. You’re both very private people. She didn’t want anyone to get too close to her, to become too intimate. It scared her. Her past scared her, and the future scared her, for different reasons. Emotional distance was her protection. Just as it is for you.”

His sudden turn of the conversation startled Frances. She searched his sad eyes, but they seemed blank.

“Clio and I were married for thirty years. She never did a single thing to hurt me. I hope if asked, she would’ve said the same for me. I was never happier.”

Frances couldn’t discern whether he was comparing Clio with Aurelia or simply proclaiming his love. Ultimately, she supposed, it didn’t matter.

“Even though Clio knew at a rational level that this doctor was good for her, she was filled with fear, worry about what she perceived to be a terrible weakness, a failure, an inability to solve her own problems. A part of her hated herself for losing control of her emotions. Even as her irrational fears subsided, she started exerting her power, controlling situations for the simple sake of empowering herself. Like Pratt Capital. She spent hours trying to master everything that was going on with the company, challenging Miles, making decisions for herself. And the addition she built for me. She worked day and night on that, on every detail. She wanted me in a bubble, a self-contained space with round-the-clock nurses to keep me safe because she couldn’t face that I was going to die.”

Frances thought she saw tears forming in her father’s eyes. She looked away. He sniffled.

“I don’t understand what this has to do with shame.” Frances spoke softly.

“Shame is a debilitating quality. It means you can’t accept who you are. Clio couldn’t accept who she had become, the emotions she developed because of the way her life transpired. It’s hard to imagine, I know. She always seemed so pulled together, so beautiful, so poised, but underneath she had so much ambivalence about herself.”

“And this happened since Justin’s death?”

“Dramatically, yes. But the seeds of her emotional turmoil were there long before. Look at the relationship she had with you girls. She wanted to love you, but, well, you know better than anyone the nature of your relationship.”

Was this passing comment her father’s justification for years of Clio’s behavior? Although Frances knew her opportunity had arrived to have the conversation with her father that she had envisioned since her childhood, she didn’t know how to respond. The questions that had ruminated in her mind for so many years seemed to evaporate.
Come on, Frances
, she urged.
Ask him why Clio didn’t show an iota of genuine affection. Ask him why she hated two little girls who hadn’t done anything wrong.

Before she could muster her courage, Richard announced unexpectedly, “I’m tired.”

As she stood up, Frances felt dizzy. Her leg was numb. “I should go. But thank you, thank you for telling me what you have. I’m sorry if I’ve—”

“Think about what I said,” he interrupted.

She nodded, though his remark was unnecessary. His words would haunt her for many nights to come.

The ship’s lantern on the front door of Blair’s cottage in Sag Harbor was lit. It looked welcoming as Frances drove up, exhausted. “Oh, come for dinner. Jake’s not here, but there’s someone I want you to meet,” Blair had said on the telephone. Her cheerful voice and enthusiasm promised a pleasant atmosphere. Frances actually looked forward to the evening, a possible reprieve from the many questions that buzzed in her mind.

Blair came out onto the front step as Frances approached and waved. She wore a loose linen dress. The light shining behind her illuminated her silhouette, her trim figure. Behind her stood a tall man with long dark hair, a tanned complexion, and a turquoise shirt opened almost to his silver belt buckle.

“Fanny, Fanny, we’re so glad you’re here!” Blair turned. “This is Marco. He’s the fabulous sculptor I was telling you about. Marco, meet my sister, Frances. Everyone calls her Fanny.”

Frances stepped forward and shook his hand. His fingers were warm and long, and he gripped her hand tightly. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said. His enormous eyes were magnetic, and she forced herself to look away.

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Blair says you’re from Argentina.”

“That’s right. But now I’m from Brooklyn. I’m not sure whether that’s considered an upward move or not.” Frances noticed he spoke with hardly any accent. Blair giggled.