Rules of Civility (25 page)

—I hate to interrupt, I said while slipping an arm under Wallace's, but weren't you going to show me the library?

She didn't bat an eye.

—The library
is
splendid, she said, exhibiting her superior familiarity with the Hollingsworths' house. But you can't go in just now. The fireworks are about to start.

Before I could rebut, there was a general movement toward the water. By the time we got to the dock, there must have been a hundred people on it. A few drunken couples had climbed into the Hollingsworths' catboats and set themselves adrift. More people came from behind and pushed us toward the diving board.

There was a loud whistle as the first rocket shot from a raft offshore. It wasn't the sort of pennywhistle that had accompanied the teenage rockets from the neighboring yard. This sounded more like a piece of artillery. It climbed a long ribbon of smoke, seemed to expire, and then exploded in a white distending sphere. Its sparks broke apart and fell slowly toward the earth like the seedlings blown from a dandelion. Everybody cheered. Four rockets followed in quick succession creating a chain of red stars concluding with a terrific clap. Even more people jostled onto the dock and, apparently, I shoved a little too closely to my neighbor's hip. She tumbled into the drink, furs and all. Another rocket burst overhead. From the water came a thrash and a gasp as she resurfaced in the blue hydrangea light with entangled hair, looking like the Countess of Kelp.

 

Dicky found me on the terrace as everyone was heading up from the fireworks. Naturally, he knew Wallace—though indirectly, through Wallace's youngest sister. The differential in age seemed to temper Dicky. When Wallace asked him about his ambitions, Dicky lowered his voice an octave and mentioned some nonsense about applying to law school. Wallace excused himself politely and Dicky led me to the bar where the others were waiting. In Dicky's absence, Roberto had apparently gotten sick in the bushes, prompting Helen to wonder if it wasn't time to go home.

Though we had taken the Williamsburg Bridge out of Manhattan, Dicky took the Triborough back. This would make it most practical for him to drop everyone off before me. So soon enough, it was just the two of us headed downtown.

—Land ho, Dicky said as we approached the Plaza. How about a nightcap?

—I'm done in, Dicky.

Seeing his disappointment, I added that I had work tomorrow.

—But it's Saturday.

—Not at my office, it isn't.

When I got out of the car on Eleventh Street he looked glum.

—We never had a chance to dance, he said.

His tone of voice suggested a certain resignation, as if through inattention and a little bad luck he had missed an opportunity that might not present itself again. I had to smile at his boyish concern. Though, of course, he was more subtle than I gave him credit for, and more prescient too.

I gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze.

—Goodnight, Dicky.

As I climbed out of the car he grabbed my wrist.

—
When shall we two meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

I leaned back into the roadster and lay my lips against the whorls of his ear.

—
When the hurlyburly's done
.
When the battle's lost and won.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Honeymoon Bridge

On Sunday afternoon, Wallace and I headed out to the North Fork of Long Island in a dark green convertible.

The promise that he had wanted to keep was to take me shooting—which was pretty much a doozy, no matter how long he took to get around to it. When I asked him what I should wear, he suggested something comfortable. So, I dressed as I thought Anne Grandyn would: in khaki pants and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I figured if it didn't work out as my gun-shooting outfit, it could always serve as my Amelia-Earhart-getting-lost-over-the-Pacific-never-to-be-heard-from-again outfit. He wore a blue V-neck sweater trimmed in yellow with holes in the sleeves.

—I think your hair is . . . super, he said.

—Super?!

—Sorry. Was that . . . unflattering?

—Super's not bad. But I also answer to gorgeous and glamorous.

—How about . . . gorgerous?

—That's the ticket.

It was a bright summer day, and at Wallace's suggestion I took a pair of tinted glasses from the glove compartment. I leaned back and watched the sunshine dappling the leaves over the parkway, feeling like a cross between an Egyptian queen and a Hollywood starlet.

—Have you heard from . . . Tinker and Eve? Wallace asked.

It was the normal sort of common grounding used by an acquaintance to fend off silence.

—I'll tell you what, Wallace. If you don't feel the need to talk about Tinker and Eve, I won't feel the need to either.

Wallace laughed.

—Then how will we . . . explain knowing one another?

—We'll tell people that you caught me picking your pocket on the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

—All right. But only if . . . we make it you who caught me.

 

Wallace's hunt club was surprisingly run-down in appearance. Outside there was a low portico and slim white pillars that made it look like a sorry excuse for a Southern mansion. Inside, the pine floors were uneven, the rugs frayed, and the Audubon prints slightly askew, as if victims of a distant earthquake. But like the moth-eaten sweater, the worn aspect of the club seemed to put Wallace at relative ease.

At a diminutive desk by a sizable trophy case sat a well-groomed attendant in a polo shirt and slacks.

—Good afternoon, Mr. Wolcott, he said. We're all set for you downstairs. We've laid out the Remington, the Colt and the Luger. But a Browning Automatic came in yesterday and I thought you might like to take a look at her as well.

—Terrific, John. Thanks.

Wallace led me down to the cellar where a series of narrow alleys were separated by white clapboard walls. At the end of each alley, a paper bull's-eye was pinned to a stack of hay bales. Beside a small table, a young man was loading the firearms.

—That's fine, Tony. I'll . . . take care of it. We'll see you at the . . . trout pond.

—Yes sir, Mr. Wolcott.

I took up a position at a respectful distance. Wallace looked back and smiled.

—Why don't you . . . come a little closer.

Tony had laid out the guns with their barrels pointing in the same direction. With a polished silver finish and a bone handle, the revolver looked like a pretty fancy sidearm, but the other guns were a no-nonsense gray. Wallace pointed to the smaller of two rifles.

—That's a . . . Remington Model 8. It's a good target rifle. That's a . . . Colt 45. And that's a . . . Luger. A German officer's pistol. My father brought it . . . home from the war.

—And this?

I picked up the big gun. It was so heavy it hurt my wrists just to balance it in the air.

—That's the Browning. It's a . . . machine gun. It's the one that . . . Bonnie and Clyde used.

—Really?

—It's also the . . . gun that killed them.

I put it down gently.

—Shall we start with the Remington? he suggested.

—Yes sir, Mr. Wolcott.

We approached one of the alleys. He broke open the breach and loaded the rifle. Then he introduced me to the various parts: the action and bolt; the barrel and muzzle; the front and rear sights. I must have been making a bewildered face.

—It sounds . . . more complicated than it is, he said. The Remington has only fourteen parts.

—An eggbeater has only four. But I can't figure out how that works either.

—Okay, he said with a smile. Then watch me first. You rest the butt against your . . . shoulder, the way you would a . . . violin. Hold the barrel with your left hand here. Don't grip. Just . . . balance it. Square your feet. Sight the target. Take a breath. Exhale.

Pow!

I jumped. And maybe shouted.

—I'm sorry, Wallace said. I didn't mean to . . . startle you.

—I thought we were still in discussion mode.

Wallace laughed.

—No. Discussion mode . . . is over.

He handed me the rifle. Suddenly the alley looked much longer than before, as if the target was receding. I felt like Alice after she Drank Me, or Ate Me, or whichever ingestion made her become diminutive. I raised the rifle as if it were a salmon and tucked it in my shoulder like a watermelon. Wallace stepped closer and tried to coach, ineffectively.

—I'm sorry, he said. It's a little like trying to teach someone to . . . tie a bow tie. It's easier if . . . May I?

—Please!

He pulled up the sleeves of his sweater and came up behind me. He placed his right arm along my right arm, his left along my left. I could feel his breath, even and rhythmic, at the back of my ear. In a quiet voice, as if live game was grazing at the end of the alley, he gave me a few instructions and a few encouragements. We steadied the barrel. We sighted the target. We took a breath and exhaled. And when we pulled the trigger, I could feel his shoulder helping mine absorb the recoil.

He let me shoot fifteen rounds. Then the Colt. Then the Luger. Then we took a few turns with the Browning Automatic and I gave those bastards who killed Clyde Barrow something to think about.

 

Around four o'clock we walked through a pine glade behind the club. As we came into a clearing at the edge of a pond a woman my age came marching toward us. She was wearing jodhpurs and riding boots and had sandy hair drawn back in barrettes. She had a shotgun open at the breach hanging on the crook of her arm.

—Well hello, Hawkeye, she said with a muckraking smile. I haven't caught you on a date, have I?

Wallace blushed a little.

—Bitsy Houghton, she said to me with her hand extended—more stating the fact of her existence than clearing up the matter of her name.

—Katey Kontent, I said straightening my posture.

—Is . . . Jack here? Wallace asked after giving her an awkward kiss.

—No. He's in town. I was just riding over at The Stables and figured it was a good chance to swing by and hammer out a few. Keep myself in form. Not all of us are born to it like you are.

Wallace blushed again, though Bitsy didn't seem to notice. She turned back to me.

—You look like a beginner.

—Is it that obvious?

—Of course. But you'll have a good go of it with this old Indian. And it's a crackerjack day to shoot. Anyway. I'm off. Nice to meet you Kate. See you round Wally.

She gave Wallace a teasing wink and then barreled on.

—Wow, I said.

—Yes, said Wallace watching her go.

—Is she an old friend?

—Her brother and I have . . . been friends since we were boys. She was a . . . bit of a hanger-on.

—Not anymore, I suspect.

—No, said Wallace with something of a laugh. Not . . . for a long time.

The pond was about half the size of a city block and surrounded by trees. Patches of algae drifted here and there like continents on the surface of the globe. Passing a little dock where a rowboat was tethered, we followed a path to a small wooden pulpit hidden by the trees. Tony greeted us, exchanged a few words with Wallace and then disappeared into the woods. On a bench a new gun lay on its canvas case.

—This is a shotgun, Wallace said. It's a hunting gun. It carries a bigger charge. You're going to . . . feel it more.

The gun had elaborate tooling on the barrel, like a piece of Victorian silver. And the stock looked as fine as the leg of a Chippendale. Wallace picked up the shotgun and explained where the skeet would come from and how one should track it with the bead at the end of the barrel, aiming just ahead of its trajectory. Then he raised the gun to his shoulder.

—Pull.

The skeet materialized from the brush and hovered for an instant over the surface of the pond.

BOOM!

The pigeon shattered and the pieces rained down over the water like the fireworks at Whileaway.

I missed the first three pigeons, but then I began to get the hang of it. I hit four of the next six.

In the shooting range, the sound of the Remington had seemed somehow constrained, clipped, confined, and it got a little under your skin like the sound of someone biting on the blade of a knife. But here on the trout pond, the shotgun was resonant. It boomed like a ship's cannon and the sound lingered for a full beat. It seemed to give shape to the open air, or rather to reveal the hidden architecture that was there all along—the invisible cathedral that vaulted over the surface of the pond—known to sparrows and dragonflies but invisible to the human eye.

Relative to the rifle, the shotgun also felt more like an extension of yourself. When the bullet from the Remington flitted through the bull's-eye at the far end of the shooting range, the sound seemed independent of your finger pulling the trigger. But when the skeet shattered there was no question that you had commanded it so. Standing at the pulpit, peering down the barrel into the open air, you suddenly had the power of a Gorgon—the ability to influence matter at a distance merely by meeting it with your gaze. And the feeling didn't dissipate with the sound of the shot. It lingered. It permeated your limbs and sharpened your senses—adding a certain self-possession to your swagger, or a swagger to your self-possession. Either way, for a minute or so, it made you feel like a Bitsy Houghton.

If only someone had told me about the confidence-boosting nature of guns, I'd have been shooting them all my life.