The Gemini Contenders (30 page)

Perhaps the party would revive it for a while. Jane would like that. They were always the twins to Jane. Her Geminis.

The afternoon party at the North Shore house on Long Island was
for
Andrew and Adrian; it was their birthday. The lawns and gardens behind the house, above the boathouse and the water, had been turned into an enormous outdoor
fête champêtre
, as Jane called it. “A ruddy, grownup picnic! No one has them anymore. We will.”

A small orchestra played at the south edge of the terrace, its music serving as an undercurrent to a hundred conversations. Long tables heaped with food were organized on the large expanse of manicured lawn; two bars did brisk business at either end of the rectangular buffet.
Fête champêtre
. Victor had never heard the term before. In thirty-four years of marriage, he had never heard it.

How the years had flown! It was as though three decades had been compressed into a time capsule and shot through the skies at incredible speed, only to land and be opened and scanned by participants who had merely grown older.

Andrew and Adrian were near each other now. Andy chatted with the Kempsons by the canapé table. Adrian
was at the bar, talking to several young people whose clothes were the only vague evidence of their gender. It was right, somehow, that Andrew should be with the Kempsons. Paul Kempson was president of Centaur Electronics; he was well thought of by the Pentagon. As, of course, was Andrew. Adrian, no doubt, had been cornered by several university students who wanted to question the singularly outspoken attorney who was Victor’s son.

Victor noted with a certain satisfaction that both twins were taller than those around them. It was to be expected; neither he nor Jane were short. And they looked somewhat alike, but not identical. Andrew’s hair was very light, nearly blond; Adrian’s was dark, auburn. Their features were sharp, a combination of his and Jane’s, but each with his own identity. The only physical thing they shared in common was their eyes: they were Jane’s. Light blue and penetrating.

At times, in very bright sunlight or in dim shadows, they could be mistaken for each other. But only at such times, under such conditions. And they did not seek them. Each was very much his own man.

The light-haired Andrew was in the army, a dedicated professional. Victor’s influence had secured a congressional appointment to West Point, where Andrew had excelled. He’d made two tours of duty in Vietnam, although he despised the way the war was fought. “Win or get out” was his credo, but none listened, and he wasn’t sure it made any difference. There was no way to win for losing. Saigon corruption was like no other corruption on the face of the earth.

Yet Andrew was not a spoiler within the ranks, either. Victor understood that. His son was a
believer
. Deep, concerned, unwavering: The military was America’s strength. When all the words were said and done, there remained only the power at hand. To be used wisely, but to be
used
.

For the dark-haired Adrian, however, there was
no
limit to be placed on the use of words, and no excuse for armed confrontation. Adrian, the lawyer, was as dedicated in his fashion as his brother, although his demeanor might seem to deny it. Adrian slouched; he gave the appearance of nonchalance where none existed. Legal adversaries had learned never to be lulled by his humor or his seeming lack of concern. Adrian
was
concerned. He was a shark in the
courtroom. At least he
had
been for the prosecutor’s office in Boston. He. was in Washington now.

Adrian had gone from prep school to Princeton to Harvard Law, with a year taken off to wander and grow a beard and play a guitar and sleep with available girls from San Francisco to Bleecker Street. It had been a year when Victor and Jane had held their collective breath, though not always their tempers.

But the life of the open road, the provincial confines of a half-dozen communes palled on Adrian. He could no more accept the aimlessness of unprovoked experience than Victor had nearly thirty years ago at the end of the European war.

Fontine’s thoughts were interrupted. The Kempsons were heading over to his chair, excusing their way through the crowd. They would not expect him to get up—no one ever did—but it annoyed Victor that he could not. Without help.

“Damn fine boy,” said Paul Kempson. “He’s got his head on straight, that Andrew does. I told him if he ever wants to chuck the uniform, Centaur has a place for him.”

“I told him he should
wear
his uniform,” added Kempson’s wife brightly. “He’s such a handsome man.”

“I’m sure he thinks it would be disconcerting,” said Fontine, not at all sure. “No one wants to be reminded of the war at a birthday party.”

“How long’s he home for, Victor?” asked Kempson.

“Home? Here? Only for a few days. He’s stationed in Virginia now. At the Pentagon.”

“Your other boy’s in Washington, too, isn’t he? Seems I read something about him in the papers.”

“Yes, I’m sure you did.” Fontine smiled.

“Oh, then they’re together. That’s nice,” said Alice Kempson.

The orchestra finished one number and began another. The younger couples flocked to the terrace; the party was accelerating. The Kempsons floated away with nods and smiles. Briefly, Victor thought about Alice Kempson’s remark.

 … 
they’re together. That’s nice
. But Andrew and Adrian were not together. They worked within twenty minutes of each other but lived separate lives. At times, Fontine thought,
too
separate. They did not laugh together as
they once did as children. As men, something had happened between them. Fontine wondered what it was.

Jane acknowledged for roughly the hundredth time that the party
was
a success, wasn’t it. A statement. Thank heavens the weather held. The caterers had sworn they could erect the tents in less than an hour, if it was necessary, but by noon the sun was bright, the promise of a beautiful day confirmed.

Not, however, a beautiful evening. Far in the distance, over the water near Connecticut, the sky was gray. Weather reports predicted scattered-nocrurnal-thunder-showers-with-increasingly-steady-precipitation, whatever all
that
meant. Why didn’t they simply say it would rain later on?

Two o’clock to six o’clock. Good hours for a Sunday
fête champêtre
. She had laughed at Victor’s ignorance of the term. It was so pretentiously Victorian; the fun was in using it. It looked ridiculous on the invitations. Jane smiled, then stifled a laugh. She really
should
control her foolishness, she supposed. She was much too old for that sort of thing.

Across the lawn between the crowds, Adrian was smiling at her. Had he read her thoughts? Adrian, her dark-haired Gemini, had inherited her slightly mad English humor.

He was thirty-one years old.
They
were thirty-one years old. Where had those years gone? It seemed like only months ago they’d all arrived in New York on the ship. Followed by months of activity that had Victor flying all over the States and back to Europe, furiously building.

And Victor had done it. Fontine, Ltd. became one of the most sought-after consulting firms in America, Victor’s expertise primarily aimed at European reconstruction. The name Fontine on a corporation’s presentation was an industrial plus. Knowledge of a given marketplace was assured.

Victor had involved himself totally, not merely for the sake of pride, or instinctive productivity, but for something else. Jane knew it, and at the same time knew she could do nothing to help him. It took his mind off the pain. Her husband was rarely without pain; the operations prolonged his life, but did little to lessen the pain.

She looked at Victor across the lawn, sitting in his hard
wooden chair with the straight back, the shiny metal cane at his side. He had been so proud when the two crutches were replaced by the single cane that made it possible for him to walk without being so obvious a cripple.

“Hi, Mrs. Fontine,” said the young man with the very long hair. “It’s one terrific party! Thanks for letting me bring my friends. They really wanted to meet Adrian.”

The speaker was Michael Reilly. The Reillys were their nearest neighbors on the shore, about a half a mile down the beach. Michael was in law school at Columbia. “That’s very flattering!”

“Hey,
he’s great!
He wrapped up that Tesco antitrust in Boston when even the federal courts thought it was too loose. Everyone knew it was a Centaur company, but it took Adrian to nail it.”

“Don’t discuss it with Mr. Kempson.”

“Don’t worry. I saw him at the club and he told me to get a haircut. What the hell, so did my father.”

“You won, I see.”

Michael grinned. “He’s mad as a bull but he can’t say anything. I’m on the honors list. We made a deal.”

“Good for you. Make him live up to it.”

The Reilly boy laughed and leaned over, kissing her cheek. “You’re outta sight!” He grinned again and left, beckoned by a girl at the edge of the patio.

Young people liked her, thought Jane. It was a comforting realization these days when the young found so little to like, or to approve. They liked her in spite of the fact that she refused to make concessions to youth. Or to age. Her hair was streaked—God, more than streaked—with gray; her face was lined—as it should be lined—and there were no discussions of a skin nip here, or a tuck there, as so many of her friends had done. She thanked her stars she’d kept her figure. All things considered, not bad for sixty … 
plus
, damn it.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Fontine?” It was the maid; she’d come out of the turmoil that was the kitchen.

“Yes, Grace? Problems?”

“No, ma’am. There’s a gentleman at the door. He asked for you or Mr. Fontine.”

“Tell him to come out.”

“He said he’d rather not. He’s a foreign gentleman. A priest. I thought with so many people, Mr. Fontine—”

“Yes, you were right,” interrupted Jane, understanding the maid’s concerns. Victor did not relish walking among his guests as he was forced to walk. “I’ll go see him.”

The priest stood in the hallway, his black suit ill-fitting and old, his face thin and tired. He appeared awed, frightened.

Jane spoke coldly. She could not help herself. “I’m Mrs. Fontine.”

“Yes, you are the
signora,”
replied the priest awkwardly, a large, stained envelope in his hand. “I have seen the pictures. I did not mean to intrude. So many automobiles.”

“What is it?”

“I have come from Rome,
signora
. I bring a letter for the
padrone
. You will see that he gets it, please?” The priest held out the envelope.

Andrew watched his brother at the bar with the longhaired students, dressed in their uniforms of denim and suede, medallions around their necks. Adrian would never learn; his audience was useless. They were fakes. It was not simply the profusion of unkempt hair and the offbeat clothes that bothered the soldier; those were only symptoms. It was the pretense that went with these shallow expressions of nonconformity. By and large they were insufferable; antagonistic people with unkempt minds.

They spoke so intensely, so knowingly, of “movements” and “countermovements” as though they were participants, shifters of political thought.
This
world … the
third
world. And that was the biggest joke of all, because not one in ten thousand would know how to act as a revolutionary. They had neither the commitment nor the guts nor the savvy.

They were misfits who threw plastic bags of shit when no one paid attention to their ravings. They were … freaks, and, Christ, he couldn’t stand the freaks. But Adrian did not understand; his brother looked for values where there weren’t any. Adrian was a fool; but then he learned that seven years ago. Seven years ago he had discovered just how big a fool his brother was. Adrian was a misfit in the worst sense: He had every reason not to be.

Adrian glanced up at him from the bar; he turned away. His brother was a bore, and the sight of him proselytizing to that particular audience was distasteful.

The soldier hadn’t always felt this way. Ten years ago when he’d gotten out of The Point he hadn’t
hated
with the vehemence he felt now. He didn’t think much of Adrian and his collection of misfits, but there was no hatred. The way the Johnson crowd began handling Southeast Asia, there was something to be said for the dissenters’ attitude.
Get out
.

Translated:
Obliterate Hanoi. Or get out
.

He had explained his position time and again. To the freaks. To Adrian. But no one wanted to hear it from a soldier. “Soldierboy,” that’s what they called him. And “shell-head,” and “missile-fingers,” and “blast-ass.”

But it wasn’t the names. Anyone who’d gone through West Point and Saigon could handle that. Ultimately, it was their stupidity. They didn’t simply turn off the people who mattered, they antagonized them, infuriated them, and finally
embarrassed
them. And
that
was the final stupidity. They drove even those who agreed with them into opposing positions.

Seven years ago in San Francisco, Andrew tried to make his brother see that, tried to make him understand that what he was doing was wrong and stupid—and very dangerous to the brother who was a soldier.

He’d gotten back from two and a half years in the Mekong Delta with one of the finest record sheets in the army. His company had the highest body count in the battalion; he’d been decorated twice, his first lieutenancy lasting a month before he was given his captain’s bars. He was that rare commodity in armed forces: a young, brilliant military strategist from an immensely wealthy, influential family. He was on his way up to the top—where he belonged. He was being flown back for reassignment, which was another way of the Pentagon’s saying:
That’s our man. Keep your eye on him. Rich, solid, future Joint Chiefs material. A few more combat tours—in selected areas, a few short years—and it’s the War College
.

It never hurt the Pentagon to favor a man like him, especially when it was justified. The army needed men from powerful families, they had precious few.