Pike's Folly (20 page)

2

Gregg Reese woke up one morning in late May to discover he wasn't alone in bed. A shape stirred next to him, but he couldn't determine who or what it was. The light coming through his bedroom window stung his eyes, making it hard for him to see. He must've slept late, something he never did. He was always the first person up in the morning and usually beat Allison downstairs by a good three hours. But Allison wasn't here. She was in New Hampshire. Who
was
this person?

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” said the stirring shape, who sat up to block the window light. Gregg blinked madly until his eyes focused on the figure of a young boy, maybe nineteen, lying naked above the satin covers. Feeling under the sheets, Gregg realized that he was naked, too. His gentle headache told him he'd had too much to drink the night before.

“Oh, hi.” Gregg's voice sounded husky, and he cleared his throat. “I thought I'd set the alarm.”

The boy smiled and kissed his cheek. “It's okay, I understand. Let me introduce myself. My name is Ferdinand. I'm an exchange student from Ecuador. We met at Viva last night, you bought me drinks, you took me home, I sucked your gorgeous penis, and we both fell asleep.” He laughed. “I think you are a very nice man.”

Gregg wasn't sure whether to kiss him or run screaming out of the room. Instead, he scratched his thinning gray hair and mumbled, “Oh . . . Ferdinand, is it? I'm sorry, I must've dozed off. Did we . . . ?”

“Not yet. But there's still time.” Gregg must've looked petrified, because the boy let him off the hook. “Seriously, though, I understand if you're busy. Just the cab fare home would be nice.”

Giving the boy a second look, Gregg admired his firm chest and stomach, his slender waist and the tangled patch of hair above his genitals, which Gregg felt compelled to touch. “You're lovely,” he said, then caught sight of the alarm clock on Ferdinand's side of the bed. “Oh, shit, is that the time? I've got a meeting with my mother in forty-five minutes. Do you mind? I need to take a shower.”

Taking some of the covers with him, he wrapped them around his waist, trotted off to the bathroom and took a ninety-second shower. He was afraid that if he left the boy unattended for too long, he might start snooping around the house. When he finished toweling off, he called through the wall, “I'll be right there! You're welcome to use the shower downstairs.”

Emerging from the bathroom, he found the boy naked in the hallway and looking at framed photographs on the wall.

Pointing at one of them, Ferdinand asked, “Is that your daughter?”

Gregg stood behind him. “Yes, that's Allison. And that's Allison's mother.”

“You were married, then?” Ferdinand asked.

Gregg nodded. “Twenty-three years.”

Ferdinand sighed as he leaned against Gregg, who reluctantly embraced him. “I would like to have a child one day,” he said. “I could sleep with a woman just once.”

Gregg could tell Ferdinand still wanted to make love but did nothing to encourage him; instead, he maintained the formal posture and good manners that had protected him all his adult life. He wished he could be as carefree as the boy—no responsibilities, no shame, no secrets, nothing to do all day but lie naked in his lover's arms. Even when Gregg was nineteen, he wasn't like that. He'd never lived entirely without shame.

Ferdinand turned and put his arms around Gregg's neck. “How could you stay married to one woman for so long? Didn't you cheat on her?”

Gregg lowered his head. “No, I didn't. My daughter means too much to me. I didn't want to upset her. She doesn't like people like us.”

Ferdinand pressed his lips to Gregg's and when their kiss was over said, “This has been a good one-night stand, yes?”

Gregg nodded. “I think so,” he said and walked away to finish getting dressed.

After a rushed farewell, Gregg sent the boy away in a cab and drove to his mother's place, where she intercepted him at the side door and led him into the oppressive comfort of the living room. The whole house was stifling, and she'd set out a serving tray with cookies and crackers and petits fours, along with a carafe of hot coffee.

“Did you see the
Journal
this morning?” she asked, brandishing a newspaper clipping headlined “Reese Calls Independence Project ‘A Shocking Waste.' ” “I would've preferred better coverage, but this damn murder-suicide in Coventry has been stealing the spotlight.”

Gregg averted his eyes from his mother, who looked hideous under her gleaming silver turban. Keeny's health had further declined over the winter, and her weakened condition made it difficult for him to argue with her. “Please, Ma,” he said, “let's just drop it. I did what you wanted, and it's over. I haven't spoken to Nate in over a week. Except for Allison's still being up there, it's been a clean break.”

“Good. Let's keep it that way.”

He reached for a bottle of sambuca and poured a splash into his coffee. “Look, don't rub my face in it, all right? I don't see why you're so dead set against him, anyway. Nate was a good ally. I'll be damned if we're going to get much support for the Allison Fund without some help from Siemens and McMasters.”

“We don't need anyone's charity, Gregg, especially not
his.
People love you in this state. More important, they respect you. No one respects Nathaniel Pike.”

“
I
do,” he objected. “Nate's made something of himself. What have I done? Nothing.”

“Oh, bosh.”

“Name something, then—and don't say the Friends of Walter Greevy Society, because that was Dad's idea, and don't say the Ocean State Arts Collaborative, because that was yours.”

Keeny drew herself up until the top of her turban pressed against the wall behind her. Her patrician arrogance could be colossal. “There's no sense in comparing yourself to Pike. He isn't half the man you are,” she sniffed.

No, Mom, he thought, you're wrong. He's twice, ten times, a hundred. Even Allison knows that.

“When's Allie coming back?” asked Keeny, who'd always had a knack for intruding on Gregg's thoughts.

He shrugged. “Why?”

“Tell her to hurry home. She's not going to want to be up there in a few days.”

The spiked coffee turned to gall inside his mouth. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I received a call this morning from your favorite person, Celia Shriver. She's been showing a man from the federal government around town. According to Celia, things are about to get pretty sticky for Nathaniel Pike, and for this Sarah Cranberry person too.”

Gregg's face became flushed at the mention of Sarah's name. “What about Sarah?” he asked.

Keeny told him what Henry Savage's men had found in Little Compton: nearly three dozen skeletons, along with various munitions, chains and restraints, all of it dating back before the Revolutionary War. A mass grave, she said, on good old Cranberry soil.

Gregg refused to listen. “This is an old country, Mom. I'm sure the Reeses have their fair share of secrets, too.”

She considered this in passing, then dismissed it. “I found it quite interesting, actually. It explains a lot of pretty strange behavior.”

“No, it doesn't. It explains nothing. I don't care what the Cranberrys did in the past, any more than I care about what my own family did. It's totally irrelevant to the fact that Sarah Cranberry is a decent person and was incredibly nice to me in New Hampshire and treated me like a human being and didn't fawn over me or hit me up for money or ask me to do anything other than sit back and enjoy the holidays.”

“Don't be so sure of that. How well do you know her?”

“She and Nate are friends, that's all. They might even be dating. What does it matter?”

“It matters because this man from the federal government wants Nathaniel Pike out of the White Mountains just as much as the Reese Foundation does.”

Gregg looked dubious. “And how does he propose to do that?”

Henry's plan was simple: convince Pike to relinquish his holdings in New Hampshire by threatening to make public the information about the remains he'd found in Little Compton— remains buried on land the Cranberrys had owned for generations.

Gregg interrupted. “I'm sorry, Mom. You and Celia can do what you want, but leave me out of it.”

She glared at him. “You have got
some
nerve, Gregg, to turn against your family at a time like this.”

“I'm not turning against my family.”

“Like hell you're not! Regardless of your personal limitations, you still have a responsibility to the Reese Foundation, above everything else.”

For once, Keeny's usual taunt didn't work. “Mom, as far as that goes, I've already blown it, haven't I? I mean, I've been a pretty lousy benchwarmer—certainly compared to you and Dad.”

“I didn't say that. On the contrary, you've been a wonderful leader, maybe the best ever. You
are
the Reese Foundation, Gregg.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are. You're the soul and spirit and conscience of the city of Providence and the state of Rhode Island, and no one can ever take that away from you.”

Please, Ma, he thought, let's stop kidding ourselves. We both know what I really am. I'm a dirty little fag. Don't sit there and pretend like you've dealt with it and everything's fine now. Get real, okay? I embarrass you. I'm not the soul and conscience of
anything.
All I am is a huge disappointment, to you, to Allison, to the whole family. The worst Reese ever.

“Do you remember when your father died,” Keeny asked, “and I almost bought that house on the Cape? I
would've
bought it if you hadn't talked me out of it.”

“I didn't talk you out of it. You talked yourself out of it.”

“Ultimately, yes. But you were the one who made me realize what I was doing. I was running away. That's what living in Rhode Island means to this family, Gregg. It's a promise, a commitment. We're special here. We're not special anywhere else.”

It was time for her lunch, so they went into the kitchen, where she heated up a can of condensed tomato soup. Gregg's temper had cooled somewhat, and he apologized. “I'm sorry I got so upset, Mom. I just hope that nothing bad happens to Sarah.”

She answered distractedly, “Mmm? Oh, the Cranberry woman. I'd appreciate it if you didn't call her by her first name.”

His anger returned. “Why not? She's got one, just like everyone else.” He stepped between her and the stove. “I'll have you know something. That woman is one of the nicest, least stuck-up people I've ever met.”

“I need to stir my soup.”

“I don't care. I want to talk about Sarah.”

“Move, please.”

He reluctantly stepped aside, marveling at her utter lack of concern for what might happen to Sarah. “I think that it's terrible to use an innocent person to settle a score with Nathaniel Pike.”

“There are worse things in the world, Gregg.”

“Such as?”

“Use your imagination. Or better yet, ask Renee.”

His jaw dropped. “You're being ridiculous,” he said.

She turned her soup down to simmer, then sat with him at the kitchen table. “I can be as ridiculous as the next person. You just haven't seen that side of me. Allison has, which reminds me—I've been meaning to ask about her money situation. If you were smart, you'd find a place for her at the Reese Foundation. I think that she'd be a real natural at public relations.”

Gregg slapped the table. “I'd rather have Allison work for McDonald's than the Reese Foundation. I'd rather have her do nothing, just stay in the mountains with her boyfriend for the rest of her life. At least then I could talk to her about something other than this stage play we've built up around ourselves.”

Keeny sat very low in her seat. “Don't yell at me, Gregg.”

He made an effort to control his voice but couldn't. “I'm not yelling, I'm just saying maybe it's time we put the Reese Foundation to bed. I'll call Celia this afternoon.” He laughed. “She'll probably have a stroke, but that's her problem.”

“Celia is a friend of mine,” Keeny said icily.

“No, she's not. We don't have any friends, Mom. Celia Shriver, Walter Greevy . . . none of 'em. They're all business associates. They may look like friends, but they're not. Martha Friedkin—”

“You're not being fair to any of those people, Gregg. You're certainly not being fair to
me.
Running the Reese Foundation is hard work. I've carried this family for thirty-eight years, when your father wouldn't do it, when
you
wouldn't do it.”

“What would be the harm in letting go, huh? Instead of living in the past and constantly invoking the names of our forefathers—like anyone gives a damn about those people.”

Keeny bustled out of her seat and went to turn off the stove. He could tell that he'd hurt her feelings, and in the quiet that followed she ladled the soup into a bowl and brought it to the table. The soup was so thin that he could see the bowl's rose pattern clearly through the steaming red liquid. She had one spoonful, then said, “When I'm dead, this is the conversation you'll remember—”

“Ma—”

“
This
is the conversation you'll remember, and I hope that you'll think very hard about what you said to me, because quite frankly, I'm extremely disgusted with you right now.”

She picked her spoon back up and continued eating. What Gregg now perceived, in a flash that momentarily blinded him, was the thought of his mother's absence in the years ahead. The time would come when he would want her forgiveness, and she wouldn't be there to give it to him. Why not ask for it now? Mom, I'm sorry. You did your best with me. Let's just leave it in the past, okay? That's where it belongs. Buried.