Shades of Fortune (9 page)

“I'm not even sure about that, Edwee. I think she sees better than she lets on. She noticed yellow tulips. She said she could smell they were yellow. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I never have!”

“No,” he says, “the real point is that she can no longer manage her own affairs. She needs special care. I hate to say this, Nonie, but she must be placed in a nursing home. And not a moment too soon. We should probably start making arrangements the first thing in the morning.”

“A
nursing
home! But she's perfectly happy at the Carlyle. She has room service, maid service, her linens changed every day. They love her there, and treat her like a—”

“I've already located a place in Great Barrington that sounds quite ideal for her. She'd have her own little room. People her own age for company—”

“But she has plenty of company, Edwee. People drop in on her all the time, she spends half her day on the telephone talking to people like Mrs. Perlman. The hotel staff is in and out—”

“And Great Barrington's far enough away so that she'll understand why you and I won't be able to come and see her as often as we might like. No pets, of course.”

“You'd make her give up Itty-Bitty? That would
kill
her, Edwee!”

“Well, it's got to be done,” he says. “I know it's sad, but it's got to be done.”

“But
why
, Edwee? Mother is … Mother. She's always been the way she is. After all, I'm a few—well, a couple of years older than you, and Mother has been the way she is for as long as I can remember. What we saw tonight was just … Mother!”

He hesitates. “I'll tell you something, Nonie,” he says. “Something you may not know. Before our Papa died, he said to me, ‘Edwee, I want you to take care of your mother. And if ever the time comes, I want you to see that she is given the proper care. I want you to promise me that, if the time should come when you feel that she needs to be institutionalized, you will see that it's done. P-p-p-promise me that.' I promised him. It was a deathbed promise, Nonie.”

“But Edwee, Papa died in his sleep in a San Francisco hotel. You were in Paris, remember?”

“Nevertheless, that was my promise, and it's my sad duty to honor that promise now. I'll call my lawyers at Dewey, Ballantine tomorrow, have the legal paperwork done. Have her declared incompetent, incapable of handling her own affairs. You and I can do it, because we're her only remaining living issue. We'll just sign whatever papers are necessary to declare her—”

“Oh, Edwee, no!”

“
What do you mean, no?
” His voice is angry now.

“Because she's
not
incompetent! No more than she ever was, I mean, which was never very—”

“Damn it, she
is
. Do I have to draw pictures for you? Didn't you hear what she said in the car? About giving away the art collection—just
giving it away!
Do you call that competent? That collection is p-priceless! The Goya, the Bentons—the Goya alone! She's already seen Philippe de Montebello, Nonie! God knows what de Montebello may have gotten her to sign! Well, if she's signed anything, we'll have it declared null and void, based on her incompetence. That collection is part of our inheritance, Nonie. It's ours.”

“Well, it really isn't, Edwee. It's hers, and hers to do with as she wishes, it seems to me.”

“Do you mean to say you
approve
of this insanity—just giving away this priceless collection of paintings?”

“I've never cared all that much about art,” she says.

“Well,
I
do,” he says. “I care.”

“Just because she wants to give away her collection doesn't seem to me reason enough to have her shipped off to a nursing home,” she says. “It just doesn't.”

“One of us will have to be appointed her conservator,” he says. “I think that should be you. You've always gotten along with her better than I have. Besides, you don't have anything else to do.”

“What do you
mean
, I don't have anything else to do?”

“It's just a legal technicality,” he says. “How much work could be involved in taking care of somebody who's a vegetable?”

“Edwee, this is our
mother
you're talking about!”

“Well, can you think of a single reason why we'd want to keep that old hag around any longer, that old hag that does nothing but cause us trouble? Unless …” He hesitates, and his eyes narrow slightly. “Unless … unless—”

“Unless what, Edwee?”

“Unless,” he says, “
you
have some
personal
agenda that involves keeping her around. Is that it, Nonie? Have you got some new scheme up your sleeve that involves Mother?”

“Well,” she begins guardedly, “I do have a life to live, and …” She falls silent. She knows from experience that it is unwise to divulge too much of her plans to her brother. He cannot be trusted.

“That's it, isn't it? And it probably involves that young thug you brought to Mimi's tonight, doesn't it?”

The house is silent now, except for the oddly soothing rumble of the traffic that passes, unceasingly, along the FDR Drive and through the Sutton Place Tunnel beneath the foundation of the house. All the houses on Edwee's little mews experience this steady rumble, and it is Edwee's opinion that this small, steady vibration has a salubrious effect on the growth of plants. His herb garden, he claims, benefits from this effect, and he has even expounded on this theory in an article for
House & Garden
, which an unfortunate change in editorial direction caused an inexperienced new editor to reject. The vibrations from the FDR Drive as it passes through the tunnel, he wrote, has the effect of “massaging” the roots of his specimen herbs, an effect that he likened to “subterranean petting—petting to climax.”

“Of course,” he says finally, “I should have known all along. You have some new scheme up your sleeve. That's why you oppose having Mother put away. What is it this time, Nonie?”

“I really don't see that it's any of your—”

“How many others have there been, Nonie? How many other money-losing schemes? Let's see: there was the dress shop on M-M-Madison Avenue. There was the little restaurant. There was the jewelry boutique. There was the p-p-p-pathetic attempt to start a new fashion magazine. All of these required the financial backing of
M-M-Maman
, of course. Who else would back such obvious losing schemes?”

“Certainly not you!” Nonie cries. “I've learned long ago that it's useless for anyone to turn to
you
and ask for help.”

“You've always been so money-grubbing, Nonie. Why is that? Why are you so money-grubbing? Money bores me.”

“Money bores
you
because you're rich! I'm not. I'm the poor relation. I was shorted out of Papa's will, remember?”

“You were shorted out of Papa's will because he didn't consider you
responsible
. He considered Henry and me responsible.”

She reaches for her bag and gloves to go. “You're not telling me anything I haven't known for years,” she says. “I was shorted out of Papa's will because I was a girl, and Papa had no use for girls. He only wanted sons. I was a disappointment to him from the moment I was born.”

“No, I think it was later, as you grew older, that he began to actively dislike you.”

She stands up, facing him, and slowly his eyes withdraw from hers. “But what ambitions he had for his two sons,” she says. “Do you remember? Henry was to run the company, and look what happened to him. You were to become the first Jewish President of the United States, remember that? ‘Edwin will be the first Jew in the White House,' he used to say. Well, now you've become Nancy Reagan's little pet, and I suppose that's close enough—being Nancy Reagan's walker.”

His right hand, holding the pipe, jerks visibly upward, as though about to strike her, but he manages to restrain himself, and the hand falls downward.

“Good night, Edwee,” she says. “Have fun sitting on your wife's face.” Then she is gone.

Alone in his office, among his crowded collection, Edwee Myerson returns to the chair behind his big desk and relights his pipe. The pipe is ordinarily just a prop. He uses it mainly just for effect, pointing its stem at a conversational partner to emphasize an argument or to drive home one of his well-thought-out opinions. But now he puffs on it fiercely, inhaling deeply, as though the pipe and its tobacco were an uncontrollable addiction.

His eyes travel upward to one section of walnut-paneled wall that, miraculously, considering the well-planned clutter of the room, is unaccountably bare of ornamentation or garniture. This space has been reserved, always, for his mother's Goya.

There are two possessions of his mother's that he has always been determined one day to own. One is her large square-cut emerald solitaire with its girdle of diamonds. The other is the Goya. He would not want to wear his mother's emerald ring, of course. But he would like to hold it, fondle it, rub the emerald's facets with his fingertips, to possess the ring as one would possess a lover. His passion for the Goya is just as powerful, just as sensual, just as erotic. Someday, he has always known, he must possess just those two things. The absence of those two things has created a hole in his life that nothing else can fill, a well of longing, a black hollow of desire, as achingly empty as that waiting square of walnut wall.

He has always known that it would be futile, sheer folly, to ask his mother for those two objects. He knows her too well to do a thing like that. She is an accomplished player, a pro, at turning down requests, at deflecting solicitations, at ignoring panhandlers, and at being both blind and deaf to beggars. At denying the needs of others, his mother should be given a Lifetime Achievement Award. Except, of course, for her soft spot, which is Nonie. He has, however, tried to suggest to her obliquely that there are a couple of things of hers that he rather fancies. He has said, for instance, of the emerald, “If I owned that ring, I'd display it, in a lighted jar, suspended on the thinnest platinum chain.” And as for the Goya, when in her presence—when she still had her eyesight, that is—he would try to send signals to her subconscious by simply standing for long periods in front of the painting, gazing at it worshipfully. Now, it is clear, these mental messages never reached whatever remains of her cerebrum, for she is thinking of giving his Goya away.

His eyes wander to the collection of firearms and flintlocks displayed above the door, and to the collection of lethal blades in the elephant's foot. Is there a way to murder his mother? Is there a way to snuff out the life of the conniving Philippe de Montebello?

Dimly, the vague shape of a plan begins to float into his mind, and he lets its scattered pieces fall into place. At first, the pieces do not fit. He shuffles them, re-sorts them, rearranges the elements of the plan, first this way, then that. The first thing he must do, he decides, is to make sure that he is on the best of terms with Mimi. A letter is required.

From the center drawer of his desk, he removes a sheet of his heavily crested ivory letter paper, with the serifs of his monogram—E.R.M.—twisted and curled around and within each other like royal blue liana vines. He takes his antique quill pen, the one he uses when setting down his essays, dips it in a silver inkwell, and begins to write. “My dearest Mimi,” he begins.

Thank you for your truly quite splendid dinner, and you were a jewel to include me. Your food, flowers, and decor were, as always, perfection, and I thought to myself as I watched you from my end of the table: “Has Mimi
ever
looked lovelier? No! Never!
Jamais dans sa vie!

Second only to
your
beauty, I decided, was your new fragrance, which you named so aptly
—
nay, brilliantly!
—
Mireille. I have just now dabbed a bit of the men's cologne on myself, and the scent is positively thrilling
—
luxurious, thrilling, utterly captivating, and quite different from anything else I have ever sampled in men's toiletries. I know you are going to have a brilliant success with this, Mimi, and that Mireille will provide just another bright feather in your already well-feathered cap
.

May I also say this, dear Mimi? Your dear father would be so
very
proud of you!

A very clever touch, Edwee thinks. He envisions Mimi dabbing at her eyes over this evocation of her dead father.

Of course I must also apologize for the
unspeakable
behaviour of poor, dear
Maman.
I know it must have upset you, but brave

He gropes for the right noun. Brave girl? No, girls don't like to be called girls anymore. Brave woman? Brave little soldier? Brave little trouper?

creature that you are, you did not let the upset show. I must say that after
Maman's
behaviour

He always spells it “behaviour,” the English way.

tonight, I am convinced, sadly, that she is now completely ga-ga, no longer responsible for either her words or actions. Indeed, tonight, your aunt Nonie and I had a long meeting to discuss the advisability and possibility of a

The words
nursing home
have an unpleasant connotation. What else can one call it? He writes:

an alternative care facility
.

Thank you, dear Mimi, and I don't need to wish you success with Mireille because I can “smell” success in the sample you gave me. Congratulations in advance!

Fondly, your

Uncle Edwee

He puts down his pen, and there is a buzz on the house intercom. He picks up the telephone and says, “Yes, Pussy-face?”

“Aren't you
ever
coming to bed, Daddy? It's almost one o'clock!”