Fall from grace, p.2
Fall from Grace, page 2
Adam had forgotten this. Glancing at his mother, he saw tears glistening on her face, a look of grief and torment that surprised him. He clasped her hand tighter.
Seeing Ben’s widow, the priest paused, then resumed in a thinner voice. “Those forty years are a tribute to the love between Ben and Clarice. But they are also a testament to her resilience and restraint, her commitment to fulfill the vows she pledged to her husband, and her resolve to raise Edward and Adam in the family to which they were born-”
A complex gift, Adam thought. But what puzzled him was the priest’s reference-oblique but clear enough-to his father’s infidelity. After all, mourners had buried Nelson Rockefeller, who had died making love to his mistress, without a whisper of what had New Yorkers snickering for weeks. Rockefeller’s widow had wanted it that way and so, Adam had thought until this moment, must Clarice Blaine.
But the priest forged on. “All of us fail in some way. All of us are subject to temptation. All of us fall short of the glory of God-”
“Some more than others,” Teddy whispered.
For Adam, this moment was another surprise-from his expression, Teddy had expected this reference to uncomfortable truths. “Ben Blaine,” the priest elaborated, “was no exception. But in this last difficult and complex year, as in all the years of their marriage, Clarice stood by him-”
Filled with questions, Adam glanced at his mother. But she was staring straight ahead now, her face suddenly haggard. “It is not for us,” the priest said firmly, “to know what was in Ben Blaine’s heart during his final months of life, or at the moment of his death. We can only look, as did Clarice, at a life enriched by family and filled with accomplishment, great courage, loyal friends, and countless acts of generosity and grace. The rich, unquiet, and triumphant life of Benjamin Blaine.”
Adam absorbed this statement in bewildered silence. Knowing his mother, he was certain that the minister said no more than she permitted. But what qualified this last year as more difficult than any other? And why, when his mother had ignored the truth for years, would she allow it to be spoken now? Except, perhaps, to have this priest publicly ennoble her victimhood.
Mired in troubled thoughts, he half listened to the ritual commendation. “Receive Benjamin Blaine into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.
“Let us go forth in the name of Christ-”
Leaning close again, Teddy murmured, “Follow me, bro. You and I are pallbearers.”
As the priest removed the cloth from the casket, six pallbearers took their places. Besides Jack and Teddy, Adam saw Ben’s longtime publisher; the senior senator from Massachusetts, a classmate at Yale and a frequent sailing companion; and a wrongly convicted death row inmate, a Mexican immigrant whose cause Ben had championed. All wore the sober looks of men who had lost a touchstone of their lives and, in mourning him, had glimpsed their own mortality. But this first clear look at his uncle surprised Adam. He had not seen Jack for three years, and he looked much older and more than a little weary: his thick dark hair was shot through with gray, the lines in his face were now seams, and the hollows beneath his eyes looked like bruises. No doubt this occasion, like his relationship to his younger brother, was fraught. But Jack regarded Adam across the casket with an affectionate gaze, his warm brown eyes conveying deep pleasure in seeing him.
Lifting the casket, Teddy nodded at his brother, as if to say Feels like he’s in there. As the pallbearers started from the church, Adam felt his mother behind them, a silent figure in black. Then he saw Jenny Leigh.
She sat at the end of a pew, watching Adam’s face. For an instant he almost stopped, just before she looked away.
So she was still on the island, Adam thought, and had come here. She was much as he remembered her, slender and blond. Ten years ago she had possessed a smile that could fill his heart. But then, as now, there was something watchful in her eyes-as though she heard a distant, perhaps troubling, sound audible to no one else. Even at twenty, part of her had seemed forever out of reach; the last time he had seen her, they did not speak at all. Adam wondered how the years had changed her, and what she would say to him now.
Passing her, he stared straight ahead.
They bore his father through the entrance and into a bright sunlight that, to Adam, now felt incongruous. As they slid the casket into the hearse, the reporter from the Enquirer watched with a photographer who snapped pictures of the pallbearers. The key to all this interest, Adam surmised, had been hinted at in the eulogy.
Adam shook hands with his father’s friends, expressing his muted thanks. Then he followed Jack and Teddy to a black stretch limousine in which his mother waited.
Once Adam stepped inside, the driver closed the door behind him. At last he was alone with his family.
Leaning forward, he hugged his mother, discovering that she felt smaller. She gave him a wan look. “I’m so glad you’re here. I know this is hard-” Her voice trailed off.
“It’s not, Mom,” Adam replied. “I came for you.”
Her face softened in appreciation. “We’re all glad,” Jack affirmed.
Adam nodded. “How are you, Jack? Holding up okay?”
With his thoughtful air, so typical of Jack, he pondered the question. “For as long as I can remember,” he said at length, “Ben was part of my life.” He let the words stand for themselves, the enormity of their meaning left unspoken.
The limousine started toward the cemetery at Abel’s Hill. “What’s after this?” Adam inquired.
“A family meeting,” Teddy said. “We took care of the mourners last night-a wake of sorts without the body, another ritual to get through. Be happy that you missed it.”
In profile, his mother seemed to wince.
Silent, Adam looked out the window as memories of his youth flashed by-the dirt road to Long Point Beach, the turnoff for the Tisbury Great Pond. A life spent outdoors, cherished once, his memories curdled by his final summer. On the porch of Alley’s General Store, where Adam had worked summers, islanders had gathered to watch the funeral procession. “A last obeisance,” Teddy murmured. “How he would have loved it.” For a moment, Adam wanted to ask about the eulogy, then considered his mother’s feelings. He would talk with Teddy alone.
“A decade,” Jack said to him. “Does it feel that long to you?”
“Longer.”
His uncle nodded. “It’s great to see you on the island. Whatever the reason.” As if to say, Adam sensed, Now you can come back.
Teddy gave him the crooked smile Adam had loved since boyhood. “It is good, actually. Hope one of us doesn’t have to follow Dad’s lead to get you here again.”
Adam took his mother’s hand. Softly, he said, “I won’t require that now.”
The limousine reached Abel’s Hill, the hearse ahead of it. In the gentler sun of late afternoon, the green sloping hills of the cemetery looked inviting, a good place to rest. Set among the pines were tombstones dating back to the early eighteenth century. Five generations of Blaines were buried here, some who died as children, as well as Lillian Hellman, until today its most famous occupant, whom Ben had memorably described as “an unspeakable harridan, as ugly as she was dishonest.” When moved to scorn, which was often, his father had minced no words.
They parked near a grave site shaded by trees and bordered by freshly dug earth, where the priest awaited them. This time Adam, Jack, and Teddy carried the casket with two cemetery workers, placing it on the platform the men would use to lower it into the ground. As Adam introduced himself to the priest, Robin Merritt, another car appeared. To his utter confusion, Jenny Leigh emerged.
He glanced at Teddy. But his brother’s face registered no surprise. When Clarice saw Jenny, her expression warmed as it had for Adam. Tall and graceful, Jenny seemed to carry a separateness, as though creating her own space. But then she reached his mother and took Clarice in her arms.
Clarice hugged her fiercely. Ten years ago, Adam’s mother had barely known her. And yet, by some alchemy of time, Jenny Leigh was here.
She kissed Jack on the cheek, then Teddy. Approaching Adam, her blue-gray eyes were grave and searching. She hesitated and then, as though conscious of the others watching, brushed his cheek with her lips. Drawing back, she said, “You look different. But then it’s been quite a while.”
Adam’s mouth felt dry. “So it has. How are you, Jenny?”
“Fine.” She glanced toward the grave. “Is this hard for you?”
“Less hard than what came before.”
She nodded, briefly looking down. Then she stood beside Clarice.
The small group gathered around the grave. Looking again at his uncle and brother, Adam pondered the patterns within their family. In the last two generations, the birth order seemed to have repeated itself; Teddy, the firstborn, resembled Jack; Adam was the image of Jack’s younger brother. Now they were burying Ben beside the father he had despised, Nathaniel Blaine, just as Teddy and Adam loathed the man they were burying. Both older brothers, Jack and Teddy, had been overshadowed by the younger. But there was this difference, for which Adam was profoundly grateful-whereas Ben’s transcendence over Jack came with a streak of cruelty, Adam, observing that, had striven to be easier for Teddy to love. A generous spirit, Teddy had perceived this. As a brother, he was all that Adam could have asked.
Standing together with folded hands, Adam and Teddy listened as Father Merritt recited the commitment to the grave. “Almighty God, Father of mercies and giver of comfort, deal graciously, we pray, with all those who mourn: that, casting all their care on you, they may know the consolation of your love-”
When this was done, they lowered Ben into the earth. Clarice shoveled dirt on the casket, then Jack, Teddy, and Adam. He had wondered how this would feel. Now he felt nothing but the desire to be done with it.
As Adam put down the shovel, Clarice turned toward Jenny. “We’re going home,” she said. “Would you like to come?”
Jenny glanced at Adam, then replied with equal softness. “Adam is here now. This should be a time for family.”
Looking from Jenny to Adam, Clarice nodded. Without another word, Jenny hugged her and left.
From the road, Adam saw, the photographer from the Enquirer was shooting pictures of his father’s grave. As Adam turned to watch Jenny departing, Teddy placed a hand on his shoulder. “Just as well,” he murmured. “We’ve got some things to tell you, and Jenny’s the least of it.”
Three
For all of Adam’s life, the Blaines had lived in a sprawling white frame house, set in a grassy clearing amid ten wooded acres. Built in the 1850s, it was sheltered by trees from the winds off the Atlantic, though clear-cutting had created an opening through which one could view the cliff overlooking the water. In the 1940s, a wealthy couple from Boston, Clarice’s parents, had bought this as their summer home; long before Adam and Teddy had played hide-and-seek in the woods and swum off the rocky beach below, Clarice had spent the best months of her childhood in this house. As with many homes of this vintage, the porch that looked out at woods and ocean had been more generous than the rooms, a reminder that what was most compelling about the Vineyard was outdoors. Adam could still remember the summer evenings when his mother and father, like Clarice’s, would sit on the porch until nightfall, talking or just listening to the crickets.
But like everything he touched, Ben had left his mark on the house of Clarice’s youth. Discontented with cramped space, he had knocked down walls and added a study that his wife and sons entered by invitation only. Now the living room was large and open, filled with comfortable furniture, sumptuous Asian rugs, and mementos of Ben’s travels-Asian vases, African masks, scrolls in Arabic and Hebrew, and Middle Eastern antiques acquired by dubious means. On the rough-hewn dining room table was the silver Herreshoff Cup, possessed for a season by the winner of the summer sailing competition, which Ben had claimed again in his sixty-fourth year. The home was so redolent of his father’s life that Adam, entering for the first time in years, half-expected to see the man they had just buried drinking whisky in his brown leather chair.
Instead, his family sat in a room that, despite its many appointments, felt empty. Shaking off this moment of strangeness, Adam poured himself a scotch and took deeper stock of the survivors. Whenever he could, he had met them off-island, so he did not gauge them by the ten-year span of his self-imposed exile. But all three had changed since Adam had seen them last.
His mother looked smaller and more worn, her beauty now the faded handsomeness of a woman in her sixties. Though she still carried herself with an air of serenity and self-possession, a second persona seemed to peer out from behind her cornflower-blue eyes, more tentative and wounded. In Adam’s mind, she had always been the master of appearances-her parents had taught her well, and she had polished her skills in the larger world as Ben Blaine’s lovely and forbearing wife, hiding the pain of her marriage and, with that, its loneliness. Clarice Blaine, her son thought sadly, was perhaps the nicest person no one really knew.
Lean and angular, Teddy was an amalgam, with his mother’s air of refinement, Jack’s sensitive brown eyes, and a forelock of Ben’s unruly black hair falling over his pale forehead. But his essence was uniquely Teddy-the artistic talent, the ironic smile with humor to match, a cover for his own hurt. The disease that had driven him back to the island, non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, had left him frailer and, it seemed to Adam, out of place. It was hard to grow up gay on Martha’s Vineyard; even for adults, there was not much cushion for that among the natives. But it was worse to return to Ben’s scorn and indifference. Nothing Teddy accomplished could change his father’s verdict: where Adam saw a gifted painter, Ben had seen a feckless dreamer. In a just world, Adam thought, Jack would have been Teddy’s father.
Jack, too, had been an artist-a sculptor. Faltering in his chosen path, he had become a woodworker, sublimating whatever frustrations he might feel in an embrace of the island’s natural world. But the fraternal pattern persisted-when Jack chose to compete with Ben, as he had for years of summer sailing, far more often than not Ben won. Now Ben was dead, and Jack looked hollowed out and weary. Perhaps the saddest part of this moment for Adam was that, for all of their resentments, Ben Blaine had been the dominant figure in the lives of these three people, and in his own.
Following Adam’s lead, Teddy poured a tumbler of scotch for his mother, another for himself, but none for Jack. In response to Adam’s querying look, his uncle said simply, “I’ve stopped. It was getting me through too many winter nights.”
The note of regret in Jack’s voice underscored the reticence in the room. Adam looked at the three of them, Clarice sitting beside Jack on the couch, Teddy in an antique chair. Each seemed grim and subdued, as if they had much to say and no easy place to begin. Remembering Teddy’s words at the grave site, Adam said to his brother, “The eulogy got my attention. What ‘difficult year’ are we talking about? Every year with our father was difficult.”
Teddy glanced at their mother. “This one was harder,” she said in a brittle voice. “Especially the last four months.”
“How so?”
The trace of melancholy in her eyes did not match the asperity of her tone. “He was drinking heavily-much more than when you knew him. His behavior became very erratic, with frequent mood changes and outbursts of temper, lapses where he couldn’t find the word he wanted.” She shook her head. “Some of this isn’t easy to describe. But there were moments when I remembered my father in the first stages of dementia.”
“That seems odd for a healthy man in his midsixties.” Adam pointed at the silver trophy. “Last August, he was fit enough to snare that cup after a two-month racing season. The drunken or demented couldn’t do that.”
A note of reproof entered Clarice’s voice. “You weren’t here, Adam. By December, your father was a different man. For me, perhaps the oddest thing was that his writing habits completely changed. You remember how disciplined he was.”
“Sure. At his desk by seven-even hungover or sick as a dog-writing and rewriting until the cocktail hour. ‘Writers should have workdays,’ he used to say, ‘like bureaucrats or bankers.’”
“He lost that,” his mother said wearily. “His writing became frenzied, even nocturnal. I’d find him at his computer past midnight, a drink on his desk. He’d never written at night, or used alcohol as a spur.”
Another remark of his father’s sprung to Adam’s mind: “This myth of drunken writers is romantic bullshit-all drinking ever got them was vomit on the page.” It was disconcerting how much about his father came back to him now.
“None of this makes sense to me,” Adam said at length. “Including his death. He must have walked a thousand times to that promontory, but never that close to the edge. He could have gone there blindfolded and not fallen off the cliff.”
“Well, he did,” Jack said flatly. “The next morning I found him on the rocks below in a pool of dried blood, his skull crushed.”
Adam tried to envision this. “Has there been an autopsy?”
“In Boston. But we don’t know the results yet. The certificate of death we needed to bury him listed the cause of death as ‘Pending.’” Jack’s tone became sarcastic. “If it were me, I’d have written ‘Fell ninety feet before he hit a rock headfirst.’ One look at him resolved all doubt.”
Something was very wrong, Adam knew. Facing Teddy, he asked, “Have the police paid you a visit?”
His brother frowned. “Yup.”
“About what?”
“It was pretty much the same questions for all of us. When we last saw him. What he was wearing. What we were doing when Dad must have taken his swan dive. If anyone was with us.” Briefly Teddy looked at the others-Clarice with her brow knit, Jack watching Adam’s face. “One thing they asked me is if I noticed a button missing on his shirt.”
