are still twenty eggs rotting in there somewhere.”
Susan laughed. “And we lost a kid, too. Jamie Lerner. He was screaming from the north wing for half an hour before we found him.”
“Did we find him? I thought he was still in there, living on Easter eggs.”
We walked past the great house, hand in hand, onto the back lawn, and sat in the old gazebo. Neither of us spoke for a while, then Susan said, “Where do the years go?”
I shrugged.
“Is anything wrong?’’ she asked.
This question is fraught with all types of danger when a spouse asks it. I replied, “No,’’ which in husband talk means yes.
“Another woman?”
“No,’’ which in the right tone of voice means no, no, no.
“Then
what
?”
“I don’t know.”
She remarked, “You’ve been very distant.”
Susan is sometimes so distant I have to dial an area code to get through to her. But people like that don’t appreciate it when it’s reversed. I replied with a stock husband phrase: “It’s nothing to do with you.”
Some wives would be relieved to hear that, even if it weren’t true, but Susan didn’t seem about to break into a grin and throw her arms around me. Instead, she said, “Judy Remsen tells me that you told Lester you wanted to sail around the world.”
If Lester were there, I would have punched him in the nose. I said sarcastically, “Is that what Judy Remsen told you that I told Lester?”
“Yes. Do you want to sail around the world?”
“It sounded like a good idea at the time. I was drunk.’’ Which sounded lame, so in the spirit of truth, I added, “But I have considered it.”
“Am I included in those plans?”
Susan sometimes surprises me with little flashes of insecurity. If I were a more manipulative man, I would promote this insecurity as a means of keeping her attention, if not her affection. I know she does it to me. I asked, “Would you consider living in our East Hampton house?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like it here.”
“You like East Hampton,’’ I pointed out.
“It’s a nice place to spend part of the summer.”
“Why don’t we sail around the world?”
“Why don’t
you
sail around the world?”
“Good question.’’ Bitchy, but good. Time to promote insecurity. “I may do that.”
Susan stood. “Better yet, John, why don’t you ask yourself what you’re running from?”
“Don’t get analytical on me, Susan.”
“Then let me tell you what’s bothering you. Your children aren’t home for Easter, your wife is a bitch, your friends are idiots, your job is boring, you dislike my father, you hate Stanhope Hall, the Allards are getting on your nerves, you’re not rich enough to control events and not poor enough to stop trying. Should I go on?”
“Sure.”
“You’re alienated from your parents or vice versa, you’ve had one too many dinners at the club, attractive young women don’t take your flirting seriously anymore, life is without challenge, maybe without meaning, and possibly without hope. And nothing is certain but death and taxes. Well, welcome to American upper-middle-class middle age, John Sutter.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and lest I forget, a Mafia don has just moved in next door.”
“That might be the only bright spot in the picture.”
“It might well be.”
Susan and I looked at each other, but neither of us explained what we meant by that last exchange. I stood. “I feel better now.”
“Good. You just needed a mental enema.”
I smiled. Actually, I did feel better, maybe because I was happy to discover that Susan and I were still in touch.
Susan threw her arm around my shoulders, which I find very tomboyish, yet somehow more intimate than an embrace. She said, “I wish it
were
another woman. I could take care of that damned quickly.”
I smiled. “
Some
attractive young women take me seriously.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that.”
“Right.”
We left the gazebo and walked on a path that led into a treed
Susan laughed. “And we lost a kid, too. Jamie Lerner. He was screaming from the north wing for half an hour before we found him.”
“Did we find him? I thought he was still in there, living on Easter eggs.”
We walked past the great house, hand in hand, onto the back lawn, and sat in the old gazebo. Neither of us spoke for a while, then Susan said, “Where do the years go?”
I shrugged.
“Is anything wrong?’’ she asked.
This question is fraught with all types of danger when a spouse asks it. I replied, “No,’’ which in husband talk means yes.
“Another woman?”
“No,’’ which in the right tone of voice means no, no, no.
“Then
what
?”
“I don’t know.”
She remarked, “You’ve been very distant.”
Susan is sometimes so distant I have to dial an area code to get through to her. But people like that don’t appreciate it when it’s reversed. I replied with a stock husband phrase: “It’s nothing to do with you.”
Some wives would be relieved to hear that, even if it weren’t true, but Susan didn’t seem about to break into a grin and throw her arms around me. Instead, she said, “Judy Remsen tells me that you told Lester you wanted to sail around the world.”
If Lester were there, I would have punched him in the nose. I said sarcastically, “Is that what Judy Remsen told you that I told Lester?”
“Yes. Do you want to sail around the world?”
“It sounded like a good idea at the time. I was drunk.’’ Which sounded lame, so in the spirit of truth, I added, “But I have considered it.”
“Am I included in those plans?”
Susan sometimes surprises me with little flashes of insecurity. If I were a more manipulative man, I would promote this insecurity as a means of keeping her attention, if not her affection. I know she does it to me. I asked, “Would you consider living in our East Hampton house?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like it here.”
“You like East Hampton,’’ I pointed out.
“It’s a nice place to spend part of the summer.”
“Why don’t we sail around the world?”
“Why don’t
you
sail around the world?”
“Good question.’’ Bitchy, but good. Time to promote insecurity. “I may do that.”
Susan stood. “Better yet, John, why don’t you ask yourself what you’re running from?”
“Don’t get analytical on me, Susan.”
“Then let me tell you what’s bothering you. Your children aren’t home for Easter, your wife is a bitch, your friends are idiots, your job is boring, you dislike my father, you hate Stanhope Hall, the Allards are getting on your nerves, you’re not rich enough to control events and not poor enough to stop trying. Should I go on?”
“Sure.”
“You’re alienated from your parents or vice versa, you’ve had one too many dinners at the club, attractive young women don’t take your flirting seriously anymore, life is without challenge, maybe without meaning, and possibly without hope. And nothing is certain but death and taxes. Well, welcome to American upper-middle-class middle age, John Sutter.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and lest I forget, a Mafia don has just moved in next door.”
“That might be the only bright spot in the picture.”
“It might well be.”
Susan and I looked at each other, but neither of us explained what we meant by that last exchange. I stood. “I feel better now.”
“Good. You just needed a mental enema.”
I smiled. Actually, I did feel better, maybe because I was happy to discover that Susan and I were still in touch.
Susan threw her arm around my shoulders, which I find very tomboyish, yet somehow more intimate than an embrace. She said, “I wish it
were
another woman. I could take care of that damned quickly.”
I smiled. “
Some
attractive young women take me seriously.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that.”
“Right.”
We left the gazebo and walked on a path that led into a treed
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