Читать книгу 60 MILES FROM SALT WATER - William Minot - Страница 3

Bob Lane loved it the minute he laid eyes on the gates. It might have been the early years on the eastern shore of Maryland or his time along the New England coast north of Boston, but one look and he was sold. As he drove onto St. George’s School quad during his tour of prep schools in the fall of his seventh grade year, the impact of the view was dramatic. When he stood in the middle of the varsity football field and looked down the rolling hills to several miles of magnificent beaches, admiring the roaring surf had him rubbing his legs together like a cricket.

Still an Episcopal-affiliated school, the campus was set against one of the great smaller gothic cathedrals in the United States that rose like a beacon to those who needed any motivation to higher learning. It also served as a teenage phallic symbol. Although it was the mid-Sixties and the school no longer had a religious prerequisite for attendance, the tower was a call to excellence, regardless of one’s faith.

With wonderful grounds, good facilities, and a friendly yet sophisticated feel, the school had only one problem—an insecurity complex. For many years, educators had been waiting for it to become one of the top ten private schools in New England, highlighted by more than half the class getting early admission to Ivy League colleges, excellent sports teams, high SATs, a strong endowment and a faculty to be admired. But it lacked some ingredient that kept it in the 15-25 ranking, just below the Groton, St. Paul’s, Milton, etc. level of consistent excellence. Graduates included names like Astor, Biddle, Merck, Pell and Vanderbilt, but there was something intangible holding the school back.

Bob’s mom loved it as well, for all those and two other reasons. First, they had scholarship money available. It meant waiting on tables, but she knew that his personality and athletic prowess would obviate any near-term concerns.

Second, St. George’s was situated but a stone’s throw from one of the nation’s most powerful playgrounds for the rich, richer, and the idle rich, with a great history and powerful connections in New York, Washington, Palm Beach and points west: Newport, Rhode Island.

And there were rich playthings there as well. It wasn’t just tea at 4:00. Great boating, tennis, golf, and parties galore in the huge homes constructed in the Gilded Age before the First War and income taxes. That set Newport apart in many ways. You could smell the money and beautiful people at the town’s watering holes and private clubs. A wonderful world for a future in the investment business.

It was in this setting that he met Billy Andrews, who was, over time, to become his best friend. Another hockey player, Billy had grown up on the east side of Cleveland, Ohio, but spent much of his youth in Mt. Desert, Maine, where the water was cold, where pulling pots filled with pound and a half and two pound lobsters was a great summer job. Billy’s mom would drive him an hour each way to skate at 5:00 p.m. with the local high school team in Ellsworth. He’d eat in the car and still make the 7:30 show in Northeast Harbor at the Town Theater.

They became fast friends and roomed together for their junior and senior years. Now inseparable, they had both applied to Trinity College, and wanted to go as a threesome with a guy down the hall, a big defenseman from Arlington, Massachusetts named Jim Bellino. He was the nephew of a famous BC football player and had violence in his blood. Another scholarship student, he was courted by several colleges, but Trinity gave him virtually a free ride and the potential of great friends to continue setting him up for his viscious slap shot. An overly enthusiastic Catholic, he crossed himself every time he took a shower.

It had been a tough year for America. The death of Martin Luther King, black power at the Olympics and the Tet Offensive in Vietnam symbolized a tortured country and world. Culturally, In the Heat of the Night had been elected Best Picture by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

It was early spring when Bob Lane double-timed across St. George’s quadrangle from his room in the senior dorm to the campus book store and post office. He had been told that today might be the day. A full 8.5” x 11” envelope was an acceptance to a college of your choice. The smaller letter format was not a good sign.

He’d applied to Harvard, a family tradition, Bowdoin, where the odds were not good, and Trinity. He was nervous about family pressure to accept a Harvard offer. Both his mom and grandfather had been enthusiastic about that eventuality, as his grandfather had been a captain of an undefeated Harvard hockey team during the early 1940s. He had loved his trip to Hartford, and knew both instinctively and through college counselling at St. George’s that he would be more successful at a smaller school. And what if none of the colleges wanted him in their future alumni list? He would cross that bridge if necessary.

Billy was already there and smiled broadly as Bob came around the corner. They’d promised each other they would open their boxes simultaneously, for better or for worse. Two large from Hartford. They opened and read the first line, then embraced.

“We are pleased …” their letters began.

“Four years locked and fuckin’ loaded,” Billy said.

“And a hockey team hot for both of us,” returned Bob.

It turned out to be a threesome, with Jim Bellino choosing his free ride. Harvard declined and Bowdoin put Bob on the waiting list. There was no decision to make. His grandfather mumbled something about “ungrateful bastards” and affirmative action, but generally took it better than Bob expected.

He told Gramps of his happiness at the way things turned out, that he was sorry about Cambridge and loved him very much. His grandparents reaffirmed their commitment to pay part of the freight. He called Bowdoin the next day, told them thanks but no thanks, and his education was locked in. What a feeling of relief! Now elation, and pride. Warm up the graduation outfit: school blazer, white pants and Bass Weejuns. They were going to listen to the traditional graduation bagpipes, hear from the lackluster Lieutenant Governor of Rhode Island, and focus on a great summer before August 23, freshman week in Hartford.

Smith, Barney had an office on Bellvue Avenue, the main drag for tourists who wanted to marvel at the huge homes built by industrialists and financiers at the turn of the twentieth century. Bob had been a regular visitor in the Newport office, watching “the tape” and taking in all the activity. The office manager was impressed and offered him an internship for his summer between school and college; no money, but an open door to get ahead of the crowd in the workings of the business. That was attractive to Bob. All he had to do was find a place to live, get transportation, and secure a second job to fund his summer and get a leg up on college expenses.

Bob’s history teacher was a Civil War freak and a developing alcoholic named John Chamberlain. He claimed to be a direct decendant of the hero of Little Round Top, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, who, according to John, had saved America on July 2, 1863. Out of ammunition, he had his 20th Maine Volunteers fix bayonets and attacked down the drumlin to rout the Confederate soldiers and win the second day of the Battle of Gettysburg.

He went on to become Maine’s governor and head of Bowdoin College. John’s fascination had led to a desire for total immersion for he and his family. They went south every summer for the last four summers for Civil War study and research. This year was Vicksburg. Bob was given the delightful job of housesitting (with school oversight) for the Chamberlains, and had his ten-speed for transportation.

Billy Andrews had met a television producer during his junior summer in Maine, worked on his boat, and had signed on to be a PA (production assistant) on his televison show at Astoria Studios in Brooklyn, and at locations all over New York. With a guest room locked in at his uncle’s on 69th St, between Park and Lexington, he had known since January of his good fortune. A ticket to the starlets. He was psyched.

Bellino, true to form, was to work on a state road crew within thirty miles of his home. His family had a pizzeria but excellent political contacts, and further prying on that score was discouraged. As luck would have it, a summer school job came open for Bobby in the kitchen from four to seven on week nights, a perfect fit at a perfect pay scale.

Bob Lane found great energy in taking his bike on fifty-mile plus rides several times a week. Like many who run or bicycle, he craved that wonderful place that enthusiasts get to after the body is warmed up, with it a euphoria that is addictive and exciting.

Riding that summer, he approached a biker on the main route from Providence to Newport during the final leg of a sixty-mile effort. He instinctively knew it was a female by the movement of her ass in her body suit on the seat. Her riding style had the grace and motion reserved for the female body. Her helmet hid her looks. He tucked in just behind her for a mile or two, watching her taking stock of him in the small rearview mirror attached to her helmet. Custom dictated the lack of any need to communicate as he pulled in front of her, allowing her to check out his physique.

They were in downtown Newport now. Moving past the Viking Hotel, he gave a drinking sign and pointed at his favorite Starbucks, just down the street from his brokerage internship. She smiled and pulled in behind him. He was soaked with sweat and took a minute to wipe off his body with a small towel carried in his backpack.

She put on a sweater and asked, “How far did you go?”

“Sixty or so, just north of Pawtucket.”

“Must have had a lot on your mind,” she commented.

He looked at her and said, “Let me guess, chai tea and a bran muffin.”

“Make it blueberry and you’ve got a deal. I’m Jane.”

“I’m not going to dignify our meeting by saying that I wish I was Tarzan.” He stuck out his hand. “Bobby Lane.”

She took off her helmet and shook like a lab coming out of the water. There stood a stunning teenager with medium length blond hair, piercing green eyes and an aristocratic body, obviously fed perfect food over her lifetime. Her formfitting body suit belied her tall strong body. She was 5’11” if she was an inch. Eye to eye. As she spoke, he detected no New England accent, a telltale giveaway to her upper class breeding. He ordered, paid and sat. She joined him with a smile.

“Lemme guess, Ethel Walker,” said Bobby.

“Close; ex-Farmington.” Ethel Walker and Miss Porters School were two girls’ schools near Hartford, known for upper class educations. Miss Porters was also known as Farmington. Nobody knew why the nickname stuck, but graduates included names like Gene Tierney, Gloria Vanderbilt, Julia Child and Jackie Kennedy Onassis.

“Why ex?”

“Well, I’m off to Connecticut College in the fall,” said Jane.

“St. George’s to Trinity,” said Bobby.

“You are kidding!”

Small world, they both thought. He looked at her over the lip of his chai. Stunning. Confident. Classy. An hour passed in instant, and it was time to go. Haltingly, Jane said, “My family is going to the Beach for the Sunday evening buffet tomorrow night. Want to tag along as my guest?”

There are six or seven WASP paradises on the East Coast for seeing and being seen. The Spouting Rock Beach Association, or “Bailey’s Beach,” as it is known, in Newport is definitely one of those. A daily magnet during summer playtime for the old family idle rich, it reeks of tradition and style. Presidents and senators have walked the beach, especially liberal Democrats taking time off from supporting “the agenda.” Movie stars love the Olympic-size pool. A cabana in the right place is perceived as total acceptance. It is famous for its Sunday buffet dinner loved by all the membership and their guests. It’s the “high” in “high society.”

Rick Davis and his wife Janet knew it and liked it. They always got a table on the upper level. Tonight it was a reservation for six, including an oil executive, his wife, their daughter Jane and her date. Janet Davis was a Texan, with oil on her dad’s side and a huge hunk of 7/11 stock on her mom’s. Homes in Houston, Palm Beach, Andorra and Newport, with domestic help at each.

Bob Lane arrived at precisely 6:15, dressed smart but casual. His preparation had taken four hours, with enough changes to match the Palestinean peace process. He had decided on an open shirt, his double-breasted blazer, gray flannels and no socks. Jane had already signed him in at the office and he moved tenuously through the interior and out to the veranda, where cocktails had begun and tables were filling up. She stood up when he came through the door.

“Holy Christ,” he murmured as he caught her eye.

He was looking at the cover of Seventeen, Vogue, and the Robb Report, all in one. This girl was stunning. She smiled a look of enthusiastic support, came over and said, “Glad to see you with your clothes on, Bob! Welcome to my world.”

He shook her hand and remembered that firm, large palm from their initial meeting.

“Did you peddle your fifty today?”

“Of course.”

“Come and meet my folks.”

Rick Davis had eyed him the minute his daughter stood up. Like most rich dads, he was suspicious of any male object who came within five yards of his only child and heir. He loved her too much and jealousy was part of the package. Jealousy begat suspicion, suspicion begat delusion, and delusion begat hatred of any man who could mistreat his most precious possession.

But he was also somewhat realistic about her need for independence and knew that college would change both their perspectives on parenting forever. So he and Janet had resolved to “keep the enemy close” if necessary and agreed that alienation was a bad strategy, especially if parenting is attempted from a penthouse in Andorra, a small country in the Pyrenees Mountains between France and Spain, one of the world’s most popular places to avoid income taxes.

The adult conversation turned from the frivolous to the sublime—inflation, taxes, and, immigration—leaving Jane and Bobby to talk sports, music, and the fall. Never at a loss for words, they meshed like two minds on speed, each needing to learn from the other. As the night wound down it was like water torture for Bobby, who wanted it to go on forever. Great chowder, roast beef, new potatoes, green beans and a little of each of ten desserts (or so it seemed). Set off against three glasses of Chateau Talbot and the most delicious young woman in America, he was aghast at the thought of returning to Civil War Central at St. Georges.

She walked him to his bike by the tennis court and she said, “Fifty miles? From the Tennis Hall of Fame at 10:15? We’ll exchange numbers.”

“Right,” he said with a bad English accent.

He was bursting with desire, but couldn’t summon the courage to do anything except to try to disguise his partial arousal, which had gotten well out of hand. He would not embrace her for fear that the bubble would burst and he would never see her again. Her parents waited patiently by their car.

Jane grabbed his hand tenderly, unlike before, smiled and said, “Best meal I’ve had this summer!” She winked and turned, and as she reached the back door of the black Range Rover, she paused and looked back before getting in.