Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

“You were too young to remember.” Taxi patted Little Marilyn’s bejeweled hand. “He made getting a loan a most unpleasant process, or so I heard. Cabby and I were still in Manhattan at the time and he was approached by a board member of Allied National to take over the bank. Well, Richmond seemed like the end of the earth—”

Cabby interrupted: “It wasn’t that bad.”

“What happened was that we fell in love with central Virginia, so we bought a house here and Cabby commuted to work every day.”

“Still do. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays I’m at the branch in the downtown mall in Charlottesville. Do you know that in the last ten years or so our growth rate has exceeded that of every other bank in the state of Virginia—by percentage, of course. We’re still a small bank when compared to Central Fidelity, or Crestar, or Nations Bank.”

“Darling, this is a dinner party, not a stockholders’ meeting.” Taxi laughed. “Is it obvious how much my husband loves his job?”

As the guests agreed with Taxi and speculated on how people find the work that suits them, Fitz-Gilbert asked Blair, “Will you be attending opening hunt?”

Blair turned to Harry. “Will I be attending opening hunt?”

Stafford leaned toward Blair. “If she won’t take you, I will. You see, Harry will probably be riding tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you help me get ready in the morning and then you can meet everyone there?” Harry’s voice registered nothing but innocence.

This drew peals of laughter from the others, even Brenda Sanburne, who knew enough to realize that getting ready for a fox hunt can be a nerve-racking experience.

“Nice try, Harry.” Fitz-Gilbert toasted in her direction.

“Now my curiosity’s got the better of me. What time do I have to be at your barn?”

Harry twirled her fork. “Seven-thirty.”

“That’s not so bad,” Blair rejoined.

“If you drink enough tonight it will be,” Stafford promised.

“Don’t even mention it.” Fitz-Gilbert put his hand to his forehead.

“I’ll say. You’ve been getting snookered lately. This morning when I woke up, what a sorry face I saw.” Little Marilyn pursed her lips.

“Did you know, Blair, that Virginia is home to more fox-hunting clubs than any other state in the Union? Nineteen in all—two in Albemarle County,” Cabell informed him. “Keswick on the east side and Farmington on the west side.”

“No, I didn’t know that. I guess there are a lot of foxes. What’s the difference between the two clubs here? Why don’t they have just one large club?”

Harry answered, a wicked smile on her face, “Well, you see, Blair, Keswick Hunt Club is old, old, old Virginia money living in old, old, old Virginia homes. Farmington Hunt Club is old, old, old Virginia money that’s subdivided.”

This caused a whoop and a shout. Stafford nearly choked on his dessert.

Once recovered from this barb, the small group discussed New York, the demise of the theater, a topic creating lively debate, since Blair didn’t think theater was pooping out and Brenda did. Blair told some funny modeling stories which were enlivened by his talent for mimicry. Everyone decided the stock market was dismal so they’d wait out the bad times.

After dessert, the women moved over to the window seat in the living room. Brenda liked Harry. Many white people were likable but you couldn’t really trust them. Even though she knew her but slightly, Brenda felt she could trust Harry. In her odd way, the postmistress was color blind. What you saw with Harry was what you got and Brenda truly appreciated that. Whenever a white person said, “I’m not prejudiced myself . . . ,” you knew you were in trouble.

The men retired to the library for brandy and Cuban cigars. Fitz-Gilbert prided himself on the contraband and wouldn’t divulge his source. Once you smoked a Montecristo, well, there was no looking back.

“One day you’ll spill the beans.” Stafford passed the cigar under his nose, thrilling to the beguiling scent of the tobacco.

Cabell laughed. “When hell freezes over. Fitz can keep a secret.”

“The only reason you guys are nice to me is because of my cigars.”

“That and the fact that you were first oar for Andover.” Stafford puffed away.

“You look more like a wrestler than a first oar.” Blair, too, surrendered to the languor the cigar produced.

“I was skinny as a rail when I was a kid.” Fitz patted his small potbelly. “Not anymore.”

“Ever know Binky Colfax when you were at Andover? My class at Yale.”

“Binky Colfax. Valedictorian.” Fitz-Gilbert flipped through his yearbook and handed it to Blair.

“God, it’s a good thing Binky was an academic.” Blair laughed. “You know, he’s in the administration now. An undersecretary in the State Department. When you remember what a wuss the guy was, it makes me fear for our government. I mean, think of it, all those guys we knew at Yale and Harvard and Princeton and . . .”

“Stanford,” Stafford chipped in.

“Do I have to?” Blair asked.

“Uh-huh.” Stafford nodded.

“. . . Stanford. Well, the nerds went into government or research. In ten years’ time those guys will be the bureaucracy serving the guys that will be elected.” Blair shook his head.

“Do you think every generation goes through this? You pick up the paper one day or you watch the six o’clock news and there’s one of the wieners.” Fitz-Gilbert laughed.

“My father—he was Yale ’49—said it used to scare him to death. Then he got used to it,” Blair said.

Cabby chimed in: “Everyone muddles through. Think how I feel. The guys in my class at Dartmouth are starting to retire. Retire? I remember when all we thought about was getting . . .”

He stopped, as his hostess had stuck her head into the library, hand curled around the door frame. “Are you fellows finished yet? I mean, we’ve solved the problems of the world in the last forty-five minutes.”

“Lonesome, honey?” Fitz called to her.

“Oh, an eensie-weensie bit.”

“We’ll be out in a minute.”

“You know, Fitz, I think we must know a lot of people in common since so many of your schoolmates came to Yale. Someday we’ll have to compare notes,” Blair said.

“Yes, I’d like that.” Fitz, distracted by Little Marilyn, wasn’t paying much attention.

“Yale and Princeton. Yeck.” Stafford made a thumbs-down sign.

“And you went to Stanford?” Blair quizzed him.

“Yes. Finance.”

“Ah.” Blair nodded. No wonder Stafford was making so much money as an investment banker, and no wonder Cabell shone smiles upon him. No doubt these two would talk business over the weekend.

“You were smart not to become a lawyer.” Fitz twirled his cigar, the beautiful, understated band announcing MONTECRISTO. “A lawyer is a hired gun, even if it’s tax law. I’ll never know how I passed the bar, I was so bored.”