Scott Spencer - A Ship Made of Paper

Ferguson and Marie come down just as State Senator Phil Russell joins the party.Russell is a stocky, ravenous man, dressed in a brown suit.Thirty years ago, he was a football star at Sacred Heart, aWindsor County Catholic high school, and his chin, nose, and forehead still show the scars ofhis three years on the offensive line.He surveys the room with wary eyes—this bastion ofthe faded aristocracy is not on his regu-lar beat.Russell runs on the Republican and the Right to Life tickets;he has been warned by his staffthat while the Richmonds’Republican roots are deep, Ferguson and Susan are at the end ofthe line and their house is a gathering place for eccentrics and flakes.

As Ferguson and Marie make their way toward Russell, Susan swoops him up and escorts him over to meet Daniel.By now, forty or fifty people have shown up, but not Iris, and Daniel is trying to keep his composure.

“Daniel, I’m sure you know Phil Russell,”Susan says.“Mr.Russell,

Daniel Emerson has agreed to act as our attorney in this whole business.

Isn’t that nice ofhim?”

For a moment, Daniel wonders ifSusan is somehow under the impression that he’s not going to bill them, but then he realizes this is merely her manner.

“Nice to see you,”Russell says, squeezing Daniel’s hand, his shoulder.

“What a wonderful party.”

“It certainly is,”Daniel says.He has found a place to stand near the center ofthe room where he can feel the cool draft whenever the front door opens, so he knows when new people have arrived.He feels the flutter ofthe breeze on his pant legs, but when he looks past Russell he sees Upton Douglas, a portly, white-haired real estate broker, swinging his way in on a pair ofyellow crutches.Douglas was knocked to the ground by a falling branch during the October storm and he broke his leg in four places.They’ve known each other casually for years, and when Douglas sees Daniel staring at him he smiles.

Daniel suddenly notices that Phil Russell is looking oddly at him, and Daniel quickly says,“It’ll be great to see this old place brought back to its former glory.”

“It’s really something,”Russell says.He has been taking in his surroundings and his eyes are registering some alarm.Eight Chimneys’ derelict state unnerves him, it seems to suggest a kind ofmadness.“What do you think the square footage is in this place?”

“I don’t think houses like this have square footage.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”He smooths his shirt over his cinderblock stomach.“It’s going to take a lot more than state historic money to put this puppy back on its hindquarters again.We’re going to have to think about the Fed, and private donations.”He smiles his high school hero smile.“But that’s okay, we’re going to make it happen because it’s the right thing to do.”

Daniel sees Kate across the room, talking with noticeable animation to a man in his fifties, a writer from the city named Barry Braithwaite.Braith-waite, a small, sickly man with bloodshot eyes and yellowed fingers, has written several articles about O.J.Simpson, mostly concentrating on the sociopathology ofthe coddled athlete.Kate has her hand on his shoulder and whispers something in Braithwaite’s ear.Braithwaite tucks his chin in and looks at her with considerable amazement, as ifshe has just made the most transgressive remark he has ever heard, and then he laughs.

Just then, Derek Pabst comes in, dressed in a dark-brown suit, a yellow shirt, and brown tie.He looks uneasy as he sways in the entrance to the ball-room, squeezing his large hands together, rolling his broad shoulders, and casting his eyes around for a familiar face.It is not that Derek is a stranger to the people here, but most ofthem are too wealthy and too grand to be a part ofhis social life.He has issued them speeding tickets, brought them sad news about missing dogs and cats, shot rabid raccoons on their porches, been in their homes after break-ins, and even responded to a couple ofdo-mestic abuse calls, but drinking wine and chatting with this collection of doctors, lawyers, academics, writers, and the idle well-to-do on a Sunday afternoon in a mansion by the river is outside his usual experience.When he sees Daniel across the room, his face lights up with relief.

“Hello, good buddy,”he says, grabbing Daniel’s elbow.

”Hello, Derek,”Daniel says.He is about to ask, What are you doing

here? but he stops himself.

Derek looks around, taking in his surroundings.“You hear all these rumors about what this place is like on the inside, but it’s not so bad, not like I thought.”

“Derek Pabst,”Daniel says.“This is Phil Russell.”

Russell puts his hand out and Derek shakes it, but he is clearly distracted.

“Is Kate here?”he asks.

”She’s over there.What about Stephanie?”

“She’s home with Chelsea.”Derek peers around the room.“Where’s Kate.I actually need to talk to her.”He senses the confusion in Daniel’s eyes.“I’ve got a little more information about those runaway kids from Star ofBethlehem, I know she’s concerned.”He suddenly sees her.

”There she is.”He smooths his tie against his shirt.“I’ll be right back.”

As soon as Derek is gone, Russell looks at his watch.“Point Mary Thorne out for me, will you?”he asks Daniel.“She’s the one who sent us the invitation.”

“Marie.She’s right over there, come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Russell repeats the name softly to himself, committing it to memory.

As they make their way to the other side ofthe ballroom, Daniel looks for Ruby, who is suddenly not in sight.By now, most ofthe guests have ar-rived.The talk is loud and excited;people are still telling their storm sto-ries.Ferguson is in front ofthe fireplace, heaving a four-foot birch log in, and Susan is at his side, with her finger hooked through his empty belt loop, and looks to be speaking to him with extreme displeasure.Marie, holding a plastic cup ofwhite wine, is talking with Ethan Greenblatt, Marlowe Col-lege’s young president.Marie’s attention is rapt, though she seems not to realize how unusually tall Greenblatt is and her eyes are fixed not on his face but his chest.IfGreenblatt finds this unnerving, he is nevertheless unde-terred from going on at some length about oddities in the history ofEight Chimneys—though born in Montreal and raised in PaloAlto, Greenblatt knows as much as any ofthe river aristocracy about the town’s grand past.

“Do you know,”he says, in a voice that is at once declamatory and ironic,“MarkTwain, Charles Dickens, EdithWharton, and Ernest Hem-ingway all have spent the night in this house, and there is no other struc-ture on record in which all four ofthese luminaries have stayed.”When Greenblatt sees Daniel and Russell approaching, he rests his hand on Marie’s shoulder, as ifto prevent them from stealing her away.“And its political past is actually more extensive and, well, paradoxical than its cultural past.Dorothy Day, Frederick Douglass, Winston Churchill, Oc-tavio Paz, all the Roosevelts, ofcourse, WoodrowWilson—”

“Sorry to interrupt,”Daniel says.

”I’m just finishing, Daniel,”Greenblatt says.“I’m making a plea.”He raises both hands as ifto hold Daniel off, and then petitions for Marie’s attentions again by touching her lightly.“I would like Marlowe College to be somehow involved in the Eight Chimneys Project, in either curat-ing or administrating the museum, ifit so happens that it comes to pass.

Obviously, we can’t help in terms offinances, but we could bring a lot ofexpertise and legitimacy to the project, and it would be a real boon to our history department, which, by the way, already rivals the best his-tory departments in the country.”

“We’re okay on legitimacy, Ethan,”Marie says.“What we’re looking for is money.”