Carolyn said, "Dad, you take every August off."
"Yes, because taxes, though as inevitable as death, can be put off for a month. This year, however, I have a client with more serious problems than taxes, and I have to stay flexible. But we'll see."
They both groaned, because 'we'll see' is father talk for 'no'. I said, "No, really. We will see what happens." I added, "You can both come out on your own if we haven't sold the place. Perhaps your mother would like to join you." Susan said, "We'll see."
And that seemed to be the phrase of the moment, because the future was beginning to look tentative, subject to change without notice.
At seven P.M. the Sutter clan dutifully made the short trip to Southampton to visit Grandma and Grandpa Sutter, who were so overcome with joy at our arrival that they shook our hands. They own one of those glass and cedar contemporaries with every convenience known to late-twentieth-century American civilization. The house is actually on a computer/timer sort of thing, with all types of sensors that draw blinds open and shut depending on the sun, water lawns if they need watering, shut off lights if no one is in the room for more than five minutes, and so on. But as there are no uric acid sensors, you do actually have to flush your own toilet.
My mother announced that she would rather go directly to the restaurant instead of sitting and having a drink there, so we turned around and left in separate cars, meeting in the village of Southampton on Job's Lane. This is an interesting street, one of the oldest in America, going back to the 1640s, though none of the buildings actually go back that far. But speaking of Job, of all the miseries that God visited on that poor man, none – I repeat, none – could have been as bad as having to go to dinner with Joseph and Harriet Sutter. Well, perhaps I exaggerate. But I do say this: There are times when I would rather eat worms in a root cellar than go to a restaurant with my parents. Anyway, we had reservations at a trendy new place called Buddy's Hole. In the Hamptons, the more modest the name, like Sammy's Pizza or Billy's Burgers, and/or the more loathsome the name, like Buddy's Hole, the more pretentious the place will be. My parents, always avant-garde, seek out these dreadful places, filled with the dregs of the American literary world (which is barely distinguishable from the cream), and has-been actors, never-been artists, and a smattering of Euro-trash who probably swam here to sponge off the millionaires. I myself, oddly enough, prefer the old-guard places of the Hamptons, dark, civilized sort of establishments with no hanging asparagus plants, and a menu that could be described as ancienne cuisine, heavy on the fatty Long Island duck and light on the kiwi fruit.
Be that as it may, we were shown to a nice table for two with six chairs around it and no tablecloth. On the floor under the table was a cat, which is supposed to be cutesy, but I know they rent them and rotate them like they do with the hanging plants. I've seen the same fat tiger cat in four different restaurants. I have little tolerance for these hip places, as you may have gathered, which may explain what happened later.
Well, to continue my complaining, the noise in the place sounded like the soundtrack in the Poseidon Adventure when the boat flips over, and the air-conditioning engineers hadn't taken into account that people might show up. We ordered drinks from an irrepressibly friendly little college girl who didn't seem to realize we were not nice people.
My father, as patriarch, held up his glass as if to propose a toast, and we all did the same. But as it turned out, he was only checking for water spots, and having found some, he called the waitress over and reprimanded her. She was so bubbly and fascinated by the water spots that I began to think she was on a controlled substance.
New drink in hand, Dad examined the glass again, then set it down. So I proposed a toast. "Here's to being together, and to a summer of love, peace, and good health."
We touched glasses and drank. A vicious hanging fern kept trying to get its tendrils around my neck, so I ripped some of them off and threw them on the floor where the rent-a-cat was rubbing against my leg. Just as I was about to punt the fuzzy beast across the room, a college kid, probably on Quaaludes, dropped a full tray of food, and the cat, who like Pavlov's dogs, knew by now that this sound meant food, took off like a shot. I said to Susan, "I'm going to recommend this place to Lester and Judy."
Anyway, we chatted awhile, though my parents rarely make small talk. They don't care much about family news, don't want to hear about Lattingtown, Locust Valley, or the law firm, and show about as much interest in their grandchildren as they do in their own children; i.e., zip.
Nevertheless, I tried. "Have you heard from Emily recently?" I inquired. I hadn't seen my sister since Easter, but she had written to me in May. | My father replied, "She wrote."
"How recently?"
"Last month."
"What did she write?"
My mother picked up the ball. "Everything is fine."
Susan said, "Carolyn is going to Cuba next week."
My mother seemed genuinely interested in this. "Good for you, Carolyn. The government has no right to stop you."
Carolyn replied, "We actually have to fly to Mexico first. You can't get there from here."
"How awful."
Edward said, "I'm going to Florida."
My mother looked at him. "How nice."
My father added, "Have a good time."
We were really rolling now, so I tried this: "Edward would like to spend some time out here in late August. If you're going away, he can house-sit for you." My father informed me, "If we go away, we have the day maid house-sit." Neither of them asked why Edward couldn't stay at our house in East Hampton, so I volunteered, "We're selling our house."
"The market is soft," said my father.
"We're selling it because I have a tax problem."
He replied that he was sorry to hear that, but I knew he must be wondering how a tax expert could have been so stupid. So I briefly explained the cause of the problem, thinking perhaps the old fox might have an idea or two. He listened and said, "I seem to recall telling you that would come back to haunt you." Good ol' Pop.
Carolyn said, "Do you know who we have living next door to us?"
My father replied, "Yes, we heard at Easter."
I said, "We have become somewhat friendly with them."
My mother looked up from her menu. "He makes the most fantastic pesto sauce."
"How do you know?"
"I've had it, John."
"You've eaten at the Bellarosas'?"
"No. Where is that?"
Obviously I was not paying attention.
Mother went on, "He gets the basil from a little farm in North Sea. He picks it every day at seven P.M."
"Who?"
"Buddy Bear. The owner. He's a Shinnecock, but he cooks marvellous Italian."
"The owner is an Indian?"
"A Native American, John. A Shinnecock. And ten percent of the bill goes directly to the reservation. He's a darling man. We'll try to meet him later." I ordered another double gin and tonic.
And so we passed the time, my parents not inquiring after Susan's parents or any of her family. They also did not ask about anyone in the Locust Valley or Manhattan office, or about the Allards, or in fact about anyone. And while they were at it, they made a special point of not asking Carolyn or Edward about school. There are certain types of persons, as I've discovered, who have a great love of humanity, like my parents, but don't particularly like people. But my mother did like Buddy Bear. "You absolutely must meet him," she insisted.