Tom stepped up into the cart and sat down in the last row beside Fritz, who had never noticed that for three or four endless seconds he had been completely invisible. The driver snapped his reins, and the cart pulled forward behind Miss Ellinghausen’s slow-moving horses. Tom did not watch Sarah walk down the steps, but he heard the door of Ralph Redwing’s carriage click massively open.
Once a year Gloria Pasmore drove Tom fifteen miles along the island’s eastern shore, past the walls of the Redwing compound and empty canefields planted with rows of willows, to the guardhouse of the Mill Walk Founders Club. There a uniformed guard with a heavy pistol on his hip wrote down the number of their license plate and checked it against a sheet on a clipboard while another guard made a telephone call. When they were approved for entry, they took a narrow asphalt lane called Ben Hogan Way past sand dunes and broom grass down to the long flat ocean rolling in on their left. They continued past the enormous white and blue Moorish structure of the clubhouse toward the thirty acres of beachfront property on which the members of the Founders Club had built the big houses they called “the bungalows.” When the road divided, they took the left fork, Suzanne Lenglen Lane, and wound through the dunes past the houses until they turned right on the branch nearest the ocean, Bobby Jones Trail, and pulled into the communal parking area just down the beach from the bungalow into which Glendenning Upshaw had moved when he left the house on Eastern Shore Road to his daughter and her husband.
Tom’s mother got out of the car and looked almost warily at the two horse-drawn vehicles parked in the lot. Tom and Gloria knew them well. The small, slightly dusty trap hitched to a black mare belonged to Dr. Bonaventure Milton; the larger carriage from which a groom was just now leading a chestnut mare toward the stables belonged to Tom’s grandfather.
It was the weekend after the dancing class, and Tom had felt drained and on edge all week. He had had the same nightmare several nights in a row, to the point where he nearly dreaded going to sleep. Gloria, too, seemed tired and anxious. She had said only one thing to him during the trip from Eastern Shore Road, in response to his comment that he and Sarah Spence were getting to be friends again. “Men and women can’t be friends,” she said.
Going to see Glendenning Upshaw was like going to Miss Ellinghausen’s Academy in at least one respect, that Tom had to suffer an inspection before matters got underway. Gloria fretted over his fingernails, the knot in his tie, the condition of his shoes and hair. “I’m the one who has to pay for it, when he sees something he doesn’t like. Did you bring a comb, at least?”
Tom pulled a pocket comb from his jacket and ran it through his hair.
“You have bags under your eyes! What have you been doing?”
“Playing cards, carousing, whoremongering, that kind of thing.”
Gloria shook her head, looking very much as if she wanted to get back in the car and drive home. Behind them, a door closed across Bobby Jones Trail. “Uh-oh,” she exhaled, and he could smell breath mints.
Tom turned around to see Kingsley, his grandfather’s valet, proceeding slowly down the gleaming steps at the front of the bungalow. Kingsley was nearly as old as his employer. He always wore a long morning coat, a high collar, and striped pants. His bald head shone in the sunlight. Kingsley managed to get to the bottom step without injuring himself, and propped himself up on the railing. “We’ve been waiting for you, Miss Gloria,” he called out in his reedy voice. “And Master Tom. You’re looking to be a fine young man, Master Tom.”
Tom rolled his eyes, and his mother shot him an agonized glance before leading him across Bobby Jones Trail toward Kingsley. The valet forced himself to stand upright as they approached, and bowed when Gloria greeted him. He led them slowly up to the terrace and beneath a white arch into a courtyard. A hummingbird zipped down the courtyard and over the top of the bungalow in one long fluid gesture. Kingsley opened the door and allowed them into the entry, tiled with small blue and white porcelain squares. Beside the door stood a Chinese umbrella stand into which had been jammed at least nine or ten unfurled black umbrellas. The year before, Glendenning Upshaw had told Tom that people who never thought about umbrellas until it rained stole them right out from under your eyes! Tom thought he had seen that the old man imagined that people stole his umbrellas because they were Glendenning Upshaw’s umbrellas. Maybe they did.
“The parlor, Miss Gloria,” Kingsley said, and tottered off to fetch his employer.
Gloria followed him out of the entry and turned in the opposite direction into a wide hallway. Long rugs woven with a mandala-like native design lay over red tiles, and a suit of Spanish armor the size and shape of a small potbellied boy stood guard over a refectory table. They went past the table and turned into a long narrow room with tall windows that looked down half a mile of perfect sand to the Founders Club beach. A few old men sat on beach chairs ogling girls in bikinis who ran in and out of the surf without ever getting their hair wet. A waiter dressed like Kingsley, but wearing a long white apron instead of the morning coat, passed among the men, offering drinks from a shining tray.
Tom turned from the windows and faced the room. His mother, already seated on a stiff brocaded couch, looked up at him as if she expected him to tip over a vase. Despite the high windows facing the scroll of beach and length of bright water, the parlor was dark as a cave. A dark green fern foamed over the top of a seven-foot grand piano no one played, and glass-fronted bookshelves covered the back wall with row upon row of unjacketed books that blurred into a brownish haze. These books had titles like Proceedings of the Royal Geographic Society, Vol. LVI and Selected Sermons and Essays of Sydney Smith. There was a little more furniture than the room could easily accommodate.
Gloria coughed into her fist, and when he looked at her she pointed fiercely at an overstuffed chair at right angles to the brocaded couch. She wanted him to sit so that he could stand up when her father walked into the room. He sat down on the overstuffed chair and looked at the hands folded in his lap. They were reassuringly solid.
His recurring dream had begun the night after the dancing class, and he supposed that the dream must be related to what had happened to him on the Academy steps. He could not see any connection, but … In the dream smoke and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Off to his right, random small fires burned into the choking air, to his left was an ice-blue lake. The lake steamed or smoked, he could not tell which. It was a world of pure loss—loss and death. Some terrible thing had happened, and Tom wandered through its reverberating aftermath. The landscape looked like hell, but was not—the real hell was inside him. He experienced emptiness and despair so great that he realized it was himself he was looking at—this dead, ruined place was Tom Pasmore. He stumbled a few paces before noticing a corpse of a woman with tangled blond hair lying on the shore. Her blue dress had been shredded against the rocks, and lay about her in a shapeless puddle. In the dream Tom sank down and pulled the cold heavy body into his arms. The thought came to him that he knew who the dead woman was, but under another name, and this thought rocketed through his body and jolted him awake, groaning.