Misfortune Read online

  Gail looked across the table at Jack’s pensive expression. She imagined he was racking his brain for snippets of conversation, if any, that he might have had with Richard over the years about race relations, about the issue of whether the Fair Lawn Country Club should be integrated. It was unlikely. Richard was a private man, that Gail knew. In the myriad charitable lunches, cocktail parties, and dinners where their paths had crossed, he rarely gave opinions or discussed personal matters. No one knew why his first marriage to Aurelia Watson, the mother of his two daughters, had ended. He never uttered a bad word, or even a snide remark, about his ex-wife, and rumor had it that his generosity toward her far exceeded his court-imposed obligations. He had been a bachelor for several years, longer than most men of comparable wealth and stature, before he met Clio, his second wife, to whom he had been married now for nearly thirty years. His devotion to her had been apparent from the very start, after they met at a brunch arranged by Jack and his wife, Constance. The look in Richard’s eye when he spoke of Clio, the gentle way that he rested his hand on the small of her back when they stood together, the quiet smile that crossed his lips when she entered a room, served as windows to his adoration.

  Gail hadn’t seen Richard since his stroke the year before. She had heard reports that it had physically incapacitated him almost completely and that his mental acuity remained unpredictable, with periods of lucidity followed by moments of disorientation. Because of his condition, Clio stood in for him on the Fair Lawn Country Club’s Membership Committee and its Board of Governors. The allowance of a proxy was an unprecedented gesture. It served as a living tribute, a sign of the deep respect and fondness for Richard that was nearly universally shared.

  “I spoke to Richard about it this morning. I’m simply exercising his choice,” Clio clarified.

  Could Richard Pratt actually have directed such a course of action in the state he was in? If so, did he appreciate what he was doing? Gail looked around at the group of baffled faces.

  “Shall we move along?” Clio asked, glancing at her gold wristwatch.

  The bang of George’s fist on the table reverberated, sending a chill down Gail’s spine. She flinched.

  George rose from his chair. “I have greatly misjudged you,” he said, looking Clio straight in the eye. His voice was low. He appeared to be struggling to steady its quiver. “I urge the members, in light of this development, to abstain. Henry is too good a man to fall victim to your small-mindedness. Abstention of a vote on his application to membership at least gives him an opportunity to reapply. Give Henry Lewis the decency he deserves.”

  “You are assuming I’ll change my mind next year.”

  “No, I don’t expect miracles.” George spoke slowly, each word articulated. “I’m merely hoping you won’t be here next year.”

  Clio laughed.

  After a few moments of awkward silence but for the creaking of wicker seats as their occupants stirred, Gail spoke. “Do I hear a motion to abstain on the application of Henry and Louise Lewis?” She tried to sound official.

  “Yes,” George said.

  “I’ll second,” Wallace added.

  She sighed in relief. “All right, then.” She wanted a gavel to punctuate the decision, but her job as secretary came with no such trappings. Instead, Gail flipped open the next folder in her pile. “Bruce and Nancy Sullivan.”

  From opposite sides of the table, George and Clio settled back in their chairs, their stalemate permeating the air. The remaining business transpired quickly. At half-past five, Gail reviewed the accepted applicants, recorded the time, and dismissed the group. There had been no further dissension, no mention of Henry Lewis. She hoped that the entire incident would disappear quickly from the collective memory of the committee.

  George Welch stood first. “Good evening, all,” he declared as he headed toward the door. Then he stopped and turned to face Clio, who still sat in her chair. “I won’t forget this,” he warned, hovering above her. “I just hope Henry Lewis can wait long enough to see you gone.”

  Clio smiled a truly beguiling smile of white teeth and full lips. “And I thought you liked me.”

  Paul Murphy opened the screen door to the pub at the Fair Lawn Country Club and stepped inside. He surveyed the rectangular-shaped room with its green-and-black-plaid carpeting, fieldstone fireplace at the far end, and polished wood bar along one side. Three women Paul knew sat at one of the many square tables.

  “Hi, Paul,” said a thin, freckled thirty-year-old with a long red ponytail.

  “Hey,” Paul muttered, trying to remember her name. He had given private lessons to her, and each of her three children, once a week for ten weeks last summer, but despite the $6,000 bill he sent, he could recall only her account number: 327.

  “When are you starting the ladies’ clinic?” she asked.

  “When do you want it to start?” He flashed his cater-to-the-clientele smile.

  “We’ll be out for good at the end of June.”

  Typical, Paul thought. Fair Lawn Country Club wives and their children moved out from New York City to spend the summer in Southampton once the private schools closed. They left their husbands behind with the choice of a lengthy commute or long weeks alone.

  “Well, I guess that’s when we’ll begin, then. Ladies’ clinic wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  “And we want you to give us a real workout,” another of the women interrupted. Paul remembered her: Shelby Mueller, with her four-carat yellow diamond ring and ruffled tennis panties. Watching dozens of women in short pleated skirts with tanned legs crouch in the ready position or run after balls had its moments, but he could have gone without the sight of Shelby, one of the few women at the Fair Lawn Country Club who hadn’t found some way, whether a personal trainer, an annual month at Canyon Ranch, or liposuction, to get rid of cellulite.

  Despite his repulsion, though, catering to Shelby was in Paul’s best interest. Last year he had made a quick $20,000 when Frank Mueller, a forty-two-year-old founder of an Internet company, gave him stock shares as a tip for teaching him top-spin and an effective slice backhand. “You gotta have a hundred million to be a player,” Frank, a short, balding fellow with thick glasses and a stomach that hung over his monogrammed tennis shorts, had remarked. “Here’s a start.” The price per share had risen several hundred points by the end of October, allowing Paul to cash out and splurge on a long-awaited trip to Australia.

  “Really make us sweat,” the red-haired ponytail remarked. The women giggled.

  They got up from the leather-upholstered chairs. “See ya,” they chimed.

  Paul sighed. Another summer in Southampton.

  He pulled himself up onto a bar stool and, instinctively, rubbed at his muscular thighs. He had spent the better part of the day checking net heights and line spacings, then unpacking the boxes of inventory that filled the Pro Shop. As of this Memorial Day weekend, the Fair Lawn Country Club would be swarming with people once again, a sea of starched white sportswear, V-neck cotton sweaters, Tretorn sneakers, and color-coordinated tennis peds.

  “What can I get you?” asked Arthur, the bartender.

  “Transfusion.” The quick fix of grape juice and ginger ale would get his juices flowing. Although, given his fatigue, he craved a beer, club policy prevented employees from drinking on the premises, and he couldn’t afford to get in trouble with management so early in the season, when there still was time to find a replacement.

  Arthur set the glass of purple bubbles in front of him.

  “You’re the man.”

  “Any time.”

  The screen door slammed, and Paul turned to see George Welch enter the bar. He had known George for years. A reasonably skilled athlete, he was much in demand as a doubles player because of his strong serve, aggressive net game, and constant humor. George seemed to regale his partners and opponents alike with stories, jokes, and witty remarks.

  George took a seat without acknowledging Paul’s presence. His face
was red. He unbuttoned his collar and barked, “Get me a vodka. Straight up.”

  “The Membership Committee meeting’s over?” Arthur asked.

  “In more ways than one,” George replied. His subsequent silence made clear that he did not intend to elaborate on his oblique comment.

  Paul took a long sip of his transfusion, then smacked his lips. “So, will this season be the best ever?”’

  Arthur wrinkled his forehead. “Economy’s booming. I don’t see why not. What do you think?” he asked George, obviously trying to engage their sullen companion in the somewhat idle conversation.

  “I don’t give a shit, is what I think.” George tilted his head back and drained his glass. Then he pushed the empty tumbler toward Arthur, indicating he wanted a refill. Arthur obliged. “Hypocrites. All of them. All of us. I don’t know who we’re trying to fool,” he muttered.

  “The meeting went that badly? Who got axed? Don’t tell me. Some poor schmuck whose net worth dropped to only ten million.” Paul tried to sound clever, but he knew his attempt was feeble. George glared at him. “What’s the news from the winter?” he said, changing the subject.

  Arthur jumped in a little too quickly. “Barry Edwards died. His wife donated a marble fountain in his memory for the rose garden. There’ll be a dedication in June.” He paused, appearing to consider what other information he could share. Although George stared at the bottom of his glass, seemingly not to hear the conversation, Arthur had to avoid gossip in front of members. “Dave Flick bought a yellow Lamborghini. He’s driven it over here a couple of times, but no one’s been around to see.”

  “Except for you,” Paul said.

  “Right.” Arthur removed several lemons from a drawer under the sink and began to slice them into thin wedges. “Same old, same old, I guess you could say, huh, George?”

  George didn’t respond.

  “What about Richard Pratt?”

  Arthur shrugged. “Not much news from what I hear. I guess he’s hanging in there.” He wiped off the far end of the bar with a damp towel. “Mrs. Pratt’s around, though. I saw her earlier this afternoon. Nice lady.”

  George looked up at the mention of Clio Pratt’s name. “She’s not,” he said matter-of-factly. “And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  Paul was surprised. Although he didn’t know Clio Pratt well since she hardly ever took a tennis lesson and didn’t come to the ladies’ clinic, she seemed friendly when she frequented the Pro Shop. At least she didn’t order him around like some of the women did, demanding sizes and service as though he were the hired help. He wondered whether he should come to her defense but decided against it. It was too early in the season to get embroiled in disputes between members.

  Arthur surveyed the bar in search of something to do.

  “I could use a change of pace,” Paul remarked to fill the awkward silence.

  “Couldn’t we all,” George echoed.

  Arthur swept the two empty glasses off the bar and began to rinse them in the sink. “Every summer’s a little different,” he said without looking up from his task. “And the great thing about unexpected events is that you never know when to expect them.”

  Frances Pratt heard three honks outside her bedroom window. She glanced in the mirror, ran her fingers through her thick brown curls, and grabbed the cabled cardigan from her bed. Pressing her face to the screen, she called down to Sam Guff, who waited in his blue Jeep Cherokee with the engine idling. “I’m coming.”

  Keys, lights, money, she reminded herself of what she needed. Plus water for the dogs. As she stopped to flick the switch at the threshold, she remembered her lucky gold hoop earrings. Couldn’t leave without them. She retrieved the jewelry from a small box on her bureau.

  “Bye, guys,” Frances said to Felonious and Miss Demeanor, her black mutts, as she quickly rubbed each one behind its ears. As she did, she noticed a slight graying around Felonious’s muzzle, a sign of age that she didn’t want to see. She had rescued both dogs from the Orient Point animal shelter at four weeks and bottle-fed them for the first month after their mother had been the victim of a young boy’s target practice. They had grown to look more like Labrador retrievers with broad faces and square noses than the scrawny puppies she had first brought home. She couldn’t imagine life without these dogs, her only roommates.

  Frances greeted Sam as she climbed into the seat beside him.

  “Feeling lucky?” he asked.

  She smiled but said nothing.

  Patsy Cline crooned on the radio as they drove the three miles of back roads into the main street of Orient Point. On the north fork of Long Island, a sliver of land jutting out into the sound toward Plum Island, Orient Point was best known for its ferry service to New London, Connecticut. Frances liked its relative quiet. “It’s where real people live. People with the same concerns as me. People who do their own laundry.” She remembered the speech she had given to Blair, her younger sister, as she justified her decision to settle herself just outside of town in a farmhouse surrounded by potato fields and vineyards. “Orient Point is a great place to live, lots of open space, a four-dollar movie theater, a strawberry festival, a Woolworth’s. What more do I want?” Besides, Frances liked the distance from her family. Forty-five miles from Orient Point to Southampton gave her the space she needed. She was alone, but not too far.

  As Sam turned the truck into the expanse of concrete that formed the parking lot behind Our Lady of Poland Church, Frances could see that the crowd was bigger than usual. The summer was coming, and with it, Wednesday night bingo grew in popularity. Frances checked her watch: ten minutes until the first game began.

  For the past seven years, the entire time she had lived in Orient Point, Frances had been coming to the Catholic church on Wednesday evenings to play bingo in the basement. It was her only foray into any house of worship, but she couldn’t resist the game. Grand compared with most of the architecture in the surrounding areas, the square brick building had white columns and a marble statue of the Madonna set inside a carved arch to mark its entrance. Since the previous week, Frances noticed that the planters had been filled to overflowing with fuchsia geraniums.

  “Mary on the half-shell must like pink,” Sam observed under his breath as they approached the Madonna.

  “Quiet,” Frances whispered back, anxious lest they offend any of the many people who took great pride in Our Lady of Poland. She had heard the parish included more than two hundred families.

  They followed the hordes inside, waited in line to pay a five-dollar admission fee and purchase one-dollar cards, then settled themselves at one of the many folding tables laid out in rows across the basement. Frances scanned the numbers on the four cards she had bought. Too many duplicates, the cards are too similar, she thought as she glanced over to see if Sam suffered the same problem.

  “I’m not trading,” he said without looking at her.

  “I wasn’t asking you to.”

  “But you were thinking to ask.” He smiled.

  Frances had met Sam, a forty-three-year-old widower, the first night she had come to play. Sitting beside him, she couldn’t help but notice his hazel eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and thick wavy hair. Nor could she avoid staring at his left hand, the thumb, index, and little fingers with two stumps of flesh in between, as he rolled the bingo chips in circles on the table with his palm. At the brief intermission before the final blackout game, she had introduced herself and, exaggerating her reach toward his right side, extended a hand. He hadn’t hesitated to shake it.

  “Sam Guff,” he said, looking her straight in the eye.

  By coincidence, he turned out to be her neighbor from across the street. The following week he had offered to drive her. After that their routine was established. Frances now looked forward to their Wednesday evenings, as much for the time spent with him as for the bingo.

  “Everybody ready,” the master of ceremonies shouted from the podium at the front of the room. Tonight the numbers wo
uld be drawn by Abby Flanagan, an elderly woman with thick black glasses and a mole on her cheek that was prominent even from the back of the room. She wore a printed sundress, rolled nylons, and white nurses’ shoes.

  “Game one is a square. All the B row, all the O row, and the top and bottom of the card.”

  Frances watched Abby’s underarm jiggle as she spun the wheel. The room was quiet.

  “B nineteen!”

  “N forty-three!”

  Sam placed a chip on his card.

  Frances felt her heartbeat quicken as the wooden, numbered balls spun in their metal wheel. Why she loved bingo, she could not say, but she justified the hours spent in this windowless basement as a harmless indulgence.

  “B seven!”

  Richard Pratt had introduced his daughters to bingo thirty-one years ago when he took Frances and Blair to a Sunday night game at the Fair Lawn Country Club. It was one of the many family events offered during July and August. The main room of the clubhouse was emptied of its wicker couches and chairs and replaced by round tables covered in cotton cloths with floral centerpieces. Children between the ages of five and fifteen, the young ones accompanied by parents, the older ones left to their own devices, ate fried chicken, overboiled corn, sweet-potato rolls, and coleslaw off china plates. Frances hadn’t been able to eat, her stomach queasy with excitement for the waiters to clear, then distribute bingo cards and ice cream in Dixie cups.

  The first time she won, she remembered weaving her way through the tables to the front of the room, then waiting, legs trembling, as the caller checked the numbers on her card against those called. She knew that all eyes were upon her, each child in the audience hoping that she had placed a chip on the wrong number, misheard, so that the game could continue and they still would have a chance. There was no error. The prize, a gift certificate to Lily White’s, the only toy store in Southampton, was hers.

  “Fanny, she just called G eighty-four.” Sam leaned toward her. “You’ve got it on both cards. One’s in the square.”