House of Gold (8 page)

Buzz and Mel had gotten out of the car; he was leaning back in, gingerly unlatching Packy from the childseat.

Helen greeted her black sheep with a closed smile and a debutante's peck on the cheek.

"Melanie dear! Just in time for hors d'oeuvres! I was just about to call and make sure you were all right."

The smile turned plastic.

"Good afternoon, Buzz."

You dirty pond slime who's not responsible
enough to arrive on time for a simple family outing,
Mel finished her imagined version of her mother's thoughts.

It was an old, old habit.

"I have to go back and see about the others," Helen O'Meara continued brightly. "Do you need Charles to carry anything?"

Charles was the butler. The O'Mearas actually, truly had a black butler named Charles. He was from the Virgin-Islands.

"No, Ma'am," Buzz
said with an ever-so-slight, sing-songy bit of Nicholson in his voice. "I believe I can handle it."

"Very well then," Helen countered, already looking away toward the house. She bounced off.

It was beyond Buzz how a woman her age could
bounce.
But that she did. It was there before his eyes, undeniable.

In five years, except for the one "private chat" with her mother the day after the engagement
was announced, Mel had not actually heard a negative word about Buzz from-either Helen or George.

Even at the time of the engagement, the slights had been oblique,
"This Woodward fellow doesn't seem to have the background required to provide you with a decent living. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Her mother did not need to fire verbal bullets. The snobbery which sometimes descended
into downright mean-spiritedness was conveyed by tone, inflection, silence, or body language.

Melanie often felt as if her parents communicated in another language altogether. A language where nothing is ever said–all is implied. A language in which yes means no, and no means yes.

O'Meara-speak.

Even now, as Buzz straightened up with the groggy Packy in his arms, Mel reflected that Helen had been
turned slightly away from Buzz during the entire interchange.

The message was clear:
I will face you, yes, but not by one degree more than is required by convention. Now that I've done the minimum regarding social amenities, we're done talking for the evening, young man–until I am required to say good-bye.

Mel wondered once again–as she always did–if the Treatment was conscious on her mother's
part, or if it came naturally through breeding. It was a mystery.

As they walked to the exquisite stone courtyard just beyond the back of the house, already set with tables for an outdoor dinner by caterers, Mel reflected upon how Buzz had so easily read the unspoken O'Meara language from the very start.

In the beginning, he had been a full-time interpreter for his wife. He often translated for
her during debriefing sessions after these perfunctory visits. His ability was a result of his gift for "guessing" about people, as he called it–a wonder-talent he possessed that was soon attested to by all who knew him well. After he was introduced to George and Helen for the first time, he had taken Mel aside and guessed the color, make, and year of both their cars, Helen's favorite novel, and
their preferred restaurant.

Mel was certain her parents and sisters had absolutely no clue how well Buzz read them. They paid as much attention to him as they paid to their servants.

In fact, one of the great blessings of marrying Buzz had been this ability of his to read them for her. It liberated her. That another person she trusted could confirm to her for certain that her parents were, in
fact, insane, and that this other person, Buzz, loved her, somehow was the final glue to secure her own sanity.

After five years, she was now fairly adept at reading O'Meara-speak. They had spun her in circles her whole life with that unspoken language before she even realized it existed. In the early years, the message was sent through an endless series of governesses, none of whom had lasted
terribly long. (At age six, Mel had been forced to go to extremes to get rid of the German one–Greta was her name?–yes, she had set Greta's skirt on fire.)

The Governess Message had been clear:
You are an inconvenience. You are not supposed to be here, but as long as you are, I suppose someone must be hired to watch over you.

Mel could write a book about it.
I'd call it: My Mother is the Anti-Christ.

Salvation came in Texas, after she finally graduated from Bay High (she had been tossed out of three all-girl private schools, including Magnificat High over Christmas break during senior year). She had insisted on going to Texas A&M. Why there? The name simply popped into her head when her mother asked her about her college plans. At the time, Melanie had no earthly idea what Texas A&M was
actually like, except that it was probably in Texas.

It was just a weird enough choice to throw George and Helen a curve.
Texas is far away. A four year hiatus from the Red Terror. Yes, let us ship Melanie off to...Texas!

Mel did manage to come back to Cleveland for Christmas break–twice in four years.

When Melanie left for college, she was a pot-smoking,-sexually-active, foul-mouthed problem
child; and when she returned, she was a chaste, quiet, sober Catholic woman. She got a job teaching kindergarten for Saint Raphael Grammar School in Bay, which she did for three years before switching to Fr. Dial's school at Saint Philomena after running into the Pennys. She retired the day before Markie was born.

Let them all rot and die in the collapse,
the red-haired part of Melanie spit, the
years of the Treatment welling up as they always did when she set foot on their properties.

She spanked the child inside rather harshly. She detested this side of herself. There was no working through it. There was only...

...forgiveness.

I forgive them,
she repeated for the millionth time.
I forgive mother. I forgive father. I love them. Dear Jesus, help me love them. They have no idea what they're
doing, that's what Buzz always says. Roll with it. "Forgive them and roll." Forgive them and roll. That's what Buzz says. Oh, Sweet Virgin, thank you for Buzz. I forgive them, and I ask you to forgive me for despising them...

So today, she forgave and she rolled.

She was going on eleven years as a Catholic, and not one of her confessions–hundreds now, because she went every week–and not one failed
to include asking God for the grace to forgive her parents, and to love them, and for absolution for hating them.

And so it came and went for broken Mel of the Bay Village O'Mearas. Hate and forgiveness. Terror and virtue.

It sure beats suicide or the crazy house.
Forgive and roll, forgive and roll.

Yes, yes, she and Buzz were the perfect match.

Buzz could lay on his back on the kitchen floor
after he gorged himself on her lousy cooking all he wanted. He too had been broken; pure Catholic sacramental grace had patched him back together.

And so she, and so she. Pure grace had patched her back together, too.

The only difference was that Buzz had actually had the guts to attempt suicide, whereas she, for all her rouge-headed bravado before meeting him, had never been able to screw up
the courage to take a long walk off a short jetty.

And Buzz would have succeeded too, if his friends had not saved him.

Melanie thanked God they had. She thanked God for Sam. And for Mark, and for Tim and Bill and Jimmy and Bryan and Marie and Ellie and Kathy, and for the stout holy one in the convent, the Poor Clare, Sister Regina–once known as Donna Beck.

Because when they saved Buzz, they had
also kept open a human window through which the rejuvenating breezes of pure grace could refresh her soul; grace with the power and promise that one day she might live as a healed, whole woman through the sacrament of marriage.

+  +  +

After the meal, Howard "Howie" Barnstable and Brooks Thorton, the husbands of Mel's sisters Melissa and Mandy, lobbied Buzz and George into a game of lawn croquet.
Every man for himself. On previous occasions, although Buzz was not a master croquet player, his natural athletic ability allowed him to hold his own when the mallets and painted wooden balls were lined up on the immaculately mowed back lawn. He even managed to win the rubber match the last time they played the previous summer.

Howard R. Barnstable was a tall, thin reed of a man in his forties
with a rakish smile and dark eyes and black hair freckled with gray–a scion of the Boston Barnstables, a Yale graduate with a Harvard MBA; he had climbed to the top levels of George's company.

Howard and Melissa O'Meara-Barnstable had delivered the perfect one-boy one-girl Wasp quota of grandchildren to the family. Simpson and Galen (Buzz always had trouble figuring out which name went to the
boy and which to the girl) were teenagers now, and had already left for their own social engagements.

Brooks Thornton (
What was it with these first names that could pass for last names?
Buzz often wondered) was two years younger than Howie–also handsome in a preppy kind of way–and still sported a relatively long Groton haircut featuring his wavy brown locks. He had put on a few-country-club pounds
over the years. Brooks was a whizbang patent lawyer for one of Cleveland's finest law firms. Mandy had delivered one child before deciding to become an interior decorator.

The daughter, Ashley, a sweet little waif with fine auburn hair and finer features, was sixteen, and sported a tastefully pierced eyelid. She had been in and out of drug rehab centers since she was twelve, and was the only relative
with whom Buzz could even remotely hold a conversation. He found the young woman's aloofness from her own family–even if feigned–refreshing, if not a bit depressing. Presently, she watched Markie on the sidelines while sipping a Gin & Tonic & Lime without the gin.

Croquet requires a surprising amount of strength. For true aficionados, the only permissible position for striking the ball was to
crouch over it with the ball between one's feet in order to wallop or tap it after pulling the mallet back under one's legs. A "golfer's stance"–striking the ball from the side–was considered gauche and therefore forbidden on the O'Meara field-of-play. Buzz's ability to whack the ball accurately over long distances made up for his lack of finesse near the wickets and stake.

All four men were ferocious
competitors. Age had caught up to George, however, who quickly fell behind during most games. Howie had been playing since he was a child. Brooks was a superior golfer and had a certain gift for making the pressure shot. Both husbands were master taunters–a practice not considered beyond the pale on the O'Meara field. All part of the game.

There was always money riding on the game. This bothered
Buzz, who, unlike the others, could not afford to lose the minimum twenty dollar ante. But he had taken that hundred and fifty last summer, when they had outvoted him to raise the bet from twenty to fifty for the final match of the season.

"Say, gentlemen," George began, placing his glass of wine on the white-lacquered, wrought-iron table Charles had brought to the sideline for the occasion. "I
propose that we add a little spice to the games this summer. Let's raise the ante to one hundred dollars per game."

"That's a bit steep for me, Mr. O'Meara," Buzz called from several yards away, practicing his stroke.

"Only if you lose," Brooks pointed out, smiling with good nature, as he warmed up beside Buzz.

"You're all bound to break even as the summer progresses, except for me, of course,
unless you give me a handicap," George reasoned.

Handicaps were definitely not allowed in croquet. The others didn't bother to even shoot down the handicap idea. Surely George was kidding about that.

"I'm all for a C-note," Howie weighed in, standing beside George, Heineken in hand. "And I'm sure you can hold your own, Buzz."

Buzz whacked a practice ball thirty feet and directly through a brass,
U-shaped wicket.
Yeah!

He rarely gambled on anything. But he could feel that he was
on
tonight. He rolled his head a bit around his neck, feeling it crack.
Why not? I could go home with three hundred dollars in my pocket tonight. Maybe get something nice for Mel for Easter with it.

"Then count me in," the big man said as he walked back to the sidelines to grab his cola. Charles had remembered
to add a slice of lemon for him.

"Excellent," George told him. "Gentlemen, let's begin."

As the three others turned to enter the field of play, Buzz did not see George nod at his sons-in-law, nor see Howie wink at Brooks, who returned a knowing smile.

The game started out cordially. Buzz began well and was able to make it past the first two wickets beyond the stake. Brooks caught up during his
turn, and using a common tactic, managed to hit Buzz's ball with his own, and took the option of placing his ball next to Buzz's, then with his foot on his own ball, smacked his own ball, and by extension drove Buzz's ball far off the playing field. This was called "sending" an opposing player's ball. Brooks then took his second bonus shot–a player received two bonus shots after tapping into another's
ball between wickets.

George, as usual, methodically worked his way past the first wicket, then came short of the second. Howie caught up to George, and sent George's ball off the field, then caught up to Brooks. Buzz trotted thirty yards to his ball, and made a nice drive to return to a competitive position, a few yards behind Brooks.

Then, with a nod to Howie that Buzz saw, Brooks reversed his
direction, and tapped into Buzz's ball.

Hey!
Buzz thought as Brooks again lined his ball up next to Buzz's, placing his foot to send it. Strategically, this didn't make sense.

"It's not against the rules," Brooks said jovially, as he whacked Buzz off into the hedges near the property line. He smiled at Buzz with a grin which Buzz could not read.