Mansions Of The Dead (41 page)

IT WAS JUST DARK
when she pulled into the Putnams’ driveway and in the late spring evening light she could better see the beauty of the house than she had on her last visit. Approaching it up the long drive, the rooflines stood out against the blue and yellow sky, gesturing toward the crashing waves beyond. The lawn stretched steeply down toward the water. Sweeney felt dizzy, as though she’d stood up too fast.

Her knock on the front door sounded pathetically quiet, but she tried once again before rapping harder, her knuckles smarting against the wood. In her other hand she held the tulips she and Anna had picked and wrapped in wet paper towels and tin foil. Pressed and smelling of the lavender water Anna had found in a cupboard, the silk dress felt smooth and cool against her skin.

When there was still no answer, she went around the side of the house. Like many of the Newport cottages, Cliff House had more lawn than garden, and she followed the stretch of closely cut grass around to a wide stone patio at the back of the house. A set of steps led from the patio down to a kidney-shaped swimming pool lined with dark green tile. Four chaise-longues lazed emptily next to the pool. At one end of the lawn, looking out over the ocean and flanked by the
three golden retrievers, was the slumped figure of Paddy Sheehan, his hands dangling over the side of the wheelchair.

Sweeney looked around. There was no one else outside, so she walked over to the chair and leaned down. “Hello, Mr. Sheehan.”

He started—he had been asleep, she realized—and the dogs jumped to their feet, excitedly wagging around Sweeney’s legs. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you up, I was just looking for Jack. Do you know where he is?”

Paddy Sheehan’s eyes met hers and he said, “What, what?” as his hands grasped at the wheels of the chair.

“I’m sorry. I was just looking for Jack. I’m Sweeney St. George.”

His arms relaxed over the edges of the chair again and he said accusingly, “You were at the house. Are you a friend of my grandson?”

“I was Brad’s professor,” Sweeney said.

“He was a good boy,” Paddy Sheehan said. “He liked to catch crabs. He’d put the line in the water and sit there for hours. He was patient. Patient, you know.”

“Yes,” she said. “I liked him very much.”

“He was a good boy.” Paddy Sheehan stared out over the water, as though he’d forgotten she was there.

“I know.” She wasn’t sure what to do. “I was very sorry.”

Suddenly, Paddy Sheehan looked up at her and said, “They think I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I do. I hear everything. I hear what they’re talking about. I hear them fighting.”

“Fighting?”

“Too much yelling. They don’t know I can hear them.”

Searching fruitlessly for a way out of the conversation, Sweeney was relieved to look up and find Jack, dressed in khakis and another old T-shirt, coming across the lawn to meet them. She was instantly self-conscious. The dress was too much.

“You made it,” he called out. “Is Paddy monopolizing you out here?”

Sweeney let him kiss her and then she put on the cardigan she’d tied around her waist.

“Cold?” Jack asked, handing her one of the beers. She shook her head and he said, “Come on inside and say hi to everyone. You ready to come in, Paddy?”

Paddy Sheehan didn’t say anything, but Jack took the handles of the wheelchair and pushed him across the grass toward the house.

They entered the house through a set of French doors at one end of the patio. Sweeney had lost her bearings and wasn’t sure where in the house they were until Jack led her through a huge formal dining room papered in arts and crafts vines and full of dark, mission furniture. A few watercolors of ocean scenes hung along the walls, but they hardly competed with the view of the Atlantic through the large windows against the back wall. The room had once been formal, but now the table was covered with piles of mail and everything looked slightly worn and battered, the upholstery faded, the wood dull.

They came into a big, old-fashioned kitchen, complete with a huge butcher block island in the center and bathtub-sized sink against one wall. Sweeney could almost imagine white-aproned Victorian servants preparing the family’s meal. But the kitchen had been updated with a shining restaurant-quality stove and a giant subzero fridge, and it was Kitty who stood at the butcher block island rolling out piecrust when they came into the kitchen. Melissa and Camille were sitting at a big round kitchen table, peeling and coring a pile of Granny Smith apples in the center of the table. When Melissa looked up to greet her, Sweeney had to fight to keep her face impassive, to keep from staring at Melissa’s bruised and abraded face, her forehead a mess of red scratches, one cheek stained with purple.

Sweeney handed the tulips to Kitty as Drew came in. He said hello to Sweeney, got a beer out of the refrigerator, and glanced at Melissa with a concerned expression on his face. It was the first time Sweeney had seen him out of a suit and she was struck by how much heavier he looked in khakis and an oxford cloth shirt. His suits must have been expertly tailored to disguise his girth.

Kitty smiled. “Oh, they’re beautiful. My favorite. Jack, can you put
them in water?” She handed them to her son. “Jack said that you’re down visiting some family.”

“Yeah, my aunt.”

“What’s her name?” The green skin of an apple unwound expertly from the white flesh under Camille’s knife.

“Anna Schniemann.”

“Oh, so you’re . . . ” Kitty looked up. “You must be Paul’s daughter.”

“Yes.”

“Oh . . . ” Her eyes darted quickly from Sweeney to her son. “No, use the crystal vase, Jack. Crystal’s nice with tulips.”

“How are you feeling, Melissa?” Sweeney asked her. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“A little sore.” She looked up.

Kitty smiled. “We’re so grateful that it wasn’t more serious.” She gasped. “Oh, Andrew.” They all looked up to find Andrew Putnam standing in the doorway, holding his own bouquet of tulips—white and long-stemmed and far more elegant than Sweeney’s bunch of multicolored blooms. He smiled shyly at Kitty.

“Hey, Dad,” Camille said, getting up and giving him a hug. She glanced from her mother to her father, who were still staring at each other.

“How’s our next congresswoman?” Andrew asked, turning to his daughter.

“Tired,” she said. “This is the first relaxing thing I’ve done in weeks.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Andrew said. “We may ask you to stump after dinner.” He handed the bouquet to Kitty, but didn’t touch her. “It looks like someone else knows you like tulips.”

“Those are from Sweeney,” Kitty said nervously, before unwrapping them next to the sink and poking them into the vase alongside Sweeney’s tulips.

Andrew shook Sweeney’s hand and nodded at Drew and Jack and Paddy before kissing Melissa on the cheek. “How are you, dear?” he
asked. “We were so worried.” Melissa flinched when his lips touched her forehead.

Kitty set the vase in the middle of the table. “There, that looks nice, doesn’t it?” But the effect wasn’t right. The flowers were all different heights and the long-stemmed tulips drooped precariously over the edges of the too-small vase. They all watched as one of them bowed toward the table and the stem snapped in half. The head lolled obscenely, scattering pollen on the table.

They had dinner in the kitchen, everyone sitting around the big round table, the dogs lying on the floor and hoping for pieces of roast chicken. The sky was growing dark and over the water, the clouds were gathering darkly too. A chilled breeze came through the half-open screen, and Sweeney shivered in her thin dress.

“Should we eat in the dining room?” Andrew had asked tentatively, after taking the white tulips out of the vase and finding a taller one for them.

Kitty, clearly uncomfortable, had almost snapped at him. “I hate the dining room. It’s better in here.” So Sweeney and Camille had made up the table with place mats and now they all sat in silence and watched Drew carve.

There were roasted carrots with the chicken and Camille had made a big green salad.

“This is great, Mom,” Jack said. Awkwardly, everyone else murmured that the food was delicious. From across the table, Camille met Sweeney’s eyes.

Drew looked across the table at his brother. “How’s the show going, Jack?”

“Good. Sold a couple pieces.” Jack got up and went to the refrigerator to get another beer for himself and one for Sweeney. Kitty watched him as he returned to the table.

“People buy that crazy stuff ?” Camille grinned and Sweeney had the sense that they were acting out some kind of childhood ritual.

“They buy your b.s.,” Jack said. “Why not mine?” Everyone laughed, but there was something oddly edgy in his voice.

“I saw the plans you sent over, Drew,” Andrew said. “Everything looks good.”

“That’s right. How are the plans for Yuppieville coming along?” Jack asked. He turned to Sweeney. “Remember how I told you that we have these other buildings near mine in the Back Bay? Drew wants to turn them into a yuppie paradise.”

Sweeney met Camille’s eyes across the table.

“It’s on hold,” Drew said. “It’s going to be too expensive to repair the buildings so we can go ahead with the construction.”

“But you knew those buildings were damaged during the drilling for the tunnel,” Camille said innocently. “And it was worth it to you to fix them before, right?”

“Yeah, but when we went in and did the inspections, we found all kinds of asbestos. I just heard yesterday. It would cost a fortune to remove it. We’d be better off tearing the houses down, but there are historic preservation issues. Maybe some day we’ll do it, but not right now.

“As it is,” Drew continued, taking a bite of his chicken, “Grandfather Putnam made out like a bandit. If the tunnel drilling hadn’t damaged the buildings, he would have had to spend millions on the removal. I doubt whether it would have been worth it. But because of the damage, he got the insurance and laughed all the way to the bank.”

Paddy Sheehan, who had been completely silent during the meal, said, “I’ll say he did.”

Everyone looked at him.

“Paddy and my other grandfather served in the Senate together,” Jack told Sweeney as he got up to get himself another beer. The refrigerator closed with a loud click.

“Jack,” Kitty said. “Haven’t you had enough?”

Jack turned to look at her, the beer in his hand, but Paddy was saying, “You know who worked for him back then? Gerry DiFloria. Gerry DiFloria!” He cackled, then took a noisy bite of chicken, his hand shaking.

Camille looked up at her grandfather. “What do you mean?”

Paddy cackled again. “He was the aide on the transportation committee. Those two were thick as thieves.”

“That’s right. He was the aide on the . . . ?” Sweeney saw Camille look up as they both had the same realization.

“He was pretty shrewd, my old man,” Andrew said. Sweeney watched as he and Camille exchanged glances across the table.

Camille’s face was tight. “Yes,” she said. “He was. I’m sorry. I just remembered a call I have to make. Can I be excused?”

Kitty looked confused. “Of course. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just . . . a campaign thing.” Camille stood up and she met Sweeney’s eyes again before she left the room.

Sweeney watched Kitty’s eyes follow her daughter.

“Well, I’m going to get up and clear some of this stuff away.” Kitty stood up suddenly.

Andrew jumped to his feet. “I’ll help you,” he said. “Paddy, you doing okay?”

“I think I’m about ready for bed.”

“I’ll take him up and then help you in the kitchen,” Andrew said. “Why don’t you guys all go sit on the patio. We’ll come out when we’re done.”

They took their drinks out on the patio and as soon as they were out of earshot, Drew turned to Jack and raised his eyebrows.

“I know,” Jack said. “What’s going on there?”

“He came down by himself,” Melissa told them. “A week or so ago. She mentioned something about it and then blushed when she realized what she’d said.”

Jack said to Sweeney, “It’s pretty weird to suspect your own parents of sneaking around behind your back.”

“Do you think they’re going to get back together?” she asked.

“I don’t know. They’ve seen each other more in the last couple of weeks than they have since they split up.”

“They never got divorced,” Melissa said. “I always thought that was telling. If they wanted to get divorced, why didn’t they just do it?”

Drew looked at her. “You don’t know anything about it,” he said harshly.

“It’s kind of sad, though, isn’t it?” Jack said, trying to get them past the awkward moment. “The way he follows her around like a puppy dog. If they’re not rekindling the romance, I hope she lets him down easy.” He took Sweeney’s hand and held it in his lap.

“Do we know your parents, Sweeney?” Melissa asked brightly. “I didn’t realize until Kitty said it that you summered here too.” What she was really saying was that Sweeney didn’t seem like the kind of person who would summer in Newport and Sweeney felt a rush of anger.

“Yes, what was the big mystery?” Drew asked. “Did Dad have a feud with your father or something?”

“Were they St. George? Like you?” Melissa’s expression was cheerful.

Jack looked uncomfortable.

“My father was Paul St. George,” Sweeney said, keeping Drew in her steady gaze. “He was an artist.”

Suddenly Drew realized and he looked down at the table. But Melissa had already started saying, “The one who . . . ?”

“Yeah,” Sweeney said. “The one who killed himself. And my mother’s the one who got kicked out of Bailey’s Beach for getting drunk and taking off her top.”

Melissa gave kind of a strangled laugh. Her mouth was a round “o.”

“Well, God,” Drew said, as though there wasn’t anything else to say. “That’s quite a family.”

“Yeah,” Sweeney said, trying to smile.

“You know who I ran into today?” Jack asked his brother, glancing nervously at Sweeney. “Sam Healy. Remember him?” He downed half of the beer he was drinking in a single gulp.

“Oh yeah. What’s he up to? Didn’t he get married to that woman you went to art school with?”