Southampton Spectacular (10 page)

If not to the altar, then surely at least to the bedroom.

Now, as he waltzed gently around the room, Peter Hall realized that everything was going to be all right. His wife would heal. They would get a little bit of sleep, though not quite enough. Devon would eat, and sleep, and cry. He contemplated these things and allowed himself to look around the room for the first time. To appreciate the tall windows and the huge bouquet of flowers he had ordered. To feel the cool of the perfect climate control.

Devon was asleep by now, lulled by the dance, and Peter put her gently back into her tiny transparent crib. Ms. Greenland nodded with approval and glided out of the room without a word. Peter glanced at his wife, who was now asleep as well. It was almost time to go home.

2

Like most New Yorkers, the Halls knew that Park Avenue in April was miraculous, provided one had access to the right sort of apartment building. Thousands upon thousands of tulip bulbs flourished each year along the median strips, taking the place of the Christmas trees that had been there just a few months earlier. The Christmas trees were striking in their own right, with their dark green and their twinkling lights and the snow underneath, but the lasting image of them was one of almost no color, of the stark, black and white contrasts of nighttime or the grays of dusk, since the winter days were so mercilessly short. The tulips, on the other hand, seemed perpetually awash in the brightest hues of yellow and pink and red, along with the rich brown of the wood borders surrounding them and the fresh mulch at the base of the bright green stems. And yes, the tulips were there for everyone; but those living along the avenue financed their upkeep (and that of the Christmas trees), and those residents may have felt – rightly or not – that they were better able to enjoy this particular aspect of spring. The tulips were visible from their own apartment windows, after all. The tulips greeted them when they emerged in the morning. The tulips welcomed them home.

Nearly all apartment buildings along Park Avenue below 96th street had a doorman, but not all doormen were created equal. The older buildings had apartments that occupied half-floors or entire floors (or even two or more entire floors), which meant that a building with fifteen floors might have only forty or fifty people living in it, even including families with children. A doorman in such a building knew every tenant’s name, and he was well motivated to be as helpful and as friendly as possible to every single one of them. Tenants in such a building often gave large Christmas tips, and a good doorman could, in a prosperous holiday season, take home anywhere from $5,000 to $10,000 as a year-end bonus.

Which, considering the skill-set required for the job, was significant.

Then again, being helpful and friendly was easier said than done, since each tenant had his or her individual idea of the appropriate level of assistance and engagement. A good doorman knew instinctively which bags to take, and from whom, and when or when not to speak or joke or listen to a rant from a tenant who took home a daily salary equal to what the doorman made in a month. And even with good instincts, there were some rules that came only from experience.

For example, men wanted less help than women. With everything. The door, the bags, whatever. If the man was with a woman who did not live in the building, you were not to
touch
the door; he’d open it for her. Unless the man was older than forty, in which case you were to open it and greet him; he’d want the woman to know he had people working for him.

Women were generally more polite than men, but they were less likely to want to chat. You were not to start a conversation with a woman, ever, because you would risk being accused of sexual harassment. Unless the woman had a young child in a stroller, in which case she might actually become offended if conversation was not offered to pass the time. The children themselves, at any age under twelve, were to be tolerated and smiled at for the benefit of the parents, and shooed in and out of the building as quickly as possible, so as not to disturb the other tenants.

Late at night, the rules changed dramatically. Tenants coming in after hours wanted to be acknowledged boisterously or almost not at all, depending on their mood or circumstances. Younger men in a group, returning from a bar or a club, could be engaged in conversation. A man and woman together were not to be addressed except in the most formal terms, if at all. Especially not if they were speaking with their heads together, or touching one another in any way. A man returning on his own was to be greeted as if it were three in the afternoon. He wanted to pretend he hadn’t been out trying to get a girl. That he was just coming back from work and had stopped at a bar to get some dinner, and dinner had gone longer than usual. That he was
not
falling-down drunk. You were to pretend he made sense.

A woman returning on her own before 2AM was to be greeted as though she had just come back from the most wonderful party ever held, or conceived of. If it was past 2AM but before 4AM, she was to be watched for signs of alcohol poisoning. If it was after 4AM, she was to be treated with the utmost respect, because she hadn’t meant to go home with that guy, it had just
happened
, and this was not the walk of shame because it was not technically morning yet.

The veteran doorman – a man with twenty or more years of experience, all in the same building – did all of these things, obeyed all of these rules, and did so without pause, and without fail. He never seemed to be angling for a tip. He was simply an extraordinarily friendly (and yet discreet), helpful (and yet diffident), gregarious (and yet reserved) man. There when you needed him, gone when you didn’t. Like a towel boy at the Beach Club.

The Halls had an apartment on 72nd street, on the east side of Park Avenue, and nearly all of their doormen were veterans. Peter and Cynthia were riding home from the hospital in the back of a Town Car that Peter had hired for the day, with a baby seat installed for the occasion. They were both riding in the back, four-day-old Devon sleeping peacefully in her car seat between them. The tulips had been rushing past their windows in a blur for the last couple of minutes, but now they slowed to a pleasant, yellow-and-green wash as the car neared its destination. They reached the apartment building, and the driver parallel-parked the car with a single, fluid back-in-and-close. No adjustments.

The doorman on duty was out at the curb before the car had come to a stop, and he opened the door for Mrs. Hall. He knew enough to leave Mr. Hall’s door alone, and he did not try to help with the baby seat. He went straight from Mrs. Hall’s door to the trunk, where the heavy things would be. By the time Peter and Cynthia had unfastened the car seat and taken it out of the Town Car, the doorman was standing behind them, all five bags slung over his shoulders. Peter held the baby seat in one hand, and he asked his wife twice if she wanted a wheel chair brought out. The answer was no, and so they began to walk slowly and carefully toward the door. Burt followed a respectful distance behind, as if Cynthia’s four-step-per-minute pace were the most natural thing in the world.

“Cynthia! Hello, Cynthia!”

They stopped and looked to see who was calling. Even though they both knew.

Peter let his eyes close for a moment.

How could our timing be this bad?

Tracy and Jerry Dunn were at the other end of the block, moving slowly into their apartment building – which was adjacent to the Hall’s, on the same street – in a nearly identical scene of welcome-home-baby. Tracy Dunn was relaxing in a wheelchair, and Jerry was carrying most of the bags, including the baby seat. “Say hello to little James!” Tracy yelled. Jerry Dunn winced. He did not make eye-contact with Peter.

Cynthia waved indulgently, and she tried to resume her slow march to the door.

“What’s your baby’s name?” Mrs. Dunn demanded, still in that maximum-decibel shout.

Cynthia held up a finger and wagged it at her, in what she hoped was a gesture that would convey “let’s discuss this later, when we’re not half a block away from each other and I’m not inching along with stitches in my perineum,” but Tracy Dunn was having none of it.

“Right, but what’s the baby’s
name
?” she yelled, even louder this time. Four-day-old James Dunn was woken by his mother’s yelling, and he began to cry. Jerry Dunn hurried inside, leaving his wife sitting alone on the sidewalk.

From behind the Halls, a quiet voice. “Sir?”

“Thank you, Burt,” said Peter Hall. “Our little girl’s name is Devon. Please let Mrs. Dunn know, and we’ll meet you upstairs when you’re through.”

The doorman lowered the five large bags slowly to the sidewalk and walked off to deliver the message. The Halls, thus freed from further social obligation, headed inside. By the time they reached the elevator, Burt had caught up. Cynthia Hall eased herself into the little elevator car first, followed by Peter and the bags.

The elevator doors closed, and Cynthia smiled in spite of herself.

3

It was comforting to be home, for both of them. Cynthia had set up the nursery ahead of time, of course. Their two live-ins were there as always, two capable Dominican women who would now handle absolutely everything in the house that was not baby-related. The cooking and the cleaning and the laundry. As before, but even more so. They had been given substantial raises in anticipation of the greater work load.

Peter carried Devon carefully into her new room, made sure the baby monitor was working correctly, and then he and Cynthia each took fifteen minutes for themselves.

Peter allowed himself a quick check of voicemail, to be sure that his various seconds-in-command were managing to run his little airlines without causing any catastrophes. Everything was going smoothly. One incident with a pilot trying to fly with fewer than eight hours sleep in between cross-continent flights, but that was it.

Cynthia placed a telephone call to Augusta, to follow up on the cursory call she had made just a few hours after Devon’s birth. To her parents. Ostensibly to let them know that she and the baby were still healthy and happy and safe, but really to gloat. To confirm, once again, that choosing to go to Dartmouth, so far away from her home and her family, had been the right move after high school. That moving to New York
without
a steady boyfriend after college had not been foolish. That getting involved with an older man had been the best decision of her life. That Peter Hall had turned out to be not only unerringly faithful – this was her family’s primary concern about rich New York men – but also interested, really and truly interested in having children.

More interested than she was comfortable discussing over the phone with her own mother, frankly.

And look, here was the proof. Alive and healthy and twelve pounds, three ounces. Devon Clark Hall, living evidence of their success.

When they were both done with their calls, Devon had needed to be changed and nursed and put back to bed, but they worked together on this as best they could, re-applying the Vaseline dressing around her umbilical cord stump with inexpert fingers that came away trailing extra tendrils of gauze. Mercifully,  Devon went back to sleep. They knew they had another hour, maybe, to themselves. After which, Ms. Greenland had informed them, they might have very little time to themselves for a while.

For the next sixteen years or so.

4

Now, sixteen years later, they were all back in the hospital together. There was a sharp knock on the door, and both Devon and her mother jumped.

Without waiting for a response, a tall man neither of them had ever seen came striding into the room. He was wearing a dark, neatly tailored suit, and he was carrying a slim briefcase. Cynthia began shaking her head. “You have the wrong room, we didn’t – ”

“Mrs. Peter Hall,” the man said. Not a question, but a confirmation.

Cynthia nodded cautiously.

“And this is your daughter, or an immediate member of your family?”

“Yes, but who – ?”

“I am here to serve you with this package, at your husband’s request.”

Cynthia Hall glanced at Peter. He was still lying immobile in the bed before them, his face partially obscured by the layers and layers of bandages around his head. “At
his
request?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t think he – ”

“This is a
non compos mentis
prerogative,” the man said, placing his briefcase flat on Peter’s bedside table. He flicked the latches on the briefcase and opened the top. There was a pile of papers and folders inside, and he took a large envelope off the top of the pile. “In the event of your husband’s incapacitation or death, we have been instructed to deliver this to you,” the man said.

“He’s
not
dead,” Cynthia said, trying to keep her voice steady. She gestured at Peter. “Surely you can see that.”

The man’s neutral expression did not change. “As I understand it, he is in a coma, or something like it. This satisfies the legal definition of
non compos mentis
that was specified by your husband at the time he made these arrangements.” He held the manila envelope out to her, and at first Devon thought her mother would simply refuse to take it. She sat back in her chair, away from the man’s long reach, but then the futility of this behavior seemed to occur to her. She reluctantly reached out to take the manila package. The lawyer turned back to the bedside table and closed his briefcase with a snap. He stood before them, bowed stiffly, and then turned and left the room without another word.