of course, even if he never—”
“Nick’s dead, Mister Falzetti,” I said, finding myself unable hold back—to keep my irritation from showing. “So why don’t you just give it a rest, okay? Nothing any of us can do will bring him back.”
“Oh I know that,” Mister Falzetti said. “But I was told that you let him go, Charlie—that you held onto him for an instant before he made the plunge.”
“Hey—come on!”
I started to stand, but Seana pushed me down, stood, and lifted her wine glass so that it was only an inch or two from Mister Falzetti’s nose. “Now I bet you’re the kind of guy who puts himself to sleep some nights by imagining there’s a touch of evil about you that makes you truly fascinating,” she said, “when the truth is that you’re really just a creep.”
“And you’re the kind of woman Evelyn Waugh might have adored—a mean-spirited Catholic fabulist,” Mister Falzetti said and, very gently, he nudged Seana’s glass aside and moved past her to the fireplace. “The reason I preferred Plain Jane to Triangle,” he continued, “is because it was utterly lacking in conscience, or in anything called conscience, as the poet would have it.”
“Yeats,” Seana said, “‘The Tower.’”
“I surely won’t attempt to compete with you in a literary duel,” Mister Falzetti said, “but I will complete my thought, which is that it’s the absence of conscience in your work that I find so endearing. Unlike Waugh, whose characters are ingeniously eccentric but whose dark humor, alas, is marred by his schoolboy Catholicism, or Patricia Highsmith, say, whose characters are often charmingly amoral—true psychopaths—your characters are quintessentially normal, and very American. It’s not only that your heroine gets away with murder—it’s her lack of contrition—her ease with what she’s done that delights. Plain Jane indeed!”
“You know what?” Seana said, and she gave Mister Falzetti her most winning smile. “If I’d had a father like you, I’d have killed myself too.”
“Oh but Nick did not kill himself,” Mrs. Falzetti said, her voice assured in a way that surprised me.
“Eugenia’s correct,” Mister Falzetti said. “It was an accident. The embassy and the police assured us that it was an accident. Isn’t that so, Charlie?”
“It was an accident,” I said.
“That’s what I believe,” Mrs. Falzetti said, “although at times Lorenzo has other notions, and I trust I’m not talking out of school to say that ever since we received the news, Lorenzo has been living in a state of shock that has given rise to a prolonged and somewhat antic state of denial.”
“And I believe we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Seana said.
“Lorenzo worried about Nick more than he can admit,” Mrs. Falzetti continued. “He loved our son inordinately, and in his heart I believe he has always felt responsible for Nick’s troubles.”
“Come, come, Eugenia,” Mister Falzetti said. “Let’s not bother these young people with our disagreements.”
“What I’m saying does not excuse Lorenzo, of course,” Mrs. Falzetti said, “but it does help account for his behavior of late. That’s what I believe.”
“It’s what you want to believe,” Mister Falzetti said, and he kissed the top of his wife’s head. “Eugenia is not the same woman she was before Nick left us. It may not seem so to see her on a day like this, but she can be a pistol. Can’t you, dear?”
“I certainly can,” she said, “although I do not possess the potential to be quite as insufferable as you. Therefore, I apologize to our guests. Manners, please, Lorenzo. Manners must get us through.”
“Manners, yes, but also surprises and shrewd purchases,” Mister Falzetti said. “I bought up lots of Wyeth early on—that’s not under the heading of ‘surprise,’ which we’ll get to by and by—but when we were friendly, and before fame rotted his brain, Wyeth sold me his stuff at bargain-basement prices, along with work from the father. He couldn’t get rid of his father’s stuff fast enough, and I knew back then what we’ve come to understand since: that the father’s work will last far longer than the son’s. Burned Andy’s cheap, arrogant ass when he found out what I was getting for my stash, one by one, father and son. So don’t you worry about us, no matter how far into the toilet this lousy economy goes.”
“Which reminds me,” Mrs. Falzetti said to us. “Do you worry about what the recession has done to our economy?”
Seana started to laugh, but covered her mouth. “I’m not laughing at you or your question, ma’am,” she said. “And the answer is no—I don’t worry about the economy, and neither does Charlie, though we appreciate your concern.”
“I inherited Nick’s accounts,” I said. “I’m in good shape for a while to come.”
“I’m happy for you,” Mrs. Falzetti said. “Nick did have a generous streak in him—he’s left everything to Trish, you know.”
“We hope to visit Trish,” I said.
“Trish is a fine young woman,” Mrs. Falzetti said. “She’s done a wonderful job with Gabe and Anna. Anna is seventeen months old and quite normal so far, I’m pleased to report.”
“Ah—you’ve gone and said the magic word,” Mister Falzetti exclaimed. “Normal! And speaking of normal, I believe it’s time for our little surprise, so you will give me two more minutes, won’t you?”
“Don’t,” Mrs. Falzetti said, but I couldn’t tell if she was talking to us, or to Mister Falzetti.
“I can assure you it will be worth your while,” Mister Falzetti said. “A rare opportunity to see how we entertain ourselves up here, where the winters, as you know, can be long and dark.”
I was ready to leave, but when Seana sat where she was without moving, I stayed put. I felt distinctly numb, though, in the way I’d feel after a long walk along the coast when the cold and the damp could seep into your bones.
A minute later Mister Falzetti twirled into the room. “Ta-da!” he exclaimed. He still had on his blazer, but was wearing bright red lipstick, and a wig of blond curls, a hair net pulled down over it. He put his arm around Mrs. Falzetti.
“So what do you think?” he asked. “Honestly now. Wasn’t this worth waiting for?”
“He usually only does this on Saturday nights,” Mrs. Falzetti explained. “I feel distinctly embarrassed, and once again I do apologize.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about or apologize for,” Mister Falzetti said. “We all have our quirky sides, but most of us are too shy—too timid—to show them forth. Think of the great pain people live with because of unexpressed desires! Think of the fabulous lives we might lead that we never get to experience. Think of Nick, and of how nasty, brutish, and short his life was—of all he hoped to do and never will.”
I wondered if Nick had ever seen his father like this, and then realized: yes or no, what difference to who he was, or to his fate? I felt an urge to defend Nick—to say to Nick’s father what Nick might have said:
