His pedigree was all that mattered to Abby, but Burton’s stuff ran deeper than that.
When I was growing up, people like Burton Lewis moved through the world inside an invisible protective enclosure. We saw them in the grocery store or stepping between their nice cars and Herb McCarthy’s or the Irving Hotel, but we knew they probably didn’t see us. They were a type of celestial being that God had marooned on earth as a penalty for their vanity and arrogance. I didn’t know enough locals then to know how they felt about the Summer People, but I was never resentful or jealous. Just removed. I kept out of their way and only wondered about their lives when I rode my bike around the estate section and tried to see the big houses hidden by giant stands of hundred-year-old maples and copper beech.
Abby tried to hire Burton to represent her in the divorce, but he demurred. Claimed the lack of a Connecticut bar exam. The truth is, though he was fond of her, he liked me better. We used to do shots and watch the Knicks together on TV while the other swells practiced one-upmanship out in his living room. I liked him, too, and not for the reason Abby liked to insinuate, Burton being homosexual.
When I pushed the call button on the intercom at the gate, a Spanish woman answered. She said Burton was out in the back jacking up a small utility shed to repair the foundation. He was always building or fixing something with his own hands. I noted it was after eight o’clock at night.
“We have lights.”
“Tell him Sam Acquillo dropped by. I’ll come back later.”
“No. He’ll want to talk to you. I’ll ring him on his mobile.”
“Is this Isabella?”
“Yes, Mr. Acquillo.”
“Sam.”
“Sam. He hasn’t heard from you for a long time.”
Isabella was Burton’s housekeeper. If that’s the right designation for a woman who ran such a colossal domestic enterprise. Her husband had been a lawyer in Cuba. Burton used him as an investigator until he dropped dead one day in the middle of an interview with a potential witness. Burton let Isabella stay at his flat until she could find other circumstances and she still hadn’t left.
“I’m not much of a communicator,” I told her.
“He thought he’d made some offense.”
It wasn’t that easy to make out what she was saying over the intercom, especially given the accent.
“No, he didn’t. I’ll just call him tomorrow.”
“No, I get him for you. Come on in.”
The big white gate swung in and I piloted the Grand Prix down the privet canyon.
Burton’s yellow and wood-paneled 1978 Ford Country Squire was parked out front. Combine its raw metal content with the Grand Prix’s and you could build a small fleet of Honda Civics. Our taste in cars might have looked like the foundation of the relationship. Though the real reason Burton drove the Ford was simple negligence. He’d had it since it was new and, as long as it ran well enough to get him around Southampton, wouldn’t bother replacing it. People like Burton, who can buy anything, often don’t buy anything at all, or only when driven by impulses most of us would find incomprehensible.
As I hauled the Grand Prix around the circle I concentrated on missing the Ford. I’d stopped off at my house after talking to Milton Hornsby, ostensibly to leave Eddie off so he could spend the rest of the day running around the yard.
I also thought a drink would be a good idea before I did anything else. So I sat on the porch and drank about half a bottle of some no-name vodka I’d bought on sale. The first sip wasn’t too good, but it improved over time.
By dinnertime my nerves were beaten into submission and my appetite was coming back. I had some leftovers that sopped up some of the vodka, so I could convince myself I was fit to drive over to see Burton Lewis, the only lawyer I knew in Southampton. I thought about calling ahead first, but I wasn’t sure if he’d want to see me. Anyway, the surprise visit approach had worked so well with Milton Hornsby.
Isabella opened the door. She looked at me skeptically.
“You lose weight.”
“A little. Nice to see you too, Isabella.”
She backed up to let me in.
“Not that you needed to. A little fat wouldn’t hurt a man your age.”
Burton loped into the grand hall and reached out to shake my hand. He looked as I’d remembered him. He wore a blue and white pinstriped shirt, off-white, mud-stained khakis, ragged tan boat shoes and a blue blazer with the sleeves stuffed up over his elbows. When new, each item probably cost a lot of money, but they hadn’t been new for a very long time. It occurred to me that when Burton died he should donate his wardrobe to the Museum of Ivy League Coastal Sportswear. His handshake felt dry and bony.
“I heard you were out East,” said Burton, as if I’d just gotten in last night. “I thought about calling.”
“That’s okay, Burt, I didn’t expect you to. I’m not such good company anyway. How’s everything with you?”
“But I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it,” he said, completing the thought. “I wasn’t entirely sure about your disposition.”
“That’s okay, Burt. You look good.”
“I imagine you haven’t heard much from Abigail.”
“Only her lawyers. Mopping up.”
“Surely that’s all behind us.”
“Pretty much.”
“I’m not a fan of protracted litigation.”
He showed me the way through what I guess was a sitting room—it’s hard to define what all the rooms are for in a place that big. We went outside through a pair of twelve-foot-high French doors.
“You’re good a man, Burt,” I said. “Which is a rare thing. Speaking of men, how’s the love life?”
He smiled at me. “You haven’t become more tactful.”
“But I have lost a little weight.”
The doors led to a wide stone-paved patio. It was furnished with oversized wicker lounge chairs and big market umbrellas. The night was getting blacker as a spongy wet mist crept in from the ocean. I could hear the surf through the dense privets that enclosed the side yard. Auras formed around the lights that lit up the patio. A chorus of bugs and reptiles were out there bitching and chirping away as they did for reasons of their own. Somewhere in the distance a stereo was playing a jazz recording. Ellington, with Johnny Hodges sliding sax notes all over the register. It reminded me of softer times out on Burton’s millionacre lawn, under canvas tents, sipping white wine brought in dripping crystal, and bowls of fruit that would leak down your arms when you took a bite. Abby sitting with a long stretch of strong brown leg jutting out from the deep slit of her skirt. Rich old guys in pastel sport coats and white pants trying not to look. Other women, mostly gaunt and affected, and Burton, struggling to act blase around some vacuous tennis pro or Mexican gardener. Me on frequent trips to the cocktail station, trying to alter my usual state of edgy dismay.
Abby always yearned for a place of her own out here. A real place, in her mind, suitable for entertaining. Ten years before we split she’d campaigned to find the perfect spot, recruiting friends to join the hunt. They had a great time going from house to house, sunning themselves in the obsequious attentions of venal real-estate agents. I was putting the last installments into a fund I’d established for my daughter’s education, and was unenthusiastic about a new round of debt. Of course, it was my waning enthusiasm for Abby that was at the heart of the matter. The day she came to me with the chosen property, I told her no. She thought I was kidding. Then I told her no several more times in several different ways. I probably overembellished. Her mouth hung open an inch or two while I was talking, but then it snapped shut and never opened again to emit a single pleasant word on my behalf.
Burton let us stay with him a few weeks every summer. I remained in Connecticut during the week and worked, or went to see my mother for short, awkward visits at the cottage, or later, at the nursing home. I sat around drinking with Burton on the weekends, often after everyone else had gone to bed. Burton would have worked hard at staying my friend if I’d let him.
Before we settled into the wicker chairs Burton poured us each our regular drink from a cocktail caddy in the corner. His movements were still graceful and fluid, in contrast to his social manner, which could be surprisingly
