“The Bentwicks ganged up on him in horror, to no avail. He was killed in the second battle of Falluja, in 2004, by a roadside bomb. His friends and relatives went wild asking why? why? I knew why. So did the third John Bentwick. So did Duff: he wanted out. His beautiful tender wife had deserted him. His shrew of a daughter hated him. He got what he wanted. He asked John Bentwick to take care of me.
“John was up for that. But it took him two years to become my guardian. John had a bum reputation in some quarters. He’d never married. He was conspicuously not gay. But he’d had numerous affairs, some of them notorious. That means with newsworthy married women. At sixty-four he showed no sign of slowing down. He’d never held a job where his responsibility had been tested. His philanthropy didn’t count for much — ‘with his money, it’s the least he can do.’ His backing of legitimate causes, like the right to free speech for everybody, made him an easy target: he was defending neo-Nazis, racists, and other sickies. Putting an adolescent girl in the hands of such a man was unwise.
“My father had packed me away in a prestigious Protestant boarding school when he went off to war. My teachers, the headmaster, even a few of its trustees all thought I was such a great student and human being that I should be left to their care. I should definitely not be confided to a dissolute millionaire. The dissolute millionaire by the way had been paying for my schooling and all my living expenses since my father died. There was no objection to that, naturally. Also naturally, nobody asked the girl at issue what she wanted.
“Actually I might have been pretty confused about what to answer. I hadn’t yet seen that much of John. But the other Bentwicks rallied round. They convinced the world that being adopted by John Bentwick would be any child’s dream. At worst he’d make her life a grand party. He’d certainly never corrupt her, and if he tried, the Bentwicks would be on him like a pack of bloodhounds. Practically every adult family member called on the representatives of the guardian ad litem until they convinced them of John Bentwick’s honorableness. The family court judge only had to add his seal of approval. So the Bentwick family put an end to public debate about me. On my fifteenth birthday I became the ward of my uncle.
“This prospective patron, this bachelor in the prime of life, proved a gentleman in the grandest sense, such a figure as never (except in a dream or an old-fashioned movie) would have risen before a flustered, anxious girl out of New Hampshire. Where I was concerned, he was an absolute dreamboat. He didn’t pack me off to another school but had me tutored by young men who were as smart as can be and usually cute. He took me out on dates with his lady friends. They were usually ten or fifteen years younger than he was, and they were pretty cute too. He got them to teach me about life. They liked doing that — for one thing I really listened. I heard a different version of the world from the one I’d been told at my oh-so-pious school. I think that’s what John was after; that’s how I started becoming ‘laid back’ about sex. (Did I really say that?)
“My John took me everywhere he could — that meant lots of places. He’s what they used to call a dilettante. He played the flute so well professional chamber musicians invited him to record with them. He was such a good freehand draughtsman, he could entertain a picnic’s worth of kids sketching their portraits. He was an honorable tennis player. (He had no use for golf, ‘although the cruising isn’t bad,’ he confessed. ) He loved classical ballet. He’d never taken lessons so he made damn sure I did. That was hard, but at least it wasn’t lacrosse. When he ‘took possession of me,’ as he liked to say — incidentally he never made a hint of a pass at me, which sort of pissed me off, since I was mad about him and at eighteen not exactly repulsive — I had turned fifteen. He was living in Boston, and I thought that’s where we would live. But it was to his county home — an old family place in Chatham, on Cape Cod — that he wished us to proceed.
“I soon learned why. He’d turned it into a refuge for eccentric Bentwicks. Actually there wasn’t any such thing. The Bentwick family was almost a hothouse of eccentricity. Still, some of the residents at Chatham were out on the edge — two unmarried teen-age mothers, two serious alchemists, a fanatic who dedicated his exceptional wits to devising a sure-fire system for playing the horses. (He finally succeeded. The trouble was, his system allowed on average only one chance a month to place a bet — ‘Too boring!’ he concluded.) There were also more predictable characters: two poets, one composer, and one graphic artist, all of whom John considered promising but were too eccentric for any school. All of them were cheerful and seemed to enjoy their privileged freedom. They threw frequent parties that lasted late, where I got to hear all the new groups. They gave me books to read that made my hinges pop.
“Of course I wasn’t there all the time. John kept taking me off to gallery openings and dance recitals in New York (and my first opera: Lulu!) and concerts in Boston and Cambridge. On one trip I had my first liaison — I’m almost certain John set it up, but I didn’t dare ask him. Anyway it was a good start. I must have been seventeen.
“Meanwhile I became a super brilliant student. I scored so high on my SATs I got full scholarship offers from all
