New drink in hand, Dad examined the glass again, then set it down. So I proposed a toast. 'Here's to being together, and to a summer of love, peace, and good health.'
We touched glasses and drank. A vicious hanging fern kept trying to get its tendrils around my neck, so I ripped some of them off and threw them on the floor where the rent-a-cat was rubbing against my leg. Just as I was about to punt the fuzzy beast across the room, a college kid, probably on Quaaludes, dropped a full tray of food, and the cat, who like Pavlov's dogs, knew by now that this sound meant food, took off like a shot. I said to Susan, 'I'm going to recommend this place to Lester and Judy.'
Anyway, we chatted awhile, though my parents rarely make small talk. They don't care much about family news, don't want to hear about Lattingtown, Locust Valley, or the law firm, and show about as much interest in their grandchildren as they do in their own children; i.e., zip.
Nevertheless, I tried. 'Have you heard from Emily recently?' I inquired. I hadn't seen my sister since Easter, but she had written to me in May. | My father replied, 'She wrote.'
'How recently?'
'Last month.'
'What did she write?'
My mother picked up the ball. 'Everything is fine.'
Susan said, 'Carolyn is going to Cuba next week.'
My mother seemed genuinely interested in this. 'Good for you, Carolyn. The government has no right to stop you.'
Carolyn replied, 'We actually have to fly to Mexico first. You can't get there from here.'
'How awful.'
Edward said, 'I'm going to Florida.'
My mother looked at him. 'How nice.'
My father added, 'Have a good time.'
We were really rolling now, so I tried this: 'Edward would like to spend some time out here in late August. If you're going away, he can house-sit for you.' My father informed me, 'If we go away, we have the day maid house-sit.' Neither of them asked why Edward couldn't stay at our house in East Hampton, so I volunteered, 'We're selling our house.'
'The market is soft,' said my father.
'We're selling it because I have a tax problem.'
He replied that he was sorry to hear that, but I knew he must be wondering how a tax expert could have been so stupid. So I briefly explained the cause of the problem, thinking perhaps the old fox might have an idea or two. He listened and said, 'I seem to recall telling you that would come back to haunt you.' Good ol' Pop.
Carolyn said, 'Do you know who we have living next door to us?'
My father replied, 'Yes, we heard at Easter.'
I said, 'We have become somewhat friendly with them.'
My mother looked up from her menu. 'He makes the most fantastic pesto sauce.'
'How do you know?'
'I've had it, John.'
'You've eaten at the Bellarosas'?'
'No. Where is that?'
Obviously I was not paying attention.
Mother went on, 'He gets the basil from a little farm in North Sea. He picks it every day at seven P.M.'
'Who?'
'Buddy Bear. The owner. He's a Shinnecock, but he cooks marvellous Italian.'
'The owner is an Indian?'
'A Native American, John. A Shinnecock. And ten percent of the bill goes directly to the reservation. He's a darling man. We'll try to meet him later.' I ordered another double gin and tonic.
And so we passed the time, my parents not inquiring after Susan's parents or any of her family. They also did not ask about anyone in the Locust Valley or Manhattan office, or about the Allards, or in fact about anyone. And while they were at it, they made a special point of not asking Carolyn or Edward about school. There are certain types of persons, as I've discovered, who have a great love of humanity, like my parents, but don't particularly like people. But my mother did like Buddy Bear. 'You absolutely must meet him,' she insisted.
'Okay. Where is he?' I replied graciously.
'He's usually here on Fridays.'
Edward said, 'Maybe he's at a powwow.'
My mother gave him a very cool look, then said to my father, 'We must get his mushrooms.' She explained to Susan and me, 'He picks his own mushrooms. He knows where to go for them, but he absolutely refuses to let anyone in on his secret.' I was fairly certain that Buddy Bear went to the wholesale produce market like any sane restaurateur, but Mr Bear was putting out a line of bullshit to the white turkeys who were gobbling it up. My God, I almost felt I would rather have been dining with Frank Bellarosa.
My mother seemed agitated that the owner had not put in an appearance, so she inquired of our waitress as to his whereabouts. The waitress replied, 'Oh, like he's really busy, you know? He's like, cooking? You know? Do you want to talk to him or something?'
'When he has a moment,' my mother replied.
I mean, who gives a shit? You know?
At my mother's suggestion, or insistence, I had ordered some angel-hair pasta concoction that combined three ingredients of Mr Bear's supposed foraging: the basil, the mushrooms, and some god-awful Indian sorrel that tasted like mouldy grass clippings.
There wasn't much said during dinner, but after the plates were cleared, my mother said to my father, 'We're going to have the Indian pudding.' She turned to us. 'Buddy makes an authentic Indian pudding. You must try it.' So we had six authentic Indian – or should I say Native American – puddings, which I swear to God came out of a can. But I had mine with a tumbler of brandy, so who cares?
The check came and my father paid it, as was his custom. I was anxious to leave, but as luck would have it, the great Indian was now making the rounds of his tables, and we sat until our turn came.
To fill the silence, I said to my father, 'Edward tied into a mako last week.
About two hundred pounds, I'd say.'
My father replied to me, not to Edward, 'Someone caught a fifteen-foot white out of Montauk two weeks ago.'
My mother added, 'I don't mind when they're eaten, but to hunt them just for sport is disgraceful.'
'I agree,' I said. 'You must eat what you catch, unless it's absolutely awful. A mako is very good. Edward fought him for an hour.'
'And,' my mother added, 'I don't like it when they're injured and get away. That is inhumane. You must make every effort to capture him and put him out of his misery.'
'Then eat him,' I reminded her.
'Yes, eat him. Buddy serves shark here when he gets it.' I glanced at Edward, then Susan and Carolyn. I took a deep breath and said to my father, 'Do you remember that time, Dad, when I hooked that blue…?' 'Yes?'
'Never mind.'
Mr Bear finally got to us. He was rather fat and, in fact, didn't look like an Indian at all except for his long black hair. If anything, he was a white man with some Indian and perhaps black blood and, more importantly, a keen sense of self-promotion. My mother took his left hand as he stood beside our table, leaving his right hand free to shake all around. 'So,' said Buddy Bear, 'you like everything?'
Mother gushed forth a stream of praise for one of the most horrible meals I've ever eaten.
We made stupid restaurant chatter for a minute or two, mother still holding Mr Bear's paw, but alas, the last of the Shinnecocks had to move on, but not before my mother said to him playfully, 'I'm going to follow you one of these mornings and see where you pick your mushrooms.'
He smiled enigmatically.
I asked him, 'Do you have sorrel every day, or only after you mow your lawn?' He smiled again, but not so enigmatically. The smile, in fact, looked like 'Fuck you.'
