Well, Judge Pete became a “friendly in,” as Elyse had put it, rather quickly. Seemed more than happy to go off the record, first about small things like b-and-e hearings and noise complaints. He was better than the police blotter. He knew everything, naturally, and had no pretense about whether to share it or not. Maybe that’s how a beat worked. Or maybe it was just this hellish town and this was his attempt to fit in. Here, everyone knows everything, or at least one person’s version of everything. Pete didn’t know that at the time.
Elyse and Jessica (Pete’s wife) had gotten closer around that time, as well, though Elyse and I were in a tense place. She was ready to start a family and I, honestly, was not. I wanted us to get on to New York City and settle in, but all she heard from Jessica was how wonderful it had been to raise her three boys and how she wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.
Jessica had been an attorney in the New York City mayor’s office, and that’s how she’d met Pete. She was pregnant with their first before they were married, but they were heading in that direction anyway, she said, so they never really told anyone, least of all their parents or the church. As it turned out, Jesse, their oldest, was born two weeks late, so no one ever suspected. Then came Robert and Cassidy and they were off to the races.
Elyse found the whole thing romantic, curious really … their lives, figured out, on a path. Two lawyers making good money. And here we were, struggling to make ends meet, in a walk-up, breathing river soot day in, day out.
Every time she’d have lunch with Jessica, she’d come home with an attitude, and questions. Oh God, the questions. “Honey, I was thinking …” or “You know, Jessica mentioned …”
Jessica had become a part of our marriage, which irked me, but I still needed Pete. He was my ticket out, or at least I was hoping. He knew everyone in New York, said he could hook me up, and on occasion he did. I’d have a conversation with a cop or investigator, soften the beachhead, as they say in business.
I had hopes he’d put in a word, but I was fighting internal battles of my own. Elyse’s parents weren’t thrilled with us, or more accurately, with me. Particularly her dad. I didn’t “track” to him. To him, journalism wasn’t a “real job.”
You see, Elyse came from a pedigree. She came from River Road.
In school, we called everyone on that street “The Victorians.” All prim and proper, wealthy, mostly inherited money, settled. In her dad’s case, certainly, inherited money – and real estate. He lived in one of those homes, raised his daughters there, and owned four others, two that were rentals, and the other two on the market following extensive renovations.
“Modernizations,” he called them. “You know, creature comforts,” he’d say. “How did the Victorians live life without air-conditioning?” he’s asked more than once. He always said one of those homes had Elyse’s name on it, for when she was ready to start a family.
When she started a family.
Every year, at the start of the summer, once the kids were out of school but before they all headed to camps upstate or away on vacation, the Hughes’ held a massive party in the backyard – they called it Lawn Days.
It was beautiful, as always … the elders sat, sipping cider and gin from crystal mugs by the house, their walkers parked in a conspicuous row at the edge of the deck. The younger adults milled around in the yard, the men playing horseshoes and sipping beer while the women drank wine from glasses straight out of the latest Montgomery Ward catalogue and chatted about fashion and their busy schedules. The kids would spray each other with hoses making puddles around manicured grounds.
Wealth and privilege at its best.
I’m not saying I’m some sort of expert on cultural mores and such – far from it. I am from “the other side of town.” But after spending time in New York City and seeing all the shades of the rainbow, all the colors and textures and backgrounds splayed out in the neighborhoods like some sort of cosmic Yahtzee dice roll, looking at this play out in front of me was both crass and flat out boring.
“Bernie?”
Her father greeted us, hand extended. I shook it.
“How’s the newspaper business treating you?”
He leaned toward Elyse and kissed her on the cheek. “Hello darling, your mother is waiting for you inside.”
“I have strudel … I’ll take it in,” she said to him.
Her father turned toward me. “No, seriously, how is the newspaper business these days? Buddy of mine on Wall Street took a bath in it the other day, didn’t know if you’d seen.”
I remember my eyes burning. “No, sir … no I don’t pay much attention to the stock market. I don’t make enough to invest right now.”
Mr. Hughes smirked as he put his arm around me. “Well, maybe that’s part of the problem, son. … Come on, let’s get you a drink.”
It reminded me of why I wanted to leave. If this was all there was – take a house from Elyse’s dad, live on the river, go to parties, raise the kids, exist under his thumb … if this was all there was, I was in the wrong place.
Pete and Jessica arrived a few minutes later, thankfully. Jessica made a beeline for my wife, who then spent the rest of the night introducing her around. Once Pete had kissed the ring and greeted the Hughes, we were able to stroll away.
“Still hellbent on going to New York?” he’d asked me. He sipped his beer and squinted, looking out over the sun-drenched river bed, a considered look in his eyes.
“I guess. Yeah. I mean, I grew up here, and what you’re witnessing is pretty much the extent of the social season. Don’t break the wine glasses and all will be well.”
He smiled and glanced up the hill, pointing toward two young boys who had taken to wrestling in the mud.
“It’s not so bad.”
Gunnar Olafsson