JК
The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
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“So, you and the old lady are, like, friends?”
I was getting a little annoyed at these personal questions, but as a lawyer I know questions are more revealing than answers. I replied, “Yes, we’re old friends.” In fact, as I said, she hated me, but here, in this old vanished world of gentry and servants, of ancient family ties and family retainers, of class structure and noblesse oblige, it didn’t matter much at the end of the day who was master and who was servant, or who liked or disliked whom; we were all bound together by a common history and, I suppose, a profound nostalgia for a time that, like Ethel herself, was dying but not yet quite dead. I wondered if I should explain all this to Anthony Bellarosa, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.
“So, you’re taking care of the place for her?”
“Correct.”
Anthony nodded toward the opening to the dining room, and apropos of the stacks of paper, said, “Looks like you got a lot of work there.” He smiled and asked, “Is that the old lady’s will?”
In fact, I had found her will, so I said, “Right.”
“She got millions?”
I didn’t reply.
“She leave you anything?”
“Yes, a lot of work.”
He laughed.
As I said, I am Ethel’s attorney for her estate, such as it is, and her worldly possessions are to pass to her only child, the aforementioned Elizabeth. Ethel’s will, which I drew up, left me nothing, which I know is exactly what Ethel wanted for me.
“Mr. Sutter? What were you doing in London?”
He was rocking in the chair, and I leaned toward him and inquired, “Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Oh… just making conversation.”
“Okay, then let me ask you a few conversational questions. How did you know that Mrs. Allard was dying?”
“Somebody told me.”
“And how did you know I was living in London, and that I was back?”
“I hear things.”
“Could you be more specific, Mr. Bellarosa?”
“Anthony. Call me Anthony.”
That seemed to be as specific as he was going to get.
I looked at his face in the dim light. Anthony had been about seventeen or eighteen – a junior or senior at La Salle – when my wife murdered his father. So, he was not yet thirty, but I could see in his eyes and his manner that unlike most American males, who take a long time to grow up, Anthony Bellarosa was a man, or at least close to it. I recalled, too, that he used to be Tony, but that diminutive lacked gravitas, so now he was Anthony.
More importantly, I wondered if he’d taken over his father’s business.
“So, you and the old lady are, like, friends?”
I was getting a little annoyed at these personal questions, but as a lawyer I know questions are more revealing than answers. I replied, “Yes, we’re old friends.” In fact, as I said, she hated me, but here, in this old vanished world of gentry and servants, of ancient family ties and family retainers, of class structure and noblesse oblige, it didn’t matter much at the end of the day who was master and who was servant, or who liked or disliked whom; we were all bound together by a common history and, I suppose, a profound nostalgia for a time that, like Ethel herself, was dying but not yet quite dead. I wondered if I should explain all this to Anthony Bellarosa, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.
“So, you’re taking care of the place for her?”
“Correct.”
Anthony nodded toward the opening to the dining room, and apropos of the stacks of paper, said, “Looks like you got a lot of work there.” He smiled and asked, “Is that the old lady’s will?”
In fact, I had found her will, so I said, “Right.”
“She got millions?”
I didn’t reply.
“She leave you anything?”
“Yes, a lot of work.”
He laughed.
As I said, I am Ethel’s attorney for her estate, such as it is, and her worldly possessions are to pass to her only child, the aforementioned Elizabeth. Ethel’s will, which I drew up, left me nothing, which I know is exactly what Ethel wanted for me.
“Mr. Sutter? What were you doing in London?”
He was rocking in the chair, and I leaned toward him and inquired, “Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Oh… just making conversation.”
“Okay, then let me ask you a few conversational questions. How did you know that Mrs. Allard was dying?”
“Somebody told me.”
“And how did you know I was living in London, and that I was back?”
“I hear things.”
“Could you be more specific, Mr. Bellarosa?”
“Anthony. Call me Anthony.”
That seemed to be as specific as he was going to get.
I looked at his face in the dim light. Anthony had been about seventeen or eighteen – a junior or senior at La Salle – when my wife murdered his father. So, he was not yet thirty, but I could see in his eyes and his manner that unlike most American males, who take a long time to grow up, Anthony Bellarosa was a man, or at least close to it. I recalled, too, that he used to be Tony, but that diminutive lacked gravitas, so now he was Anthony.
More importantly, I wondered if he’d taken over his father’s business.