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The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
Страница: 43 из 490Maybe someday the world will know what we did here, but until then, the GlenCove Police will continue to carry us on their incident reports as unknown trespassers, vandals, and juvenile delinquents. That’s okay. We know.
Up the road was the J. P. Morgan estate and the F. W. Woolworth estate, now both abandoned and partly developed, and as per directions, I turned left onto a private lane, which passed through some woods. Up ahead, I saw a big old white stone mansion with a slate roof. A sign directed me to visitor parking.
I pulled into the nearly empty lot, retrieved the Teddy bear, and got out of the car.
The sky had cleared and wispy white clouds scudded north toward the Sound, and big gulls glided low on the horizon. After three years at sea, I’d developed a sense for the weather and nature, and I felt that the Sound must be close by. In fact, I could smell a whiff of salt air, which made me nostalgic for the open ocean.
I walked toward the mansion, thinking, “Not a bad place to spend your last days on earth, Ethel, before the pearly gates swing open to welcome you to the Big Estate in the Sky. Rent-free for eternity and you don’t have to sleep with the boss.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I entered the white building, which I could see had once been a private home. It’s a good thing when these old estate houses can be recycled for another use, like a school, or museum, or, in this case, a nursing home and hospice house. That’s better than the wrecker’s ball and another upscale subdivision to house what seemed like an endless supply of Wall Street whiz kids whose mortgage credit rating somehow exceeded their IQs.
A nice lady at the desk greeted me, and in reply to my inquiry, she informed me that Ethel Allard was “doing as well as can be expected,” which was probably as good as it got here. The only other likely responses were “not well, no visitors” and “passed away.” I didn’t think that “in the gym” was one of the likely status reports at Fair Haven.
The lady directed me to a small elevator in the lobby. “Second floor, room six.”
I was alone in the elevator, which took a long time to ascend one flight, during which I listened to a piped-in minute of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – “Summer,” if you’re interested. I imagined the doors opening to a celestial landscape of white clouds and blue skies with pearly gates in the distance. I really needed a drink.
The doors, in fact, opened to a floral wallpapered corridor, in which stood a Lady in White. She greeted me by name, and introduced herself as Mrs. Knight, then said, “Call me Diane.
Up the road was the J. P. Morgan estate and the F. W. Woolworth estate, now both abandoned and partly developed, and as per directions, I turned left onto a private lane, which passed through some woods. Up ahead, I saw a big old white stone mansion with a slate roof. A sign directed me to visitor parking.
I pulled into the nearly empty lot, retrieved the Teddy bear, and got out of the car.
The sky had cleared and wispy white clouds scudded north toward the Sound, and big gulls glided low on the horizon. After three years at sea, I’d developed a sense for the weather and nature, and I felt that the Sound must be close by. In fact, I could smell a whiff of salt air, which made me nostalgic for the open ocean.
I walked toward the mansion, thinking, “Not a bad place to spend your last days on earth, Ethel, before the pearly gates swing open to welcome you to the Big Estate in the Sky. Rent-free for eternity and you don’t have to sleep with the boss.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I entered the white building, which I could see had once been a private home. It’s a good thing when these old estate houses can be recycled for another use, like a school, or museum, or, in this case, a nursing home and hospice house. That’s better than the wrecker’s ball and another upscale subdivision to house what seemed like an endless supply of Wall Street whiz kids whose mortgage credit rating somehow exceeded their IQs.
A nice lady at the desk greeted me, and in reply to my inquiry, she informed me that Ethel Allard was “doing as well as can be expected,” which was probably as good as it got here. The only other likely responses were “not well, no visitors” and “passed away.” I didn’t think that “in the gym” was one of the likely status reports at Fair Haven.
The lady directed me to a small elevator in the lobby. “Second floor, room six.”
I was alone in the elevator, which took a long time to ascend one flight, during which I listened to a piped-in minute of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – “Summer,” if you’re interested. I imagined the doors opening to a celestial landscape of white clouds and blue skies with pearly gates in the distance. I really needed a drink.
The doors, in fact, opened to a floral wallpapered corridor, in which stood a Lady in White. She greeted me by name, and introduced herself as Mrs. Knight, then said, “Call me Diane.