The View From Penthouse B

37





For Love and Country


DESPITE ALL OUR efforts to forgive and forget, Betsy and I remained wary of Charles’s character and intentions. An intelligent man, in therapy, occasionally self-aware and benefiting from pillow talk with our eldest sister, he knew exactly where Margot’s sisters stood. Could that have contributed to the very un-Charles-like, altruistic thing he did upon the restoration of his medical license? With hair cut short, and letters of reference in hand, he went to the army recruitment office in Times Square and took the first steps toward signing up.

Weeks passed between his first visit and the army’s decision, during which he jogged daily along the Hudson and rewrote his will. Often he raised the topic of how relatively safe an army doctor would be, in case we’d stopped thinking about inherent dangers. You modern ladies, he reminded us, know that there are thousands of female troops, maybe hundreds of thousands, so his specialty was essential in a way it hadn’t previously been. Not that his duties would be mere pelvic exams, Pap smears, and birth-control prescriptions! Hadn’t we all read about pregnant women in backward nations, with careless husbands and brutal neighbors, who’d had no prenatal care and less-than-sanitary midwives, who needed to be airlifted to clean American hospitals for emergency C-sections? Dr. Charles Pierrepont would once again be saving lives and serving his country, albeit in gynecological and obstetrical fashion.

Schooled on TV coverage of soldiers’ sad departures and ecstatic homecomings, I asked Margot if she’d be one of those women waiting back home, who e-mails and Skypes and bakes, along the lines of every straight soldier’s fondest wish. His personal goal, she confided, was this simple, this pragmatic: Should the unthinkable happen, he wanted Margot to be his lawfully wedded beneficiary.

She resisted at first. Many mornings at breakfast Anthony and I heard about Charles’s latest effort to stage a romantic proposal—each setting and prop a little showier than the last. When a bouquet of long-stemmed yellow roses didn’t do the trick, his next inducement was a path of rose petals leading up to the terrace where he was waiting, flanked by votive candles, a little velvet box in hand. Margot finally said, somewhat off the emotional mark, “Okay. I’ll wear it.”

The wedding would have to be soon, before the alleged deployment. There was a brief discussion about holding a ceremony in penthouse B, on the terrace, weather permitting. Strenuously objecting, Anthony cried, “Christ almighty! You never leave this place! Could we please have a wedding off-site? I’ll find it. I’ll plan it. There are event venues. There are churches. You’re what? Protestants, Catholics, Jews? Just tell me how many guests. And where was your first one? Would you go back there?”

No, she would not. Margot said she had enough ambivalence about their doing this a second time and didn’t want any déjà vu to spook her. Or, just as bad, the inevitable pangs caused by the missing faces of her parents and grandparents, and the memory of the unfortunate dresses we bridesmaids had been cajoled into wearing twenty-six years before. As for her own dress, she threatened to wear black or red or deepest purple, signaling nonconformity or simply because a Fashion Institute undergrad was acting as her personal shopper.

However, as soon as the unflawed, emerald-cut diamond, a bigger version of the original one, was on her finger, Margot decided to go all the way. And Betsy, who’d once said she could not attend or stand up for such nuptials, nor bring her children, insisted that a new wedding dress, a symbol of a fresh start, would be her contribution and gift. I knew it was something close to patriotism that had won her over, and a grudging respect for Charles’s unexpected, upcoming bravery. She and I, along with Chaz, spent three consecutive Saturdays watching Margot try on wedding dresses, which all evoked unanimous thumbs-down. At every store the salespeople asked what was so unflattering and what was it that her bridal party found so funny.

Margot said, “They can’t believe I’m getting married.”

“To her ex,” I added.

“Don’t get me started,” said Betsy.

“He’s joining the army,” I inevitably told every consultant.

“A military wedding!” the women always repeated, revived, as if this new intelligence called for a reimagining of the day, the setting, the groom, the dress.

“This one is awful,” said Betsy, now on her feet, poking her finger into the too-ample cleavage produced by the current mummy- inspired gown.

“Can you honestly say you like this one?” Margot asked the saleswoman. “You think this is me?”

At the last shop, the woman hurried to an adjoining room and came back with a long curtainlike veil, edged in lace, which caused Chaz to leap to his feet.

“Uh-uh. No. Sorry, that’s my territory. No thanks.”

“His major,” said Margot. “He’s won awards.”

“Not quite,” said Chaz.

“Commendations? Something like that?”

Chaz said, “Just A’s.”

“We think he’ll be famous some day,” said Margot.

I had noticed a thawing in Betsy, and not just in the direction of Charles. These outings were her first meetings with Chaz. She was, after all, the mother of two sons, and here was something close to their cousin and a very appealing something at that. “What if she wore a suit for the ceremony?” she asked him. “Something classic, maybe in ivory or an ice blue. Not so bridey.”

“A suit can be very MOB,” said the saleswoman.

“MOB?” we repeated.

“Mother of the bride,” said Chaz.

“A whole other department,” said the woman, “literally and figuratively.”

Margot asked, “How about a plain old gorgeous dress that I’d wear to a black-tie event—”

The woman said, “In that case, I’d try Bergdorf’s or Saks.”

She fished a business card from the pocket of her black smock, wrote something on it, and handed the card to Margot. “This is a friend who is a personal shopper at Saks. You’ll make an appointment first. I don’t usually do this, but when one of my brides is marrying a soldier . . . did you tell me what branch of the service?”

Slinging the long train over her arm for an easier walk back to the dressing room, Margot called back to us, “Someone else explain.”

Chaz said, “He’s a doctor. So he’ll be . . . like, a medic? I’m not sure.”

Betsy said, “He’s a board-certified physician, who will undoubtedly be assigned to that big hospital complex in Germany where the incoming seriously wounded are medivacked to.”

Later, when I told Margot about Betsy’s aggrandizement, her proud use of “medivac” and “board-certified,” we both agreed it was progress.





Now we know: Not every doctor with an MD from Yale can be accepted into the armed forces. Charles had worried that his age would disqualify him (it didn’t) and that his specialty would not be useful enough (it was). He had also feared that his medical records would reveal a recent fainting spell or elevated blood pressure or a slightly enlarged prostate. But what killed it, said the recruiter who swore that his application had gone all the way up to the Secretary of the Army, was Dr. Pierrepont’s status as a felon. Outstanding traffic tickets or math errors on income tax returns might be overlooked. But when the crime was committed in his professional capacity? No, thank you, Doc. Good luck in the private sector.

Had he known all along that they wouldn’t take him? Perhaps. He kept up the jogging and talked of an appeal. His next utterly uncharacteristic job outreach, or at least one that went as far as his placing a phone call, was to serve as a contract doctor with the Department of Defense. This was the juncture at which Margot said, “Enough already. Don’t they send you to war zones? Aren’t those the people who are mercenaries and killers?”

I was present for that discussion. I said, “And if you want to do some good and give back, how about helping poor women in a free clinic? Wasn’t that your original plan?”

“My fallback. My plan B. Or maybe C.”

“He wanted to wear a uniform and be a hero,” Margot said. “Which makes total sense after you’ve been a criminal.”

“It wasn’t about being a hero. I wanted to serve my country. Don’t I get credit for at least trying?”

I didn’t say what I was thinking. You wanted to impress Margot. You wanted a grand gesture that would undo your wrongs.

“Betsy will be disappointed,” said Margot.

“Not as disappointed as I am,” said Charles. “Though let’s face it—her disappointment will be that I’m less likely to be killed now in the line of duty or go MIA.”

“I’ll e-mail her,” said Margot. “I’ll tell her that you tried as hard as you could, but eventually it went all the way to the top, to the Secretary of the Army. And if she doesn’t believe me, I’ll show her the letter.”

I said, “It’s hard for any of us to get a pass from Betsy.”

Margot said, “Birth order. Isn’t that supposed to make us who we are? Is the baby in the family the bossiest one or is that just her?”

“In two words: Always right,” I said.

“Always thinks she’s right,” Margot corrected.

I realized I was being disloyal in front of Charles, especially in view of Betsy’s being the architect of our residential arrangement and consultant on all matters, solicited or un-. “She’s always buying us presents and treats whenever we go out . . .” I began.

“And loves us,” said Margot. “That’s never a question.”

Charles said, “I think we’d all agree, generosity aside, Betsy can be formidable.”

“And I’m not?” asked Margot.

“You’re plenty formidable.”

“What about me?” I asked.

I interpreted Charles’s smile as charitable. “Thankfully, Gwen, I count on you for being the least formidable sister.” With that, he lifted his big Yale coffee mug, the one he’d recently brought from downstairs and kept in our cupboard. He continued, sounding unsteady. “By which I mean you’re often kind when I haven’t earned it.” With that he rose and hurried away in the direction of the parlor.

Margot and I both watched until he was out of sight. When he didn’t return, she said, “Go see what’s wrong.”

I said, “I know what’s wrong. He’s not used to apologizing, so he’s embarrassed.”

“He’s a man. And a scientist. I think he’s very fond of you and can’t deal with the emotion.”

I said, “This is new.”

“It is! He ends up crying every week in front of our therapist. She thinks it’s male menopause.”

I said, “Which could explain his trip to the army recruitment office.”

She walked to the doorway and glanced around the corner. “One of us should go in there.”

“Why me? You’re his fiancée.”

“He was addressing you. And I sense this could be something you could build on.”

Why did I say yes? Because I thought the same thing, and maybe it was the new Charles in there, the one I’d been hearing about. I took my mug of coffee with me—and his.

He was sitting opposite the TV, the volume barely audible, a bright green soccer field in high definition. He thanked me for the coffee, took a sip, swallowed, said it was cold. He looked up at me. “I ruined my life, didn’t I?”

I sat down next to him on the couch, hoping to demonstrate the very qualities by which I’d distinguished myself as the least formidable sister. “You’re starting over. With Margot. With work. And parole ends in what? A couple of weeks? You’ll deliver babies again, like you did at Saint Vincent’s. I think that’s a good metaphor for a new life, don’t you?”

“I don’t blame you for hating me,” he said.

I asked if he was forgetting I had accepted every single collect call from prison and had kept him company on those meal-plan nights when Margot and Anthony had flown the coop.

He rose and walked to the window, which overlooked West Tenth and a thin slice of Fifth Avenue. “I think you’re the reason she made it through this whole mess, through my incarceration, and even why she’s taking me back,” he said in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

Was this humility I was hearing? I pretended to be momentarily distracted by the hullabaloo on the TV screen, men in red celebrating a goal. I finally said, “Thank you, but I’m quite sure I’m not the reason she’s taking you back.”

“You contributed! I mean, your circumstances did. Poor Edwin did. Margot realized that anything can happen, at any time. Life can change in an instant. You of all people know that. And you know your sister: She simply cannot be alone. Look how fast she moved you in here. Then Anthony. How do you explain a whole other boarder if it’s not for additional company?”

“Rent,” I said. “And adorableness.”

“She cannot be alone,” he repeated.

I pointed out that it might be true, but it was a moot point because soon they’d be married, which should give her a roommate for a few more decades.

“I know . . .”

“But . . . ?”

And then—because people don’t change overnight; because he couldn’t picture me in any other role than nursemaid and companion—he said, “If anything happens to me, can you promise me you’ll move back in with Margot?”

As if on cue, Margot called from close range, “Everything okay? I’m out here flapping in the breeze. Can I come in?”

Charles whispered, “Case in point. You’ve never noticed this before?”

“She’s very social. She likes company.” And then, what finally needed to be acknowledged: “Circumstances change, you know. I may not always be the ever-available spinster sister.”

I could see in his face the effort he was putting into being an unselfish conversationalist. “Your beau! Of course. How’s that going? I haven’t been paying much attention, given the vicissitudes of my own life lately.”

I said, “I don’t want to jinx anything—”

“Eli, right? The nice man with the mother? How many dates?”

I said, “I’ve lost count. And, yes, he’s the nice man with the mother.”

He was peering at me in a manner I judged to be diagnostic. “I have noticed you looking happy lately. It didn’t register till now.”

There was a quick rap on the door, and instantly Margot was in the room. “What are you two talking about?” she asked.

“Eli,” I told her.

“Something’s up, apparently,” said Charles.

“Seriously? You just noticed a change?” asked Margot, squeezing between us on the couch.

“I commented on it before you joined us. I believe the word I used was ‘happy.’”

Margot said to me, “Notice how he doesn’t have to join the army to be MIA.”

Charles sputtered a protest. Margot said he should open his eyes and perhaps discuss this very thing in therapy—his tendency toward self-absorption. “It’s so obvious,” she said. “Look at her. Anyone who was paying just a little attention would know.”

Charles said, “Know what?”

“Can I tell him?” asked Margot. “Please.”

“Okay. Sure. You deserve that honor.”

I hadn’t put a name, aloud, to what I’d been feeling, so how did I know that Margot would get it right? But she did.

“Gwen-Laura Schmidt is in love,” Margot announced.