Gold Coast

Sitting around the candles, deep into a bottle of wine, Carolyn said to me, "You've changed, Dad."

"Have I? How?"

She thought a moment, then replied, "You're more… grown-up." She smiled. I smiled in return. "And my voice is changing." I knew what she meant, of course. The last few months had been a time of challenge and change, and so I suppose it had been good for my character. Most American men of the upper middle classes never really grow up unless they are fortunate enough to go to war or go through a bankruptcy or divorce or other major adversity. So this was the summer I got hair on my balls, and it felt good and bad at the same time. I asked Edward, "Do you think your old man has changed?"

Edward, who is not usually tuned in to the subtleties of human behaviour, replied, "Yeah, I guess." He added, "Can you change back?" "No. There's no going back."

A few days after that, I rented a van and drove the kids to school. We went first to Sarah Lawrence, and Edward was nervous about starting college, but I assured him that the liberal arts curriculum he was taking was similar to the one I took at Yale, and that I slept for four years. Thus assured, he strode confidently into the formerly all-girls school, his hair combed for the first time since his baptism, and his body smelling of some awful lotion. Carolyn and I drove alone to Yale, and I always enjoy going back to my alma mater, as my college memories are good despite the turmoil of those years in the mid-sixties. Carolyn said to me on the way to New Haven, "Are you legally separated?"

"No. Your mother just went to visit her parents."

"It's sort of a trial separation?"

"No."

"Why are you sleeping in separate rooms?"

"Because we don't want to sleep in separate cities. End of conversation." So I drove her up to Yale. As a sophomore this year, Carolyn enters what we call a 'college', actually a dorm where she will spend the next three years. She is, in fact, in my old college, Jonathan Edwards. J E, as we call it, is a beautiful, old Gothic building with arches, climbing ivy, and turrets, situated around a large quadrangle. It is, in fact, the greatest place on the face of this earth, and I wished I was staying and not leaving. Anyway, I helped her unload half a vanful of clothes and electronics, which barely fit in her room. It was a nice suite like my old place down the hall, with oak panelling and a fireplace in the living room. I met her roommate, a tall, blonde young woman from Texas named Halsey, and I wondered if I shouldn't go back to Jonathan Edwards to do a little more undergraduate work. You're never too old to learn.

But I digress. Carolyn and I walked down to Liggett's Drugstore, which is sort of a tradition, and with a few hundred other Yalies and parents, we stocked up on notions and sundries. We stowed the Liggett's bags in the van, then walked the few blocks to York Street, "to the tables down at Mory's, to the place where Louie dwells." Don't ask me what that means.

Mory's is a private club, and I've kept my membership for this past quarter of a century, though I doubt if I get there once a year. But though I may have resigned from The Creek, and may eventually resign from my job and my marriage and from life in general, I will never resign from Mory's, for to do that is to sever the ties to myself, to the John Sutter whom I used to know and like. I may indeed be a poor little lamb who has lost his way, but that night I was home again.

So Carolyn and I had di

The oak tabletops at Mory's have been carved with thousands of names and initials, and though we couldn't find mine without clearing off someone else's di

As for the United States v. Frank Bellarosa, that seemed to be moving rather more slowly than Mr Ferragamo promised. Not only did we not have a trial date, but I hadn't had an opportunity to examine any of the five witnesses against my client. Alphonse informed me one day by phone, "We have them all in hiding under the witness protection programme. They're very frightened about testifying in open court against a Mafia chief."

"There is no Mafia."

Ha, ha, said Alphonse, and he added, "They didn't mind the grand jury, but now they're getting cold feet."

"Four Colombian drug goons and a gun moll have cold feet?" "Why not? So for that reason, Mr Sutter, I've asked for a delay in the trial date. I'll keep you informed." He added, "What's your rush? This should make you happy. Maybe the witnesses will refuse to testify."

"Maybe they were lying from the begi

"Why would they do that?"

He and I both knew why, but I wasn't allowed to bug him. "Maybe", I said, "it was a case of mistaken identity. All Italians look alike, don't they?" "Actually, they don't, Mr Sutter. I don't look anything like Frank Bellarosa, for instance. By the way, regarding mistaken identity, I discovered that you were at your country club at about one P.M. on January fourteenth, for lunch with your wife."

"So what? I said I saw Bellarosa at about nine A.M., then again at about noon." "And you went home, took care of your horse, presumably showered, changed into a suit, and were at your club at one P.M."

"They don't call me superman for nothing."

"Hmmm," said Alphonse. I mean, this guy thought he was Inspector Porfiry Petrovich, hounding poor Raskolnikov into a confession, but I found him a bore. Anyway, I was more convinced than ever that Alphonse was stalling and would continue to stall until somebody out on the street solved his problem. He didn't have long to wait.

Regarding my relationships with friends and family, that was also on hold. Part of the reason for this was that I was keeping out of touch, which is no easy thing to do these days. Try it. But I disco