To Die On Thursday
By Harry Buschman
Priscilla Clarkson-Danforth was
born with two silver spoons in her mouth, she
was an heiress to two family fortunes. Her mother's family were Clarkson's,
(her mother had been Lady Clarkson in a previous marriage). Her father's family
were merely rich. The combination of money and the scent of royalty, (however
distant) destined Priscilla to be the ripest plum in Locust Valley.
When the family chauffeur drove her to her final ballet class; when her coming-out party candles were extinguished, and the echoes of the cotillions had faded away, the time came for a proper young lady to marry. Priscilla and her family were faced with a long list of eligibile males and only those young men able to clear the Clarkson-Danforth social bar would be considered. Priscilla's part in the decision was of somewhat lesser importance than that of her mother and father.
With their consent, Priscilla chose Anthony Worthington, a faceless blond heir to the Cheese Easy family fortune, whom she vaguely remembered meeting in tennis class. Tony, too, was the impeccable fruit of an elaborate and multi-branched family tree, but rather than try the patience of the people who read this story, it may be simpler to refer to the hero and heroine of the tale as the Worthingtons of Locust Valley.
Their wedding at the Chapel of Divine Privilege was an outstanding social event in the spring of 1954, and the reception at the Locust Valley Country Club which followed was a major upper crust occasion. It recalled to some the extravagant parties hosted by Jay Gatsby across Manhasset Bay only a generation before. A conservative estimate of the invited guests was well over 4000 people. Fin-tailed Cadillacs and goggle eyed Rolls-Royces quickly filled the various parking lots and driveways, and the club was forced to park the remainder of them on the manicured greens and fairways of the country club.
The starry eyed newly-weds spent the better part of a year touring Europe, and it would be difficult to find a baggage porter from Portugal to Greece who hadn't been lavishly tipped for seeing to it that their luggage was waiting for them in the most expensive suites of the finest hotels before they arrived. They were unimpressed with the art treasures of Europe, the architectural masterpieces were in states of decay, the priceless canvasses were poorly lit and it was difficult to find anyone who spoke English. They returned to Locust Valley in the summer of 1955, and immediately plunged into a whirlwind of social engagements.
Tony's elderly father was Abel Worthington, the inventor and major stockholder of a company called Cheese Easy. He tried without success to interest Tony in the manufacture and distribution of cheeses, while various hostile conglomerates with nationwide control of packaged food vied for takeovers of this spreadable and very profitable product. The elder Abel tried bravely to stem their proposals, but the stockholders of Cheese Easy could not resist the increasingly lavish offers made by Consolidated Curd. In despair, Abel Worthington threw in the sponge and sold out. It had been the elder Worthington's fondest hope that Tony, with the family cheese in his blood, would have inherited some of the love, drive and commitment that he possessed, but cheese did not rub off on Tony. After the marriage his interests were concentrated elsewhere.
Like so many wealthy men living on the North
Shore of Long Island Tony's
passion was focused on horses. Many well-to-do men who rode the gentle slopes
of Locust Valley preferred their horses to their wives, their children and even
the source of their wealth. Tony played polo, chased foxes, bred horses, and
traded in them as a man might buy and sell rare works of art.
No children issued from the immaculate union
of Tony Worthington and Priscilla Clarkson-Danforth-Worthington. When Tony was
not astride his russet
"Summerbund," he was seeing to her grooming or trading stories and
drinking
port with his fellow horse lovers in the Jockey Club. If "Summerbund"
was in
rut or otherwise unavailable, he would suddenly remember he was married and
search for Priscilla only to find her on the phone, or involved with the day-to-day
activities of the "Friends of the Unchained Word" and too busy to
talk to him.
It would be a mistake to assume this was the only reason for their infertility. The causes went far deeper. The forces that motivated their lives were irreconcilable. They had no siblings, neither of them were forced to share family affection, consequently they never looked for it. Their childhood playthings were as fresh and new as the day they were purchased, and in a similar manner, their emotions and compassion for humankind were untapped and about as naive as those of children. Tony would look at Priscilla questioningly, and Priscilla would look away whenever either of their parents hinted at the continuance of the family line. They slept, not only in separate beds and in separate rooms, but at opposite ends of a long dark corridor in their seventeen bedroom estate in Locust Valley. In the rare moments they passed each other within or without the walls of Worthington Manor they would nod pleasantly and chat about nothing more substantial than what the weather might be.
The concept of children was inconceivable to them. The technique of procreation was ludicrous at best and loathsome at worst. The birthing of them was primeval, and their fostering .... well! Who has time for such nonsense when there are so many more pressing things on the calendar?
As a result, Tony gave Summerbund his full
attention, and Priscilla's commitment to "Friends of the Unchained Word"
was all consuming. Priscilla's
"Friends of the Unchained Word" held its weekly poetry reading every
Thursday
in the book lined library of Worthington Manor. Nearly seventy lady lovers of
literature would come and listen to poetry read by noted living poets and poetesses.
Poets can be difficult. There is no shortage of them to be sure, but they have little concept of time and space and they cannot be trusted to be where they say they will be at the proper time. Priscilla, therefore, spent most of her waking hours tracking them down by phone and making travel arrangements for them. Feruccio, the chauffeur, would eventually have to search for them in Grand Central Station or La Guardia Airport and deliver them safely and on time to Worthington Manor for the Thursday afternoon reading. They would arrive bringing cartons of their thin privately printed volumes for sale, most of them hard cover bound in delicate shades of purple, pink and mauve.
Occasionally a crisis would arise .... The phone would ring ....
"The Worthington residence."
"I'll take it Thelma -- Oh, Paula! I knew it would be you. Yes three this
afternoon -- stay for tea .... What? Oh, didn't you know? He canceled, can you
imagine? .... Well the police called and asked if I knew him .... Yes, the police!
Picked up for car hijacking of all things. My carte-de-visite was in his pocket
.... and after all I've done for him. Not something you'd expect from a poet
is it? .... well of course I have! I've always got an ace in the hole. XYLOPHONE!
Isn't that splendid? .... Yes in person .... Xylophone dear, it's Greek ....
EX-ell-OFF- a-knee .... yes one name, just like Dietrich or Garbo. We've certainly
come a long way since Edna Saint Vincent Millay dear. What's that? 'sexual orientation'?
.... I really don't know, my dear, she must be one or the other. Perhaps it
won't come up."
On that particular Thursday Tony, as always,
had his own agenda. Summerbund
needed new shoes and he had to be there for the shoe-in. Esposito, the sho-er,
the very same Esposito used by the Briggs Stables at Belmont was waiting for
him.
"Oh, sure!! She's a fine filly, Mr. Worthington,
but look at them shoes on her feet. Steel shoes. Street shoes like the ice man's
horse? No way to treat a fine animal, Mr. Worthington! -- See these here shoes?
These is a fine mix of duraluminum, aluminum and steel. Steel for the strength,
aluminum for the
bend and duraluminum for the light of it all. $750 bucks -- plus installation.
It's a small price to pay for a sassy filly like this, Mr. Worthington."
"Can you do it now, Mr. Esposito?"
"Soon's I get these shoes on Lord Byron, Mr. Worthington. Mr. Roland just
ordered a set."
Summerbund, a normally taciturn filly, was
delighted with her new shoes. Her
feet felt lighter than air, and as she capered about the paddock she would
occasionally look down and admire them. A stable boy called to her and she turned
to see him carrying Tony's saddle. Behind him stood Mr. Worthington in
his riding habit, "Can't put his own saddle on me -- well, you can't choose
your masters," she thought -- she hoped he would be able to keep up with
her, she was going to wear him out today.
Tony Worthington could feel the spring in Summerbund's
step immediately. On
the first few jumps over the low bar, she seemed to soar like a winged Pegasus.
There was a brief moment at the apex of each jump when both of them were weightless,
and they seemed to pause in midair, as though time had stopped and counted to
three. At the beginning of each jump, Tony would grip the muscular Summerbund
with both knees and just before the leap he would rise in the saddle with her.
She would jump as though she was not mounted -- almost as though Tony had lifted
her over the bar.
He would pat the side of her powerful neck and whisper, "Good Girl, Summerbund."
She would shake her head and snort as though to say, "It was nothing, nothing
at all."
They cantered at a measured pace along the carefully raked paths, "TOBOGGAN-TOBOGGAN-TOBOGGAN" -- Tony counted off the rhythm as he stood in the stirrups with his knees bent. There was no weight on Summerbund at all. How great it was to have such a relationship with an animal who responds to the slightest whim of her master with eagerness and joy.
"Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross,"
or maybe even "Ida Lupino and Gregory
Peck" It was the same cantering rhythm as the blue limericks he remembered
from military school
He turned Summerbund left and they headed out through the uncut fields where the grass was high and untracked. There was a stone wall he remembered next to an abandoned ice house. Tony and Summerbund saw the stone wall at the same time. She snorted once and increased her speed without waiting to be asked.
"Good girl!" Tony shouted. They would
be the last words Tony would speak in
this world. He rose in the saddle, his knees gripping Summerbund tightly, and
in her exuberance, she broke into a gallop and soared over the fence far higher
than she needed to .... again, there was that moment -- that supreme moment
when horse and rider were weightless.
In the coolness of the late afternoon, Tony caught a glimpse of a rising full moon through the leafless trees ahead of them, "How beautiful," he thought! At the same time, two thin electric cables flashed across his line of sight. They were like fine lines drawn with a pen. They cut his vision of the moon in two, and before instinct could warn him of their danger he felt a chill, cold as ice across his throat. No pain, no pain at all, but he sensed that he had reached a great height and at the same time a blackness more profound than he had ever experienced. For the briefest of moments he saw Summerbund and a rider pass below him.
"It would be perfect," he thought, "but today is Thursday -- Priscilla will be furious."
© Harry Buschman 1999
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