Nathaniel Higginson owned Maitland Farm, located on the largest parcel of undeveloped land in Middlesex County. A number of his ancestors had been in the Higginson Fleet, coming over from England in 1630 to help John Winthrop’s Puritans start the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Higginsons had fought the Redcoats in the Revolution and the Rebels in the Civil War, and members of the family had prospered during the Gilded Age, branching out into banking and stock trading. Using inside information, they had avoided the Panics of 1873 and 1907, and a Higginson not only survived the Crash of 1929 but made money during the Great Depression. Some rival financiers accused him of insider trading and reported him to the Securities and Exchange Commission, but since the members of the SEC’s board of directors were all his cronies, the accusations were dismissed.
Nathaniel (Nat for short, but never Nate, because that sounded Jewish – not that he had anything against Jews, he just didn’t happen to be one) had gone to Harvard as a legacy student, because the Higginson family had helped to found the university and later endowed its chair of moral philosophy. He majored in American History, captained the tennis team, and was a member of Porcellian. He also joined the Hasty Pudding Club, where he took part in its annual “hairy leg revues,” dressing in drag to perform in musical plays that spoofed current events. He became the patriarch of the Higginson family at the tender age of 29, because all his older relatives had either died or moved out of state.
He married a Radcliffe girl named Sarah Danforth who traced her lineage back to the grim judge who presided over the Salem Witch Trials. As if the couple’s credentials weren’t sufficiently WASPish, on her mother’s side, Sarah was descended from John and John Quincy Adams. She and Nat had two children: Nathaniel Jr., called Natty, and Abigail (Abby). Natty flunked out of Harvard, got a B. A. in American Studies at Curry College in Milton and wound up selling life insurance. Abby attended Swarthmore for three years, but dropped out to marry a Cornell graduate named Frederick Houston, who had gotten her pregnant on the night of the Senior Prom. After the baby, a boy named Roger, was born, the couple settled in Brookline, and Frederick joined an advertising agency. As soon as Roger could walk and talk, a live-in nanny was hired to take care of him, and Abby became a very energetic member of The Country Club in Brookline, organizing dances and other social events that complemented the golf and tennis tournaments.
Every now and then Nathaniel drove his aging BMW into town to visit the Harvard Club, where he caught up with classmates, had a few drinks (gin-and-tonics in spring and summer, dry martinis and single-malt Scotch after Labor Day and through the winter), and sat down to a lobster with coleslaw and corn on the cob or a New England Boiled Dinner. His best friends all had pedigrees as immaculate as his own. On one well-oiled occasion, Dick Lowell, who was active in Boston politics, asked him if he was interested in running for office. Nat laughed. “I may have a few failings, Dick,” he said, “but at least I’m not a Democrat.”
“I meant as a Republican, of course,” said Dick, cocking his head at a table in the far corner, where four younger men were drinking pints of Guinness.
“When anyone but a Paddy mackerel-snapper is elected to public office in Boston,” Nat drawled, “it will mean that Jesus has returned to bring the Day of Judgment.”
“I didn’t know you were a believer.”
“Of course I am. By God’s grace I was born white, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant, and when I die I’ll go to Heaven, because my prosperity is the outward sign of an inward grace.”
“Ah, the Calvinist hope of salvation. What do you think Heaven’s like?”
“Maitland Farm, but without property taxes.”
Dick laughed. “I hope I go to a place like that after I have shuffled off this mortal coil.”
“I’m sure you will, if you shuffle off politics while you’re still above ground. If you lie down with pigs – or Paddies – you’ll get up in the sty.”
“The Italians in the North End are worse, because they’re smarter than the Micks.”
“Oh, the Guineas will all go to hell. In fact, they already run the place. Satan’s the whatchamacallit, the capo of the Infernal Mafia, and the imps and demons are his soldiers and enforcers.
“You might want to go easy on the Mafia jokes, Nat,” said Dick. “They’ve got a piece of the liquor business here.”
“At the Harvard Club? You’re joking.”
“’Fraid not. A guy named Anthony Zanabuoni runs a high-end liquor store in the North End called Colonial Wine and Spirits. We’ve got a deal with him. Buy our hooch exclusively from Colonial, and we don’t have to worry about losing our liquor license.
“My God. That’s straight out of The Godfather.”
“The fix is in. So what? As long as everything goes swimmingly.”
“In the Godfather movies some people drowned. So to speak.”
“Those were only movies. There’s no such thing as the Mafia. It’s La Cosa Nostra. Our Thing.”
“You have inside information about that?”
“Anthony explained it to me. Make lots of money by whatever means necessary, keep your mouth shut and make sure the government doesn’t get any of it.”
“Nothing wrong with that. It’s capitalism in a nutshell.”
“Exactly.”
“My groundskeeper is a guy named Zanabuoni. Joe Zanabuoni.”
“It’s a big family. The Goombahs breed like rabbits, just like the Micks. But he’s obviously not one of the Wise Guys, or he wouldn’t be working as a groundskeeper.”
“He does an adequate job, but he’s lazy. I have to crack the whip a little.”
“My lord! Literally?”
“Hah. That would make things easier. And I actually have a whip. A riding crop. I’m Master of the Middlesex County Hunt.”
“You still do that tally-ho thing with the horses and the red coats?”
“Pink coats, please. But yes, the hunt is still active. Do you ride?”
“Oh, Nancy and I spent a week on a dude ranch in Wyoming, but that was a couple of years ago.”
“Why don’t you two come over to my place for a long weekend some time in the fall? I’ll put you on a couple of good horses. There are a lot of pretty trails through the woods. One of them leads to a pond with a little pavilion on its shore. Nice place for a picnic lunch.”
“That’s very kind of you, Nat, but we don’t have riding outfits or fancy boots.”
“If you rode on a dude ranch, you must have jeans and cowboy boots.”
“Well, yes, but I thought Eastern riding was more formal.”
“Only in the show ring or on fox hunts. And in case the two of you are PETA people, we only do drag hunts. Reynard the Fox is in no danger.”
“Glad to hear it. Those PETA people are a tad hypocritical, it seems to me. Don’t kill foxes, but it’s OK to eat meat.”
“Hypocrisy abounds among the liberals, Dick. They groan and moan about global warming and carbon emissions, but they all drive cars.”
“Well, some of them have switched to those Tesla electric jobbies Elon Musk came up with.”
“Isn’t he the guy who wants to colonize Mars?”
“Sure is.”
“Why? There’s nothing there.”
“Oh, you know. All that “final frontier” stuff. I mean, why did we go to the Moon?”
“Because that bog-trotting bullshit artist who damn near started World War Three wanted us to get there before the Russkies did. What does Musk want?”
“To show up Jeff Bezos. The two richest men in the world are having a pissing contest. Kind of makes you wonder why money is wasted on the rich.”
“Mine’s not wasted. I invest some of it in more land, and the rest is in munis.
“You don’t play the market?”
Nat sliced a smile. “When I want to take a flyer I go to Suffolk Downs. At least that way, even if my horse loses, I get to watch the Thoroughbreds run.”
“You really love horses, don’t you?”
“You know where you stand with a horse. I can’t say the same about people. Listen, I’m serious – come riding with me this fall. My horses are gentle, but they’ve got a bit of go. Sarah’s never had any trouble with them.”
“I may take you up on that, Nat. Nancy would be thrilled.”
“Good. We’ll set the date next time I come to the club.”
Nat signed his tab, and, knowing he was a little tight, drove the Beamer home very carefully, staying just at the speed limit. Sarah was still up, watching some sort of costume drama. He mixed himself a final Scotch and soda and plopped down next to her on the sofa. A black man wearing a crown was shouting about dying with something on his back.
“What’s this?”
“Macbeth,” Sarah said. “Shush. It’s almost over.”
“Never realized the Thane of Cawdor was so swarthy.”
“Don’t be racist. It’s Denzel Washington, and he’s marvelous.”
“Macbeth was a Scot, if memory serves. There aren’t a lot of black Scotsmen.”
“Why does that matter so much to you, Nat?”
The question surprised him. Sarah didn’t generally ask him questions about his feelings.
“I’m just out of step with the times, I guess. Things are changing so fast I can’t keep track of them.”
Sarah muted the television. “That’s what you said when Obama got elected the first time. But you voted for him when he ran for a second term.”
“He was a savvy guy. A deal-maker. Never as liberal as the left wing thought he was. And Romney kept flip-flopping on the issues.”
“So you made America great again in 2016,” said Sarah.
“Don’t rub it in. I wasn’t the only one Trump conned. I didn’t pay much attention to the misogyny or the racism, because I thought he was just saying provocative things to get media attention. But I liked his stand on lower taxes for wealthy people, and his promise to keep illegal aliens out of the country.”
“He broke his promise. And Biden’s raising our tax rate back to where it was in the 60s.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, Sarah. It’s about seventy percent, not ninety. And it doesn’t affect us. Our savings are safely tucked away offshore. Not that we’re really all that rich.”
“Yes, yes, so you keep saying. Cash poor, land rich.”
“It works well enough, dear. You certainly don’t lack for anything, and neither do Natty or Abby.”
Sarah looked away. “I want to take a trip,” she said. “The nest is empty, and I want to spread my own wings while I still have my health.”
“Travel’s a little dicey, with the Covid thing and all,” said Nat. “But I’ll call Doctor Clark – we can get the third booster shots.”
She turned back to him. “I want to go by myself.”
“What?”
Her look was intense, almost desperate. “I feel as if my skin’s on too tight. My only world is Maitland Farm, and that belongs to you. It’s a prison – a beautiful one, but still a prison. But I’m not exactly your prisoner.”
“Of course you’re not! What a ridiculous thing to say!”
“Let me finish! I’m more like one of the trophies in your den, a stuffed fox head from the hunt, or antlers from a stag you shot, or that swordfish you caught off Provincetown…”
“Marlin.”
“What?”
“It was a marlin, not a swordfish.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing that suffocates me, Nat. You always have to be right. I don’t care if it’s a marlin or a mud puppy, it’s something you killed and stuck on the wall. And I feel as if you’re slowly killing me. With kindness, maybe, but dead is dead, and I don’t want to die yet.” Her eyes were shiny with tears.
“Sarah, I don’t know what to say. I had no idea you felt that way.”
“That’s because we never talk about how we feel. No matter how bad things get, we pull our socks up and keep going, like good WASPs. Your grandmother’s constant headaches turned out to be signs of a brain tumor, but she never complained, because she didn’t want to bother anyone. And then one morning she woke up dead.”
She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They spilled down her cheeks, but she didn’t sob. Her face was as impassive as a death mask, and she kept her eyes on him.
“I’m going to Florence. I studied Renaissance art at Radcliffe, and I want to see all the wonderful things in the Uffizi. I’ve already booked the flight.”
“Are… are you going alone?”
“I don’t have a lover, if that’s what you mean. Certainly not at my age. But I never cheated on you. That’s more your style. You never tried very hard to keep your little flings in Boston and New York secret. It was as if you wanted me to find out about them, so I’d divorce you. Well, you’re getting your wish. My lawyer will be contacting you soon.” She held his eyes for a moment longer and looked back at the screen. Macduff was laying on with his broadsword, and Macbeth was in trouble.
“I identify with Lady Macbeth,” Sarah said.
“Which makes me the bloody tyrant.”
“Nat, shut the fuck up! Things are not always about you!”
His anger flared up to match hers. “This divorce bullshit is fucking well about me!” he shouted, rising from the couch.
“Are you going to hit me? Go ahead! But you better kill me, because if you don’t, my lawyer will take you for everything you’ve got! And that includes Maitland, and all the cows and horses! You’ll have to go live at the Harvard Club until your money runs out!”
The hatred radiating from her was almost tangible, and he took a step back.
“You’ve lost your mind,” he said.
“No! I’m speaking it, for the first time ever! Now leave me alone! I want to see the ending!”
He could find nothing to say. The atmosphere in the living room was choking, and after a moment more he couldn’t bear it any longer. He left, walked downstairs to the finished basement, and entered his den. Sarah called it his “man cave,” which he’d always thought was affectionate. Now he realized she meant he was an anti-social, unloving brute. They hadn’t made love since a cervical cancer diagnosis had required her to have a hysterectomy, and after it, she seemed to have lost her interest in sex. But he realized he had mistaken his own disinterest for hers. He should have overcome his distaste for her women’s problems, spent more time with her, listened to whatever she had to say. Perhaps she would not have drifted so far away from him…
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” he said aloud. It had been his mocking response when Natty called to express his regrets about flunking out of Harvard. “Actions – or inactions – have consequences,” he told his son. “If you’re looking for sympathy, you can find it in the dictionary between sycophancy and syphilis.” Natty had hung up on him. He tried calling back, but a robot voice told him the number he had reached was no longer in service.
He suddenly felt light-headed, as if he was about to pass out. He’d had a fainting spell two weeks before and had wound up in the emergency room of Mass General. The doctor on duty had said that his blood pressure was too low, and had taken him off the atenolol pills he’d been taking to control his blood pressure. So the dizziness wasn’t caused by any physical imbalance. He just felt insubstantial, somehow, and he look down at the floor to make sure the desk lamp still cast his shadow on the floor. The shadow was there, and when he touched his arm, it was solid.
He took several deep breaths and the dizziness went away. But he still felt strange – unreal, in some way. No, not unreal. Irrelevant. He no longer meant anything to anyone else. And he had lost interest in himself.
He had already set up a land trust to manage Maitland Farm after his death. It would be declared open to visitors, the Guernseys would continue producing milk, and the horses, with their barn and exercise ring, would go to the Middlesex County Hunt. His Billington cousins, who owned the large house on top of the hill, would get his place and the mansion that had belonged to his grandmother. Joe Zanabuoni would receive five thousand dollars even if the Billingtons kept him on. His will was signed and attested. It might be probated after his death, but he’d done his best to make sure that all his affairs were in order. Even his last act would be discrete.
He opened the gun locker and took out one of his two matched Purdey shotguns. He’d only used it for partridge hunting, so the only cartridges for it were loaded with bird shot. But that would suffice. He broke the gun open and inserted the cartridge. He left the gun broken open for safety as he carried it out of the basement and over to the root cellar. As he walked along, he looked out over the fields and pastures of his estate. A line from Hamlet, which he had studied at Exeter, slipped into his mind. It was the melancholy prince’s contemptuous dismissal of Osric: “spacious in the possession of dirt.” Hard, but fair enough. He’d never done anything but acquire more land.
He reached the root cellar and put down the shotgun, still broken open, so that he could lift the cellar’s heavy metal door open. Then he took the weapon down the four steps to the dirt floor. Sitting down on the last step, he snapped the gun shut and put its barrel in his mouth.
