Chapter 16

Taking the same path from the skinny-dipping creek that had led to the old flapper's and my fresh air fuck, it eventually ended after exploring other paths at an overgrown lawn and a hidden building. Forks in the path gave us options. One appeared far less used. I kept glancing at it when we followed a couple other paths, one to some ramshackle houses, nearly shacks, the other back to the creek, and finally pulled our group into its subtle route. A line of pebbles losing their integrity brought us to a keep out sign tacked to a tree and five minutes more of careful nudging of tree branches and thickening fronds, the path least followed led to the Promised Land. A large light gray cement building loomed over the lawn nearly twenty yards away with small recessed windows suggesting two stories and a basement and a steeple with a Spanish cross at the apex jutted in front of it, the base hidden. We tramped down the heavy grass.

The building sat on a slowly descending hill. To our right a wide basement door gaped. We decided to circle the building before entering. The chapel with the steeple adjoined the building at the low point of the hill. An entrance to the chapel, its door gone, stood perpendicular to the main entrance. The main door remained, thick and brown and imposing, and ironically nailed shut. No signs hung to tell us anything. We went into the chapel which smelled of droppings. Empty of pews and adornment, openings in walls where stained glass might have been, we crossed through the abandoned space and carefully climbed the circular staircase, rusty metal bolted to walls, until we reached the bell tower without a bell. I wondered why the cross remained, figuring a cheap metal and no artistic relevance disinterested scavengers. Despite being on a hill, higher hills and abundant trees formed a rim of a bowl at which we were near the bottom interrupted any view beyond. We could see the Hudson below us however. Spying a gate and thick overgrown hedges a few yards from the entrance we descended, tramped through the front grass and examined the dark metal impediment. A thick rusted chain and lock secured it outside. Climbing over the gate with the help of the Amazon, I found a private property keep out sign rusting and hanging crookedly affixed to it.

I followed the gentle curve of the overgrown, pothole inundated, run off eroded dirt road, only to find bushes and a tree smaller than the rest of the surrounding woods but still a good fifteen feet high blocking access to a road paved during the WPA. Laughing at the disguise I looked around the edges and found a For Sale sign revealing contact information stuck in debris. I memorized the number as I strolled along the road that looped down to a small wooden dock worn by river and sky and back up. A couple houses had younger couples outside doing lawn work or sitting in lounge chairs. I hoped for an older person. On my way up the road, I spotted the math professor and his very pregnant and pretty blonde wife, her wide fair face of Germanic origin sitting on wooden chairs in front of their small wooden house. I approached and exchanged introductions.

Describing the building amazed the math professor. "I heard about a Jesuit study center in Barrytown, but dismissed it as a myth. You know, giving the place some mystical magic. You'd think you'd spot an occasional black robed monk strolling by. Apparently they haven't strolled by in a while." I asked about any older residents. "No, this is a transitory little community, usually teachers or former students. There are not a lot of employment opportunities, so people move on. However, there's a ranch and orchard across the way." He pointed to a field with a piebald horse standing proud up a hill rising from a small old cemetery across the street. "I've visited with the owners, a sweet couple in their seventies who love to tell tales."

"Thanks. Nice seeing you again. Nice meeting you." I walked swiftly back the way I came.

I managed to hop the fence with the Amazon's strong assistance. Breathless with excitement, I asked my sister to note the phone number. We entered the main building through the chapel. Dark and dank, a large room with an immense hearth opened impressively at the opposite end. I figured it to be the central place, the library, but no shelves existed. The rest of the building divided into small rooms. A row of broken toilets and some mosaic tiles with drains at the center at the farthest side from the hearth had been the bathroom. Stark and simple as expected from poverty embracing monks, its lack of anything made it more.

Getting late, we headed back swiftly through the woods, joining the old flapper and making our way to the car on the other side of campus. I needed to head to the Inn to gather my films for the evening's screening. We stopped for bread and cheese and vegetables at a grocery. At the Inn the young poet waited. We had seen the Amazon's truck, much to her relief, so we tapped at his door. Waking from a nap, his eyes blurry, he greeted us with a stupid grin. "I'm in love," he said. We chuckled and told him to get his shit together for the movies. I explained my involvement. "Cool," he said, shutting the door in my face. We ate our mini dinner in the suite awaiting the young poet. He arrived showered clean after twenty long minutes. He finished the remainder of the food and we scurried to our vehicles.

Thinking I needed to be at the screening earlier then ten minutes, I discovered the informality of the evening. The great poet introduced the projectionist and most promising student, a twenty year old as short and dandified as me. A poet and seemingly a lover of avant garde film, why did he rub me wrong? I felt the rube in his presence, like I needed permission to be a friend. I had to have my resume to shake his hand. I didn't know the bylaws to be in his presence. Even the great poet seemed beneath him, a near impossibility. Humility should be a requirement to be a poet or any artist in a country blind to but a few. Who's to say the handful known by many are better than the struggling invisible geniuses untouched by the rarity of luck? Thankful I was beneath his scorn, if he was the great poet's prize pupil, his gifted speech probably antagonized or condescended easily.

My group including everyone but the ranger nearly doubled the audience. My sister's lover added to our number. The young poet and his new lover arrived seconds before the first film screened only because the great poet made a long winded and breathy introduction. He spoke of modernism. The canvas can't be ignored. The artist's gesture must be apparent. The illusion must be revealed. The material, the thousand stills, the magnetic lines of sound, the sprocket holes, and the fragility must be embraced. I couldn't have agreed more. I flashed on the Vase. Proud of no fourth wall, no desperate manufactured illusion could be destroyed by the intrusion of reality. A baby screamed. A siren wailed. People walked out scraping chairs. Nothing distracted. The performance included anything and everything. Through a weird concept, life in between became vivid, reality became amplified. We pounded the keys until the piano reverberated and we played within if only for a few.

It became a long evening of short films. The eccentric NYU professor showed his collection and the great poet owned prints of friend's movies, showing a sample, saving many for later programs. I enjoyed and waited.

Discussions followed each grouping. The eccentric presented his thoughts only after showing the four films as did the great poet after his four. The eccentric lectured and let the audience discuss. The great poet used the Socratic Method, though like Socrates he attempted to guide towards his conclusions. Metaphor and symbol were discussed, the deeper meaning of objects, Freudian and Jungian, the id and the archetype, and the usefulness of editing to juxtapose and synthesize. Of the eight films, I chose as my favorites the funny insanity of a poet where the world went backwards and the hero forwards ending up with his head in a bird cage, and the collages of ready made films created by a favorite artist of mine who made collage boxes to gain fame. The first deflated the seriousness of surrealists bleeding their unconscious. The second confounded meaning and became a fascinating object like his boxes, mysterious and unsolvable. Both utilized accidents: overexposed stock revealing the protagonist out of the glare for the first and the multiple qualities of the films in the collage, at times professional, Hollywood constructions and at other times amateurish unrehearsed and haphazardly lit with edits flashing, creating a rhythm. The soundtrack of the first went counterpoint to the visuals, a fey lilting voice reciting a nonsense poem. The second unspooled silently which helped my cause. I didn't have the brilliant young drummer improvising on drums and piano, accentuating the rhythms and the emotions.

I showed the four films from the Vase and rudely added a fifth, a lot to ask of a long evening of watching difficult films. Though showing the Vase films out of context, including the lack of accompaniment, I thought they held up as brief tone poems of three lives including mine and the final threading of those lives into one. The fifth film expressed my appreciation of women. Originally intended to record the birth of my daughter, since that event ended up unfilmable, I used the old flapper's beautiful pregnant body and the newborn baby as through lines in which images of the Amazon's sexy glance or my sister's mischievous giggle or the princess's provocative glare or the mulatto's thoughtful subtlety or their bodies moving in graceful ecstasy luring me to penetrate them weaved through two long pans of the pregnant flapper from naked groin to breasts and the baby crawling up her torso to suckle.

Not having a presentation set in my head or brilliant academic jargon, I stood up in the audience and asked for comments. The silence presumed I'd baffled another group. I grabbed my bag and prepared to pack up my art when the great poet asked the perfect question, "What does it mean to you the way you move the camera?"

Probably babbling too long, I talked about my view of contemporary art: the expressive gestural strokes of the best of the artists and the Estonian, the long quick lines of breath of be-bop musician, the long, disjointed lunging lines of the young poet, Artaud's Theater of Cruelty, and my desire to express my feelings from my deepest recesses through the way I shot something and the way I edited.

"What do the ladies think of being on screen like that?" asked the dirty eccentric.

I hoped they weren't embarrassed and didn't think they were. I thought they looked beautiful unlike the wife of the Dutchman. The Amazon stood, looking fetching and strong. "I can't speak for all of us. Some of us aren't here. I'm sure it's different for me than for you. It's personal. But that's the point. When I watch the last film, I don't see the women as objects sexual or otherwise. I see them being loved. Not necessarily sexually, although that's there, but cherished and appreciated. I see the way he sees me. The film isn't about us. It's about him, his love, his sensitivity, his caring, his lust, his fascination, his awe. He may be behind the camera, but what he shot and how he edited it becomes a mirror. It's autobiographical like the other films, although I guess they were more biographical. Anyway, I love being appreciated by the man I love. Who wouldn't?"

A welcoming laugh burst the serious tone. I wanted to ask who hated my films and why, but didn't.

The evening ended. The night began. My sister, her lover and I walked to the lover's dorm, small clapboard buildings looking incongruously like a group of barracks on a military base or summer camp lodging. Everywhere else students lived in mansions or brick buildings resembling early century row houses in the City. Unfortunately her roommate arrived that evening, a chubby, freckle faced girl uncomfortable being alone far from home for the first time. We chatted and made friends and helped. Once at ease, the lover escorted us up the dirt road to the main campus road. We glanced at the wall of trees, tempted to hide at least a lesbian kiss, but the night blinded, and we postponed. I did get a kiss from my sister's lover, and its soft passion suggested thrills.

Luckily the Amazon had left me keys to the truck and my sister and I returned to the Inn. There we stripped and exhausted cuddled up with the Amazon, waking her for a moment only to return to sleep with the rest of us.

Still dark when I awoke disoriented and excited, the Amazon sucked my erection while my sister licked her pussy. Eyes opening signaled a change. The Amazon straddled me and my cock sunk into her uncovered. My protests silenced by her kiss, she explained she wanted my child. Emotions intensified the fuck, and I ejaculated quickly. Disappointed, I apologized. Neither my sister nor the Amazon accepted it, double teaming my penis while my sister placed her pussy on my face. Bringing my sister to orgasm, she rose and returned to the Amazon's pussy. When the Amazon moaned, fisting my rising cock, she crawled back to slide me in. My sister placed her dripping pussy at my lips again, sucking on the Amazon's tits and kissing her. After the Amazon climaxed, she renewed the ride, driving me deeper and faster. Turning her around, a complicated maneuver wherein the Amazon took over duties licking my sister, I held her bottom and then her legs as she lifted them high and wide as I thrust relentlessly until, with the assistance of my sister rubbing her clitoris, all three of us reached powerful climaxes together, the room reverberating with our moans, seeming to tremble like we trembled.

The next morning our original motley group of adventurers headed to Barrytown and the Jesuit enclave. The gate barring us and neither the old flapper or the ranger wishing to climb, we at least showed them our discovery. The retreat had a foreboding presence, but everyone enjoyed the mysterious ghostly menace. Early, we decided to explore the town which proved to be mostly a road from the Annandale Inn looping down to the river and back up. Hoping to catch a familiar face to borrow a phone, the math professor's little home sat quiet and dark. I pointed out the old graveyard and the field above where two piebald horses stood watching us. "They're beautiful," said the Amazon. At the Inn I glanced across to the great poet's house and noticed movement in the window. I strolled across and knocked tentatively. The great poet's wife opened it wearing an apron. The door released the smell of ham and coffee. She left it open and rushed to the kitchen. The great poet and the eccentric sat in the dining room waiting for breakfast. Apologizing for the intrusion, I thanked the wife for her gracious offer to join them, but informed her of our earlier breakfast. Sitting with the men, I asked the great poet about the Jesuit retreat. The great poet chuckled. "Not quite hidden, is it?" he said. He took a breath, ready for a story, when I asked him to wait. I explained others wanted to hear it, but didn't want to overwhelm him. "I'll tell you what," said the great poet. "After breakfast, we'll head to the orchard up the road. The old couple knows more than I. They were the ones who told me. They're better at it than I."

"I wouldn't want to disturb them," I said.

"Nonsense. They're a bit lonely I think. They'd love the company and the chance to tell the story. Why don't you wait with your friends while we eat, and then I'll introduce you?"

Twenty minutes later, the great poet and the eccentric joined us. "We'll walk. I could do for more walks. My wife's a good cook." He rubbed his large abdomen.

The small troop followed the winding road for about a mile passing trees bearing green fruit glistening in the morning sun on the other side of a low stone wall. The house resembled the simple yet elegant house of the great poet only larger. Behind it sat a one story sprawling house and further back a barn and a stable peeked out. "I thought they were alone?" I asked the great poet.

"They've got workers living here at harvest time. The kids went their separate ways. A granddaughter and her daughter live with them now. The grandson-in-law died in the war. The granddaughter's a bitter lady. Luckily the great granddaughter is spry and cheerful. I guess they aren't so alone."

A squat stocky woman of sturdy British descent with soft lines on her face revealing a life of smiles greeted the great poet cheerfully. "How wonderful to see you. You've brought friends I see. Welcome."

We stumbled inside and found ourselves in a large living room, light and warm with pastel covered chairs and couch, a huge pale pink and yellow Persian rug, the walls decorated with Hudson River paintings, the hearth lined with photos and equestrian awards. Needing more chairs, the old woman went to fetch some. I insisted on taking the duty. "Such a gentleman and handsome too," she flattered. By the time I returned with a couple chairs, the old man, a head taller and just as stout, had joined us, his face also cheerfully lined. An energetic teenage great granddaughter bounced past him. I went for two more chairs in the old English style dining room. The Amazon examined the trophies and the great granddaughter stood beside her proclaiming ownership.

"Are those your horses, the two piebalds?" asked my sister.

"Un-hunh. Grammy and Gramps bought them for me and Mom. I didn't even have to make a scene much. When Daddy ... didn't come home, they got them to cheer me up. The gelding is mine; the mare is his sister. I got mine when it was just weaned. He's like a reincarnation." A tear trickled from her eye, but she smiled.

"They're beautiful," said the Amazon.

"Do you ride?" asked the great granddaughter.

"I love to. You're lucky. I kicked and screamed but ... never got mine." The Amazon stopped herself from mentioning her father.

"You can ride the mare. My mother never does."

"I don't want to impose," said the Amazon.

"Are you kidding? She's getting spoiled. She needs a good rider. I'll get dressed."

"Now dear," the old woman said warmly, "these nice people might have some business."

"That's okay," said the Amazon. "I'll stay until you're ready, and then my friends can fill me in. I love to ride."

"Great," said the great granddaughter, her pretty gray eyes flashing and her long dirty blonde hair flying as she turned and galloped up the stairs."

"She's adorable," said the old flapper.

"She's a handful, but she's got a good soul," said the old woman. "Her mother ... never mind."

"Too much like her father. Always wants to be where she isn't," said the old man. She nodded and shrugged as if to say what could be wrong with this house. I couldn't see anything.

The great poet introduced the topic which brought us. The old man looked delighted. "I'll make a pot of coffee. Anyone for tea?" asked the old woman. Nobody was. "I guess tea for one."

"The Jesuits were an interesting sort," the old man began. "All dressed the same in their dark robes but all different. They'd come to fetch apples. They picked apples which looked funny with their robes getting tangled in branches. I suppose they'd be naked otherwise. My father was a bit of a free thinker, a progressive like Teddy Roosevelt but even more so. I think if he wasn't landed gentry, he would have been a Wobbly. Used to chat with the migrants, you know, learning their language. I never felt comfortable with them for some reason, but we get along. Anyway, not one to mince words, he would converse with these strange gentlemen. They'd argue sometimes and other times find common ground. I'd join in, as would my wife, bringing some younger perspectives. We had the two children, and the Jesuits seemed to love watching them grow. We're talking about maybe twenty years they were in our lives, so I got to know a couple of them pretty well, Most of them came and went, it being a study center and retreat, not really a home except for the two who tended the place.

"Everything changed after the great war. My brother got hurt and recuperated at Walter Reade. My parents went to visit. The Spanish flu raged and struck them all down. They didn't bring it home, and we were pretty isolated from it. When the head Jesuit visited soon after, he asked about my father and the news saddened him deeply. He had his own sad news. The Jesuits kept losing membership and money tightened so they decided to move to a more central place, you know, combining functions I guess. They wanted to sell the land. I wasn't interested. It's a relatively small plot and didn't adjoin. He asked me to inquire.

"Unfortunately for my son, we were often invited to parties at the mansions. I guess old money has to be respected, but I think my wife's scones drew our invitations." As if on cue, she brought scones with the coffee. We had to split them for everyone to have a taste, and they were scrumptious. "Anyway, he was seventeen I think when we let him join us at the Vanderbilt's or some such billionaire. I must have a bit of the Wobbly myself and never liked the ostentation and the snootiness of these people. Of course my wife charmed, and I let her lead. But my son fell in love with the house and the guests and particularly one lovely girl about his age. I don't blame him. She was beautiful and despite her elegance, a touch rebellious. Smart as can be, she could be cutting when she chose to be but clever enough to soften the blow. My son is bright too, not as bright as her, and full of himself and despite the competition of young suitors of her ilk, he had her promise him a date.

"Fool that he is, a night of thinking on it upset him. How could she see his modest dwelling and his homely life? The way she treated us at the party, I could tell such things never bothered her. I tried explaining, but he's hardheaded and couldn't imagine anyone not wanting the life she had. Well she could. I don't know the details, but I figured his lust for her life and hers for something different didn't mesh. However, as soon as he could, after one of my wife's delicious but too homely corned beef and cabbage dinners which my son failed to notice being devoured not too daintily by the young heiress, he invited her for a walk. He told her about the Jesuits and they visited. She wanted it immediately. It seems she had dreams of a place of her own to entertain poets and writers, with a big library where they could feel warm and creative like Shelley and Byron and Mary Wollstonecraft, you know: the whole romantic Frankenstein thing. After meeting with my friend the abbot, thrilled to find a buyer, she promised to convince her father. She did. Her father planned to raze the building, but she objected. By this time, my son thought she would at least be grateful enough for a second date. She diverted his requests until she decided to put him off. Meeting him in front of the driveway to the retreat, she had company. The man in his mid twenties, scruffy and wild haired, not unlike our gentleman," gesturing at the young poet, "and dressed in a battered suit, a poet she had met at some literary event, turned my son into a traumatized child. He told her the man represented everything wrong for her. Calmly, the heiress explained her disinterest in the ways of her class, and that she had tried to make that clear. Storming off, he never saw her again. She died a month later."