"Daddy."

My son is toweling himself off near the pool. This amenity, as I believe they term them these days, was constructed of bluestone in 1922 to resemble an ornimental fountain. The tiny bronze Triton endlessly tipping water from his salver is not to my exact taste, workshop of Bernini or no; still, the uncluttered sound of falling water is soothing to the ear.

"Daddy."

My wife lies beside me, in the tousled waves of her pegnoir. The filmy green crepe-de-chene laps about her slumbering body: a white towel covers her face. A pale oblivious arm is visible, like the wreakage of a submerged Venus, washed up on silky tides. Beside me, there is a slight clinking as the ice settles further into our melting drinks. A high dry rattle sounds in the distance--locusts, but it is not their season, so it must be electric wires.

"Daddy."

My son is just a bit too old to call me this. Fifteen last January. Heat makes one stupid. Childish. The glass next to me has not been out five minutes and already it is sparkling with diamonds of condensation. That high, dry whirr again. Nearly 800 acres, and they put the wires 100 yards from the house.

My stepdaughter is not with us today. She has taken herself, and a goodly portion of my money, down to New York for an outing. She is off somewhere, becoming quite handsome. They still say that sort of thing in these parts: "So-and-so's daughter is becoming quite handsome." Comes of early exposure to Jane Austin. The remark, not the becoming. I am not sure what, in point of fact, begets the becoming. I am given to understand that it involves an unlimited amount of credit at Saks Fifth Avenue.

"Daddy. You said you'd buy me a gun."

And I remember, Of course I have said no such thing to my son, but I remember nonetheless. How old was I when I asked my father for a gun. How old was I when I first wanted one? Could I have been fifteen? Twelve?

There is a slow tread just behind me, ameasured, somehow implacable sequence of footsteps, planned, one imagines, to convey a sense of purpose without urgency. The butler of course, and will Sir have another glass, and naturally Sir will, and just bring out to goddam pitcher this time. The butler, of course, although my father's pace had the same cadence, the same sense of gravity. Do butlers learn such things from father, I wonder, or do fathers learn from butlers?

"You said I could have a gun.."

My son's voice has become softer, yet more insistent. I now must cease to pretend to listen him and commence pretending not to listen to him. A small act, I know--I practice it a hundred times a day. Yet every time, every single time. Only one cure for it, and could my glass be empty that fast? It's difficult enough trying to block out my son what with the wires creaking on endlessly. 800 acres, you know. 100 yards from the house.

That charming article overlooks the river, the mountains and a garden planned after a major work by Fletcher Steele. The library is said to be the work of Stanford White, but no one really seems to know for sure, and I try not to believe too much vicious gossip. ItÍs a handsome enough place, rather in the French Regency style, painted a cheerful ochre color with dark green shutters and a marble terrace. I hear a picture of the west facade appears in The Historic Estates of Westchester County. Available in all the finer bookstores. Run, don't walk.

The Canaletto, the George III silver, the Newport furniture, the Louis XV bombe chests, the Monet landscapes and the collection of enameled Russian snuffboxes are my wife's lot, but the rest of it--the brace of Purdys, the portraits by Sargent and Mary Cassatt, the antique crystal, lace and carpets, the first editions, the Chippendale dining room, the Chinese beds--are mine. Mine and to be my son's.

My son stands before me, shorts still damp, hair still wet, regarding me with a mixture of challenge and reproach. He's a finely formed lad, supple, energetic--a bit small for his age, but he'll put on the height in a few years. I did. He doesn't look much like me, truth be told, nor like my wife. A few years ago, in a drunken moment, I wondered aloud if he might not be the offspring of the Italian chauffeur we took on in Florence when we were staying with the Van Alstynes, and as I was alone when I uttered this remark, it was not immediately disproved. It actually was then something of a comfort to me to think that my son might not be of my flesh. And I must admit, it was amusing, picturing my wife panting with lust under our driver's comically Da Vincian frame. I even brought a picture of my son up to my father's portrait in the library and tried to decipher a likeness--all to no avail. But then, in the study, I happeed upon an old photograph of myself with my mother's cousins, and there the likeness was, third and fourth faces from the right. So there was the end of that.

"You promised."

His voice has dropped a bit more now. Softer, yet fuller. A promise for a promise made. A bead of moisture has collected ont he side of the glass. Now it trickles down. My father had his portrait painted in riding gear. It hangs above the library mantle, flanked by the Purdys. No other trophies besides, thank the Maker, although there is a dismal etching of a flock of mallards in the gaming room. Winslow Homer, I believe. What mallards have to do with billiards I can't imagine. Might be a pun there about "game," now that I think of it. Ugh. How horrible.

My father did not hunt to kill. He hunted to signal his presence, firing off a round of ammunition the way famous admirals clear their throats, as a sort of lordly, yet inoffensive expletive. Killing was not merely immaterial to him--I believe in a way it would have robbed him of the pleasure he took in his sport. He would rather impress the local wildlife with his stern regality and God-like power than render it senseless for his table. Yes, my father, Zeus, out in the ranges, awing the ducks.

I forget what happened to my gun afterwards. Did I give it up or did they take it from me? Could I have dropped it? Is it still out there?

Again, the dry rustle of electric wires. Or my wife, perhaps, stirring in her silks. But no, she is quite still, save for her even, uncaring breathing. 800 goddamn acres. We sued, of course. But they put them in anyway. The day they were finished, I went up to my mother's bedroom and sat on her bed, looking at an old landscape which had been painted from a promontory on the estate. It's nothing remarkable--the standard 1878 view of river and mountains, all limned in coral-colored light, framed with the obligatory eight-inch width of Rococo gilt. I cried, as I recall. I don't really know why. The wires aren't anywhere near that view. And no one goes there anymore.

I make my father sound ridiculous. But he was not ridiculous. I am ridiculous. I always knew my wife never slept with the chauffeur. My wife, having forged her alliance with me, would not have imperiled it for an experience she had long ago consigned to the vault of necessary evils. My wife is not an adventuress. That is why she is my wife. My stepdaughter, on the other hand, is an adventuress. I suppose I could claim that that is why she is not my daughter, but a perfect reverse is rarer than you'd think. Even mirrors do not always provide it.

That slow tread, always behind me. Somehow always behind me, even when I sat in my bed, facing the door, expecting it. Ah, the butler, yes, delightful day, don't you think, another bottle, well why not, just bring it out in a hose, you fucking crock. The flash of a salver, the tinkling of liquids, the whine of power in a dead black web. My father was not ridiculous. But this is my house now.

My house. My son. Mine. I could have moved that etching in the gaming room any time. I could have, but I did not. It's been hanging there for such a long time, you see. Forever. And it doesn't bother me in the slightest.

I wasn't really looking for a likeness between my son and my father.

"James Farrell has a gun. He goes to the ranges every day."

James Farrell is sixteen years old. He will inherit the house; his sister, Emily, the place in the city. I hear the collection of Impressionists is really something to see. Not featured in The Historic Estates of Westchester County, but then you can't have everything. I was looking for a likeness between my father and myself. Soem sign, in that preposterous painting, that he had seen what I had seen, had lived what I had lived. I don't know whether this would have made things bet
ter or worse, but I could see nothing in his portrait but a country gentlemen of old-fashioned leisure, accustomed to taking his pleasures where and when he liked, who sat for an artist in riding gear, trusting that his natural dignity would overcome the comparitive informality of his dress. I told you I was ridiculous.

"I'll be careful. I promise."

My son stands before me, brilliant, beautiful, electric with anger at last. Flesh of my flesh, not of my flesh. He is strong, he is clear, he will live to inherit. I will buy him the gun. I do not care. I do not hunt, but there must be some chance for him. I will make sure of it. I do not care. One could only call it love so long. And I have no regrets. Another bead of moisture trickles down the glass. It is clear, however. Bright and pure. I raise my hand to tough my son's waist, and the rattle sounds in the air high above. The photograph in the study shows myself as a boy with my extended cousins and our friends. I forget the occasion, but I remember the names well enough. Tip and Walter and Edward Farrell and his sweetheart Chloe--what became of her?--and Cordelia, whom we called Rose. Jan St. Martense too, and Alice, and Helena, who drowned, and little John Hall, who was small, and frightened, and drank, and died of it. All of us happy that day, out in the gardens of our inheritance, daring to venture the moment and make it our own, as if we could leave it all behind whenever we chose, and as if it would never last.

--David Griffin