Susan, too, says the green light can bring on a transcendental moment for her, though she won't or can't describe it precisely.

But I want to tell my children about this; I want to tell them to find their green light, and I wish that for one magic hour on a summer's evening, a weary nation would pause and reflect, and each man and woman would remember how the world once looked and smelled and felt and how nice it was to draw such supreme comfort and security by the simple act of putting one's hand into the hand of a father or mother.

The green light that I see at the end of Daisy's vanished pier is not the future; it is the past, and it is the only comforting omen I have ever seen.

Thirteen.

By Wednesday, I had gotten the necessary paperwork together to apply to the Village of Lattingtown for a building permit to erect a stable on Susan's property. I did not specifically state that the stable to be built already existed on Stanhope property, as the Stanhopes, of course, owe the village, the township, and the county a lot of money, and I suppose that the part of the stables that we were going to chop off and spirit away could be considered an asset on which there are tax liens. But if it's legal to tear down structures to save taxes, I guess it's legal to move them to property on which the taxes are paid, and will, in fact, go up because of the stables. I honestly don't know how anyone functions in this society without a law degree. Even I, Harvard Law, class of '69, have trouble figuring out legal from illegal, as the laws pile up faster than garbage in the county dump.

Anyway, I also drew up the petition for the variance on which we needed Mr. Frank Bellarosa's autograph. Over dinner that Wednesday night, I said to Susan, "It is customary, as you know, to hand carry the petition to our neighbor and chat for a while about what we intend to do."

Susan replied, "I'll take it over."

"Fine. I'd rather not."

"It's my stable. I'll take care of it. Would you please pass me the meat loaf?"

"Meat loaf? I thought it was bread pudding."

"Whatever."

I passed whatever it was to Susan and said, "I suggest you go to Alhambra tomorrow during the day, so perhaps you can meet and deal with Mrs. Bellarosa, who I'm sure is not allowed to go to the bathroom without asking her husband's permission, but who can pass the petition on to Il Duce, who can ask his consiglieri consiglieri what to do." what to do."

Susan smiled. "Is that what you suggest, Counselor?"

"Yes, it is."

"All right.'' She thought a moment. "I wonder what she's like."

I thought she might be like a busty blonde, which is why I was sending Susan and not me. "Could you pass me ... that over there?"

"That's spinach. I think I cooked it too long."

"I'll just have the wine."

The next day, Susan called me at my New York office and informed me, "There was no one home, but I left the papers at the gatehouse with a young man named Anthony, who seemed to comprehend that I wanted them delivered to don Bellarosa."

"All right.'' I asked, "You didn't say 'don Bellarosa,' did you?"

"No. Anthony did."

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not. And I want George to call us don and donna from now on."

"I think I'd rather be called Sir John. See you about six-thirty."

That evening, over one of Susan's special dinners-steak au poivre au poivre with fresh spring asparagus and new potatoes, delivered hot from Culinary Delights-I remarked, "I'd call Bellarosa, but he's unlisted." with fresh spring asparagus and new potatoes, delivered hot from Culinary Delights-I remarked, "I'd call Bellarosa, but he's unlisted."

"So are we. But I wrote our phone number on my calling card."

"Well ... I suppose that's all right.'' Susan has calling cards, by the way, that say simply: Susan Stanhope Sutter, Stanhope Hall. Susan Stanhope Sutter, Stanhope Hall. This may sound to you like a useless and perhaps even pretentious thing to carry around, but there are still people here who use these cards, leaving them on a silver tray in the foyer after a visit. If the master and mistress are not at home, or are not receiving, the calling card-or visiting card, as it is also called-is left with the gatekeeper, maid, or nowadays anyone who's around to take it. Mr. Frank Bellarosa, for instance, should have left his calling card with George when he first learned I was not receiving. I have calling cards, too, but only because Susan got them printed for me about twenty years ago. I've used four of them socially and a lot of them under wobbly table legs in restaurants. This may sound to you like a useless and perhaps even pretentious thing to carry around, but there are still people here who use these cards, leaving them on a silver tray in the foyer after a visit. If the master and mistress are not at home, or are not receiving, the calling card-or visiting card, as it is also called-is left with the gatekeeper, maid, or nowadays anyone who's around to take it. Mr. Frank Bellarosa, for instance, should have left his calling card with George when he first learned I was not receiving. I have calling cards, too, but only because Susan got them printed for me about twenty years ago. I've used four of them socially and a lot of them under wobbly table legs in restaurants.

As I was contemplating the importance of calling cards in modern society, the telephone rang. "I'll get it,'' I said. I picked up the extension on the kitchen wall. "Hello."

"Hello, Mr. Sutter. Frank Bellarosa."

"Hello, Mr. Bellarosa.'' I glanced at Susan, who had taken the opportunity to transfer my asparagus to her plate.

Bellarosa said, "I'm looking at this thing here that your wife dropped off."

"Yes."

"You gonna build a stable?"

"Yes, if you have no objections."

"What do I care? Am I going to smell the horse shit?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Bellarosa. It's quite a distance from your house but near your property line, so I need what is called a sideline variance."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.'' Susan was finished with my asparagus and was eating my steak now. She doesn't have that much of an appetite for her own cooking. "Stop that."

"Stop what?'' asked Bellarosa.

I turned my attention back to the phone. "Nothing. So, if you have no objections, would you sign that petition and mail it in the envelope to the village? I would appreciate that."

"Why do you need my okay to do that?"

"Well, as I said, the new structure would be within a hundred yards of your property line, and the law-"

"Law?'' exclaimed Mr. Bellarosa as if I'd used a dirty word. "Fuck the law. We're neighbors, for Christ's sake. Go ahead. I'll sign the thing."

"Thank you."

"I'm looking at these plans you sent along, Mr. Sutter. You need somebody to build this thing?"

"No, I sent you those plans because the ... the rules require that I show you the plans-"

"Yeah? Why? Hey, this thing is brick and stone. I could help you out there."

"Actually ... we're moving an existing stable."

"Yeah? That thing I saw the other week when I was there? That's where the horses are now?"

"Yes."

"You moving that whole fucking thing?"

"No, only part of it. You'll see by the plans-"

"Why? You could build a nice new thing for less."

"That's true. Hold on.'' I covered the mouthpiece and said to Susan, "Frank says we can build a nice new thing for less, and put down that fucking potato."

"Language, John.'' She popped the last potato into her mouth.

I turned back to the telephone. "The stables that you saw, Mr. Bellarosa, have some historical and architectural value,'' I explained, wondering why I was bothering, and getting a bit annoyed that he'd drawn me into this conversation.

"So,'' asked Mr. Bellarosa, "you got somebody to move that thing or not?"

"Actually, not yet. But there are some good restoration firms in the area."

"Yeah? Listen, I have about a hundred greaseballs working over here trying to get this place fixed up. I'm gonna send the boss around to you on Saturday morning."

"That's very kind of you, but-"

"Hey, no problem. These guys are good. Old World craftsmen. You don't find guys like that in this country. Everybody here wants to wear a suit. You want to move a brick stable? No problem. These guys could move the Sistine Chapel down the block if the Pope gave them the go-ahead."

"Well-"

"Hey, Mr. Sutter, these wops live live cement. That's how they learn to walk-with a wheelbarrow. Right? The boss's name is Dominic. He speaks English. I personally guarantee his work. These guys don't fuck up. And the price is going to be right. Saturday morning. How's nine?" cement. That's how they learn to walk-with a wheelbarrow. Right? The boss's name is Dominic. He speaks English. I personally guarantee his work. These guys don't fuck up. And the price is going to be right. Saturday morning. How's nine?"

"Well ... all right, but-"

"Glad to help out. Just sign this thing, right?"

"Yes."

"Go have your dinner. Don't worry about it. It's done."

"Thank you."

"Sure thing."

I put the phone in the cradle and went back to the table. "No problem."

"Good."

"Is there anything left to eat?"

"No.'' Susan poured me some wine. "What was he saying at the end there?"

"He's sending Dominic here to look at the job."

"Who's Dominic?"

"Anthony's uncle.'' I sipped my wine and thought about this turn of events.

Susan asked, "Do you feel awkward now that you wouldn't take his business?"

"No. I have a professional life and a private life. Professionally I won't deal with him; privately I'll deal with him only when I have to as a neighbor. Nothing more."

"Is that true?"

I shrugged. "I didn't ask him to send Dominic over. Mr. Frank Bellarosa is making it difficult for us to snub him."

"He must like you. When he was in your office, did you get the impression he liked you?"

"I suppose. He thinks I'm smart."

"Well, you are."

"Sure. If I were smart, I never would have let you talk me into moving that stable, paying for half of it, and getting involved with Bellarosa."

"That's true. Maybe you're not so smart."

"What's for dessert?"

"Me."

"Again? I had that last night."

"Tonight I have whipped cream on it."

"And a cherry?"

"No cherry."

On Saturday morning, Dominic arrived punctually at our back door at nine A A.M. He had parked his truck on the main drive and walked the last hundred yards to our house in a light drizzle. He refused offers of coffee or a hat, so Susan and I showed him to the Bronco and we drove to the stables.

Dominic was a man in his late forties, built something like a gorilla that lifts weights. He wore green work clothes, and his skin was already very sun-darkened for April. I still wasn't sure he spoke English or if he just pretended to. Susan speaks a little Italian and tried it out on Dominic, who kept looking at me as if he wanted me to translate or tell her to shut up.

Anyway, we all stood in the drizzle while Dominic gave the stable a cursory inspection.