"No, Anna would be disappointed. Please pass on my regrets to Anna."

"I will."

"I'll see you in a few days.'' I turned to leave.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I just remembered. Mr. Melzer came around the other day. Thursday or Friday, I think."

"Yes?"

"He said you were supposed to make some sort of initial payment on your taxes."

"Did you tell him we haven't gone to closing on the East Hampton house yet?"

"Yes, I did. He said he'd see what he could do, but he sounded concerned."

"I'll get in touch with him.'' I hesitated, then said, "Susan, we have a long way to go."

She nodded. "Maybe we can go away together as soon as things settle down, John. Just you and I. We can take the boat to the Caribbean if you'd like."

She was certainly trying, and I was certainly not. But the hurt was too deep, and the lies were not making it any better. I had the sudden compulsion to tell her I'd slept with a famous TV news reporter, and I might have if I thought it would do either of us any good. But I felt no guilt at all and didn't need to confess, and Susan didn't need to hear a confession that was given out of vengefulness.

"Think about a boat trip, John."

"I will."

"Oh, Edward and Carolyn both called. They send their love to you. They're drafting letters, but that might take awhile.'' She smiled.

"I'll call them when I get back. See you in a few days."

"Be careful, John. You really shouldn't go out alone."

"I'll stay in the Sound. Nothing tricky. I'll be fine.'' I added, "Good luck tonight.'' I turned and walked away and heard her call out, "Don't go to the Caribbean without me."

I pulled into the yacht club an hour later, having stopped at a deli in Bayville to pick up beer, baloney, and bread. You can live on beer, baloney, and bread for three days before scurvy and night blindness set in.

I carried the case of beer and the bag of groceries to the boat in one trip and set everything down on the dock. As I was about to jump aboard, I noticed a cardboard sign encased in a sheet of clear plastic, hanging from the bow rail. I bent down and read the sign: WARNINGUnited States Government SeizureThis property has been seized for nonpayment of internal revenue taxes due from John Sutter by virtue of levy issued by the District Director of Internal Revenue.Persons tampering with this property, in any manner, are subject to severe penalty of the law.I stared at the sign awhile, trying to comprehend how this thing got on my boat. After a full minute, I stood and loaded my provisions on board.

As I went about casting off, I noticed that people in nearby boats were looking at me. I mean, if I needed a final humiliation, this was it. Well, but it could have been worse. Let's not forget that right here on Long Island in colonial times, people were put in wooden cages and dunked in ponds, they were tarred and feathered, locked in pillories, and whipped in public. So one little cardboard sign was no big deal. At least I didn't have to wear it around my neck.

I started the engine and took the Paumanok Paumanok out into the bay. I noticed that on the door that led below was the same sign as the one on the bow rail. I saw yet another one tied to the main mast. Well, I couldn't say I didn't see the sign, could I? out into the bay. I noticed that on the door that led below was the same sign as the one on the bow rail. I saw yet another one tied to the main mast. Well, I couldn't say I didn't see the sign, could I?

I cut the engine and let the boat drift with the tide and wind. It was late afternoon, a nice summer Sunday in August, a bit cooler than normal, but comfortable.

I really missed this while I was in Manhattan: the smell of the sea, the horizons, the isolation, and the quiet. I opened a can of beer, sat on the deck, and drank. I made a baloney sandwich and ate it, then had another beer. After five days of menus, room service, and restaurants, it was nice to make myself a baloney sandwich and drink beer from a can.

Well, I went through about half the case, drifting around the bay, contemplating the meaning of life and more specifically wondering if I'd done and said the right things with Susan. I thought I had, and I justified my not telling her I didn't buy her story by reminding myself that she was borderline nuts even under the best of circumstances. I wasn't looking to destroy her or the marriage. I really wanted things to work out. I mean, on one level, we were still in love, but there's nothing more awkward than a husband and wife living together when one of them is having an affair, and the other one knows about it. (What I had done is called a fling. Susan was having an affair. Bellarosa had explained that when we were all having dinner at The Creek that night. Right?) Well, you don't sleep together, of course, but you don't necessarily have to separate and file for divorce, either. Especially if you're both still emotionally involved. There are other less civilized responses, I know, like having the big scene, or one or the other spouse's going completely psychotic and getting violent. But in this case, the entire mess had evolved in such a bizarre way that I felt I shared in the responsibility.

Actually Susan had not verbally acknowledged that she was was having an affair with our next-door neighbor, and that sort of complicated the situation. To make a legal analogy, I had made an accusation but had never presented evidence, and the accused exercised her right to remain silent, sulky, and withdrawn. And in truth, though Bellarosa had tacitly acknowledged the affair, my evidence was purely circumstantial as far as Susan was concerned. So, I think we both figured that if we just avoided the issue and avoided each other, we might eventually both come to believe none of this had happened. It was sort of the reverse, I suppose, of our sexual fantasies; it was using our well-developed powers of make-believe to pretend that what was happening was just another sexual melodrama, this one titled, "John Suspects Susan of Adultery." having an affair with our next-door neighbor, and that sort of complicated the situation. To make a legal analogy, I had made an accusation but had never presented evidence, and the accused exercised her right to remain silent, sulky, and withdrawn. And in truth, though Bellarosa had tacitly acknowledged the affair, my evidence was purely circumstantial as far as Susan was concerned. So, I think we both figured that if we just avoided the issue and avoided each other, we might eventually both come to believe none of this had happened. It was sort of the reverse, I suppose, of our sexual fantasies; it was using our well-developed powers of make-believe to pretend that what was happening was just another sexual melodrama, this one titled, "John Suspects Susan of Adultery."

Anyway, somewhere around the tenth or eleventh beer, I realized that it was Frank Bellarosa who stood in the way of a real and lasting reconciliation.

Well, the sky was turning purple, and the gulls were swooping, and it was time to go back. I rose unsteadily, went below, and retrieved a fire ax that was clipped to a bulkhead. I went into the forward head and swung the ax, cutting a five-inch gash in the fiberglass hull below the waterline. I pulled the ax out and watched the sea water cascade down the hull between the sink and shower. I swung the ax a few more times, cutting a good-size hole in the hull. The sea gushed in, swamping the floor and spilling out into the forward stateroom.

I went topside and opened the flag locker, pulling out seven pennants and clipping them to the halyard. I ran the pennants up the main mast.

Proud of my idiocy, and with the Paumanok Paumanok listing to starboard and me listing to port, I lowered myself onto the aft deck and pulled a small inflatable life raft from under the cockpit seat. I put the remainder of the beer aboard the raft along with two small oars, and I sat in the raft. I popped a beer and drank while my boat settled deeper into the water around me. listing to starboard and me listing to port, I lowered myself onto the aft deck and pulled a small inflatable life raft from under the cockpit seat. I put the remainder of the beer aboard the raft along with two small oars, and I sat in the raft. I popped a beer and drank while my boat settled deeper into the water around me.

The sea came over the starboard side first, sloshed around the tilting deck and raised the life raft a few inches.

The Paumanok Paumanok took a long while to sink, but eventually the stern settled into the water and the lifeboat drifted away over the swamped stern. I watched my boat as it settled slowly into the sea, listing at about forty-five degrees to starboard, its bow rising up out of the water and its mast flying the seven signal pennants that proclaimed to the world, took a long while to sink, but eventually the stern settled into the water and the lifeboat drifted away over the swamped stern. I watched my boat as it settled slowly into the sea, listing at about forty-five degrees to starboard, its bow rising up out of the water and its mast flying the seven signal pennants that proclaimed to the world, Fuck you. Fuck you.

It was nearly dark now, and as I drifted away, it became more difficult to see my boat, but I could still make out the mast and the pennants lying almost perpendicular to the water. It appeared as though the keel had touched bottom and that she was as far down as she was going to go.

I drifted with the tide for a while, working on a fresh beer and thinking about this and that. Obviously, what I had done was a very spiteful thing, not to mention a class A felony. But so what? I mean, someone was being very spiteful toward me. Right? I saw Alphonse Ferragamo's hand in this, and Mr. Novac's hand, too. And perhaps even Mr. Mancuso's hand and possibly Mr. Melzer's influence. No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself. No good will come of your trying to take on forces more powerful than yourself. True, but I was enjoying the fight. True, but I was enjoying the fight.

What I didn't enjoy was the loss of my boat, which in some semimystical way had become a part of me over the years. The Paumanok Paumanok had always been my ace in the hole, my rocket ship to other galaxies, my time machine. That's why they'd taken her from me. Well, as the signal flags said, Fuck you. had always been my ace in the hole, my rocket ship to other galaxies, my time machine. That's why they'd taken her from me. Well, as the signal flags said, Fuck you.

Of course, if I hadn't been so spiteful and impulsive, I'd have gotten the boat back after I'd come up with the taxes, but that wasn't the point. The point was that the Paumanok Paumanok was not going to be used as a pawn or a knife in my ribs. It was a good boat, and it should not suffer the indignity of a government tax-seizure sign on it. So I hoisted a beer to her and lay down in the life raft and drifted around the bay. was not going to be used as a pawn or a knife in my ribs. It was a good boat, and it should not suffer the indignity of a government tax-seizure sign on it. So I hoisted a beer to her and lay down in the life raft and drifted around the bay.

Around midnight, after counting a billion stars and wishing on a dozen shooting stars, I stirred myself and sat up.

I finished the last half of a beer, oriented myself, and began rowing for shore. As I pulled on the oars, I asked myself, "What else can go wrong?'' But you should never ask that question.

Part VI

At two hours after midnight appeared the land at a distance of two leagues.-Christopher Columbus Journal of the First Voyage, October 12, 1492

Thirty-four.

"You gotta try the sfogliatelli sfogliatelli,'' said Frank Bellarosa.

Susan took the pastry and put it on her plate beside two other "gotta try'' pastries. Oddly, this woman, who looks like a poster girl for famine relief, packed down an entire "gotta try'' meal without even turning green.

Anna Bellarosa was watching her weight, as she announced about six times, and was "just picking.'' She picked her way through enough food to feed the slums of Calcutta for a week. She also picked out two pastries, then put artificial sweetener in her coffee.

Where this was taking place was Giulio's, and it was now mid-September. Actually, it was Friday, September seventeenth, to be exact, and you'll see shortly why the day sticks out in my mind.

As for the great unveiling, I understand everyone loved the painting, and everyone had a good time that night. Terrific. I had a good excuse for missing the art event of the year, of course, if I had wanted an excuse: "Sorry, but I was busy sinking my boat to piss off the Feds.'' Regarding that, I hadn't heard from the IRS yet, and I doubt they even knew the Paumanok Paumanok was gone. It didn't mean as much to them as it did to me. Maybe in the end, it was a futile gesture, but I wasn't sorry I'd done it. And if they asked me about it, I'd say, "Yes, I sunk her, just as my ancestors dumped tea into Boston Harbor. Give me liberty or give me death.'' I'd probably get about a year and a six-figure fine. was gone. It didn't mean as much to them as it did to me. Maybe in the end, it was a futile gesture, but I wasn't sorry I'd done it. And if they asked me about it, I'd say, "Yes, I sunk her, just as my ancestors dumped tea into Boston Harbor. Give me liberty or give me death.'' I'd probably get about a year and a six-figure fine.

But I did have a closing date on the East Hampton house, and I'd probably be able to settle my tax delinquency within a few weeks. Then I could get out my scuba gear and remove the tax-seizure signs from the Paumanok Paumanok.

Regarding my marital status, I'd accepted Susan's suggestion and remained in residence. However, we were married in name only, as they used to say when describing a couple who shared the same house and attended social and family functions together, but who no longer engaged in conjugal sex. This may have been all right for our ancestors, but to most modern couples, it's the worst of both worlds.

Anyway, back at Giulio's, the fat lady was still singing, belting them out in Italian, a mixture of sweet melodic songs and sad songs that made the old goombahs weepy, plus a few numbers that must have been pretty raunchy judging by the way she sang them and the reaction of the crowd.

The crowd, incidentally, was slightly different from the lunch group. There were, to be sure, a few suspected mafioso types, but there were also some uptown Manhattanites as well, people who spent their entire urban lives trying to discover new restaurants that nobody knows about yet, except the two hundred people in the place. Well, the uptown crowd was going to have something interesting to report after this meal. Anyway, there were also a lot of greasy young Guidos in the place with their girlfriends, who looked like slim Annas, just dying to get married so they could blow up like stuffed cannelloni.

And there was this old geezer with a four-day beard squeezing the whaddayacallit-the concertina-while the fat lady sang. Frank gave the old guy a twenty to play "Santa Lucia,'' and this must have been on the goombah hit parade because everybody joined in, including Susan, who somehow knew all the words in Italian. Actually, it's a pretty song and I found myself humming it. Well, the place was packed and smelled like garlic and perfume, and everybody was in a very jolly mood.

Susan seemed really fascinated by Giulio's and its denizens. Her infrequent excursions into Manhattan are confined to Midtown, Broadway, and the East Side, and she probably hasn't been down in the old ethnic neighborhoods since my company gave a party in Chinatown five years ago. But if I had thought she would enjoy something like this, I would have taken her to Little Italy, or Chinatown or Spanish Harlem or anyplace other than The Creek. But I didn't know. Then again, neither did she.

Well, a few events of note had transpired since the night I'd sunk the Paumanok Paumanok that may be worth mentioning. Edward and Carolyn had come home from the southern climes, Edward with a deep tan, and Carolyn with a deeper understanding of the Cuban people, and also with a box of Monte Cristo number fours. So the Sutter clan was reunited for about a week before Labor Day, and we had a good time despite the fact that the that may be worth mentioning. Edward and Carolyn had come home from the southern climes, Edward with a deep tan, and Carolyn with a deeper understanding of the Cuban people, and also with a box of Monte Cristo number fours. So the Sutter clan was reunited for about a week before Labor Day, and we had a good time despite the fact that the Paumanok Paumanok was at the bottom of the bay and the East Hampton house was sold. Incidentally, I hadn't told Susan that I'd sunk the boat and would not have mentioned it, except that when Edward and Carolyn came home, they wanted to go sailing. So I sat everyone down and said, "The government slapped a tax-seizure sign on the boat, and it looked so obscene, I took her into the middle of the bay and sunk her.'' I added, "I think her mast is still above water, and if it is, you can see seven signal flags that say 'Fuck you.' Well, I hope she's not a hazard to navigation, but if she is, the Coast Guard will take care of it." was at the bottom of the bay and the East Hampton house was sold. Incidentally, I hadn't told Susan that I'd sunk the boat and would not have mentioned it, except that when Edward and Carolyn came home, they wanted to go sailing. So I sat everyone down and said, "The government slapped a tax-seizure sign on the boat, and it looked so obscene, I took her into the middle of the bay and sunk her.'' I added, "I think her mast is still above water, and if it is, you can see seven signal flags that say 'Fuck you.' Well, I hope she's not a hazard to navigation, but if she is, the Coast Guard will take care of it."

There was a minute of stunned silence, then Edward said, "Good for you.'' Carolyn seconded that. Susan said nothing.

Anyway, we took some day trips, saw a matinee in Manhattan, swam at Fox Point, and even played golf one day at The Creek, though I had the distinct feeling some people were snubbing us. I resigned from the club the next day-not because, as Groucho Marx, a onetime Gold Coast resident, once said, "I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member''-but because if I belonged there, then I belonged belonged there. And I didn't, so I don't. there. And I didn't, so I don't. Capisce? Capisce?

Anyway, the day after Labor Day, Susan decided to visit her parental units in Hilton Head, leaving Carolyn, Edward, and me to finish out the last days of school vacation by ourselves. It was a nice few days, and we spent them mostly at Stanhope Hall, riding and walking the property. Carolyn got the idea to do a photographic essay of the estate, and that took two days with me supplying the history and the captions for the pictures as best I could. Carolyn is not the sentimental type, but I think she knew that might be one of the last times that such a thing would be possible. One night, Edward, Carolyn, and I camped out in the mansion with sleeping bags, and we had a picnic on the marble floor of the dining room by candlelight.

Sitting around the candles, deep into a bottle of wine, Carolyn said to me, "You've changed, Dad."

"Have I? How?"

She thought a moment, then replied, "You're more ... grown-up.'' She smiled.

I smiled in return. "And my voice is changing.'' I knew what she meant, of course. The last few months had been a time of challenge and change, and so I suppose it had been good for my character. Most American men of the upper middle classes never really grow up unless they are fortunate enough to go to war or go through a bankruptcy or divorce or other major adversity. So this was the summer I got hair on my balls, and it felt good and bad at the same time. I asked Edward, "Do you think your old man has changed?"

Edward, who is not usually tuned in to the subtleties of human behavior, replied, "Yeah, I guess.'' He added, "Can you change back?"

"No. There's no going back."

A few days after that, I rented a van and drove the kids to school. We went first to Sarah Lawrence, and Edward was nervous about starting college, but I assured him that the liberal arts curriculum he was taking was similar to the one I took at Yale, and that I slept for four years. Thus assured, he strode confidently into the formerly all-girls school, his hair combed for the first time since his baptism, and his body smelling of some awful lotion.

Carolyn and I drove alone to Yale, and I always enjoy going back to my alma mater, as my college memories are good despite the turmoil of those years in the mid-sixties. Carolyn said to me on the way to New Haven, "Are you legally separated?"

"No. Your mother just went to visit her parents."

"It's sort of a trial separation?"

"No."

"Why are you sleeping in separate rooms?"

"Because we don't want to sleep in separate cities. End of conversation."

So I drove her up to Yale. As a sophomore this year, Carolyn enters what we call a "college,'' actually a dorm where she will spend the next three years. She is, in fact, in my old college, Jonathan Edwards. J E, as we call it, is a beautiful, old Gothic building with arches, climbing ivy, and turrets, situated around a large quadrangle. It is, in fact, the greatest place on the face of this earth, and I wished I was staying and not leaving.

Anyway, I helped her unload half a vanful of clothes and electronics, which barely fit in her room. It was a nice suite like my old place down the hall, with oak paneling and a fireplace in the living room. I met her roommate, a tall, blond young woman from Texas named Halsey, and I wondered if I shouldn't go back to Jonathan Edwards to do a little more undergraduate work. You're never too old to learn.

But I digress. Carolyn and I walked down to Liggett's Drugstore, which is sort of a tradition, and with a few hundred other Yalies and parents, we stocked up on notions and sundries. We stowed the Liggett's bags in the van, then walked the few blocks to York Street, "to the tables down at Mory's, to the place where Louie dwells.'' Don't ask me what that means.

Mory's is a private club, and I've kept my membership for this past quarter of a century, though I doubt if I get there once a year. But though I may have resigned from The Creek, and may eventually resign from my job and my marriage and from life in general, I will never resign from Mory's, for to do that is to sever the ties to myself, to the John Sutter whom I used to know and like. I may indeed be a poor little lamb who has lost his way, but that night I was home again.

So Carolyn and I had dinner at Mory's along with a hundred other families, many of whom I noticed were missing one or the other spouse. Carolyn is not a member of Mory's, and may never be, as she discriminates against private clubs. Nevertheless, I regaled her with Mory stories, and she sat there and smiled at me, sometimes amused, sometimes bored, and once or twice disapproving. Well, yesterday's high jinks are today's insensitive behavior, I suppose, and maybe the reverse is also true. But it was a nice dinner, an exquisite few hours between father and daughter.

The oak tabletops at Mory's have been carved with thousands of names and initials, and though we couldn't find mine without clearing off someone else's dinner, I did produce a sharp pocketknife for Carolyn, who carved away while I went around the dining room and said hello to a few old school chums.

I walked Carolyn back to Jonathan Edwards, we kissed good-bye, and I got in the van, opting for the two-hour drive back to Long Island rather than prolonging the nostalgia trip, which could easily have turned from pleasant to maudlin.

Regarding my legal career, my association with Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds seemed to be rather vague, perhaps even tentative. I put myself on half salary, which is, I think, fair since I spend half the week in the Locust Valley office, albeit with my door closed and the phone turned off. But I feel a sense of responsibility to my old clients, and I'm trying to put their affairs in some semblance of order and to parcel them out to other attorneys in the firm. As for my Wall Street business, that's completely gone. My Wall Street clients would fire an attorney after two missed phone calls, so my sense of loyalty and responsibility toward the yellow-tie guys is not deep and not reciprocal. But I have to settle the question of my status with the firm and I suppose if I ever show up at the Wall Street office, I could discuss this with the senior partners.

As for the United States United States v. v. Frank Bellarosa Frank Bellarosa, that seemed to be moving rather more slowly than Mr. Ferragamo promised. Not only did we not have a trial date, but I hadn't had an opportunity to examine any of the five witnesses against my client. Alphonse informed me one day by phone, "We have them all in hiding under the witness protection program. They're very frightened about testifying in open court against a Mafia chief."

"There is no Mafia."

Ha, ha, said Alphonse, and he added, "They didn't mind the grand jury, but now they're getting cold feet."

"Four Colombian drug goons and a gun moll have cold feet?"

"Why not? So for that reason, Mr. Sutter, I've asked for a delay in the trial date. I'll keep you informed.'' He added, "What's your rush? This should make you happy. Maybe the witnesses will refuse to testify."

"Maybe they were lying from the beginning,'' I pointed out.

"Why would they do that?"

He and I both knew why, but I wasn't allowed to bug him. "Maybe,'' I said, "it was a case of mistaken identity. All Italians look alike, don't they?"

"Actually, they don't, Mr. Sutter. I don't look anything like Frank Bellarosa, for instance. By the way, regarding mistaken identity, I discovered that you were at your country club at about one P P.M. on January fourteenth, for lunch with your wife."

"So what? I said I saw Bellarosa at about nine A A.M., then again at about noon."

"And you went home, took care of the horse, presumably showered, changed into a suit, and were at your club at one P P.M."

"They don't call me superman for nothing."

"Hmmm,'' said Alphonse. I mean, this guy thought he was Inspector Porfiry Petrovich, hounding poor Raskolnikov into a confession, but I found him a bore.

Anyway, I was more convinced than ever that Alphonse was stalling and would continue to stall until somebody out on the street solved his problem. He didn't have long to wait.

Regarding my relationships with friends and family, that was also on hold. Part of the reason for this was that I was keeping out of touch, which is no easy thing to do these days. Try it. But I disconnected my home fax, changed my phone number to an unlisted one, and had all my mail forwarded to a P.O. box in the Locust Valley Post Office, which I never visited. Also, Ethel as gatekeeper proved to be a lot more nasty than George ever was, and nobody gets past the gate while Ethel is in the gatehouse. When she's not around, the gate is locked.