Crosscurrents

2

2

Everhart Van Houten

Everhart Warren Van Houten, III’s eyes darted to the Monsignor’s sparkling gold ring when the clergyman raised his wine glass in a toast. He knew the ring symbolized the priest’s marriage to God, a spiritual relationship that demanded celibacy and transcended the mortal man and wife union. For one long moment he envied Monsignor Giuseppe because proximity to God loomed outside his reach, and he possessed almost everything else.

“To one who speaks with authority,” the monsignor said. “With Evers as campaign chairman, St. Michael’s building renovation fund exceeded its goal of $12 million dollars. He raised $15 million—a crowning achievement.” Dressed in a black cassock and sash trimmed in red piping, the handsome mid-forties clergyman with perfectly capped white teeth, presented his most winning smile and waited for the crowd to hush before continuing. “Let Almighty God reward his good works!”

Cheers and applause followed his remarks.

Mary Catherine, Evers’ lovely, aristocratic wife of thirty-nine years who still wore a size eight dress, patted her husband’s arm and affectionately looked at him.

In his mid-sixties, Evers’ long face spread upward into a receding hairline flanked by wild tufts of gray hair. He viewed the world through intense blue eyes. He smiled at his wife, then broadened his grin in response to the chants demanding he speak. He raised his hands to quiet the twelve guests who had gathered for dinner. They circled the antique oak table imported from a 14th century Italian monastery, carved in bas-relief with cherubs.

“That proves that all the money on Long Island is not Jewish.”

The Gold Coast residents howled.

“I think we’re filled to our gills with speeches. The party is to express my appreciation to you, my neighbors, who pitched in for a good cause. The money will make the needed repairs and assure Monsignor and his staff can continue to minister to our community on a first class basis…”

“Hear. Hear.”

“Eat, drink, and be merry, as they say!”

Under an anaglyptic twelve-foot ceiling, an ornate crystal chandelier, jokingly referred to as a ‘thousand points of light’ by Evers, hung over the dining table. Its low-hung position precluded anyone over six feet tall from making eye contact with anyone across from him. The walls, adorned with original paintings of the seventeenth and eighteenth century, were covered in subtle, striped rose fabric. The windows were draped in deep folds of the same material, trimmed in a striped rose braid.

Seated in a chair cushioned in burgundy velvet, Monsignor Giuseppe spoke, “Evers, you’ve been a Godsend for St. Michaels.” He touched Evers’ arm. “If there’s anything I can do for you?”

A smile lit Evers’ face. “There is Monsignor. I’d like a personal audience with the Pope.”

“That can be arranged. The Holy Father enjoys meeting major contributors to the church.”

The wait staff removed their plates.

“Each time I’m in your home I marvel at the works of art. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers is exquisite.”

“It’s priceless, an original. My grandfather bought it at an auction around the turn of the century, at a price considered to be exorbitant at the time. It turned out to be one of the great bargains of the century.”

“Your grandfather had an eye for art.”

“He was a genius. He collected most of the art in this house. After dessert I’ll give you a tour of the exhibit. Many are in rooms you don’t normally see.”

The Van Houtens lived in the front half of a fifty room stone mansion with slate roof and copper-sheathed sash and drain pipes. Even at its peak with five children, a live-in mother-in-law, a stream of three or four revolving relatives and friends, and four servants, twenty-five rooms proved more than ample. Expensive heating bills closed off the other half. Boston ivy covered the outside. Mary Catherine planted a lush cutting garden in the back which she tended with a gardener’s help.

Evers noticed Monsignor’s empty wine glass and motioned for the wine steward to refill it. “Grandfather Evers was an amazing man. A blacksmith in Holland who balked at the oppressive conditions of his time, he stowed away on a freighter and immigrated to New York. He started Skylar, manufacturing guns, muskets, and gunpowder.”

Monsignor Giuseppe tasted the wine. “Magnificent! A Chateau Laffite, no less. You treat me like royalty.”

“My pleasure.”

“Did your father inherit your grandfather’s ambition?”

“Not really. He was quite different. Gentler, more in the present. He disliked working long hours. Preferred polo or sailing.”

“There’s a theory that ambition skips every other generation. Born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth provides little incentive for achievement.”

“Perhaps, that explains it. My father was shrewd enough to stack the board and key management positions with talent and look to them for major decisions. Skylar prospered under him, then flourished with the advent of World War II and the birth of unlimited government contracts.”

Evers scanned the guests who engaged in comfortable conversation, excepting perhaps, Monsignor Giuseppe. This wasn’t one of his political dinners.

“Then with everything at your fingertips you become bored and decide to strike out on your own like your grandfather and make your own contribution.”

“Very perceptive of you. I plan to make Skylar the number one defense company in the world. Right now we’re number three.”

The monsignor dipped his spoon into the caramel crème soufflé delivered in a hand-painted crock, licked his lips. “I would imagine the current unrest in the world today must have you salivating such as I’m doing eating this splendid dessert.”

“You would think so but the doves are beginning to buck back.”

“I assume you’re referring to Senator George Tobias,” the monsignor said.

“He goes around frothing at the mouth like a mad dog. If he isn’t stopped his bite will make us too sick to defend ourselves.” Evers put on a smile. “But enough about that. Let me give you that art tour.”

After they had made their excuses and vacated the room, Monsignor said, “Evers, my contact in Rome is a gun collector. Your work for the church has earned you the right to see the Pope, but the right gift could move your name up the list.”

“I understand. Consider it done.”