October 16th, 1966
They call my grandmother the queen of the park. Her name is Blythe Bainbridge and she will be eighty years old in sixteen hours.
Blythe never wanted us to call her “grammy” or “nana” or even “grandma.” She insists we call her by her first name. It seems very strange and formal, and that’s because it is. Blythe does not bake cookies or knit Christmas jumpers. Instead, she curates million dollar art auctions and hosts luncheons for high profile politicians at the National Chalice Club. I suppose, if Blythe was queen of the park, the club would be her palace.
Naturally, they call me the heir of the park. My name is Agnes Bainbridge and I will be sixteen in four months. I live in a townhouse on the square with my little sister Camilla, my mother, my father, Blythe, and my grandfather. Camilla and I go to the Rosewood School in Kensington.
Knightsbridge, my neighborhood, is sort of its own monarchy. There’s my family, and then there are the people we consider on our level of social importance, if not below. Those are the people in the pre-war apartments. The auctioneers, business higher-ups, CEOs of monopolies. My parents have vowed to only befriend penthouse owners, while they casually chat with those on lower floors. It’s utterly petty and ridiculous. There are the onlookers — the people from all over the village who don’t live within the boundaries of the park. They walk by, admiring the park with their knuckles grasped around the bars as the residents sneer at them from inside. Then there’s the peasants — the doormen, the mailmen, the blue collar workers who are merely footstools for us. When I say “we” and “us”, by the way, I don’t mean to include myself. It’s simply the way my family behaves and I have become accustomed to it. Not that I approve of it.
Blythe always had a very . . . involved routine when she got ready in the morning. She woke up at six o’clock, powdered her face, brushed her thinning grey hair, put on her pearls and gold bangles, an hermes scarf and the newest Chanel set. But on the dawn of her birthday, she left the house early to go to the salon to get her nails painted a deep crimson and get a blowout. It seemed like half of her life, the half that wasn’t spent patrolling the neighborhood with her clipboard and key resting on her wrist, was spent pruning her fading beauty. Blythe always said to me “maintenance is the way to a man’s heart.” I wonder if my grandfather knows she thinks that.
While Blythe was gone, I crept out of my room, careful not to wake anyone. Perhaps it was just my circadian rhythm, but I always woke up at the same time as Blythe. When I was younger, I would stand in the hallway and watch her through the crack of her bedroom door. She would apply lotion to her long, milky fingers and stare at herself in the vanity mirror. I wonder if she ever saw me looking. She never mentioned it, if she did. I always found Blythe to be a fascinating creature, an exhibition to be studied. She never felt like my grandmother, like a warm hearth or a human being I could talk to about things that weren’t my grades, whether I’d be applying to Oxford, my school’s latest cricket match or what dress I was wearing to the next debutante ball or gala. Even though we lived together with our rooms down the hallway on the same floor, she felt worlds away from me. That’s how she wanted it. For me and Camilla to be more of her protégées than her grandchildren.
I tore down the stairs, my hand skimming the banister and my bare feet toddling down the velvet stair runner. Every surface in our house was covered with some sort of drape or tapestry. I think my mother thought it made the house seem more elegant. To me, it just seemed stuffy.
Camilla was already downstairs, eating eggs that our maid, Rosalind, had cooked. “Good morning, Ms. Agatha. Eggs and toast?” Rosalind offered.
“Yes, please,” I responded, sitting next to Camilla. “Did you see Blythe on her way out?”
Camilla rolled her eyes. “Yep. She looked stir-crazy. She’s acting like her 80th birthday is like, the resurrection of Jesus Christ or something.” We were Catholic and extremely devoted. At least, my parents and grandparents were. Camilla didn’t even try to pretend she believed in God at church. She’d sit in the pews with her eyes open, filing her nails and doodling on the bottom of her Mary Janes.
“You can’t say that, Cam. You know, she’s really stressed.”
“Oh no, poor old Blythe! A big soirée to plan with a hundred fifty of her closest friends. Quelle horreur!”
I saw Rosalind raise an eyebrow as she cracked an egg on the stove, but she said nothing. The whole household was well aware of Camilla’s “rebellious” behavior. She had been different since she was a little baby. According to Mother, she had been far more fussy than me. I hadn’t cried for 6 weeks straight after I had come out of the womb.
Camilla was the black sheep. She had a pin straight bob with bangs she had cut herself on the bathroom floor at school. She wore mini skirts without tights. Actually, Blythe didn’t let her wear mini skirts, so she would leave the house in the morning in a knee length skirt and change in the Metro bathroom. Her style was sort of like if Twiggy and Sharon Tate had a baby. She was cool. I wasn’t. I couldn’t have been, even if I wanted to. I had long hair that framed my face as pleasantly as a lampshade frames a bulb. “Don’t cut it!” Blythe had instructed me since I was seven. I wore my uniform every day. On weekends, I wore a lot of tweed and satin. My style was sort of Lady Bird Johnson-ish. Just picture pantsuits and pearls on a twelve year old.
Blythe didn’t bother with Camilla. Well, she did, when there were events and parties and galas. But at home, Camilla was allowed to be who she wanted to be. The thing about Camilla was that she was edgy and different but she still lived in a townhouse in Knightsbridge. She was rich and spoiled. At least I knew I was. At least I showed it. But sometimes, when I would be sitting in the darkness of my room in the middle of the night, I’d wish I was Camilla.
The club was one block from our house. The six of us walked in pairs. Grandfather and Blythe in front, Mother and Father behind them, and me and Camilla in the back. It was like the royal procession of Knightsbridge. At least, they acted like it was, with us clomping our way down the sidewalk dressed to the nines. “Fix your tie, Arnold,” Blythe fussed with Grandfather. “Be light on your toes, Nancy. You sound like an elephant in those heels,” she said to Mother. For me, there was “Stand up straight, Agnes. Nobody likes a sloucher.” To Camilla, she said, “Oh good God. Please don’t make that face all evening. You look like you’re sucking on a lemon. Smile more! This isn’t a funeral.” She had no criticism for my father, her smart, perfect boy.
We passed the park on our walk to the club. The park was actually not all it was cracked up to be. It was merely a collection of pruned shrubs, gravel pathways and green benches with some bizarre 19th century history Blythe could recite to anyone who was curious. You couldn’t eat or drink or feed pigeons or walk a dog in the park. So really, it was just a place you could sit and talk or stare at the sky. Most people in the neighborhood never even went in. They just liked to tell people they belonged, that Blythe Bainbridge, the queen herself, had given them a key.
The club was prepared for the party — Blythe had been planning it for months in advance. To the untrained eye, the club looked the same as it always did. If you looked closely, however, the sumptuous velvet drapes had been dusted and the rugs had been switched out for antique Persian carpets. The gallery had been curated specifically for the party with pieces taken straight from the MET archives. The bar was lined up with ornate glasses and wine shipped from Napa with every variety of grape there was. None of it really made a difference. I doubted any of the party-goers would notice Blythe’s nitpicking and attention to the most miniscule of details. But it made her feel in control. Perhaps it was why she was a curator.
Before long, guests started to arrive. It wasn’t much different from any old cocktail party/fundraiser brunch/DAR luncheon — just a bunch of people who thought this was Gatsby as they chattered under the crystal chandeliers, that a Bainbridge party was gilded glamour at its best. Last weekend, I heard a man in the bodega whisper, “The Bainbridges will be there.” Big whoop, I’d thought.
Camilla spent most of the party dancing with boys from Rosewood. She was lucky that she wasn’t where I was, being shoved in the face with university men whose grandparents somehow were friends with my grandparents in the forties. It was all very boorish and ridiculous. My eye caught onto Blythe’s, who was laughing politely with an austere thirty-something executive. I excused myself from the crowd that had formed around me and walked over to Blythe. I looped my arm through hers. “Excuse me, sir, but I have to speak with my grandmother for a moment.” I walked her over to the bar.
“What is it, Agnes? That was rather rude,” she whispered sharply.
“What are all these men doing here? These university boys,” I said, pointing to the corner where I had been standing moments before.
“When you start at Oxford, these boys will be fighting for your heart. Better get a head start,” Blythe said.
“I’d rather not. I don’t even know if I’m going to Oxford yet. It’s two years away.” Blythe looked at me as if I was this poor, naive little thing. “Oh darling. Every Bainbridge woman has gone to Oxford. Your mother will certainly not be the last.”
“Camilla might not go to college. She’s interested in the music industry. Selling records and that sort of thing.” I said this mostly to aggravate Blythe. I hadn’t meant to throw my sister under the bus.
Blythe laughed, the bangles on her wrists clinking together as her shoulders shook. “Records? Records are for listening to, not for selling. Not for any granddaughter of mine.”
A man with a handlebar moustache walked up to us and addressed Blythe. “Mrs. Bainbridge? I’d like a word with you about the club’s summer collection. I heard something about a Matisse auction at the Guggenheim?”
“Oh, Monsieur! It’s nice to see you again. Of course.” She smiled tightly at me and walked away with “monsieur.”
I sighed, asked the bartender for a Shirley Temple, and walked upstairs, away from the clamboring Oxford boys in the corner. The upper floors of the Chalice Club were deserted. I walked around sipping my drink and staring at the pointillism paintings on the wall. I heard the bossa nova and forced laughter coming from downstairs. I had no desire to return. To celebrate Blythe Bainbridge and all she stood for.
“Are you a Bainbridge?” said a voice from behind me. I jumped, startled.
“What?” I said, as I spun around. A boy wearing a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dress pants and loafers stood before me. He looked like the boys downstairs, but he wasn’t trying to court me. I could tell, from the expression on his face, the anger fizzling in his eyes. What right did he have to be looking at me like I’d wronged him? Who even was he? “Who are you?”
“Benjamin Richmond,” he said, as if it was obvious.
“Richmond?” I repeated.
“Yes, Richmond. You recognize the name?” he said, vengeance rippling through his voice.
“You’re not related to Jeremiah Richmond, are you?”
“He’s my grandfather.”
“Oh,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.” Jeremiah Richmond had once been the club’s president. He was let go last year after being caught in a fraud and embezzlement scandal. Blythe had found a replacement for Mr. Richmond in less than a week, and it was like the whole thing had never happened. We had never been close with the Richmonds, even before the scandal. I hadn’t even known there were Richmond grandchildren my age.
“Probably not. But there’s nobody here. Listen, I have to tell you something,” he said, a sense of urgency in his voice.
I put my Shirley Temple down on a glass table and made a sour face at him. “Should you even be here? I thought your family was banned from the club.”
“It’s your grandma’s eightieth birthday. She made an exception.”
“Like what?” I questioned. “Bribery?”
“Something like that,” he said.
“So your grandfather wanted to be here that badly, huh? He really bribed Blythe?” I asked.
“Not quite. More like the other way around.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll start from the beginning. Do you know your grandmother?”
“What? Yes, of course.” I suddenly felt strangely defensive over Blythe.
“Do you really, though? Does she tell you everything?”
“We’re not best friends, but I think I know a thing or two.”
“Let’s play a game. Blythe Bainbridge trivia.”
“I’d rather not,” I said. This was all such a strange ordeal.
“Where did she go to college?”
“Oxford. Obviously.” I felt nervous all of a sudden. I wasn’t sure why. I had no reason to be.
“Correct. And her parents?”
“Oxford. I think. She never mentions her parents.”
“Incorrect. They both never went to college and worked as steel workers. She’s not even from Manhattan. She was born in Delaware and raised in Coney Island.”
I shook my head. “No. No, no, she wasn’t.”
“How do you know? Does she talk about her childhood?”
“No,” I said, in realization. “But that means nothing.”
“Ok, next question. How long has she belonged to the club?”
“Since she was a little girl. Oh, maybe that’s not quite right. Since college, at least, I think?”
“No she —” Suddenly, the sounds of a clinking glass and a voice sounded from downstairs. It was deep and commanding.
“That must be my grandfather. Listen, I wanted to warn you. Because I doubt you’re anything like your grandmother. Clearly, you don’t know what she’s done. I think you’ve got a right to know.”
My face was turning as white as cracked porcelain. “Know what?”
“Blythe likes gates. She likes having a key to those gates. She likes access. Knowing who’s who, what’s what. It’s a clear sign of a social climber. The kind of person who’s so aware that they don’t belong that they’ll do anything they can to make it seem like they do.”
“What are you saying?”
“My grandfather will be giving a toast to Blythe this evening,” he said, using finger quotes on the word “toast.” “We better head down.”
“I’d like to raise a toast to the incredible Mrs. Bainbridge,” announced Mr. Richmond. He was a stout man, but his deep voice made up for it. He wore a freshly tailored suit and I thought that his head of hair was most likely a toupée. “She is truly one of a kind. A real money maker for the club.” He said this with a chuckle, as the crowd surrounding him laughed, even though it wasn’t particularly funny. To the untrained ear, he sounded complementary and kind. To mine, he was completely sardonic.
I looked for Blythe in the crowd of people. My eyes settled on her standing in her evening gown, sparkling like the crown jewel of the party, her arm looped around Grandfather’s. She smiled in her sickly sweet way, but I could feel a tension bubbling under the surface. She must have been scared. For the words Mr. Richmond was about to utter. Perhaps she wasn’t aware he would even be at the party.
“I would like to tell you all a story about how I met the lovely Mrs. Bainbridge. I can hardly believe we’ve known each other for sixty years! I guess time really flies when you’re trying to one-up each other every chance you get!” More uncomfortable laughter.
I turned to look at Benjamin’s face. He was stoic, completely still. “Well, before she was Mrs. Bainbridge, she was Ms. Wills, born in a poor town to two wonderful parents. They eventually got jobs as steel workers in the city. Ms. Wills studied very hard in school — anyone who knows her knows she’s a tough cookie! Eventually, she got a scholarship to Oxford University. Her parents were thrilled that she would be getting a free ride, considering their current position.” I watched nervously as people began to exchange looks with each other, as the room buzzed with chatter. Everyone was looking at Blythe, whose eyes were about to pop out of her skull. She seemed smaller now. Less like the matriarch I’d always seen her as, more of a pathetic liar. Grandfather had let go of his grasp on Blythe and was whispering something to her furiously.
“Ms. Wills got an internship in the curating department at the Chalice Club during her sophomore year. Eventually, she met Mr. Arnold Bainbridge, her future husband. In order to court him, she told him she was from a rich family from Greenwich. In her story, her parents had died months after she was born so she had lived with an aunt who had conveniently died weeks before her meeting with Mr. Bainbridge. We all know Blythe loves her Chanel, but sometimes the best accessory is a well-crafted lie rather than a designer handbag!” He paused for laughter. “Well, they got married soon after. Unfortunately, Mr. Bainbridge’s fortune wasn’t enough, so our dear Blythe asked me if I would help her out with an embezzlement scheme. Perhaps that’s why the club was never in tip-top shape in the thirties and forties — Blythe was saving all your membership fees for herself and her pretty little townhouse down on Irving. Perhaps she misunderstood the term ‘royal treasury.’ Turns out, it’s not a personal piggy bank!” I could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth. I felt faint, like the world was collapsing before me, like I was watching from afar through a strange blurred looking glass. Blythe had embezzled money? My grandmother was not a walk in the park, but I had never seen her as a criminal.
“And of course, you must all know about my eventual expulsion from Blythe’s little Knightsbridge kingdom. Little old me, president of the club turned embezzler and fraudulent criminal. See, Blythe and I had a little tiff about splitting the funds. Before I knew it, the police were at my house. She had betrayed our dear friendship — perhaps she was afraid I was going to out her, so she pretended I was the only perpetrator. Blythe’s always been an avid chess player, you know. She understands how to sacrifice the pawns to protect her queen. I admire her commitment,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “And so on our dearly beloved’s eightieth, I’d like to wish her health and plenty of wealth in the new year. She looks better and more youthful than ever. Who knew crime could be so couture? Long live the queen!”
The room was silent for a moment. Then it erupted.
It was chaos. Everyone was asking Blythe what was going on, asking Mr. Richmond if it was true. They were staring at me and Camilla, like we had done all this.
Blythe tore to the front of the room and grabbed Mr. Richmond’s arm. I could hear snippets of their conversation.
“You can’t,” she cried. I had never heard Blythe sound so desperate. “My family will lose everything.”
“Boohoo. You never had any of this to begin with. Your whole life is a pyramid scheme, Blythe.”
“I deserve this. I do, I do, you bastard!”
“The police will be here in about ten minutes. I take it that your monthly brunches at Pete’s Tavern with Deputy Dillon’s wife won’t help you this time around.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what I did to you. But you don’t have to do this. I’m sorry you wish your family had what ours does. Green’s an awfully ugly color.”
“I couldn’t agree more . . . it’s too bad your little park is the greenest place in the city.”
“You can’t do this.” “I’ll be damned if I don’t.”
I still live with Blythe in our three story brownstone. She’s doing fine. Well — as fine as someone can be for serving two years in jail. I mean to say that she’s alive and physically healthy. She just can't take it walking down the street anymore. The park that used to be her kingdom and the club that once was her palace has exiled her. People look down on her, sneer like she never left Coney Island. A part of me feels bad for her. To think that Blythe was once poor and an outcast. Maybe she never stopped feeling that way. The Cartier diamonds and crystal supper glasses were just a cover up. This is how the wealthy function in this town. People only have value if they have, well, monetary value. Blythe got kicked off the pedestal the minute Mr. Richmond raised a toast at her birthday. But the rest of me feels like she got exactly what she deserved.
The bench sitting in the middle of the park with an inscription dedicated to my grandmother is now smeared with bird droppings. She’s done it. My grandmother, the Great Blythe Bainbridge, has done it. She has achieved something she never intended to during her reign. She’s the queen of scandal, the sovereign of faking it, the monarch of embezzlement.
As for me, my name is still Agnes Bainbridge, a name I can now wear with pride. They call me the dethroned heir of this godforsaken place. And I’ve never been happier.