Free Sister Wolf by Ann Arensberg

backgammon tourney, played with the Countess Valmarana, on another marble terrace, overlooking the Brenta River.
    Every summer, the Bishop hired the stroke from the Yale or Harvard crew to pole the golden barge around the pond wearing no covering above the waist but a red neckerchief. The strokes could not sing, so the Bishop applied to the Boston Conservatory, requesting poor Italian tenors who were studying there on scholarship. The gondola and half-naked gondolier irked local Yankee scruples more than the mansion itself, which was designed on a Palladian model, with the innovation of a colonnaded upper story. It pleased the Bishop to live outside his century, just as it saddened him that he had merely been born an Anglican. Since he could never wear a Cardinal’s red hat, or be referred to as a Prince of the Church, he indulged his princely tastes at his summer cottage. To Vlado and Luba he was neither affected nor trivial. They were at home with him, since they had spent most of their youth at the courts of deposed crowned heads, in outposts more remote and provincial than Niles, Massachusetts.
    During his last season at Niles, the Bishop received the summer colony on his deathbed; he held open house around the clock because he could not sleep. There was a cancer in his blood, which had drained the strength from his powerful trunk and limbs. Just his hands and his mind were active; he seemed to be all head and hands. He was living on grapes and cheese, and refused any medicine. Luba Deym often came to sit beside him in the early morning. She slept like a cat at night, dozing off for a matter of minutes and waking with a start, as if her name had been called. By 4 a.m., she was fretful and restless, so she would drive over to Meyerling, wearing her taffeta greatcoat with the Pierrot collar, and satin pantoufles with pointed toes that curled up backward. The pockets of her taffeta dressing gown were stuffed with treats and remedies like a grandmother’s reticule. She carried a bar of the Bishop’s favorite white chocolate, a bottle of hyssop water to refresh his forehead, and the pack of tarot cards that she was teaching him to read.
    One morning she found him rapping his knuckles with the crucifix that he always held, a gesture which for a well man would have been like pacing the floor. There was a bitter smell in the room.
    “Pouff, Colly, you have been burning paper. Surely it is dangerous.”
    “Hugo’s letter,” the Bishop rasped. “Hugo asks my permission to marry the Thielens girl.”
    “But he is a eunuch,” said Luba firmly. She pronounced it “ainche,” as if it were a French word.
    “No, no,” said the Bishop, “you are judging by his pasty complexion. They want to marry and have a tribe of pasty babies. They intend to turn Meyerling into a shelter for derelict men.”
    “You are not logical, Colly. She is Marian de Neufville’s granddaughter.”
    “That does not alter their plans for my house!” the Bishop shouted.
    Luba pulled the crucifix out of his grasp. She saw that his knuckles had started to bleed.
    “Lie back, Colly.” She took his hands. “Remember you are not helpless in this matter.”
    The Bishop’s head sank deep into the goose-down pillows. His eyes were closed, but he was frowning like an angry vole. Luba massaged his hands and began to conspire out loud. As she spoke, the Bishop stopped frowning and opened his eyes. Then he asked to have his head propped up a little higher. Spite acted like iron in his blood. He took over the plot.
    “So, now.” He was summing up. “We will have blind children, not beggars. You and Vlado and the appalling Enos will be trustees. What a howling joke on a philanthropist. Hugo loses to charity.”
    Later that day the Bishop died, in much the same manner that he had lived. The World and the Faith stood flanking his bed, in the shape of a lawyer and a priest. In his right hand he held the crucifix, while Father Zachary read the office of