“I guess that makes me family," said Vinnie Caruso

Vinnie Caruso prefers to have his photo taken if there is a dead tiger around. So whoever is lucky enough to capture a glimpse of his life can assume he shoots cats. Not out of sport or defense, but out of pity, but not for the Tiger, for the word, pity, for pity leaves a good taste in the mouth with those who share his transatlantic accent that teeters to the right of Bermuda and to the left of Lord Mountbatten’s, assuming his Lordship is playing Admiral with the lads off the coast of pedophilia, where children come by the dozen.

Vinnie does not have sex with children, nor is he a member of the Royal Family, but he does prefer the prestige of a Lord’s accent. That taxation without representation panache, you don’t get in the land of the free, cultivated and ruined by Northeastern Elites and the Southern Planter Class—his fellow Americans.

“It was a pity, Mrs. Auchincloss,” he says, before pausing to look at the ice in his scotch beside the crackling fire. “Pitiful, the pity. Shot by Phillip Percival, the so-called ‘Dean of African Hunters’, or Francis MacComber, to the illiterate subscribers of Cosmopolitan and Hemingway.” He scans the study of twenty or so men and women, drinking and smoking, flirting with those pretending to listen to the details of their grandfather’s patent, wearing pearls and doused in cologne, even the desensitized can smell on this side of the Hudson River in a house built by the Vanderbilts.

“I haven’t seen this many executors, Will’s, and testaments since the Nuremberg trials.”

A confused expression falls upon Mrs. Auchincloss’s face. Vinnie twirls his drink some more until he can no longer ignore her expression.

“The Cosmopolitan-Hemingway demographic. The illiterati?” Still, nothing registers. “The tiger,” he continues, “Was shot and deserted. Left to its own devices, abandoned by God, or at least that’s what Phillip Percival thinks of himself when he’s pointing a rifle. Where was the pity? The poor creature was mortally wounded and fending off attacks from hyenas and wild dogs. So I did what any lover of life would do in this sub-Saharan situation. I asked Choku for my gun, aimed and fired.”

“Did you kill it?” asks Janet Lee Bouvier-Auchincloss. “Why didn’t Percy kill it? I thought he was the best.”

Vinnie forces a sigh and looks at his drink for the eighth time in two minutes, drawing a well-practiced appearance of consideration and contemplation. He knows what he is going to say, has known since walking into this room, but has allotted this small window to think of Anthony Eden’s political future, to whom he has been compared physically, as well as James Mason and Gore Vidal, until he grew a mustache that he found popular amongst veterans of England’s Burma campaign. He thought he would bring it home, though home is a funny word when applied to Vinnie Caruso, a man with more passports than England’s commonwealth of dominions, colonies, mandates, and protectorates. His most cherished is from Tanganyika; the passport he uses the most is from Southern Rhodesia; and, despite being born 100 miles east of Tulsa, the passport without a single stamp is his US passport, which sends women to sea who claim he is American-flavored, plucked from the delta and sculpted by the world. He looks at the painting of the dead patriarch over the fire until he is interrupted.

“Wait, there are no tigers in Africa,” says Mrs. Bouvier-Auchincloss.

“There are when Phillip Percival wants to wrap puttees around his legs. That man will import anything to avoid a gift and shoot his rifle. Try offering him tailor-made mahogany, leather boots. He’ll scoff and leave a bleeding cat. Ask Choku.”

“Where’s Choku?”

Vinnie Caruso stares at the fire and decides he is peeved. He downs the rest of his drink and laments being mistaken for Robert Ruark and how disgusting that is. Missing the Golden Age of Free Thought, and that the American Secular Union might still exist if he had been born earlier, instead of shooting imported tigers abandoned by Phillip Percival, like Joseph Kennedy abandons his lobotomized children.

Mrs. Bouvier-Auchincloss gasps. She grabs a cigarette that is available for guests, though she doesn’t smoke. She is one of the few privy to such information—Rosemary’s whereabouts and condition. Her daughter, Jacqueline, has just married Joseph’s son, Senator John F. Kennedy, and Vinnie swims in his own cool reception of the facts, witnessing firsthand what she wants most, and chokes on: Social advancement. Vinnie did not receive an invite to the wedding, but her discomfort and desire for secrecy regarding her daughter-in-law’s forced lobotomy remind Vinnie that he may have to borrow some money, probably from her. He accumulates the compounded emotional interest, apologizes, and puts a down payment on his thirst for attention.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to propose a toast.”

The dark study, a cathedral of first editions and revolutionary wood, is ready for a toast. Its Fifth Avenue parishioners are closer to the fire. The rumors of a declared annulment from the Vatican have left them feeling cold.

“Please, Ladies and Gentlemen, Mrs. Auchincloss, as we all know, and her daughter, Jackie, who the world will one day know for the reasons we pretend to.” The ceilings are high, but not high enough to avoid being tickled by the laughter of wealth that curls like banknotes on impact. “Recently married, I hear.” He turns to Mrs. Bouvier-Auchincloss, who reacts to everything he says, trying her best not to look too happy that the toast is for her, rolling her eyes as if he wouldn’t have gotten an invite. “You don’t have an address!” she declares. “This is true, but let me finish showering you with the drops of my thawing heart.” With the faintest touch of her white glove, she shields her lips. “To our dear friend’s son, Senator John F. Kennedy, a four-leaf clover, and future President if I ever saw one…and I have, ladies and gentlemen, I have seen future Presidents.” The room may be too small for these witty remarks. At 6’3, any more and the reaction, like a rising sea, will pass his well-proportioned nose. “My family arrived in this great land of ours when France still had a King with a head, and like all good American citizens, we have avoided soccer and taxes ever since.” Rapturous laughter. Vinnie of the ball. “So here’s to America’s future mother-in-law, a guiding star when you need one, the beautiful, the best, Mrs. Janet Lee Bouvier-Auchincloss!”

“Cheers!”

Vinnie’s voice earned him an A at Exeter, or Phillip’s Exeter Academy, for those who read biographies. He was captain of the debate team, not because of masterful, persuasive oratory, but because of his penchant for wearing ascots and smoking jackets, no matter the occasion. Something he still does but is now considered age-appropriate at 45—an idea he never agreed with.

“Oh, Vinnie,” says Mrs. Auchincloss. “You’re too much.”

“Then I succeeded. Do you have a thousand dollars?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He looks out the door and down the hall of Carvagios, Vermeers, and Ruisdaels.

“I’m afraid I’ve got to go. Take care, dear, and don’t forget to invite me to Jackie’s next wedding.”

She smacks his arm before they kiss each other’s scented cheeks.

“Where are you off to now?”

“An invitation to the Rand Club in Johannesburg, and from there, well, that is between me and my Gods: Moloch, Yahweh, The Dulles Brothers, and the Enola Gay.”

“Did you get a chance to see your daughter?” Vinnie stops and gives her another glimpse of his face. “I heard she is pregnant.”

His chameleon exterior sheds, and as he approaches her, he clenches his unseen teeth and mutters, “What are you talking about?”

Mrs. Auchincloss throws up her arms.

“Just what I heard.”

“Just what you heard?” repeated Vinnie. “If only you could hear what I just heard!”

And for the first time, Vinnie’s voice has taken on an uncouth tone and is heard by other attendees. He grabs her arm, and she pulls it back.

“What are you doing?”

“Why would you say something like that?”

“I told you, it’s what I heard!”

“Keep your voice down, woman.”

“Don’t call me that, you philandering, parasite. The gall to ask for money. That’s what people will hear.”

Air shoots from his nostrils like a bull. He looks into a dark corner, above the flickering light of the fire, and takes a deep breath. He looks her in the eyes.

“It’s a shame, really.”

“What?”

“About Rosemary. Tsk, tsk. I hope it doesn’t hurt any of Jack’s political ambitions, which are as noticeable as his philandering.” Vinnie pauses. “I take cash.”

“You’re a whore.”

He smiles.

“I guess that makes me family.”