by Belva Plain
It made you wonder who was right.
His mother and grandmother treated him like the little boy, like the child he had been two or three years before. They probably thought that as long as a boy was only up to their shoulders, he was still a little child. But his head was filled with things they didn’t know he thought about.
There were secrets … they had told him that his father had been wounded in the war and had later fallen down stairs and died. He always felt, although he had no reason to think, that there was more to it, something he hadn’t been told.
And so many secrets about money! Why was money so important that people talked about it that much? Grandpa Dan said it was disgusting and that was what was wrong with the world. He could see that his grandfather didn’t care very much about it. Where he lived, you had to walk up four flights of stairs, and the halls smelled of cabbage. When the weather was warm, men sat on the front stoop in their undershirts. So he was puzzled when once he heard the cook say to the woman who came to clean, “The boy is very rich, you know. This house is his, and it all came from the grandfather.”
He had asked his mother about it. “But is it true that Grandpa Dan gave everything to me?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“Why did he?”
“Because he loves you.”
“Didn’t he want any for himself?”
“No, he didn’t.”
And then Ben, who had been there, said, “Tell him, Leah, he’s old enough.”
So that was how he had found out about the invention; the War Department had bought it, and Dan wouldn’t take the money for himself since it was being used for war, and war was the thing he hated most.
In school, the teachers all said there would be no more wars, because the last one had been fought to end wars. Anyway, that war seemed to be a long time ago; it blended in his mind with Washington and Valley Forge. He had said that once to Cousin Paul, who had laughed and answered: “I was in it, you know, so it couldn’t have been that long ago.”
Paul didn’t like to talk about the war. Once Hank had asked him whether he had killed any Germans, and Paul had just said very gently, “I don’t know. And that’s a question you mustn’t ever ask,” which was unusual for Paul, who always liked to answer questions.
He rolled over now on his stomach. The front of him was getting hot. Besides, he wanted a view of the house. He was hoping Cousin Meg would bring out the lemonade and maybe some cake.
Grandpa and Cousin Paul didn’t like his coming to this house. He could tell by their faces and by their not saying anything whenever he told them he had been here. He knew why, too. They liked Cousin Meg, but they didn’t like Donal, and he knew why they didn’t. It was because of Donal’s business, that you weren’t supposed to talk about. But Hank knew all about it. Ben never said anything directly, but he didn’t make much effort to hide it either. Lots of times, when they stopped off here on the way back from fishing at the shore, he would let Hank come into the room where the men were all talking. He’d sit in the corner with the funny paper and listen.
So he knew all about how the whisky came from Canada across Lake Erie, down through country that was so empty that there was nobody to see the trucks being loaded. He knew how some of it came directly from Scotland and England; the ships would sail as if they were heading for those two little French islands off the coast of Canada, but they never landed there. Instead, they went straight through to New Jersey, where speedboats raced out past the three-mile limit to unload the ships. Donal’s company owned thirty ships.
Only once had Ben observed that Hank, finished with the funny paper, had been sitting very still and paying close attention. Later, when they were alone, Ben had said, “You must never repeat anything you hear—” and Hank had interrupted to say that of course he wouldn’t; did Ben think he couldn’t be trusted? And Ben had said, “I know you can, but it’s your mother I’m thinking about. Women imagine things, they exaggerate. You know how women are, Son.” Hank liked the manliness of that, being one with Ben in strength.
But his mother knew plenty already. They had been talking in the car. They must have thought Hank couldn’t hear.
“I’m just an accountant, a glorified bookkeeper, Leah. I’ve nothing to do with anything.”
“You know better than to tell me that,” she had answered.
“In a few years the country will get rid of Prohibition and Donal will have a legitimate business. Ten businesses, the way he’s going. And I’ll be his adviser, on easy street.”
“Your street is easy enough now without that.”
“No, it’s not. What am I making? Except for the fees I’m entitled to?”
“I don’t like it. It worries me.”
“Come on! I’m completely legitimate. Anyway, I’m not Donal’s keeper.”
It was all very interesting. And confusing, too.
He liked to watch the people in his family. They were all so different from each other, and yet all seemed to come together in him. He wondered, looking at them, what he was going to be when he grew up. He knew he didn’t want to be like Donal, even though Donal was always nice to him, kidding him and giving him presents. But for some reason, Donal scared him. He would never want Donal to be angry at him.… Maybe it would be good to grow up like Grandpa Dan, sort of noble. Or jolly, like Uncle Alfie. Or very smart like Cousin Paul; he noticed that whenever anybody had a problem, like finding a surgeon for Ben’s elbow operation or finding an apartment where Dan wouldn’t have so many stairs to climb, they always asked Paul’s opinion. So maybe he’d like most of all to be like Paul.
Sometimes, though, he thought he wouldn’t want to be like any of them, but only like himself, different, separate and unconnected; quite free, like an Arctic explorer or an aviator—
“You must have been bored to death out here by yourself,” said Cousin Meg. She was carrying a tray with the pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies.
He scrambled up while she put the tray on a table under one of the umbrellas.
“Oh, chocolate chip this time,” he said.
She sat down and watched him eat. She looked nice in her pink summer dress.
“You might have time for another swim before you go home. Why don’t you bring a friend when you come again? You can use the pool whenever you want to, you know.”
“Mother says not to make a nuisance of myself.”
“You could never do that, Hank. I enjoy company when I swim, anyway. But the baby’s been teething and cranky today. That’s the only reason I didn’t go in with you.”
He followed her glance across the lawn, where the nurse was lifting one baby out of the playpen. The carriage with the other one had already been wheeled away. He thought, She has another baby inside her already. She was beginning to bulge.
He’d heard somebody once—he couldn’t remember who—say something about people breeding like rabbits. And he munched slowly on another cookie, keeping his eyes away from the bulge under the pink dress where another baby was growing, the third in four years. He felt himself blushing, because it was only this past spring that he’d found out from one of his friends how the baby got in there. It was queer to think that Donal did that to her. The last time he’d been here, he’d gone up to the nursery and passed their bedroom, where the bed stood on a platform and the spread had lace around it. And he’d thought: That’s where they do it.
Donal gave her a present each time she had a baby. The first time it was a bracelet that his mother said was gorgeous. Gorgeous was one of his mother’s favorite words. Generous was another. Donal was generous. They were building an addition on the house now, more bedrooms and a playroom. They would need it with all those babies. The house was supposed to be English. Fake, said Paul, fake half-timbering; no self-respecting English house ever looked like that. Ostentatious, Paul said. It means showing off, his mother told him when he asked, and wanted to know where he had heard it. But he hadn’t told her, because he had been doing what
they called “eavesdropping” on Paul. Anyway, he didn’t agree. He liked the house.
“You’re looking at this?” Meg asked. He had actually been seeing the house behind her, but she thought he was looking at the locket that hung on a chain around her neck. It was a big diamond heart.
“Donal gave it to me when Tom was born.”
“It’s pretty,” he told her, not caring.
“He’s just so good to me,” Meg said. “Just so good.”
She sighed. He noticed that she sighed a lot.… Then there was a long silence that began to be uncomfortable. He felt that he ought to say something or do something besides eating cookies. This was his fifth, and they were large ones, the soft kind with big chips.
Finally, he thought of something to say. “There were two parakeets in our yard yesterday morning. Dead.”
“Oh, poor things! Escaped from someone’s cage, I suppose.”
He had found them when he went to put the dog out. Buff and yellow they were, with their bright tails fanned out and their tiny claws curled.
“The world was full of seeds, but they didn’t know where to get them. Didn’t know how to take care of themselves. That’s the most important thing, Hank, to know how to take care of yourself,” Meg said.
He wondered why she was telling him this.
“I hate to go to the zoo,” he said. “People always want to take you. They always think children want to go to the zoo.”
And he thought of the lions pacing with lowered heads, back and forth and back and forth, looking so sad.
“I know,” Meg said. “I always think caged animals must be wondering why they’re caged. Their eyes are so …” She paused. “I always think, if they could cry, they would.”
It was an odd conversation. A moment ago he had been embarrassed because there was nothing to say; now here they were, talking so easily together. And he had a queer thought: She’s not like anyone else in this house. He couldn’t have explained the thought, for it was just something that darted through his head and, an instant later, was gone.
Ben came out just then with Donal and their friends. They were all in dark city clothes; they all looked alike and they all got into their black cars and drove away. But Ben came across the lawn.
“Hey! I’m going to get my suit out of the car and jump in with you, show you how to do a half twist,” he called.
“I’m ready,” Hank answered, and splashed back into the cold pool, letting the water wash away all heavy thoughts and secrets. He felt happy again because the summer was just beginning.
Six
Paul picked his way through the hectic heart of the financial district and entered his private world. The discreet, low building, with its double doors and its polished brass, was now in his charge, his mother’s death the year before having driven his father into final retirement.
All was in order as he strode through the main floor on his way to the private elevator in the rear. But then, it always was. On either side of the carpeted aisles sat the ranks of his “bright young men,” fresh from the Ivy League, fresh in their white shirts and good dark suits. A few early clients were already in consultation. Through a door on the left Paul’s glance fell on the private sitting room, in which special customers and ladies made their private transactions. Already a small fire flickered under the marble mantel, while above it, Paul’s grandfather, in Lincolnesque whiskers and solemn broadcloth, fingered his watch chain. A tea table stood in front of the long leather Chesterfield sofa; at four o’clock the bowl of chrysanthemums would be moved aside and replaced by Wedgwood cups on a silver tray.
This was the proper way to run a banking service. Always Paul thought of his work as a service, ranging from investment advisory accounts for individuals to managing a bond issue in the many millions. In either case, you were oiling the industrial machine, keeping the nation at work. There were responsibilities in it, and great dignity.
Upstairs at his monumental desk in the square front room, he sat down to read the morning’s mail. At the top of the pile two letters with foreign postmarks caught his attention. One was in Joachim’s familiar writing. Garrulous and exuberant on paper as much as in person, Joachim could be depended upon for a letter every fifth or sixth week. The second envelope, from Elisabeth Nathansohn, would contain a thank-you note for his Hanukkah presents to the children. He was about to open Joachim’s when his secretary came in.
“There’s a Mr. Donal Powers on the telephone. He would like to make an appointment with you.”
“What’s it about? When does he want it?”
“He didn’t say what about. He said, at your convenience. You have nothing this morning until eleven, so you could see him.”
“All right. Have him come over.” He added quickly, returning the courtesy, “If that’s convenient for him.”
What could Donal Powers want? It was doubtful that he would want financial advice, for surely he had his own sources. Anyway, to judge from the few remarks that Alfie had dropped—very few, since one could be quite certain that his son-in-law didn’t confide in Alfie—Powers managed most of his affairs himself. He could probably take my job, Paul thought, and handle it as well as I do. The man’s mind was an engine in absolute working order, all gears and pistons smoothly synchronized.
Donal and Paul met very seldom, which Paul regretted only because he would have liked to see more of Meg. But her marriage had changed things. Donal had taken her into a different world. There was no common meeting place anymore. There was not even time. When she was not at home with babies, she was out in that different world of Donal’s.
One met Meg and Donal, then, only at duty affairs: Alfie’s birthday party or a visit to Dan when he was recovering from a heart attack. Donal never failed to appear at the proper places at the proper time; in all things, he was correct. He had even made a generous contribution to the temple in memory of Paul’s mother.
And yet, surrounding him, a vague dark presence like oncoming shadows, stood what, in the eye of Paul’s mind, could only be written in capital letters: THE MOB.
One strained, one made an effort to reconcile the image of the conservative gentleman in the English suit and striped tie with what one read in the newspapers about assaults, hijackings, and extortion. Ben, of course, maintained that the newspapers exaggerated, that the liquor traffic was for the most part a respectable although illicit trade, run like an ordinary business, nothing to get so excited about.
Paul neither argued the matter nor pried. The only thing he would have liked to know was whether Meg was contented. I won’t live without him … Donal looked like a man who knew exactly how to satisfy women—at any rate, he knew how to make them pregnant. Meg had her third and fourth last summer, twin girls, Lucy and Loretta. The children had all saints’ names, which was odd, since Donal was certainly not a religious man.
Meg looked well, only a little tired around the eyes: four babies in four years, after all, and quite possibly another on the way. But the face was as sweetly wholesome as ever, and the manner was the same, despite the new jewels and the chauffeur-driven Isotta-Fraschini. So it might well be turning out as she had been so sure it would.
Paul wondered how much she could know of whatever there was to be known, and what she thought of it. He had no way of finding out. If there should be any trouble in paradise, neither her parents in their pride, nor Ben and Leah for a different reason, would have revealed it to him, that he knew. And that was assuming Meg would let them know about it in the first place! He rather suspected that she wouldn’t.
He went back to his mail.
In his angular European script, Joachim covered three pages.
“We moved to Berlin last month and have a beautiful apartment, better than the one you saw in Munich. I am developing the import side of our business and keep very busy. You wouldn’t recognize Germany. In the five years since 1923 we have gone from despair to a flourishing prosperity. The inflation, such a terrible medicine at the time, turned out
to be the best cure. It wiped out our debts and now we are rebuilding. You should see the theaters and sports arenas and all the new housing. Unemployment is almost wiped out, the factories are humming; it is a miracle, Paul, a German miracle. You remember, when you were here, I told you it would happen! A little patience I said and you will see.…”
A little patience and a generous lot of American money.
He opened Elisabeth’s letter.
“We thought that you and Marian would have come to visit us before now. You would find us changed. You wouldn’t have to wear a shawl to keep warm in our apartment this time. And, of course, I am happy that we can live more easily and give the children everything they need. One worried so during the inflation that they might not be getting enough protein. But Regina has her second teeth now and they are perfect, thank God. She is such a bright, lovely child. But I worry. I can’t talk about it at home. Joachim thinks I’m neurotic when I say I’m worried. I can’t forget that terrible day when he was shot. So I think you will understand and will not mind if I spill my thoughts out to you. You needn’t answer if you don’t want to. Do you know this man Hitler, as soon as he served his short prison term, has come out a hero? Prominent people are giving him huge sums. Little by little, in spite of all, this evil grows—”
“Mr. Powers is here,” said Miss Briggs.
Donal was waiting on the threshold. Paul stood up. They shook hands. There were amenities to be gone through: the offer of a seat away from the window’s glare, the offer of coffee, which was declined, and the usual inquiries about the family.
“I hope Marian is feeling better?”
For just a second, Paul was puzzled. “Her sinus trouble, you mean?”
“Am I mistaken? I thought Meg said something, or maybe it was Ben—”
