Rhapsody

by Mitchell James Kaplan

  * * *

  She stayed home for days, burying her head in her pillow, wandering downstairs only for booze, tea, or toast, trying to make sense of the Zilboorg nightmare, trying to put it behind her. She asked herself over and over what, precisely, had happened. How to define the event. It could not have been rape since she had acted as a willing partner, to a point. Nevertheless, she felt violated. She relived the repulsion, the powerlessness, the inability to act. She did not tell a soul. Who would believe her? Who would understand?

  Doctor Zilboorg neither phoned to apologize nor attempted to confirm previously set appointments. He surely understood that he had alienated a patient and jettisoned any hope of future work with anyone related to her. And to think he cloaked himself, and his behavior, in the holy mantle of science and rationality. Just like the Nazis, with their shoddy scientific race studies.

  She slept. She dreamed dark dreams. She came to think about her older dreams—the one about being lost in a train station, or about boarding a ship to nowhere—in a pre-psychoanalytical way, not as a message from her id but as a warning about the shape of her life. The forces of chaos, abstraction, and atonality warping a universe ordered by principles of classical harmony.

  Months of psychoanalytic probing, capped with the trauma she had experienced at Doctor Zilboorg’s hands, had left her rattled, drained, and isolated. She considered inviting Dottie Parker for lunch but while her friend might empathize, depending on her mood, how could anyone as chronically lovesick and notoriously libidinous as Dottie be capable of offering sound advice? She thought of meeting with Adele Astaire, even if it meant sailing to England. But Adele, in her zeal to help, would probably drag her into some frivolous adventure, and Kay was in no mood for trivialities.

  She put a phone call in to St. Ignatius of Antioch. The receptionist, a weary-sounding lady with a Bronx accent, seemed not to recognize the Swift family name. She informed Kay that Father Ganter had retired three years earlier and asked whether she would like to consult with the new reverend.

  “No, no, that’s perfectly fine,” said Kay. “Thank you.”

  “Are you sure? He’s a very nice man.”

  “No, thank you.”

  * * *

  A knock at her bedroom door. She ignored it. Another knock, insistent. She reached for her father’s pocket watch on the nightstand and accidentally brushed it to the floor.

  Another knock. “Yes?”

  It was George.

  He noticed her disheveled appearance: her uncombed hair; the fact that she was lying in bed after noon, staring at the ceiling; her tired eyes. He sat on the bed, took her hand, and apologized as if he were responsible for her condition. “I know. I’m a louse. I should have called you. It’s these headaches. They’ve been beating me up. I need to see Zilboorg again, and soon.”

  She studied his face. Finally she began, “I have something to tell you.”

  He waited for more but she hesitated. How could she explain this? How would George react? Would he assume she had encouraged Zilboorg? That she had not fought hard enough to stop him? Would he lose confidence in her? In a deliberate, uninflected tone, avoiding his eyes, she described her ordeal. All of it. She still was not sure how to label the event but whatever it was, she remembered every detail. She had relived it every day. When she brushed her teeth. When she ate. When she went to bed. First thing in the morning. She tried to avoid it but it stalked her, a memory that spattered sadness and shame everywhere.

  He listened. He studied her face as she spoke. His response was unequivocal. His voice, emphatic. “The animal raped you, Kay. That’s what it was. A rape.” His voice softened “I’m so sorry.”

  For the first time since her ordeal, she let her sobs overtake her. He wiped her tears, kissed her wet cheeks, and caressed her head. He embraced her, tightening his grip long after her tears dissolved.

  “Kay,” said George after a time, as if remembering a business commitment, “you mind if I use your phone for a transatlantic call?”

  Although transatlantic calls were a new phenomenon, and costly, she shook her head. George dialed the international operator. “I’d like to place an overseas call. The Ritz Hotel in Paris.”

  “What’s this about?” asked Kay.

  He shook his head. “Jimmy Walker, please,” he said into the phone. Covering the mouthpiece, he told Kay, “Would you mind fetching me a cup of tea?”

  Mystified, she went downstairs to the kitchen.

  Jimmy Walker was no longer mayor of New York, having resigned in a haze of scandal. Rumor had it he was living in Paris with a Ziegfeld girl. But everyone knew he was still one of the most well-connected, powerful men in America.

  When she brought George the tea, he was finishing up the phone call. “Thank you, Jimmy. Knew I could count on you.”

  “What was that about?” she asked after he hung up.

  “Just some business,” said George. “Let’s grab lunch.”

  * * *

  Three days later Kay noticed a small article in the New York World-Telegram. Doctor Gregory Zilboorg, the noted psychoanalyst, had tripped in a freak accident in his office, injuring himself badly, bleeding from his head, and losing consciousness. No one understood what had happened. His secretary had stepped out on lunch break. A neighbor had seen a male patient enter the building but was uncertain of the time. Zilboorg was discovered alone and was recovering in Lenox Hill Hospital. He was expected to survive. “Gruesome,” Kay winced, handing the paper to George.

  George perused the article. “Serves the bastard right.”

  Kay understood George would not consult Doctor Zilboorg again. Which dashed his hopes of finding a remedy for his migraines. Which darkened his mood further. She tried to reassure him. “There are other noggin twisters.”

  He shook his head, despondent. She wrapped her arms around his neck, bracing herself yet again for the unknown.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  They spent the following weeks in her flat and his, working in tandem and independently back-to-back at two pianos or together at one, drawing energy or at least solace from each other. Kay also composed while George painted. He had set up an easel and was blocking out a study of Kay at the Piano in somber, muted tones.

  Three times per week Kay instructed her daughters, separately, at the piano. Thursdays were the most difficult. They were reserved for April, her eldest at fifteen, who made no effort to hide her lack of enthusiasm. “I can’t stand the piano and I despise you!” she shouted through her closed door.

  Kay tried to reason with her. “I understand why you would feel that way but I can’t help being who I am, my love. I wish I could but I wasn’t given that choice.”

  “Go away!”

  “If you don’t want to play piano,” offered Kay, “what do you want?”

  “I want to live in Washington with my father.”

  Kay went into the salon, pulled out a chair, and stared at the window.

  “Anything I can help you with, ma’am?” asked Lionel.

  Kay shook her head.

  Lionel was about to exit the room when the telephone rang. “Warburg residence. Yes, of course, Mister Warburg.” He walked the phone to Kay. “Mister Warburg, ma’am.”

  James was calling from Washington. “Just checking in. How are my girls?”

  They discussed their daughters’ report cards. Andrea and Kathleen were progressing but April was stumbling. “Nothing I do works. I offered to take her to a play, to a museum. She wants to live with you.”

  “I know,” said James. “How would you feel about that?”

  “Demoralized,” said Kay.

  A pause on the line.

  “And Alma Mater? Coming along?”

  “I’ve been working hard on it. One moment, it’s a masterpiece. The next, it’s garbage.”

  “Maybe you should consider taking a break,” suggested Jimmy.

  “I’m afraid I’m already broken.”

  “Nonsense. Not you, Kay,”
said Jimmy. “You are indomitable. Let’s just step back. Every river finds its sea.”

  “Whatever that means,” said Kay.

  “That’s the Bible,” said Jimmy.

  Jimmy, quoting the Bible? “Thanks for calling.” She hung up.

  * * *

  A week later, a police officer escorted April home from Central Park. “So sorry to barge in like this, Misses Warburg.” Officer McGinty towered over April in the doorway—a made-up April, with thinned, arched eyebrows, mascara, and scarlet lipstick. The officer was clutching her shoulders. “The young lady here was smoking with a good-for-nothing scoundrel in the park and, I’ll spare you the details, but I didn’t want to risk any harmful prattling in the precinct of your good name, Misses Warburg, so I asked if I could accompany her home, and she graciously obliged.”

  “I did no such thing. Let go of me, you brute!” April wriggled out of his grasp.

  Kay sighed. “Thank you, officer.”

  The door closed. Kay’s tone changed. “Sit down.” April mechanically complied. “Cigarettes.” Kay sat across from her. “With a boy.”

  “As if you cared,” said April.

  “Pretty exciting, huh? Especially at fifteen.”

  “Don’t you insult me, mother.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  April crossed her arms, her lips tightening.

  Kay leaned forward. “I don’t give a damn who he is. You’ll be far away from him soon.”

  April raised her eyes to meet her mother’s. “You want to live with your father in Washington?” asked Kay. “You have my blessing. I’m tired, April.”

  “Not too tired for your parties. For your shows. For George.”

  Kay slapped her. Stunned, April brought a hand to her cheek, blinking. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she stared at her mother without flinching. Kay collapsed into her chair. “It’s no use. We’re done.”

  “Your marriage?” April asked.

  “Who am I fooling?” Kay asked.

  April shook her head, her eyes gleaming. “You are so selfish.”

  Kay closed her eyes. April was right. She was selfish. The price of passion and ambition. Kay thought, it’s not April’s fault that she was born into a family that could not provide for her emotional needs, that she was not given parents who loved each other the way parents were supposed to—parents who were involved with their children before all else, as my parents were. She leaned forward and hugged her daughter. April felt so young, so slight, so tense, so lost. Kay tightened her grip and rubbed her daughter’s back. April stiffened and freed herself.

  Relaxing back into her seat Kay said, “I’m so sorry, April, that things have turned out this way.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “I wish I could be with you through the coming years. I know you’ll visit me after things calm down.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “I hope one day you’ll understand.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” April rose and ran to her bedroom, slamming the door.

  * * *

  Kay had filled Alma Mater with a modernism reminiscent in places of Ravel and in others of Stravinsky, as well as jazzy interludes and the blend of exuberance and irony that George Gershwin, Jimmy Warburg, and some members of the public were starting to identify as her signature style. She played the score three more times for George, improving it with each run-through, and declared it complete even though she could not quite dispel every nagging doubt. She picked up the pile of papers from her piano and wrapped them into a package. “Could it be further improved? Maybe it could! Where do you draw the line?”

  “Don’t apologize for your work,” George advised her.

  “Who’s apologizing? I’m just saying, I’m sorry. I’m sorry it can’t be better.” She unrolled several inches of a new sticky-ribbon product called Scotch Tape—“Isn’t this stuff marvelous?”—and sealed the package.

  “Hold your manuscript in your arms,” George ordered her. “That’s your baby. You’re giving it up for adoption to the ballet. Hug the little sucker while you can.” And with a wink he started playing a song he had composed for the opening of Porgy. Kay sang DuBose Heyward’s lyrics:

  Summertime and the living is easy.

  Fish are jumping and the cotton is high…

  Kay kissed her manuscript and rocked it while George played. As the last chime-like notes hung in the air, he turned to her beaming.

  “George,” said Kay, “I’m going to get a divorce.”

  His smile fell away. “Jimmy okay with that?”

  She sat down. “He knows it’s inevitable. It’s not like either of us wanted things to turn out this way. It just happened.” Olga approached with a handkerchief. Kay dabbed her eyes. “I’m going to Reno,” she said. And then…”

  “And then?” asked George.

  “And then,” she took his hand, “you’re going to marry me.”

  He looked at her as if unsure what to say.

  “We’re practically living together, George. We work together. We play together.”

  “Then why let a rubber stamp wreck it? It’s meaningless.”

  “Not to me.”

  He nodded.

  “It’s because your mother despises me, isn’t it. Because I’m not Jewish.”

  “That could be fixed.”

  “You want me to convert, George?” And off his silence: “Why? It’s not like you believe any of it.”

  George shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Do you even know what you want?” Kay challenged him.

  He looked at her for a pensive moment, and then offered her his beautiful, radiant smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The way Jimmy did it. Could she ever forgive him? He came home one afternoon. He entered with his key. Well, the apartment was his.

  Kay was in her dressing room selecting a hat, pearls, and white gloves for an evening at the opera. Puccini. A too-familiar tearjerker, but always entertaining. Hearing bustling, she stepped downstairs in her high heels.

  He was dressed more casually than usual for a Wednesday in a camel-cashmere V-neck and houndstooth-weave wool slacks, with brown oxford shoes. The attire of a successful man, comfortable with himself, nothing left to prove.

  “Jimmy!”

  He noticed the pearls, the white gloves, the close-fitting dress, and smiled. “Lovely as always, Kay. I’m here to collect my girls.”

  “To collect…? Right now? For what?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch. The same wristwatch he wore at the Garden Pavilion of the Century Theatre so many years ago, when he proposed to her. “They should be packed by now. Olga and Lionel will accompany us, of course.”

  “Oh,” said Kay, realizing. “April.”

  “All three,” Jimmy corrected her.

  Kay frowned. “All three? Do they—”

  He nodded. “They didn’t tell you?”

  She slumped into a chair. “They didn’t. You didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jimmy.

  He proceeded down the hall toward the girls’ quarters. Kay tried to compose herself. Finally she rose, walked across the room, and dialed the phone. “Dottie. Kay. Listen, I won’t make it to the opera. Invite whoever you want. The tickets are at Will Call. I’ll explain later.”

  Jimmy reappeared flanked by Olga, Lionel, several trunks and suitcases—and Andrea, Kathleen, and April, all in their henceforth superfluous school uniforms. Olga stared at her feet. Lionel scrutinized the chandelier.

  “This is what you want, honey?” asked Kay kneeling before Andrea.

  Andrea nodded, tears streaming down her face.

  Kathleen, in a lavender raincoat with a matching broad-rimmed hat, hugged Kay’s leg. “Goodbye, Mommy.”

  “It’s not raining, darling.” Kay stroked her hair.

  “I know,” said Kathleen.

  An hour later, the girls—with Jimmy and Olga and Lionel and all their travel cases—were
boarding the navy-blue first-class car of the Capital Limited in Penn Station. Kay stood on the platform trying not to weep.

  Andrea pulled down the window of their cabin and reached out. “Goodbye, Mom.”

  Kay took her hand and kissed it.

  The train hooted and began chugging.

  Kay waved and blew a kiss. She watched the train leave and then watched the empty track as bells rang and whistles blew and people embarked and disembarked at other platforms. Finally turning to leave, she braced herself for an evening alone in her now-deserted home.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Every moral system must contain its antidote, otherwise it will consume itself and die. America—the screwed-down, practical, dominant strain of American civilization that had spawned Puritanism and Prohibition—held within its human apothecary two antidotes, an extreme one and a mild one.

  The extreme antidote was gangland. Provocative stars like Mae West and George Raft had emerged from that basement jungle like fiends from America’s id. But entertainment was only a side-business for the gangs. In the Park Central Hotel, unnamed assailants had gunned down crime boss Arnold Rothstein. At John’s Restaurant on East Twelfth Street, at the behest of Genovese boss Giuseppe Masseria, a half-dozen gunmen had filled Umberto Valenti with lead. In the Hotel Claridge at Times Square the likes of Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegel, and Frank Costello ran a booze-and-cabaret outfit and helped engineer elections, including the one that had propelled FDR to the White House.

  Kay chose the mild antidote. A resident of the Upper East Side who longed for liberation but contracted the heebie-jeebies at the sight of a bleeding corpse, and who might be willing to risk damage to her reputation but never to her body, headed not to gangland but to Grand Central Station, where she purchased a one-way ticket for the Capital of Sin. Reno, Nevada.