Carriage Trade

by Stephen Birmingham

  I used to say I drank because it helped me get a good night’s sleep. I realized it was taking more and more liquor to put me to sleep, and instead of sleeping I was becoming an insomniac. I felt suddenly that my whole life was being washed away in alcohol.

  Worst of all, I realized that alcohol and I were cheating my son. There were events in Blazer’s life when I was either missing or only half there. In school, he played basketball and, because he was taller than other boys his age, he played center. He’d remind me of the dates of his games, but I’d argue that I didn’t care for basketball so I never saw him play. Those games interfered with my drinking time. He had the male lead in the school play, Onions in the Stew. I went to see it, but all through the performance I was thinking about getting home and having a drink. “How’d I do?” he asked me afterward. “Just fine,” I said, outside in the street, desperately trying to flag down a cab that would get me home to the bottle.

  I realized—and this was the most horrible realization of all—that Si had been right: I was an unfit mother.

  Blazer enjoyed his weekends in Old Westbury with Connie and his father, at the farm they’d bought. He’d try to tell me about the things he’d done there, but I didn’t want to hear about any of it. One day—he was only five years old—he mentioned swimming. “You can’t swim,” I told him. “Yes, I can,” he said. “Aunt Connie taught me in their pool.” She also taught him how to ride, on the horses they kept at the farm, and she began entering him in horse shows out on Long Island, and he started winning blue ribbons. But he never told me about the blue ribbons because he knew I didn’t want to talk about anything that happened out there. I only found out about them when I happened to open one of his dresser drawers and saw them lying there. Neatly, in rows.

  I realized that Connie was doing exactly as she promised and giving him a wonderful home—at least, while he was with them. And where was I? Drinking, thinking, Hell, I have no pool, I have no horses.

  When Blazer was at Yale, Connie and Miranda often visited him there. Somehow, I never had the time. I realized Blazer had become genuinely fond of Connie, and he adored his little half sister. That only made me feel bitter, jealous, and resentful. I knew that Blazer and his father often quarreled, particularly when Blazer reached his teens, because Blazer had no interest in retailing or in following his father’s footsteps into the store. At the time, Blazer talked about becoming a musician, but his father told him there was no money in it. When I heard about Blazer’s quarrels with his father, it made me feel good. It made me feel justified as a mother. Can you imagine that? All because I was drinking.

  If I hadn’t been drinking, I might have kept a closer eye on what was happening to Blazer’s trust fund and also what was happening to Blazer.

  But mostly it was the shock of hearing my son say, Are you sure, Mom, that maybe sometimes when you were a little drunk …?

  All sorts of things came rushing back to me. One day when he was sixteen, he sat down at the piano, and I realized he was playing a Chopin étude. “When did you learn to play?” I asked him.

  He looked at me a little guiltily. “Aunt Connie taught me,” he said. “She’s been giving me lessons since I was six.”

  All those years, I realized, I’d hardly been noticing him. But he’d been noticing me. Often in the mornings, before he’d go off to school, or in the evenings, when I’d have trouble getting to sleep, he’d come into my room and give me back rubs, and shoulder rubs, and neck rubs. “Are you feeling better, Mom?” he’d ask me. All that time, he knew intuitively that I was sick, with an illness I couldn’t control. All those years, when I’d been doing so little for him, he’d been trying to do whatever he could for me.

  Sometimes when you were a little drunk …

  That was when I decided to do something to bring my life under control. I screwed up my courage and went to my first A.A. meeting. It was a very unpleasant experience, but I forced myself to go back. And I began to realize that there were other people in the same plight, who were taking everything out of the bottle and giving nothing back.

  When Blazer learned he’d been left out of his father’s will, I don’t think he was really surprised. I think he expected it, after the trust fund debacle and the bad scene with his father afterward. But who knows? Maybe in the long run it will be good for him that he didn’t get a lot of money from his father. Maybe it will force him to go out and do something on his own, the way his father did. He and a friend are trying to open a restaurant in the Village right now. Sometimes I think, looking back, that my insistence on a trust fund from Si was just another example of my own laziness at the time.

  My laziness and my vindictiveness. I really wanted that trust fund agreement because I wanted to punish Si. I wanted to extract my pound of flesh. Perhaps God—for I believe in a Higher Power now—didn’t want that trust fund to materialize because it was wanted for base and lowly reasons.

  And even though Blazer said he wanted to kill his father, I knew he didn’t mean it. That was just his hurt talking. He really loved his father; it was love-hate. Lord knows there were times, during the divorce, when I thought of killing his father for what he was doing to me. But now, with the help of this wonderful program I’m in, I’ve been able to forgive Si. It wasn’t me—Alice—whom he wanted to divorce. It was the alcohol that had taken control of me. Blazer and I had a long talk about this very thing the other night. About forgiveness, and the importance of it. “Forgive us our trespasses, and those who trespass against us.”

  “Have you forgiven your father for the loss of the trust fund?” I asked him.

  “Perhaps. Almost.”

  “Have you forgiven him for leaving you out of his will?”

  “Not quite. Not yet,” he said.

  “You will,” I said. “You didn’t really mean it when you said you wanted to kill him, did you?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said, “but maybe somebody else did.”

  When he said that, I couldn’t help thinking of the odd circumstances of Si’s death.…

  What was odd about it? It was where the obituary referred to Dr. Harry Arnstein, who pronounced the cause of death, as “the family physician.” Harry Arnstein was not the family physician, certainly not when I was married to Si. When I read that, I immediately suspected some sort of cover-up. What Harry Arnstein was was a gin-rummy-playing crony of Si’s. Sometimes Moe Minskoff would join them and they’d play poker, and sometimes other men would join them. Why did Connie call Harry Arnstein, of all people? He’s not a cardiologist. His specialty is internal medicine.

  Also, Si used to joke about what a terrible doctor Harry Arnstein was, even though he was a hell of a gin rummy player. Si used to say if anybody in his family got sick he wouldn’t let them get near Harry Arnstein. So—why him?

  Blazer had thought of this too.

  But if there was foul play, and there was a cover-up—then who? I immediately thought of Moses Minskoff. Si had been trying to shake himself loose from Moe for years, and I’m sure Moe knew it. Perhaps, in the end, Moe decided it would be easier to get rid of Si. I never thought Moe was very smart, but sometimes stupid people can be more dangerous than smart ones. I’m not suggesting that Moe killed Si himself, but he had contacts with the sort of people who could do it for him. That was why Si distrusted Moe.

  And then—Tommy Bonham. Tommy expected to run the store someday, and perhaps he got impatient. I must say Tommy never struck me as a killer type, but perhaps Tommy and Moe, acting in collusion.… Both stood to profit from Si’s death.

  And then, of course, there’s Connie. Perhaps she finally got tired of Si’s philandering. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as I can personally attest to. She’s a very cold woman. I always thought, after that first and only meeting with her, that Consuelo Banning was capable of anything.

  Of course I didn’t mention any of this to Blazer. He’s fond of Connie. She did things for him, while he was growing up, that I didn’t do.

 
; And I’ve forgiven Connie for taking my husband away from me. I’ve forgiven them both. If there’d been a funeral, I’d have gone to it—inconspicuously, seated in the back. I wrote Connie a short condolence note, and she responded with a formal thank-you card, but with a slash drawn through her printed name and signed Fondly, Connie, underneath. I thought that was a bit of hypocrisy, that Fondly. Connie certainly isn’t fond of me.

  And I really shouldn’t be speculating with you this way about Si’s death, though Blazer thinks something very peculiar happened that morning at the farm.

  All I can say is—Harry Arnstein? The family physician? No way!

  In his office on West 23rd Street, Moses Minskoff is on the telephone. “Now, Miltie,” he is saying, “it’s too bad about what happened, and those kids got killed. But that’s life, ya know? You took a gamble, and you lost, so what can I say? You got my deepest sympathy.… So you got a buncha lawsuits on your hands. I figured you would. A bunch of shvartzers get run over in a crowd, and the first thing their folks do is call a lawyer. Think they see a chance to make a buck off whitey. That’s just show business, Miltie. That doesn’t give you any beef with me.…

  “Chief Gomez? What about him? He got paid off.… Whaddaya mean he didn’t get paid off enough? He got twenty-five big ones, just like you and I agreed.… Whaddaya mean he only got ten? He’s lying to you, Miltie, he’s trying to put the squeeze on you. He got his twenty-five big ones, less my commission.… Whaddaya mean you got proof? What kind of proof you got? … He opened my Fed Ex envelope in front of you, and only ten big ones fell out? What is this fire chief, some kind of nut? I knew that fire chief was dumb, but I didn’t think he was that dumb.… Whaddaya mean he’s changed his mind? … He’s going to the cops and say you tried to pay him off, but he isn’t going to accept the payoff? This is nuts, Miltie! This makes no sense! Chief Gomez is trying to act like he’s some sort of a saint. I’ve arranged payoffs for this guy before. Mother Teresa, he ain’t.…

  “Now all this is very strange, what you’re saying, Miltie, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with me. I smell a rat. This Chief Gomez is trying to pull a fast one on you, Miltie. Cocksucker’s just trying to hit you up for more. Don’t fall for it, Miltie, is all I can advise you, and keep me outa this.…

  “Now, Miltie, whaddaya mean I owe you fifteen big ones? I don’t see it that way at all.… I tell ya he’s lying. He got his full payment, just like what you sent me, less commission. This could be the ending of a beautiful friendship, Miltie, you talking about me owing you.… Now don’t talk like that, Miltie.… I’m warning you, Miltie.…

  “Well, I ain’t sending you no fifteen big ones, because, A, I don’t owe you nothing, and because, B, I ain’t got it. I had a bad week at the track.…

  “I dropped forty grand this week, Miltie, so have a little sympathy.… I’m your friend, Miltie. We’re gonna be doing a lot more business together, you and me.…

  “Whaddaya mean you’re gonna get Herbie the Heeb on me? Herbie’s my friend from way back. He’ll never touch me.… Now, wait a minute, Miltie—don’t hang up on me!”

  He replaces the receiver in its cradle.

  Before placing his next call, he rises from his desk and closes his office door. He does this whenever he doesn’t want Smyrna to overhear a conversation.

  He picks up the telephone again. “Credit card call.… Herbie? Is that you? Moe here, Moe Minskoff. You remember me. Minskoff … that’s right. You remember me, don’tcha, Herbie? You remember all the favors I done you in the past, don’tcha? The Liebman case? The brewery? Sure you remember that, Herbie, I’m sure you do.… Listen, Herbie, you wouldn’t get involved in this East St. Louis mishegoss, wouldja? A man of your caliber. Not to an old pal like me, Herbie.…

  “Listen, Herbie, let me do some more favors for you. Think up a favor you want me to do. Herbie—don’t hang up!”

  When he replaces the phone in its cradle now, his palms are sweating.

  He makes a mental note to call the Mosler people and have the combination on the wall safe changed.

  23

  Mrs. Simma Tarcher Belsky (interview taped 9/18/91)

  I really never understood why my brother resented me the way he did. My mother always claimed it was because I was a sickly baby and he was jealous of all the extra attention she had to give to me. Apparently, I had all those childhood illnesses that kids don’t seem to get anymore. I only remember having to spend a long time in a darkened room, and that must have been the measles. When you had the measles, light was supposed to be bad for your eyes. My mother says the QUARANTINED sign was posted on our front door so often that Solly couldn’t invite any of his friends to the apartment, and that’s why he took to the streets and started running around with a bad crowd. My mother is pretty good at laying a guilt trip on a person. I grew up thinking that if Solly had turned out bad it was probably my fault.

  But now it seems to me there must have been some other reason why my brother disliked me so. A nine-year-old boy is usually too far along toward becoming an adult to be jealous of a baby sister. A certain amount of sibling rivalry between my own children was understandable, because they were closer in age—but a nine-year-old versus an infant? It doesn’t make sense. Even my psychiatrist says there had to be some deeper explanation.

  Of course, in my earliest memories of him, he was already a young teenager. He seemed more like a young uncle than a brother, and I really idolized him. I’d have loved it if we could have been close. But when we were together in a room or sitting around the family dinner table, Sol simply ignored me. I felt like a non-person. My psychiatrist feels this made me mistrustful of the male sex, and I know she’s right. One of my early problems in my marriage was that I kept demanding proofs of Leo’s love. But you didn’t come down here to hear about my therapy.

  When Sol got in trouble with the law, that was a terribly traumatic time for me. I was twenty-one and engaged to Leo, and my engagement very nearly broke up because of it. Leo’s family didn’t want him marrying a girl whose brother was in the state prison, and they came to my parents and told them so. “Disgrace! Disgrace!” That was the only word I heard around my house for months. My father took it worst of all. Subconsciously, because I thought my sickly childhood was responsible for Solly’s turning bad, I blamed myself for this disgrace, this shameful thing that had happened to my family. It was my fault we had produced this felon. And my father—he just seemed to withdraw from life. He used to sit in the dark, wide awake, in his chair. I’d come into the room. “Don’t you want a light on, Papa?” I’d ask him. “No, I like to sit in the dark, Hadassah,” he’d say. He’d started calling me by my Hebrew name. But otherwise there was no communication with him, and not long afterward he died. So there was the blame for another death laid at my doorstep. Is it any wonder my feelings about men were complicated, and it’s taken years of therapy to work them out? Thank God for Leo. Leo stuck by me. He seemed to be the only man who would.

  When Solly was let out of prison, his parole officer, Mr. Minskoff, came to see me. He explained the rehabilitation program that the state was working out for my brother. They wanted to help him make a fresh start, and this involved giving him a whole new identity and a new name. I’d never heard of such a program before, but Mr. Minskoff explained that it was experimental, and I gathered that Sol was one of the very first ex-prisoners they were trying it out on, because he had been such an exemplary prisoner at Hillsdale. I’ve no idea whether the program was an overall success or not, though it certainly was in Sol’s case. I don’t even know whether the state still offers such programs to former prisoners—but then how would I know? The point of the program is to expunge the criminal’s past from the record. And if the program were publicized, that would defeat the whole point. It struck me as a wonderfully humane approach to prisoner rehabilitation, and I’ve often wondered whether other states have tried it, though it obviously wouldn’t work in a hundred percent of the cases.

  Anywa
y, Mr. Minskoff explained that the state was helping to set Sol up in business—a retail store specializing in female apparel. This was because Sol came from a retailing family and had worked in the garment industry before he got into trouble. Some state funds were being made available for this project, but the state was also asking close family members to contribute to the new business by purchasing shares of stock in it. “We’re only asking close, caring family members,” he said. “We’re only asking people who’d like to demonstrate their faith in the prisoner’s prospects for rehabilitation.”

  Well, I liked to think that I was caring and that I had faith in Solly’s future, even though he’d never liked me. And I also thought that by contributing something I could perhaps atone for some of the grief I’d indirectly brought upon him and on my parents. But when Mr. Minskoff mentioned the figure he had in mind, three hundred thousand dollars, that just seemed too much of a Yom Kippur. I could have afforded it, I suppose. Leo made good money, and I’d had an inheritance from my father that was a complete surprise; no one had any idea that he’d been able to save so much money. But three hundred thousand dollars would have taken up most of my inheritance. I didn’t think I should put all my eggs in one basket. My two children were still little, and I was pregnant with my third, and I thought most of that money should be set aside for their college education.

  Mr. Minskoff said the state would gladly accept as little as half that figure, which sounded more like it. But naturally I told him I would have to discuss all this with my husband.

  This next part is a little difficult to talk about, because it’s been a source of disagreement between my husband and myself over the years. But I might as well tell you. My children are all grown, now, and are mature enough to handle it.

  When I mentioned discussing this matter with Leo, Mr. Minskoff asked me a strange question, which really upset me. “Is there any blot on your escutcheon, Mrs. Belsky?” I’ll never forget his strange choice of words.