Sins of the Fathers

by Susan Howatch

  Walking on and on down the corridors of the Van Zale mansion, I at last found myself in the deserted nursery. Cornelius’ first wife, Vivienne, had designed the nursery when she had been pregnant, but since she and Cornelius had separated before Vicky’s birth, the room had remained unused until I had begun my life with Cornelius. Then Sebastian had occupied the nursery for a few weeks until the judge had declared me to be an unfit mother and awarded custody to Ralph. Years later I had tried to turn the nursery into a playroom, but the children had preferred the games room with the French doors that opened into the garden. The nursery had always been a failure, and now with disuse it had become shabby and forlorn.

  I sat down on a little stool by the rocking horse and thought for some time. Perhaps I should arrange for the nursery to be redecorated. Vicky was sure to have a baby within the year.

  I rose to my feet automatically, just as Cornelius and I had risen to our feet at the unbearable sight of another couple effortlessly achieving the harmony which lay beyond our reach. I could now identify the unpleasant emotion I had gone to such lengths to hide. It was jealousy. I was jealous of a woman whose husband could prove his love so positively that she had been transformed into the most radiant bride I had ever seen.

  Immediately I hated myself for being jealous. Then I found I was hating Vicky for making me give way to such a destructive, shameful emotion. I pulled myself together. The truth was not that I hated Vicky, but that I did not understand her. I did not understand why she had never accepted me as a mother when her own mother had been such a failure. I did not understand why she should have felt unhappy at home when I had bent over backward to be kind and patient. I did not understand how she could have looked twice at Sam Keller when Sebastian loved her so much. I understood nothing about her. I was being made violently unhappy by an enigma, a puzzle I seemed destined never to solve.

  With a great effort I made a new attempt to be sensible. I had done my best for Vicky in the past, and one can’t do more than one’s best. As for the future, we would probably get along much better now that she had left home. In fact, if only I could conquer my stupid, humiliating jealousy, there was no reason why we shouldn’t be on the best possible terms.

  I knew I was jealous because Vicky was underlining to me how empty my life was. I knew too that the obvious solution was to take steps to make my life less empty, but that was easier said than done. What could I do to make my life more interesting? My annual charity fashion show was always widely praised, but fundamentally I disliked charity work because I was too shy and lacked the necessary militant organizational skills. My secretary, who was very efficient and who no doubt stayed with me because I interfered with her as little as possible, had carte blanche to deal with all my charities as she saw fit. I was not clever, so there was no point in taking a little morning course in French conversation or perhaps afternoon lessons in bridge. I was not musical, and although I drew well I didn’t see how I could improve my life by spending more time sketching. I supposed I ought to meet more people, but in my role as Cornelius’ wife I met a great many people regularly and devoted much of my time and energy to living the social life my position required. I wondered dimly what it would be like to meet people who saw me as myself, not merely as Cornelius’ wife, but the thought seemed remote, bordering on fantasy. I was Cornelius’ wife. I was good at being Cornelius’ wife, and that was all I wanted to be.

  But Cornelius had someone else. And my life with him was empty. I had to build a life of my own somehow, and that was so difficult when I had always defined my life in terms of other people. I had been my father’s daughter, Ralph’s wife, Sebastian’s mother, Cornelius’ wife … and now obviously I must be some man’s mistress. It was no use shirking the idea anymore. I’d been cowardly in refusing to face the conclusion Cornelius had so sensibly reached the previous April, and it was very clear to me now that for everyone’s sake I must put an end to the loneliness which was making me increasingly neurotic and embittered. I said to myself calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world: I’ll have an affair. Then I said fiercely: I must. But when I thought of Cornelius, slim and supple in his blue denims, the voice in my head cried in despair: I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. …

  V

  “Are you all right?” said Cornelius.

  “Oh, yes! Just fine. I had a call from Sebastian today. He’s coming home tomorrow.”

  “Uh-huh. Great. Well, if you’ll excuse me …”

  It was such a relief to have the opportunity to escape from my insoluble problems. I decided I would only think of them again later, at the end of the summer when we returned to the city after spending August at Bar Harbor. Meanwhile I was busy, excited, and happy. I had something to look forward to at last.

  My first husband had thought Sebastian was slow-witted because he had talked late and had at first been backward with his lessons, but when I had better access to my boys I bought special books to help Sebastian with his letters and numbers, and that was when I found out he was clever. Other people found out later, but I found out first. As a child he had a squint and protruding teeth. Cornelius thought he was plain; he never actually said so, but I noticed how often he was complimentary about Andrew’s looks, while Sebastian was never mentioned. But I found the best doctor in New York to operate on that “lazy” eye and the best dentist to make sure those teeth grew straight, and when Sebastian was suffering from the skin troubles common among adolescents I did not say, as Cornelius said: “Oh, he’ll grow out of it!” I took Sebastian to the best skin specialist instead, and now he was six feet tall with a clear skin and arresting dark eyes and a smile which displayed perfect, even teeth. I still marveled at how big and strong and grown-up he was. Sometimes when I saw him after a long separation I could hardly believe in the miracle which had enabled me to give birth to him, but there he was, my son, the living reminder of that unforgettable time when I had felt someone, Alicia Blaise Foxworth, talented, successful, special.

  On the morning he was due to arrive home I had my hair freshly set and dressed in my new white linen suit with the new black-and-white polka-dot overblouse. The skirt, tighter and shorter than last year’s fashion, flattered me and made me glad I had taken such trouble to stay slim. I wasn’t so happy with the overblouse, but one can’t expect to like every detail of the latest fashions. After selecting a small black pillbox hat, I found my smartest black purse and gloves and set off to the station in Cornelius’ new primrose-yellow Cadillac.

  The train was ten minutes late. I stood coolly by the ticket barrier and even when the train arrived I tried to conceal my excitement because I lived in dread of embarrassing Sebastian by some unwise display of affection.

  Sebastian was not demonstrative.

  When I saw him walking toward me I raised my hand in acknowledgment, smiled casually, and took a small insignificant step forward. My heart felt as if it were about to collapse with happiness. He was wearing a shabby crumpled summer suit, his favorite tie, which looked overdue for a visit to the cleaners, and no hat. The battered old suitcase in his hand must have been heavy, but he carried it as easily as a woman would carry a purse.

  “Hello, darling,” I said offhandedly. I knew it was always better to err on the side of coolness. “How are you?” I had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him because he was so tall.

  “Okay.”

  We went out to the car in companionable silence.

  “Christ,” said Sebastian when he saw the Cadillac, “what a godawful color.”

  “Cornelius loves it. ‘Chacun à son goût!’ ”

  “Don’t think much of his goût. Why the hell doesn’t he buy a decent Rolls-Royce?”

  “Darling, you know how Cornelius likes to patronize American industry.”

  “I thought the general idea nowadays was to pour money into Europe. God, what an awful place New York is—look at it! Just look at it! Look at all the dirt and the mindless people and the mean streets! What a junk heap!”

&n
bsp; “It would be worse in Philadelphia,” I said, making a New York joke.

  “Where’s that?”

  We laughed, and when we were both sitting in the car, I could not resist leaning over to give him a second kiss.

  “It’s lovely to see you again, darling.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s scheduled? The usual? No hope of Cornelius canceling the big xenophobic July Fourth family saturnalia and migrating early to Bar Harbor?”

  “Oh, darling, you know how Cornelius loves his American traditions!”

  “Emily and the gang coming?”

  “For July Fourth? Yes, of course.”

  “And Scott?”

  “I guess so!”

  “Thank God. At least there’ll be one person who’s interesting to talk to.”

  “Darling, you really shouldn’t say things like that!”

  “Anyone else coming?”

  “Well …”

  “Sam and Vicky?”

  “Yes. Oh, darling—”

  “Forget it. I don’t want to talk about her.”

  The journey continued in silence. I wanted to squeeze his hand comfortingly but I knew that would be a mistake. On our arrival home Sebastian immediately went to his room, closed the door and began to play Tannhäuser on his phonograph, and it was six o’clock before I could summon the nerve to disturb him.

  “Cornelius is back, darling,” I said, tapping on the door. “Won’t you come down and say hello?”

  Sebastian emerged grumpily and without comment tramped downstairs to the Gold Room, where Cornelius was glancing at the Post.

  “Hello, Sebastian!”

  “Hi.”

  They shook hands. They looked incongruous together, Cornelius so fair and fine-boned, Sebastian so dark and heavily built. Sebastian was the taller by several inches.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good journey?”

  “Yep.”

  “Harvard?”

  “Okay.”

  “Great!”

  Silence. I pressed the bell. “What would you like to drink, Sebastian?”

  “Beer.”

  “All right.” We waited. With relief I thought of something to say. “Darling, do tell Cornelius what you think of the economic situation—what was that remark you made at the station about Marshall aid?”

  The evening passed without too much awkwardness, and at nine-thirty Cornelius excused himself, saying he wanted an early night.

  “How impressive you were with your knowledge, darling!” I said to Sebastian as soon as we were alone. “Cornelius was so impressed, I could tell.”

  “Maybe.” He fidgeted impatiently. I wondered if he wanted to retire to his room again to listen to Tannhäuser.

  “Do you want to go to bed, darling?” I said, feeling I ought to give him the opportunity to leave if he wanted to. I did not want to be clinging or possessive.

  “No. Please stop calling me darling the whole time. Since you gave me such a godawful name as Sebastian, the least you can do is use it.”

  “Of course! Sorry. It’s funny how these stupid endearments become automatic.” I smiled at him and thought: So much love but no one to give it to. I looked around the room blindly as if I could find some recipient waiting in the shadows.

  “Are you okay, Mother?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “You seem pretty tense.”

  So even Sebastian had noticed. It seemed the crowning humiliation.

  “I’m all right,” I said evenly, but I saw then more clearly than ever that the day was fast approaching when I would have no choice but to reconsider those problems which still seemed so far beyond solution.

  VI

  “Are you all right, Alicia?” said Kevin Daly.

  We were sitting on the terrace of Cornelius’ summer cottage at Bar Harbor two months later. Cornelius had not inherited Paul’s summer home but had later acquired a similar property half a mile down the road. Styled in the manner of a Mediterranean villa, the house had thirty rooms, all with extensive views, and ten landscaped acres of garden which sloped downhill to the sea. Every summer I stayed there with the children while Cornelius spent as much time with us as his work permitted, and every summer Emily would travel from Ohio with her two girls to share our vacation. Since her daughters had been left fatherless at an early age Cornelius considered he should take a special interest in his nieces, and they in turn had been brought up to regard him as a substitute for the father they could not remember.

  As Cornelius always enjoyed being with children, and as it was obviously right that he should give all possible assistance to his sister, I did not object to this situation—although a whole summer of Emily frequently reduced me to exhaustion—but I was surprised when Cornelius took an equal interest in Emily’s stepchildren. Emily’s renegade husband, Steve Sullivan, had continually dabbled with marriage, and her daughters were only two of the children he had fathered over the years. There had been two sons from an earlier marriage; the younger, Tony, had been killed in the war, but the older, Scott, was a great favorite with Cornelius and even worked at the bank.

  “And why not?” said Cornelius. “Why should I be prejudiced against him on account of Steve?”

  I made no attempt to argue with him, but personally I was much impressed by this true Christian forgiveness and sheer generosity of spirit. We all knew Cornelius had had good reason to hate Steve, and a lesser man would surely have washed his hands of all Steve’s children except the ones who were related to him through Emily. However, Cornelius continued to be charitable, and in 1940 he even took charge of the three children of Steve’s last liaison, his marriage to the English businesswoman Dinah Slade. In fact it was Emily who looked after them for the duration of the war, but Cornelius always did his best to be agreeable toward them. Why he bothered, I could not imagine, for the children were unattractive and difficult and I suspected even Emily, with her talent for martyrdom, was glad when they were old enough to return to Europe to complete their education at English boarding schools. For the first two years after the war they had continued to spend their summers with us at Bar Harbor, but since the twins, Edred and Elfrida, had celebrated their eighth birthday in January 1948 they had not visited America and the checks which Cornelius had sent them so generously had been returned to him.

  “I guess they think they’ve imposed on me long enough,” said Cornelius, but I could tell he was hurt.

  “I think it shows a disgraceful lack of gratitude,” I could not help saying to Emily, but all Emily said was, “Growing up isn’t always easy, particularly if you lose both parents at an early age.”

  In contrast to the English Sullivans, the American Sullivans were all devoted to Cornelius and quick to display their affection and gratitude toward him. At that moment, as I sat on the terrace of Bar Harbor with Kevin, they were all playing tennis with Andrew on the court below. Andrew was partnering Emily’s elder daughter, Rose, and Scott, who had arrived from New York for a long weekend, was playing with Lori, the younger girl. Of the rest of the family, Sebastian had gone off by himself somewhere as usual, Emily was visiting the local branch of the Red Cross, and Cornelius had just been called away to the phone, so I was alone with Kevin on the terrace. He was staying with friends at North-East Harbor and had driven over to visit us for the day.

  “Yes, I’m fine, Kevin. Nothing’s the matter at all. …”

  Kevin was the same age as Cornelius, and good-looking in a way which I, never having been to Ireland, was probably mistaken in thinking was Irish. He had thick dark hair, bright eyes, and a wide winning smile. Twelve years ago he had ceased attending social occasions with a succession of pretty girls and had let it be known that a young actor was living with him at his house in Greenwich Village. The actor had lasted no longer than the pretty girls, but all New York now knew about Kevin Daly’s private tastes, and poor Cornelius, who was fond of Kevin but naturally disapproved of homosexuals, had been much embarrasse
d by the incident.

  Nowadays we seldom saw Kevin socially, but I admired his beautiful home and I enjoyed myself when we were invited to dinner there once a year. I liked the plays he wrote, too, although when I read the reviews afterward I wondered if I had truly understood what the plays were about. Kevin wrote in blank verse but I didn’t mind that because the actors were so clever and made the lines sound just like ordinary conversation. The plots were usually sad, but I enjoy stories which involve me emotionally. The women were very well-drawn.

  “… at least … well, no, Kevin, nothing’s the matter. Not really. Nothing.”

  I liked Kevin the best of the three men whom Paul Van Zale had chosen long ago to be Cornelius’ summer companions. I had never entirely trusted either Sam’s charm or Jake Reischman’s sophistication, but Kevin’s spontaneity had always put me at ease.

  “It’s just that I’ve so much enjoyed the summer here with the children,” I said, making an effort to answer his question in a way which would not increase his suspicion that something was wrong, “and I’m just dreading the return to New York.”

  “No kidding!” said Kevin agreeably, helping himself to more bourbon and offering me the sherry decanter. “I always feel I’m going mad if ever I’m away from New York for too long. I feel kind of mad at the moment, as a matter of fact. I hope to God the house hasn’t burned to the ground. I think I’ll call Mona as soon as Neil’s through with the phone.”

  “Mona?”

  “My current caretaker. Oh, you must meet Mona—she’s such fun! She’s got these two hopelessly immoral goldfish who … Say, Alicia, are you sure you won’t have some more sherry? No? I don’t blame you, it looks just terrible. Have you ever tried Wild Turkey bourbon? It’s wonderful if you feel the slightest bit depressed.”