Sins of the Fathers

by Susan Howatch

  Elfrida had gone. Alicia, fully dressed for the evening, was watching television as she waited for me.

  “Cornelius, are you ill?” she said as soon as she saw my face.

  “My asthma. Don’t think I can make it. Tell Sam and Vicky I’m very sorry.”

  “Was it Elfrida? I heard you shouting at each other, and I wondered—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She stood in silence, her gloved hands gripping her jeweled evening purse tightly, and I longed for her so much, even though I knew she was far beyond my reach.

  “Kevin was right,” I said more to myself than to her. “Trying to reach people … so hard … yet no one wants to be alone. Being alone’s like being dead. Alicia …”

  “Yes?” She was pale with anxiety now, distressed by my obvious ill-health. I saw her twist the little jeweled strap of the purse in her hands.

  “Do you remember last week … in the paper … report of how the last of the Stuyvesants died?”

  She was obviously bewildered but made an effort to respond. “Yes … poor old man! He was the last of such a famous old New York family, and he’d been a recluse for years. It was all rather pathetic, wasn’t it?”

  “He died alone,” I said. “One of the richest men in New York … all by himself in his Fifth Avenue mansion … and he died alone.”

  “Cornelius, sit down and I’ll call a doctor this minute. Have you got your medication, or is it in the bathroom?”

  “He was absolutely isolated,” I said. “He had no communication with anyone … no communication. … It’s all a matter of communication, you see. Elfrida didn’t understand, but it’s all a matter of communication. I’ve got to have power, I’ve got to communicate, how can I communicate without power? Nobody would take any notice of me. Steve Sullivan … never took any notice … but I made him notice. I communicated. Only way … for someone like me … but why doesn’t it work better? Why am I so isolated? Alicia, do you hear me? Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, dear, but don’t talk any more. It’s so bad for you when you’re breathing like this. … Operator? I want to call a doctor at once. It’s an emergency.”

  “Alicia, you’re not listening. Alicia, you’ve got to listen. Alicia …” My breath finally gave out. The iron band closed around my chest, and the last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was Alicia rushing toward me yet at the same time receding eerily into the distance.

  VII

  Later, when I had recovered, I was embarrassed by the memory of that scene, but fortunately Alicia must have been as embarrassed as I was, for she never referred to it again. Ranting about the last of the Stuyvesants, rambling on and on about communication—I shuddered at the memory of such demented behavior and decided that I had been temporarily unhinged by shock. I was still shocked by Elfrida’s revelations, but I had made up my mind not to think about them while I was sick. My first priority was obviously to struggle back to health.

  I had had to be taken to a hospital. I had not been hospitalized for my asthma since I was a child, and I had forgotten how much I hated hospitals.

  “Get me out of here!” I said to Alicia as soon as I dared expend precious breath on a conversation. “Get me out of this country! Just get me out!”

  We left in early September, curtailing our vacation, and as soon as Europe disappeared over the horizon I felt better. Now I no longer lay awake at night and wondered where my next breath was coming from. Now instead I could allow myself to dwell on that terrible interview with Elfrida. And now at last I had no choice but to grapple with the enigma which was Scott.

  I couldn’t think why Scott had never confronted me with Tony’s letter. Emily’s case was different. I knew exactly why Emily had never shown the letter to me. She’d been too ashamed. She had practiced what she preached and forgiven me as best she could, but I saw now why she had moved away from me back to Velletria, and I understood why, whenever we met, there always seemed so little to say.

  Emily was easy to figure out.

  But Scott remained an enigma.

  I thought of Scott with his self-confessed interest in justice, a latter-day knight in search of a mysterious Holy Grail which he had never defined with precision, and the more I thought of him, the more clearly I could see him: smart, tough, capable Scott, always so interesting; pleasant, sociable, respectful Scott, always such a comfort to me, always there when I wanted him, always the perfect antidote to isolation.

  I thought: Of course I’ll have to get rid of him. After this, I’d be insane to do anything else.

  VIII

  “Hi, Cornelius!” exclaimed Scott a week later. “How are you?”

  I noticed at once how fit and relaxed he looked. He was wearing a lightweight pale suit to combat the September heat, and the color emphasized his suntan. His black eyes sparkled.

  “I’m just fine,” I said. “How was your vacation?”

  “Wonderful!” Scott was always secretive about his vacations, which I had begun to suspect were spent sampling the delights of the flesh as extensively as possible. “I took a boat to Alaska. My, you should see that Inside Passage!”

  “Hm.”

  “And how was your own vacation, Cornelius? I hear you had to cut it short.”

  “The English air didn’t suit my asthma.”

  “That’s too bad! I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, it was a pity. … By the way, I saw your half-sister when I was in London. Have you heard from her recently?”

  “No, we’re only in touch at Christmas. How is she? You’re looking very sober! I hope there’s nothing wrong.”

  “On the contrary, Elfrida and I are launching a project together. She wants to found a school at Mallingham in memory of her mother. I’m donating the land and backing her through the Van Zale Educational Trust.”

  “What a great idea! And how nice that the two of you could get together like that!”

  “Yes. … But Elfrida seemed under the impression she was extracting some kind of revenge.”

  “She did?” Scott seemed to find this genuinely amusing. He even laughed. “How naive!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it won’t cost you a cent, will it? It’ll all be deductible.”

  I got up without a word and walked away into the other half of the room. I was at my office. Outside, the sun was beating down upon the patio, but indoors the air conditioning was keeping the room as cool as an icebox. I walked to the fireplace to examine the digital clock before pacing back to the fireplace by my desk to stare at the Kandinsky above the mantel. Scott seemed unfazed, although by this time it must have been obvious that something was seriously wrong. The interview, littered with my tense silences and expressionless comments, was far removed from our usual relaxed conversations.

  I turned to look at him. He raised his eyebrows quizzically and smiled at me. “What’s the trouble?” he said in the most natural voice imaginable. He must have had nerves of iron.

  I said abruptly, “Elfrida showed me Tony’s letter.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Scott sociably. “I always wondered when that old skeleton was going to crawl out of the closet. I suggested to Emily at the time that we should show the letter to you, but she wouldn’t hear of it, and out of respect for her I didn’t argue. She seemed to think it might upset you. I can’t think why. You must have been well aware that Tony hated your guts, and it’s always seemed clear to me that his version of the past was unlikely to either surprise or disturb you. I hope I wasn’t wrong.”

  I did not answer directly. I was too overcome with admiration for the way he was handling the conversation. But perhaps he had had his responses prepared for years. The chance had always existed that I would see the letter eventually.

  I decided I didn’t quite dare to feel relieved. Not yet. Not until I was one-hundred-percent sure that relief was justified.

  There was a pause. Then I said, “What did you make of the letter?”

  �
�Not much,” said Scott, as if we were discussing a somewhat substandard article in the New York Times. “Like Elfrida’s bid to extract revenge, it struck me as being naive.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, sure! Come, Cornelius, I’m not a baby, and I know how the world’s arranged. You and my father had a power struggle. Such things are very common in big business. They happen all the time. You won. Almost certainly my father made the mistake so many people have made in the past and underestimated you. That’s tough. Bad luck, Dad, but you really should have been a little smarter. So what does my father do next to restore his fortunes? He goes to England. He then has a wonderful opportunity to make a big comeback, but does he make the best of it? No, he doesn’t. He throws all his chances away because he can’t leave the bottle alone. He dies. Again that’s tough, but alcoholics always die, usually sooner rather than later. That leaves you alive and well and in full command at One Willow Street. Do I expect you to be a saint? No, I do not. Saints don’t occupy the senior partner’s chair at One Willow Street. You’re a powerful, dangerous, and unscrupulous despot, and anyone who works here and doesn’t know that has to be some kind of mental defective. I’m not a mental defective. I … Shall I go on? I don’t want to bore you by spelling all this out unnecessarily, but perhaps under the circumstances …”

  “Go on.” I couldn’t stand any longer. I was too weak with relief. I sat down rather suddenly in the senior partner’s chair. “You were saying you weren’t a mental defective …”

  “I’m not a mental defective. I’m ambitious, as you well know, and I want to get to the top in banking, as you also well know, and I’ll take every opportunity I can get, as must be abundantly clear to you by this time. Why should I bother to deny it? And why should you bother to get flustered when you’ve always had and always will have total control over my career at Van Zale’s?”

  “Why indeed?” I hardly knew what I said. The relief was so enormous by this time that I even wondered in alarm if I were on the verge of tears.

  “So I ask you,” said Scott, “what’s the big deal about this goddamned letter? Tony may have enjoyed presenting you as some kind of Count Dracula in modern dress, but to be honest, I don’t give a shit. I’m no more interested in the way you might be—a latter-day Dracula—than the way you ought to be—a golden-haired angel with a halo and wings. I’m interested in the way you really are. And you know why I’m only interested in the way you really are, Cornelius?”

  “Tell me.” I was getting stronger with every passing second. I even managed to smile at him.

  “I’m interested in the way you really are because you’re my boss and you hold the key to my future—and believe me, Cornelius, I’m only interested in the future. Why should I crucify myself over what might or what might not have happened in the past? What good could that possibly do me? You’ve taught me to be a pragmatic survivor, Cornelius! Look at me and congratulate yourself on the way I’ve turned out!”

  I burst out laughing. He laughed too, and suddenly I felt so happy again, as if I had lost a pot of gold but had finally located it after a long agonizing search. My loneliness and misery vanished abruptly. I wished only that we were at home so that we could have a game of chess and chat about eternity as usual.

  “So I’ve made you in my own image, have I, Scott?” I said humorously. “Powerful, dangerous, and unscrupulous—weren’t those the words you used?”

  “Right!”

  “That scares me! I’m not sure I like it.”

  “Oh yes, you do! You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

  We laughed again, and all my fears seemed so irrational, so irrelevant to the affection which existed between us. It occurred to me that I had been more severely disoriented in England than I had realized at the time. I must have been out of my mind. This was my boy still, nothing to do with Steve, and the past was all sealed off, just as it should be.

  “Of course I ought to get rid of you!” I said, thinking how ridiculous the idea sounded as soon as it was voiced aloud.

  “Well, that would be very aggravating,” said Scott frankly, “and I don’t mind admitting I’d be very hurt, but as I’ve already said, I’m a survivor, and I don’t think I’d have much trouble walking into a top job somewhere else.”

  “Hell, I’m not letting my best man go!”

  “Thank God. You had me worried for a moment. I thought you were just about to cut me up and feed me to the pigeons in the patio.”

  “I wouldn’t do that! I’m too fond of those birds! Say, Scott, talking of birds … what was the name of that guy who wrote about the sparrow in the lighted hall?”

  “Bede.”

  “Come round to Fifth Avenue tonight and tell me more about him. I’ll get in some Coke and dust off your favorite chess set.”

  Scott said he’d be looking forward to it.

  Later, when I was alone, I sat at my desk for some time while I doodled on my blotter and summed up the situation with a cool, practiced, rational eye. My last thought before I pushed the buzzer to summon my secretary was: Yes, I do trust him. But I shouldn’t.

  Chapter Five

  I

  I DID NOT SEE Emily again until the following spring. Usually she joined us for Thanksgiving, but that year some minor ailment kept her in Velletria, and although I reissued the invitation for Christmas, she said she was committed to running a big holiday party at the local orphanage. Her elder daughter, Rose, had graduated from Wellesley that summer and was helping Emily with the local good works while she decided what to do with herself. Meanwhile, Lori, who admitted frankly that good works “bored the pants off her,” had bucketed around from Foxcroft to a Swiss finishing school and was now idling away some more time by completing an advanced-cooking course in nearby Cincinnati. She wanted to live away from home, but Emily, rightly in my opinion, refused to agree to this while Lori was under twenty-one. Young girls need looking after, particularly young girls like Lori, who wore tight sweaters and had a pinup of Marlon Brando tacked to her bedroom wall.

  “I think Lori’s just great!” said Andrew to us presently. “Boy, did they finish her off at that Swiss finishing school! When I first visited Velletria after her return from Switzerland, I could hardly believe she was the same person as the little pest who broke the strings of my tennis racket at Bar Harbor. She was sitting on the couch with her legs crossed like Rita Hayworth, and she had her hair flopping over one eye like Lauren Bacall, and she was smoking a cigarette with her eyes half closed like Marilyn Monroe, and when I gaped at her like some hillbilly from hicksville, she said, ‘Hi, gorgeous! Love your uniform.’ I just reeled! It was wonderful! Somehow Aunt Emily’s living room is the last place you’d expect to find a torrid sex symbol!”

  “Emily’s going to have trouble with that girl,” I forecast to Alicia, but I was wrong. In the end, Emily had no trouble at all, because Lori not only decided to get married but decided to marry someone of whom we couldn’t possibly disapprove. She picked Andrew. I doubt if Andrew himself had much say in the matter. In the summer of 1953 when I was in Europe he was transferred to an air-force base near Cincinnati and would often spend his leave with Emily and the girls. By Christmas he and Lori were engaged and announcing their plans to marry in the spring.

  “And just think, Cornelius!” said Alicia, her eyes shining, although she had never much cared for Lori, “my son will be marrying your niece!”

  “Hm,” I said, but I felt no kinship with Lori, whose noisy vitality all too often reminded me of her father, Steve Sullivan. “I hope she’ll behave herself when Andrew’s up in the clouds flying the planes. They say life on those air-force bases can be pretty wild.”

  Alicia said nothing more on the subject, but I sensed she was disappointed, and I realized she had been hoping this marriage might prove to be a viable substitute for her old soap-opera dream that Vicky should marry Sebastian.

  I liked Andrew much better than I liked Sebastian, although we had no interest in common beyond a fondnes
s for watching baseball. He was straightforward and good-natured, a clean-cut all-American boy. His slight physical resemblance to his mother made it easy for me to feel affectionate toward him, and although his extrovert’s nature was entirely different from hers, I had no trouble remembering that this was the son of the most important woman in my life, a boy who deserved the best paternal care I could offer. He was no match for Sebastian intellectually, but he was intelligent and, better still, articulate. I foresaw success for him in his chosen career, and although I had no interest in planes, I backed him up to the hilt when he decided to enter the air force. Since I knew he would never make a banker, it had been a relief to me when he had selected such a respectable, patriotic way of earning his living, and having survived the Korean war with honors, he was now angling for a transfer to Germany, since Lori thought a spell in Europe would be “so glamorous.”

  “That girl’s going to boss Andrew around until he won’t know whether he’s coming or going,” I said to Alicia shortly before the wedding.

  “Andrew says he loves to be organized.”

  I said nothing, but I believed wholeheartedly that a man should be the boss in his own home. I strongly disapproved of pushy, domineering women with minds of their own and wills to match. If God had wanted women to be that way, he would have made just one sex, men, and arranged for reproduction by some kind of scientific splitting in two, like amoebas.

  However, I forgot my disapproval of Lori as soon as Vicky arrived home for a visit in order to attend the wedding. Sam came later, spending only a few days in America before flying back to London to attend to his business commitments, but Vicky and the boys spent the whole month of May with us.