Sins of the Fathers

by Susan Howatch

  Scott’s been working for years to achieve this frame of mind, of course. He’s been dedicated, disciplined, fanatical. He’s out for justice—“natural justice,” he would call it, implying an inexorable force which may or may not be controlled by God. But will he succeed in getting this justice of his? I wonder. Several things could happen to upset his plans. For instance, Cornelius could get his guilt under control and lose interest in Scott. Or Cornelius could merely resist the idea of retirement and live a very long time, longer than Scott, who’s only eleven years his junior.

  What will Scott do if natural justice doesn’t pan out quite the way he thinks it should? And for that matter, what is natural justice in this situation? Will I think it’s just if Scott snatches the bank from under my nose? I most certainly will not.

  Natural justice may well exist. God may well exist. I don’t know. I’m not so intellectually arrogant that I think I know all the answers. But one thing I do know. If there is a God, I firmly believe he helps those who help themselves. I’ve every intention of helping myself. What’s more, I think Scott will too if the going gets rough, and the scary part is that he might well be in a winning position. For Scott’s slipped Cornelius into an emotional vise way, way back, that’s quite obvious, and one day when Cornelius is old and tired and vulnerable, Scott’s going to start tightening the screws.

  The next day Scott and I play tennis again, and he wins. It seems like a bad omen, and afterward, when we sit drinking Coke in the shade of the patio, I’m more silent than usual.

  What do I do about Scott? If I can prove to Cornelius how dangerous Scott is, I would immediately dispose of my rival, but I don’t see how I can ever obtain concrete proof of what’s going on in Scott’s head. Also, I can’t believe that Cornelius, with his enormous talent for survival, hasn’t a notion of Scott’s long-term ambitions. Hasn’t Cornelius sensed that he’s like a laboratory guinea pig being watched by some highly dedicated scientist? Scott must have neutralized him somehow, but how he’s done it beats me. It’s not like Cornelius to turn a blind eye to someone who could be dangerous to him. As soon as someone’s potentially dangerous he’s fired. So why hasn’t Cornelius fired Scott? Why has he persisted in turning a blind eye in Scott’s direction?

  I try to figure out what’s going on in Cornelius’ head. Perhaps it’s not a question of a blind eye but of an autocrat’s distorted vision. Cornelius has been omnipotent for so long that perhaps he can’t conceive of a situation in which Scott could be too hot to handle.

  But I can.

  Suppose Scott gets tired of waiting and decides to give natural justice a helping hand. Suppose Cornelius gets sick, really sick, so sick that he has to delegate most of his power and can do no more than sign his name where Scott tells him to. Suppose Scott does a secret deal with the other partners, who all have a stake in denting Cornelius’ autocracy, and forces Cornelius into incorporating the firm. Scott would be president of the new corporation, of course, and Cornelius, weakened by ill health, would be kicked upstairs to be chairman of the board. It couldn’t happen if, as I originally thought, Cornelius was at heart firmly prejudiced against Scott as Steve’s son. But it could happen if, as I now think Cornelius has lost sight of Steve in the murky past and has managed to persuade himself, for reasons which I still don’t fully understand, that Scott can never be a threat to him. I consider my options. I can keep my mouth shut. Or if I open it, I can try spelling out to Cornelius in bloodcurdling detail what might happen if Scott decides to give natural justice a helping hand.

  Would Cornelius listen to me? No, he wouldn’t. If he’s managed to convince himself that Scott’s just a sycophantic court jester instead of the hostile joker in the pack, he’ll only laugh at my description of doomsday.

  No, on second thought, he won’t laugh; he’ll be angry. He’ll think: sour old Sebastian, jealous of Scott and making trouble by dreaming up these preposterous, paranoid, unproven theories. Sebastian, my cross, my burden, my pain in the neck. To hell with Sebastian, Cornelius will say to himself, and draw closer to Scott than ever.

  I’ll have to play a waiting game. There’s no alternative except to watch and listen and hope that somehow, somewhere along the line, I’ll stumble across the proof I need.

  “God, it’s hot, isn’t it?” says Scott.

  “Yeah.”

  “But that sea breeze is nice.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Nothing going on there, just an exchange of words, and that’s bad. I’ve got to keep the lines of communication open so that he doesn’t get suspicious.

  Scott’s stalking Cornelius. And I’m stalking Scott.

  Spooky.

  August 11, 1958. Vicky has the baby. Another boy who might grow up to make life awkward for me at the bank. I smile politely and say, “That’s nice.”

  Vicky won’t commit herself to choosing a name and only refers to the baby as Postumus. I know why, although no one else does. Two weeks ago at Bar Harbor during a discussion of Cicero’s letters I remarked to Vicky how sensible the Romans were about naming their children. You had no more than a dozen names to choose from if the baby was a boy, and if it was a girl you didn’t even have the bother of choosing; she was automatically called by the female form of her father’s patronymic unless you wanted to distinguish her from her sisters by tagging on a label like Tertia. A male born after his father’s death might simply receive his father’s name with the additional description “Postumus.” Modern parents who agonize for days over books of names might well pause to envy the Romans their supreme lack of creative imagination on the subject of this potential family battleground.

  “Little Keller Postumus,” says Vicky, clear-eyed, not thinking of Sam, not thinking of anything except the ordeal of surviving this baby’s birth and emerging at last from the long shadow of her marriage. “Poor little Postumus.”

  Five days after the birth she calls me at the bank. “Sebastian, can you be here during visiting hours this evening, and if I start to scream could you lock everyone out?”

  “Sure.”

  You can visit this hospital at any time, but Vicky has asked her doctor to restrict visiting hours. Visitors are tiring, particularly when those visitors are Mother and Cornelius, still behaving like newlyweds.

  Vicky has a couple of old friends paying court when I arrive, so I loaf around by the window and watch the sludge flow down the East River. Then Cornelius and Mother arrive with the kids plus chief nurse, and the friends stage a tactful withdrawal.

  Eric and Paul try to murder each other as usual and upset a bowl of fruit.

  “Take them out, please,” says Mother crisply to their nurse. “Vicky, I told them beforehand that they had to behave if they came.”

  “Yes, Alicia,” says Vicky mechanically.

  Little Samantha jumps up and down and pipes, “Mommy, can I see Postumus?”

  Everyone laughs because she’s so cute.

  “Baby’s name isn’t truly Postumus, darling!” says Vicky. She loves Samantha.

  “Well, what’s the name going to be, sweetheart?” says Cornelius. “You know, I was thinking that my father had a good American name. I don’t mean my stepfather, Wade Blackett, who brought me up, but my real father, who died when I was four. Why don’t you call the baby—?”

  “No,” says Vicky strongly, “you’re not going to choose a name. I sat by in silence for years while you and Sam decided what to call my children, but I’m not sitting by passively any longer. This is my baby and no one’s going to name him except me. Postumus is going to be called Benjamin.”

  “Benjamin?” chorus the grandparents aghast.

  “But that’s Jewish!” adds Mother—predictably.

  “I wouldn’t care if it was Chinese!” says Vicky. “I wouldn’t even care if it was Martian! It’s the name I like best. Sebastian understands, don’t you, Sebastian? You wouldn’t let Jake and Amy tell you what to call Alfred.”

  “Right,” I say, moving in. “You call Postumus Benjamin
. Good choice.”

  Cornelius and Mother swivel to face me. I can see them recognizing that some sort of change has occurred in the family structure. This is the first time that Vicky and I have ever ganged up on them.

  “Well, Sebastian,” says Mother, nettled, “I don’t see what this has to do with you.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you and Cornelius either, Mother. This is Vicky’s decision and no one else has the right to make it for her.”

  Mother and Cornelius look astounded. I stand guard by Vicky’s bed like a pillar from Stonehenge. Vicky rings the bell.

  “Oh, nurse, could you bring the baby in, please?” she says, a little breathless after her triumphant victory.

  This is the first independent step Vicky’s ever taken as an adult. It’s a big step forward, and in taking it she launched herself at last on her voyage of self-discovery.

  On an impulse I kiss her cheek to tell her I’m with her all the way.

  She looks up startled, but she smiles, and when I glance at our parents I see they’re wide-eyed with wonder.

  Vicky and Sebastian. Sebastian and Vicky. Could they … could they possibly …?

  I can almost see Mother’s thoughts racing around in her head like a bunch of whippets chasing an electric hare.

  Cornelius is transfixed with fascination.

  “Here’s Postumus, Mrs. Keller,” says the nurse, bringing in the new bundle.

  It’s surprising how catchy that old Roman tag is. I think we might find it unexpectedly difficult to call him Benjamin.

  August 28. Vicky’s mother arrives unexpectedly from England, where she now lives, and asks to see her new grandson. Vicky calls me in hysterics and says she can’t see her, Sam forced her to be nice to her mother but she can’t pretend anymore, her mother makes her ill, her mother’s a witch and a whore and evil personified.

  “Okay,” I say laconically, picturing a twentieth-century version of Grendel’s Mother in Beowulf. “I’ll fix her.”

  Vicky’s mother’s name is Vivienne Diaconi, and she’s staying at a hotel which looks as if it should be on the Bowery. It’s six o’clock and I’ve arranged to meet Vivienne in the lobby.

  I look around for Grendel’s Mother and see this cute little old lady, all dyed and manicured and dolled up, and I discover she has a low whispery voice and a sexy walk which would have stopped even Beowulf dead in his tracks.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m Sebastian Foxworth.”

  “Well, hello there!” She looks me up and down as if I’m the sexiest piece she’s seen in a month of Sundays, and I find myself wondering who’s nuts: me, Vicky, Vivienne, or Cornelius. The only offense this little old lady could possibly commit is cradle-robbing.

  “Can I buy you a drink someplace?” I offer politely.

  “Darling, how lovely of you to suggest it! I’d just adore some champagne at the Plaza.”

  Well, that’s okay. I like little old ladies who know what they want. We take a cab to the Plaza and sit in the Palm Court and I order a bottle of champagne. Meanwhile she’s talking continuously about how wicked Cornelius is, unhinging Vicky so that Vicky gets upset at the sight of her own mother.

  “Yeah,” I say when she pauses to drink her champagne. Okay. Well, that’s the past. How about the future? You didn’t come to New York just to bitch to me about Cornelius. Now, I can arrange for Nurse to bring all the children, including Benjamin, to see you, but I think it would be easier if you weren’t staying at that hotel.”

  She say that’s no problem. The Plaza will suit her very nicely, thank you, and please could her suite overlook the park.

  “Sure,” I said, “I’ll fix that before I leave.”

  She says I’m sweet. I give her a look, but it’s no good, I can’t keep a straight face, and when I laugh, she laughs too.

  I’ve become friends with Grendel’s Mother.

  “I guess you want to come back to New York to live in order to be near your grandchildren again,” I say as we down the champagne, but beneath the mask of makeup the little face stiffens. “I don’t want to upset my girl anymore,” she says. “I’ve moved from Florida to New York and from New York to England to be near her, but it’s never worked out. I can’t keep following her and upsetting her. I can only wait now in the hope that someday she’ll change. I feel so strongly that if only she could get away from Cornelius’ influence—”

  “Can you give me some idea of Vicky’s problem,” I interrupt, “without mentioning the word ‘Cornelius’?”

  But she can’t. Cornelius is part of her personal myth. She’s got to blame someone for the fact that after a lifetime of glamour she’s just a little old lady facing old age alone, and it’s easier to blame him than to blame herself.

  She says Cornelius deliberately did everything he could to turn Vicky against her. She says she and Vicky used to get along beautifully. She says she knows she got in kind of a mess with Danny Diaconi, but at least she put it all right by marrying him. Besides, Danny was sweet. Such a family man. She, Vicky, and Danny had all been so happy before Cornelius muscled in, smashing up their happy home.

  I wonder how I can steer her away from this Cornelius-the-archvillain tack, but she’s no fool; she’s seen I’m bored with her one-sided view of the past, so she says, “To get back to the present …”

  “Sure, yes.”

  “You seem to speak of Vicky in a special way. Would you be … could you be …?”

  “Yes, I’m in love with her. Of course I am.”

  “Darling, how wonderful!”

  I offer her a cigarette and she leans forward stylishly for a light. She must have been a real sensation thirty years ago. No wonder Cornelius became so infatuated with her that he didn’t realize till afterward that he’d been married for his money.

  “And does Vicky love you?” she was asking eagerly, her voice husky with the thought of romance.

  “I’m working on it.”

  Vivienne flutters her eyelashes and says she’d just love me for a son-in-law someday.

  I don’t tell her that Vicky and I will never marry and I don’t attempt to explain my idea of the liaison. Instead I settle her in the most expensive suite available, order up six bottles of champagne to keep her happy, and tell her I’m glad she’s now in the right environment because her kind of glamour is wasted outside of a Plaza suite decorated with champagne bottles.

  Her eyes soften mistily. She says she just loves strong silent men with hearts of gold.

  I ride the elevator downstairs to the reception desk and tell the cashier to bill the suite to Cornelius.

  Vivienne stays two weeks and sees the grandchildren every day. She asks me if she can borrow a hundred dollars to cover expenses like Plaza tips, and I give her two hundred and tell her not to bother to pay me back. Then I book her a first-class cabin on the Queen Mary and arrange for champagne to be waiting for her as soon as she arrives on board.

  Vicky, who’s summoned the nerve to face her mother twice during the two weeks, makes a supreme effort and takes the children down to the pier to see the ship leave.

  We discuss Vivienne later. We don’t say much because Vicky can’t discuss her mother rationally, but I think she should try to talk about her to someone; I think that when a relationship between a parent and child goes very wrong the problem should be gently aired now and then instead of being swept under the rug of the subconscious to fester at leisure. I’m reminded of our disastrous Romeo-and-Juliet scene at Bar Harbor. The worst thing we could possibly have done was to swear to Cornelius that we would never refer to the incident again.

  Of course by this time I’m feeling totally baffled by the nonrelationship between Vicky and her mother. Vivienne obviously cares about her daughter. Equally obviously she was once a femme fatale, but that doesn’t automatically mean she was incapable of being a good mother. I can see she was probably dumb to have got involved with a member of the Diaconi family, who mass-produce gangsters out west, but it’s not as if she met the Diacon
is during the course of a life of crime; she met Danny through her cousin Greg Da Costa, who used to work for Danny’s father in a legitimate hotel business in California. So why does Vicky talk as if her mother’s a vice queen, the wicked villainess who must always be kept at arm’s length? It makes no sense at all.

  “Your mother means well,” I say vaguely, using a vacuous phrase to defuse the tension surrounding the subject.

  “Perhaps. But she still revolts me.”

  “Why? She’s no big deal, just a little old lady with a lot of oomph and pep. I think she’s cute!”

  Vicky shudders but says nothing.

  “What really happened, Vicky, back when your father got custody of you? Did Danny make some kind of pass at you, and your mother got so mad she kicked you off to live with Cornelius?”

  “Sebastian!” She’s genuinely appalled by my lurid imagination. Obviously I’m way off the mark here. “Of course not! What a thing to say! Heavens, I was only ten years old!”

  “Some men like little girls. Read Nabokov.”

  “Well, Danny was no Humbert. And I was no Lolita.”

  “Then I don’t get it,” I say frankly. “There’s a piece missing from this puzzle somewhere. Did you like Danny?”

  “Yes, at first, although not later, when he started getting angry with Daddy. He was cute. He was years younger than Mother and looked a bit like Elvis Presley. I kind of like Elvis,” she added as an afterthought, “although I can’t think why.”

  I can. Elvis is safe. He’s confined to a movie screen so that Vicky can enjoy his sexuality without feeling threatened by it. I’m now one-hundred-percent certain that her marriage with Sam ended in a sexual disaster, and I wish so much I could unlock the door of Vicky’s psyche and let all those mixed-up feelings out. What did he do to make her scared of sex? No, wait a moment, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. I’ve now got the message that the thought of sex is repugnant to her, but disliking sex and being scared of it aren’t necessarily the same thing. And the crazy part is that even though sex is repugnant to her, she’s still interested enough in it to feel a sneaking liking for Elvis. So she can’t quite be a hopeless case. If she really thought sex was a hobby of the devil, she’d go around insisting that Elvis should be crucified on Capitol Hill for his sex appeal.