Sins of the Fathers

by Susan Howatch

  II

  Halfway down the subway steps I realized I was once more out of my mind. I could hardly turn up for work unshaven and wearing denim and black leather. Bolting back up the steps into the street, I grabbed a cab for the six-block ride uptown to my apartment, and as I sat on the edge of the seat I thought not of Cornelius but of Sam Keller bawling me out years ago because I had turned up disheveled in his office after falling asleep at my desk the night before.

  The memory of Sam Keller, the man who had sent my father down the last mile of his road to self-destruction, always made me clench my fists, but this time they were clenched already. I felt like a passenger in a plane which was about to crash.

  “Go faster, can’t you?” I said to the driver.

  “What’s this—a suicide mission?”

  I dropped a five-dollar bill onto the seat beside him. “Move it.”

  Horns blared as we jumped the lights and another driver leaned out to yell obscenities at us as our cab screeched off down the block.

  In my apartment the water from the shower stung my skin and the towel was rough against my face. I shaved, seized some fresh underclothes, and reached for the phone.

  “Is he there yet?” I said to Cornelius’ secretary, the phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder as I pulled on my shorts.

  “Not yet. The traffic’s very heavy this morning. Is there a message, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “No. Yes. Wait a minute, let me think.” The truth was, the situation was so far beyond my control that panic was propelling me into a series of rash moves, each one more unfortunate than the last. It was time I stopped to consider the facts I couldn’t alter. There was no way I could arrive at the office before Sebastian, just as there was no way I could stop Sebastian denouncing me to Cornelius, but even so, my situation might still not be beyond redemption. Cornelius disliked Sebastian, he disliked any criticism of me, his favorite partner, and he disliked being reminded that his daughter was neither married nor chaste. If I summoned all my nerve, stopped crashing around like a guilt-ridden playboy, and made a strong counterattack, the odds were that I could stave off disaster by talking my way out of trouble.

  My silver medallion, symbol of a silver-tongued race, lay on the nightstand beside the phone. I said to the secretary in my smoothest, most charming voice, “Could you tell Mr. Van Zale, please, that I’ve been unexpectedly delayed but I’ll be with him as soon as possible. Thanks very much! And perhaps you could suggest to him that the meeting about the London office be put back till ten-thirty? Thank you.”

  I hung up, glanced at my watch, and decided that since I’d bought myself some extra time I might as well make the most of it. After I was dressed I lingered over some black coffee, but finally, when the moment could be postponed no longer, I set off, feeling as naked as any ancient Celt who had rushed screaming into battle, and made my silent, well-dressed, immaculately controlled way downtown to Wall Street to fight for my professional life.

  III

  The sun shone as I walked down the street past Morgan’s to the corner of Willow and Wall. The doorman at the bank greeted me with a smile, and I forced myself to make a leisurely progress down the great hall as I exchanged a few words with my partners who worked there. In the back lobby I moved swiftly past the closed doors of Cornelius’ office and ran up the back stairs, but before I entered my room I made sure I was breathing evenly. This was going to be my dress rehearsal. I had to practice being as casual and relaxed as any other carefree bachelor just returned from a successful vacation in the Caribbean.

  I flung open the door. My secretary and personal assistant were standing by my desk like victims awaiting a firing squad, and I remembered belatedly that Scott never discussed his vacations but immediately got on with the job of packing twenty-five hours’ work into a twenty-four-hour day.

  “Hi!” I said, thinking what hell Scott must have been to work for. “How are things?”

  They gaped at me but decided my cheerful inquiry was just a temporary aberration.

  “Scott, Mr. Van Zale wants to see you right away—”

  “—and there’s a crisis at Hammaco—”

  “—and the computer’s broken down—”

  “—and there are urgent messages from—”

  I thought: What a boring life Scott had, dealing daily with all this crap. “Hold it!” I protested. “Relax! Let them all wait! How have you two been doing?”

  They stared at me openmouthed.

  “Well,” said my secretary at last, “I guess we’re still recovering from the assassination. Scott, hadn’t you better call Mr. Van Zale? He did say ‘right away.’ ”

  The phone rang.

  “I’m not in yet,” I said, taking off my coat.

  My secretary got rid of the caller.

  “Who was that?” I said, glancing vaguely at my accumulated correspondence.

  “Donald Shine.”

  “Donald who?”

  This time both my secretary and my personal assistant looked at me as if I were certifiable.

  “Donald Shine! Don’t tell us you’ve forgotten the young kid from Brooklyn who wants to start a computer-leasing business! He wanted to know when you could have lunch with him.”

  “Oh, Donald Shine! Sure, call him back and fix something. Where’s that new beautiful blond from the typing pool with my coffee?”

  Their gasps were audible. My secretary even dropped her notepad. I was still laughing at them when the red phone jangled, making me jump. I took care to let it ring three times, and then, sitting down on the edge of my desk, I picked up the receiver and said cheerfully, “Sullivan!”

  There was a pause. That was when I remembered that Scott always just said “Yes?” or “Hi!” when he answered the red phone.

  “Cornelius!” I said swiftly.

  “Scott?” He sounded odd. The inflection in his voice turned my name into a question.

  “Who else?”

  There was another pause. Then he said in his politest voice, “Could I see you right away, please?”

  “Sure, I’ll be right down.” I replaced the receiver and stood up. “Okay, you two, I’ll see you later. Keep the home fires burning.”

  They gazed at me speechlessly as I left the room.

  It was only when I reached the back lobby that my nerve failed me and I had to pause. I was appalled to realize I was scared—and not just of the approaching battle, which I still felt confident I could win. I was frightened of Cornelius. I was no longer passionless, steel-nerved Scott who could regard him without emotion. I could only think that since Scott was dead it was I who now had to confront this man who had twisted my life in ways which Scott had never permitted me to dwell upon. I dwelt upon them. I wanted to vomit. I felt not only frightened but physically ill with my horror and revulsion.

  I opened the door. He was there. I walked into the room. I felt I should be shaking, even shuddering, but I moved as smoothly as if I hadn’t a care in the world, and Cornelius was moving smoothly too, standing up and coming around his desk to meet me. Beyond him the sun was shining palely on the gaunt branches of the magnolia tree in the patio, and above the fireplace the violent reds and blacks of the Kandinsky masterpiece looked like a mutilated corpse painted by a madman. The folding doors which divided the double chamber were closed, and the effect was to make the room infinitely more sinister and confined.

  I stopped, but Cornelius moved on. He walked up to me with his hand outstretched and gave me his warmest smile.

  “Hi!” he said. “Welcome back! It’s good to see you again!”

  I shook his hand without a word. I felt as muddled as I had felt in my teens when he had been so kind to me all the while he was brainwashing me against my father. I had for gotten what it was like to feel so intolerably confused. Scott had protected me from Cornelius with that wall of emotional detachment, but now the wall was in ruins and all the old wounds were breaking open in my mind. I didn’t know it was possible to live with such pain and still re
main conscious. I had a craving for brandy, a lot of brandy, poured neat into a huge glass.

  “Are you okay?” said Cornelius.

  I thought of my father dying while drunk. The desire for brandy died. And so did my fear. Looking at the man before me, I felt nothing but the darkest, most primitive rage.

  I clamped down on it, struggled, somehow got it under control. It was perhaps the most supreme effort of will I had ever made. Then I said in a pleasant voice, “I’m just fine, Cornelius, but I admit it’s been a hell of a morning. However, I don’t want to bore you with all the trials and tribulations of my private life. I know you’ve always disapproved strongly of partners airing their private lives at the office.”

  “That’s right. I have,” he said, smiling at me to signal his approval of my good sense, and turned toward the doors which divided the two rooms. “By the way, I’ve postponed that meeting on the London office,” he added over his shoulder. “Under the circumstances I thought a preliminary discussion would be helpful.”

  “A preliminary discussion?” I said, surprised. “Okay, sure. Just as you like.”

  He had opened the doors, and now he gestured to me to precede him into the other half of the room. I walked past him and stopped.

  The notorious digital clock was still standing on the mantelshelf. The equally notorious Scandinavian couch was still standing before the hearth like an empty slab at the morgue. And Sebastian was standing by the window.

  IV

  “Sebastian’s been talking to me,” said Cornelius, breaking the silence as he idly tested the mantel for dust with his finger and watched us both in the mirror above the fireplace. “Sebastian’s been propounding a number of dramatic and interesting theories. I think you ought to hear these theories, Scott. Because, believe it or not, they’re all about you.”

  “Great!” I said at once. “Well, I’ve got some theories too, and believe it or not, they’re all about Sebastian. Why don’t we have an exchange of information?”

  “Why not?” agreed Cornelius sociably. “But before we start, let me make one point clear: Vicky’s name is not to be mentioned in this discussion. Her private life is her own affair, and I’ve long since vowed never to interfere with it again. So if either of you have plans to use Vicky as a pawn in your games with each other, you can forget them. I’m not interested in who happens to be her current lover. It’s immaterial to me.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Sebastian.

  I jumped, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at his stepfather, and Cornelius was assuming his most patient, long-suffering expression.

  “Is this an act?” said Sebastian. “I find it hard to believe you could really be this dumb. This guy’s screwing you all along the line, Cornelius! And when he’s finally succeeded in screwing you all the way off the map, it won’t be your portrait he’ll hang on the wall of this office after he’s changed the bank’s name to Sullivan’s—it’ll be his father’s!”

  Cornelius sighed, leaned wearily against the mantel, and turned to me with resignation. “Okay, Scott, your turn. You want to answer that? Go ahead. You do it so well—I’ve always admired the way you have the perfect answer for all these awkward accusations that crop up from time to time.”

  “And I’ve always admired the way you’ve been smart enough to see the truth, Cornelius! Sebastian, if you think I’m motivated by revenge, you understand absolutely nothing—

  “Never mind what motivates you!” shouted Sebastian. “You’re so mixed up and creepy and just plain odd that your motivation doesn’t matter. What matters is that you want this bank, and once it’s yours, you’ll wipe out all trace of Cornelius as efficiently as he wiped out all trace of your father! It’s all so goddamned obvious—”

  “Sure it’s obvious—to a man who’s out of his mind with jealousy!”

  “Why, you …”

  I swung round on Cornelius, who was watching us as if he were a latter-day Zeus on Olympus, an all-powerful god casting an interested eye on the squabble of two minor deities. “There are no prizes for guessing what motivates Sebastian, Cornelius—his motives, at least, are crystal clear! He knows you’ll never recall him from Europe, so he’s maneuvered himself into a position where you have no choice but to bring him back, and once he’s back, he’ll use his mother’s influence over you to get what he wants here at Willow and Wall. And once he gets what he wants, Cornelius, do you really think he’ll raise a finger later to help your grandsons, whom he’s always detested? And do you really think he’ll keep the bank’s name Van Zale’s in memory of a man he’s always secretly despised? He’s the one you want to watch, Cornelius! He’s the one who’s out to make trouble! My conduct in New York has always been exemplary, but can you say as much for his recent conduct in London?”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” said Cornelius. “Nicely said, very impressive, I take your point. Now let’s calm down, shall we, boys, and discuss this rationally. I’m not interested in watching the two of you conducting an overheated slanging match. Sebastian, what’s all this nonsense about you feeling you had to engineer your recall from Europe? It was your decision to go to London back in 1960, remember, and it was a very popular decision with your mother. If you wanted to return to New York, all you had to do was ask.”

  “You goddamned hypocrite!” blazed Sebastian with such force that Cornelius recoiled. “It might have been my decision to go to London for a while, but you were delighted—you couldn’t wait to get rid of me! And you didn’t just want to get rid of me because you thought—getting the wrong end of the stick as usual where Vicky’s concerned—that I’d messed up your daughter’s life! You wanted me out of the way because my absence meant you’d have Mother’s undivided attention. Christ, and to think you have the nerve to stand by and let this creep accuse me of jealousy! You’ve been jealous of my place in Mother’s life for as long as I can remember!”

  Cornelius moved to the folding doors. “This discussion is terminated. I’ve no time to waste listening to such irrational hysteria.”

  “This is no irrational hysteria, Cornelius—this is known as calling a spade a spade! Okay, let me call your bluff. Bring me back here from London! If all I have to do is ask, then okay, I’ll ask. But I’ll tell you one thing: if I come back, he has to go. You may be content to sit back and let him screw your bank and screw your daughter, but—”

  Cornelius said simply, “You’re fired,” and walking into the main half of his office, he opened the French doors and stepped out into the patio without a backward glance.

  There was a silence. Sebastian and I were struck dumb. Beyond the patio doors, Cornelius had found the packet of seed he kept for the birds and was busy feeding a couple of pigeons.

  Finally Sebastian moved, bumping awkwardly against the desk and banging wide one of the French doors.

  “You’re crazy. You can’t do this. You just can’t do it.”

  “I’m senior partner of this bank, with absolute authority to hire and fire as I please, and no man, not even my wife’s favorite son, tells me how to run my firm.” Cornelius replaced the packet of birdseed in the ornamental urn, dusted his hands, and stepped back into the room.

  Sebastian followed him. I still hadn’t moved.

  “Get out, would you,” said Cornelius as he sat down at his desk and casually rustled a stack of papers. “I doubt if there’s anything you can usefully add to the conversation.”

  “But Scott—what about Scott?”

  “Scott’s no concern of yours, not anymore.”

  “But—”

  Cornelius rose to his feet so swiftly that Sebastian backed away. Then, leaning forward with both hands on his desk, he said in his clearest voice, “This conversation, like your career at Van Zale’s, is now absolutely at an end. Got it? It’s over. It’s finished. I have nothing else to say.”

  Sebastian went very white. Without a word he stumbled to the door, but before he left the room, he looked back. “I hope he screws you into the grave, you bastard!�
�� he said in a shaking voice. “But if you’re still alive after he’s finished with you, don’t you come crawling to me for help in putting your life’s work back together again—not unless you offer me the senior partnership and your own resignation from power!”

  The door slammed. Cornelius sat down, loosened his tie, and took a pill from a small gold box. I waited. Finally he looked at me. It was a remote, cold, empty look.

  “And so,” he said, “we come to you. Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t now fire you right along with Sebastian, as you so obviously and so richly deserve?”

  V

  “You’ve left it too damned late,” I said. “You fire me, and I go up the street to Reischman’s and take all your top clients with me. Jake’s already offered me the presidency of the new Reischman corporation. I’ve got it in my power now to slice you to ribbons, and don’t you forget it.”

  A second after I had finished speaking, I realized I had made a horrific mistake. Scott had built his whole success on convincing Cornelius that although he wanted the bank one day he wasn’t fundamentally hostile; he had let it be known that so long as Cornelius was generous enough to give him what he wanted, he in turn would be generous enough to keep the bank’s name unchanged and look after the grandsons. This was the story Cornelius had wanted so much to believe, and this was the story Scott had dedicated himself to propagating. Yet by one short brutal speech spoken straight from the heart, I had shattered the enticing illusion Scott had taken years to build. Cornelius flinched, and as I saw him stare at me appalled, I knew he was recognizing me as my father’s son and looking for one terrible moment deep into an intolerable past.

  “Ah, the hell with it!” I said suddenly, knowing my whole survival was on the line and grabbing every ounce of nerve I still possessed. “Why are we talking to one another like this? Why are we behaving as if we’re enemies? I think the shock of that godawful scene just now must have driven us both out of our minds!”