After returning upstairs to the duplex to check on the children, I began my vigil by the phone in my bedroom. Dinnertime came, but I was unable to eat. I was even unable to face a martini. I told everyone I had a migraine. Hour after hour I waited in my room, but an uninterrupted night followed an uninterrupted day, and I remained alone.
The next morning I called the Carlyle, but he had already left for the office.
“Is there a message?” said the clerk.
“No. No message.”
I called the bank at Willow and Wall.
“Van Zale and Company,” droned the operator. “Good morning, can I help you?”
After a long pause I said, “Sorry, wrong number,” and hung up. I was trembling. I told myself I had to give him more time before I started running after him; once I started running, the reconciliation would be far easier than he deserved. I had to display a dignified self-restraint, not a breathless self-abasement which he would eventually come to despise.
I began another vigil by the phone. I wondered if he was delaying calling for fear of being rebuffed, but no, men like Scott Sullivan found it hard to imagine being rebuffed, because the women they wanted always yielded with gratitude to even the most careless of their advances. I thought of poor Judy, whose place I had taken in Scott’s bed aboard the cruise ship. How pathetically grateful she had been when he had noticed her, and how pathetically upset she must have been when she found she had been stood up! I glanced at myself in the mirror. Perhaps in the end I was going to be no luckier than Judy. And perhaps in the end Scott was going to care no more for me than he had cared for her.
Hours later I could no longer avoid the truth that was staring me in the face. Scott wasn’t going to call. The truth was that nothing had changed since we had parted the previous November—except that he had probably become even more determined to eliminate me from his life. My father had been right in telling me I’d backed a losing horse, and now that the race was indisputably over, I could see my mistake all too clearly.
Covering my face with my hands, I wondered in dumb misery how I was ever going to cut my losses and move on.
IX
“So how was the bastard?” I said to my father as we sat down at the chessboard for the first time in two weeks. “He didn’t call.”
“Yes, he made it clear he considered his affair with you was finished. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help feeling relieved.”
“What a fool I’ve made of myself, haven’t I? But at least I managed to stop myself hitting rock bottom by calling him up and begging for a meeting! Well? Aren’t you going to tell me how the two of you got along? Are you bosom friends again, with everything forgiven and forgotten?”
“That’s the way he wanted to play it, and I saw no reason to discourage him.”
“How nauseating! Thank God he’s washed his hands of me! And how was he? It sounds as if he’s quite his old self again after his temporary lapse last November.”
My father gave a small neutral smile. “Maybe. But one thing’s changed. He’s drinking.”
“Drinking! I don’t believe it! But is he all right? Can he handle it?”
“Apparently. I never saw him have more than two Scotches on any one occasion, and I certainly never saw him drunk. As a matter of fact, I thought liquor suited him—he was much more relaxed and entertaining.”
“I see. Well, obviously he’s now in perfect control of his life again after his temporary madness. How wonderful. I envy him. Can I have a martini, please?”
“Vicky,” said my father, “I think the time has come when you have to do more than drink martinis and play chess with me. Why don’t you—”
“Don’t you start dictating to me, because I won’t stand for it, not anymore!”
“—get off your ass, get a new interest, get a job, get laid—”
“Daddy!” I was deeply shocked.
“—get out of this rut, for Christ’s sake! You’ve had six months of hell, don’t think I don’t realize that, but now you’ve just got to pull yourself together—no, I’m not trying to dictate to you! Nor am I trying to make you over into someone else altogether. I’m just trying to help you live a happier life as you are. Now, listen. I’ve been making some inquiries, and I’ve found out there’s a good summer school course on economics at the New School …”
“Forget it.”
“Okay, how about a course in philosophy?”
“If it’s just a summer course, I probably know most of it already.”
“Then why not take a full college course?”
“Daddy, it’s a beautiful dream, but you just don’t even begin to realize how impossible it is. It’s a question of mental energy. I doubt if I could even complete a summer course. Probably I couldn’t even complete a weekend seminar. I’m too old, too harassed, too bogged down. I’ve had it. I accept now that my chance for an academic life is absolutely gone, so why should I make myself miserable by taking courses which would only remind me of the kind of life I’ve failed to achieve?”
“Aren’t you being a bit negative?”
“No. Just realistic. I’d be better off taking a job than trying to live an academic life, but what kind of job could I possibly get? I’m unemployable, and even if I wasn’t, I suspect I couldn’t handle the pace. No one who’s not a mother of five children could ever realize—”
“But you have help with the children! You’re so fortunate! What would you do if you were one of those mothers who had no choice but to go out to work to support her family!”
“I couldn’t have done it. I often think how different my life would have been if I’d been poor.”
“You’d have managed somehow!”
“Who can say? All I know is that I’m not like Lori, who can run a home, husband, children, and God knows what else with one hand tied behind her back. Whenever I try to be superwoman, I go to pieces.”
“Perhaps I could find you a little job in the Fine Arts Foundation, nothing very demanding, but just something which would take you out of yourself and help you not to get so depressed.”
“Yes, I guess a tame little sinecure might be better than nothing, but not right now, Daddy. Later. I can’t just switch Scott off and immediately zip into a rewarding new life. You’ve got to give me another chance to get over this mess I’m in. You’ve got to give me more time.”
X
A letter came from my accountant with some information about a new stock which my broker had bought for me. I chucked the letter in the trash basket. Then, having nothing better to do, I retrieved the letter and read it more carefully. My accountant had known me since I was a little girl, and his tone was faintly patronizing. I didn’t like it. I thought: Damned men, messing me around, thinking they’re God, taking me for a fool. I’ll show them.
I read the letter again. Then I went out, bought The Wall Street Journal, and decided to take a course on the stock market.
XI
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
I thought immediately of Scott, obsessed by time and bending the past to encircle the future.
The phone rang.
“Hi, sweetheart, did you enjoy your first class? What was it like? How many people were there?”
“I didn’t go. Nurse is sick, Nora insisted on taking her day off, and the doctor says Kristin’s got chickenpox. Daddy, can I call you back?”
What might, have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end which is always present.
The door opened.
“Mommy, Samantha hit me and I think my arm’s broken in three places and I’ve got a huge bruise on my leg and my knee’s streaming blood.”
> “Hm. Just a minute.”
“Mommeeee!”
“Oh, do be quiet, Ben! Are you referring to that scratch which I can’t see properly without the aid of a magnifying glass? Run off and apologize to Samantha. You must have done something awful if she tried to beat you up.”
“Well, I kind of accidentally sat on her best picture of the Beatles …”
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden …
I stopped, then read that passage again. I read it a third time and a fourth. I thought of my years at college studying philosophy, and suddenly I could hear the footfalls echoing in my memory down the passage I had not taken toward the door I had never opened into my own personal rose-garden.
I read on. The simple pellucid words expressing their complex thoughts slipped silently into my mind to tantalize me. I understood yet did not understand. Then I wondered if in fact I understood anything. Or was the truth simply that I did understand but had no words to express the understanding which crept across my consciousness? Finally I no longer cared whether I understood or not. I merely continued reading, pausing only to savor random phrases. “The roses had the look of flowers that are looked at … Only in time can the moment in the rose-garden be remembered … Only through time time is conquered.”
I stopped again. I had read the first of T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. Closing the book, I sat down at my desk and began to write to Sebastian.
XII
“Dear Vicky: Don’t worry about dropping out of that course on the stock market. They’d probably have told you nothing you can’t pick up for yourself. I like your idea of lighting a fire under your financial advisers. Stick with it and give ’em hell.
“Is Eliot saying that no opportunity is ever really lost? you ask. Is it possible to go back, to walk down the passage you never took, through the door you never opened into the rose-garden? Maybe. According to one of the commentaries, what Eliot is saying in Burnt Norton is that there are moments when what has been and what might have been actually are. Work that one out in between your martinis! Incidentally, I’m sending you airmail a copy of Eliot’s play The Family Reunion, which has more references to rose-gardens, including the possibility of actually making it through the door that was never opened into the … etc., etc. Glad you like Eliot. I consider it my moral duty (ha-ha) to raise your mind far above your father’s level (no big deal, since his level is rock bottom).
“I’m okay, thanks. I’ve got this house which would fit into one wing of your father’s triplex, and no servants except for a housekeeper (a toothless hag) who comes in daily. I’ve started doing some research. I finally decided to write—wait for it—a history of investment banking. It seems I’m more hooked on the subject than I ever realized, but I remain, your happy exile from the plastic society, S. Foxworth, Esquire. P.S. Tell Postumus hello, and don’t let him walk all over you.”
XIII
And what did not happen is as true as what did happen
O my dear, and you walked through the little door
And I ran to meet you in the rose-garden …
The phone rang, and putting aside my well-thumbed copy of The Family Reunion, I picked up the receiver.
“Vicky?” said my father. “Listen, I’ve just been talking to Kingsley Donahue, and he tells me you’ve fired not only your accountants but your brokers as well! Sweetheart, was that wise? Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Kingsley’s real hurt!”
“That’s tough,” I said, “but he’ll live.”
“But I don’t understand why you’ve done this!”
“Oh, Daddy, they were so conservative, so boring, and I think that if one’s got a bit of money, the stock market should be exciting and interesting! Jake’s recommended a nice go-ahead young broker called Jordan Salomon, “and I’ve decided to give him a try.”
“Jake! What are you doing talking to him? I thought he still held it against you for busting up his daughter’s marriage!”
“Now Elsa’s remarried, he doesn’t care about that anymore, and anyway, his new mistress is an old schoolfriend of mine. He was very friendly when I met him at one of her parties the other day.”
“A party? So you’re going out again! Sweetheart, I’m very pleased to hear it. Maybe you’ll meet someone new.”
“Oh, I’m always meeting someone new,” I said. “The fortune hunters, the gigolos, the female-flesh fanciers, the trite, the boring, and the inane. The world’s full of new people all gasping to meet me. It’s a great life.”
“Now, sweetheart, don’t get too cynical.”
“And don’t you start talking junk. Good night, Daddy, I hate being interrupted when I’m reading T. S. Eliot. I’ll talk to you some other time.”
XIV
I awoke and knew at once it was a very special day. Edward John would have been five years old. I watched the sun slanting through the drapes and pictured him effortlessly, fair-haired and gray-eyed, looking like a little choirboy, not rude and rowdy like the real children, the ones who had lived, but docile and sweet-natured, gentle and loving. I had a vivid picture of him running toward me across the rose-garden with his arms outstretched, and suddenly it seemed unbearable that I had no way of opening the door and rushing into the rose-garden to embrace him.
A bell jangled at my bedside. I reached for the receiver of the phone.
“I have a call for a Mrs. Foxworth from Cambridge, England.”
“Oh! Yes … yes, speaking.”
“Go ahead, caller.”
“Hi, Vicky.”
“Hi.” I was sitting bolt upright in bed. “How are you?”
“Okay. I just thought I’d give you a call.”
“Yes … thanks.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Made any money lately?” said Sebastian at last.
“As a matter of fact, I have. I’m giving it to a charity which cares for Vietnamese war orphans. I think I’ve finally found the kind of charity work I like best.”
“Great. The market’s on the upswing, isn’t it, enjoying a boom … I get The Wall Street Journal airmail.”
“Oh, Sebastian, how homesick you sound!”
“No, I just like to know what’s going on. Where did you make your killing in the market?”
“I backed a client of Jake’s. Have you ever heard of a young man called Donald Shine?”
“Sure. Computer leasing. Boy, you’re smart, Vicky! Fired any more dumb brokers lately?”
We laughed. I at last began to feel less tense.
“How’s your book going?”
“Okay, but I’ll be taking a rest from it soon, because I’ve got Alfred coming to stay for two weeks. Elsa’s all sweetness and light since she remarried. What’s the new husband like, do you know? The man must be some kind of a saint to marry into that family!”
“Well, he’s Jewish, so he won’t have the problems you had. I haven’t met him, but I’ve heard he’s charming. Of course Elsa herself looks terrific nowadays. I saw her in Tiffany’s the other day—I was slumming around at the back ordering notepaper, and she was queening it at the front trying on diamonds. She looked like a movie star.”
“Christ, isn’t it odd the way things turn out.”
“Odd, yes.”
We were silent, and I knew we were both thinking of Edward John.
“Well, thanks for calling, Sebastian …”
“Found the rose-garden yet?”
“Not yet. I know it’s there, but I can’t find the way. I even think that if I did find the way I might not recognize the rose-garden when I reached it, because I still don’t have a clear idea of what it is.”
“It’ll be like an elephant. Hard to describe but instantly recognizable.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t give up, Vicky. Just keep on surviving those kids and giving your broker hell and keeping a lot of Vietnamese
orphans in rice. Nobody could ask more of you just now.”
“Yes. Right. Well …”
“Okay, so long. Take care. Don’t worry—I won’t start pestering you with transatlantic phone calls. I just wanted to speak to you today because …”
“Yes,” I said as he stopped. My eyes filled with tears. “I’m so glad you called. Thank you. ’Bye.”
“ ’Bye.”
We replaced our receivers, and I pictured him, thousands of miles away, staring at his phone as I was staring at mine. In the end I did manage not to cry, but for a long time I remained motionless, thinking of Sebastian, thinking of Edward John, thinking with unbearable clarity of a world that might have been.
XV
“Vicky, my dear,” said Jake Reischman at the cocktail party, “allow me to introduce you to my client Donald Shine.”
I saw a tall rangy young man with long thick sideburns and hair that curled well down on his collar. He wore a pink shirt, a matching pink flowered tie, and a suit which looked as if it had just crossed the Atlantic from Carnaby Street.
“Hello,” I said. “Congratulations of your takeover of Syntax Data Processing!”
“Well, thank you! I hope you made a lot of money out of it—Jake tells me you’ve been following my fortunes!” He offered me a warm, firm friendly hand and flashed me a frank winning smile.
I could almost feel his personality wrap itself around me in order to extract every ounce of admiration and salt it away for future use.
“I’m certainly curious to know what your next venture’s going to be,” I said. “Or is that a state secret?”
“Well, everyone must know by now that I’ve got great plans,” said Donald Shine, masking his arrogance with his buoyant enthusiasm, so that he achieved the impossible and sounded modest. “The way I see it, I reckon the corporate financial structure of this country could use a real vigorous shake-up to bring it all the way into the age of Aquarius.”
Sins of the Fathers Page 71
