Sins of the Fathers

by Susan Howatch

  XI

  My father was at the airport when I returned to New York four days later after a long weekend spent with Scott. I had cabled my father and told him to be there. Later he had tried calling the top London hotels to locate me, but I had refused to accept his call when it reached the Savoy.

  Walking out of the customs hall I saw him looking frail and anxious behind the barrier. As usual he had three or four satellites in orbit around him, but I took no notice. I just walked up to him and said, “I want to talk to you.”

  “Vicky, what were you doing in London? What happened? What’s the trouble?”

  I walked past him without replying, and he hurried after me frantically. Outside the building, his latest Cadillac, an unpleasant piece of engineering in pale cream, was waiting at the curb.

  “Vicky …” He was gasping for breath. He stumbled as he crawled into the backseat beside me, and when I turned to look at him I saw his hands were trembling as he opened his pillbox. “You must tell me … please …”

  I tested the partition that separated us from the chauffeur and bodyguard, but it was tightly closed and I knew that any conversation we had would be inaudible to anyone in the front seat. My father always soundproofed his Cadillacs, as he often spent the journeys to and from the bank in confidential discussions with his aides.

  “My mother’s been ill,” I said shortly. “I had to go to London to make arrangements for her convalescence. I saw Scott too, but we’ll get to him later. Right now I want to talk to you about my mother. I’m bringing her back to New York to live. She’s going to have an apartment at the Pierre and you’re going to pay for it.”

  “Me?” said my father, wheezing and gasping. He was ashen. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh yes, you do! You took me away from my mother and poisoned my mind against her!”

  “Oh, but … Vicky, surely you realize how things were? Your mother just didn’t deserve to have a wonderful little girl like you.”

  “You’re the one who didn’t deserve me! I loved my mother and she loved me, but you wiped her out of my life—Christ, it was as if you murdered her!”

  “But I had to take action for your sake. All those men … the immorality …”

  “Oh, don’t hand me all that crap anymore! My mother was a sexy woman without too much brain who got herself in a mess. Yes, of course she had affairs after she divorced you—she wasn’t a nun! But she always hoped to remarry, and after years of waiting to make sure she didn’t make the same mistake she made when she married you, she found someone she felt could make her happy, and that someone was Danny Diaconi. Okay, so maybe he was a gangster. But maybe he wasn’t; the Diaconi hotel chain was legitimate. Maybe it was just easy to think of him as a gangster because he was Italian and his father had had shady connections, but what does a word like ‘gangster’ mean anyway? When I look at you, I think maybe you’re more of a gangster than Danny Diaconi ever was!”

  “But Vicky, you hated Danny!”

  “I was jealous of him. I was a mixed-up little girl, a fact which you capitalized on and exploited to separate me from my mother and keep me all to yourself!”

  “But I honestly believed it was in your best interests!”

  “How could you? How could it have been best for me to have been subjected to such brainwashing? I used to feel ill whenever my mother’s name was mentioned! You’ve caused immense suffering not only to my mother but to me as well!”

  “Well, I … Look, I … Vicky, don’t be angry, please forgive me, I just couldn’t bear it if … Listen, just give me one chance to make amends. The Pierre, you say? Okay, I’ll get the best apartment they have.”

  “You bet you will, and that’s just the beginning. Now, you listen to me. I never want to hear you say another word about my mother for as long as you live. You’re to treat her with decency and respect; you’re to treat her like a human being. Got it? Okay, then get this, too: if you ever do such a wicked thing again, we’ll be through. And I mean that. You can’t be allowed to think you can get away with smashing up people’s lives time after time in order to further your own selfish sordid ends. You’re my father, and despite all I’ve just said, I still love you—probably I’ll always love you, no matter what you do—but there comes a time when one has to take a stand, even against those you love, and that time has come, Father, this is it, this is where I draw the line. You’re on the brink. Stay there or retreat, and I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue our peaceful coexistence. But you take one step beyond that line, and I’ll wash my hands of you for good. I’ve forgiven you for what you’ve done to Scott. I’ve forgiven you—just—for what you’ve done to me. But I can’t go on forgiving you like this, Father. I’m no saint, I’m your daughter, and this is the very last chance I’m giving you to change your ways.”

  I stopped. There was a long silence.

  “Well, Father?”

  “Okay.”

  “Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  We looked at each other. He was sweating lightly, and there was a sick expression in his eyes.

  “Are you in pain from the asthma?”

  “Hm.”

  “Does this repulsive car have a bar? I’ll get you some brandy.”

  But there was no bar and no brandy. I looked at him again and saw he had put his right hand on the seat midway between us. I eyed that hand for a while, then picked it up and held it. His fingers curled gratefully, lovingly in mine.

  We said nothing else for the remainder of the journey, but when we reached my apartment building I invited him in—not to the duplex, but to my private apartment where we could be alone.

  “You want to say something else to me?” whispered my father, frightened as he followed me across the threshold.

  “Yes,” I said, heading for the liquor cabinet and pouring him a double brandy. “I want to talk to you about Scott.”

  Chapter Four

  I

  “SCOTT AND I ARE getting married,” I said. “We’re having a very quiet wedding next month in London.”

  I had half-thought my father might collapse, but of course he didn’t. Neither did he panic, lose his temper, drain the brandy in a single gulp, or exhibit any other sign of weakness. On the contrary, he showed all the signs of pulling himself together with remarkable rapidity. My disclosures about my mother had been the real shock; my announcement about Scott was something he must have feared in 1963, and as I watched him take a small sip from his glass to play for time, I wondered if he was trying to remember his part of a dialogue he had mentally rehearsed long ago.

  “Well, what a surprise!” he said. “I’ve always thought Scott was so set against marriage. How pleasant that I’ve been proved wrong!”

  I regarded him with extreme suspicion and said nothing. My father made a new effort. “Do you have an engagement ring?” he inquired guilelessly.

  I drew off my glove and showed him the diamonds.

  “Very nice!” said my father. “Congratulations—you must be very pleased and excited. … A bit sudden, wasn’t it? Or have you been secretly in touch for some time?”

  I explained the sequence of events.

  We were sitting on the long white couch, he at one end, I at the other, with a considerable space between us. By the window my latest two pink fish, tended by Benjamin in my absence, were swimming dreamily in their aquarium. The room was cool and shadowed.

  “Father, I know exactly what you’re thinking, but—”

  “Vicky, please don’t call me Father. It’s so cold. If you don’t want to call me Daddy anymore, you can call me Cornelius.”

  “Certainly not! I disapprove strongly of children calling their parents by their first names! Oh, Daddy, please try to be rational about this.”

  “Am I hysterical? Am I gibbering unintelligible protests? Haven’t I just offered you my sincere congratulations?”

  I had the terrible suspicion I was being outclassed and outmaneuvered. “Were they sincere?” was all I
could say.

  “Of course. Any woman who can get Scott Sullivan to consider a trip to the altar has earned the most sincere congratulations I can offer.”

  “You think he’s manipulating me, don’t you?” I burst out. “You think he’s got all kinds of ulterior motives!”

  “I just think he’s wrong for you,” said my father simply, “but so what? It’s none of my business. It’s your life.” He stood up.

  I was caught off-balance. “You’re going?”

  “I’ve got to get to the office. Important meetings. But let me take you out to dinner tonight to reassure you I’ve no intention of being unpleasant or making any attempt to stand in your way.”

  “Oh,” I said, floundering in my surprise. “Well, thank you … but perhaps not tonight. I’ll be too tired—jet lag—how about lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” He looked around my quiet room as if admiring its peace and privacy. “Could we eat here? I get so tired of eating lunch at expensive restaurants—although of course if you want a smart lunch, I’d be only too happy to—”

  “No, I’ve just had a string of smart lunches in London. I like your idea of an informal meal. What do you want to eat? I’ll get a takeout order from Hamburger Heaven.”

  My father considered this carefully. “One hamburger medium-well, with everything except onion rings. French fries and a large Coke.” His face brightened. “What a treat that’ll be!”

  I found myself smiling at him as I rose to my feet. “I must go upstairs and see if the children are home from school.”

  Outside in the hallway we paused together by the elevator shaft.

  “All I want’s your happiness, Vicky, believe me.”

  “Don’t scare me, Daddy. You were doing so nicely before.”

  We embraced with a laugh, and although I tried to maintain my skepticism, I couldn’t help thinking with huge relief: It’s all going to work out, everything’s going to come right, I’m going to win in the end.

  II

  “A double order of French fries!” said my father happily. He dipped one in his plastic container of ketchup. “Delicious! Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “My pleasure. And now perhaps you’ll tell me the real reason why you wanted this very private lunch.”

  My father’s face altered subtly, emptying itself of expression so that the fine bone structure of his face stood more clearly revealed. His slim figure and extreme good looks made him look uncannily young once he had his back to the light, and his hair, still copious though now a pale indeterminate color, heightened this illusion of youth. His eyes were a peculiarly clear, starry gray.

  “I wanted to discuss your good news a little further, Vicky.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Unfortunately I can’t pretend it’s going to be an easy discussion.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “I hope we can discuss the subject sensibly, without getting upset.”

  “I hope so too.”

  We stared at each other politely for a moment. Then my father started fussing with his hamburger, rearranging a lettuce leaf, toying with a tomato slice, examining the pickle. “I meant what I said yesterday,” he said. “You go ahead and marry him. I’m not going to make a fuss, and afterward I’ll do my very best to welcome him into the family as my son-in-law.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “However, I would just like to make one small suggestion. Of course you’re under no obligation to listen to it.”

  “Of course.”

  My father sighed, took a bite of hamburger, munched it, swallowed it, and filled his glass of Coke. I had had two French fries and had just realized I couldn’t eat another mouthful. Abandoning the Coke, I went to the liquor cabinet to fix myself a martini.

  “I want to appeal to your maturity and common sense,” said my father.

  “How attractive that sounds. I hope my maturity and common sense can rise to the challenge.”

  “I hope so too. Vicky, don’t rush into this marriage. Go to England next month and spend the summer with him, but live there as his mistress, not his wife.”

  I said nothing.

  “You didn’t mention it yesterday, but I presume you were intending to spend the summer with him while the children are up at Bar Harbor as usual.”

  “Yes. I thought he should have the chance to adjust to a wife before he returns to New York and has to adjust to five stepchildren.”

  “Fine. Yes, that was what I figured. But why not marry in the new year after he’s returned to New York for good? Look, Vicky, let’s just forget for a moment that this man’s Scott. The fact that he’s Scott only confuses the issue. I’d give you this same advice no matter who you planned to marry. You’ve got two marriages behind you now, and neither was an unqualified success. Or, to put it bluntly, you’ve lived with two men, and each time the relationship ended up in ruins. You can’t afford a third mistake right now. It would be bad for you and for the children. If you do marry again, you’ve got to be sure it’ll work, and that’s why I think you’d be a fool not to have a trial marriage before you risk everything on a third trip to the altar.”

  I sipped my martini and sat looking at my untouched hamburger. Presently my father started talking again.

  “I’ve no intention of making any pertinent observations about Scott’s potential ability—or inability—to adapt to married life, but I’ll just say this: as far as I know, Scott’s never made a success of living with anyone. Don’t you think it would be only fair to him to live with him first before you wrap him up legally in a relationship which—although he may have the best will in the world—he may find himself unable to handle? It seems to me not only the sensible, prudent thing to do; it also seems to me to be the kindest and most considerate.”

  He paused again, but I was still unable to reply. I revolved the stem of my martini glass round and round between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Live with him this summer in London,” said my father. “Spend the fall in New York preparing for the wedding. Then marry him in the new year—”

  “—after you’ve fired him.”

  My father grimaced. “Don’t be stupid, Vicky. I’m not going to do anything which could possibly alienate you. Now, pull yourself together. The situation’s awkward enough without you trying to cast me as the villain of the piece.”

  “Can you promise me you won’t fire him once he’s my husband?”

  “Well, naturally! Do you think I don’t care whether or not we remain on speaking terms?”

  “I want to hear you promise.”

  “All right. I promise I won’t fire him once he’s your husband. As you know, I can’t fire him before 1968 unless he’s been proved guilty of some gross professional misconduct, and even then I have to have the consent of all the partners. So marry him before January the first if you’re so nervous of me.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve every intention of marrying him before then. And what of the future? Are you retiring next year? And if you are, what happens?”

  “I was afraid you’d ask me that,” said my father. He rearranged the lettuce leaf again on his plate. “And now, Vicky, I’m afraid we must come to the most difficult part of this interview, the part where I have to give you the news you don’t want to hear. The truth is that whether you marry Scott or not, I’ve made up my mind that he’s never, under any circumstances, going to obtain control of the bank.”

  III

  There was a dead silence. Then I felt so frightened that I drank the rest of my martini and rose to my feet to fix myself another.

  “Now, don’t panic,” said my father. “This isn’t the catastrophe you think it is. You can’t see Scott clearly anymore because you’re in love with him, but I see him very clearly indeed, and I’ve got everything figured out—yes, put down that martini. You won’t need it, and even if you did need it, you shouldn’t have it. The first thing you should always remember when you’re in the middle of a difficult interv
iew is to leave the liquor alone.”

  “Shut up.” But I left the martini alone and sat down again opposite him at the table.

  My father poured me some Coke. Then he said, “I’m going to stay on until I can hand the reins directly to Eric. My asthma’s no better, but it’s certainly no worse. I reckon I can make it. I’ve got to make it. No choice. I wouldn’t trust any of my other partners to help me out. If Scott has to stay in the firm, he’d turn them inside out in no time flat once I was out of the way.”

  “Daddy—”

  “No, let me finish. I’ll be good to Scott. And I’ll be kind to him. I won’t tell him outright that he’s not going to get what he wants. I’ll let him realize the truth painlessly over a period of years. I’ll keep postponing and postponing my retirement; I’ll keep refusing to commit myself to any definite plan for the future. I’ll let him down easy, I promise, and he’ll adjust and survive, I know he will. Scott’s one hell of a lot tougher than you think.”

  “No,” I said. “He’s more vulnerable than you could ever imagine.”

  “In some ways, perhaps—in certain areas of his private life. But in his business life he’s damned close to being impregnable, and that’s why if I keep him in the firm—and I will, if that’s what you want—I’ve got to take certain precautions. For example, I couldn’t have him here in New York. I won’t send him back to Europe, because I’m sure you’d both regard that as exile, but I thought I might have him open an office in California. How do you like the idea of a few years in San Francisco? It’s only a few hours away by plane, and you’d still be in America, still be home in your own country. How pleased Sylvia would be if you moved to San Francisco! She’s over eighty now, but still very active—”

  “Daddy, please … please …”

  “I’m sorry. I knew this would upset you, but it’s a question of options. I won’t fire Scott. But if I keep him in the firm, it has to be on my terms. If he can’t accept them, then of course he’s free to go to another house.”