Sins of the Fathers

by Susan Howatch

  “Relax. You’re right, and I was being paranoid. If you yourself independently believe we should wait awhile before marrying, that’s okay by me.”

  “Are you sure? You really mean that? Oh, Scott, you mustn’t worry about anything—I’m sure it’s all going to work out in the end.”

  “Of course,” he said soothingly. “Of course.” His hand closed over mine and held it tightly. “I’m sorry I behaved so stupidly just now. I guess I must be more tired than I realized.”

  “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  Halfway across town, as our cab paused at some lights, he said idly to me, “Was I right?”

  “About what?”

  “California.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, seeing no reason not to admit the truth when we had both agreed that I could ultimately persuade my father to change his mind, I said, “Yes, San Francisco.”

  Scott’s arm tightened reassuringly around my shoulders. “I’ll bet he still doesn’t believe we’ll ever get married! I’m going to get a great kick out of proving him wrong!”

  “Scott, I’ll marry you tomorrow if that’s what you really want. You’ve only got to say the word, you know that.”

  “No, let’s call his bluff and wait till December. Let him realize this is one game of chess he’s not going to win.”

  “Darling, you do believe, don’t you, that I’ll be able to straighten everything out with my father in the end? Promise me you believe it!”

  “When you look at me like that, I’ll believe anything!” he said with a good humor which made me feel faint with happiness and relief, and the next moment he was kissing me very silkily on the mouth.

  Chapter Five

  I

  “DEAR VICKY: MY MOTHER tells me you’ll be visiting London soon. Any chance of you stopping by in Cambridge while you’re in England? It’s less than a couple of hours from London by train, so you could make it a day trip. I’ll show you around and buy you lunch. I promise not to commit indecent exposure, rape, or any other social faux pas. We can talk about Eliot, Elvis, and Eternity. Love, Sebastian. P.S. It’s okay, I know you’ll be staying with Scott.”

  II

  “Vicky darling, Neil has just told me during the course of a hopelessly extravagant transatlantic phone call (God, how these bankers simply squander money!) that you’re going to be in London this summer, and I thought I’d write at once to issue you an invitation to dinner to celebrate your engagement. Be sure to give me a call as soon as you arrive so that we can fix a date.

  “Well, I’ve been in London over a year now, and I can’t tell you what a wonderful change it is from that junk heap at the mouth of the Hudson. At the risk of sounding like one of those dreary old bores one always yearns to avoid at parties, I must say I think New York’s not what it used to be—‘Gone to the dogs, m’dear!’ as the Anglo-Indian colonels always say in the Agatha Christie novels—and that reminds me, if you bring me over a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon I’ll give you a treat and take you to see The Mousetrap, which is something of a theatrical institution here.

  “Anyway, I’m so enrapt with this magnificently civilized city (believe it or not, they don’t know what the word ‘mugging’ means) that I’m thinking of selling my house in Greenwich Village, but the trouble is, I don’t think I could bear to part with the kitchen. Charles thinks I’m mad but being British, he’s too polite to say so. I know you didn’t meet Charles that night when I crashed over to your table at the Four Seasons and needled Scott into making some bitchy remarks about homosexuals, but did you meet him later? My memory is obviously disintegrating with terror at the thought of being sixty next year! Anyway, darling, enough idle chatter—come to London and be reborn in the great creative renaissance which is sweeping the country! I look forward to seeing you. All love, Kevin. P.S. It’s wonderful to be writing novels again after abandoning Broadway to Neil Simon! P.P.S. Bring Scott to dinner too, of course. I’m not a man to harbor grudges.”

  III

  “Dear Vicky: This letter will come as a surprise, when we’ve never exactly been the best of friends, but I hope you’ll accept it as a peace offering. I’m writing of course, to offer you my best wishes on your engagement. I hope you and Scott will be very happy. Although Scott’s my half-brother, I really know him so imperfectly, first because he’s so much older than I am, second because I hardly ever saw him when I was a child, and third because he was—and is—a difficult person to know well. Even now, after his three years in London and his frequent visits to Mallingham, I still feel he’s somewhat of a stranger to me, but I do believe he’s a worthwhile person who now genuinely feels the need for someone who can share his life with him. Clever you, persuading him to give up the bachelor life at last! And lucky you, too—I’ve always thought Scott was one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met. Yours, Elfrida. P.S. Edred and George are also writing to you, but you may have to wait for some time for their letters, as they’re hopeless correspondents.”

  IV

  “Dear Sebastian: Thanks for the letter and invitation—let me call you from London. Love, Vicky. P.S. Elfrida Sullivan is definitely not a lesbian.”

  V

  “Mom!”

  “Married!”

  “Again? Aren’t you getting a little old for that kind of thing?”

  “Certainly not, Paul! Don’t be so rude! Now, this may come as a great surprise to you all, but the man I’ve decided to marry is Scott.”

  “Scott!”

  “Scott who?”

  “Scott Sullivan? But why?”

  “I don’t like Scott,” said Benjamin. “He never gives me anything. Mom, why don’t you marry Uncle Sebastian again? Uncle Sebastian gives me real groovy presents!”

  “Scott’s never taken the slightest interest in any of us,” said Eric, who was home from Choate for the weekend. “Mom, I don’t want to sound rude, but are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Why do you always have to marry men you’ve known for years and years? Why can’t you marry a stranger for a change?”

  “That’s an interesting question, Samantha. I think it’s been no accident that I’ve always married men I’ve known for a long time, because those men are the only men who are capable of seeing past my looks and my checkbook to the person I really am. I’m afraid that when you grow older, you’ll come to realize—”

  “When are you getting married?”

  “Next Christmas. But I’ve decided I must spend the summer in London so that—”

  “You’re going to live with him?” said Samantha, lynx-eyed.

  “That’s kind of immoral, isn’t it?” said Paul. “If you spend your summer having sex and swilling martinis, why can’t I spend my summer smoking pot?”

  “Sex and martinis aren’t against the law. Smoking pot is.”

  “But it’s a ridiculous law!”

  “So are a lot of laws,” I said. “Ask any woman. But that’s not the point. The point is that we have to obey the law or we end up in a mess. If you don’t like the laws, then work to change them, but don’t bore the pants off everyone by moaning about injustice. Now, look here, kids—”

  “Mom, does this mean you approve of premarital sex?”

  “I think any sex, marital or premarital, is something you should always approach with care, concern, love, and respect. It’s not something you can toss off for cheap thrills, like an ice-cream sundae. Now—”

  “But, Mom—”

  “Quiet! I’ve had enough of you walking all over me! Just let me hear myself think for a moment! Right. Thank you. Now, what I was going to say was—”

  “What’s premarital sex?” said Benjamin.

  “Mommy, I don’t understand why you have to go to London,” said Kristin, starting to cry.

  “Oh, Mom!” bawled Benjamin, trying to sob louder than Kristin as usual.

  “Kristin, darling, that was exactly what I wanted to explain, except that no one would let me get a word in edgeways. Be quiet
, Benjamin! That’s better. Now, the fact is, Scott and I have a lot of things to discuss before we get married at Christmas. Also we have to get used to spending a lot of time in each other’s company, and that’s not always so easy as you might think.”

  “So you are going to live with him!” said Samantha, enthralled. “That’s cool, Mom! I think Scott’s dreamy!”

  “You’re mad!” Paul said to her in disgust. “You’re a sex maniac! You’re obscene!”

  “Huh! You’re just jealous because you know you can’t compete with a tall, dark, handsome, glamorous, sexy older man!”

  “And that’s another thing,” said Paul. “Scott’s so chronically old! I’ll bet he’s never even heard of the Rolling Stones!”

  “Lucky Scott,” said Eric, rising to his feet to make his escape.

  “Mommy, oh, Mommy, how are we all going to live without you for the whole summer? Maybe we’ll die!” said Benjamin, and greatly intrigued by this possibility, he added, “Then you’ll be sorry!”

  “Take no notice, Mom,” said Eric. “The little pest forgets all about you once he gets to Bar Harbor. He’s so busy being spoiled rotten by Granddad he never even mentions your name.”

  “You big creep!” shrieked Benjamin.

  “Mom, what kind of birth control are you going to use?”

  “Samantha, my personal hygiene is none of your business, but I’ll say this: I’m almost thirty-seven and I try to live my life as a responsible woman who believes that it’s important to have certain standards in life. I don’t always succeed in living up to those standards, I’m not a saint, I’m not perfect, but I keep trying. Neither you nor anyone else has the right to cross-examine me about my private life, but if I live with Scott and practice birth control, it’s because I’m doing my best to live responsibly and pave the way for a happy, successful marriage, and not, as I said a moment ago, because I’m out for cheap thrills. Okay, any more questions, or can I call Scott to tell him what time he can come to dinner tonight? I want him to see you all before he goes back to London tomorrow.”

  “Mom, just one more question about premarital sex …”

  “Christ!” said Eric. “For once in my life I agree with Paul. Is there anything more tedious than a twelve-year-old girl in the full flush of puberty?”

  “You bet!” said Samantha. “The conversation of a seventeen-year-old boy who’s never had a girlfriend, apparently doesn’t want one, and spends all his spare time talking to a bunch of plants! Just what kind of freak are you, for God’s sake?”

  “What’s puberty?” said Benjamin.

  “Mommy,” said Kristin, “how many times a day will you call us from England?”

  “Well, darling, naturally I’ll call as often as possible …”

  “I’m going to water my plants.”

  “I think he makes love to the chrysanthemums,” said Samantha to Paul. “Get it? Freud. ‘Mum’ is short for ‘chrysanthemum,’ and ‘Mum’ is also English for ‘Mom.’ ”

  “Are you kidding? What would Eric want to make love to Mom for?”

  “Mommy, will you promise to call us every single day?”

  “Mom, what’s puberty?”

  VI

  “How did Scott get on with the kids?” said my father after Scott had flown back to London.

  “I thought he was wonderful with them—particularly with Samantha and Kristin. I guess he can draw on his experience with Rose and Lori when they were little. He did his best with the boys, but Eric’s still so shy and Paul never has a word to say to anyone over twenty-five. Benjamin was monstrous as usual. He got jealous when Scott paid so much attention to the girls.”

  “Sebastian’s the only one who could ever handle Benjamin.”

  I said nothing.

  “Will you be seeing Sebastian in England?”

  “Maybe.”

  There was another pause.

  “It’s a funny thing,” said my father tentatively at last, “and I never thought the day would come when I’d hear myself say this, but sometimes I kind of miss Sebastian.”

  But I didn’t reply. I was too busy counting the days till I left New York, too busy longing to be with Scott again in London.

  VII

  Scott lived in a town house on the borders of Knightsbridge and Belgravia, a tall slim white house rising for three floors above the basement apartment where his chauffeur and housekeeper lived. The dining room and library flanked the hall at street level, but above them was the fine living room where Scott held the parties which his position as senior partner in London made it necessary for him to give. In New York he had lived as a recluse, entertaining clients only in restaurants, but in New York his position had been subordinate to my father, who had naturally assumed the duty of entertaining clients at home.

  I wondered how well Scott had adjusted to this new social life, which must have been so unappealing to him. I knew he needed seclusion in order to maintain the equilibrium which his demanding job must so often have undermined, but nowadays his opportunities for seclusion had been reduced, and I found myself speculating how far he had come to depend on alcohol to help him endure his boredom and distaste. Although I tried not to admit it, I had been disturbed by the double vodkas at the Beekman Tower.

  Scott had no interest in interior decoration, no interest in possessions such as pictures and antiques, and no real interest in his home so long as it provided him with a roof over his head and the minimum of inconvenience. He was the most nomadic person I had ever met, and his home, decorated by experts and startlingly impersonal, reflected this indifference to his surroundings. Unlike Sam, who had been sensitive about his nationality to the point of neurosis, and unlike my father, who became irrationally xenophobic whenever he left the United States, Scott merely accepted his surroundings, adapted to them, and took the rough with the smooth without fuss. No doubt he was able to do this because, living so much in his mind, he was less dependent than most people on the society in which he lived, but this strange nomadic ability to settle easily in a strange place without making any deep connection with it struck me as not only odd but unnatural.

  The word “home” and all that it implied was very important to me. “I’m a New Yorker,” I would say, and what I was really saying was that New York was home, a place where I could relax and feel that mysterious inner comfort of belonging to a certain culture, a certain society, a certain way of life. I might be capable of settling in other countries for a short time, and even enjoying a new life there, but no matter how long I stayed away, New York would always be home. Yet for Scott, the nomad, home was inside himself; home was a state of mind. “I’m a New Yorker,” he might say unhesitatingly, but he had none of that cynical, exasperated, passionate devotion which a true New Yorker feels for his city. New York was just the background of his life, the place where he was obliged to live and work, and now that he found himself in London, it seemed nothing had changed for him but the scenery. The landscape of his mind was more real to him than any city which existed in the world around him.

  I had spent long hours trying to work out how I could live successfully with someone who was not only a loner but who saw the world in a way which was alien to me, and on the morning after my arrival in London when we were drinking coffee together in the patio of the back garden, I said to him carefully, “Scott, you mustn’t feel you have to be with me all the time in order to keep me constantly entertained. I know you’ll be working long hours and I know you’ll want a certain amount of time to yourself, and I certainly don’t expect you to change. It’s up to me, not you, to neutralize this potentially aggravating situation by taking steps to see that my whole life doesn’t revolve around waiting for those phone calls which tell me you’re going to be late home from the office, so I’ve decided I must build some small life of my own while I’m here. I’m going to enroll in a course.”

  “A course?”

  “Yes, now that I don’t have the children buzzing around me like a swarm of bees, I think I mig
ht be capable of some form of mental activity. I’ve always looked down on summer courses, but that was probably because I knew I didn’t have the time or the energy to face them. However, right now I do have the time and I ought to have the energy, so I’m going to make the effort. I think it’s time I found out just how stupid and addled by martinis my brain really is.”

  “Okay.” said Scott.

  I waited, but he said nothing else. I wondered if he were upset, if he could possibly be one of those men who resented their wives pursuing any activity outside the home, but he seemed tranquil and unconcerned. It then occurred to me that this was exactly why his reaction was so off-key: he was unconcerned. What I did with my time was of no importance to him so long as I was available when he needed me.

  Reminding myself that he was unaccustomed to sharing his life with anyone, I tried not to be hurt. “Well, you might show some interest!” I protested with a smile. “I shall be interested in your work, so why shouldn’t you be interested in mine?”

  “Oh, I never talk about my work,” said Scott. “Once I leave the office, that’s that. The last thing I’ll ever want to do when I come home at night is tell you what I’ve been doing all day.”

  I was so taken aback that I couldn’t at first decide what to say. Neither Sam nor Sebastian had regaled me with the details of issues, bids, mergers, and all the other delights of investment banking; it had been left to my father, confiding in me through many an evening during the past three years, to give me that kind of information about the world where my husbands had spent so much of their lives, but Sebastian had been full of amusing anecdotes about the mundane side of office life, and Sam had talked interminably about the importance of the people he advised. Sometimes I had been interested, sometimes I had been bored, but always I had been aware that they had been making some attempt, no matter how limited, to share with me the huge segment of their lives from which I was excluded. The thought of Scott living an existence to which I had no access was like pulling the drapes on a sunny morning only to find that the window had been walled up during the night.