The Sight of the Stars

by Belva Plain

  All those rumors about the Cace Clothiers merger still floating around? I hope they aren’t worrying you in any way.

  I’m thinking of taking summer classes. If they can save me some time so that I could graduate sooner and go to medical school sooner, I would like to try it. But it’s rather complicated, so I’ll have to make sure.

  I miss you so much, Adam. Friends are fine, and I have made some good ones, but there is nobody like a brother. Love,

  Jon

  And this I saved because “there is nothing like a brother”—a brother like Jon. What is it about him? He’s serious, he’s joyous, he’s practical, and what else? Humane. Yes, that was Jon. Humane.

  He had certainly not expected to find, at the bottom of the pile, a two-year-old letter postmarked in a small New England town, nor one written in a fine Spencerian hand on fine linen-woven paper and signed “Emma Rothirsch.”

  Dear Mr. Arnring,

  I have been thinking about our conversation on the train last week, and am so distressed by some of the things I said about my aunt’s life, that I feel I must write to you and try to explain myself. You probably know that it is often easier to talk freely to a stranger, or to a person who is almost a stranger, than to a person whom one sees every day. Still, it was very wrong of me to inflict such an emotional outburst upon you. But there was something about you that led me to confide in you things I have never told anyone, nor ever will again. It was not the way I usually behave. I am embarrassed by it, and I apologize to you.

  I know that your time at home must have been very difficult for you and your family. They say that time does help to heal, so I hope this will be true for all of you. Sincerely,

  Emma Rothirsch

  Adam put the letter down, looked at it, wondered why he had kept it, then took it up and read it again. He recalled having written an acknowledgment, but had not heard from her or even seen her since then.

  As he now threw it away, he felt a twinge of—something—he could not say exactly what.

  This was a fine summer morning, though, and not a time for introspection. It was a time to get moving, and he did.

  After he had bought the Ford Model T and learned to drive it, he had gotten in the habit of taking it out on the road with no destination in mind. Whizzing along at twenty miles an hour, he could feel the wind whip his cheeks, hear the thrum of the powerful engine, and recall the very different pleasure of listening to a horse’s clip-clop. Now, whenever he stopped for gas, he remembered that other way when you stopped to water the horse, knock the flies off his back, and let him rest in the shade. He supposed you could make a good argument for either way.

  Sassafras trees were thick along the roadside. From local children, he had learned the habit of chewing their fragrant twigs; in fact, he had a couple in his pocket right now. It was small acts like this that made him feel like a native; he had acquired a liking for certain local foods and had even become aware that his casual speech was dotted with local expressions. Already he had lived here long enough to note changes, for right now, on either side of the road where mules had striven through the fields, there were more tractors than mules. Every day there were more automobiles in the streets, and a few new houses were going up in the outskirts as the town spread toward the capital.

  Here I stay. This is it for me. This is my place. And this is my day. No business, no worrying about Leo and Pa, or anything. Just live. Enjoy.

  Near the river’s edge, he stopped the car and took his things—lunch, blanket, and book—down the slope to his favorite spot, where he spread the blanket and leaned his back against a tree trunk.

  Far down the river some boys were swimming, while in the other direction a man was casting a line for fish. If he had not felt a cold coming on, he would have been swimming, too, but a head cold was not an attractive thing to bring to work on Monday morning. He sneezed; the sound startled a pair of coots that were floating in shallow water close to the shore, and with a loud flap of wings, they skimmed away down the river.

  The first time he’d ever seen a coot, he had been with Fannie, and called it a “duck,” which she had corrected. It was a bird, she had insisted, and they had had a funny argument about that until he had looked up the subject and found that she was right.

  As always, he had fun and laughter with Fannie. She had never wanted anything from him but fun, no hints by word or gesture about marriage, only a good time. Right! So settle down, Adam, eat, read your book. And at the end of this perfect day, go dancing with Fannie, or else go see Mary Pickford in her new movie.

  Some hours later he was having a beer at the popular bar, the same one he had visited on his arrival in the town, when Jeff Horace hailed him.

  “Where’ve you been all day? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “Loafing. Why? What’s up?”

  “What’s up is that there’s a war. The paper got a call through Associated Press. It’s England, France, and Russia against Germany and Austria. Well, the Kaiser’s been waiting for war for a long time, and now he’s got it.”

  “All the young men who are going to die . . .” Adam said, shaking his head. “I wonder whether we’ll get into it.”

  “Not a chance.” Jeff gave an equivalent shake of the head. “What business is it of ours? No, Wilson will be neutral. Absolutely. He’ll keep us out.” Then, as he turned away, Jeff remembered something. “They tell me that the old lady has sent a cable. She and the niece are sailing for home tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  Some ten days later, Adam received a plea from Rudy, the butler or houseman—he was not quite sure what the man’s title might be—at the Rothirsch house. Rudy was supposed to meet the Missus and Miss Emma, who were arriving at the capital station that afternoon. The problem was that he, Rudy, had given himself a bad cut on his arm this morning, and it was so bandaged up that he wasn’t able to drive the car. He had been trying to get somebody who could take his place and hadn’t had any luck. Then his wife, Rea, had thought he might ask a favor of Adam. She had bought a couple of Christmas presents in the shop and thought Adam was very friendly. Besides, the new car was a Pierce-Arrow, and Mrs. R. wouldn’t want just any unknown person to drive it.

  “When I first saw you, you were driving a Stanley Steamer,” Adam said.

  “That’s a long time ago. They’re passé—if that’s the right word. Anyway, that’s what Mrs. R. says. Passé. The Pierce-Arrow is modern, a handmade car, very valuable.”

  Well, flattered though he might be, Adam was the owner of a Model T Ford and wasn’t sure he knew how to drive a Pierce-Arrow. But he needn’t worry. Rudy would explain; it was really quite simple.

  Accordingly, Adam found himself later that afternoon at the wheel of a luxurious, gray town car, in which the passengers sat in comfort, while the chauffeur’s seat was outdoors in the weather with, of course, a roof of rainproof cloth that could if needed be hastily attached. Mounds of luggage, along with Mrs. R. in duster and veil, occupied the rear seat, while beside him, to Mrs. R.’s consternation, sat Emma, also wearing a duster, but no hat or veil; her vivid hair, blown loose by the wind, streamed behind her.

  “Your hair,” screamed Mrs. R., who could barely be heard. “How does it look, riding in a car like this in the chauffeur’s seat without even a proper hat on? I bought you one for motoring. What happened to it?”

  Emma screamed back against the wind, “I lost it!” and then added, murmuring to herself, “Didn’t look too hard to find it, either, the ugly thing.”

  “Emma! Your hair! Now, if you had had a permanent the way I wanted you to, but no—” The voice died.

  “In case you’re wondering,” Emma explained, “she’s talking about a machine that keeps hair in tight curls for a long time. They do it in France—somebody invented it there years ago. She thinks I would look better with curls.”

  Adam’s sidelong glance caught her mischievous, soundless laughter. She’s changed, he thought. No, not fundamentally changed, b
ut there’s a difference. Of course, she’s two years older. A lot happens in two years. Even with his attention well fastened to the unfamiliar car, he was still able to take some more sidelong glances. Her long, supple fingers lay clasped on a purse and a book, obscuring the title, which seemed to begin with a V.

  All of a sudden, she moved her hand, looked up at him, and exclaimed, “There. Now you can see. It’s Vanity Fair.”

  It’s actually true, he thought, that you can feel your own flush crawl up your neck. He could swear that never before had he felt quite so hot.

  “You have X-ray eyes,” he said.

  “No. I only knew you love to read, so you’d be curious about the book. Have you ever read it? It’s marvelous. I’ve met a lot of Becky Sharps.”

  “No, but now I’m going to read it.”

  In the very second when he looked toward her, she looked toward him. Then each turned away. If the old lady had not been in the seat behind them, would we have held the look? he wondered.

  They had had one long-ago encounter in a dining car. She had aroused his curiosity then, and was doing it again now. Was she still devoted to the piano? Almost surely, she must attract many men. Still, she wore no engagement ring, no rings at all. He seemed to remember a gold bracelet. In each ear, a tiny diamond sparkled. When her coat parted, there was a narrow glimpse of a plain blue cotton shirt, bought perhaps in their own moderate-priced department? She puzzled him.

  He was conscious of awkwardness. Anyone seeing them would assume that, despite the absence of a cap, he must be the chauffeur, which was fine with him; it was only because he was not the chauffeur that he felt awkward. Surely he should be finding something of interest to talk about.

  Through the rearview mirror, he could see that the old lady, sitting correctly upright, was dozing. So he broke the silence.

  “How was it in England? What’s the spirit?”

  “I suppose that depends on how much a person understands. A lot of the young men are raring to go to the great adventure. Others are quoting Lord Grey, who’s supposed to have said that night, ‘The lamps are going out all over Europe.’ And something about how we’d never see them as bright again.”

  “Do you believe that? Do you believe we’ll be in it? Most people I’ve talked to say we won’t.”

  “Oh, I believe we’ll have to. Germany is very powerful. I’ve been there twice, and for three months studying piano in Vienna. It seemed to me that they looked forward to war. It’s a proud business. Manly. Noble. Losing both legs. Having your face shot away. Being a widow with the man’s baby on the way. Ah, the poor souls, I’m crying for them already.”

  Adam was not thinking so much of what she said as of the fact she was saying it. The women he knew did not talk like this.

  “What are you going to do, now that you’re finished with college?” he asked.

  “Going back for an M.A., a double in Music Education and Performing Arts.”

  “No conservatory?”

  “I’m not good enough. I told you that, remember?”

  “I remember that you were sorry about disappointing your aunt.”

  “I’m still sorry, or I will be when she finally understands the difference between the M.A. I want to earn and the worldwide fame she wants for me.”

  “Emma!” came the voice. “How can you expect the man to keep his eyes on the road when you keep chattering?”

  “You’d better go back to your book,” Adam said, and Emma sighed.

  At the house Rudy came out with greetings and apologies. He had finally gotten hold of the gardener’s helper, who would be able to unload the luggage in the morning.

  Not at all, Adam objected. He would take care of it right now.

  “There’s a lot of heavy stuff,” roared Mrs. R.

  If they knew how many crates of potatoes and canned soup he had lifted in his day! And with a smile, he waved her away.

  So, for only the second time since he had known Mrs. R., he entered her vast, gloomy house, piled luggage where directed, and accepted the welcome offer of a cold drink.

  Emma suggested that they have it on the porch. “It’s too hot and stuffy indoors.”

  Mrs. R. corrected her. “It’s hot because it’s summer. But it is not stuffy in this house. It never is.”

  She sat down on a wicker rocking chair and complained. “I certainly didn’t think we’d have to cut our vacation short like this. War! There’s no sense in it. I had a marvelous treat ready for Emma, too, a surprise, with music from some of the greatest stars in Wales. I can’t remember their names right now, but they’re world famous. Someday people will be going to festivals where Emma will be the star. I don’t think anybody around here realizes it, but she has a brilliant talent. Even she doesn’t realize it, but I do. Yes. A brilliant talent, with a great career ahead.”

  Adam remarked with enthusiasm that he certainly hoped so. But it had apparently been the wrong thing to say, because the reply was every so slightly sharp.

  “Hope so? I know so. Everyone who’s heard her at the piano—people in the musical world—knows it, too.”

  “That’s what I meant,” he apologized.

  “She must let nothing stand in her way. And I will let nothing stand in her way. She’s my whole life.”

  Emma’s hands were knotted together on her knees. It is taking all her control to keep quiet, Adam thought. And he wondered about the entangled relationships under this roof.

  “If you want a true musical culture, you have to go to Europe,” Mrs. R. continued. “We need to spend another summer abroad next year. We’ll go to Salzburg, naturally, and—well, we’ll miss nothing. This stupid war will be over by then, actually by Christmas, they say. Can we get you another cold glass, Mr. Arnring?”

  “No. No, thank you.”

  He was thirsty and would have welcomed one, but his need to get away was greater than his thirst. So as no one urged him to linger, he stood up, gave his thanks, and left.

  Then from far down the street, where earlier in the day he had parked his car and was now cranking up the starter before jumping into the driver’s seat, he saw Emma coming out of her house. She was standing in the doorway, looking right and left. Thinking that she might be looking for him, he pretended not to see her, turned, and drove away in the opposite direction. Entangled relationships! Did he not have enough of them with Leo and Pa?

  Besides, he was almost late for his evening with Fannie.

  Chapter 9

  It’s been over a year, almost two maybe, isn’t it, Adam, since I first mentioned Cace Clothiers to you?” asked Theo Brown.

  “About that. But then, nothing ever seems to come of it.”

  On Brown’s desk lay the usual manila folders with piles of the bills, receipts, and sundries that Adam brought in once a month to the company’s accountant.

  “Mrs. R. wasn’t interested, you remember? Definitely not interested. The approach was only tentative anyway, nothing seriously official. But it looks now as if they’re really ready for action.”

  “I’m not surprised. Every item we sell is one they used to sell.”

  “You’re doing a great job, Adam. The windows, the seasonal displays, the advertising, all great. And every time Jeff Horace squeezes something into the newspaper, like that article about the Elks last week, where the singer was outfitted by Rothirsch’s—well, it surely doesn’t hurt. And I know you’re pleased.”

  Adam was greatly pleased. “Jeff Horace is a great friend of mine. I’ll tell you, I honestly believe he’s responsible for my getting this job in the first place. It was that article in the paper that got it for me the very next day.”

  “Okay. But it’s all your work since then that’s kept the job for you. A doctor took a crippled child, put him back on his feet, and got him winning races. That’s you.”

  Naturally Adam was touched by this praise. But he had always been comfortable in this office. His orderly nature took pleasure in Theo’s precision, all those files in neat rows a
nd the figures coming out just right every time, all these plus the fact that Theo obviously liked him.

  He was a man about Pa’s age, Adam estimated after a glance at the diplomas on the wall, but he looked twenty years younger than Pa. His expression, unlike Pa’s which so plainly revealed fatigue and worry, was hearty and friendly.

  “So to get back to the subject. Spencer Lawrence, Mrs. R.’s lawyer—have you ever met him?”

  Had Adam ever been introduced to Lawrence? No. How would a middle-level—very middle-level—employee in a local store ever get to meet a man like Lawrence, advisor to political figures and private fortunes?

  But he had seen and heard him often enough at those evenings in Francine’s place. A dapper gentleman, Lawrence was, correct and somewhat chilly; learned, too. He had drawn circles about himself to hear him speak about the war in Europe and the federal income tax, both of which he had predicted. More than once, Adam had stood unnoticed on the fringe of such a circle.

  “No, I’ve never met him,” he answered.

  “Well, he’s just asked me for the store’s financial documents going back to Mr. R.’s time. Cace has been talking about moving your place next to theirs in the city and combining them, which would mean rebuilding, and a very expensive job. The reverse might be to buy that old building around the corner from yours, tear it down, and rebuild, also an expensive job. Which of them would cost more, I don’t know, but you get the idea. Either way, it would cost plenty. The result, though, would be the most important, prestigious store in the whole state.”

  “What does Mrs. R. say about it?”