Natalie was greatly relieved. Nick was twenty-four and in business school, with every intention of joining the Whyte Estate when he graduated. Mark, at twenty-three, had a degree from Haverford under his belt, but was floating from one bohemian colony to the next, trying to decide what to do. She found his lack of direction worrisome enough; she was grateful not to have to worry about his being trundled off to war. As for Jordan, he was nineteen and a sophomore at Duke; she didn’t mind that he was living it up at his fraternity house, as long as he did it there rather than in a seedy bar in Saigon.
Lenore worried about Peter incessantly. It didn’t matter that Gil had assured her he would never be drafted; she feared it nonetheless. He was twenty-one and still in school, but she was convinced that the day after graduation he would be taken from her. His thick, brown hair would be reduced to a pathetic crew cut. He would be forced to dress and act exactly like every other draftee. And, like Ben, he would die without her being able to do a thing to prevent it.
Her fears were heightened all the more when, at the end of the first semester of his senior year, a call came through from one of the Dartmouth deans that Peter had been caught cheating on an exam. The first thing she did was pour herself another scotch; the fact that it was her third of the day was irrelevant to her pressing need for it. The second thing she did was place a frantic call to Gil in Washington to give him the news. The third thing she did was go to bed.
Gil handled the problem with characteristic finesse. He spent the rest of the day on the phone, first with the dean who had originally called Lenore, then with several other deans, then with the professor of the course in question, then with Peter. Gil vehemently agreed that Peter should be penalized by having to retake the exam and, even then, receiving a significantly lowered grade in the course. He whipped out his checkbook and sent off a sizable donation to the faculty endowment fund. Then he called Lenore to tell her that the mess had been very neatly cleaned up.
Cassie, who was quite naturally biased, believed that Gil had done the right thing. Peter was young. He had made a mistake which, given the fright he had had, he was sure not to make again. She could only hope that Kenny would be either smarter or as lucky.
Kenny was a junior in high school, and she was concerned about him. Since his father’s death he had been different. He didn’t talk with her as he used to, and though Natalie assured her that withdrawal was common, even necessary, in teenagers, Cassie was uneasy.
Kenny had been shocked to learn that she had been born a Jew. When he had been younger and had asked about her childhood, she had told him about her early days in France without any particular mention of religion and she had been truthful up to the point of the reason for her flight. Then she had claimed that economic conditions had brought her to America; only after Henry died had she told her children the truth. She explained that she hadn’t wanted them to worry, to think that the same thing could happen to them, for it couldn’t, she assured them. They were Americans, and they were free.
Kenny had studied the horrors of the Third Reich in school. Though Cassie hadn’t dwelt on the details of her own story or the fate of those she had loved, she sensed that Kenny had taken as much from what she hadn’t said as from what she had. He knew that she detested war; he also knew, despite her disclaimers, that she was slightly paranoid. Her greatest fear was that, out of spite, he would graduate from high school and promptly enlist.
In an attempt to prevent that from happening she began to talk of college, to push it far earlier than many of Kenny’s friends’ parents did. Through it all, though, she sensed that Kenny was merely going through the motions of listening. His mind was elsewhere. She didn’t know where, and it drove her to distraction. She had dreams of her son becoming a lawyer like Gil, or a businessman like Jack, or a prominent doctor, or a noted scholar. She wanted him to have power of his own, because only then would he be in command of his fate.
She breathed a great sigh of relief when, in the winter of his senior year, he finally submitted applications to Oberlin, Lehigh, American University and Brandeis.
Lenore wasn’t breathing any sort of sigh of relief. Deborah claimed she didn’t want to go to college at all. What she wanted to do, she said, was to be with Mark, who was at that time living in a commune just north of San Francisco. Lenore was horrified. She nagged Gil to talk with the girl, but it seemed that whenever Gil was home Deborah was out, and whenever Deborah was home Gil was in Washington. So Lenore drafted Natalie to sit down with Deborah, but Natalie was in a bind, because she was desperately trying to convince herself that Mark’s taking time to “find himself” was an important part of his growth. At wit’s end, Lenore even enlisted Cassie, whom she knew felt much the same way she did about the importance of a college education. But Cassie struck out, too. In her own, rather wispy way Deborah was determined to do her own thing.
So, it appeared was Kenny. In June, 1967, several days before his high school graduation, he called Cassie from a pay phone at the airport to say that he was flying to Israel. He wouldn’t be allowed to fight, he said with some regret, but he could help out on the sidelines. He felt that, as a citizen of Israel by heritage, he had an obligation, and that if the Israelis were as good as they were reputed to be, he’d be back in time to enter Lehigh in the fall. Before Cassie could do more than catch her breath, his money ran out and they were cut off.
It was the last time she ever heard his voice. Two weeks later, on a morning so sunny that Cassie was later to think God had been smirking at her, a telegram arrived saying that Kenny had been killed while shuttling supplies to troops on the Golan Heights.
Cassie stood on the doorstep of the stately Warren home in Dover and watched the Western Union car drive off. She didn’t sway. She didn’t cry. She just stood there, oblivious to the passage of time, until Lenore found her.
“Cassie?” She was coming down from her bedroom, slightly fuzzy from yesterday’s drink, and paused, puzzled, on the stairs. “Was that a delivery?”
Cassie nodded, but otherwise didn’t move.
So Lenore approached, looking for whatever it was that had arrived. She was expecting a sweater she had ordered from Bonwit’s, but there was no sign of it, much less any other package. Then she spotted the yellow paper Cassie held. She took it—without effort, since Cassie’s fingers were limp—and read it. Her fuzziness cleared instantly, but it was several minutes before she could speak.
“Oh, Cassie…” she whispered in sympathy. “Oh, Cassie, I’m sorry.” Any grievances she might have had against the woman were momentarily forgotten. Lenore could easily substitute Peter’s name for Kenny’s and know precisely what Cassie was feeling. Indeed, in that instant she wouldn’t even have fought Deborah’s choice of a commune.
Slipping an arm around Cassie’s waist she guided her from the doorway. It was the first physical gesture she had ever made toward Cassie, but Cassie was too crushed to appreciate it.
Lenore gently escorted her through the house to the back door, then over the gravel path to the cottage. Twice along the way she held up a silencing hand, once to the cook who was baking rolls in the kitchen, the second time to the laundress who was stretching freshly washed blankets across a line in the back yard.
Cassie refused to think, as though by shutting down her mind what she had read on the yellow piece of paper would be blotted out, erased, nullified. She let herself be led into the cottage, down the hall to the bedroom, then to the bed itself. She sat down at Lenore’s urging, lay back at Lenore’s urging, closed her eyes at Lenore’s urging.
But what had always worked so well for Lenore didn’t work so well for Cassie. As soon as she closed her eyes her mind opened. So she quickly raised her lids and sat up to see Lenore standing by the door wringing her hands.
“Is there … is there anything I can do?” Lenore asked nervously. She had a headache. She needed a drink.
Cassie shook her head. Without a word she stood up and returned to the small living room where
she awkwardly lowered herself into a chair and sat stiffly. Lenore, who had put the telegram on Cassie’s dresser, followed her.
“Don’t worry about work,” she said hurriedly. “The others will take care of everything. You just rest.”
Cassie nodded, her eyes wide, focused unseeingly on the floor.
“Katia will be home later.”
Cassie nodded.
“Is there anyone you can call?”
Cassie shook her head.
“No friend or—” She was about to say minister, then realized that it would be a rabbi, then realized that, knowing Cassie, it wouldn’t be anything at all. “Maybe I should call Gil—”
Cassie’s head came up so fast that Lenore swallowed the word in her throat. But she knew that was the thing to do.
“Yes. I’ll call Gil now,” she said and practically ran from the cottage. She stumbled into the house and made straight for the den to put in the call.
Gil wasn’t in his office. She babbled out a message, saying that there was an emergency at home and that he should return her call as soon as possible. After helping herself to a drink from the living room bar she returned to the den and waited.
It was nearly an hour before the phone rang. “Gil,” she breathed when she heard his voice. “Thank God.”
“What’s happened?” he asked sternly. He had grown used to Lenore’s frantic calls. On occasion they had concerned nothing more pressing than a pesty reporter or a mishap with the car, in which case he simply had to reassure her, or direct her to the proper insurance representative. On occasion they had required more of an effort, as had happened the summer before when Laura and Donald had been on their honeymoon and been stranded in Europe thanks to an airline strike. They had had to work back and forth with Jack until they had finally secured seats for the couple to return in time for the party celebrating the opening of Donald’s new medical office.
“It’s Cassie,” Lenore said quickly. “She just got word that Kenny’s been killed.”
“Killed? In Israel? He wasn’t supposed to be fighting!”
“He wasn’t,” she raced on. “He was helping move supplies to the troops. I don’t know what to do, Gil. Cassie’s in the cottage, sitting in a chair staring at the floor. She won’t cry. She barely talks—”
“Katia’s still in school?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Look, Lenore, I’m going to fly right up. I may not make it there before Katia gets home, and if I don’t, I want you to catch her before she sees Cassie. Break the news to her gently. I’m asking—begging you—to do that—”
“I’m not an ogre, Gil—”
“I know that, and I do appreciate your calling me.”
“Cassie didn’t ask me to do it.”
“She wouldn’t. Is Natalie home?”
“She was going downtown to shop.”
“Have her come over as soon as she gets back. Once you’ve told Katia, let her go to Cassie, but I want either you or Natalie to stay with them until I get there. Can you do that for me?” Unspoken was the promise of a reward for Lenore if she complied.
“Of course I can do it,” Lenore snapped back, for once annoyed by the tit-for-tat nature of their relationship when she was trying to rise above the quarrels of the past and be humane.
“Good. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
True to his word, he was in Dover by mid-afternoon to take over. He talked softly with a very upset and confused eleven-year-old Katia, spoke with the representative from the Israeli consulate who came by to confirm Kenny’s death, made arrangements to have Kenny’s body returned to the States, and then, with Katia safely entrusted to Natalie, sat down with Cassie.
They didn’t say much. Cassie hadn’t moved from her chair. For a long time Gil simply squatted beside her, holding her cold hand, unsure if she even knew of his presence.
“Talk to me, Cassie,” he said at last, but very, very softly. There hadn’t been many times in his life when he had felt impotent, but this was definitely one. “You’re bottling it all in.”
“What good will talking do?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “He’s gone.” She took a truncated breath. “Just like my parents and Michel.”
“They died for a cause. So did Kenny.”
“No! It was a waste! He should never have gone! He’s a citizen of this country!”
“But he felt an allegiance to Israel—”
She shook her head firmly. “He was rebelling. He was angry because I hadn’t told him sooner.”
“No. He felt called upon to do what he did. He was a man—”
“He wasn’t even eighteen. He must have lied to get over there.”
“But he was acting as a man, doing what he thought was right.”
“He was too young to know what was right and what wasn’t.” The harsh sound she made didn’t come near to qualifying as a laugh, though its sarcasm came through loud and clear. “And I was worried about Vietnam.…”
“Cassie, Cassie, don’t do this to yourself. You raised a wonderful boy whose heart was in the right place. You should be proud that he died doing something that meant the world to him.”
“He was a little boy jumping on a bandwagon.” Her composure began to crumble. “He must have thought it would be an exciting thing to do.”
“He thought it was the right thing to do. And it doesn’t matter what you think or what I think or what anyone else in the world thinks, Cassie, but if Kenny believed in what he was doing—even in his little boy’s mind—then that’s all that matters.”
Sucking in an uneven breath, Cassie lay her head back against the chair. When she didn’t say anything further, Gil could only hope that she was thinking about what he had said.
“Can I do anything for you?” he murmured helplessly.
Cassie’s eyes remained closed. “Katia. Where is Katia?”
“With Natalie.”
“I want her.” Her voice cracked. “Will you bring her here?”
“Right now.” He wanted to ask about the funeral arrangements, because he had every intention of making them for her, but he knew that it was too early for her to think about that. It would be several days, at least, before the body made it back home. They had time. “I’ll stay in Dover for the rest of the week—”
“You’ll be needed in Washington.”
“I have aides to take care of things there. This is important.”
“But Lenore—”
“Lenore was the one who called me. She understands that you’re alone. She’ll do anything she can to help.” He straightened and looked down at her. “You’ve been good to both of us over the years, Cassie. Just tell us what to do.”
For the first time in the twelve years that had elapsed since Ben’s death, Cassie held out her hand to Gil. It was a small gesture, the only way she could thank him for being there. Holding his hand, she looked up at him.
“Katia,” she whispered. “Please.”
So Gil went to get Katia and brought her to the cottage. He left mother and daughter alone to deal with their grief in whatever manner they could, but he remained available, returning to check up on them from time to time. He called the few friends Cassie had and saw that meals were brought to the cottage. At one point, while Cassie slept, he took Katia for a long walk in the woods.
When, very late that night, he returned to the main house, Lenore was waiting for him. “Is she all right?”
Gil shrugged, hands anchored in his trousers pockets. “She finally cried.” Soft, soulful sobs while she held Katia to her breast. The heartrending image would stay with him forever. “She needed it.”
“Is Katia asleep?”
“Yes.” He had just come from the child’s bedroom, where he had stood for a long, long time gazing down at her.
“And Cassie?”
“Not sleeping, but lying down.”
Lenore looked down at the velvet sash of her robe, twisting it around and back with her fingers. “You can go to her,” sh
e whispered. “She needs you.”
“No, Lenore,” Gil said quietly. “Cassie doesn’t need me—at least, not in that way.” Indeed, he had offered himself moments before, wanting desperately to comfort her, but she had refused him with the saddest of smiles. “She’s strong. She retreats into herself and finds what she needs there. I want to help with the funeral plans, though she could probably handle those on her own, too.” He took a deep breath. “She’s a very moral person. What happened between us after Ben’s death was done for my benefit. Even if I’d gone back to her after that one night she probably would have turned me away. Cassie may love me, but she recognizes that you’re my wife. She never meant to come between us.”
In her heart Lenore knew that Cassie had been the least of the things to come between she and Gil. Granted, the one night in which Cassie had given herself—and its very concrete result—had been the weapon Lenore had needed to obtain what she needed, but she didn’t hold Cassie to blame for the distance between Gil and her. No, there were other women. There was Gil’s unremitting arrogance, his unfailing confidence. There was his greed for power, and his career.
And, if Lenore were truthful, there was her own insecurity. It had abated somewhat in the past few years. She felt economically stable now. But there was always the fear, always the fear that some disgrace would be visited upon the Warrens that would lead to their downfall. It had happened to Lenore once; she wasn’t sure if she could survive it again.
* * *
The day after Kenny was buried Cassie returned to work. Gil and Lenore both protested, but she was vehement about picking up where she had left off. The fact that she didn’t—from that time on she was less smiling and more stoical—was something that no one seemed able to remedy. But she ran the Warren household as capably as always and in that no one could find fault.
* * *
The sixties ended and the seventies began. Gil moved steadily into a position of congressional prominence, landing increasingly prestigious committee assignments, receiving more than his share of press attention. Lenore wasn’t oblivious to the murmurings of a possible presidential run, but the murmurings never came from Gil. She often wondered why it was so; she would have assumed that he would grab for as much as he could get, and she fretted accordingly. But, lest she put a bug in his ear, she said nothing while he defended his seat every two years, seemingly content with the solid niche he was carving for himself in the House of Representatives.
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