by Howard Fast
Not yet seventeen, Barbara Lavette was almost as tall as her mother. Her bobbed hair was the same honey color, her wide gray eyes cool and knowledgeable, her face firming out in the same strong bone structure. Peggy Dutton, a year older, small, plump, pretty, appeared drab by comparison. Both girls were excited, not only by the fact of their first football weekend but by the whole look and appearance of the town of Princeton. “It’s fantastic,” Barbara exclaimed. “What a wonderful old place!”
Tom escorted them and their luggage to the inn, explaining that Robert Toad would have been there too, but he was tied up with the glee club. “You’ll like ‘The Toad,’” Tom told Barbara. “Of course, I don’t call him that to his face. But that’s what his buddies call him.”
“What a hideous name!”
“Not at all. He went to Lawrenceville, and names like that are a mark of distinction there. I wish I had gone there instead of a hole like Groton. He’s tall and quite good-looking.”
“Taller than I am, I should hope.”
“Quite. Absolutely.”
“Save me from tall men,” Peggy Dutton said. “Tom’s just the right size.”
In their room at the inn, Tom took a flask out of his pocket, with the air of a magician conjuring a rabbit out of a hat. “The good provider. It’s bitter cold out and the stands will be even colder.”
“I don’t want it on my breath,” Barbara said.
“Vodka. No smell. Anyway, The Toad won’t mind. There are no teetotalers in Ivy.”
They all drank a toast to a Princeton victory. “Should we drink to mother’s divorce?” Tom asked his sister. “It came through yesterday. Did you know?”
Barbara glanced at Peggy and then at her brother.
“I’m one of the family, almost,” Peggy said. “Tom has filled me in. No secrets. You know, I am a sort of fifth cousin of yours–or something of the sort.”
“A delicious kissing cousin. Mother called me yesterday, Barby. Very civilized.”
“Where did he go?” Barbara asked uncertainly.
“Couldn’t care less.”
“Don’t talk like that!” Barbara snapped at him.
“What’s eating you? He’s my father, too, and he’s been a perfect sonofabitch.”
“Children, children,” Peggy said. “I will not be party to a family quarrel. These days everyone gets divorced, and if it’s done in a proper, civilized manner, all’s for the best.”
Barbara stood there, looking from her brother to Peggy Dutton, and then suddenly her face wrinkled and the tears began to flow.
“Barby, darling,” Peggy cried, embracing her. “What have I said? Please forgive me.”
By game time, Barbara was herself again, and she couldn’t explain her fit of tears, even to herself. Robert Toad was tall, good-looking, and charming. “Old man,” he whispered to Tom, “you’ve given me my first blind date that wasn’t a dud. She’s a perfect doll.” He had brought with him to the game a sixteen-ounce flask of what he claimed was the “very best, valid imported Scotch,” not to be even compared with the rotgut young Tom carried. Barbara disliked the taste of liquor, and she coughed and choked as Toad tipped the flask to her lips. “Girl, you need practice. Don’t fight it. Let it go down soft and easy.” They were covered by a big steamer rug, and already Toad’s hands were tentatively testing Barbara’s thighs. He slid his arm around to touch her breast. Oh, my God, she said to herself, what do I do now? I just open my mouth, and there go Tom’s chances for Ivy, and from the way he talks, he wants Ivy more than he wants to go to bed with Peggy. It was not that she objected to petting, but she had decided long ago that she would make the choice, and this tall, skinny, glib young idiot was definitely not her choice. She leaned over to him and whispered into his ear, “Please do be careful because I have herpes on my breasts.”
“Herpes?” he whispered back. “What the devil is herpes?”
“It’s a sort of venereal disease. It’s not as bad as syphilis, but it’s terribly catching, and I’d never forgive myself.”
“You two don’t know each other long enough to be whispering,” Peggy Dutton said cheerfully. “Come, now, speak up.”
Toad’s right hand slid away from Barbara’s breast and the left hand removed itself from her thigh. Both of Toad’s hands appeared above the steamer rug as he edged away from Barbara, and for the rest of the day he was coldly and formally polite. At the dance, after the dinner at Ivy, he did not choose her as a partner even once, watching sullenly as Barbara picked and chose from the cluster of men around her. He spent the evening getting drunk, and said to Tom, when Tom asked him whether he would join him to walk the girls back to the inn, “The pleasure is yours, you little creep. And thanks for nothing.”
It was a beautiful, crisp fall evening. In the distance, in the direction of Blair Arch, a cluster of boys were singing, “Going Back to Nassau Hall.” The moon was in the sky, and the wind rustled in the dry leaves that still clung to the maples on Prospect Avenue. “It’s dreamy, totally dreamy,” Peggy sighed.
“Whatever happened with you and The Toad?” Tom asked his sister.
“I can’t imagine. But I had a perfectly wonderful time.”
“You know, he didn’t even dance with you.”
“I noticed that.”
“Didn’t he make a pass at you? I was worried about that, but I figured you can take care of yourself. Not that he’s such an animal, but they have a reputation at Ivy.”
“Not even a pass.”
“Well, there you are,” Tom said. “You never know.”
At the inn, Barbara told them to go up to the room while she made a telephone call in the booth. “Can you promise us a half-hour of privacy?” Tom asked, grinning foolishly.
“Ignore the little beast,” Peggy said unconvincingly.
“Yes, I promise you a half-hour of privacy.”
They went upstairs, and Barbara went into the phone booth and called her home in San Francisco, reversing the charges. Jean’s voice, thick with sleep and confusion, said yes, of course she would accept a call from Barbara Lavette.
“Darling, what happened? Are you all right? It’s eleven o’clock here.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. Mother, forgive me–I never thought about the time.”
“Are you all right? You’re not hurt or ill?”
“I’m all right. I guess. I don’t know.”
“Well, why are you calling?”
“Because you divorced daddy.”
“Darling, you knew it was coming.”
“Why?”
“Darling, we can’t talk about this over the phone. You’ll be home for Christmas soon, and we’ll discuss it then. Believe me, it’s best for all of us. Are you crying?”
“Yes,” Barbara replied.
“But why? You were always so angry and provoked at him. You never understood why I remained with him.”
“I know.”
“Barbara, darling,” Jean said, “I’m only half awake. I don’t know what to say to you.”
“Will we ever see him again?” she asked plaintively.
“Yes, of course you will.”
“You’re angry at me.”
“No, darling. No, I’m not.”
“All right.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the inn at Princeton. Peggy Dutton and I came down for the football weekend. But I’m not going to stay. I don’t want to stay. I’ll go back to Boston tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll call you tomorrow night in Boston.”
“If you want to.”
“Yes, I will. Please, baby, don’t cry about this. It’s just something that had to be.”
“Where’s daddy?”
“At the Fairmont, I suppose. Where he’s been for most of the past year.”
“All right. Good night.”
Dan drove down to San Mateo to sell his boat. It had been out of the water for the past eight years and it needed work, and it was a time when people were not rushing
to buy boats. Fred Marsha, who ran the marina, offered Dan a hundred and fifty dollars, which he accepted. He then drove to the Cassalas’ home, where he was expected for dinner. Maria Cassala embraced him and then burst into tears. They left her sitting in the kitchen weeping. In the living room, Dan held Ralph on his lap, while Joanna watched adoringly.
“Life goes on,” Stephan said. “Mama cries and goes to church. She’s set a record in candles. She weeps for pop, and she weeps for your divorce and your immortal soul.”
“How can you talk like that?” Joanna said. “It’s her grief.”
“Can you keep the house?” Dan wanted to know.
“There was no mortgage. Pop had insurance. I’m lucky. I got a job at Wells Fargo. We get along, Dan.”
“Well, you got the kid and you got a good wife. As for my immortal soul, well, I dropped it on the way up Nob Hill.”
“I’m sorry, Danny. I hate to hear you talk like that.”
Later that evening, Stephan walked out with Dan to his car. “Danny,” he said, “don’t let this be the last time. Come back. Please.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a gut feeling I’ve got–that we won’t see each other again.”
“We’ll see each other.”
“You know what I’ve been thinking about all day–after the earthquake, when you came into our kitchen and emptied the money from your pockets.”
“That was a long, long time ago, Steve.”
“I suppose so. Take it easy, Dan.”
The next day, Dan sold his car. It was a 1929 Cadillac, but like the market for boats, the market for Cadillacs was thin and tight. The dealer who gave him seven hundred and fifty dollars said to him, “I’m giving you top dollar, Mr. Lavette, believe me. This car will sit in my lot for the next six months.”
He checked out of the Fairmont. The bill was six hundred and seventy-two dollars. He paid cash, then loaded his suitcases into a taxicab and took them with him to the office. There he sat at his desk, staring at the bags, his mind strangely blank. He had the feeling of being oddly suspended in time.
Mark came in and looked at the suitcases. “Going somewhere?”
“I checked out of the Fairmont. Can you put me up for a few days?”
Mark nodded.
“Everything shipshape?”
Mark nodded again. “What about the pictures?” he asked, pointing to the walls. “Don’t you want them?”
“No.”
“They’re yours.”
“I suppose so. They look good where they are.”
“I spent yesterday with Fred Blankfort, the new store manager. He’ll be all right. Polly Anderson’s staying on, and she knows as much about where things are as I do. Buckley’s taken over the airline operation. Sam Goldberg’s been working with Thorndyke and his crew all month, and that’s all under control.”
“Who’s paying Goldberg?”
“The company. Thorndyke agreed to that.”
“And that about cleans it up?” Dan asked.
“Just about. Whittier’s people are taking care of the New York end.”
“I suppose they’ll fire everyone?”
“There’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Then we might as well check out.”
“Naked we came, naked we go,” Mark said, smiling ruefully. “I’ll just say goodby to Polly.”
Polly Anderson clung to Mark, weeping copiously. “It’s unjust,” she whimpered, “it’s so damn unjust. It’s not right.”
They walked out of the building, Dan carrying his two big suitcases. “Eleven business suits,” he explained to Mark. “Two dozen shirts. Six pairs of shoes. At least thirty ties. God Almighty, I don’t know why I’m dragging it with me.”
“You’ll use it.”
“I doubt it.”
On the ferry to Sausalito, Mark asked Dan what he had done with his car.
“Sold it. Seven hundred and fifty bucks.”
“For that Cadillac? You’re out of your mind.”
“Nobody wants Cadillacs, old buddy. I didn’t do so bad. I paid my hotel bill, and I don’t owe a dime anywhere, and I still got a hundred and twenty dollars or so in my pocket.”
“Wait a minute. What about the community property?”
“I signed a release. Jean gets it all.”
Mark was silent for a while, and then he said slowly, “All right. I don’t comment on that.”
“That’s good, because I don’t intend to talk about it.”
“How are you fixed? What have you got in the bank, in your personal account, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well?”
“Nothing. I closed out my account.”
“Are you telling me you’re broke, Danny?”
“Hell, no. Like I told you before, I still got a hundred and twenty dollars in my pocket.”
“You crazy bastard.”
“You’re getting real tough with me, old buddy.”
“My God, Dan, it makes no sense, no sense at all. Well, thank God Sarah and I aren’t broke. We’ve got some money put away and the house is free and clear. I’ve got enough for both of us not to starve.”
“Mark,” Dan said firmly, “we won’t talk about this again. Don’t offer me any money. You understand? We’re not to talk about money again–not between us and not to Sarah.”
“Why?”
“Because I say so.”
“O.K., if that’s the way you want it.”
Sarah had prepared a roast of beef and potatoes and onions and carrots and spinach, sliced tomatoes, home-baked bread, and store cheese with apple pie. Dan sat in the old tiled kitchen, sleeves rolled up, eating hugely and with great relish, washing down the food with Jake’s wine, loose and easy and relaxed, the way Sarah had not seen him in years. Mark, too, was less tense, more relaxed than he had been since his daughter’s death. “My word,” he said, “it was more complicated to wind this thing up than it ever was to put it together. I can’t believe that it’s over.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Dan said.
“I don’t understand,” Sarah said. “In a world where men jump out of windows because they’ve been ruined, you two are celebrating.”
“It makes a kind of sense,” Mark said. “If only because it’s finally over.”
“And what about Jean?” Sarah asked.
“What about Jean? We’re divorced.”
“She did this to you.”
“Well, not really,” Mark said. “No one did it to us. It was something that happened, and once it started to happen, there was no way to stop it.”
Dan slept late the following morning. Fatigue and tension had been building up in him, and he lay in bed until noon, luxuriating in the fact that he had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no obligations, no duties, no plans. Sarah was alone in the kitchen. She fixed bacon, three eggs, and fried potatoes, and Dan ate everything she put in front of him.
“Danny, you haven’t eaten like that since you were a kid.”
“No? I guess not. Where’s Mark?”
“He went down to the marina. There’s a bait and tackle shop there that he thought he might buy. It would give him something to do. I wish he’d just take it easy, but I suppose that’s something you have to learn when you’re young.”
“He took it better than I thought he would.”
“And you, Danny? No regrets?”
“Sure I have regrets, but not too many. It finished for me before it finished for Mark. Then I was just going through the motions. Funny thing is–I really don’t care.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t want to think about it.”
“You mean you don’t want to think about May Ling.”
“Maybe. It’s over two years since I spoke to her.”
“You’re a fool,” Sarah said. “It’s no use talking to a fool. You and Mark are like children.”
&n
bsp; “I suppose most men are. Maybe that’s why we louse things up the way we do.”
After eating, Dan walked down to the village and went into a work-clothes store. He bought a heavy pair of rubber-soled work shoes for four dollars, two pairs of blue denim trousers, and two blue denim work shirts. He paid ten dollars and fifty cents for the lot. He added a small canvas bag to his purchases, and then paid another dollar for four excellent Cuban cigars. It was the first time in twenty years that he had bought anything against the money in his pocket, knowing that what was there was all of it, and while it gave him a strange feeling, it also gave him a curious sense of exhilaration. Smoking a cigar, he walked back to Mark’s house slowly and comfortably, a part of the little road he walked on and a part of the bright, sunlit afternoon. He was still short of his forty-first year, ten pounds overweight, but in good health, and he had come out clean. That was something he could not explain to Mark and Sarah. The community property thing–that peculiar California law which divided the personal property of a man and wife equally between them when they divorced–was the trap. Jean would have gladly given him a hundred thousand dollars, perhaps more, to leave the house on Russian Hill and its contents untouched and in her possession; and then it would begin again; and if he had learned one single thing out of his life, it was to leave the trap untouched. There was no other road to freedom, no other gateway out of the strange, incomprehensible insanity that had been his life for the past twenty years; and he knew that without being able to delineate to himself the fact or the content of the insanity. The ships, the airplanes, the property, the charge accounts, the world where one bought what one desired, food, women, clothes, transportation, and never asked the price or gave a second thought to the price–that world was as insubstantial as a dream. It was over.
