Tides of Valor

by Peter Albano

  With a screech of tortured tires, the big De Soto made the turn up Fifth Avenue—“The Avenue” to old New Yorkers—wide, the street of millionaires, the habitat of the best families and ambitious, expensive whores. Broad, handsome, it was ornamented with elaborate twin-light lamp standards, ending in a formal archway at Washington Square. The sidewalks were teeming with fashionably dressed men and women. On the side streets, shabby men hawking everything from apples to diamonds, even a few prostitutes looking for an early afternoon “John.” Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change.

  Finally, with the green swath of Central Park visible to the left, the battered De Soto roared past Sixtieth Street and screeched to a halt in front of the Higgins mansion. Rodney felt a boyish warmth of remembrance, the ineffable joy of homecoming known to those who have risked their lives in battle and had wondered repeatedly about their chances of ever seeing home and loved ones again.

  He would take them by surprise. Was his mother home? He should have phoned Brenda from the dock, but had decided against it when he thought of delighting in the surprised joy on her face. His grandmother, Ellen Ashcroft, should be home. Perhaps his divorced aunt Betty and her daughter Marsha would be there. But Marsha was in college and Betty liked to spend her time at Tiffany’s, Cartier’s, and the surrounding smart shops—so they said. He suspected lovers. His worthless brother, Nathan, had moved out, but made frequent appearances with his slatternly girlfriend, Margaret, especially when he was hungry. One way or other, like it or not, he would see them all and soon.

  He felt a twitch of deep remorse. Kay Stockard was out of town. She had written him about a trip to Hollywood to discuss fashion ads for Harper’s Bazaar where she held the post of assistant advertising director. He needed her in the hot, carnal, physical way all men need a woman. But he could not have her. She would not return for at least two weeks. And it had been such a long time. Just the thought of her brought a discomforting heat to his groin. He squirmed in frustration.

  The sight of his home tore his mind from the hot memories. He feasted his eyes on the immense three-story brownstone that dominated the corner of Sixty-first Street with all the cold aloofness of a king’s crypt. Yet, now, at first glimpse, it seemed strangely warm and cozy to his hungry eyes.

  Neither palazzo nor chateau as were most of the other palatial residences of “Millionaires’ Row,” his home was an eclectic blending of flat, medieval lines and Tuscan arches. Crowding the street with its facade of high windows and ornate cornices, the immense building was separated from gawking passersby by a high iron-grillwork fence capped inhospitably by a grim phalanx of pikelike points.

  Bounding from the cab, clutching his canvas bag and briefcase, Rodney chuckled in high spirits. He tipped the cabbie lavishly and turned to the door.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” the cabbie said, examining the bill in his hand. “See youse at Ebbets Field.” He roared away with a clash of gears and cloud of blue-black smoke. Rodney waved.

  Travers the butler answered the pounding. At first the balding, portly old gentleman, still splendid in his formal livery, could only stare openmouthed. Then a warm handshake and a call to “Mrs. Hargreaves!”

  She met him in the entry, a huge, circular room bigger than KG Vs wardroom. It was hung with Rembrandts, Titians, and Holbeins, had a Gamier chandelier overhead, and was floored with gray and white marble set in a checkerboard pattern. Flinging her arms around him, Brenda’s emotions took Rodney by surprise. Although he had not written her of his experiences on board King George V, she had learned from friends in high places in the Navy Department of the risks he had taken.

  She broke into sobs that quickly became cries of recrimination and anger. “Why? Why did you do it? You’re like your father—your stepfather. They couldn’t wait to get killed—to die gloriously—earn their goddamned medals.” She pounded his chest with her tiny fists, crying and kissing his neck, his cheeks.

  He held her close, muttering, “Mother. Mother, please.” Again and again he told the lie of illness and sleep while the servants, Travers the butler, Antoine the cook, and his mother’s personal maid of over twenty years, Nicole, watched misty-eyed.

  Finally, taking Rodney’s hand, Brenda led him into the parlor. With a ceiling of rich Chinese fabrics, a collection of Japanese and Chinese bronzes, and walls of red silks and velvets, his grandparents had dubbed it the “Chink’s Room.” Brenda pulled her son down onto a plump velvet sofa and gestured to the butler who had limped into the room behind them. Tom by shrapnel at the Argonne, Travers’s left leg had withered to half the size of his right. With a fused knee, he used it more like a cane than a leg.

  “The usual, sir?” the old gentleman asked, beaming down on the lieutenant.

  Rodney nodded. Travers stumped to a sideboard and returned with a Johnnie Walker and seltzer for Rodney and a glass of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild for his mistress. After placing a silver service with ice and liquor on a low giltwood pier table in front of them, he exited quietly. Taking a deep drink, Rodney sank back, feeling the warmth of the liquor spread. The tensions began to drain.

  “You won’t do something as stupid as that again, will you, Rodney?” his mother began.

  “As what?”

  “Risk your neck for nothing. That’s what.”

  The lieutenant smiled. “Of course not. Mother.” He took another drink. “And, Mother, no one was hurt—KG V wasn’t even hit.”

  She covered her mouth. “Rodney. Please. Please. You know how I lost your father, stepfather, my brother Hugh. They’d tell me the same stories. No one ever took any chances. But they’re all still dead.”

  The young man drained his glass and recharged it. He changed the subject. “Grandmother? Nathan? Aunt Betty? Marsha? Where arc they?”

  “Your aunt Betty and grandmother Ellen are shopping. Marsha’s taking classes at Columbia and your brother Nathan doesn’t live here anymore.” She turned away and he could see she was upset.

  “Moved? Where does he live?”

  “Greenwich Village and sometimes he sleeps in Central Park.”

  “Central Park?” He took another deep drink.

  She looked up. “The park’s safe—you know that, Rodney. He says he likes to commune with nature.”

  “He’s been communing with that communist. Earl Browder, and a bunch of radicals. Mother.”

  “I know. But he says he’s found something.”

  “He should find a job and he’d better hunt for himself, too. He doesn’t know what he is.” He could feel the Scotch spreading, and the cold motif of the room began to take on a warm glow.

  It was Brenda’s turn to change the subject. “How long is your leave?”

  “Three weeks.”

  There was anguish in her voice. “Is that all?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Your next duty?”

  He toyed with his glass. “I’ve applied for battleship duty.’’

  “Why?”

  “That’s where the power is. I want to be at the heart of it. I think I’ll get Arizona. She’s been moved from Long Beach to Pearl Harbor. The whole battle fleet moved last year.”

  “You were impressed by your—ah—last experience.”

  “They’re safe, Mother. Floating steel fortresses.”

  “Tell that to your father, the boys on Hood, Bismarck, She covered her mouth.

  “We aren’t at war, Mother.” She looked at him, the blue of her eyes heightened by moisture. “No, but Roosevelt is sure trying to correct that situation.” We gave the British fifty destroyers, there’s Lend-Lease, we’re escorting ships, the Germans are sinking our ships. . .”A sob cut her off.”

  He held her close, pressed his lips to her temple, felt the effects of liquor and fatigue sapping his energy. “Mother. I need to soak myself—rest. The old ship never had enough water and. . .”

  “Why, of c
ourse. You must be tired.” She smiled up at him. “Your old room is exactly as you left it. Take your bath and get some rest. I’ll phone Nathan’s apartment. We’ll have a family dinner together.” She ran a finger through the stubble on his chin. He detected a tension in her voice, “Your girlfriend, Kay, is out of town.”

  “I know. She wrote me.” He came to his feet.

  The liquor, the hot-water tub, and then a thick turkey sandwich served to drop Rodney into a deep sleep. And he was back in the comfort and security of his own room with its heavy four-poster bed, massive oak furniture, rich drapes, and thick; Aubusson rugs. Deep in his sleep he sensed a presence before he heard the light footsteps. Opening his eyes, he saw the delicately molded features of Nicole the French maid looming over him.

  She was more beautiful than he ever remembered. Although he knew she was at least forty, she looked ten years younger. Her skin was clear like fine porcelain without a hint of wrinkles even at the corners of the eyes and mouth. True to her genesis near Toulon in the Cote d’ Azur, her hair was black, cheekbones high and tinted by her Latin blood the color of ivory, nostrils straight and small, mouth perpetually curved in an uncertain pout that gave it a sensual twist. Her breasts were large and pointed, a tight white apron nipping her black taffeta dress in at her tiny waist. He remembered stealing looks at her when she walked past when he was very young, perhaps not thirteen. And he noticed her even more as he grew into adolescence. It was like watching music, full-formed womanly hips and buttocks that flowed sinuously with each step. He had always wanted to touch her, but never dared. Once, when he was a Junior in high school, she had played a prominent role in one of his erotic dreams. Everyone knew her lover had vanished with his entire regiment at Verdun. She had never married. Her whole life revolved around Brenda and the Higgins family.

  Her huge dark eyes were peering into his. “I am sorry, Monsieur Higgins. I did not mean to awaken you. I brought you your favorite pillow.” She placed a goose-down pillow on the bed next to his head.

  Rodney had no memory of his “favorite pillow,” but tucked it under his head anyway, with a smiling, “Thank you, Nicole.”

  The maid’s eyes moved over the sheet-covered form. “I missed Ie galant homme. I worry.” She leaned closer. “I lost my love, Henri, at Verdun and mon p’re at the Mame in La Grand Guerre. And now my Rodney, fighting the Boches, too. And maybe I lose him.” Her hand was cool and soft on his forehead. Boldly, ‘she traced a finger down his cheek.

  He could never remember Nicole touching him before. When he had been very young his governess, Bridie O’Conner, had cared for him, his brother, and sister while Nicole spent her time with his mother. She had always been distant, aloof. Now, she was leaning very close and her eyes held not just concern; there was warmth there. Was it the heat of desire? He had read it in the eyes of many women before. And the long dry months had taken their toll of Rodney. Despite his will, the barrier of decades, the impossibility of a dalliance with a maid in your own home, he felt the fire begin to rise like an aphrodisiac from deep down. He reached up and took her hand.

  There was the sound of uneven footsteps in the hall. It was Travers. Rodney was shocked back to cold reality and the maid stepped back. “Is there anything else, monsieur?”

  “No, thank you, Nicole. You are dismissed.”

  The footsteps faded. “He is gone, monsieur.” She stepped closer.

  The timbre was curt, “I said you are dismissed, Nicole.”

  “Oui, monsieur.” She whirled and left the room.

  The dining room was large and eclectically furnished, filled with the sounds of people talking and eating at the same time. The long mahogany table was George III, cabinets and sideboards Hepplewhite and Duncan Phyfe, the enormous chandelier Waterford crystal. The walls were hung with a Van Dyck, a Renoir, and two Picassos of the blue period. In a corner stood his mother’s pride: an ancient satinwood-cased grandfather clock by Eli Terry, click-clacking with the peculiar sound of its wooden movement.

  Now his mother, Brenda Hargreaves, looked up at him from the opposite end of the table. In the soft glow of candlelight, she was lovelier than ever, the anguish of the early afternoon gone. Her auburn hair flowed to her shoulders like silk, her flawless skin glowed with good health. The widely spaced blue eyes were as deep and dark as the Atlantic at sunset, the fire of candlelight reflecting from her pupils like dancing gold leaf. The warmth was for her son—back, safe, seated at her table again.

  Most of the family was seated. On Rodney’s right hand sat his adoring grandmother, Ellen Ashcroft, who had been widowed since 1931 when her husband, John, had either fallen or leapt from the twentieth floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Born in 1870, she was still a nineteenth-century woman with Victorian values and prejudices. She was the quintessential “grandmother,” short, gray, and matronly with a round pudgy face and bright eyes that danced with joy whenever she looked at Rodney and her other grandchildren. Retaining some of New York’s finest couturieres, she still managed to appear dowdy and matronly even when dressed in the most stylish gowns.

  Beside Ellen sat Rodney’s aunt, Betty. In her early forties, she had arresting blue eyes like Brenda’s. However, her red hair was frizzled as if she carried an electrical transformer at the base of her skull, charging every strand with a hundred volts. The tangled bristles reminded Rodney of Albert Einstein’s wild hairdo. Her once-beautiful face had been marred by incursions of fat. Spread wide and appearing soft like a sack filled with gelatin, her once-petite figure had suffered, too. She had outraged her parents and been disowned when at the age of seventeen she married an Italian barber, Dominic Borelli, and moved to Los Angeles. Betty divorced Dominic in 1927 when she discovered his affair with his manicurist. She had never remarried. Instead, she had taken a succession of lovers, showing an insatiable appetite for young men. Rodney had often caught her staring at him with hungry eyes. He always looked away uneasily. Currently, it was rumored she was seeing a boy not twenty years of age. She had two children; twenty-one-year-old Tony who was attending the University of Southern California and a nineteen-year-old daughter, Marsha, who was sitting next to her mother. Mother and daughter had taken up “temporary” quarters in a suite on the third floor two years earlier. Betty was comfortable financially, enjoying a million-dollar trust established by her parents after she divorced the Italian.

  Because Marsha had been raised in Los Angeles, Rodney had seen very little of his cousin. She had a deceptive appearance. Delicate like a Dresden doll, the exquisite lines of her face gave a misleading cherubic appearance. However, her hot eyes and sensuous walk revealed her true nature; an erotic view of the world and a developing voracious appetite for men similar to her mother’s. Disdaining Bryn Mawr, she was attending Columbia University and majoring in art. Rodney always felt she was majoring in boys. In fact, there was already a blossoming scandal about her and a middle-aged professor.

  An empty chair was opposite Aunt Betty. Rodney felt a hollow, languishing emptiness as he stared at his half-sister’s place at the table. Rodney adored Regina. His beautiful, intelligent half-sister, Regina Hargreaves, had married a Polish Jew, a premed exchange student she had met at the Metropolitan Museum of Art while a freshman at Bryn Mawr. They had moved to Warsaw just in time to be caught by the German invasion of 1939.

  The family had warned Regina, objected to the Jew, Josef Lipiski. “Stay away from foreigners,” Grandmother Ellen had cautioned her. “Look at your aunt Betty. She married a ‘Wop’ and see what happened to her. ‘Kikes’ aren’t any better. Marry a nice white man of good breeding.” Everyone agreed except Regina. Rodney felt the statement was repugnant and said as much. His half-sister had smiled warmly at him while his grandmother looked pained.

  They had had four letters from Regina in 1940, sent through the Swiss Red Cross. Thus far, in 1941, not a word had sifted out of tortured Poland. The family only knew Regina, her husband Josef, and their one-ye
ar-old child Rose were living in the Warsaw ghetto. Once a month Brenda and Betty sent packages loaded with food and clothing. Those sent in 1940 had been acknowledged, but not a word in 1941. Rodney was convinced the Germans were stealing everything.

  Rodney’s eyes moved to his brother, Nathan, who sat to his left. Wearing a heavy black beard like a nineteenth-century philosopher, Nathan was a college dropout who hated war and loved Karl Marx. He was an admirer of the isolationists: Henry Cabot Lodge, William E. Borah, Gerald P. Bye, Charles A. Lindbergh, and the vociferous Burton K. Wheeler. A draft dodger, his efforts to avoid service had been aided by Brenda’s claim he was essential to the operation of Ashcroft Mills.

  To Rodney’s knowledge, his brother had never worked. Built big like Rodney, Nathan’s once athletic, powerful physique was turning flaccid. As unpredictable as North Atlantic weather, he showed quick, tempestuous mood changes and a hair-trigger temper. In fact, as youths, they had fought often with fists. Once, at an American Legion baseball game when they were on opposite teams, with bats.

  Nathan’s most impressive feature was his heavy black eyebrows. Meeting at the bridge of his nose like valances, they sheltered his piercing brown eyes that glowed ominously with inner heat like coals of an open fire fanned by a vagrant breeze. Nathan disliked bathing. He smelled. Rasputin the Monk, Rodney thought to himself.

  Wolfing her salade de tomates in a chair next to his brother sat Nathan’s girlfriend, Margaret Hollister. A tall, raw-boned girl who obviously hated brassieres, she had big disassociated breasts that stabbed obliquely from each other like the eyes of a cockeyed man. Her harsh features reminded Rodney of a youthful Marjorie Main. Margaret dressed carelessly. Her hair was unkempt, dresses commonplace and sometimes soiled, and she exuded the aroma of a neglected body. “Natural musk,” Rodney had heard her say once to a smirking Nathan. She, too, was a follower of Karl Marx. She, too, was from a wealthy family. Rodney wondered how she and Nathan could ever stand each other’s odors in bed. Maybe they wear clamps on their noses, he thought ruefully.