by Peter Albano
His mother’s new “friend,” Hamilton Babcock, sat at Brenda’s right hand. A middle-aged man, balding and with a developing paunch, Babcock was one in a series of “friends” and earlier “uncles” who his mother had entertained, often privately, in her own quarters since Rodney was a little boy. Divorced with two grown sons, Hamilton owned a majority interest in Spectrum Electronics, one of the nation’s largest manufacturers of radio equipment. He was also president of the company and chairman of the board. Everyone knew Hamilton wanted to marry Brenda, but, as usual,-Brenda showed no interest in matrimony. He had a sharp toothy smile, and the most dulcet voice this side of the Royal Shakespeare Company. But there was something unsettling about the man, a latent malevolence that glowed in the mottled gray-green eyes every time he looked at Rodney. Rodney felt uneasy whenever in the man’s presence.
As Nicole and Travers scooped up the salad plates and replaced them with bowls of a soup called bourride—Antoine’s artful blend of mixed fish, herbs, and spices—Hamilton turned to Rodney, “Heard you were in on the kill of Bismarck.”
“I had some help.” Everyone chuckled. Rodney described the action, not mentioning the fact he was the first to sight the German.
Nathan looked down the table at his brother; “Every shell turned a profit for Vickers-Armstrong,” Nathan said suddenly. All eyes moved to Rodney.
The lieutenant laughed. “A debit in Hitler’s ledger,” he countered.
“Boys, please,” Brenda said. Nathan slumped back and drained his glass.
“It must’ve been a glorious thing to see,” Babcock persisted, gray-green eyes hard as if they had been lacquered.
“Glorious? The sinking?” Rodney moved his eyes from guest to guest before answering. “It was a slaughter. It was hideous.” He saw the pained look on his mother’s face and regretted his words. He gulped his wine and held up his glass. Nicole filled it with Chablis Premier Grand Cru and moved around the table, filling the other glasses. Gesturing with his glass, he said, “To the British—a brave people who don’t know when to quit.” Everyone drank except Nathan and Margaret.
Brenda held up her glass. She looked at Nathan and then Rodney, “To your uncles Lloyd and Randolph Higgins. As long as they’re alive, Hitler can’t win.”
Glasses were drained and again Nathan and Margaret refused to drink.
“What’s wrong, Nathan?” Rodney said with a voice that singed. “Can’t toast capitalist swine?” Silence flooded the room like water through a broken dike.
Nathan turned to his brother, his bushy eyebrows meeting at the apex of his scowl. “Yes. Our uncles have been exploiting their workers at Carlisle Mills. . .”
“Enough!” Brenda cried. “We’re not here to hear you two argue.” Her sons fell silent. But Nathan glared at his brother, the brown pinpoints highly polished marble.
Hamilton Babcock interrupted in an attempt to salvage the situation, “Uncles Lloyd and Randolph. They’re English?”
“Yes,” Brenda answered. “They’re my brothers-in-law by my first marriage to Geoffry Higgins. They were both wounded in the first war. Randolph is a fighter squadron commander with the RAF.”
“Isn’t he too old to fly?”
A snicker circled the table. “Everyone knows that except Randolph.”
“Not combat?”
Brenda nodded. “I hope not. In his letters he claims he spends his time flying a desk.”
“But you don’t believe him?”
She shook her head and stabbed a finger upward. “He’s a creature of the air. Loves to fly more than anything else on earth. He was one of England’s first flyers. In fact, he learned to fly with A. V. Roe, Tommy Sopwith, Geoffrey de Havilland. They would fly together, design their own aircraft, build them—they did it all.” She turned to Rodney, “You saw Randolph?”
Rodney welcomed his mother’s change in mood. “Yes, Mother. I saw him at Fenwyck. Got to spend a weekend there. Saw Aunt Bernice and cousins Trevor and Bonnie, too. And Randolph’s desk must be equipped with machine guns. Trevor told me there’s a rumor he’s had a dozen kills in the last year, but tries to keep it quiet—gives credit to his men. He’s afraid of being grounded.” Murmurs of excitement and disbelief circled the table. Rodney continued, “Uncle Lloyd’s still in Africa.”
Hamilton asked Brenda, “With the Eighth Army?”
“Lloyd’s a brigadier general with General Richard O’Connor’s staff in North Africa,” she answered.
“O’Connor was captured by Rommel. The Germans have been gloating about it for a month.”
“Not Lloyd. He’d die first. I got a letter from him last week,” Brenda said.
Hamilton downed the rest of his wine. .His glass was quickly refilled by Nicole who turned and recharged Rodney’s glass. Leaning too close, her breast brushed against his shoulder. He took a quick drink and began eating his soup. He felt heat on his face.
Hamilton continued, “They’re businessmen?”
“Yes, of course,” Brenda said. “They own two thirds of Carlisle Mills, Limited, in Manchester. We’re partners. I inherited one third of the business when Geoffry was killed.” A cold look like a sheet of ice hardened the lovely features. “When he was burned to death at Jutland.” She glared at Rodney. Nathan snickered.
Brenda’s enormous wealth came home to everyone at the table. Sole owner of Ashcroft Mills that had been deeded to her by her mother after her father’s suicide, she also held a share of one of England’s largest textile mills. Two years earlier, Rodney had heard the British holdings estimated at a value of over, three million pounds. No doubt, with lucrative war contracts, it was worth much more. The value of Ashcroft Mills was in the tens of millions. Rodney saw Hamilton dampen his lips with the tip of his tongue. Nicole continued to circle the table with the wine decanter while Travers quickly placed the entree in front of the diners. It was one of Antoine’s specialties, veal in cream sauce that he called blanquette de veau. It was served with marvelous glazed carrots and delicate potato puffs. Rodney felt more thirst than hunger. Draining his fourth glass, he held it up. There was a flash of taffeta and the glass was full again with the straw-colored liquor. Brenda glared disapprovingly. Nathan smiled and held up his glass, too.
There was a momentary silence as the diners attacked the gourmet meal. Ellen broke the silence by timidly turning to Margaret. “Do you think the British can hold out?”
“With our help,” Margaret Hollister said, spraying her words through a mouth full of food. “Roosevelt’s declared his own private war. He’s arming the British and everyone knows it.’’ She waved a fork for emphasis. “We’re escorting their ships.”
“Herbert Hoover said the only way we can aid the British was to stay out,” Marsha asserted, entering the conversation. Obviously eager to see Rodney’s reaction, she stared into his eyes with a bold, confident look for one so young.
“Stay out?” Margaret asked.
“Yes,” Marsha said, turning to Margaret, fine hair swaying with the movement like a silk sheet. Marsha’s hair was remarkable and she obviously took pride in it. Worn in the style popularized by the actress Veronica Lake, it was the color of roasted chestnuts and as lustrous as watered satin. Flowing down to her shoulders, it flickered with glowing red stars and highlights each time she moved. Brushing a strand from her eye, she continued, “He says we’re not even prepared to defend ourselves.”
“Tell that to Roosevelt,” Margaret replied curtly, thumping the table. “And we’re stuck with him for another four years.”
Marsha turned back to Rodney but before she could speak, Nathan interrupted her. Eyeing Hamilton ominously, he spoke and his slurred words made it clear he was feeling his wine, “Your company stands to make a pile if we get into this one—radios, electronics equipment. . . You must stick pins into your Lindbergh and Wheeler dolls every night.”
Margaret laughed so raucously
that she choked on a piece of veal. A full glass of wine drunk in two gulps washed the meat away. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Hamilton’s eyes widened. Beginning at his neck, a red flush crept slowly upward to his cheeks. “See here. . .”he began.
Brenda interrupted. “Nathan,” she cried. “That was rude.”
Nathan tried to sit upright, but slumped to one side, turning his big bearded head from side to side. The apology was so grudging it was not an apology at all. “Sorry,” he offered. “Didn’t mean to offend.” Margaret snickered.
Rodney felt his own anger rising through the half-eaten entree and at least eight glasses of Chablis. “Hitler’s getting ready to clobber your ol’ buddy Stalin, dear brother,” he said sarcastically. “And Stalin has it coming. He started the war.”
Brenda sank back, hopeless resignation on her face. Everyone else stared at the brothers. “Started the war?” Nathan repeated incredulously.
Rodney thumped the table with a clenched fist for emphasis. “In ‘thirty-nine Stalin was negotiating with both the Allies and Germany. He made a nonaggression pact with Hitler because he knew if Hitler’s rear was safe, he would attack Poland. In fact, they even agreed on how to carve up Poland before the war began.” He sank back and took a drink. “Of course Stalin started it. He wanted Germany, England, and France to slaughter each other and then he could walk in and take over Europe.”
“Nice speech, brother, but just the usual capitalist propaganda,” Nathan shot back, suddenly appearing to sober. “It’s the Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and DuPonts and their gang of greedy international bankers counting their profits in blood. Look to them if you’re looking for warmongers.”
Marsha spoke, dark eyes fixed on Rodney and flashing provocatively as if backlighted. She was enjoying the passion of the exchange and rising to it. “There’ve been rumors for weeks about German troops massing on the Russian border.’’
Nathan dismissed the girl with an imperious wave. “More propaganda. Wishful thinking on the part of the capitalists.”
Marsha would not be put off. She recited a litany of destroyed nations: “Poland, Czechoslovakia, Denmark, Norway, France, Yugoslavia, Greece. . .”
Nathan interrupted her, “Imperialistic, capitalistic swine who had outlived their time.”
Eyeing the pair, Rodney felt restraint fading, an amalgam of frustration and anger growing. “Our own sisters trapped in Warsaw,” he said grimly. “Don’t you give a damn?”
“She made the choice when she married the Jew,” his brother retorted hotly.
Rodney’s voice cracked like breaking ice, “And Adolph Hitler is a humanitarian—a fighter for Marxism?”
“He’s brought changes.”
“He’s also a Fascist. How can you, a warrior for the downtrodden workers, support him?” Silence, a thing of weight and substance, filled the room, coating everyone. All eyes were on the brothers. Brenda remained silent. It seemed she knew her sons had to have this thing out. Her eyes were very sad.
Rodney answered his question with a question, “Is it because he has a treaty with the champion of the world’s workers, Joseph Stalin?”
Nathan leaned forward, fists balled on the table. He spit out his words, “This isn’t the nineteenth century, brother. The people will no longer be exploited, will. . .”
“Will what?” Rodney interrupted. “You hated Hitler until August of ‘thirty-nine—until he and Stalin signed their non-aggression treaty. Then you fell in love with him. Now the Germans are massing on the Russian border. They’ll attack Russia before the summer’s out.” His face twisted into a sarcastic grin. “That’ll end your love affair. Mark me. You’ll jump out of that bed.”
Nathan chewed his lips and then skinned them back abruptly, revealing yellow, food-clogged teeth. “Nonsense! Wall Street’s wishful thinking—propaganda to mislead the masses.”
Rodney narrowed his eyes, the timbre of his voice acid with derision, “You live well for a hater of capitalism.” He circled a finger over his head. “Plain but simple fare for the champion of the oppressed workers. House on Fifth Avenue, French cuisine.” He held up his glass in a mocking salute, “The best liquor money can buy. . .”
Nathan’s face darkened like the shadow of a squall at sea. His voice rumbled from deep down, “We live in a tenement—in Greenwich Village. We. . .”
“But you manage to find mother’s kitchen every day.”
Eyes flaming, fists balled, Nathan bolted to his feet. “That’s a lie and I won’t take that from anyone!” he shouted, voice reeking with anger and outrage.
Coming erect, Brenda cried, “Nathan!” Everyone else remained silent. Ellen slumped, a look of horror contorting her features. Betty had a frightened look on her face as if she had walked head-on into the Frankenstein monster in a dark hallway. Marsha’s eyes glowed with the passionate fascination of one viewing the slaughter of gladiators in Rome’s coliseum. Margaret grinned through a mouth full of food and belched. Hamilton Babcock had an amused smile on his face. He sipped his Grand Cru. Travers stood by the door, supporting himself on the doorjamb, face impassive, A crestfallen Nicole was a statue behind her mistress. .
For the first time in his life, Rodney ignored his mother. The effects of the liquor and his anger took charge. The fires flared deep, the internecine rage that only one brother can feel for another gripped his mind like the jaws of a steel trap. He was right and he knew it. Nathan was a traitor, a bum who mooched off of his mother. Even the servants complained about Nathan and his friends raiding the refrigerator and pantry, sometimes twice daily. The remnants of his control melted away like ice in the summer’s sun and he leapt to his feet, eyes glinting cold blue light like bayonet tips. “Hypocrite! Draft dodger! Anytime you care to. . .”
Brenda was on her feet, her face a book of anger and grief. Her voice cracked like a whip, “Enough! Both of you. You are not only rude to me, you are rude to my guests. That’s unforgivable—unconscionable.’’
Nathan sagged, turned to his mother. “Sorry, Mother.” He gestured to Margaret. “We were just leaving.”
“Excellent idea,” Brenda answered.
Glowering at his brother with unabashed hatred, Nathan left. Margaret followed him, glancing spitefully at Rodney.
An hour later, Rodney was still seated at the table, glaring at the linen tablecloth and drinking. “You are sure you want more vin, monsieur?” Nicole asked. Rodney nodded. She half filled the glass and stood quietly at his side. Everyone had left. His heartbroken mother claiming she needed fresh air had gone for a ride with Hamilton in his new Packard Custom Super Eight convertible sedan. Even Travers retired after the table had been cleared.
Rodney looked up at the maid’s sad face. “Go to bed, Nicole.”
She shook her head. “Nicole stays with Rodney, s’il vous plaît?”
A trace of a smile began to turn the corners of his lips. “Okay. But I’m one helluva bore tonight.” She smiled at his improving spirits.
He finished the wine in a room filled with silence except for the click, clack of the big grandfather clock. Finally, fatigued and with heavy eyelids, he struggled to his feet. He was very unsteady. Nicole took his arm and he did not object when she helped him up the stairs. He collapsed backward on his bed fully clothed, arms flung out like a dead man.
Soft hands with delicate fingers removed his shoes and loosened his collar. Quickly his shirt was pulled off. Then the fingers found his belt, undid the buckle, and unbuttoned his trousers. Several hard tugs failed to pull his pants down. He was too tired, saturated with alcohol, to raise himself. The hands gave up, but remained for a moment, casually running over his hard abdomen, the flanks of his slender hips.” It was pleasant. He drifted off.
Sighing, Nicole pulled the heavy drapes, threw the wall switch, blotting out the last trace of light as she closed the door behind her. In complete bla
ckness, Rodney fell into a deep sleep.
His sleep was fitful. Feverish. His brother’s baleful face. The heartbreak in his mother’s eyes. The faces of the others—Hamilton Babcock, his grandmother, aunt, cousin, all staring wide-eyed. The wine soured and gurgled in his stomach. Suddenly his skin was hot. Bolting upright, he tore off his clothes. The sheets felt cool on his bare flesh. He rolled in them like a little boy and fell back into a sleep so deep he felt drugged.
Then the dreams came like a theater’s curtain opening on a terrible tragedy. He was alone at sea on the deck of a great warship. There was a ferocious storm. A towering wave washed him over the side and he was falling. But there was no water. Instead, he twisted down into an infinite vortex like the black eye of a hurricane. Lightning flashed in jagged streaks, burning in unearthly fires and turning the twisting column into the color of blood. Fierce wind currents buffeted. He tumbled. Spiraled down with his arms and legs extended. Twirled. Then fell head over heels. He wanted to scream. He tried to scream, but his voice was paralyzed. Slowly a great cavern formed and rose to meet him—a maw lined with serrated teeth like rows of daggers. It was a mouth—the jaws of a loathsome reptilian creature about to envelop him. Pitiless black eyes bored into his. Foul breath gagged him. It roared, thrashed, whipped its scaled green tail. He tried to scream, but his vocal chords refused. Then, just as suddenly, the beast vanished and he saw her. Kay Stockard. It was a miracle. The stormed stopped. Time stopped. All was peace. Calm.
She was a nude wraith—a spirit drifting toward him from the far end of the tunnel with her arms extended. The long, slender perfect legs, round, pointed breasts, the heat of desire burning in the green eyes. He felt his arousal. Reached for her. Then a voice told him this as a dream. Like so many dreams he had had when he was a young boy. The kind other boys would make nasty jokes about. But her hands felt real—had substance. And her arms were around him, lips on his, mouth open, wet and hot, tongue searching deep, challenging his. Then the pointed breasts were against him, stomach, pelvis, thighs, pliable and molding to his body in a frantic effort to destroy the last vestige of space between them.
