Shades of Fortune

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “I’m afraid I still don’t understand, Mother.”

  “Can’t you just take my word for it? I’m the one who pays the bills, so I ought to know, shouldn’t I? But you’re not to mention a word of this to your grandfather. As I say, he wouldn’t understand. Now run and fetch a pen and a sheet of your good stationery—the one with your initials on it—and we’ll write a nice letter to your grandpa. That’s the first thing we have to do.”

  Mimi had found a sheet of letter paper in her desk drawer and returned with it to the living room.

  “While you’re up, freshen my drink, will you, darling? I need a bit of my medicine before I dictate this letter.”

  Mimi carried her mother’s glass to the drinks cart and fixed her mother’s drink the way she knew she liked it: whiskey, with lots of ice, and a tiny splash of water on the top.

  “Thank you, darling,” her mother said, accepting the glass, and after a quick sip, her spirits seemed to improve, as they usually did. “You see, I nurse my drinks,” her mother said. “That’s the secret. I suppose you’ve heard your father tell me that he thinks I drink too much, but what he doesn’t understand is that I always nurse my drinks. That’s why I never become intoxicated. If you ever take a drink, Mimi, drink it very slowly. Nurse it, as I say. That’s the ladylike way, and you’ll never become intoxicated. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, your letter. Sit here beside me, darling.” She patted the sofa. “Have you got a good writing surface? Yes, the telephone book will do nicely. Is the light over your left shoulder? Good. For reading or writing, the light should always be over your left shoulder, but you knew that. All right. Let’s begin. ‘Dear Old Moneybags.’” Her mother giggled. “No, don’t write that; I was only teasing. ‘Dearest Grandpa—’”

  “‘Sir’?”

  Her mother laughed again. “No, silly! You don’t call him ‘sir’ in a letter! That’s only to his face. Now let’s begin. ‘Dearest Grandpapa. Having graduated from Miss Hall’s School with honors’—that’s true, isn’t it?”

  “I was on the Honor Roll.”

  “Yes, I thought so. The school sent us your report card, but I’ve forgotten where I put it. Probably with all the bills! So let’s change that. Let’s say, ‘Having graduated from Miss Hall’s School with highest honors’—that’s not too much of a fib, is it? Anyway, it sounds good and it will impress your grandfather, so leave it in. ‘Having graduated from da-dee-da with highest honors, I now face the challenge of my future.’ I like that, don’t you? ‘The challenge of my future’? Yes. ‘But before charting the next phase of my life, dear Grandpapa, I need the kind of sound advice that only you can give me. A number of interesting possibilities present themselves, including a proposal of marriage from a splendid young man.’ No, leave that part out. Don’t say that, because it sounds too much as though you’ve already made up your mind, which you haven’t. You’ll wait to mention that when you see him. Just say, ‘A number of interesting possibilities present themselves. May I, at your convenience, come to see you and discuss these with you, along with … along with’—oh, I had a good phrase a minute ago, but I’ve forgotten it!”

  “Matters of a personal nature?”

  “Yes, that’s it! ‘Along with certain matters of a personal nature which will affect the future course of my life. I look forward to your reply. Sincerely yours.’ Oh, my God! I almost forgot the Wicked Old Witch of the West! Before ‘Sincerely yours,’ add, ‘My dearest love to Grandmama.’ There. Now read it back to me.”

  Mimi did, and when she was finished, her mother clapped her hands and then took another swallow of her drink. “Perfect!” her mother cried. “Sign it, seal it, and send it off! Oh, I’m so happy for you, Mimi—you and your wonderful Choate boy!”

  “He isn’t—” she began, but decided to let it pass.

  “It’s a perfect letter. It’s sure to win him over. Quick. Drop it in the mail.”

  In Mimi’s opinion, the letter seemed a little too starched and formal, but she did as she was told.

  “Well, how’d it go?” he asked her when she met him. “What’d your folks say? When do I get to meet them?”

  “It was just my mother. My father wasn’t home. She wants me to see my grandfather first.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  “Old Moneybags, she calls him.”

  “Hell, we don’t need his money!”

  “I know, but it’s sort of a family tradition, discussing everything with my grandparents first. It doesn’t mean anything.” But she did not really want to talk about it. She did not really want to talk about anything. It was enough to be with him, just walking down the street with him with their shoulders touching and their fingers linked.

  At the edge of the park, he motioned her to a bench and said, “Sit down a minute. I want to show you something.”

  They sat, and he reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small blue box. “For you,” he said. “Open it.”

  “From Tiffany …”

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  She opened the box and inside, nested in a white velvet cushion, was a diamond solitaire.

  “A diamond is forever,” he said. “I want you forever.”

  “Oh, Michael!” she cried, and suddenly she burst into tears.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s this? It’s only a little old engagement ring. What are you crying for?”

  “I can’t … help it,” she sobbed.

  “Come on, cut it out. You look terrible when you cry, you really do.”

  “It’s just the … the hypocrisy …”

  “Hypocrisy? What are you talking about, kiddo?” His arm was about her shoulders now.

  “Pretending … people pretending they care about people that they really wish would die.…”

  “I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m crying because … because it makes me sad because …” Her voice was muffled now because her face was buried in the thick folds of his jacket sleeve, and her sobs became more violent, and he sat there, helpless, letting her cry and cry.

  But she could not tell him why she was crying, because it seemed she was crying for everything: for her mother and her unhappy father, for all the Sunday teas on Madison Avenue, for the scholarship girls, and even for Barbara Badminton and the Badminton Set and Old Pete, but mostly it was because she had never believed that something like this would ever really happen to her, never really believed that Michael had meant it when he said he loved her, never really believed that anyone would ever care for her enough to say “I want you forever” in just that way, and because, even with the ring box in her hand, she still could not believe it and was afraid she never would.

  Finally, she sat up straight. “It’s because I’ve never seen such a beautiful ring … it’s so beautiful … too beautiful … it’s the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen … the most beautiful in the world, I think. I’m sad because I’ve never seen … such a beautiful ring. Oh, Michael, I love you so.…”

  15

  “He wants to see you at his office?” her mother said to her. “My goodness, I’ve never been to his office! But that makes it much more formal, doesn’t it. If it had been at the house, you could have been more casual. I think a suit, don’t you? How about your beige Davidow with the piping? Or your light blue David Crystal? No, too springy, I think. I think the Davidow, with a very simple off-white blouse—high-neck, of course—and a gold circle pin, or a strand of pearls, but not both. You know how your grandpa hates women who wear too much jewelry! Small gold earrings if you wear the pin, or seed pearls with the pearls. You’ll have your hair done, of course. And a hat? Yes, I think so, Mimi. I do think a little hat, a little sailor, perhaps, or—who knows?—even a little beret might be pretty. Fix me a quick drink, darling, and we’ll run down to Saks and see what we can find. Thank you. Of course, you’ll want to tell whoever does your hair that you’re going to be wearing a hat, so he can leave your hair flatter on the top and fluffed up on the sides
. Of course, not too much makeup—lipstick, and a little cream rouge. Not too much with the eyes. Needless to say, your grandpa has some pretty strong theories about makeup—after all, that’s his business! But even though he makes the stuff, he hates it when a woman wears too much. And don’t forget hose. He can’t stand women with bare legs. And shoes with a medium heel. He hates me when I wear high heels because they make me as tall as he is! Don’t you have some beigey alligator-type pumps with a medium heel? If you wear those, I have a beigey alligator Chanel-type bag with a long gold chain that would go nicely, I could let you borrow. And—oh, I almost forgot: gloves! Shortie white gloves, just to the wrist, and make sure they’re white and clean-clean-clean. You’ll remove the gloves, of course, as you enter his office. And, for God’s sake, don’t wear the ring! The ring will make it look as though it’s official, which it isn’t, and won’t be until we’re ready to announce it. Don’t wear the ring, whatever you do. He notices everything.…”

  Her mother had planned her wardrobe for this meeting with her grandfather as though it were for her first day at school.

  “What did you say the young man’s name was?” her grandfather said.

  “Horowitz,” she said. “Michael Horowitz, Grandpa.”

  “Horowitz,” he repeated. “There was a family named Horween in Chicago. I believe their name was originally Horowitz. They were decent people.”

  “Michael doesn’t believe in name-changing, Grandpa.”

  “Well, there are two schools of thought about that, of course.”

  They were sitting in her grandfather’s big office on Fifth Avenue—the same office that Mimi uses now, though one would never recognize it.

  In those days, Adolph Myerson’s New York office seemed a dark, cavernous, almost forbidding place, with its heavy oak-paneled walls and ceiling, the thick Persian carpet on the floor, and the deep red-velvet window hangings that all but blocked out any sunlight from the street outside. All around the room, on various tables and stands, were the signed presidential portraits, from Harding onward—though Roosevelt and Truman were missing—and, front and center, a photograph of the current White House occupant, Dwight D. Eisenhower, signed breezily, “For Adolph—cheers from Ike.” All the photographs were in heavy silver frames, and in other frames were copies of the various medals, citations, awards, honors, and degrees that had been bestowed upon Adolph Myerson in the course of his long career.

  Behind his big, leather-topped desk hung the portrait of Adolph Myerson himself, the man who had guided the Miray Corporation from its inauspicious beginnings on the Grand Concourse to its present world eminence. It was a portrait, naturally, of a more youthful man than the one she sat opposite now. The small moustache had been black when the portrait had been painted, and the pince-nez that he wore about his neck had not yet become a part of his habitual attire. But there was something odd about the portrait that struck her right away. He stood, full length, beside a fireplace, his right hand resting on the mantelpiece, but the painting seemed out of balance, off-center. Her grandfather’s figure occupied the right-hand edge of the canvas, while the rest of the frame consisted of a depiction of the fireplace and empty wall. Later, she learned the reason for the painting’s strange imbalance. Originally, it had been a portrait of the company’s two cofounders, Adolph and Leopold, standing on either side of the fireplace. But when Leopold had left the company, or even somewhat before, Adolph had ordered his younger brother painted out of the picture and replaced with woodwork and an ornamental mantel clock.

  Still, despite this oddity, her grandfather’s office was a room designed to announce to the visitor that this was the office of a Very Important Person, who always dressed in dark, English-tailored suits. Behind his desk now, he removed his pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture, those in the family knew, that usually indicated displeasure. Though Adolph Myerson was then eighty-seven years old, he was still, Mimi had to admit, a commanding presence—even though he was not tall and had grown somewhat portly. His nose was long and thin, his steel-grey moustache and pointed beard were perfectly trimmed, and he sat ramrod-straight in his chair.

  He replaced the pince-nez and, through their glittery lenses, fixed his deep-set, penetrating eyes on her. “Horowitz,” he said once more.

  “Yes, Grandpa.”

  “In real estate, you say.”

  “Yes, a builder. He’s just graduated from Columbia Business School.”

  “Columbia. We’ve always been a Princeton and Harvard family, of course.”

  “Princeton doesn’t have a business school, Grandpa.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “But Harvard does!”

  “Yes, Grandpa, that’s true. Harvard does.” Whenever she was with him, he had a way of making her feel just like a little girl. But that, she supposed, was part of the secret of his business success: he made everyone around him feel insignificant.

  “Who are his people? I don’t know any Horowitzes in New York.”

  “His family has a catering business in Kew Gardens,” she said. “It’s very successful. They have over a hundred employees. They do—”

  “Kew Gardens,” he said. “Where is that?”

  “On Long Island, Grandpa.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s in Queens, actually, isn’t it? A Jewish section of Queens. But out there they say they live on Lon Gisland.” He laughed, but his laugh was not one of amusement. “Jackson Heights used to be a nice neighborhood. Haven’t been there in years, of course.”

  “Michael’s very nice, Grandpa,” she said. “I know you’ll like him.”

  “He hasn’t got you pregnant, has he?”

  She gasped. “Of course not!”

  “A caterer’s son,” he said. “Your grandmother and I never use caterers. We’ve always had our own staff.”

  “I know that, Grandpa.”

  “And I certainly can’t use any building contractors in this company. Chemists and druggists we use to test certain products, but we can’t use any builders, I’m afraid, in case that’s what he has in mind.”

  At first, she didn’t understand. Then she said, “But he doesn’t want to work for Miray, Grandpa! He’s got his own business. He’s building—”

  “Tell me something,” he interrupted. “Is he dark-complected? They often are, these Orientals.”

  “No,” she said, suddenly alarmed at the way this conversation seemed to be heading. “He has brown eyes, light brown hair, and his skin is … well, no darker than yours or mine.”

  “Can’t have you giving me any darky great-grandchildren!” Once more there was the short, unamused laugh.

  “Right now, he has a nice tan … from working out of doors a lot on his job in New Jersey.”

  “New Joisey,” he said. “Tell me, Mireille, where did you meet this Mr. Moskowitz? Or is it Lupowitz?”

  “Horowitz,” she said. “Actually, we met when we were skating in Central Park. I broke a skate lace. He replaced it for me, and we—and he asked to see me again. It was last winter,” she added a little lamely.

  Once more he removed his pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose a little harder than before. “Quite frankly, Mireille,” he said, “you disappoint me. This Jewish caterer’s son from Kew Gardens named Horowitz. We’ve never associated with that element in New York. Horowitz.”

  “What’s wrong with the name Horowitz? Vladimir Horowitz, the great pianist!”

  “I’m not musical,” he said. “I’m talking about the element these people represent. They’re Russians. They’ve just come down out of the trees. You’re a Myerson, Mireille.”

  “Were the Myersons all that great—before you, that is?”

  “Myerson is a very old and distinguished name,” he said. “Before immigrating to Germany, where my parents came from, and where the name became somewhat corrupted, we were prominent in the seventeenth and eighteenth century in France, where the name was Maraison, from the family motto, ‘Ma Raison,’ which translates as ‘M
y Right.’ It is a motto closely connected to the royal ‘Dieu et Mon Droit.’ There was a castle called Ma Raison near Epernay, in the Champagne country, and there were Maraisons who were counts and countesses, members of the Court at Versailles. On my mother’s side, the Rosenthal family—”

  “But your family were from the Lower East Side, weren’t they?”

  There was a stony silence, and then he said, “I have had the family pedigree prepared. I will gladly show it to you if you’re interested.” There was another silence and then, in a different voice, he said, “You’re very pretty, Mireille.”

  Startled, she blinked. He had never said anything like that to her before.

  “You really are. A very pretty girl. You have a pretty little nose, and unusual grey eyes. You don’t look Jewish at all. I see you’re wearing Pink Poppy.”

  “Pink Poppy?”

  “On your nails. That’s our Pink Poppy. It’s very becoming. Now here’s a new shade I want you to try.” He pulled open one of his desk drawers. “We’re going to be introducing it for fall. We’re going to call it Fire and Brandy. It’s a bit more sophisticated, more for evening. And here’s another shade you might like: Hot Geranium. Another winter shade.” He began removing the little bottles from his drawer and placing them on his desk. “But for a summer shade, try this: Saffron ’n’ Spice. And the coordinated lipsticks, of course—a Miray innovation, as I’m sure you know. And here’s a new eye shadow that would go well with your coloring. And this: brand-new, a night cream we’re testing in selected markets.”

  As the collection of little tubes and jars and bottles grew on his desktop, she realized that he was sampling her, the way he sampled the buyers from Bonwit’s and Bloomingdale’s. “Don’t worry about how you’re going to carry all these things home,” he said. “I have a shopping bag,” and from another drawer he produced one of the small and elegant signature shopping bags that the stores gave out: bright, shiny red with the name “Miray” in white, the long, ribbonlike serif of the letter M curling backward and trailing through the loop of the y.