by Howard Fast
“Read it, sister,” he said. “I’m in no hurry. I got all the time in the world.”
The sign read: “I want a dollar an hour. I got three kids and a wife, and I average 15 hours a week. Can you make it on that? When we struck, my pay was 75 cents an hour when I worked.”
He grinned again, stepped back into the picket line, and walked off. Barbara stared after him. She had thirty-five dollars in her purse, and her first impulse was to run after the toothless longshoreman and press all the money she had into his hands. No, that would be awful, perfectly awful, she decided. She walked along the Embarcadero, carrying the whole weight of poverty and suffering upon her shoulders. It made no difference to Barbara that every port on the West Coast was tied up, from Seattle down to San Diego; the entire guilt, in her mind, belonged to John Whittier and her mother, since they were the largest ship operator on the Coast—and thereby to her.
She came to a place where a truck was parked. The tail of the truck was down, and inside a sort of soup kitchen had been improvised; two men and a stout woman were serving coffee and doughnuts to the strikers. The lettering on the side of the truck read SCHOFIELD’S BAKERY, and under that a hand-painted card read BAKERY WORKERS, LOCAL 12. Barbara watched for a few minutes. Then she went to the woman and whispered uncertainly, “Do you take contributions?”
“We certainly do.”
Barbara opened her purse, took out all the money she had, leaving herself only streetcar fare, and handed it to the stout woman.
“God bless you, honey,” the woman said.
Barbara clenched her teeth and closed her eyes to keep back the tears.
“Are you all right, honey?”
Barbara nodded and walked away quickly.
***
At the age of sixty-six, Sam Goldberg was heavier than he had ever been. Six months before, at his doctor’s office, he had tipped the scales at two hundred and twenty-five pounds, and since he was only five feet and eight inches, his physician told him flatly, “Keep this up, Sam, and you’re inviting a coronary.” Now, sitting in his office and munching gumdrops thoughtfully, he realized that the invitation still stood and that he was not terribly worried. His wife, who had always attempted to keep his weight in check, had died two years before. His partner, Adam Benchly—the firm was still Goldberg and Benchly—was a cadaverous Yankee who had died nine months ago at the age of seventy, and since then, Sam had been lonely and depressed for the first time in his life. The two young law clerks he had taken on to share the burden respected him and agreed with him, which only served to depress him further. Benchly had never agreed with him. They had fought and snarled at each other for forty years; now life without him was dull and uninteresting, and Sam Goldberg saw no good reason to refrain from either the gumdrops or the heavy, satisfying meals he ate each day at Gino’s Restaurant on Jones Street.
In any case, this was a new, different, and discouraging world, frayed at the seams and disintegrating. He and Benchly were of the immigrants, a special breed. Goldberg’s father had come to California in 1852 to dig for gold and had ended up with a fruit stand in Sacramento. Benchly’s father had jumped ship in San Francisco in 1850. He and Benchly had lived through a time when all was possible, and the possible was made real. Now the possible had been honed down to size.
Brooding over this and other matters, he was interrupted by his secretary’s voice on the intercom, informing him that a Miss Barbara Lavette would like to see him.
He had to adjust, put things in their place, establish a perspective, and after a long moment of silence, he said, “Yes, of course. Send her in.”
He rose and waited. Time plays tricks, and his first thought as the tall, handsome young woman entered was that his secretary had gotten the name wrong and that this was Jean. The resemblance was striking. Of course it was Jean’s daughter. He had not seen Jean for years, but certainly she was well past forty.
He came around his desk and shook the hand she offered. Her manner was a curious mixture of shyness and confidence, and the slight, uncertain smile on her lips was very ingratiating.
“You’re Danny’s daughter,” Goldberg said.
She nodded. “I should have called and asked you for an appointment, Mr. Goldberg. But I don’t have any legal business. I want you to know that. I only wanted to talk to you and ask you some questions, and I know how busy lawyers are.”
“My clerks are busy,” he said. “I sit here and eat gumdrops and brood about the past. I’m delighted—Barbara. Can I call you Barbara? We shouldn’t stand on formalities. I was your father’s lawyer for twenty years, but it was not just being a lawyer, believe me. And you’re Barbara. You have grown up to be a beautiful woman, my dear. The last time I saw you—well, you were six or seven, and now—”
“I’m twenty.”
‘That’s a beautiful, beautiful age. And what about Danny? I know you saw him last year,”
“I haven’t been down to Los Angeles yet. I’ll go soon. Am I intruding—on your time?”
“Intruding? My dear, this is such a fine, unexpected pleasure. It’s almost twelve o’clock. Have you eaten yet? Or maybe you have a luncheon appointment?”
“Oh, no.”
“Good. Then we’ll go along to Gino’s, and we’ll eat and talk.”
“All right. I’d like that.”
At the restaurant, sitting opposite her at a small table with a checkered cloth, Goldberg ordered spaghetti, a veal cutlet, and coffee. “We’ll eat light. That’s the fashion now,” he said. He introduced her to Gino, who fussed over her and insisted that they have a bottle of wine on the house. “Danny’s daughter,” Goldberg told him.
“I know this place,” Barbara said when Gino had gone. “He used to come here with May Ling.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No, not really. It’s just part of the whole thing that I’m trying to understand. When I went to see him last year—you know, I drove down to Los Angeles—”
“I know.”
“I was so happy to see him, and I didn’t really know him. I still don’t, and I guess I don’t know myself, either, and I’m so confused.”
“I can understand that.” He pointed to the food. “You’re not eating.”
“I’m not very hungry. Please forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. I’m a fat man, Barbara. The reason people are fat is because they like to eat. So I’ll eat and you talk.”
“I have questions. Does it annoy you when people ask you questions?”
“That’s a lawyer’s stock in trade, if he can answer them.” He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds while Barbara waited in silence. “Go ahead and ask.”
“Why does he work as a fisherman down there in San Pedro? He was a rich man.”
Goldberg ate his spaghetti and regarded her benignly. Finally, having consumed the last mouthful, he said, “He wants to be a fisherman.”
Barbara shook her head.
“He doesn’t want to be a rich man,” Goldberg said.
“That’s not an answer,” Barbara said pleadingly. “You’re laughing at me, Mr. Goldberg.”
“No, I’m not. You’re asking me why Danny Lavette did what he did. I can tell you what he did, but not why. Anyway, I’m sure you know.”
“But I don’t know.”
“Didn’t your mother tell you?”
“My mother doesn’t tell me things.”
“You know about May Ling, the Chinese lady?”
“Yes—I know she was his mistress for many years.”
“No, that’s the wrong word. Your father wanted a divorce, and your mother refused. Over a period of twenty years, your father built a small empire—ships, land, the L and L Department Store, a hotel in Hawaii, and the first commercial airline out here in California. When your grandfather died, he left the controlling stock of the Seldon Bank in tru
st for you and your brother. That was nineteen twenty-eight, and the trust was to extend over twelve years. In nineteen forty, when the trust expires, the control of the stock will come to you. You’ll be a very wealthy woman then, but I’m sure you know that.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Meanwhile, your mother was named sole trustee in the will, with the power to vote the stock as she saw fit. She then decided to take over as president of the bank, something no woman in this country ever did before, certainly not with an institution the size of the Seldon Bank. All right, your mother didn’t know one damn thing about banking, but she learned. She was not a figurehead; she had her finger in every pie, and she didn’t do badly, believe me. For the next five years, that bank became her life. But I suppose you know that too.”
“Yes,” Barbara whispered, “I know that. What about my father?”
“He had a partner, whose name was Mark Levy. The Levys had a chandler business down on the old wharf. Danny’s father was killed in the earthquake. Danny had Joe Lavette’s fishing boat and nothing else. He was just a kid then, but bright as hell, and soon he was operating three fishing boats, mortgaged to the hilt. He was always mortgaged to the hilt. Then he met your mother and fell in love with her, and nothing was going to stop him from having her and Nob Hill too. He and Mark Levy became partners—Danny was still a kid—and Levy mortgaged his business to finance the purchase of their first ship, a rusty old lumber carrier called the Oregon Queen. I still have a picture of it hanging in my office, and if you come back there with me, I’ll show it to you.”
“Do you know,” Barbara said slowly, “I never met Mark Levy. All those years, and I never met him.”
“Your mother didn’t like him. He was a nice little feller, but your mother just didn’t take to him. He’s dead now, died in nineteen thirty. His son runs a winery up in Napa. Well, Danny and Mark stuck together to the end. They were like brothers. Way back in nineteen ten, they hired a little Chinese feller by the name of Feng Wo to be the bookkeeper. People didn’t hire Chinese in those days for anything fancier than a houseboy, but Feng Wo was smart as a whip. There was no way they could have done what they did without him. May Ling was his daughter.” He took a deep breath and began to eat his veal cutlet. “It’s a shame to let it get cold,” he apologized. “I think a lot of your mother, don’t get me wrong.”
“I do too,” Barbara said. “What happened?”
“I could go into this in detail and spend the rest of the afternoon talking about it, but the long and short of it is that when the Crash came in nineteen twenty-nine, Danny and Mark were overextended, and their empire began to crumble. They were into the Seldon Bank for about sixteen million, and they couldn’t meet their interest payments. Your mother called the loan, and that was the end of it.”
“My mother did that?”
Goldberg stopped eating. “Now, hold on. It’s not as simple as it appears. Your mother had no alternative, and in a manner of speaking, your father traded his edge for the divorce. He could have stayed on and run what the bank and the Whittiers took over, but Mark would have been out in the cold. Dan didn’t want that. The truth is that he didn’t want any of it. Something had happened to him. There’s community property in this state, and Dan could have come out of it with half a million, just in personal property, real estate, and such. He didn’t want that, either, and he signed a release giving everything to your mother. No one forced his hand. There are no villains in the piece, not your mother and not Whittier.”
“Yet you’ve just told me my mother destroyed my father.”
“No one destroyed your father,” Goldberg said with just a trace of annoyance. “I thought you knew all this. You saw your father last year. Did he look destroyed?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s it then. What Danny did, he did. Not your mother or Whittier.”
“He was a rich man,” Barbara insisted. “I know a little about community property. Whatever happened to his company, he could have remained a rich man. Why did he give it all to my mother?”
“I don’t know.” Goldberg sighed and shook his head. “Do you want dessert? You haven’t eaten at all. Come on, have a piece of cheesecake.” He motioned to the waiter.
“All right,” Barbara agreed.
“Look, honey,” he said, after he had taken his first bite of the cheesecake, “you’re Danny’s kid. He was like a son to me. But I don’t know why he did what he did, and I don’t want you to go home and throw this at your mother.”
“I can’t. She’s not there.”
“Oh? Do me a favor, eat the cake.” She took a mouthful. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“She and John—her husband, Whittier—”
“I know.”
“Well, they went east for my brother’s graduation. John will be back next month. Tommy and my mother are going on to Boston for a while.”
“You mean you’re alone in that huge barn of a place?”
Barbara smiled for the first time since they had entered the restaurant. “Oh, no, Mr. Goldberg. You can’t be alone in that place.”
“Honey, suppose you call me Sam. I’m a little older than you, but we’re practically mishpocheh. That’s Yiddish for family. I know ten words of Yiddish, and that’s one of my favorites. Now, why can’t you be alone there?”
“Because John has six servants with nothing to do, and when we gave up the house on Russian Hill, Mother took Wendy Jones with her. She was our nurse, and now she’s old and nasty and nosy. Anyway, I’m hardly ever there.”
“I’m nosy too. Why are you hardly ever there? What do you do with yourself? Run around, drink too much?”
“You’re scolding me,” she said in amazement.
“Yeah.” He grinned at her. “I guess I am. Go on, eat the rest of your cake.”
“I work at a soup kitchen,” Barbara said. “I took today off. Most days I’m too tired to do much running around. I’ve been there two weeks, since my mother left.”
“You work where?”
“The MWIU soup kitchen on Bryant Street.”
“MWIU?”
“The Marine Workers, yes,” Barbara said calmly.
“God Almighty! You mean Harry Bridges’ outfit?”
“Yes.”
“Does your mother know?”
Barbara smiled and shook her head.
“Well, she will, sooner or later, and sooner or later some wiseacre reporter will get on to you and spread it all over the front page of the Examiner, and that will certainly be a field day. My God, child, what has gotten into you? This isn’t a lark. That’s a brutal, dirty game they’re playing down there on the docks.”
“I only work at the soup kitchen. I’m not a communist. And they don’t know my name. I call myself Bobby Winter. It’s easier if I keep the first name the same, and that’s what they called me at school, Bobby Winter, because I loved the cold winters there. So they won’t find out who I am.”
“Maybe not in the next ten minutes,” Goldberg snorted. “Why? Because you think John Whittier did your father in? He didn’t. I told you that.”
“No. No, really.”
“What do they pay you?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you do there?”
“Mr. Goldberg, you’re shouting at me and scolding me as if I were some stupid, senseless little girl. You have no right to. I came to you to talk about my father, not to sit here and be scolded by you.”
“You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.”
“I hurt your feelings,” she said.
“Absolutely. I hurt your feelings; you hurt mine. Now look, honey, you’re the daughter of a man who is like my son. That gives me certain privileges. I talk to you this way because nobody else is going to. It just happens
that John Whittier is the largest ship operator on this coast, and it also happens that he’s married to your mother. You got sympathy for the longshoremen; so have I. Now I asked you what you do down there.”
“I told you what I do. I work in the kitchen. I help to cook the food and serve it. I have an allowance of forty dollars a week, Mr. Goldberg—”
“Call me Sam, I told you,” he interrupted. “If I’m going to yell at you, at least make me comfortable.”
“All right. Sam. Do you realize that my allowance is more than twice as much as most longshoremen earn in a week?”
“It’s five times as much as the average weekly wage in India, maybe ten times. What does that prove?”
“I’m not trying to prove anything. I don’t need the money. I spend most of it on food for the kitchen.”
“Do they know that?”
“I’m not a fool. I tell them it’s contributions. I help to cook the food. I peel potatoes. I clean vegetables. I help with the serving, and sometimes I wash dishes.”
“And you like that? You enjoy that?”
“Yes, I do!”
“Who’s shouting now?”
“Well, you keep at me as if I’m doing something wrong. I’m not doing anything wrong. In fact, it’s the first time in my life I ever did anything right or useful. It’s the first time I ever worked. And if you saw the faces of those men, if you knew how hungry and wretched and miserable they are, you would understand what I feel.”
The waiter came, and Goldberg took out his wallet and paid the check. Still holding the wallet, he looked at Barbara and said, “You got a boyfriend, honey?”
“No, not really. There was a nice boy at school who came down from Yale on weekends. His name was Burt Kingman, and he lives in Philadelphia. But that seems like a hundred years ago. I know some boys here, but I haven’t seen them since I’ve come back. Why?”
