Ross contemplated his bare toes. Tonight he’d talked more about his past, his childhood, than he ever had with Woo. Lena was such a willing, interested listener, ready to share her own experiences. What was it she’d said? “We’re going to go back in time and do all those things you missed doing. I’ll be the really fortunate one because I’ll get to do it twice, and it will be more fun now that we’re all grown-up.” She’d told him he was a taker and not a giver. You took from Woo, but what did you give back? she’d asked. She’d been appalled when he said he’d given friendship. In life you share everything with those you care about. “And,” she said breezily, “I’m not talking about material things. Maybe,” she had gone on to say, “that’s what went wrong with your marriage.”
As for Woo and Jory, well, he was going to have to live with that situation. The big man wasn’t going to report for work in the morning. He’d known that when he issued his terse, tight-lipped ultimatum. He’d reacted in anger, wanting to have his own way. Lena was right, he gave with one hand and took away with the other. No doubt about it, he was a shit of the first order.
To the best of his knowledge, Woo had never lied to him. It was his own insecurities, his own guilt, that made him do what he did. Now he was going to have to go back there and apologize to both Jory and Woo. Shit, Jory told him not to come back. He could call, write letters. It wouldn’t be the same. He could go to Chestnut Hill, stand in the middle of the road and bellow his apology.
What it came down to was, the old selfish, rich kid philosophy, what’s mine is mine. Jory is still mine. The law said so. Woo’s theory when he was stymied was, if you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything. “And that, Landers, is exactly what I’m going to do. Nothing.”
Son of a bitch, he was going fishing. With a girl. And to a real honest-to-God picnic complete with ants, grass, and a blanket.
Ross slept like a baby, his sleep completely dreamless.
It was December before Lena Davis pronounced Ross’s education complete. She presented him with a silly little plaque with an engraved brass plate that said he was an expert angler, expert tadpole catcher, expert lucky stone spitter, expert game player, expert pumpkin snatcher, expert square dancer, and expert skinny-dipper. Ross laughed till his eyes overflowed. He hugged Lena and promised himself he was going to present her with an engagement ring the day his divorce from Jory was final.
It was amazing, he thought, how he’d turned his emotions around and come to terms with all the elements in his life that had been making him unhappy. And he owed it all to Lena. They were inseparable these days, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. With Lena’s help, he had his friendship with Woo back on track. He hadn’t seen Jory or even spoken to her, and that was all right; Jory was handling her life just the way he was. He was even looking forward to the dinner he’d promised to celebrate the divorce. If Jory was amenable, maybe he’d invite Lena and Woo. It wouldn’t exactly be a double date. His shoulders twitched. Jory probably wouldn’t go for it at all. Woo would have something to say too, of that he was certain.
Ross smiled when he thought of Woo these days. The big man was making a name for himself in the prosecutor’s office. His picture had been in the Democrat twice in one week. It looked like Woo had finally found his niche, and he was so happy, it was sinful.
Ross chuckled. Lena was right, time took care of everything if one had the patience to wait things out. Patience was the key to everything. Today he was full of patience, even though he hated the Tuesday morning meeting to discuss Philadelphia’s secret skeleton. So far Justine had come up with three juicy stories about various bigwigs, as she referred to the county officials, that were so libelous Ross had to call in a battery of downtown lawyers to convince his mother she’d be out of business in a week if she ever thought about publishing the expose articles she had on file. Malcom Collire, the head of the firm that had represented the Landers family from the beginning, took the brunt of his mother’s hostility and left in a huff, but not before he told her she was a disgrace to the publishing industry and to the city of Philadelphia. Justine had backed down for now, but if there was one thing he knew about his mother, it was that she never let sleeping dogs lie. What she would do was find a way to print the same articles a different way and still say the same thing.
Once he told her how much court suits cost and what was involved in a lawsuit, Justine followed his advice. His mother was no fool, and she could read a ledger sheet in the dark. He’d explained to her that it was better to keep her profits, which were considerable, in her own accounts, than pay them out in court costs, court experts, outside legal firms, and settlement costs. He’d presented a hypothetical case to her, in which she lost a sizable amount of money. She’d been shocked speechless. Her favorite words after that were, “We must have three documented sources for every article we print.”
Quietly and with little fanfare, Justine rented a warehouse on the outskirts of Philadelphia, where she was putting the finishing touches to Keyhole, a magazine so sleazy it was impossible to think of it as an actual magazine. Secretly, Ross referred to it as a rag. His mother simply called it money in the bank. The first issue full of supercharged sex and splashy pictures was scheduled to hit newsstands two days before Christmas.
He’d seen two of the feature articles earlier this morning, one written by Lena and the other by a reporter named Dick Thorne. Both used breezy, breathless prose that literally made his skin crawl. For one thousand dollars an article they promised, but didn’t deliver, “the real goods.” It was nothing more than cunning smears on starlets and leading men, saying nothing with finality. No claims were made in either one of the articles and both reporters left everything to the reader’s imagination.
When it came to business and the almighty dollar, Justine had no equal, Ross thought uneasily. The money was pouring in so fast, they were having difficulty keeping track of it. Keyhole was going to bring in more money, even though the first issue was going out minus advertising, something his mother insisted on, saying, “We want to give them reading orgasms with this first issue, and we can’t do that if we go with advertising. We’ll recoup by the time the second issue is ready to go to press with the same customers who advertise in TIF.” Ross didn’t doubt the blasé statement.
Ross gathered up his reports and stuffed them in his briefcase. His mother would probably dance a jig when he informed her that production costs for Keyhole would be the same as TIF—eight cents a copy.
The new conference room was light and bright, even though the day outside was gloomy and overcast, with a prediction of heavy snow by nightfall.
Justine rapped her gavel, a gift to herself, on the fine oak desk. “This meeting will come to order,” she said imperiously.
As usual, Ross sat in the back of the room, better to observe the small assembly. He also liked to watch the back of Lena’s head. He prided himself on his astute observations. He could tell when something pleased or displeased her, when she turned anxious or excited, by the way she positioned pencils in her new, shorn hairdo.
Just last week Lena had shown him the severed pigtail she kept in a tin box to show her children someday. Her new “do” feathered and curled about her face like a nimbus of tarnished gold. She looked sixteen instead of twenty-three. There were days she looked wide-eyed and innocent, and others when she looked wide-eyed and calculating.
Ross’s mind wandered. It was the twelfth of December, and as yet Woo hadn’t invited him to Lancaster. With Christmas falling on Friday, it would be a long weekend. He’d done his shopping early for all the Woojalesky family. The washing machine for Woo’s mother would be delivered Christmas Eve morning, complete with big red bow. A gift certificate for four new tires was already gift-wrapped in a huge box, with a bow as big as the one that would be on the washing machine, for Woo’s father. For Woo there was a custom-made armchair and reading lamp Wanamaker’s promised to deliver to the carriage house December 22 after five P.M. In his sun room at home
, mountains of gift-wrapped boxes for the family lined the walls, all in silver and gold paper with monstrous red and green bows. How he was going to get everything to Lancaster was something he had to work on. Providing the invitation was forthcoming. Woo was late extending the invitation this year. Usually they had the holiday schedule firmed up by the fifth of December.
Lena had asked him if he’d like to go to Miami with her to meet her parents over the holidays. She’d pouted for days when he declined. He’d done his best to explain about Woo and his family. In the end she said she understood, but he knew she didn’t. Nor did she understand about the dinner he promised Jory when the divorce was finalized two days from now. She’d called it indecent. The only thing she was really interested in these days was the Christmas party and the bonuses his mother would hand out.
Ross tuned in briefly to his mother’s droning voice, then tuned her out. He had to call Jory sometime today and tell her about the court date. He should call Woo to tell him too. Maybe if the big guy wasn’t too busy, they could have lunch at Mulligan’s. And it would give Woo a chance to bring up Christmas, in case it was an oversight.
Ross wondered if he would feel any different when the judge granted the divorce. Would he feel relief, or the same shame and guilt every time he thought about it?
Ross tuned in to his mother again. She was addressing him. He felt like laughing when she said, “Your retired club members on the first floor left the lights burning all night. Electricity costs money. It might be a good idea to replace the seventy-five-watt bulbs with forty watts if they’re going to keep on doing this.” Ross deduced that meant he’d have to stay late and see to the lights himself. “And,” Justine said coldly, “the roof is leaking on the south side of the building. If we get the snow that’s predicted, we’re going to have a major problem.”
“Consult the landlord,” Ross said coolly. “Repairs are written into the rental lease.” Justine eyed him silently and let the matter drop.
“Is there any other business?” she asked offhandedly.
A reporter two rows ahead of Ross raised his hand. “Did anyone read the column in the Democrat about TIF and some of our competitors?”
Justine’s eyebrows shot upward. “No, what did it say?”
“It’s that new advice column that runs several times a week. There was a small article on the bottom of the front page of Friday’s edition that said the column, because of heavy reader mail, was going to be a daily column.”
“Yes, yes, what did it say?” Justine said sourly.
“Some woman’s husband wrote to this Auntie Ann and said his wife was addicted to expose magazines and all she did was read them, neglecting him, their kids, and the house. He wanted to know what he should do. He also didn’t like the twelve dollars a month she was spending when they could be making payments on a television set. The husband said TIF was his wife’s favorite. I suppose that’s a kind of publicity,” the reporter said lamely.
“And what did this . . . Auntie Ann reply?”
“She said magazines like TIF and other exposes owe their success to people who like vicarious thrills and who, physically, may be adults but never reached a grown-up level. She said the man should get his wife a library card.”
Justine’s eyes spewed sparks. “Ross, is that a libelous statement? Can we sue? Who is this Auntie Ann?”
“No, it’s not libelous. It’s Auntie Ann’s opinion. No, you cannot sue, and I have no idea who Auntie Ann is,” Ross replied coolly.
Justine eyed the reporter. “Does anyone know who she is?”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Landers. For all I know, it could be a man. What I do know is, the column has taken off like a rocket.”
“Check it out and report back to me personally. Maybe we can give Auntie Ann a dose of her own medicine.” To the others she said, “If there’s no other business, we’ll dispense with Friday’s meeting and get an early start on the Christmas party.”
Ross waited for the staff to file out when his mother gave him the high sign she wanted to speak with him. He winked at Lena, who winked back.
“Ross, I don’t want those old coots at the Christmas party. See to it they don’t show up. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”
“Mother, they already have their Christmas tree up and decorated in the club room. If you didn’t want them to attend, then why in the hell did you post a notice in the lobby? They can read.”
“They’re too damn senile to read. All they do is sleep and drink whiskey and then sleep some more. I don’t like having them here, Ross, and it’s all your fault. I want them out!”
“Mother, we have been over this so many times I’ve lost count. You cannot put them out. They’re here to stay. They don’t bother you, they don’t traipse around, they don’t make any noise. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“They’re breathing, Ross. Or should I say snoring? You can hear them on the second floor if they leave the door open. Out!”
“No, Mother,” Ross said patiently.
“All right, Ross,” Justine said wearily. “I meant it about the lights, and I want their door kept closed. I’ve invited half the town to the Christmas party. God, I can see it now, all those gravy stains on their ties, their soiled shirt cuffs, and they always reek of alcohol. What kind of impression will they make?”
“Mother, compared to the crap you’ve been printing, those old gentlemen will hardly be noticed. All your guests will be interested in is who’s going to be in the magazine next. I think we’re both aware that in the past few months you’ve become, should we say, slightly feared?”
Justine preened. “Thanks in part to Lena and a few others. My reporters have noses for scandal I didn’t think possible. You would not believe the articles we have on the back burner. It’s enough to make you want to run screaming. Our pictures need to be a little more splashy. I’d like to see more lurid covers. Color sells. Red sizzles. Red and yellow together scorches. Do you know, Ross, this week we had to turn away advertisers? I’d like you to tell that to your father.”
“Tell him yourself, Mother. I told you I would not be a go-between.”
“Yes, you did say that,” Justine said sweetly. “I guess I’ll just have to write him a letter and give him an update. Jasper always loved to play with numbers. This set will drive him to the bottle, where his snoot is most of the time anyway.”
“You really hate him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Justine said bluntly.
“Shouldn’t you be just a little grateful? You wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing if it weren’t for Father. And you love this. You’re eating, sleeping, and drinking this magazine. I bet you even dream about it,” Ross said sourly.
Justine laughed. The sound was so bitter, Ross winced. “Not even a little, darling. Shoo, now, I have things to do, and I hope you do too. By the way, Ross, you are doing a tremendous job. Believe it or not, I appreciate it. Knowing how you feel about the magazine and me . . . it surprises me. I rather expected you to snafu things for me.”
“That’s not my style, Mother. You’re paying me to do a job, and I’m doing it to the best of my ability. You’re right, though, I don’t like it, and . . .” He’d been about to say, I don’t like you, but he held the words back. His mother looked disappointed.
“You’re sure about that advice column, Ross?”
“I’m very sure.”
“I think we should find out who writes it.”
“For God’s sake, Mother, why? The Democrat is a local paper. Leave well enough alone. That’s my advice; I think you should follow it.”
“Very well, Ross. Now, tell me, when is your divorce final?”
“Two days from now. I really don’t want to discuss it, Mother.”
“What about Lena? Are you serious about her? Christmastime is a good time to give engagement rings and to make plans for the future.”
Ross’s eyes turned cold and frosty. “What do you know about Christmas, Mother? We never spent one to
gether. I was always at boarding school or military school, and not allowed to come home for the holidays. I’ll bet you never knew I used to pretend I was Jewish rather than let anyone know I wasn’t wanted at home.”
“Where will you be this Christmas?” she asked.
“When I decide, I’ll let you know.”
“Sometimes, Ross, you are an impossible snot,” Justine called to her son when he was halfway down the corridor.
Justine sat down with a thump. In two weeks it would be Christmas. She hated the holidays, hated the gift-giving, the decorating, the fucking happiness. She thought about Christmas when she was a child in the three-room shanty. There were no gifts, no oranges and nuts, no decorations or trees, and for sure there was no happiness. They were lucky they had Spam and beans on Christmas. She wondered, not for the first time, where all her sisters and brothers were. Probably if she found one of them, she’d be able to locate the others. If she wanted to. And her parents, were they alive or dead?
She’d gone back once after her marriage to Jasper. She’d dressed in her finest, filled the car with costly gifts and rich food, but the shanty was gone, an appliance store in its place. Her family was gone too, and she hadn’t asked any questions. Jasper had looked at her with such pity in his eyes and said, “The Lady Bountiful image doesn’t become you, Justine. You didn’t go with generosity in your heart, you went there to gloat, to show off, and God simply would not allow you to do that.” She knew he was right, and that hurt all the more. She couldn’t do anything right in those days. Was that why she’d deprived Ross of love and Christmas? Was it because she didn’t want him to be hurt and grow up tough?
Her own mother, the gentle, weary woman she remembered, wasn’t that old, sixty-five at the most. She’d been married at fifteen, her father sixteen. She wondered if they were well, warm, and had food. Her eyes burned with her thoughts. It must be all the smoke in the room, she thought.
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