An Independent Woman

by Howard Fast

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Well, yes. I was provoked. I wanted sympathy, and instead you told me something about myself. That’s always cruel.”

  “I didn’t intend to be cruel.”

  “No, I’m sure you didn’t. I’m a writer. I know the addiction to stories. I suppose for a minister it’s even worse.”

  “It is,” Philip admitted. “I wasn’t going to speak about personal things, and I know we’ve only been together a few times, but I’m very fond of you and…”

  “And what?”

  “Another time,” he said uneasily. “We’re almost there.”

  How will I ever know this man? Barbara wondered. At one moment he was a sage, and the next moment a high school boy at the senior prom. Well, he had been a Catholic priest and had left the Church and married a nun. That must have been hard. Let it be. Whatever will come will come. She certainly wasn’t in love with him—and could she ever be, with him or with anyone else? The story still annoyed her. He could have told her what he felt she had missed without the parable, but then he was a priest and a minister, or had been a priest, and at least the story was interesting and provoking.

  Both Sally and May Ling were waiting for them, and Sally had properly prepared coffee and tea and small sandwiches. Sally had looked up Unitarianism in the encyclopedia; May Ling had not. Sally made an excuse for Barbara to join her in the kitchen, and then Sally whispered, “Let me get this straight, Barbara. Is he your boyfriend? Is something cooking?”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Barbara said, “we’re both old. I do not have boyfriends.”

  “Well, don’t get huffy. I mean, do you like him?”

  “Yes, I do. I like him. That’s all.”

  “All right. It makes a difference.”

  They returned to the dining room. The cottage was small and unassuming; the surgery, which Joe had built onto the original house, was almost as large, with its waiting room, two examining rooms, operating room for emergencies, and small laboratory. The simplicity of the cottage struck Philip as rather odd, considering all he had heard of the Lavettes and their wealth.

  As he was apparently answering a question May Ling had asked him, Barbara and Sally entered the room quietly and sat at the table.

  “… yes, we’re a religion, if you choose to use the word. We also welcome people who have no religion or mystical belief, and we don’t try to force any belief on them. In your case, I would be performing a marriage ceremony—as I would for any woman and man who love each other and who ask me to marry them. It places no religious obligation upon you.”

  “But are you Christians?” May Ling asked.

  “Some of us are. Some are Jewish. Some are Muslims. Some are Catholics, some are Protestants.”

  “Do you mind my asking all these questions? I feel so foolish, not knowing anything about your people.”

  Philip shook his head. “No, not at all. Please ask anything you wish.”

  “Daddy’s father was Italian and Daddy’s mother was Chinese. Her name was May Ling, and I was named after her, but I was brought up with no religion except to respect what other people believe. Mother’s father was Jewish, but her mother was a Protestant. So you can see how confused it all is. The man I’m going to marry, Harry Lefkowitz, is Jewish. He has no wish except to be married, and he suggested Judge Horton, an old friend of his; but I don’t want to be married by a judge—it’s just something I feel about judges and law.”

  “Would Mr. Lefkowitz resent being married by a Unitarian minister?” Philip asked.

  “Oh no, not at all. He left it entirely up to Mother and me. But I would like to be able to tell him something more about Unitarians.”

  “Of course,” Philip agreed. “What shall I tell you? Our church is on Franklin Street, just off Geary, a brown stone building with a bit of a stubby bell tower—”

  “Yes, I’ve passed it so many times.”

  “—and it’s quite old for San Francisco, almost a hundred years. We’re a reasonably old faith for America. Thomas Jefferson was a Unitarian, and he decided that in a hundred years, all America would be Unitarian. I’m afraid he was very wrong, but we don’t proselytize much. Thoreau was Unitarian, and so was Ralph Waldo Emerson. To bring it closer to home, the man who invented and built our cable car system was a Unitarian.”

  “Do you believe in Jesus Christ?” Sally put in.

  “We don’t preach a belief—only the inherent worth and dignity of every human being, a deep respect for religious pluralism, and a conviction that this pluralism enriches our faith. Of course, I believe that Jesus was a great prophet and a great spiritual leader, but you must remember that I was trained as a Jesuit priest and my belief is my own.”

  “And would your sanctuary be large enough for three or four hundred people?”

  “I think so, Ms. Lavette.” He smiled.

  May Ling responded to his smile. “Mother believes in large weddings. I was married and divorced. Does that matter?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then I think I would be pleased and honored if you would marry Harry and me. You will like Harry.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “And I can’t think of anything you said that he might disagree with.”

  When Barbara and Philip got into her car to leave, Barbara sighed and said, “Well, thank goodness that’s off my mind.”

  “What are you, my dear?” Philip wondered. “Are you the Mother Superior, so to speak, of the entire Lavette—Levy tribe?”

  “Mother Hen would be a better title. War and death have taken a terrible toll on us. We are not a long-lived family. Even Adam, with his white beard and his attitude of being something out of the Old Testament, is eight years younger than I, and his wife, Eloise, my dearest friend, is four years older than Adam. That leaves me, skin and bones, as the senior member of the family.”

  “You’re hardly skin and bones.”

  “I’ll be seventy in November, and thank you—and that gives me a delightful idea. What do you have planned for the rest of today?”

  “Nothing. I took the whole day off for this trip.”

  “Have you ever been through the Napa Valley?”

  “Once. I came here with Agatha.”

  “Good. I’m going to turn right here, and that will put us on the Silverado Trail, which is the best way into the Valley—not spoiled by tourist places like Oakville or Rutherford—and we’ll end up at Highgate and they’ll give us dinner and we can spend the night in their guesthouse, and you can learn how wine is made.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” he protested. “I can’t just turn up and ask to spend the night with a woman. For heaven’s sake, Barbara, I’m a minister.”

  “Are you really?” She had turned the car and was now driving north on Route 121. “And Unitarians don’t allow their ministers to do such vile things? You never mentioned that to May Ling.”

  “Barbara, what will they think?”

  “They’ll think more things than we have ever done, I can assure you of that. Philip, how old are you?”

  “You know well enough how old I am.”

  “You’re seventy-three. I’m sixty-nine. They will be happy to see you. They know all about you. They will give us separate rooms. What on earth are you afraid of?”

  It took him a while to answer. “I have no clothes,” he finally said, rather lamely. “A shirt and trousers and a sweater. You can’t come to dinner that way. I don’t even have a razor.”

  Laughing, she said, “Oh, you are wonderful, Philip my dear. You don’t have a razor. And you don’t have pajamas, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Philip, don’t look down. Look up. If God wanted a model for paradise, he couldn’t do better than the Napa Valley.”

  She realized that he had surrendered, nor had it taken much persuasion. They were in the Valley now, none of the craggy rocks and deep gorges of the coastal range, but gentle undulating hills that folded lovingly into each
other, and into an old road lined with live oaks and rosebushes and ponderosa pine and hemlock and Pacific madrone and the ever-present alders. Every half mile or so a little road twisted into the gentle hills to mark a winery, and on every side of these old roads were fields covered with vines in lines so straight that they might have been drawn on a map, with a burst of green leaves and fruit at the top of each thick stick. The blue sky and the gentle breeze barely moved the leaves.

  Barbara enjoyed being his tour guide. “There’s Chimney Rock—and right behind it, Stag’s Leap—you’ve seen those in the stores. And there—I think that’s Sinskey’s place, and over on the left is Pine Ridge. You won’t see Mondavi or Krug or some of the other big ones—they’re on the other side of the Valley on Route 29, but this road is far lovelier. And that’s Pine Ridge—they make a fine white—”

  “How do you know so much about this place?”

  “Philip, I’ve been up and down this road a hundred times—no, five hundred times. Of course, there are wines just as good from Sonoma and Sonoma Mountain, but somehow Napa catches people’s fancy. And in a few minutes we’ll be at Highgate—we used to spell it H-i-g-a-t-e, but Freddie didn’t like it spelled that way because people began to pronounce it ‘higgate,’ and he convinced Adam to change it…” She turned off the main road onto a hard oiled-dirt road that led into a cross valley, and then through two tall stone posts that had once supported a heavy iron gate, replaced now by a wooden ranch gate that was almost always open. Ahead of them, on either side, the vine lines stretched away, folding into the low hummocks; and close by and clumped together were seven stone buildings, some large, some small. Barbara drove into an asphalt parking area where there was an assortment of cars, trucks, and farm machines.

  “Well, here we are,” she announced, “and no pajamas. Do you feel abducted, Philip?”

  “Kidnapped would be a better word,” he said ruefully.

  “Philip, Philip, you’re here to see the bride’s grandmother and grandfather. Kidnapped, indeed!”

  “We could drive back to San Francisco after dinner.”

  “Philip!”

  “Well—I suppose—you could find whatever I need?”

  “Even a razor, Philip.”

  IN THE KITCHEN WITH ELOISE, helping Cathrena decide what to serve for dinner and setting the table, Barbara told Eloise that they would be staying over and that they would occupy two rooms. Adam had taken Philip in hand and was instructing him in the process of turning grapes into wine.

  “Two rooms. Will you please tell me what is going on, Barbara?”

  “He’s a minister.”

  “You and a minister. I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s not me and a minister, Ellie. May Ling has agreed to his marrying them. He’s a Unitarian. Let me tell you about Unitarians—”

  “I know about Unitarians, Barbara, and I know you. I’m very happy that Sally has agreed to something. Did he know you were bringing him here?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Barbara admitted.

  “You mean you kidnapped him?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. I took the liberty of inviting him here. He was somewhat upset. He’s a widower, and I don’t think he’s even looked at another woman since his wife died. That was five years ago. Don’t you think he’s quite good-looking?”

  “Barbara, for heaven’s sake, will you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Ellie, I’m not entirely sure what’s going on. Do I look old—I mean really old? You haven’t changed a bit, but—”

  “No, I haven’t changed, Barbara. I weighed one hundred and ten when I married Adam, and now I’m one hundred and seventy, and I dye my hair—”

  “You haven’t a wrinkle on your face.”

  “Neither would you if you were as fat as I am.”

  “I have more wrinkles than I can count. My wrinkles have wrinkles.”

  “You have bones. I don’t have a bone in my body.”

  “I don’t believe what we’re saying!” Barbara exclaimed. “Cathrena, do you hear us?”

  “I don’t hear foolishness,” Cathrena said. “You are both beautiful women.”

  Barbara sighed. “I hate to live alone.”

  “It’s unhealthy, señora,” Cathrena said. “Nobody should live alone. A man needs a woman, a woman needs a man.”

  “The trouble is,” Barbara said, “that he needs pajamas and a razor. That was his excuse for not staying overnight. I suppose he also felt dreadful about wearing his socks two days in a row. He was raised in parochial schools, seminaries, and that kind of thing. He was a Jesuit priest and his wife was a nun. They left the Church and married. He’s the sweetest, most thoughtful man I ever knew, and he thinks you don’t hold hands in public. He kisses me on the cheek.”

  “You do have a good eye for men,” Eloise admitted.

  “Jesuits,” Cathrena said. “I tell you something, señora. They are very smart. He gives up his soul for a woman. That’s a man.”

  “There you are,” Eloise said. “Do you love him?”

  “It’s hard to decide. I read somewhere that women over seventy don’t fall in love.”

  “Who tells you that?” Cathrena asked indignantly.

  “My publisher,” Barbara said lamely.

  Eloise said, “Let’s get out of here and find them before Adam has him drunk. He does drink wine?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Then we’d better find them. There’s nothing Adam likes better than opinions. He’ll have Philip tasting every vintage we have. And heaven help him if he doesn’t like Cabernet.”

  To FREDDIE’S SURPRISE, the letter to Judith Hope elicited an almost immediate reply: on a small sheet of white letterhead, these few words: “I would be pleased to have you pick me up on the 22nd, at eight o’clock, at the above address. We are invited to a party. As for forgiveness, we shall see.” It was addressed to Mr. Frederick Lavette, to the address on the card he had given her. It was signed simply “Judith Hope.”

  He read and reread the few words. “We are invited” puzzled him. Who knew about the incident? How much had she told? What kind of a party? Nothing about whether he might cor the possibility that he would not be able to come—just a queenly command. We are invited.

  He was all smiles and charm when he entered the dining room and was introduced to Philip Carter. Barbara, who had witnessed his depression of two weeks ago, was pleased. Freddie’s chameleon-like changes of mood could not be counted on, and she wanted this dinner to go nicely. He praised Cathrena’s chicken in mole, polio con chocolate, assuring her that it was as good as anything he had ever eaten in Mexico City, and he held forth on the wine, a Navarra of sorts that was an experiment of Freddie’s with which Adam was not too pleased—indeed, a wine too heavy for the taste of most of them, but which Cathrena had praised as a companion to the bitter chocolate sauce. On a visit to Spain years before, Freddie had spent a week at a winery on the south slope of the Pyrenees and had returned with a packet of seeds that he had nursed in the greenhouse. They never made more than a few hundred bottles—a wasteful process, according to Adam—and most of those went to the wine merchants in New York who sold them to Spanish and Portuguese tourists at thirty dollars a bottle. Adam ordered his own Cabernet and advised Philip against the heavy Spanish wine. Barbara felt that Philip ought to have a glass of both. “Each has its quality,” she told him.

  Eloise smiled knowingly at Barbara.

  Seated next to Barbara, Philip leaned over and whispered, “Don’t they ever talk about anything but wine?”

  “Of course—politics and books and art. Except that Adam is so furious at Reagan that Ellie is trying to keep the conversation local,” Barbara whispered back.

  “What on earth are you whispering about?” Freddie wanted to know.

  “Freddie!” his mother said, and to Philip, “Please forgive him. He has no manners. Have you been to the Valley before, Mr. Carter?”

  “Please—Philip.”

  Reynold Couer, a
young Frenchman, was trying desperately to follow the conversation and sipping warily at the Navarra. He was a guest of Freddie’s who had come to California on what he called an investigatory visit. Barbara, whose French was excellent, the result of living there for more than a year, explained that the dark sauce on the chicken was chocolate without sweetening.

  “It’s a famous old sauce of the Aztec people”—and the language breakthrough led to a conversation in French that all joined in except for Adam, who had no French to speak of. Eloise promptly invited Couer to stay for the wedding, but he made his apologies. Freddie explained that he was flying to New York the next day to visit the wineries in the Genesee Valley. Adam managed to follow that, and in English snorted his contempt for New York—grown wine, and that led to a discussion of the new Australian wine that had just made its appearance in California. “Their white is all right, but their red…” And thus it went on and on.

  Outside after dinner, in the cool night air, Barbara apologized to Philip. “At least,” she said, “it made young Reynold feel at home.”

  “They’re wonderfully warm people,” Philip admitted, “but I felt out of it.”

  “But wine does play a large part in religion, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. But Unitarians don’t have communion. I mean, we do drink wine. We have nothing against it, you understand.”

  “Of course, Philip. It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  “Just perfect.”

  “Even with all the boring wine talk?”

  “Even with all the wine talk—absolutely. And it gave me a chance to use my French.”

  “And your French is excellent. Where did you learn?”

  “School, college—but you speak it like a native.”

  She took his arm. “Do you want to know my whole history, Philip?” The sound of a piano came from the house behind them. “That’s Freddie. He’s so gifted, and it all dribbles away. That’s the Italian Concerto; I’ve heard him play it a dozen times. He calls it his meditation. Do you want to go inside and listen?”

  “I’d rather be out here with you.”

  The winding brick paths from house to house were lit. At the bunkhouse, a group of winery workers sat and smoked and talked softly in Spanish.