by Howard Fast
Eventually she gave in, and now they were on their way to Oakland, Freddie bearing a package of four bottles of wine as his dinner gift. The house, a modest white front-hall colonial, was by no means in the ghetto, but on a pleasant hillside; and Judith’s mother, a plump woman in her fifties, opened the door and greeted them, kissing her daughter and taking Freddie’s hand with a smile. Dr. Hope, behind her, a large, full-bodied man, was unsmiling. He nodded when Judith introduced Freddie and he shook hands with him, murmuring something that Freddie did not get.
They went into the living room, simply furnished with a couch, two armchairs, and a television set. There were photographs and some prints on the walls, and there were more photographs on a small piano. A coffee table was loaded with chips and a dip and a bowl of crudités. Freddie offered his gift of wine without going into its origin. Mrs. Hope asked what he would have, and since she was pouring white wine, he agreed that he would have that, although he had no taste for white wine and had brought Cabernet with him. Judith suggested that he might like red wine, but he shook his head firmly.
Dr. Hope, his voice deep and throaty, asked where they had met, and lying smoothly, Judith said they had been introduced by Art Brown at the Fairmont. Dr. Hope said he had never been to the Fairmont, and Judith reminded him that she had taken him and her mother to the Fairmont on her mother’s fiftieth birthday. He grumbled that it was different, Judith being a celebrity. Freddie, trying to measure Dr. Hope by his denial that he had ever been to the Fairmont, against Judith’s declaration that he had been there, decided that, like his daughter’s, Dr. Hope’s thinking took two paths. Being at the Fairmont meant walking in with his wife, both black, whereas Judith lived with one foot in another world.
Mrs. Hope said, “Five minutes. I can’t have you late to the table,” and disappeared into the kitchen.
“She’s doing chicken with dumplings,” Judith explained. “She’s a wonderful cook. When she puts the dumplings into the boiling water, they have to be out and on the table to the minute.”
“Mrs. Hope’s from South Carolina,” Dr. Hope said, as if that were the final word on her cooking.
The food was delicious, tiny carrots and greens to go with the chicken. Dr. Hope opened a bottle of the Cabernet that Freddie had given them and said that he didn’t go along with this nonsense that you drank only white wine with chicken. “The chicken doesn’t know the difference, and in my world, wine is red.” He had finally opened up and was talking directly to Freddie.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Freddie said. “I thought the Chardonnay you served before was delicious, but for me, wine is red wine—especially a Cabernet.”
Judith watched Freddie and her father with interest. So far she had said little, except to reply to her mother’s questions about the food. “Mama, your food is delicious, the very best in the whole Bay Area. You always ask me, and I always tell you that.”
“But you eat in all those fancy foreign restaurants.”
“None of them can hold a candle to your cooking.”
Judith had become something Freddie had never seen before. The glamorous model was gone. Dressed in a pleated blue skirt and a white pullover, this was a child with Mama and Papa, behaving very properly. She had removed the bright fingernail polish that was a part of her usual costume and she wore no makeup. Her only jewelry was a small gold cross on a thin gold chain around her neck.
After dinner they returned to the living room, and Judith helped her mother bring in a tray with coffee and cookies. Dr. Hope opened a box of cigars, took one for himself, and offered the box to Freddie, who didn’t smoke cigars, though he was tempted to take one just to enhance the relationship. As the better part of valor, he refused.
“Not a smoker,” Dr. Hope rumbled. “Good thing. No good for the teeth. No good at all.”
“I have a matter of great importance to me,” Freddie said, “that I would like to discuss with you, Dr. Hope, and with Mrs. Hope, of course. It concerns your daughter, Judith—”
Judith was suddenly alert and waiting.
“—and my feelings for her. I would like to ask for her hand in marriage and your permission to do so.”
Judith sprang to her feet and shouted, “How dare you! How dare you come here with that idiotic speech without telling me! We’re leaving—right now!”
“Sit down, girl!” her father snapped. “Just sit down and keep a still tongue in your mouth. You’re not going anywhere. Just sit down and behave.”
To Freddie’s amazement Judith sat down, looking daggers at him.
“What this young man has done is perfectly proper. Proper, and I respect it. We live in a time when these small amenities of decency are forgotten. Now he and I are going to talk, and you will sit there and listen. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa,” she answered succinctly.
Mrs. Hope said nothing, only breathing deeply and trying to appear sympathetic to all sides.
“Now, son,” Dr. Hope said to Freddie, “how old are you?”
“Forty-two.”
“Old enough to know your own mind. I gather you’ve been married before?”
“Yes. I’m divorced,” Freddie said.
“Any children?”
“A little boy. He’s four years old. His mother has custody, but I see him frequently.”
“Was that a court decision?”
“No, sir, it was my decision. His mother’s a wonderful woman—it just didn’t work.”
“Yes, I can respect that. I don’t hold with this business of divorce; Mrs. Hope and I have been married thirty-nine years. But I suppose there are times when it’s necessary. Now, what do you do for a living?”
“I manage a winery in the Napa Valley. It’s called Highgate. The wine I brought you tonight is our product. We specialize in Cabernet Sauvignon, and we like to think that our Cabernet is the best produced in America. We’re not the biggest winery, but we do a substantial business.”
“You don’t own this winery, or do you?”
“No, sir. I have a share of the stock, but the winery is owned by my father, Adam Levy. He adopted me when he married my mother. My biological father was Thomas Lavette. I still use the name Lavette.”
“You mean Thomas Lavette the banker?” Dr. Hope asked.
“Yes, sir. He died five years ago.”
“And what is your religion, young man? I ask that personal question because your request is a personal one.”
“I’m Episcopalian, sir. I was baptized in Grace Cathedral”—not mentioning that he had not set foot in the church or taken communion since his father’s death.
“We’re Baptists, but I don’t hold any man’s religion against him. You understand that if my daughter should agree to your proposal, the ceremony would be held in a Baptist Church. You have no objection to that?”
“No, sir,” Freddie said, “absolutely none.”
Dr. Hope looked at his wife, who smiled and nodded and said, “I think he’s a very nice young man.”
“Well, Frederick,” Dr. Hope said, “I believe it’s up to my daughter, and I’m sure you will discuss it later. She’s a woman of sound judgment, and she knows her own mind. And now I suggest we pour some of that wine you make and drink to the happiness of both of you.”
Judith listened to all of this in stony silence, and when the wine was poured she barely touched it to her lips. When they rose to leave she kissed her father and mother, and when her mother asked her to please wear the warm wrap that had been her Christmas present and not walk around half naked just because it was summer, she said, “Yes, Mama, I will. I really don’t walk around half naked.”
In Freddie’s car, driving to San Francisco, she stated her feelings in two words: “You bastard!”
“That was pretty harsh.”
“You miserable, revolting bastard! You planned this whole thing. Don’t try to deny it. What a cheap, low-down trick!”
“Why, Judith? Because you let me know how much you love and r
espect them? I want to be your husband. I want that more than I ever wanted anything in my life, and I knew that if the doctor and his wife were against your marrying a white man, my case would be damn well lost. So there it is. Will you marry me?”
“No. Not now. Never.”
“Why? I love you. I think you’re the most wonderful woman I have ever known. I haven’t looked at another woman since I met you. I can’t live without you.”
“Freddie, stop it. I’m black, you’re white. Finished.”
“Never is a long time—and you know, I may be a bit flaky, but I noticed from the beginning that you are black and I am white. It makes no difference to me; does it matter to you? There’s no prejudice in my family. They will open their arms and embrace you. My mother’s the most open-minded gentle woman in the world, and my father will love you. Furthermore, I’m two inches taller than you are, and unless you decide to marry a basketball player, you’ll have a hard time finding someone who’ll top your height.”
She was laughing now. “Watch your driving, and don’t try to kiss me while you’re driving. My father warned me never to let a man touch me while he was driving. Freddie, I do love you. I can’t imagine why, but I do. Marriage is something else. I don’t know whether I’ll ever marry anyone.”
“I’m patient. I can wait.”
“My dear Freddie, we live in a world that’s divided into two parts, and they’re as separate as Europe and America. I’ve watched people try to cross into the other part, and I’ve never known it to work.”
“I can show you twenty marriages that I know of, white on white, that don’t work, either. My father divorced my mother for a woman he later came to hate. My mother married my stepfather, who is Jewish, and that’s the best marriage I’ve ever known. Some work, some don’t work. We have sex going for us, and I swear to God, I’ll make it all work.”
“Love isn’t something you can pick apart and analyze. I can appreciate the respect you showed my parents, and I think I may even be falling in love with you. But I won’t marry you.”
“All right. We’ll let that rest for the moment. But you’ll still come to May Ling’s wedding?”
“Not if I’m the showpiece nigger.”
“I hate that word,” Freddie snapped. “I don’t like it from your lips any better than you would like it from mine.”
“I’m sorry. You know what I mean.”
“Well, you won’t be. Judge Horton is coming, and he’s black. I invited the Cutlers, Larry and Jane. There’s Sam’s scrub nurse at the hospital—she’s black—and there’ll be others.”
“You win. Now let’s go home and curl up in bed.”
SINCE HER RELATIONSHIP with Philip Carter began, Barbara had taken to going to the Unitarian church each Sunday morning, after which she and Philip would spend the rest of the day together. On this Sunday his sermon was titled “The War Against the Women.” He spoke of the agelong struggle of women for equality, for the vote, for the right to be treated as persons instead of property. He spoke of the end of the eternal war against women, and he called Walter Mondale’s choice of Geraldine Ferraro a cause for celebration.
Barbara had always been an easy cry. She felt the tears in her eyes as Philip continued, “This is not a part of my sermon—or perhaps it is, since I think of you as an extended family, and the joining together of two souls is very much a sermon. I’ve asked a woman, who has been sitting among you for some weeks now, to be my wife. Her name is Barbara Lavette, and she has been kind enough to agree. We will be married soon.”
Barbara was terrified that he would ask her to stand, and grateful that he didn’t. The congregation broke into applause, and when finally they filed out, her anonymity disappeared. Birdie MacGelsie threw her arms around her and kissed her, and then when Philip did the same, the congregation pressed to meet her and offer congratulations.
Finally the entry had emptied out and they were free to go. As they walked down Franklin Street, Barbara said, “Now you’ve done it. I can’t back out, can I?”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t think so, Philip. I’m not only getting used to you, but I’m becoming very fond of you. Who is going to marry us?”
“Reba Guthri, our assistant minister. You met her back at the church, a small woman with close-cropped gray hair. She’s the one who told you how beautiful you are.”
“You want me to remember her? There were at least two hundred people there. And, Philip, under that Jesuit incorruptibility of yours, there’s a very deceitful person. No one ever said I look beautiful.”
“My word of honor.”
“All right, I accept, even if I don’t believe it. My mother always told me that if someone says a nice thing, never deny it. Just say ‘thank you.’ So thank you.”
As THE DAYS PASSED, Barbara began to wonder how she had ever allowed herself to be drawn into what she began to think of as the Mad Hatter’s wedding. Philip came to her with the suggestion that they be married twice, once at the church and again at Highgate. “Otherwise,” he said, “I’ll have to invite twelve people, and I don’t see any way out of that.”
“I only agreed to marry you once,” Barbara said, and Philip argued that this was no laughing matter. “Then I’ll give you twelve invitations,” Barbara said. “Stop worrying.”
“I think about Freddie,” he argued. “How, in all conscience, can I do this to Freddie?”
“Freddie’s rich. He’s loaded with Lavette money, which he did nothing to earn. You yourself said this would be good for his immortal soul. Invite your twelve people. Once is enough. I simply do not intend to be married twice.”
Then Eloise called, crying that she had lost the caterer. “He decided that he can’t handle four hundred people.”
Four hundred and twelve, Barbara thought.
“And I still don’t have the final list. Why can’t people understand that when they get a wedding invitation, they are under an obligation to reply to it? I told him that I must have at least one hundred portions of cold poached salmon for those who won’t eat chicken, and he said that was impossible. He’s terrified of being stuck with all that salmon, and it brings the cost up. He was up to fifty dollars each. That’s up to twenty thousand for just the food and serving. Oh, Barbara, how did I ever get into this?”
“My mother once got into the same thing,” Barbara said. “So she booked a room in the hospital and sent a note to everyone that she had pneumonia. She got at least fifty bouquets of flowers and saved a lot of money.”
“Barbara, how can you laugh at it? You have to find me a caterer. You’re there in the City, and I have no idea of what goes on in San Francisco.”
“Eloise, darling, when we give a party it’s always for a good cause and everyone brings her own pot of food. We don’t use caterers.”
“Barbara, you know I can’t do that. Why are you teasing me?”
“I think I can find you a Chinese caterer at half the price.”
“Barbara!”
“I’ll find one, Ellie. How about crab instead of salmon? The advantage with crab is that they can hold them in a refrigerated truck and cook them after the orders are in. That means the live crabs won’t be spoiled if the orders go short. And I’ll keep it under fifty dollars if it’s humanly possible.”
“Oh, thank you, my dear, bless you. How is Philip?”
“Brace yourself for a shock.”
“Oh, God—is the wedding off?”
“Oh no, it’s on. I think I’m falling in love with him. But he says he must invite twelve people to the wedding.”
A long sigh in reply. “Oh, well, what will be will be.”
Barbara was thumbing through the Yellow Pages when Harry Lefkowitz called and asked whether he could sit down with her and Philip for a half hour or so. He had a problem.
And who doesn’t? Barbara thought.
“Perhaps you and Philip could come to my office someday soon at one o’clock. I’ll have lunch for you. I don’t know who to turn
to with this, and Barbara, believe me, I would be immensely grateful.”
“Tomorrow, Harry?”
“Yes, tomorrow would be fine.”
She put it to Philip, who agreed reluctantly. “The thing is, Barbara, that I’m not a father confessor.”
“I don’t think Harry goes in for confession. He’s Jewish, and if they need confession, they go to a shrink.”
“Then why me?”
“Because you’re a levelheaded, wise, and compassionate man.”
“Yes, and flattery will get you everywhere. When?”
“Tomorrow at one. He’ll give us lunch. It seems he likes to eat at his office in the Transamerica Building. And by the way, you may not be the father confessor, but I seem to have taken on the role of mother confessor. Eloise just lost her caterer, and I’m to find her another one.” She went back to the Yellow Pages.
The Absolute Caterers were high on the list, located on Detroit Street. She dialed their number, mentioned her problem to the woman who answered, and was switched to Mr. Sam Cohen. He had a cheerful voice, and he asked her what he could do for her.
“My name is Barbara Lavette.”
“Ah-ha!” which indicated that he recognized the name. “And what can I do for you, Ms. Lavette?”
“Do you cater as far away as the Napa Valley?”
“Once a month, at least. Are you talking about Highgate?”
“Yes, and I’m talking about four hundred people, plus. Can you handle anything like that?”
“Four hundred people? It’s a lead-pipe cinch. No problem. I just did three hundred for the Republican Women’s Committee. You want a reference? Call Mrs. Thatcher—not in England but here in San Francisco. That’s a joke, forgive me. Mrs. Elbert Thatcher. Where did you get our name?”
“I got you out of the Yellow Pages.”
“You should know how many times I’ve talked to my brother, Jerry, about expanding our ad in the Yellow Pages. Where do you live, Ms. Lavette?”
