Portraits

by Cynthia Freeman

  He would miss the camaraderie of sitting around a poker table with the ranchers he once bought from, and drinking a little straight whiskey. They never discussed business when playing five-card stud, but when all the fun and games were over the serious trading began. “Okay,” the discussion began, “what do you want a head?” The answer was always the same. “Make me an offer.” And no matter what the offer was, it was never enough. But Jacob loved this sparring.

  He also loved riding herd and seeing his own brand sear the butt of a bull. He loved the glow of coals as the branding irons heated, and the sizzling of burning hair and the pungent odor of the smoke. Yes, the best time was roundup…“Don’t hurry the cattle when you make a drive,” he’d call out to the men. The fat on the cow was worth more than the wages of the few cowpokes who were driving them. “Go slow,” he admonished them, “don’t let them get nervous or tired out. Don’t tackle them too hard.” Yes, that was the adventure that Jacob loved. He’d never been more happy than when he was riding behind a bunch of fat cattle. This was a side of him that Sara had never known. It was a private side and it had given him many good memories. But like all good things, it had had its run, and now needed to be put aside for a larger and better future…

  He bought the ranch for five hundred an acre and put down a minimum payment. The bank carried the balance, but this time he wasn’t frightened. It would pay off…

  When he told Sara what he had done, to her it meant that their lives would grow even further apart. But wasn’t that to be expected? she thought. Her mother, her father, and now Jacob—sooner or later they had all left her to herself.

  And now Jacob did spend more time away from home than ever before. Sure, he had asked her to come up to see the ranch, told her she might enjoy it, that the house was beautiful, that from time to time she should leave the kids and come up to stay. But what would she do up there alone in that kind of wilderness? Jacob would be working all day…Sara refused even to see it.

  As Jacob’s world widened, Sara’s narrowed to an intense focus on her only remaining outlets. Jacob, she felt, was closing her out. What more natural than that she should become increasingly possessive of her children, more assaulted by anxieties and grievances, more difficult to live with…

  Jacob had been so busy that he had little time to concern himself with what the stock market was doing. So in September of 1929 he was stunned by the events that had brought him to his current prosperity—the crash, which came like a thunderbolt, with panic its aftermath…

  Guido Ranzinni sat in his barber shop in a state of shock. Yesterday he was a rich man, today he was a pauper…

  People were jumping out of buildings. Committing suicide was a daily occurrence, and those who had criticized Jacob for not staying in the market began to think of him as a financial genius.

  Jacob was well aware that for once his life had brought him a little luck. He could have been in Guido’s position if Fratis hadn’t died at the right time. Moreover, in spite of the Depression, his plant survived. He owned the property free and clear and had sufficient cash stashed away in a vault box. He began to wonder if perhaps luck had less to do with it than he’d thought when he first heard about the crash. After all, the best school in the world was life, it had taught him not only to learn from his errors but how to survive. If he hadn’t been robbed in that flophouse in the Bowery he might not, for instance, have realized the importance of a vault box. He made sure that he always had a certain amount of cash he could put his hands on. Banks were necessary institutions—for loans only.

  Harvard Business School he didn’t need to teach him that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  RACHEL STOOD ON THE corner of Montgomery and Market Streets, waiting for a streetcar to take her to the ferry building where she would make the crossing from San Francisco to Oakland. It had started to rain, and here she was without an umbrella. She waited in a doorway, tired and disgusted.

  Where was her life going? Nowhere. She had saved a little, hoping that maybe this summer she’d be able to go to Vancouver, but the Crash had taken care of that. Still, she was one of the lucky ones. There had been a drastic cut in her salary, but many of the girls in her office had been given notice. In the last year she had dated a few men, but no one who really interested her. Most recently she had dated Maury Cohen, who was madly in love with her and had begged her to marry him, but she had turned him down flat. He had been merely an excuse to get out of the house, but she didn’t really like him. He was poor and obnoxious—a combination she could do without…

  Seeing the streetcar approach, she ran toward the curb. She didn’t see the car that turned the corner just at that moment, and she was so surprised by the torrent of water that splashed up at her from the gutter that she lost her footing at the curb. She lay sprawled on the pavement, drenched and stunned. Her purse was open and all the contents scattered. Her lovely hat was askew and her best coat ruined. She was so angry she wanted to cry.

  The driver of the car parked to one side, got out and began to help her up.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Rachel blinked the rain from her eyes without answering him.

  With the rain dripping from the rim of his hat he went on, “I’m so sorry, are you hurt?”

  Looking at her coat, she answered, “With no thanks to you—no.”

  “Look, please. I’m sorry. I insist on paying for it.”

  Rachel wasn’t listening. She had just realized that the streetcar had gone past her stop, and she shook her head angrily.

  “I don’t know what to say, really. I know this sounds forward, but may I please drive you to where you’re going?”

  Shivering, she looked at the man in the handsome suit, then at the Cadillac convertible. He was about forty, she guessed, and his voice seemed decently kind, sincere. She hesitated, then, “All right.”

  He helped her into the car, then retrieved her purse and its contents. By the time she removed her hat to shake off the rain he was behind the steering wheel. “Now, where can I take you?”

  “To the ferry building.”

  As he drove down Market Street he said, “I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Jim Ross.”

  “My name is Rachel Sanders,” she said, looking in her purse to see if anything was missing.

  “May I call you Rachel?”

  “I can’t see that it matters…”

  “But it does, since I intend to replace your coat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I wouldn’t accept that—”

  “I insist. I was the one who ruined it.”

  “I still couldn’t let you do that.”

  Silence. Then awkwardly Jim said, “I want to apologize again. You’re absolutely drenched, and that fall you took must have shaken you.”

  “I can’t say it was exactly fun.” He glanced at her beautiful face as she continued, “If we don’t hurry I’ll miss the ferry.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Oakland.”

  “I see. Well, again, may I say how sorry I—”

  “That’s very nice of you. If you don’t mind, will you let me off under the canopy?”

  Jim Ross was so taken with the exquisite Rachel that he hadn’t realized they were in front of the building.

  Helping her out he asked, “Where can I reach you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I insist on replacing—”

  “Please forget it, Mr. Ross. You’ve been very kind.” She got out of the car and ran inside the building.

  Jim drove aimlessly around the city, finally drove home. He was no kid, not one given to dramatics, let alone melodrama. But there was no denying that the effect on him of Rachel Sanders was unlike anything he’d ever known.

  Later in his room, trying to read, his mind wandered back to the earlier events of the evening…to her…What an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. He got up and went down to the den, poured himself a scotch, sat down and watched the fire’s glow. Damn, his
life had turned out to be a disaster but until tonight he thought he’d at least come to terms with it. Now he felt that something rather momentous had happened to him. Out of nowhere this young woman had simply entered his life, and he was so startled by the realization that he began to question the compromises that had become so central to his life…

  Jim Ross had met Kelly Richardson when he was at Harvard and she at Radcliffe. Kelly was the most popular, desirable, sought-after girl at college. Her family was old Boston and his new Pennsylvania. Her father was a Princeton man, as was her grandfather, while Jim’s father and grandfather had worked in the steel mills. It wasn’t that the Rosses didn’t have money, of course. His father and his six brothers had pooled their resources and started a small steel mill of their own, and by the time Jim was old enough to go to Harvard his father had made it possible for him to be accepted into a fine club.

  On his wedding day, Jim almost pinched himself, still amazed that someone like Kelly would marry him. But whatever it was she saw in him, he wasn’t about to question it.

  Shortly after their honeymoon, Mr. James Ross, Sr. opened a subsidiary plant in San Francisco for Jim.

  The first years of their marriage had been happy. Kelly was the perfect hostess, the perfect wife and the perfect mother. They adored their daughter Maureen; so far as they were concerned, there had never been a child quite so unique.

  Then one evening his whole world came crashing down on him. He’d returned home unexpectedly from a business trip—and found that the devoted Kelly had a lover. In fact, he discovered them making love in the same room, in the same bed, he had shared with Kelly all these years. He stood staring unbelievingly, rooted to the floor. It was not another man…Kelly was in love with Jennifer Holem, a Radcliffe classmate.

  When he finally came out of his paralysis he slammed the door, ran to the bathroom and threw up.

  He stayed away from the house for two weeks. But poor Maureen, their daughter, was left alone in that mansion on Pacific Avenue with her mother and her lover.

  There was nothing left for it but to go back, try to do what he had to do for his daughter. He laid it on the line to Kelly: “I don’t give a damn about your obsessions. The one thing I do care about is Maureen. Unfortunately she adores you, and it would destroy her if the truth about you came out in a divorce. It would be a scandal. So you listen to me carefully. I’ll give you a divorce when Maureen is of age and on her own. Then you can fry in hell. But until then you’re going to be the kind of mother she deserves to have. It’ll be tough to pretend, but that’s the way it’s going to be. You’ll be the devoted mother, and to all outward appearances the Rosses will be a family. I’ve seen too many children suffer because of a broken home.” He bent over her, wishing he could squeeze the life out of her.

  Jim took one of the many bedrooms down the hall and stayed as far away from his wife in name only as he could.

  When Maureen was fifteen she attended boarding school, which at least made the task of their bizarre situation more simple…They only had to play their roles during holidays and summer vacations…

  Now Maureen was going on eighteen and was a happy, well-adjusted girl. Didn’t he owe himself something now? He got up, poured himself another scotch and looked out to the murky night.

  He’d known from the very beginning, when he’d picked Rachel up off that sidewalk, that he had every intention in the world of seeing her again. Think…she’d been waiting for a streetcar at about five-thirty on the corner of Montgomery and Market, which meant she must work in that general area, and she also took a six o’clock ferry to Oakland. Finding her again shouldn’t be all that difficult…

  The next evening Jim parked his car a little after five and waited. When he saw Rachel crossing from Montgomery to Third and Market, his pulse raced like a schoolboy’s.

  Rachel was startled when she heard her name being called.

  “How are you, Rachel?”

  “Fine…Mr. Ross, and you?”

  “Fine. I hope you recovered from yesterday.”

  “Yes, thank you—”

  “Rachel, this may seem a little presumptuous, but I wonder if I might take you to dinner tonight.”

  She thought for a moment. She’d already let a stranger pick her up last night and what could happen to her in a restaurant? It didn’t seem quite so bold after all. Maybe it was the fact that he was older that reassured her. “I don’t know that I’m dressed for it, Mr. Ross…”

  “You look lovely.”

  “You should have your eyes examined.”

  “I just did and they’re twenty-twenty. Now, may I take you to dinner?”

  Again, Rachel considered, then said, “All right.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “I don’t know San Francisco restaurants, why don’t you decide?” …

  Rachel, of course, had heard of Solari’s. It was one of San Francisco’s most famous restaurants, but she’d never been there.

  The room was all she imagined it would be. Walnut paneling, dimly lit crystal chandeliers, snowy white linen, waiters in tuxedos, roses, candles, paintings, Persian rugs—it took her breath away.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ross,” the maître d’, Emile, said as he ushered them to their table.

  When they were seated, Rachel said, “If you’ll excuse me, I want to call home.”

  She hated having to check in with mama, but if she didn’t it would just cause another war…“Mama?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Rachel…”

  “I know who it is.”

  Rachel bit her lip. “I missed the ferry so I’ll be late.”

  “What are you going to do about dinner?”

  “I’ll have something. There’s a sandwich shop in the building. I’ll wait here for the next ferry.”

  “Fine…papa came home.”

  Was that supposed to please her? Dear papa, who never gave her a nickel, much less a smile or any indication of interest in her life…?

  When she went back to the table, the waiter handed them a large menu. The prices were astounding.

  “What would you like?” Jim asked.

  “Why don’t you order…” God knew, she wouldn’t dare.

  “Do you like sweetbreads? They’re very good here.”

  “That sounds…fine.” She’d never had them.

  First came the fresh green salad with bay shrimp, bouillon and a small portion of vermicelli. The sautéed sweetbreads were accompanied by asparagus topped with hollandaise. Dessert was French pastry and coffee.

  Jim set down his coffee cup and said, “Someone who looks like you must have a difficult time fending off young men—”

  “I don’t happen to like young men, so I’m not too bothered with that problem.”

  He smiled at her candor. Which also gave him more hope.

  “I’m pleased that you’ve allowed me to take you to dinner.”

  “Well, since we ran into each other by—coincidence,” she answered, realizing that this was no coincidence.

  He laughed, knowing how transparent their “accidental” meeting had been tonight. It hadn’t been at all subtle. “What do you do?”

  “You mean where do I work? At the telephone company.”

  This exquisite girl. “You?”

  “Why not? There are millions of girls like me, Mr. Ross, but I’m luckier than they. I still have a job.”

  He sat staring at her.

  “What did you think I was last night, Mr. Ross? A society girl out slumming?”

  He lit a cigarette and blew out the match. “I don’t really know what I thought except, if you’ll forgive me, I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She peered over the rim of her coffee cup. Her deep blue eyes and thick brown lashes were a startling contrast to her blonde hair.

  “Are you a…telephone operator?”

  “Would it matter?”

  “Of course not, just curious. I don’t know why I a
sked.”

  “I work in the bookkeeping department, comptometers—terribly exciting work, Mr. Ross. Now you know all about my fascinating life, tell me about you.”

  “About me? Well, I have a daughter going on eighteen.” He paused, and for the first time Rachel noticed a bitterness in his voice. “I’m married.”

  “Happily?”

  He looked at her. Not only beautiful, but observant. So it showed that much, did it? “No, Rachel. I haven’t been happy about my marriage for a very long time.” Strange, he thought, he’d never spoken to anyone about his marriage. In spite of the angelic face, she seemed strikingly mature. Not worldly, quite the opposite, and for some reason he had the odd feeling that her life had been less than all roses too…“We’re sitting here talking like old friends,” he said.

  She allowed herself a smile, then, “Why do you stay married, Mr. Ross?”

  “That’s a question an old friend would ask, thank you.” He pulled the lobe of his ear, then took a sip of coffee. “I suppose we stayed together for reasons that don’t really make sense, although I thought they did at the time…I don’t know, Rachel, maybe a feeling of failure, a feeling of responsibility. It’s a long story, and you have to catch a boat. Better still, would you trust me to take you home?”

  “Yes, but I live in Oakland.”

  “I know, you told me. I’ll drive you home.”

  There was an odd sort of excitement Rachel felt as they drove off the ferry and onto the pier in the blue convertible. They rode in silence until they were within a block of her house.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’d like to get out here.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, that’s a long story too. If your car was seen in front of my house, I think I’d have a lot of explaining to do.”

  He nodded. After all, he’d undoubtedly react the same way if he saw Maureen getting out of a stranger’s car.

  Coming around to Rachel’s side, he opened the door and took her hand as he helped her out. “This has been a very curious evening, hasn’t it, Rachel?”