The Wrong Kind of Money

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  She met Noah Liebling on a blind date when she was twenty and a senior at the University of New Hampshire. “A nice young businessman up here on business from New York,” her friend had described him. At first she hadn’t been particularly impressed with him, though she was pleased with his dark good looks and amused by his habit, when ordering drinks, of always asking for an Ingraham brand, and in rather too loud a voice. “I work for Ingraham,” he said with a shrug. “Company policy,” and he let it go at that. He did not mention that his family owned the company. This was in the winter of 1972. The name Liebling meant nothing to her.

  They began exchanging letters, nothing particularly personal, certainly nothing passionate. Presently, though, he was flying up to Portsmouth on weekends to see her. He would rent a car, and they would drive to one of the nearby ski mountains. There he would rent skis and poles and boots for them both, and give her skiing lessons. “A New Hampshire girl ought to know how to ski,” he said.

  This was true. The McClaren girls, she remembered from the days when she had followed their activities so closely in the News-Leader—though they were all off and married now, with children of their own—had often been pictured on one ski slope or another. She mentioned the socially prominent McClarens. He had never heard of them. She decided they had nothing in common.

  He liked to ski fast. As a beginner she was more cautious. Still, he slowed down to keep pace with her own slowness, and that was nice of him.

  Meanwhile, she was working for her M.A. in psychology at the university. She decided that he must have a very good job indeed to be able to afford all this flying back between Portsmouth and New York, all these rentals of cars and ski equipment and lift tickets. But he wasn’t show-offy about his money, and that was nice of him, too.

  She noticed he didn’t talk much about his job, beyond saying he was “in sales.” And he talked even less about his family. He hardly ever mentioned his father, and she gathered he was somewhat intimidated by his mother. “My family is peculiar,” he said once.

  “My family is even more peculiar,” she said. “I’m sure, when it comes to peculiar, my family has your family beat.”

  “We have a lot in common, then,” he said with a smile. This struck her as the opposite of the truth.

  Long before meeting him, Carol had decided it was time she lost her virginity, though she hadn’t decided how, or when, or where, or with whom she was going to do it. All her friends, if they were to be believed, had already lost theirs. All the lurid admonitions of the sisters at St. Catherine’s School—fingers falling off if you touched yourself, tongues falling out if you kissed a boy too deeply—she now knew were nonsense. She had even encountered two of the sisters—Sister Margaret Mary and Sister Barnabas—in an embrace that was far from sisterly. But she decided that if she was going to lose hers, it was not going to be with Noah Liebling. Their relationship was more of an outdoor, not an indoor, thing. After kissing him good night outside her dormitory door, she would step quickly inside, and that would be that.

  It was not until she saw his father’s obituary in the New York Times in 1974 that she realized who Noah Liebling was, that his sister was the one she’d read about, several years before, when she eloped with a Brazilian copper heir nearly three times her age and, later, when she became involved in a messy marriage to an Italian count. At first Carol couldn’t believe that this could be the same family. And yet there it was, in black and white, in the nation’s newspaper of record. Jules Liebling was Ingraham’s. He’d started it from scratch, a Horatio Alger success story. Rags to riches. There was Noah’s name, listed as one of Jules Liebling’s two sons. She decided not to telephone him. Let him call her.

  But then, a couple of days later, she did call him. She’s not sure why she did, but she did. He’d just come, it seemed, from his father’s funeral, and he told her about encountering his older brother, whom he hadn’t seen in years, outside the funeral home, and not recognizing him. She’d also read that this banished brother had been left, in trust, a sizable inheritance, while Noah, who had worked for the company, had been left nothing at all. All this sounded to Carol too strange and sad, and she decided immediately that she’d never see him again, that she wanted nothing to do with this strange, sad family.

  But then he said, “Look, I could use a little company right now. Why don’t you hop on a plane? Fly down here. We’ll have dinner.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “I’ll meet your plane,” he said.

  And so he took her out to dinner. To this day, she can’t really remember where they went, but during dinner he said to her, “Carol, I don’t quite know how to say this, but I like you very much.”

  “And I you,” she said.

  “And I you,” he repeated with a faint smile on his lips. “And I you,” and their eyes met, and locked, and suddenly the air between them was charged, electric, and Carol felt a sudden ringing in her ears, a tightness in her throat, a yawning feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she knew that what was going to happen was going to happen, and that he knew it, too, and that there was nothing either of them could do to stop it from happening, try as they might. For the rest of the meal, toying with their food, they said little and ate almost nothing, preparing for the inevitable. The time had come, the time was right, the time was then. The taxi ride from the restaurant to his handsome bachelor apartment on Seventy-second Street seemed to take an eternity.

  Later, when it was over—and it was sweeter, gentler, and far less violent and painful than anything her friends had ever described to her—he lifted himself on one elbow in the bed and studied her face. “I love the way you look,” he said. “Your looks don’t match.”

  “Don’t match?”

  “Your hair—what color do you call it?”

  “Sort of a chestnut color, I guess.”

  “And your eyes?”

  “Hazel. I’ve always hated the color of my eyes.”

  “More like amber. But you see? Chestnut and amber—that’s an unusual combination. They don’t match.” He touched the tip of her nose. “And look—a freckle. And here’s another.”

  “I’ve had those since I was a kid and got sunburned at the lake.” She giggled. “You’ve kissed all my makeup off.”

  “Dark-haired girls don’t usually freckle. That’s what I love about your looks. Nothing really matches, but it all comes together beautifully.”

  “Oh, I’m not beautiful—not beautiful like my friend Monique McClaren.”

  “That’s another thing I like about your looks. You don’t know you’re beautiful, do you?”

  “No!”

  “You know who you look a little like? A little like Audrey Hepburn before she started playing princesses.”

  “Thank goodness it’s dark in here!”

  “Audrey Hepburn, when she still had a little baby fat.” He touched her again. “Here. And here. Don’t ever change your looks, Carol.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late to try.”

  “Most of the girls I’ve known have been city girls. You’re not like one of them. My mother would probably like me to marry some blond debutante type. Or one of our own skinny, lacquered Jewish princesses, with no hips and no rear ends. But you—you look—well, just natural. Just like yourself. Just like Carol Dugan ought to look.”

  “Thank you, Noah …”

  “I’ve known some bike girls, too. Thank God you’re not like one of them, either. Not tough.”

  “Not tough enough, maybe.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I think a man could hurt you, Carol. But I promise I’ll never hurt you. But look—I’ve made you cry.” He touched her eyelids with the tip of his tongue. “I love the taste of your tears,” he said.

  She sobbed and flung her arms around him again. “Oh, I really am your girl now, aren’t I, Noah?” she said. “I really am your girl. Oh, Noah, I love you so!”

  He looked deep into her eyes in the half-darkened room, and said, “And I you.”
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  Later, she wondered if it was callous of them to have made love so soon—and so often—after his father’s death. And yet, in some way, his father’s death seemed to have released him, and in releasing him, it had managed to release her as well. She decided she’d been in love with him all along.

  She decided she was going to make him marry her. As it turned out, that wasn’t necessary.

  “Do you find solace in the Catholic Church?” he asked her as they walked west on Fifty-ninth Street the next afternoon after seeing The Godfather, with Marlon Brando.

  “Solace? Funny word. But no.”

  “Did you ever?”

  “No, I don’t think so. That’s why I’m a lapsed Catholic. I haven’t been to mass in nearly ten years.”

  “I’m not a very good Jew, either. But you still are a Catholic, aren’t you? I mean technically. Officially. Baptised, and all that.”

  “Well, I guess so,” she said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. My mother, of course, is another story. One reason I’m studying psychology is to try to understand my mother.”

  “That’s the only thing,” he said.

  “What only thing?”

  “The only thing to stop us from getting married.”

  “It wouldn’t stop me!” Carol said.

  They had reached the park. “Sit down a minute,” he said, gesturing to a bench.

  They sat, and he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small blue box from Tiffany. “Open it,” he said.

  She opened it, and inside was a square-cut diamond solitaire, two and a half carats in weight.

  “I’m putting my money where my mouth is,” he said. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

  “Oh, Noah!” she gasped. He slipped it on her finger. “How did you know my ring size?”

  “Last night, when you were asleep, I looped a piece of string around your finger.”

  She burst into tears. “Oh, Noah,” she said, “it’s just the most beautiful ring! It’s just the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen!”

  “Better not wear it in front of your mother until you’ve explained a few things to her,” he said.

  But she decided to ignore that piece of advice. The next day she flew back to Portsmouth and drove directly to Rumney Depot, with his ring on her finger.

  Her mother noticed it immediately. “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

  “It’s my engagement ring,” she said. “I’m engaged to be married.”

  Her mother looked at her narrowly. “To whom?”

  “His name is Noah Liebling.”

  “Liebling? What kind of a name is that—Liebling?”

  “It’s a Jewish name, Mama.”

  Of course, Father Timmons was immediately summoned. “You cannot marry a Jew in my parish church,” he told her. “I cannot say a nuptial mass for you. I flatly refuse to solemnize this union.”

  “I haven’t asked you to, Father,” she said. “I don’t want you.”

  “But Father Timmons is our family priest,” her mother wailed. “If my daughter marries, Father Timmons must perform the mass!”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find someone. Someone with some sense.”

  “I have great influence with the bishop. This union will not be recognized in the eyes of God. In the eyes of God you will be living in mortal sin. In the eyes of God you will have renounced your faith. As an apostate you will be excommunicated. You will never be able to go to Confession. You will not be permitted to receive Holy Communion. You will be denied the Blessed Sacraments. When you die, your soul will be doomed to wander in eternal purgatory, Sheol, Gehenna, Tophet, the abode of the damned. Are you prepared to face all this, my child, in order to marry some—Jew?” As he spoke, he fingered his beads. “Have you had impure thoughts about this Jew?” he asked her. “Have you—sinned with the Jew? If you wish, I will hear your confession now.”

  “I have nothing to confess,” she said. “Your threats mean nothing.”

  “Abaddon, Naraka, jahannan, avichi,” he intoned, reciting the circles of damnation.

  “All my life I’ve slaved for you,” her mother sobbed. “Slaved, night and day, slaved like a dog to raise you in a Christian home, to teach you the eternal verities, to guide you in the paths of righteousness in His name’s sake … slaved, and this—this is the thanks I get!”

  “Amen,” said Father Timmons.

  “A dirty Jew!”

  “Don’t use that expression, Mother!”

  “Never to be reunited with my only child at the gates of Heaven!”

  “Let us pray,” Father Timmons said. “Let us pray for the immortal soul of this lost child. Heavenly Father …”

  “A Jew—who killed our Christ!”

  “That’s not true! Nowhere in the Bible does it say that the Jews killed Christ. Christ was killed by the Roman soldiers.”

  “My child, you are speaking of Canon Law. Canon Law!”

  “In their secret rituals they slaughter little children and drink their blood!”

  “That’s another stupid lie. Nothing you’ve said is true!”

  “In the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion it says—”

  “That’s a proven fake. Noah and I have discussed all this. Judaism is a religion just like ours, except the Jews don’t accept the divinity of Christ, who was a Jew himself. The Jews simply believe that the true Messiah is still to come.”

  “You see? What did I just tell you? The Jew has poisoned her soul!”

  “Noah also says that when someone has more than ten million dollars, he’s no longer considered Jewish. He’s merely rich.”

  Her mother looked up from her sodden handkerchief. “He has ten million dollars?” she said.

  “Not him perhaps, but his family does. Maybe even more. Someday Noah is going to be very rich.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Is that a real diamond?” her mother asked.

  “Of course it is. From Tiffany.”

  “He could always convert, Anna,” Father Timmons suggested helpfully. “I could give him his instructions. We’d be bringing another soul into our Mother Church.”

  “He isn’t going to convert,” Carol said. “He’s proud of what he is.”

  “And if Carol were to agree to raise any children in the Roman faith, then perhaps the bishop might—”

  “I won’t agree to that, either,” Carol said.

  “Of course they’re all rich,” her mother said. “All the Jews are rich. They have an international conspiracy to control—”

  Carol rose to her feet. “I’m not going to listen to any more of this garbage,” she said. “I’m going to marry Noah Liebling.”

  “She has forsaken God for Mammon,” Father Timmons said.

  “Ten million dollars,” her mother said. “How did they get all this money? What kind of business is his family in, anyway?”

  “They own distilleries,” Carol said.

  “Liquor! The devil’s brew! I might have known it. Typical, typical. The Jews are always in the liquor business. They do it to try to befuddle the minds of honest Christians, so they can take over the world—”

  “Has he tried to urge liquor on you, child?” Father Timmons asked her. “Has he tried to instill in you a taste for spirits?”

  “Slaved … all my life … like a dog … slaved … for a Christ killer …”

  Carol reached for her car keys. “I’m going now,” she said. “Good night.”

  “My child, you are flying in the face of Holy Writ!”

  “To hell with Holy Writ,” she said.

  “Carol!” her mother cried. “You know the Blessed Virgin weeps when she hears you talk like that!”

  “Screw the Blessed Virgin,” Carol said, and turned on her heel and walked out of the room, and out of the house. Behind her she heard Father Timmons chanting in Latin some arcane ritual of exorcism, and her mother sobbing, “It’s no use, no use.… The Jewish devil has got her soul.…”
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  She half expected a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder to halt her as she ran down the drive to her car, but there was none. She drove back to New York that night. It was nearly midnight when she got to Noah’s apartment. There were blood tests to be taken, and there was a license to obtain. They were married on a Friday morning in City Hall, and then went uptown to meet Noah’s mother in the scene you already know about.

  Somehow the Laconia News-Leader got word of the marriage. RUMNEY DEPOT DEB WEDS LIQUOR HEIR, the front-page headline read.

  Remembering this, Carol often smiles, wondering what the McClaren girls, if they still got the paper, made of that one: “Rumney Depot Deb.”

  11

  The Mill

  Now, in his hotel suite in Atlantic City, Noah Liebling has unpacked his suitcase—discovering in the process that he must have left the swimming trunks behind, after passing, as he came through the lobby, the hotel’s indoor pool looking sparkling, inviting, and mercifully free of small children—and now he has set up the carousel of color slides and is going over, once again, his notes for Friday afternoon’s presentation. Why, as he does this, does he experience a sudden sinking feeling, a feeling of dread and apprehension? It is just that so much time and money have already gone into this, and so much is at stake? What if the product fails to take off, as they say in the business? What if it fails to fly?

  It all began—and has been proceeding with some secrecy ever since—nearly two years ago, when Noah was in London. A distributor told him of a private distiller in the tiny Scottish village of Ballachulish who was producing a single-malt whiskey of remarkable lightness and color and “nose,” and Noah had made the trip north to Ballachulish to investigate.

  He had found the owner of the distillery, Mr. Angus Kelso, to be a jolly, rosy-cheeked, redheaded Scot who insisted that the best use of his whiskey was to pour it over pancakes for breakfast. It was equally delicious, he added, over mashed potatoes and haggis at dinnertime, and over ice cream for dessert. Indeed, his whiskey was the pale amber color of the finest maple syrup, and its flavor was equally light and buoyant, with just a touch of sweetness and none of the heavy, peaty taste of many single malts. “The ladies love it,” Mr. Kelso said with a wink. “It doesn’t have the mannish airs of a lot of the scotches around here.” Though American tastes preferred an 86-proof scotch, Mr. Kelso bottled some of his stock at a heady 105 proof. “That makes the ladies sit up and take notice!” he said.