“We’re not sure yet what he’ll be doing—oh! Here he is. ’Scuse me. Be right back.” On small, high-heeled shoes that were stained and wet from slush, she ran from the coffee shop.
The couple formed an island amid the swirl of guests in evening clothes that were converging on the Grand Ballroom. Justin faced away from Mitch, but weariness and defeat showed in the slump of his shoulders: Elisse clutched his arm, and in spite of her expression of absorbed sympathy, an exultant blush colored her cheeks.
Mitch ate lukewarm soup as he watched them: his wide features were screwed tight into an expression of jealous despair.
V
Dinner with Mitch precluded conversation. After they returned to their room on the fifth floor, the couple dealt with the injuries inflicted at Woodland in their disparate ways.
Justin attempted to belittle the floundering depth of his desolation, his bewilderment, his crushing sense of unworthiness. Elisse verbally hung Tom Bridger on the barbed wire of her wit, and brought forth the possibility with near seriousness that the letters were forgeries of the devious Hugh Bridger—how could Justin have sprung from so malicious and loony a tribe? In bed all the burdensome tenderness of her heart spilled into their joining.
She did not consider the future: Let us get through this night, she thought, tightly clasping Justin’s naked waist. Eventually, though, worn out by her earlier frantic dreads, postcoitally relaxed, she fell asleep. Her protective arms fell from Justin.
He rolled onto his back and lay staring into the darkness, sunk in a bottomless sea. Tom, faced with the truth, refused to acknowledge the relationship, even in absolute privacy. This was as far as Justin’s articulated thoughts could reach. He could only conclude, with a demoralizing acceptance of inferiority, that he was not worthy to be Tom Bridger’s son.
A scalding grief overcame him, and he wept silent, corrosive tears.
Elisse rolled onto her side, and he curved around her warm back, disciplining his flaccid mind into paths of practical responsibility. A man with a wife had to work. What would he do? His anguish told him to flee every reminder of Tom—the entire auto industry—while logic told him he must pin down one of the jobs that in palmier days had been offered to him.
One strategy alone stood out clear. Whatever he did, it could not be in Detroit. They could not live in Detroit.
VI
Elisse woke with a feverish sore throat. Justin ordered tea with honey, he went down to the lobby, returning with aspirin and a florist’s milk glass vase containing the most perfect spray of bronze cymbidiums she had ever seen, then he hurried back again for Smith Brothers cough drops, magazines, and Listerine for her to gargle with. When he returned the second time, she lay back in the pillows: He’s using this to take his mind off his own problems, she thought, and then was ashamed of herself. Sneezing violently, she used a fresh handkerchief. It was, she understood, Justin’s gift to act even when his own private world collapsed around him.
He proved this by sitting down at the desk to make a series of telephone calls to possible employers. Marveling at his control, she listened to him, and sneezed.
At nine forty-five he was wondering out loud if he should call a doctor.
“Stop behaving as if it’s terminal,” she said, her voice high with the sore throat. “A cold, Justin, a cold, and you’re about to catch it.”
“Haven’t had one in years.”
“You haven’t? How can I know everything about you and nothing?” She sucked on a cough drop. “I don’t get sick often, either, but when I do, I’m a bear. Let me hibernate, okay? Visit a friend or something.”
He sat on the bed, touching his large knuckles to her warm cheek. “Today I planned on taking you to meet Zoe.”
She had not mentioned the abortive telephone call. After a brief pause she kissed his hand. “You run along, Justin. I’ll be more charming after a snooze.”
VII
The snow had either melted or been cleared from central Detroit, but in residential districts like Indian Village it remained. A long, sepulchral mound covered the strip of grass down the middle of Seminole while lumpy hillocks hid the lawn in front of the new half-timbered house that Caryll had leased before the wedding.
Only the master bedroom was completely furnished: Caryll, despite his overload of work before the wedding, had planned this room as a surprise for Zoe when they returned from their honeymoon, filching time from designing the Seven to sketch ideas that he mailed to Sloane’s in New York. An enormous sculptured ivory Chinese rug covered the floor, silver tea paper gleamed with burnished depth on the walls, the stalactites of modern Baccarat chandeliers were echoed by the stalagmites of crystal ornaments, and the enormous divan bed, raised up two shallow steps, was upholstered in white slubbed silk. As Caryll had intended, the room resembled a fairy-tale ice palace, a background for his bride’s superbly vivid coloring.
A few minutes after ten she was reclining back into a hill of minuscule white lace pillows, slowly, luxuriously licking the sweet brown topping from a schnecke.
The voluble Belgian lady’s maid came into the room, announcing, “Monsieur Hutchinson is downstairs.”
“Justin?” Zoe sat upright, jolting the breakfast tray on her lap. The Belleek cup fell, spilling dregs of coffee across the inserted satin initial of the white silk blanket cover that was part of the trousseau linens Justin had paid for. “Alone?”
“Oui, madame, he is alone. I told Mary to show him into the library, so—”
“Take this,” Zoe interrupted in a high, excited voice, shoving impatiently at the tray, popping the small coffee cake into her mouth.
While the maid drew her bath, Zoe dragged clothes from the dressing room closets, strewing them across the bed and chairs, finally selecting a yellow Vionnet wool.
It was eleven when she descended the curving staircase. At the bottom step she halted, uncertainty flickering in her magnificent dark eyes. What if Justin’s wife had told him about last night’s unanswered telephone call? Zoe still loved Hugh—probably the more for evading her—and respected him, yet she could not for the life of her comprehend his screwy denunciations of Justin’s wife’s religion. Her own emotion was primitive. A volcano of hot jealousy. This woman had stolen Justin from her. She had been unable to pick up the extension because the words Mrs. Justin Hutchinson were quivering along her nerves like lit gunpowder.
Justin had heard her footsteps and come to the door of the library. He held out his arms.
With a small, wordless cry she ran to him. Hugging him, she said, “The same brother.”
He kissed her forehead. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“You’re married.”
“There’s a non sequitur if I ever heard one.” He took her hands, holding her away. “I was right, wasn’t I, Zozo? You’ve never been more gorgeous. Marriage obviously agrees with you.”
Zoe’s old, unfettered trust asserted itself, and she replied honestly, “I’m delirious, seeing you.”
Justin’s shadowed eyes were grave. “What about Caryll?”
“Oh, you know him. He’s always been swell to me,” she said with a deprecatory shrug. Marriage hadn’t changed that: though she was extremely fond of Caryll, his tender, domesticated adoration elicited her worst qualities. “I told them to fix all your favorites for lunch. Spinach bisque, mixed grill, roast potatoes—”
“I’ll have to take a raincheck,” he interrupted. “Elisse isn’t well. A rotten cold. That’s why she didn’t come along.” There was not a hint of anger or condemnation in his apology.
Zoe gave a relieved nod. The pout of her lovely, full mouth was sympathetic, yet there was a discernible jerk in her walk as she led him back to the nearly empty library. “I’m dying to meet her.”
“She’s very eager to meet you, too.” Justin bent over to light a cigarette. “Did Caryll mention anything about me?”
“Yesterday I told him you were in Detroit, and he went bananas with relief. He counts on you in the worst way,
Justin.” She added, “This morning he ran off at the crack of dawn to the Farm. Mr. Bridger”—Zoe still thought of her caustically unpredictable father-in-law this way—“isn’t feeling well.”
Justin dropped his cigarette. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Uncle Olaf brought him home last night with a stomach upset. Mrs. Bridger wanted Caryll to convince him to call Dr. Fairburn.”
“You’re sure that’s all it is? A stomach problem?”
“Caryll wasn’t worried in the least. But the poor baby—there’s some sort of metal casting, and he’s always up a tree when he has to fill in for his father at that sort of thing. It really tears him to pieces. Justin, this afternoon you go in and take over.”
Justin bent to retrieve his cigarette, meticulously fingering ash from parquet as he said, “I’m not with Onyx anymore.”
“You’re what?” she cried.
“I’ve quit.”
“But …” The lovely, confused dark eyes were fixed on him. “Did lightning strike or something?”
“In a way.”
“Justin, you’ve never worked anywhere else.”
“Tell me another,” he sighed.
“I don’t understand at all.”
“It’s pretty complicated,” he said. “Anyway, Ford needs a manager at their Shreveport assembly. I have an appointment with Edsel tomorrow.”
Zoe’s breath was trapped someplace deep inside her. “You mean you’re leaving Detroit,” she whispered.
“I have to,” he said expressionlessly. “It won’t work, Elisse and me living here.”
“You’re the only family I have!”
“The Bridgers all dote on you. Caryll worships you.”
“They’re not related!”
“Zoe, please, I can’t stand a tantrum today.”
“You’re leaving me!”
“You’re not eight anymore, Zozo, we’re both grown-ups. Married.”
A sob welled from her, one involuntary ululation of grief. Yet what did it matter if he departed physically or not? That woman had snatched him forever. He was irretrievably lost. The one person on this earth with whom Zoe could be her own egocentric, willful, yet delightfully vibrant self had deserted her, and she was forever trapped in a black hole, eternally deprived of the light of her own personality.
Justin drew her to the room’s one piece of upholstery, the couch that had been delivered yesterday, and sat patting her shoulder. Eventually she wiped her eyes.
“Pax?” he asked as he had when they were children.
“Pax.”
“You know that if you need me for anything, no matter how small, you can count on me. I’ll be here on the double.”
Nodding, she examined him in a new, detached way. “Justin, you look terrible,” she said. “As if you haven’t slept in weeks.”
“This decision doesn’t exactly have me dancing.” He shook his head. “What a way to start married life.”
“Poor Elisse,” Zoe said automatically.
“She’s about the least pitiable person I know. Very crisp and clean-edged. I get obnoxious about her virtues, so when you meet her you’ll find out for yourself. She has no sister, either. I’m positive you’ll end up as close as Caryll and me.” At this he unaccountably reddened. Taking out a fresh cigarette, he paused to light it. “If you aren’t worried about catching cold, let’s make our lunch tomorrow. At the hotel. Then I can introduce you two.”
Zoe knew she could not force herself into the same building—much less the same room—with the girl who had stolen her brother, yet she had long ago discovered it easier, as well as kinder, to accept invitations, then beg off at the last minute, so her mouth curved into a smile and she said, “What a fine idea.”
“I’ll call you first thing in the morning,” Justin said, gripping her shoulders, hugging her, kissing her forehead.
Zoe felt an unexpected twinge of shame at how important her fraudulent acceptance seemed to him.
VIII
Justin, though, was the one that canceled.
He had been back at the Book Cadillac maybe an hour when the telephone rang. Elisse picked it up.
“Mother!” she cried. “How did you find us? … Yes … That was clever.… Can’t you speak a little louder?”
“Elisse. What is it?” Justin asked.
“I see.… Yes, Mother.… Yes, but what do the other doctors say?” Tears were streaming down Elisse’s cheeks, and she dabbed at them with her wadded handkerchief. “Mother, he’ll be fine.… Yes, of course we’ll be there.… Don’t be silly.… As soon as we can.” She held the phone to her bed jacket. “Daddy’s had some sort of attack.”
Justin reached for the instrument. “Mrs. Kaplan, where is he?”
“The Cedars of Lebanon Hospital,” said the girlish, faraway voice. “Dr. Levin won’t tell me anything.”
“I’ll try to get through to him right away, then I’ll be back to you.”
“Oh, thank you ever so much.”
“The express leaves Chicago at nine. We’ll be on it. Mrs. Kaplan, do you have Dr. Levin’s number handy? And better give me the hospital number.” He opened his small morocco notebook.
Elisse was already taking clothes from the closet.
BOOK FOUR
The Amalgamated Automobile Workers
When they tie the can to a union man,
Sit down! Sit down!
When the speedup comes, just twiddle your thumbs.
Sit down! Sit down!
When the boss won’t talk, don’t take a walk.
Sit down! Sit down!
CHAPTER 22
“When were they booked?” Justin interrupted, a pruned, legal query.
“This morning. They were held overnight,” Mitch replied. “The police administered their routine clouting.”
Justin’s lips shaped the words sons of bitches. “And the charges?”
“The usual. Illegal assembly and disturbing the peace.”
The telephone rang. Dust flew in the sunlight as Mitch reached across the desk to answer. He held the receiver to his good ear. “AAW headquarters, Shapiro speaking.… Of course I know who you are.… Yes, Pete Fannin’s wife.…”
December 10, 1934.
A warm, sunny Monday in Los Angeles, the windows were open in Mitch’s one-room bachelor apartment, which doubled as the office of Amalgamated Automobile Workers, one of the numerous small locals that swirled futilely around the Depression-stymied industry. The space was crammed with Mitch’s battered desk, two gray metal filing cabinets, a stack of folding chairs, a carton of handbills that gave off the thick odor of mimeograph chemicals. To the doors of the Murphy bed were thumbtacked photographs of Mitch with hulking, beatle-browed John L. Lewis, Mitch with William Z. Foster, Earl Browder, and others in the hierarchies of Labor and the Communist party.
Justin, to give the illusion of not eavesdropping, had turned to look out the window. At thirty-four his hair had turned a premature, glossy gray, a hereditary trait that served him well by endowing him with the appearance of vigorous, dependable maturity so prized in the legal profession.
Two days after Edsel Ford had written offering him the head post at Ford’s Shreveport assembly plant, a letter had arrived from Henry Ford countermanding the offer—an everyday humiliation inflicted by the tough old man on his talented, sensitive son. By then, however, the correspondence was irrelevant. Justin could not abandon Mr. Kaplan, pale-lipped from gallbladder surgery, incarcerated behind the bars of his hospital bed, or Mrs. Kaplan, weeping and totally at sea. Elisse was ill with constant nausea—caused by her pregnancy, they were soon to learn. Life conspired to keep him in Los Angeles. To Justin it seemed inevitable that he enroll at USC Law School. He was well into his first year, a father himself, before he accepted the implications of leaving the industry that his biological father had almost single-handedly founded to enter Claude Hutchinson’s profession. Subconsciously he had desired to carry on the tradition as well as the name—if, unfortunately
, not the genes—of the man whom he posthumously loved, respected, and for most of his life had thought of as “Father.”
Though Justin graduated into the teeth of the Depression, he was invited to join the two most prestigious Los Angeles law firms. He and Elisse decided, however, that money and position were not fitting goals in this iniquitous new decade. He turned both down. The small family had continued to manage on the checks that arrived quarterly from London. Justin’s fledgling private practice—busy from the very first—consisted mostly of pro bono referrals from the American Civil Liberties Union and unpaid cases from Mitch’s floundering union. Had Justin been forced to grade his two careers according to personal fulfillment, he would have awarded far lower marks to these years of fighting eviction notices and collecting back pay, yet his face wore a sheen of content. Buoyed by a happy marriage, he shed his vitality and grace in a manner he did not recognize.
Mitch hung up. “Mollie Fannin. Another sad story.” He shook his head. “Her husband was a punch-press operator at the Chevrolet assembly. Pete. A couple of months ago he joined AAW, he paid his dues secretly, but still they found out. He was fired. Blacklisted. They’re starving. Mollie wanted to know if I’d heard of a job for her, any kind of work, even for a couple of days. Not because they’re down to eating fried dough, but because she wants to give her children Christmas. The excuses they make up! As if we aren’t all in the same boat.”
“Maybe she does want some stocking stuffers.”
“Santa Claus? When the system’s falling apart?”
Justin smiled. “You’ll have to bear with us human beings, Mitch. Most of us think about the weather and our kids, not the Revolution.” He took out his worn wallet. “Have her clean up headquarters.”
“Donations should go to the AAW relief fund.”
“Nevertheless. This is for Mollie Fannin.” Justin set four crumpled ones on the desk. “It’s all I have on me. Elisse handles the finances.”
“And she’s even more sentimental about giving,” Mitch said, shoving the bills into his pocket. He got up to unfold a banged metal chair. “Here, Justin, sit down. There’s something I have to discuss with you.” He waited until Justin sat. “A week from Thursday this won’t be headquarters.”
Onyx Page 37
