Onyx

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  Agnes and Joan counted out bills with jolly cousinly derision of Zoe’s luck, while Berenice, a friend from school days, reached for her checkbook. “The rich get richer,” she sighed, tearing out the check. “Let’s pray this clears. You girls can’t imagine what it’s like, having to live off dividends nowadays.”

  Three large cars rolled off into the rainy darkness. Lynn ran in, fresh from playing scales, and Miss Henderson, whose smile revealed her poorly fitting English dentures, waited to collect her charges for supper in the nursery. Caryll and Zoe went upstairs to change.

  She headed across their bedroom to her boudoir.

  “Zoe, I have to talk to you.”

  “Later,” she said. “We’re having dinner alone.”

  “This is something I’d just as soon the servants didn’t hear.”

  She made a pretty moue. “Won’t you come into my parlor said the spider to the fly.”

  Thick shagged white carpet showed the identation of her high heels. At the dressing table she turned to him. Venetian-mirrored paneling reflected endless vistas of an ordinary-looking man with thinning brown hair as he faced an impatient beauty.

  After a long silence she inquired, “Is it that bad, poor baby? Another battle with the lakefront phantom?”

  “Uncle, yes.” Caryll’s gaze shifted from her reflections to his wife. “He mentioned that Justin’s in Detroit.”

  Zoe’s hand jerked. A perfume flacon toppled. The stopper had not been secured, and the sweet, libidinous scent that Guerlain made solely for Zoe Bridger filled the room. She mopped a handkerchief. Caryll watched her closely: Zoe, pitiably blanched, fingers erratic, lashes aflutter. But not in the least surprised.

  “You knew,” he said. “How?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Zoe, we’re talking about your only brother.”

  “He must have telephoned. Yes, that’s it. In January. Something about wanting to see me. The girls. You.”

  “And you never mentioned it.”

  She fretted the perfumed-soaked cobweb of linen. “I blocked it, I willed myself to forget it, do you understand, Caryll? It’s traumatic for me to think about him, you know that.” Tears intensified the darkness of Zoe’s huge, pleading eyes. “We were so close and now it’s as if I don’t exist for him.”

  “In his letters he always asks about you.” Caryll spoke gently, comfortingly. “Honey, he remembers all sorts of little things about you. He misses you like anything. Did he mention why he’s here?”

  Zoe shook her head.

  “He’s a labor organizer,” Caryll said.

  Zoe sat on the silk-pillowed vanity stool. “You mean she’s turned him into a Bolshie?”

  “Now don’t you start,” Caryll sighed. “I’ve had that up to here with Uncle Hugh. My God, as if Justin ever let himself be a puppet. He’s the only man I ever knew who stood head to head with Dad. This is his way of putting himself on the line to improve conditions.”

  “But he’s a radical.”

  “There’s nothing so radical about believing in collective bargaining. Believe me, he’s not the only man we know who’s for a closed shop. Justin hasn’t changed, Zoe. I’m positive of that. First thing tomorrow I’ll call Employment for his telephone number and address.”

  “He’s with Onyx?”

  “Yes. Woodland.”

  “Then why haven’t you seen him?”

  “Maybe I have and didn’t recognize him. He’s in the tire shop.”

  “A laborer?” Zoe asked in a faded whisper.

  “Honey, it’s not a catastrophe,” Caryll said, recollecting that an hour ago, peering at the drab throng, he, too, had been ajangle with consternation, perplexity, disbelief.

  “But … our grandmother was a contessa. And he was a top man at Onyx.”

  “The workers would hardly trust him if he had offices in the Tower,” Caryll said. “We’re going to get together with him and his family on Sunday.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “We’re inviting them to lunch or dinner.”

  “Caryll … I can’t.” The tear-drenched eyes held a look of deep hurt.

  Caryll ignored this attempt at emotional blackmail. “Lunch’ll be best. Then the children can be with us. It’ll be fun showing off the girls. And meeting his son and daughter—and his wife.”

  “They’re working against us,” Zoe whispered.

  “They’re tackling the same problem but from another angle,” Caryll said. “There’s been too much meanness at Woodland these past years. And what’s the point of it? Why do we keep Dickson Keeley’s army of goons? Half of them belong in Sing Sing. Why hire an army to exclude a few labor organizers? That’s the reason I’m in such a rush to get together with Justin. The sooner we start discussions, the better.”

  “Whatever’s the matter with you, Caryll? You know Father Bridger’ll never negotiate with a union.”

  “That’s the whole point. This isn’t simply a union. It’s Justin. He always listened to Justin.”

  “And he’s forever saying nobody’ll tell him how to run his factories. Look at how often the President’s called! It’s never made a dent.”

  “He’s always aimed at decent working conditions. Between us, Justin and me, we can convince him that a closed shop will be more efficient, fairer, and cheaper than hiring hordes of Security.” Caryll had unconsciously lapsed into the businesslike determination he took on when dealing with his departments.

  Zoe looked up at him, her lovely, full mouth pulling back against her teeth. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you, Caryll?”

  “The country’s on a collision course and I feel so damn helpless. The least I can do is take a stab at bettering conditions at Onyx.”

  “Of course I’ll invite him—all of them. He’s probably in the telephone book. I’ll call tomorrow morning. You’re right. It’ll be wonderful to see him and his children.” Her voice went higher. “Caryll, I’m so proud of you. I’ll help all I can.”

  The surrender was off-key, but Caryll for once showed none of his litmus paper sensitivity to his wife’s moods. Full of his plans, he kissed her forehead gratefully and went to his dressing room to get ready for dinner.

  III

  The next morning was sunny, and Caryll drove himself in the Swallow coupe to the Grosse Pointe Country Club—the links had just opened for the season. He preferred to spend his weekends at home playing with the girls or puttering with his watercolors; he found golf a repetitive bore and could never understand the fuss that grown men made about their scores, handicaps, and tournament standings. He had joined the club in the belief that Onyx had an obligation to participate in attempts to solve the economic foulup. Neither his hermit uncle nor his abrasive loner of a father communicated with others in the industry, so he mingled with automotive leaders along the fairways and in the clubhouse.

  He did not get home until after three.

  Zoe was in bed, propped by a tumble of miniature pillows. Her brilliant, uncombed hair seemed to drain all her color, and the exquisite, ashy face was slack save for one delicate furrow of pain between her brows. The curtains were drawn. The air smelled smoky and thick: next to the limp narrow hand with the carmine nails was a precariously balanced saucer filled with cigarette butts.

  “You’re so late,” she whispered.

  “I got to talking to Edsel about donating to the Relief Fund.” He kissed her forehead. “Headache?”

  “The usual.” She pressed two fingers against her temple. “I’m sorry, honey bear. I couldn’t telephone Justin.”

  Caryll, empathetic as a psychic when it came to his wife, realized she was not faking her migraine. He sat on the bed. “That’s all right. I’ll get to him on Monday and make the date.”

  “You aren’t angry?”

  “Worried about you. I better let Agnes know we won’t be there tonight.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  With a seemingly casual kiss, he said, “You’re not up to dancing.”


  “At the end of the day it wears off.”

  “Honey,” he said as firmly as he dared. “We’re staying home.”

  “Artie and Agnes are counting on us.” She handed him the saucer. “Take these, will you?”

  He watched butts whirling down plumbing, his molars grimly clenched. Though he had come to recognize that Zoe’s bad times were beyond her control, he had never been able to put into manageable perspective the actions that resulted from them, the cruelties that appalled them both and left them equally heartsick.

  IV

  She shimmied across the waxed floor, her head tilting in a smile at her partners. Above the emerald ballgown the flesh of her arms, back, and the cleavage of her breasts were the translucent yet velvety white of the interior of a lily. She dazzled, she glowed, she vanquished every other woman, and no man could resist the near tactile pleasure of watching her. Caryll fox-trotted with his cousins’ wives, friends’ wives, company wives who smiled admiringly at him. His anxious desires reached out to his own wife.

  She was finishing a tricky rhumba when he lost sight of her. He looked for the emerald taffeta in the crush at the buffet table, he circled the cardroom where his friends were eating the midnight supper. With a frozen little smile he continued his search through the crowded downstairs rooms of Agnes and Artie Sinclair’s replica of Mount Vernon. At the last waltz Zoe reappeared in the ballroom, gliding with the top of her burnished head tucked under Dickson Keeley’s squarish jaw.

  Oh, God, God, Caryll thought. Dickson Keeley!

  On the way home she sang Body and Soul, her breathy little voice ruffling the soft white hairs of her fox collar.

  In the hall Caryll said brusquely, “I’m having a nightcap.”

  For a long time he sat on the den sofa, his gray eyes reflecting the glow of dying embers. He gulped his drink and reluctantly climbed the circular staircase.

  Zoe, in a cherry kimono, brushed her hair with long, sharp strokes that crackled from the titian nape to the pink-gold ends. “I had supper with Dickson Keeley,” she said.

  “Zoe, it’s after two.” He sat to take off his new pumps. “I’m bushed. Let’s not start.”

  “He said he wished that you and he could hit it off.”

  “How could you discuss me?” Caryll asked in a low, shaking voice.

  “You’re right, he’s a nasty, pushy man with that Edward G. Robinson tough talk. He boasted his weight hadn’t changed since he was at Princeton. He made me feel his biceps and thigh muscles—those conservative clothes are a pose. He wears black silk drawers with a dragon embroidered on the you-know.”

  “Shut up,” Caryll growled. Beads of sweat showed on the widow’s peak of his receding hairline.

  “His is smaller than yours. Nothing happened. It just oozed away.”

  Caryll went into his dressing room. She followed, her face puffed with unshed tears. “Why did I have to tell you that, Caryll? Why do I always? I wish I were dead! Death is calm and peaceful. Dead people can’t hurt or be hurt.”

  He unknotted his white tie. “You should have continued with Maurin,” he said with enforced coldness.

  “Maurin! What’s the point of admitting again and again that because my father died and then Mother died and Justin left me, I’m terrified of being deserted? Where has it helped me, knowing?”

  “Another analyst, then.” Caryll maintained his nonjudgmental frostiness.

  “Ahh, Caryll, don’t act like I’m a loony who can give you rabies. I can’t bear it.”

  “Then I suggest you beg sympathy from one of the men you seek out, my cousins, my friends, the men who work for me.”

  “You’re right to despise me. You’re so good, Caryll, so fine.”

  “The best and finest cuckold in Detroit.”

  “I never let them inside me.”

  “That would be more honest.”

  “Please, please say you love me.”

  “Why? Because you were unsuccessful at soixante-neuf with Dickson Keeley?”

  “Caryll, I’m drowning.”

  Caryll’s false remoteness dissolved: in a fury he hurled his tie to the floor. “I want to accomplish some good, manage a progressive action, and because it involves speaking to your brother—my friend—you punish me!”

  “She owns him, that Jewish girl.”

  “My God.”

  “You’re siding with him! He means more to you than I do!”

  “Just listen to yourself.”

  “You’re everything to me, Caryll. You’re the one person on this earth I have.”

  “It won’t work this time, Zoe. My mind’s made up. Monday I’m contacting Justin like I said I would.”

  She lunged at him, clasping her hands around his neck, pressing kisses on his averted jaw, his ear, and when he did not respond, she stepped back, letting the kimono slither into a rosy pool around her bare, high-arched feet. A plastic surgeon had traveled from Rio de Janeiro to graft the scar of her three cesareans, and only the thinnest thread of a vertical line flawed the smooth flesh above her perfumed pubic triangle. Caryll had seen her nakedness since their early adolescence, yet he could never control his awe nor—when Zoe willed it—his desire. He was aware, however, even as she caressed his tumescence with skilled delicacy, that it was not merely his wife’s excessive beauty or her sensuality that bound him to her. The strongest bond was her starved and frightened heart.

  Embracing, they moved toward the turned-down bed.

  Afterward she trailed kisses down his neck. “It drives me wild when you put anything ahead of me.”

  “I never have.”

  “You won’t call Justin?”

  Caryll hesitated.

  “Don’t let me drown!”

  Caryll sighed deeply and rolled over to turn off the bedside lamp. “All right, Zoe.”

  “You won’t see him?”

  “I won’t,” Caryll promised, condemning himself for this starstruck, pitying love that was surely his greatest weakness.

  CHAPTER 25

  In the upper right-hand corner of the thick, creamy card was embossed THE WHITE HOUSE: the few lines below were scrawled in a thick, sharp slant:

  Tom,

  Mrs. Roosevelt and I would be delighted if you and Mrs. Bridger would join us for the weekend of May 3. We have also extended an invitation to your son and daughter-in-law.

  Looking forward to renewing our friendship.

  FDR

  P.S. There will be no discussion of the NRA.

  The postscript was a humorous one. Attempting to woo Tom into signing the code, the President, in addition to twice dispatching his secretary of labor, Madame Perkins, to Detroit, had put in many richly jocund personal calls. Tom, halfway succumbing to Rooseveltian charm, had recognized the political tiger in the man. This handwritten invitation meant that some favor, probably self-damaging, was wanted of him. Hugh and Argo Macllvray composed his regrets.

  Caryll and Zoe flew in the family Lockheed Vega to Washington.

  II

  Just before five on Sunday afternoon a bland-faced aide led Caryll through corridors to a small, comfortably furnished sitting room. Reddish light slanted through the western windows to touch the President’s massive, graying head. Seated behind a leather-topped desk that hid his crippled legs, wearing a nautical, gold-buttoned blazer and a navy scarf knotted around his muscular neck, he looked powerful and strong.

  The aide excused himself.

  Caryll had spent the weekend with the Roosevelts, he had dined several times with Harding, shown Hoover around Woodland, and Coolidge had been the honored guest at his wedding. This, though, was the first time he had been alone with a president. Sweat formed under his arms, and his boyhood stammer flourished. “G-good afternoon, M-Mr. P-President.”

  “Make yourself comfortable, Caryll.” Roosevelt’s teeth remained clenched on his cigarette holder as he smiled and gestured at the slipcovered easy chairs.

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” Caryll relaxed slightly. />
  “I looked down into the garden a while ago and saw you playing croquet with Mrs. Roosevelt, Elliott, and that pretty wife of yours.”

  “We’ve had a wonderful two days, Mr. President.”

  “A shame your father and mother couldn’t join us.”

  “Dad wants a raincheck.”

  “He does, eh?” Behind the pince-nez the close-set eyes twinkled. “Well, Tom Bridger must have mellowed since our telephone talks. That Tom Bridger meant it when he said no.”

  Flustered again, Caryll managed a sickly smile. “You have me there, sir.”

  “A remarkable man, your father. The true visionary of the machine age. The world would be pretty much the same if one or the other of us politicians hadn’t been born. But without Tom Bridger we’d be living in a far different place. I don’t think he realizes how people look up to him.”

  Caryll shifted his weight uneasily. “Mr. President, he might not have signed the NRA certificate, but he complies fully with the code.”

  “You don’t have to tell me! I listen to the Onyx hour.” The smile faded. “The truth is, Caryll, I agree with him. It’s far from a perfect package. We bundled too much together. Codes of competition within each industry as well as regulation of all labor practices. But there I go. I promised not to discuss that. I asked you here so we could talk about the main problem the country faces. It’s unemployment, don’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. President. Unemployment.”

  “Dole’s not the answer. A man needs work to give him hope and pride, he needs work to give him an identity and make him feel human.”

  “You’ve made a real dent, sir, with the CCC, the WPA.”

  “A beginning, that’s all. We need support from industry.”

  “Onyx has plans for a new glass factory in Nashville, and a cold sheet finishing mill at the Hamtramck.”

  “You do? Excellent, excellent. A step in the right direction, but the problem is enormous. Fifteen million unemployed.” The President paused. “The solution we’ve come up with is on a grand scale.”