The word echoed back from the gleaming white walls like an accusation. Mr. Summers said hurriedly, “Celia began to develop arthritis, or perhaps it was neuritis. At any rate, it is hard for her to walk much now, and she’s only sixty-four. Damn those doctors! They can talk about miracle drugs and new treatments, but, so far as I can see, people are as frequently and mysteriously sick as they were when I was a boy. Celia spends a lot of time in bed now, poor girl. And — ” He hesitated, then spoke in a shamed voice. “We have only a maid of all work, as we used to call them, and she only part time. We can’t afford even that now.”
He waited for a superior murmur from behind the curtains, a condescension. But there was no sound. However, Mr. Summers became suddenly and acutely aware of a deep listening, a weighing, a kind measuring, a sympathy. He took off his glasses and rubbed them, for they had dimmed. “I hope,” he said a little hoarsely, “that I’m not going to lose my eyesight into the bargain. That would just top everything, wouldn’t it?” He coughed, and the cough was like a sob.
Then his words rushed out. “I wish I could do something for Celia! Damn it, do you know that I didn’t really see her for nearly twenty-five years, until just recently? Now you’ll think I’m out of my mind. I mean that I was always too busy to ‘see’ her. She was just Celia to me. Perhaps it was six months ago or less when I ‘saw’ Celia. It was a shock to me. Sixty-four isn’t a great age now, you know, what with vitamins and exercise and beauty parlors. But when I saw Celia, she was old, very old. Not so much physically — ” He stopped. “What in God’s name am I talking about! ‘Not so much physically’. Of course it was physically! Her hair was dyed, and her skin was smooth — you know all those creams women use — and her body was slender. But she was old.” He stopped. “Even older than I. And that’s a damned funny thing. She’s three years younger. Of course women age earlier. But there was something strange about it. It was as if Celia had become lifeless. That’s the word. Lifeless. And I had the peculiar sensation that she’d been that way for a long time. God! I must really be going out of my mind! Or blind.”
His voice rose, became harsh and brutal. “I can see now. It was all that worry over me. Celia’s afraid. She’s afraid of being poor again. And that’s what Henry Fellowes did to me — to Celia. He made us poor again. Poor Celia. Poor Celia!”
He stood up in his powerful hate and rage and began to walk up and down the room, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The turmoil of his spirit filled the room.
“I don’t know why I’ve been blabbering like this, when the most important thing in my life is still unsaid. What has Celia to do with it, or George, that young idiot? I had no intention of telling you about Celia and George — wasting your time! If I hadn’t stopped myself, I’d be telling you now that I never even saw the gardens we planted. They were pictured in that big national magazine; Celia was so proud of them; she worked side by side with the gardeners. George and Celia stood there together in the photographs, and I thought to myself — you can see how things had affected me — ‘Is that actually my son, George, near Celia, with his arm around her shoulder?’ I didn’t recognize him at first. I hadn’t ‘seen’ George for years, not really ‘seen’ him. There was never any time for anything but work, but George had everything I could give him. Everything. Ungrateful, too. He never once thanked me. He’s been pouting for years because I didn’t have the time to go to Boston when he was graduated from Harvard. Children are very ungrateful these days. I tried to explain to him that I had a government contract, but he shrugged it off. Now he has a government contract — a very small one, no importance — himself — ”
He took off his glasses and wiped them vigorously. “Damn it! Am I getting cataracts? Everything seems a little dim.”
He sat down in the chair with determination. “I’m taking up too much of your time. Just send me your bill. It’s very relieving, though, to talk. I haven’t really talked to anyone for years. I was brought up in an age when a man valued every hour and knew he must accomplish something. I remember what I learned in Sunday school about the talents the king gave his servants, and how he damned the one who was afraid to invest the talent he was given and buried it in the ground — where it certainly didn’t breed other talents! You must utilize every minute.” He stopped. “And now I can utilize nothing.”
His hands made fists. “Henry Fellowes. I didn’t tell you. He was the first man I took on. He was my partner, a school chum; was graduated when I was graduated. Chemical engineer, like myself. (By the way, did I tell you that I received an ‘E’ from the government during the war? Where is that flag now? I don’t know, and I don’t care.)”
His voice became deep, almost groaning. “ ‘E’ for excellence. What excellence? I’m getting old too. Never mind. Henry Fellowes. You don’t need the details. I trusted Henry, more than a brother. My partner. Worked together, denying ourselves everything. Together, we became rich. Henry made a mess of his life. Divorced one stupid woman after another; five of them. They only wanted his money. I’d try to tell him. ‘Marry somebody like Celia,’ I’d say. But no. Henry had been poor, as Celia and I had. He wanted glittering women, all teeth and flounce. He was like a kid who has no money but stares through the window of a candy store. And when he gets some money he runs in and gorges. And makes himself sick. Henry isn’t a fool, not normally. But those women of his! Bleached, hard, singing, chattering, flashing. He must have a vulgar streak in him somewhere. He couldn’t have enough of the bitches.”
Mr. Summers laughed briefly. “It’s very funny. He thought, each time he married, that the woman would become like Celia — I suppose. Settle down in a nice house and have children. They never did, of course. They wanted his money, and rich furs and jewels and travel and dancing. And lovers. He always found out. But he had a juvenile personality. Celia wanted to help him, to introduce him to friends of hers, lonely widows. I told her, ‘Mind your own business, Celia. A man always knows what he wants. Henry wouldn’t be interested in your well-bred friends’. I was right, of course. Henry wanted something they call ‘glamour’. ” Mr. Summers paused. “At least I think he wanted that. He’d never had any gaiety in his life when he was young. He had no discrimination. He had no one like Celia to give him a sense of values.”
He became aware of what he had said, and stared blankly. Then he frowned, and his face blackened. He struck the arm of the marble chair with his fist.
“What has all this to do with anything? I had no intention of telling you all this rot. All you need to know is that Henry’s paying alimony to at least five women, all childless. Such women are expensive. They’re like leeches — on Henry. Sucking his blood. Naturally it serves him right. But he was always the hopeful, buoyant type, like a kid. And then it happened, inevitably. I had pneumonia five years ago, a bad siege. I was out for five months, then we went to Montego Bay so I could recover. When I came back I found that Henry had swindled me, ruined me, practically sold me out. He had a team of very shrewd lawyers. The details don’t matter. What does matter is that he betrayed me, his friend, the one who gave him a start, who helped him to become rich in the first place.”
Mr. Summers started forward in the chair, his face fierce, yet wounded and bewildered.
“When I asked Henry to come in with me he was making twenty-five dollars a week. He never did have any sense of direction. But we were old friends. He was like a child. ‘Be a partner with me,’ I said, ‘and we’ll do big things together’. He was doubtful. ‘We’ll have the whole world,’ I said. ‘I’m counting on you, Henry, to help me establish something’. I must have reached him finally, for he looked at me trustfully. ‘You mean that you want me?’ he said. ‘More than anything else,’ I told him. ‘Come with me’.
“He did. And then he betrayed me. The details don’t matter. Now I have less than five thousand dollars in the bank. I have no company — my company. All my friends have deserted me. I’m all alone. Betrayed. By Henry, whom I trusted, on whom I built. Do you k
now what I heard recently? He was in one of those clubs I formerly belonged to but which I can’t afford now. Someone said to him, ‘What’s become of Clive Summers, your partner? He was your partner, wasn’t he?’
“And he said, ‘Clive Summers? Clive Summers? Oh, Clive Summers. I don’t know’. And then he walked away. That’s what someone told me. He didn’t even know me, after all these years, and after what I’d done for him! He actually implied he hadn’t even known me!” Mr. Summers again beat the arms of his chair with his fists. “He hadn’t even known me, the man he betrayed!”
He stood up and shouted: “Do you think they believed him? No! One of my old friends — he doesn’t know me now — said, ‘Why, you and Clive were in partnership for years! Wherever I saw you, I saw him’. And he denied it. We weren’t friends; it was just a loose business association. Only an association, in passing. Who did he think he was deceiving? Henry Fellowes. Why, I loved him as if he’d been my brother; we couldn’t have been closer.” He said in a lower voice, almost whispering, “We couldn’t have been closer.”
Mr. Summers walked almost within touching distance of the immovable curtains. “But what do you know about betrayal?” he challenged. “Oh, in an academic sense, no doubt. As one of the facets of the human personality. But did anyone betray you? Do you think it was just the money he defrauded me of? No. It was his denial of me, his desertion. That was the worst, the most terrible thing. He’d not even known me!”
The curtains did not stir. The room seemed to smile deeply in its whiteness. Mr. Summers cried, “What do you know? About betrayal? Who ever betrayed you, you, smug behind that curtain?”
He plunged his finger on the button, and the curtains whirled aside in the overwhelming light. Mr. Summers stepped back, staring, and then he bent, as if broken. He could not look away from what he saw.
After a long time he said, “Yes. Yes, of course. You know all about betrayal. Who, more than you, should know? Forgive me.”
His legs felt boneless and weak, and he fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands. Another long time passed. He could feel the light all about him. Then he spoke again, whisperingly, and with pauses.
“I’m sorry for Henry. You see, I can ruin him now. I have the facts. At first I was too sick and stunned. Now I have the facts and the lawyers. I can have him prosecuted, thrown into jail, for fraud and misappropriation of funds, and a dozen other things. But I am not going to do it.
“He has another wife, and I’ve heard she is worse than all the others, and he’s desperate, even with the money he took from me by fraud and manipulation. He’s almost out of his mind. Perhaps he’s remorseful. After all, he is as old as I am. A man doesn’t get younger. He must be lonely. He must be as lonely as Celia and George.
“Whatever Henry did, he must live with it. At least I’m clean of anything like that.” Mr. Summers took his hands from his eyes. “Are you still listening?” he asked humbly. “But you always listen, don’t you? Aren’t you ever tired?
“ ‘As lonely as Celia and George’. That’s a strange thing to think of, isn’t it? I am beginning to remember Celia before we built that house. She used to laugh and sing in our little flat. She would agree with me that it would be wonderful to have that big house — someday. Do you know? I don’t think she cared; she was just kind, and she went into the dream with me because she thought that was what I wanted too. Perhaps I did, when I was younger. And then I had it.
But I didn’t see Celia any longer. I didn’t even miss her. Until everything I had was gone. I didn’t notice my son, with his governess and his tutor, and then his boarding schools, and then his university. I was proud of his reports, yes. But I never really saw him. I buried my one talent in the ground. I wonder if it is still there.”
He dropped his hands. “There wasn’t any time, no. Not for worthless things. There never was.”
He stood up resolutely, like a young man. He laughed a little. “George has some radical idea about the conversion of energy through manipulation of metals. But you know more about these things than we do, don’t you? He’s tried to interest me. He’s looking for a partner. I am going to be that partner with my five thousand dollars. I’m going to work in a shop again with a young man, and he’s my son and he’ll never betray me. Never. My son. My son will never betray me.
“I must go home now and tell Celia. I’ve just had the most peculiar idea. I think when I tell Celia she’ll get out of bed and she won’t be sick any longer. I often wonder at the patience of good women. And your mother? Was she patient too? Yes, yes. She must be the most patient of all. Please give her my love.”
SOUL FIVE
The Father’s Business
Did you not know that I must be about My Father’s business?
Luke 2:49
“So, you listen, huh?” said Barney Lefkowitz heavily. “A doctor. One of them psychiatrists. So, what’s there to listen to? Me, I’ve been listening for forty years. I’ve got this butcher shop, kosher. ‘Barney for Beef’. That’s what it says over my door, just like your ad. Listen, I can pay. I don’t take anything from nobody, free. Worked all my life, even in Russia. Ever been to Russia? Communism. That’s what they call it. This schnook, Khrushchev. He’s just one of the old czars. Czar Alexander, Czar Nikita. What’s the difference? Different names, same people. That’s what I try to tell my customers. But no. They read the newspapers. Me, I don’t have time.”
He was a short stout man with a round bald head, a big red face, and large, intense blue eyes. “Yeh. I’ve been listening. To my customers. Neighborhood store. Once I hear this opera about a feller called Figaro. Figaro this, Figaro that, Figaro, Figaro! That’s me. I hear all their troubles, mostly the women. Have they got troubles! Who hasn’t? The ones don’t have troubles you can count on the fingers of one hand. But nobody’s got troubles like me.”
He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “I got real troubles. Only thing that’s good about it, my wife’s dead. If she was here, it’d be worse. I’d have her to worry about too. You see, it’s our boy, Morris.”
He shifted weightily in the chair. Again he wiped his forehead, as if he were weeping at every pore.
“Every Yiddisher mother wants her boy to be a doctor or a lawyer. A dentist, maybe. But a doctor’s the best. We saw them in the old country, in their carriages, with horses, and coats with fur collars, and fur gloves. A doctor. He’s like a rabbi, see? One’s for the soul, the other’s for the body. Don’t know which one gets hurt more easy. (You a psychiatrist, huh, like a lot of bright Jewish boys?) Well, that’s new. Morris, he’s just a specialist. Cancer. All those big machines, like a factory. Thirty-five years old. Never got married. Too busy taking care of everybody else.”
He sighed and looked about the white and shining room. “Kind of like a temple,” he said. He glanced down at the hat on his plump knee. “Well, I hear you can come in here and you listen. All the time in the world.
“Bertha and me, we work so Morris can go to this doctor college. Bertha works by the store too. Every cent in the bank, for Morris and the college. A nice boy, Morris. A good boy. Even in school the teachers say he’s a good boy. A fine scholar. Not like me. Never a word that ain’t good. No screaming, like other kids. And even when he’s little, he comes in here for the meat and takes it to the customers. Polite like a king, and some of those women — — !
“I should complain! If it wasn’t for the women, Morris wouldn’t have gone to the college. They ask every year, ‘How is the bank account for Morris?’ No, we don’t complain. Times are bad, we give credit. When times get better, they pay. That’s poor people. There’s this big fancy store on Shelton Street where the rich ladies go. They pay when they think of it, and they don’t think often. Money don’t mean anything to them.
“Maybe you got all the time there is. I don’t. I got to be back for the phone. Well, it was three days before Morris graduated, with that funny hat they put on. And Bertha’s shopping for a new dress, and t
his kid is driving and he runs her down, and that’s all. She says to me in the hospital, ‘Never mind, Barney. You go to the graduation like I was there. And maybe I will be too’. So, after the funeral — maybe you don’t know about this, but I’m Orthodox. We bury the dead before sunset. Morris is eight hundred miles away, and he can’t get a plane for two days. The holidays. Easter. Well. What does it matter? Bertha wasn’t there anyway. What an angel. So, we do it the way she wanted; she had a right to say, didn’t she? And I was there, and after the graduation Morris breaks down in my arms, and then we go to the temple and he says kaddish.
“Morris, he wants to be a cancer specialist. Eight more years. I work, and he works, and it’s eight years. Then I say, ‘What about a nice girl, Morris?’ And he only smiles.
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