Dreams Bigger Than the Night (32 page)

“And?”

“If the call was made before he was killed, he probably made it. If after . . .”

“Arietta or her father,” Jay volunteered.

“You said it, I didn’t.”

Trying desperately to think like a cop, Jay said, “What if someone forced Axel to make the call . . . or the Maglioccos hired a hit man, who telephoned them once the job was done? You have to admit, there could be other explanations.”

“It’s all academic now, as they say. We’re in the clear.”

“Maybe someday I’ll run into her.”

“If you do, give her my best. By the way, you know a dame who calls herself Margie the Bop? The boys tell me she’s been asking for you. She’s dancing at Minsky’s.”

Her stage name amused Jay. “We used to be pals. I’ll write her.”

“My advice, kid, is buy a train ticket and come home. I’m sure your parents would love it.”

The conclusion of Mary Astor’s trial had brought an end to Jay’s contract. Unless he wanted to return to Sierra Powder Puffs, he had no means to remain in California and see Arietta. The work that he most cared for, journalism, was in Newark.

“I’d really like to see Los Angeles before returning back east. Do you have any contacts who could fix me up with newspaper work in the city?”

“Listen, kid, I owe you a favor for sending you on a wild-goose chase. Come back east and I’ll pay for you to go to law school.”

The generosity of Longie’s proposal overwhelmed him. He said thanks a million, but given his commitment to Arietta, he felt obliged to decline. “I know I’ve mentioned law school before, but I don’t think I’m ready.”

“Jay, you’re older now, and wiser, at least I hope so. Think over my offer. It’s good any time.”

Jay repeated how much he appreciated Abe’s kindness, asked him to give his regards to Puddy and the others, and said that he just might try to find work at the movie studios. Longie asked about T, but Jay decided to relate that story another time. They wished each other good luck and concluded the conversation warmly. The next time that he and Arietta were alone, he told her about Longie’s generous offer.

“Did you mention . . . father and me?”

“He brought it up,” Jay answered, fudging the truth.

“What did he say?”

“They found Axel’s phone records. The day of the murder a call was made to your house. The cops don’t think Axel made it.” Screwing up his courage and risking all, he asked, “Who made it, Arietta?”

She looked away, but finally spoke, admitting that she had made the call. “I had gone to his trollop’s apartment . . . to condemn his pimping.” She explained that the door was partially open. “Axel was still alive, unconscious, lying on the floor, bleeding. I panicked, guessing who had killed him. Wildly searching his apartment . . . to find any incriminating evidence about me and Axel . . . I failed to call the police . . . or an ambulance.” Her eyes pooled with tears. “I left him to die . . . unattended. Wasn’t that hateful?”

“That’s when you called your father?”

“Just before I left the apartment—to tell him what I suspected. He didn’t deny it.”

They sat in silent contemplation for a while, each of them no doubt trying to imagine the thoughts of the other. Whether out of genuine concern or simply to seek safe ground, Arietta changed the subject, though her voice quivered with fright.

“Will you really go to law school?”

“Arietta, you needn’t worry. I’m not leaving, certainly not now . . . in fact, not ever.”

Her anxiety seemed to melt away, and for a few minutes they chatted fondly. After less than an hour, Aunt Amalie came into the room, said it was time for Arietta’s sponge bath, and sent Jay home.

The next day, Amalie called to say that Arietta did not feel up to a visit. Could he come tomorrow instead? She assured him that nothing was seriously wrong and that occasionally Arietta suffered from extreme fatigue, which made talking difficult. He spent the afternoon looking for an engagement ring but could find nothing tasteful. Most of them looked obscenely loud or painfully poor. He decided to heed Arietta’s advice and wait.

Again he slept well and lazed about in the morning, fussing with his summer suit so that when he saw Arietta his clothes would bespeak his intentions. While he was admiring himself in the mirror, one of the hotel staff knocked at the door and handed him an envelope stamped special delivery. Arietta’s name was on the return address. But before savoring her words, he finished adjusting his tie, a token gesture of his desire to hold her presence dear.

My Beloved Jay,

My aunt is writing these words and has promised not to blush. Your wish to marry me has given me more joy than I deserve. I love your every movement, your every touch, your every word.

As you probably guessed, your last visit initially elated me, but then as I began to think of what you would be giving up to make a life with me, I could not convince myself that you would be happy with a cripple. Yes, I know that is a harsh word but an honest one. I suspect you must have felt it when you said, “I’m not leaving, particularly now.” The “now” could refer only to my condition. When you quickly added “not ever,” I knew that it was intended as an afterthought, because you sensed what you had actually implied. If you married me, you would feel trapped, even though you might want to leave. With this cloud over us, we would always be weighing our words, never free to live and love with abandon.

Although I don’t want you ever to forget me, I want you to be brilliant with learning, married to a woman who is your equal, in every way. Longie has given you an incomparable opportunity. Take it, for my sake. I want to read about you in the years to come. Jay Klug, the famous lawyer—and novelist.

In breaking off our “engagement,” I realize I am leaving behind someone I’ll long for every moment of the day. I do so already.

Love,

Arietta.

Postscript

The sale of his father’s business to Helena Rubinstein enabled Jay and his parents to limp along until he had graduated from an outstanding law school, at which time he went to work for Abe Zwillman, handling some of his more problematical business affairs. When Abe died in 1941—the authorities said he hanged himself, even though his hands were tied behind his back—his estate went principally to his wife, with a few gifts to friends, like a red Cadillac to Jay.

Shortly after Zwillman’s funeral, Jay entered the army and fought with the Allies as they moved from North Africa into Sicily and through the boot of Italy. South of Rome, they camped in a small village. Mail from home, posted months before, finally caught up with them. Among his letters was one from Mr. Magliocco, written in Italian. Jay had a local priest, who spoke good English, translate it.

Dear Mr. Klug,

Forgive me for writing to you in Italian. It’s easier for me. As you know, I’ve always felt protective about Arietta. She can now sleep outside the iron lung and, though she spends a few hours each morning in it, devotes most of each day to reading and to writing in her diary. I know how much she feels your absence and would love to correspond with you but feels that you would misunderstand her intentions. Let me assure you that her breaking off the engagement was not from a want of feeling but from an act of self-sacrifice. That she regrets it now, I have little doubt. However, as we say, the water that is fed to the plant can no longer be returned to the pail. I pen this brief note to beg a small favor: Write to her. Should you decide that my own flagrant sins, which I know from Arietta indirectly caused the death of your friend, prevent you from corresponding, I will surely understand.

Praying for your safe return and success, I am

Yours sincerely,

Piero Magliocco

In May 1945, Jay resumed his job as a journalist, fully intending to complete a book about his farraginous journey through the chronic angers of a hungry world. But he has been delayed by more important matters: a marriage and helping to raise the three children, two sons and a
daughter, he has with Arietta. Now completely free of the iron lung, she can walk with the aid of braces, though she prefers that Jay push her in a wheelchair, which she calls her jaybird chariot, a better name, by far, than “jailbird,” a tag that Jay might well have earned had the Kefauver crime committee been able to incriminate him in Longie’s felonies. His appearance before the committee made headlines in Newark, because he told the investigators that the real crimes of the 1930s were committed not by gangsters but by bankers and industrialists who grew fat off the Depression, off the beggaring of millions. It was families robbed of their self-respect who joined “gangs.” Asked whether he would be willing to put his thoughts into writing, he said, “I’m sure that I shall not rise to the level of inspiration, but perhaps in the book that I’m hoping to resume, I can achieve explanation.”

FINI

Glossary

broost
: brisket

benny: a man’s overcoat

bupkis
: nothing

chutzpah
: nerve

ecco
: lo, behold

es vet dir gornisht helfen
: nothing will help

forshpiesers
: hors d’oeuvres

gelt
: money

Il uomo é un pavone
: The man is a peacock

lansman
: countryman

Men ken makhn dem kholem gresser vi di nakht
: One can blow up a dream to be bigger than the night

m
ishuganah
: crazy

mit vergnügung
: with delight

non sono d’accordo
: I disagree

noshes
: snacks

putz
: penis

Shabbas
: Sabbath

shanda
: scandal

shmattahs
: rags or cheap dresses

schvarzes
: blacks

tuchis
: backside

volk
: folk, common people

yahrzeit
: the anniversary of someone’s death, especially a parent’s