Authors: Howard Fast
"I realize how busy you are," Jean said. "But this is important."
Tom had lunched with Whittier that day, in the private dining room on the floor above their offices, and Whittier guessed that Jean's business concerned Barbara. "Just who is this Jewish feller she's been seeing?" he asked.
"God only knows," Tom replied. "Someone from overseas. Apparently she met him during the war."
"On the other hand, Jean might just be here with your father's blessing."
"And what does that mean?" Tom asked.
"He's operating three tankers out of Oakland. I don't like that. I don't like him being on the bay at all. I don't like your father, Thomas. I don't like him one bit."
John Whittier was aging rapidly. He had become nervous and petulant, and he had developed a habit of whining. He made frequent visits to his physician, and his loss of weight made Tom suspect a malignancy of some kind. More and more, Tom felt it would be a relief to have Whittier out of the way. Illness had made him supercautious. He complained endlessly about the cost of the new building, and he had become obsessed with overspending and waste. Now, with a seamen's strike looming over the shipping industry and with cargo falling off, he was worse than ever.
"Don't worry about my father," Tom said soothingly. "He's a very small potato. And if the seamen strike, he might just go under."
"That's it with you youngsters. Don't know the meaning of a strike. Don't remember the last big one. That sister of yours—she played a cute game with me." He went on and on while Tom said to himself, "Old man, I'm tired to death of you."
For his part, he felt quite certain that his mother did want to talk about Barbara. He had no strong feelings about her, one way or another. They met very infrequently, and when they did, their exchange was polite and impersonal, as were his increasingly rare exchanges with his mother. Her relationship with Dan Lavette was embarrassing to him. It made him uncomfortable and uneasy, and the circumstances that had brought it about were beyond his understanding. His growing dislike for his natural father had increased over the years; his mind had altered the memories to suit his needs, and his distaste had turned into loathing. He had never spoken of it to Jean, and he was determined that this time, too, the subject would remain undiscussed.
However, he welcomed the tall, handsome, meticulously dressed woman who entered his office that afternoon with enthusiasm. It was a point of pride with him that Jean remained attractive at an age when so many Women surrendered to dowdiness. "Do you like the offices?" he asked her eagerly. "Lionel Smith decorated them. I don't suppose it's entirely to your taste, mother, but it's the wave of the future. Clean, simple lines—well, you've been waving the flag for modern art. You should like it."
"Perhaps it's too antiseptic for my taste, but very nice.
Tom, can we be alone? I don't want to see John Whittier."
"You won't. I've arranged that."
"Good." She looked around the office—the marble slab that served as a desk, the contour chairs, the couch of leather slung on chrome, the fake Mondrian wall—thinking that it was quite tasteless and uninspiring. On the other hand, she had not offered to help, but then, neither was she an interior decorator. "Please don't sit behind that enormous desk, Tom." She seated herself on the couch and pointed to one of the contour chairs. "That would be better. This is rather intimate."
He seated himself and sighed.
"I want this to be a quiet, civilized discussion, Tom. I came here to ask you to give Eloise a divorce."
He was taken completely aback. He stood up, walked to his desk, and lit a cigarette. Then he turned back to her and said, "I don't think this is your province, mother. I'd rather not discuss it."
"Please sit down, Tom."
"I prefer to stand."
"Very well. It is my province. You are my son. Eloise is my daughter-in-law and a dear friend."
"That's just the trouble."
"What does that mean?"
"I mean that if she spent less time around that damn silly museum of yours and more time at home—"
"Tom! Why don't we talk sense? You know the situation as well as I do."
"I'm not going to talk about it at all."
"Then I shall have to insist that you do."
"There is nothing to talk about. There will be no divorce."
"I had hoped you would be more sensible," Jean said quietly. "You are my son, and believe it or not, I care for you—as much as you let me. I don't want to pressure you, and believe me, I can. I am asking you as earnestly as I can to let that child go. Live your life, but let her live her own life and find whatever happiness she can."
"I told you, I will not discuss it."
"Then you force me to. Alan Brocker was a friend of mine in the days when I had such friends. He subsequently married Manya Vladavich, who was Calvin Braderman's model—"
"Damnit, mother, what has this got to do with anything? My work is piled neck deep. I happen to be the chief of one of the largest corporations in California. I will not have you interfere with my personal life, and I will not waste an afternoon standing here and listening to you babble nonsense!"
"But, Tom, what can you do? Have me bodily removed?" Jean asked.
"I can damn well leave. If you wish to spend the afternoon here talking to yourself, you have my blessing!" He started toward the door.
"Tom, just hold on! I mentioned Manya because Manya loves to whimper on my shoulder. A year ago, Lionel Smith, your decorator, was having an affair with Alan Brocker."
Tom paused and turned to face her.
"Alan had just turned sixty, and I suppose he required stimulation. He is also very wealthy, and he has always bought what he fancied. Manya came to me with this delicious gossip, but the romance was short-lived. Manya also has a loose and spiteful tongue."
"That bitch," Tom said.
"Please sit down," Jean said gently, telling herself, "What a rotten way." She was filled with pity. His arrogance was crumbling. As much as she knew about such things, it was her doing as well as his. "I didn't want to say this, Tommy. Believe me, it makes no difference to me."
He dropped into a chair. "No, not at all."
"Not at all. I don't understand such things. I don't condemn them, either. I've lived too long and hurt too many people to sit in judgment. If you have a relationship with Lionel Smith, that's your affair—only yours—not mine, not anyone else's. I told Manya that if she ever spoke of this to anyone else, I'd slit her throat."
"Thank you for nothing."
"Perhaps," Jean agreed. "But I do think I bullied her into silence. As I said, I don't judge. With all our power and money, people like ourselves have messed up almost everything in this land, sex included. I have no opinions on that score, and I don't know what is right and what is wrong. I do know this—Eloise is being destroyed. Do whatever you have to do, but let her go."
He stared at her in slience.
"She doesn't know about this, and as far as I am concerned, she never will."
"Your concern overwhelms me," he said bitterly. "Does my father know? Did you inform him of your brilliant discovery?"
"Do you care?"
"Yes, God damn it, I care!" he shouted. "Oh, you're both of you two gorgeous characters! First he dumps you and runs off with this Chinese floozy, and now the two of you live together in that so-called museum of yours with the whole city snickering at the spectacle, and then you come here and sit in judgment on me!"
"Dan doesn't know," she "said evenly. "I will see to it that he never knows, if you are reasonably circumspect. But if you carry on this charade with Eloise, then sooner or later she will know and so will others. I can appreciate the fact that a divorce does not fit in with your plans, but if you believe that your marriage is a mask you can wear, you're mistaken. Quite the reverse."
"What about Freddie? He's my son."
"He'll remain your son. There's no malice in Eloise, not a shred. She would never do anything to hurt you. Eloise is expecting me this afternoon. I want to take her and the boy to my place, and they will remain with me until arrangements are made."
"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"
"Tom, I wish to God there had been an easier way to do this. I wish everything I said could be unsaid."
"Do you? Do you really?" he asked, his voice quivering. "You haven't enjoyed this at all, not one bit, have you, mother?"
"No, I have not."
"Like hell you haven't!" He covered his face with his hands.
"Tom." Now she was pleading. "I'm your mother."
"Are you? The way he's my father—oh, yes, you're my mother. Always by my side, always helping me, always loving—what kind of crap is that!"
"Tom, please."
"Are you finished? You've done it all. There's nothing more you can do to me. Nothing."
"Tom, I'm sorry."
"So am I." He was in control of himself again. "I am also very busy. I have work to do." He turned away and sat down behind his desk.
Jean rose and looked at her son for a long moment; then she left. He remained seated, staring at the papers on his desk.
She drove to the house on Pacific Heights, seeing it as if for the first time, the enormous pile of stone and wood that her son had bought as a fortress against his fears and agonies? And who else but she and Dan were responsible for the fears and agonies? She remembered a stand-up comic who once chortled, "I've been rich and I've been poor, and rich is better." She no longer knew. Like a housewife picking up pieces of broken glass and clumsily stepping on the pieces and crushing them in the process, she was trying to gather together and reconstruct the bits and pieces of her life. She was fifty-six years old, and almost nothing made a shred of sense. She had lost all of them, husband, son, and daughter. And now she was frantically trying to repair the rents and tears she had caused in the lives of others, telling herself that she made amends by helping Eloise.
Well, she thought, one does what one does. It was not much of a philosophy, but she admitted to herself that she was not very much of a person. It was, perhaps, the first time she had examined herself without obstruction and made such an admission, and she felt better as she went on into the house.
On the morning of the day of Joe Lavette's wedding to Sally Levy, Barbara and Bernie Cohen drove up to Higate. Barbara drove her 1946 Ford, the first of the postwar vintage; and Bernie contrasted it with the ancient Chevrolet in which he had driven Rabbi Blum on their first trip to Higate, when the rabbi had rescued Jake and Clair Levy from impending bankruptcy with a contract for them to manufacture sacramental wine.
"Over twenty years ago," Bernie said. "That Chevy was a miracle. I had put it together out of seven different junkyards, and the miracle was that it worked. Well, cars were simpler then. The old man was terrified. Did you ever meet the rabbi?"
Barbara shook her head. "No, but I wish I had."
"He was an amazing character—long white beard, beautiful blue eyes, a skin as pink as a baby's, he looked as if he had stepped right out of the Old Testament. You know, he took me out of the orphanage when I was twelve—closest thing to a father I ever had. That was after his wife died. There's a strange story about him, and I wonder how many people know it? You know, his father wasn't even Jewish."
"Then how on earth could he be a rabbi?"
"Listen and learn, dear woman. His father was a Dutch seaman named Blum who jumped ship in eighteen fifty and went into the diggings. He never found any gold, but in the course of looking for it he met and married a dance hall girl who was Jewish, whose name was Rosie Katz. Then, a few years later, Blum the father jumped back on a ship and was never seen or heard from again. Now, in Jewish law, the descent is through the mother, so the child was technically Jewish, just as the Levy kids are technically not Jewish because Clair isn't Jewish. Well, believe it or not, Rosie became a very successful madam in the old Tenderloin, retired reasonably wealthy in eighteen sixty, married again, this time a Jew, and the rabbi was raised as a Jew, sent east to the seminary, and then he came back here as a full-fledged rabbi. How about that?"
"It's incredible," Barbara said, "When I think of how new we are here. Mother had a bit of doggerel that she used to impart to me as a great secret. It went like this: Granddad worked in the placer mines, Daddy's on Nob Hill. If it weren't for Sutter and Sutter's gold, I'd still be sucking swill. Mother said that grandma once heard her saying it and became perfectly furious. How granny ever permitted mother to marry an Italian fisherman, I'll never know."
"From what you tell me of your mother, it was not a question of permission."
"She's quite a lady. You'll meet her today, and daddy and everyone else. It's going to be a rough day for you, Bernie, so gird your loins."