Natural justice may well exist. God may well exist. I don’t know. I’m not so intellectually arrogant that I think I know all
the answers. But one thing I do know. If there is a God, I firmly believe He helps those who help themselves.
I’ve every intention of helping myself. What’s more I think Scott will too if the going gets rough, and the scary part is
that he might well be in a winning position. For Scott’s slipped Cornelius into an emotional vice way, way back, that’s quite
obvious, and one day when
Cornelius is old and tired and vulnerable, Scott’s going to start tightening the screws.
The next day Scott and I play tennis again and he wins. It seems like a bad omen and afterwards when we sit drinking Coke
in the shade of the patio I’m more silent than usual.
What do I do about Scott? If I can prove to Cornelius how dangerous Scott is I would immediately dispose of my rival, but
I don’t see how I can ever obtain concrete proof of what’s going on in Scott’s head. Also I can’t believe that Cornelius,
with his enormous talent for survival, hasn’t a notion of Scott’s long-term ambitions. Hasn’t Cornelius sensed that he’s like
a laboratory guineapig being watched by some highly dedicated scientist? Scott must have neutralized him somehow, but how
he’s done it beats me. It’s not like Cornelius to turn a blind eye to someone who could be dangerous to him. As soon as someone’s
potentially dangerous they’re fired. So why hasn’t Cornelius fired Scott? Why has he persisted in turning a blind eye in Scott’s
direction?
I try to figure out what’s going on in Cornelius’ head. Perhaps it’s not a question of a blind eye but of an autocrat’s distorted
vision. Cornelius has been omnipotent for so long that perhaps he can’t conceive of a situation in which Scott could be too
hot to handle.
But I can.
Suppose Scott gets tired of waiting and decides to give natural justice a helping hand. Suppose Cornelius gets sick, really
sick, so sick that he has to delegate most of his power and can do no more than sign his name where Scott tells him to. Suppose
Scott does a secret deal with the other partners who all have a stake in denting Cornelius’ autocracy, and forces Cornelius
into incorporating the firm. Scott would be president of the new corporation, of course, and Cornelius, weakened by ill-health,
would be kicked upstairs to be chairman of the board. It couldn’t happen if, as I originally thought, Cornelius was at heart
firmly prejudiced against Scott as Steve’s son. But it could happen if, as I now think, Cornelius has lost sight of Steve
in the murky past and has managed to persuade himself, for reasons which I still don’t fully understand, that Scott can never
be a threat to him.
I consider my options. I can keep my mouth shut. Or if I open it I can try spelling out to Cornelius in blood-curdling detail
what might happen if Scott decides to give natural justice a helping hand.
Would Cornelius listen to me? No, he wouldn’t. If he’s managed to convince himself that Scott’s just a sycophantic court jester
instead of
the hostile joker in the pack, he’ll only laugh at my description of doomsday.
No, on second thoughts, he won’t laugh; he’ll be angry. He’ll think: sour old Sebastian, jealous of Scott and making trouble
by dreaming up these preposterous, paranoid, unproven theories. Sebastian, my cross, my burden, my pain in the neck. To hell
with Sebastian, Cornelius will say to himself, and draw closer to Scott than ever.
I’ll have to play a waiting game. There’s no alternative except to watch and listen and hope that somehow somewhere along
the line I’ll stumble across the proof I need.
‘God, it’s hot, isn’t it?’ says Scott.
‘Yeah.’
‘But that sea breeze is nice.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Nothing going on there, just an exchange of words, and that’s bad. I’ve got to keep the lines of communication open so that
he doesn’t get suspicious.
Scott’s stalking Cornelius. And I’m stalking Scott.
Spooky.
11 August, 1958. Vicky has the baby. Another boy who might grow up to make life awkward for me at the bank. I smile politely
and say: ‘That’s nice.’
Vicky won’t commit herself to choosing a name and only refers to the baby as Postumus. I know why, although no one else does.
Two weeks ago at Bar Harbor during a discussion of Cicero’s letters I remarked to Vicky how sensible the Romans were about
naming their children. You had no more than a dozen names to choose from if the baby was a boy, and if it was a girl you didn’t
even have the bother of choosing: she was automatically called by the female form of her father’s patronymic unless you wanted
to distinguish her from her sisters by tagging on a label like Tertia. A male infant born after his father’s death might simply
receive his father’s name with the additional description ‘Postumus’. Modern parents who agonize for days over books of names
might well pause to envy the Romans for their supreme lack of creative imagination on the subject of this potential family
battleground.
‘Little Keller Postumus,’ says Vicky clear-eyed, not thinking of Sam, not thinking of anything except the ordeal of surviving
this baby’s birth and emerging at last from the long shadow of her marriage. ‘Poor little Postumus.’
Five days after the birth she calls me at the bank. ‘Sebastian, can
you be here during visiting hours this evening, and if I start to scream could you lock everyone out?’
‘Sure.’
You can visit this hospital at any time but Vicky has asked her doctor to restrict visiting hours. Visitors are tiring, particularly
when those visitors are Mother and Cornelius, still behaving like newlyweds.
Vicky has a couple of old friends paying court when I arrive so I loaf around by the window and watch the sludge flow down
the East River. Then Cornelius and Mother arrive with the kids plus chief nurse, and the friends stage a tactful withdrawal.
Eric and Paul try to murder each other as usual and upset a bowl of fruit.
‘Take them out, please,’ says Mother crisply to the nurse. ‘Vicky, I told them beforehand that they had to behave if they
came.’
‘Yes, Alicia,’ says Vicky mechanically.
Little Samantha jumps up and down and pipes: ‘Mommy, can I see Postumus?’
Everyone laughs because she’s so cute.
‘Baby’s name isn’t truly Postumus, darling!’ says Vicky. She loves Samantha.
‘Well, what’s the name going to be, sweetheart?’ says Cornelius. ‘You know, I was thinking that my father had a good American
name. I don’t mean my stepfather Wade Blackett who brought me up but my real father who died when I was four. Why don’t you
call the baby—’
‘No,’ says Vicky strongly, ‘you’re not going to choose a name. I sat by in silence for years while you and Sam decided what
to call my children but I’m not sitting by passively any longer. This is my baby and no one’s going to name him except me.
Postumus is going to be called Benjamin.’
‘
Benjamin
?’ chorus the grandparents aghast.
‘But that’s Jewish!’ adds Mother – predictably.
‘I wouldn’t care if it was Chinese!’ says Vicky. ‘I wouldn’t even care if it was Martian! It’s the name I like best. Sebastian
understands, don’t you, Sebastian? You wouldn’t let Jake and Amy tell you what to call Alfred.’
‘Right,’ I say, moving in. ‘You call Postumus Benjamin. Good choice.’
Cornelius and Mother swivel to face me. I can see them recognizing that some sort of change has occurred in the family structure.
This is the first time Vicky and I have ever ganged up against them.
‘Well, Sebastian,’ says Mother nettled, ‘I don’t see what this has to do with you.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with you and Cornelius either, Mother. This is Vicky’s decision and no one else has the right to make
it for her.’
Mother and Cornelius look astounded. I stand guard by Vicky’s bed like a pillar from Stonehenge. Vicky rings the bell.
‘Oh nurse, could you bring the baby in please?’ she says, a little breathless after her triumphant victory.
This is the first independent step Vicky’s ever taken as an adult. It’s a big step forward, and in taking it she’s launched
herself at last on her voyage of self-discovery.
On an impulse I kiss her cheek to tell her I’m with her all the way.
She looks up startled but she smiles and when I glance at our parents I see they’re wide-eyed with wonder.
Vicky and Sebastian. Sebastian and Vicky. Could they – could they possibly—
I can almost see Mother’s thoughts racing around in her head like a bunch of whippets chasing an electric hare.
Cornelius is transfixed with fascination.
‘Here’s Postumus, Mrs Keller,’ says the nurse, bringing in the new bundle.
It’s surprising how catchy that old Roman tag is. I think we might find it unexpectedly difficult to call him Benjamin.
28 August. Vicky’s mother arrives unexpectedly from England, where she now lives, and asks to see her new grandson. Vicky
calls me in hysterics and says she can’t see her, Sam forced her to be nice to her mother but she can’t pretend any more,
her mother makes her ill, her mother’s a witch and a whore and evil personified.
‘Okay,’ I say laconically, picturing a twentieth-century version of Grendel’s Mother in
Beowulf
. ‘I’ll fix her.’
Vicky’s mother’s name is Vivienne Diaconi, and she’s staying at a hotel which looks as if it should be on the Bowery. It’s
six o’clock and I’ve arranged to meet Vivienne in the lobby.
I look around for Grendel’s Mother and see this cute little old lady, all dyed and manicured and dolled up, and I discover
she has a low whispery voice and a sexy walk which would have stopped even Beowulf dead in his tracks.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Sebastian Foxworth.’
‘Well, hullo there!’ She looks me up and down as if I’m the sexiest piece she’s seen in a month of Sundays, and I find myself
wondering
who’s nuts: me, Vicky, Vivienne or Cornelius. The only offence this little old lady could possibly commit is cradle-snatching.
‘Can I buy you a drink some place?’ I offer politely.
‘Darling, how lovely of you to suggest it! I’d just adore some champagne at the Plaza.’
Well, that’s okay. I like little old ladies who know what they want. We take a cab to the Plaza and sit in the Palm Court
and I order a bottle of champagne. Meanwhile, she’s talking continuously about how wicked Cornelius is, unhinging Vicky so
that Vicky gets upset at the sight of her own mother.
‘Yeah,’ I say when she pauses to drink her champagne. ‘Okay well, that’s the past. How about the future? You didn’t come to
New York just to bitch to me about Cornelius. Now, I can arrange for Nurse to bring all the children, including Benjamin,
to see you but I think it would be easier if you weren’t staying at that hotel.’
She says that’s no problem. The Plaza will suit her very nicely, thank you, and please could her suite overlook the Park.
‘Sure,’ I said ‘I’ll fix that before I leave.’
She says I’m sweet. I give her a look but it’s no good, I can’t keep a straight face and when I laugh she laughs too.
I’ve become friends with Grendel’s Mother.
‘I guess you want to come back to New York to live in order to be near your grandchildren again,’ I say as we down the champagne,
but beneath the mask of make-up the little face stiffens. ‘I don’t want to upset my girl any more,’ she says. ‘I’ve moved
from Florida to New York and from New York to England to be near her, but it’s never worked out. I can’t keep following her
and upsetting her. I can only wait now in the hope that some day she’ll change. I feel so strongly that if only she could
get away from Cornelius’ influence—’
‘Can you give me some idea of Vicky’s problem,’ I interrupt, ‘without mentioning the word “Cornelius”?’
But she can’t. Cornelius is part of her personal myth. She’s got to blame someone for the fact that after a life-time of glamour
she’s just a little old lady facing old age alone, and it’s easier to blame him than to blame herself.
She says Cornelius deliberately did everything he could to turn Vicky against her. She says she and Vicky used to get along
beautifully. She says she knows she got in kind of a mess with Danny Diaconi but at least she put it all right by marrying
him. Besides, Danny was sweet. Such a family man. She, Vicky and Danny had all been so happy before Cornelius had muscled
in smashing up their happy home.
I wonder how I can steer her away from this Cornelius-the-arch-villain tack, but she’s no fool; she’s seen I’m bored with
her one-sided view of the past so she says: ‘To get back to the present—’
‘Sure, yes.’
‘You seem to speak of Vicky in a special way. Would you be – could you be—’
‘Yes, I’m in love with her. Of course I am.’
‘Darling, how wonderful!’
I offer her a cigarette and she leans forward stylishly for a light. She must have been a real sensation thirty years ago.
No wonder Cornelius became so infatuated with her that he didn’t realize till afterwards that he’d been married for his money.
‘And does Vicky love you?’ she was asking eagerly, her voice husky with the thought of romance.
‘I’m working on it.’
Vivienne flutters her eyelashes and says she’d just love me for a son-in-law some day.
I don’t tell her that Vicky and I will never marry and I don’t attempt to explain my idea of the liaison. Instead I settle
her in the most expensive suite available, order up six bottles of champagne to keep her happy and tell her I’m glad she’s
now in the right environment because her kind of glamour is wasted outside of a Plaza suite decorated with champagne bottles.
Her eyes soften mistily. She says she just loves strong silent men with hearts of gold.
I ride the elevator downstairs to the reception desk and tell the cashier to bill the suite to Cornelius.
Vivienne stays two weeks and sees the grandchildren every day. She asks me if she can borrow a hundred dollars to cover expenses
like Plaza tips, and I give her two hundred and tell her not to bother to pay me back. Then I book her a first-class cabin
on the
Queen Mary
and arrange for champagne to be waiting for her as soon as she arrives on board.