The Auerbach Will (30 page)

“But to do this to your own family. Your own mother. Your own brothers and sister. Their children. Your own flesh and blood—”

“But Mother has so
much
, darling. So much more than she needs. And we need so little of what she has. What do you think?”

He is silent for a long time. Then he says, “You want to know what I think? I think it's execrable. I think it's monstrous. I think it's shitty. I think you and Mogie are both crazy. But I know you're going to do it anyway.”

“And if she won't pay up, we publish the story anyway!”

“Don't say ‘we,' Joan.”

“It'll be the story of the year. Why, I think that even if, in the end, we have to print the story, it could get the Pulitzer Prize! Think of it! Why, we'd be hailed for journalistic bravery! Would the
Times
ever have the guts to print a story like that about the Sulzbergers? I'd be front-page news myself for having the courage to expose the corruption and the cover-up in my own family. You see, either way it works out, we win!”

“Well,” he says wearily, “it's your family, not mine. You're the boss. You're the publisher. And, knowing you, I know you're going to do it anyway. But I think it's shitty, and I wash my hands of it. Do what you want. Just leave me out of it.”

“Ah, darling,” Joan says, covering his hand with hers. “It's good to have your support, even if it's—passive, and not active.” Then she says, “Yes, I'm going to get to Arthur Litton—wait and see.”

“Joan,” he says, “I don't think you understand what I'm saying. You can do this if you want, but if you do it's the end of you and me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“Richard,” she cries, “you wouldn't dare!”

Looking up at her from his chair, he says, “Wouldn't I? Try me.”

“No, Mother,” Josh is saying on the telephone, “it's not illegal. But it was very foolish of Babette. Our papa certainly would not have approved.”

“But what has she done, exactly?”

“From what I can gather, Babette has signed over to Joan an instrument which gives her the power to place Babette's Eaton stock as security for secured loans—”

“For the Goddamned newspaper of hers, of course.”

“I suppose. Anyway, the Morgan Guaranty Trust now has possession of Babette's stock, and Joan has a secured loan against it, and God knows when or whether Babette will ever get it back.”

“And Babette is talking emeralds! Would it help if you spoke to Joan?”

“God knows. You know how she feels about me, Mother. Always has. I don't mean to sound neurotic, but Joan hates me, Mother.”

All at once, Essie is close to tears. How has it all come to this? “Oh, my babies!” she cries. “Why?”

“It seems to me that it's something that Joan and Babette will have to work out between each other.”

“Babette's a ninny! Emeralds!”

“And I'll tell you something else,” he says. “I ran into Karen on the street yesterday. She happened to mention that Joan is planning a trip to Florida.”

“To Palm Beach?”

“No. Hollywood Beach.”

Essie gasps. “To see your uncle Abe!”

From his end of the connection, Josh says nothing.

“Josh,” Essie says quickly. “Tell Charles to come and see me right away. I don't want to talk to him on the phone about this. Tell him to come to the apartment, just as soon as he possibly can.…”

Our

FATHER'S

HOUSE

Fifteen

From the notebooks of Mr. Horace Temple Strong, a dilettante and diarist of the city, who hoped one day—but never did—to weave his jottings into a book to be called, perhaps, “The Many Faces of Chicago”; instead, the Strong manuscripts were presented to the Chicago Public Library many years later, and they repose there to this day:

There is a beautiful young woman of modish dress, appearing to be in her middle twenties, who lately I have begun to notice from my front window on the Drive. She appears in the mornings, at about ten o'clock, more or less, walking northward, toward the Park, and perhaps an hour later she makes the return journey southward. In clement weather, I will occasionally see her pause at a bench and sit for a while, gazing out at the Lake. She is always alone. At first I supposed her to be a common streetwalker, though I wondered why she would choose such an uncommon hour to ply that ancient trade. And the more I observed her, the more I realized that there is nothing in her mien or behavior to suggest invitation, or even to encourage conversation. She does not cast glances at passing strangers, but instead keeps completely to herself, as though wrapped up in solitary revery. She seems, for all her beauty and modishness, utterly friendless in the city.…

Today, I decided to follow my Mystery Woman on her southward journey, to track her to her destination. Keeping a discreet distance behind her, I followed her to the entrance of one of our more fashionable hotels. The doorman, obviously recognizing her, smiled, tipped his cap, and held the door open for her, and she disappeared inside.

I approached the doorman and, feigning a lost acquaintance, inquired of him, “Was that Miss So-and-So?”

No, I was informed, and was told that my Beautiful Stranger was none other than Mrs. Jacob Auerbach, the wife of the man the newspapers are calling “The Mail-Order King.”

Jake had decided that the family should move to a suite of rooms at the Palmer House while the new house in Lake Forest was being built, and this was accomplished early in 1916. This temporary move, he explained, would put him within easy distance from the new Eaton & Cromwell offices on Michigan Avenue, and he also felt that the hotel's staff would provide additional security for the children, about whom he continued to worry. It had seemed strange to Essie—simply to walk away from the Grand Boulevard house, leaving behind all the furniture, everything they had chosen so carefully eight years ago, but none of it would be needed in the new house. And in the meantime, until new things were chosen, the luxury and anonymity of hotel furniture would suffice. But just before leaving, for memory's sake, Essie had slipped the key to the front door of 5269 Grand Boulevard into her purse, as her mother had done with the key to the
alte heim
.

The move to the hotel had left Essie with very little to do, particularly during the day. The family meals were now wheeled up on trolleys or on trays from the hotel kitchen, and the cleaning and bed-making and laundry were performed by maids. The children had been enrolled in private schools, where little Jake—or Prince—was in the third grade, Joan in the first, and Babette in a morning kindergarten class. It had been arranged for Miss Marguerite of Field's to come to the hotel once a month with her sketches and her samples, to keep Essie's expanding wardrobe up to date. During her quiet mornings, Essie had taken to walking down to the lakefront, and strolling along the wide drive that ran along the shore, then home again to the hotel. When the weather prevented this, she sat alone in the suite and read. Her library of books on gardening was growing.

At least there was something to occupy her in the afternoons, when the children came home from school. They had reached a quarrelsome stage—particularly Jake Junior and Joan—and it fell to Essie to try to referee their squabbles. Jake had asked his father if, when they moved to the new house in the country, he could have a pony, and his father had told him yes. Now Joan wanted a pony, too. “It isn't fair,” she said. “Jake gets everything he asks for because he's a boy. Why can't I have a pony?”

“The pony will be for all three to share,” Essie said. “It wouldn't make sense to have three ponies, would it? When we get the pony, you can all take turns.”

“But it will still be
his
pony,” Joan said. “He'll just want to ride it all the time. He'll never give either of us a turn.”

“Yes he will,” Essie said firmly. “I'll see to it that he does.”

“Everybody knows that Jake is Papa's favorite.”

“No he isn't. Your papa loves each of you just the same.”

When she mentioned their disputes to her husband, he said, “What they need is
discipline
. Good German discipline.” And a few days later, a governess, Fräulein Kroger, was engaged, and Essie's duties in this category were removed.

But not long after that, Joan had brought up the matter of the pony again, and Essie had tried to deal with the subject humorously. “Joan, dear,” she had said, “there's no reason why three children can't share one pony. I mean, suppose you should have a new little baby brother or a sister. That would mean
four
ponies. And suppose there were still another baby brother or a sister—that would make
five
. Think of it—we'd be overrun by ponies!”

Joan's eyes had grown very wide. “I don't want another brother or a sister!” she had cried. “I just want the brother and the sister that I have!” She had flung herself on the floor of the hotel sitting-room, beating the carpet with her fists, screaming, “
I don't want a baby brother! I don't want a baby sister! I don't want
—”

Helplessly, Essie had rung for Fräulein Kroger. “Please see what you can do with her,” she said, and Fraulein Kroger had lifted the girl by her armpits and carried her, still kicking and screaming, away.

And still later, when Joan had mentioned the pony yet again—this time with her father—Essie had heard Jake say, “Well, I see no reason why each of you shouldn't have a pony, Joan.”

Today, at least, she had company, and Charles Wilmont was sitting with Essie in the drawing room of the suite, and spread out in front of them were plans—sheaf after sheaf of blueprint plans. “Most of these won't interest you at all, I'm sure,” Charles said, thumbing through them. “Wiring specifications … plumbing diagrams … how the ground will be excavated … the construction of the foundation. Let's get to the actual floor plans and elevations. Jake wants to be sure that absolutely everything is to your liking.”

Essie wondered briefly about this. Things seemed to have progressed very far before she had even been consulted. She studied the plans. The house would be in the Palladian style, of white marble, rising three stories from the top of the bluff, and along the gabled rooftop ran a marble balustrade. Turning to the floor plans she saw such notations as Vestibule … Reception Room … Library … Sun Room … Music Room … Ladies' Cloak Room … Gentlemen's Cloak Room … West Loggia … Tea Room … Gallery Hall … Orangerie … East Belvedere. “Oh, my goodness,” she said weakly, “I had no idea … no idea.”

“It's going to be, as they say, quite a showplace,” he said.

On the plans for the second floor, she saw the designation, “Mr. Auerbach's Suite … Mr. Auerbach's Bath … Mr. Auerbach's Dressing Room.” And then, across the central corridor, “Mrs. Auerbach's Suite … Mrs. Auerbach's Dressing Room,” and so on. She saw a room set aside as Children's Nursery, and a bedroom, bath, and dressing room for each of the children.

“The architect is very excited about it,” Charles said.

“How am I possibly going to take care of such a large house?”

“I suggest that we find you a good chief steward, or majordomo,” he said, “who can supervise the staff. Because you're going to need staff, Essie.”

“Tell me, Charles,” she said, “—if you know—how much is this all going to cost?”

He hesitated. “In the neighborhood of two million dollars,” he said.

“And he can afford it?”

Charles looked at her, his handsome blue-eyed face smiling slightly. “He can,” he said.

She shook her head. “How am I possibly going to fill all these rooms with furniture, Charles?” she asked him.

“Well, I have one suggestion,” he said. “Your architect, Mr. Trumbauer, has worked very successfully in the past, on other large houses, with a Mr. Joseph Duveen. Mr. Duveen deals in antique furniture, art, rugs and other decorative objects. If you turn it over to Duveen, everything will be beautifully done, Essie.”

Returning to the plans, which included a long, winding drive leading up from the lakefront entrance, she said, “What's this little building here?”

“A guardhouse, for a sentry at the gate. The entire property will be walled.”

“A guardhouse …”

“You know how Jake feels about kidnappers, Essie. It's a real worry to him. And for someone in his present position, I really think it is a good idea to have the entrance guarded.” Picking up the sheaf of plans, he said, “Now is there anything here that you disapprove of, anything you want changed?”

It seemed to her fruitless to suggest changes on plans as elaborate as these, and so she shook her head. “No. But I'll tell you one thing, Charles. This may be Jake's house, and it's his money, and these may be Mr. Trumbauer's plans. But I'm going to be in charge of the gardens and the landscaping, and you can make that very clear to Jake for me. I happen to like that bluff, and the ravine behind it, and you can tell him that I'm going to treat the land
my
way.” The words came out quickly, almost faster than her thoughts. “I've seen pictures of some of the country places of some of Jake's relatives and their friends, and my house is
not
going to be like theirs. I mean I'm not going to have statues and fountains and topiary and formal rose gardens and marble walks. The land around this house is going to stay natural and woodsy, with little paths—paths scattered with bark—winding between the trees, with ferns and wildflowers, with everything as natural as possible. No marble benches. Just old mossy rocks, or the trunks of fallen trees to sit on. No gazebos. Tell him, for me, no gazebos. I want the woods around my house to be as God made the woods to be. That will be my garden, tell him that for me.”