The Americans

by John Jakes

  His right hand strayed to her face; his knuckles moved gently back and forth along her cheek. That and the expression in his eyes told her that he was falling into one of his despondent moods.

  He continued to stroke her cheek slowly. “You should use that gift to attract a more suitable husband. Some goyische nabob with a lot of money and a talent for getting more.”

  She slapped his wrist lightly with the script. “Leo Goldman, I don’t want to hear you talk that way.”

  “Why not?” His face bleak, he turned toward the window. “I’ve given you damn little, Eleanor. When I was a boy—long before I ever met you—I ran into your father one winter night on Printing House Square.”

  “Yes, he’s often told me the story.”

  If he heard, he gave no indication; he seemed to be staring straight through her. “We talked for a few minutes, and I said I meant to make my fortune in America; I predicted that very blithely at the time. You notice I hardly ever predict it these days. I haven’t made a fortune and I never will.”

  “No one who goes into the theater expects to get rich. Not unless you move from acting into managing and producing, and even then it’s chancy. We’ve always known that.”

  “But you really could do much better when it comes to a husband. You could easily find one who isn’t turned away from good hotels. One who doesn’t drag you down to mediocrity with—”

  “Leo, don’t!”

  He inhaled sharply, shrugged and leaned on the windowsill, staring at the rain. He no longer looked handsome, only tired and defeated.

  Eleanor’s eyes shone with anger. How she loathed these dark, self-pitying moods. They filled her with a special frustration because she was incapable of talking him out of them.

  She supposed a certain amount of disappointment was natural for him; he really had expected to grow rich in America. It was the eternal dream of the immigrant. Reality and the passage of time had slowly chipped it away. But that happened to everyone’s dreams. Living with the disappointment was part of growing up.

  Don’t evade, she thought. Of course being poor hurts him. But you’re the one who gives him his deepest wounds. You strike at his manhood. If only you didn’t make him feel a failure that way, he might be able to stand everything else.

  With a shuffling step, he returned to the bed. He didn’t look at her. She stood up and thrust her suddenly chilly hands into the pockets of the old robe. Then she took his place at the window, gazing at the rain-blurred rooftops and the steep hillsides beyond.

  Somewhere on the same floor of the hotel, a man laughed. She wondered whether Leo would ever again find anything to laugh about.

  ii

  She heard Leo throw himself down on the bed with a melodramatic sigh. It did no good to remind herself that all actors overdramatized their own emotions. He was hurting. He needed her help.

  She knew of only one subject that might draw him out of his melancholy. She straightened her shoulders, composed her face and walked to the bedside. She sat down with her right hip touching his and began to stroke his forehead.

  “Darling, we mustn’t let this terrible weather, or what happened at the other hotel, get the better of us. I don’t want any husband except you. No—” She covered his lips with her fingers. “Don’t say anything. We’re both adults. We know some of the dreams we had when we were younger won’t come true. But we needn’t be rich to be happy. We must keep our eye on the goal we’ve set for ourselves. Owning that theater in New York. Running it. Hiring actors and actresses we respect, and producing the kind of plays we want to produce.”

  She leaned down and kissed his mouth, adding a whispered word: “Together.”

  At that, he showed a little more animation. “Maybe we’ve toured long enough, Eleanor.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Daly’s a good employer, but I’d rather work for myself—”

  “So would I.”

  “I don’t know whether we have enough money to make the move, though.” Over the past few years they’d put every spare penny into a special account at the Rothman Bank in Boston. Under the bank’s management, the principal had appreciated.

  “We have at least nine thousand dollars,” she said. “Not a fortune, but we shouldn’t let that hold us back. New York real estate prices keep rising. We should start looking for a theater immediately, and when we find one, we should try to buy it. If we don’t have enough for the down payment, I’m quite willing to ask Papa—”

  “No gifts, Eleanor! I’ll accept no gifts from anyone.”

  “I know that, darling. It would be a loan, that’s all. A loan we’d repay, with interest, just as if we’d gotten it from a bank.”

  He considered it a moment. “Well, that would be all right—” He wasn’t wholly unpractical. They had often discussed the negative feelings of most banks when considering actors as credit risks.

  “I do think this might be the time to launch out on our own, Leo. While we’re young enough to do all the work that will have to be done to launch a new company in a new theater. We could stay with Mr. Daly until this tour’s over, then start searching for a property—” All at once, Leo raised himself on his right elbow. His old, charming smile appeared suddenly—the smile that had quite won her heart long before she’d married him. She was thankful her effort had been successful. His self-pity was gone, and he was more cheerful than he’d been in weeks.

  “I think you’re exactly right. If we wait for every circumstance to be perfect, we’ll still be waiting when we’re seventy.” He swept his left hand in an arc above her head, as if imagining a poster. “Eleanor Kent and Leo Goldman present Bronson Howard! Sardou! William Shakespeare—”

  “Don’t forget Ibsen.”

  He laughed and hugged her. “By God, Eleanor, that’s as fine a dream as getting rich.”

  “And it’s one that can come true. We must definitely leave Daly when this tour’s over. We can go to New York and work there until we find the right theater. It might not take too long. Regis has a nephew who’s scene designer for the Knickerbocker. Regis heard that the principal stockholder is in poor health. The rest of the stock’s owned by the man’s family, and none of them is experienced in operating a theater. We might make an offer—”

  Leo’s face lit with enthusiasm. “The Knickerbocker’s a splendid little house. Good location right off the Rialto. The right size—four hundred and eighty-five seats—”

  She smiled. “Four hundred and ninety.”

  Up went his eyebrows. “You’ve been doing homework.”

  “Quizzing Regis.” She nodded. “I’m tired of the road. We’ve served our apprenticeship—my heavens, it’s been twelve years since we first went with Bascom’s Tom show. Let’s take the step while we can. Commit ourselves to it! I know we’ll make it work.”

  A troubled look dulled the glow in his eyes. He raised a cautioning finger. “Provided—”

  “Provided what?”

  “Provided you’re still sure you want to be married to a Jew.”

  She took his cheeks between her palms.

  “Listen to me, Leo Goldman. I am saying this for the very last time. No, I do not want to be married to a Jew, or to a Chinaman, a Berber, a Pole, or any other conveniently categorized type—”

  She leaned down again, her hair falling soft and dark on both sides of her face. She loved him, but there was always a certain fear when she demonstrated it. She knew where such demonstrations could and frequently did lead.

  Yet there was no equivalent way to tell him she considered him the most important person in the world. With only a moment’s hesitation, she whispered, “I want you, Mr. Goldman. As for your religion, and your faults—”

  She tried to put a teasing note in her voice to overcome the tension already starting to build within her.

  “—not so numerous as mine, of course, but still considerable in number—all those things, dear sir—”

  She kissed him, wondering how she could be
so eager for such a normal human contact and at the same time dread it.

  “—those things are incidental. I love you.”

  Just as she’d feared, he put one arm gently behind her neck and pulled her mouth down again. His other hand slipped beneath her robe. Gentle fingers closed on her breast. She wanted to pull away. There was a wild, hysterical feeling within her, an irrational urge to run—

  But she was an actress. And she did love him. She kissed him with feigned ardor, pressing her breast against his hand even though she knew what the outcome would be.

  No, by heaven, she said to herself. Only moments ago they’d agreed to give their lives a different direction. It was time for their marriage to have the same kind of new start. She would make it all end differently for once. She swore that as Leo began fumbling with the cord of the old robe.

  He pushed the robe down her back, baring her full, dark-nippled breasts. She would succeed this time. No fear was so great that courage could not overcome it—

  Leo knew Eleanor well, and was a considerate husband.

  “Darling, are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “Yes, Leo, yes, please—I love you. I do love you so!”

  Her suddenly husky voice gave no hint of her terror.

  iii

  From the first, Eleanor had wanted to be a good wife. The rape had made that impossible.

  She and Leo had always gotten along well as colleagues and companions. It was as lovers that they failed. Their wedding night—and most of the European honeymoon— had been a disaster of awkwardness and deep hurt. Only Leo’s innate kindness and understanding had seen her through that terrible time, which should have been so joyous.

  Once back in the States, this part of their relationship improved very little. Whenever she and Leo started to make love, Eleanor was instantly in an agony of fear. She knew the physical contact would inevitably result in discomfort, even severe pain. The knowledge fueled her fear, and generated tension he could feel in her naked body long before they were united. The tension was like some virulent disease, quickly infecting him too, and growing worse in both of them as they came closer and closer to union. The result was disappointment and constantly reinforced failure for him, and unremitting guilt for her. The guilt was enhanced because she was incapable of doing the one thing which might have resolved the situation. She couldn’t tell him why she felt pain when they made love.

  How ironic that was, she often thought. She and Leo were members of a liberal, free-thinking profession. And although she did discuss certain sexual matters with him, she positively could not bring herself to confess that she’d been raped.

  She’d come close to telling Leo many times. Once, on New Year’s Eve, she’d drunk a whole bottle of wine in secret, hoping it would wash away her hesitation and permit the truth to spill out. It had almost worked. She’d blurted one sentence and part of another. The exact words were forgotten now. But she vividly recalled how he’d stared at her, puzzled, while her heart pounded and her stomach ached and the confession ended abruptly.

  When he pressed her for an explanation of her strange behavior, she lied and said it was too much wine. The sad truth was, she hadn’t had enough. Was there enough in the whole world? She doubted it.

  She hated herself for that. She knew silence didn’t represent strength, but weakness. She truly believed Leo might be relieved of some of his worst feelings of inadequacy if he knew she was damaged goods when she married him.

  Damaged goods. Deep down, that was the root of all the difficulty. Not only had she concealed the foul thing that had happened to her—she’d entered into marriage dishonestly.

  She knew Leo would be outwardly forgiving if she told him. He was that sort of man. But what would he be thinking? The woman I married is a slut. A woman other men dirtied before I took her, foolishly imagining her to be a virgin.

  How cleansing just a little frank talk would be. And yet doubt and fear continued to keep the secret sealed away, even when she saw the consequences of silence.

  Of course, she realized that in the view of some, she was a sinner damned to hell simply because of her wish to break the silence. Conventional wisdom in Victorian America said that a wife did not sully her mind with undue attention to the physical side of marriage. A wife was supposed to submit to her husband without complaint, no matter how uncomfortable or distasteful she found that submission. The purpose of the act was procreation, not pleasure, and thus contemplation of it for any purpose other than marital duty was immoral. So was candid discussion of the act, even between spouses—

  Well, the devil with the dictates of convention. Their problem demanded thought, and a resolution. Just once she wanted to make Leo happy by successfully hiding the pain a sexual union produced. She dreamed of being free of that pain herself, and—most unrealistic dream of all—of actually finding joy in the moment when, with utmost care and tenderness, he came into her—

  This time, she thought as she lay in his arms. Let it be different this one time.

  But it was not.

  iv

  She shuddered and winced uncontrollably. The dry, abrasive contact stiffened her body. He felt that, and the tension transmitted itself to him.

  “I hurt you again.”

  “No, Leo. No, darling, please—go on. I’m fine.” Her voice was hoarse, barely audible above the beat of the rain.

  “Goddamn it!” he said softly, pulling away. “I can never do it right.”

  She started to speak but somehow couldn’t. She covered her eyes to hide tears of self-loathing. Capable actress that she was, she still couldn’t control the workings of her own body. The dream of finally lifting some of Leo’s guilt died stillborn once again.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, his broad back toward her. He reached for his shirt. She turned on her side and sat up, too. She put her cheek against his back and huddled there, both of them silent and cold in the dark, mean room.

  CHAPTER IV

  ATTACK

  i

  SHORTLY BEFORE SIX, ELEANOR suggested they make a dash to the Hulbert House, despite the rain, so they could join the rest of the company for supper. Sharply, Leo said he didn’t care to give the Hulbert House one penny of his money.

  She knew there was another reason he snapped at her. As he turned up the gaslight in an effort to brighten the room, she walked to his side.

  “Darling, don’t fret over what happened a few minutes ago.” It was the first time since they’d gotten dressed that she was able to speak of it. And it was instantly clear that she shouldn’t have.

  He whirled to face her. “Fret? Why, no. By now I’m accustomed to hurting my wife every time I touch her.”

  “But it isn’t your fault! I’ve said it over and over, but you never believe me.”

  Nor did he now. He turned away, and she went on. “You mustn’t continually scourge yourself for something I’m responsible for—”

  “Eleanor, we’ve been married four and a half years. That’s a long time. Enough time, surely, for me to learn how to make love so that you at least find it bearable. God knows I’m unable to make it enjoyable.”

  “Don’t keep saying things like that! There’s something wrong with me. Something I—”

  She drew in a quick breath. She ached to tell him, and perhaps he sensed that. For a few seconds, expectancy smoothed the bitterness from his face. But then the silence lengthened, and the old shame and fear took control again. The door must stay closed. Forever—

  “Something I’ve always been at a loss to explain,” she blurted finally.

  “Well, a better man would be able to do something about it.” He turned back to the window, eyes gloomy as he watched the rain.

  A feeling of futility swept over her. How dare she scorn him for weakness when she could not tell him the truth? More practically, what could she now do to break the mood of tension? She thought of one reminder that might help.

  “At least we won’t have to put up
with places like this much longer. We’ll soon be off the road, and new owners of the Knickerbocker. I feel sure of it.” She slipped her arms around his waist from behind, hugged him. “That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he replied in a low voice, “that’s something—”

  The last word trailed off, as if to suggest he couldn’t see much else in their marriage that was worth anticipating.

  ii

  They ate supper in the dining room of the Penn Hotel. Both of them ordered pot roast which turned out to be stringy and dry. Before Leo had finished half of his, he tugged out his pocket watch and began to drum his fingers on the tablecloth. Old, familiar signs, Eleanor thought, smiling at long last.

  Leo hated to be late for a performance. So did she, but with him, punctuality was a passion, if not an outright mania. He was proud that he’d never missed an opening curtain, or an entrance, in his entire professional career— except once. In Chicago, a stagehand had moved a saw horse in the dark wings during a performance. Coming back after a change of costume, Leo had tumbled headfirst over it, delaying his entrance a full fifteen seconds.

  Consequently, Eleanor understood his sudden response to an internal clock, and his sudden impatience. Without finishing his meal, he left the table. He returned in fifteen minutes to say that he and the hotel’s elderly porter had finally located a hack.

  The rain showed no signs of letting up. If anything, it was heavier than it had been an hour ago. The cabman drove with one hand and used the other to hold an umbrella over his broad-brimmed hat.

  The horse splashed through wide streams of water running in the streets. The electric lights of Johnstown looked pale and shimmery in the downpour. The cabman delivered them to the stage door of the Opera House, took the fare and Leo’s generous tip and said, “You folks leavin’ town tomorrow?”