The Americans

by John Jakes

  Her voice was small suddenly. “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I believe you do. We argued about the same thing before you and Leo got married. I’m sure I can’t convince you any better now than I could then. But by God, your attitude compels me to try.”

  She sank into a chair, chin resting on her palm. He tried to lower his voice but found it difficult.

  “I am not arguing that this country is peopled by saints, Eleanor. Any sane man knows better. But neither is it populated exclusively by devils, as you so blithely imply. The one thing you fail to comprehend about America is that it’s malleable. It is nothing more or less than what we make of it by our action or inaction. Most of the Kents have understood that, and acted accordingly. You, however, bemoan a lack of national virtue while refusing to lift a finger to promote that virtue. You prefer to sit by the fire, utter your condemnations, and let others improve things—if they’re so inclined. I realize you have good reason to be bitter. A vicious man killed your husband. But you’re blaming too many of the wrong people.”

  “Oh? Just whom should I blame?”

  “You might try blaming yourself.”

  A whisper—deliberate, theatrical, stinging: “Do me the courtesy of explaining what you mean!”

  How much like Margaret she sounded then, he thought. He blunted the attack in a curt laugh.

  “I expected you to be insulted. But it’s true—you do bear responsibility for what happened to Leo. You did nothing to prevent the spread of the hatred that was Kleinerman’s stock-in-trade. Whenever you encountered it, you attempted to convince yourself it didn’t exist. And by ignoring it, you permitted it to grow. Stop blaming this country for Leo’s death. The fact is, America’s given you far more than you’ve ever given to it. Stop blaming the kind of bigots you encouraged by your silence. Start placing some of the blame where it belongs. At your own feet. The Kents have been a lot of things, good and bad, but I can’t think of one of them who’s been a fireside moralist. I’m sorry for you, but I’m sick of hearing your self-righteous proclamations. From now on kindly keep them to yourself!”

  Tears appeared in her eyes. Furious tears or hurt ones, he couldn’t decide which. Some reaction was better than none, he told himself. His anger cooled; the forgiving parent replaced the stern one. His expression softened. She failed to notice.

  He realized he’d reached a critical point—a point at which he could and perhaps should pull back, leaving the truth only half uttered. Speaking the truth, he’d learned long ago, was a difficult and dangerous business. People did not welcome it.

  Gently, he took her hands in his. “Eleanor—”

  She jerked away—discouraging, but to be expected. He would press on. The two of them had effected a reconciliation, and become reasonably close again, after she had come to understand Margaret’s warped thinking. And Eleanor was still a rational human being. It was on those two facts that he was basing his gamble.

  “There is one other thing I must say to you. The most hurtful thing of all, perhaps. I don’t know whether you realize it—I doubt it—but I think there is a reason why you’re behaving as you are. Scorning the whole world. Turning away from involvement with it—”

  He drew a breath. “You’re hiding from more hurt in a way you learned long ago. Your mother did the same thing, remember? You’re starting to act just like her.”

  There. It was said. The fearful words—the most terrible accusation he could possibly have made—said. He felt drained.

  He expected a torrent of abuse in return. Instead, she gazed at him as if he were a simpleton. She began to laugh.

  “That—Papa, that’s—preposterous.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It is the most ludicrous, insane—”

  “Look at yourself!” he shouted. The wild smile left her face, replaced by a sick, stunned expression. “Your mother closed herself off from the world, and that’s exactly what you’re doing. She wanted nothing to do with her home, her family—you want nothing further to do with your profession. Or with us, if we ask for anything more than polite conversation. She locked all her pitiable secrets behind the door of her room—a habit I notice you are beginning to imitate—”

  At that, Eleanor’s eyes flew wide. Her expression was so shocked, he wondered why the mention of the locked door had such special significance. Obviously it did.

  Then her face changed again, showing outrage. Something seemed to break within her. Without warning, she ran at him, fists flying. “You cruel bastard—it isn’t true!”

  He seized her wrists and shouted, “It is!” He shook her, hard. “Don’t hide from the truth. You know what she did to herself!” He felt the tension leave her body suddenly. Her forearms relaxed; she stopped struggling. His breathing slowed. There was remorse—even grief—in his voice.

  “I don’t want the same thing to happen to you. Sometimes lately, you even sound like her.”

  “Oh, my God.” She wept, turning away, burying her face in her hands.

  Cruel bastard doesn’t begin to say it. You should be horsewhipped for speaking to her that way.

  And yet he’d said what needed saying. He might have chosen the wrong time, but the words were right.

  The trouble was, he couldn’t tell whether the words had helped, or only made things worse. From the savagery of her sobs, he suspected the latter.

  He shook his head, worn out. He stepped to her side; cautiously put his arm around her. He was afraid she’d pull away. She didn’t, but neither did she look at him. He pitched his voice low.

  “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I know you don’t believe a syllable of what I said—especially the part about your mother. But I think about it constantly. I don’t want you destroyed the same way she was. So you think about it too, Eleanor—please. I beg you. I’d do anything if you would just think about it. I’d cut off my arm—lay down my life— if you would—”

  Slowly, he turned her, lifted her chin, looked into her red, stunned eyes.

  “I’m your father. I want you to live, not die a slow death in a darkened room for the next thirty years. You have too much to give the world—”

  A sharp knock turned him toward the doors. “Yes? What is it?”

  A servant entered. Eleanor chose that moment to rush out of the room, skirts held high. As she vanished and a feeling of defeat overpowered him, the servant held out a piece of yellow paper.

  “Telegraph message, Mr. Kent. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

  CHAPTER IX

  SUMMONS

  i

  THE CLOUDS BLEW AWAY and sunshine flooded Bellevue Avenue by the time Will reached his destination. He was breathing hard from the fast walk. But he barely broke stride as he turned in beneath the entrance arch, walked halfway down the dim tunnel leading into the Casino, and stopped at the turnstile.

  One of the four men on the tennis court directly ahead scored with a powerful backhand return. There was loud applause. A guard seated on a stool near the turnstile held up his hand as Will started through.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Members only.”

  Will frowned. Should he attempt to force his way? No, that would only create a worse scene. The one he was planning would probably be bad enough.

  “I’m a guest of a member. Marcus Pennel. I just want to speak to one of your employees. He’s a ball boy. Muldoon, I think his name is.”

  The guard was less hostile now that the Pennel name had been invoked. “That would be Donny Muldoon.”

  “I guess so. He nearly caused a serious accident on Ocean Avenue yesterday. I’d appreciate it if you’d get him out here right away.”

  Will’s obvious impatience prodded the guard off the stool. “Very well, Mr.—?”

  “Kent.”

  “Just a moment.”

  The man shuffled away and disappeared to the left of the inside arch.

  Will leaned against the green-painted wall near the turnstile, thinking of what he was about to do. A good many peo
ple would consider him a brawler and no gentleman, merely for contemplating it. Others, anxious to look out for themselves, would call him an idiot for fighting over a girl’s honor. None of that mattered very much.

  The turnstile guard reappeared, the shacker a step behind. Will stepped away from the wall, his pulse quickening. His eyes widened when he saw two other ball boys slouch into sight. They stopped by the inside arch, but it was clear they’d come along in case their friend needed help.

  Muldoon strolled up to the turnstile, smiling in a smarmy way. His heavy, closely razored beard had a sweaty glint. Black stains showed at the armpits of his jersey.

  He took hold of the turnstile and whirled it. One of the other shackers put his hand into the pocket of his grimy knickerbockers. Reaching for a weapon?

  More applause from the grandstand. The four players acknowledged it and left the court. Muldoon leaned on the rail separating him from Will and fiddled with the broken visor of his cap. The guard finally realized what was about to happen. He raised frail hands.

  “There’ll be no fighting on these premises. If that’s your intention, step across to the field.”

  “Me fight? Shit, Harry”—Muldoon shrugged—“you know I’m a peaceable fellow. Can’t speak for this howlin’ swell, though.” He walked through the turnstile, his dark eyes fixed on Will. “Let’s see what he has in mind.”

  One of his friends called, “Want a hand, Donny?”

  Contemptuous, Muldoon gauged Will’s size and strength. “Nah, he’s nothin’ but a college boy.”

  Will fumed. Muldoon went on. “Truth is, I didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “You very nearly didn’t. When you threw those rocks, we damn near overturned.”

  An expression of feigned innocence. “That a fact! Sorry to hear it, college. We were just havin’ a lark. Didn’t mean any harm.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. But that isn’t the issue. Miss Pennel could have been maimed or killed because of what you did.”

  “Miss Pennel, is it?” The shacker strolled past Will, chuckling. When he reached the sidewalk and the sunshine, he turned. Will was only a step behind. “My, my—sounds like she’s got you bamboozled. Got you believin’ she’s a proper lady, that Miss Pennel.” He exaggerated her name, snatching off his cap and touching the ground with it as he bowed. “I’ll tell you what she really is, college—a swell actress. And I’ll tell you what she really fancies. It isn’t the likes of you. Me an’ my friends know. We’ve all taken turns with her.”

  Will grabbed the shacker’s jersey with both hands. “What pleasure do you get from telling lies about her?”

  “Lies?” Muldoon laughed. “You ask Miss Pennel whether I’m lyin’.” He reconsidered. “No, I s’pose she wouldn’t tell you the truth. Now, college—”

  Slowly, he reached up and across with his left hand. He tapped Will’s right arm. Smiling, he said softly, “Take your hands off me or I’ll rip your balls out and stuff ’em into your asshole.”

  “You foulmouthed son of a bitch—”

  The shacker reacted by driving his fist toward Will’s stomach. Will dodged and threw a punch, clumsy but with plenty of force behind it. It struck the point of Muldoon’s chin and slammed his mouth shut. Muldoon’s upper teeth tore into his lower lip.

  Blood spewed. Muldoon grabbed his red chin, sputtering. Will punched the shacker’s stomach. Muldoon staggered.

  Will knew his advantage wouldn’t last. He made the most of it, knocking off the shacker’s cap and grabbing his oiled hair as he started to sag. He held Muldoon’s hair with one hand and with the other battered his face three times, taking only one ineffectual punch in return.

  But Muldoon’s two friends were coming. They dodged around the guard and jammed through the turnstile as Muldoon shuffled from side to side, groping for Will who had backed off. The shacker looked ghastly. One of Will’s blows had opened a cut above his right eyebrow. Blood leaked down through his brow, streaking his cheek and mingling with mucus and blood from a battered nose and chewed lip.

  “Fucker,” he said, blowing out spit and blood between his teeth. “College fucker!”

  He charged. Will jumped sideways, avoiding a flailing fist. The other shackers were close now. One did indeed have a weapon; sharp knuckle dusters glinted on his right hand.

  Will lunged to one side, then the other. Muldoon’s clenched hand missed him only narrowly each time. He was barely aware of all the coachmen running from the field to see the fight, or of a carriage pulling up at the curb behind him. Someone called his name.

  He paid no attention, breathing hard and watching Muldoon. The shacker swung wildly again. Will dodged, then ducked under the outstretched arm and pushed with all his strength. Muldoon yelled and went tumbling into his friends.

  They flung him aside, harder than they intended. He crashed into the wall and the impact finished him. As he slid down, his bloody face left a broad wet stripe on the green paint.

  The boy with the knuckle dusters rammed them toward Will’s face. From behind Will’s left shoulder, a whip popped. Something blurred past the corner of his left eye.

  The shacker with the knuckle dusters pulled his punch and shrieked. Blood spurted from a cut under his right eye or from the eye itself—Will couldn’t tell which. At the sight of the damage done by the whip, the third shacker lost interest in the quarrel.

  A hand seized Will’s shoulder, whirled him around—

  “Marcus!”

  “Get in the carriage, you damn fool.”

  Spectators from the tennis match were pouring out of the Casino. Marcus shoved Will around a small crowd of coachmen to the victoria, to which a pair of lean grays were hitched in tandem. “God,” he fumed as he pushed Will into one of the passenger seats. “Mother’ll have apoplexy when she hears about this.”

  Will was still breathing hard. The complaint infuriated him. “That’s too bad! The shacker was spreading lies about Laura. He had it coming. Why’d you follow me?”

  Marcus yanked a crumpled paper from his pocket as he settled himself on the driver’s seat. He reached back to give Will the paper—it was a telegram—then whipped up the horses and sent them into a wide turn. “That was delivered ten minutes after you left,” he shouted.

  The carriage sped south along Bellevue Avenue. Will tried to unfold the telegram. Suddenly the wind snatched it from his fingers. He swore.

  Marcus twisted his head and saw Will watching the paper tumble in the dust behind the carriage. Will cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “I didn’t get a chance to read it. Who’s it from?”

  “Your father. He wants you in Boston right away.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll leave till I’m good and ready!”

  “You’ll have to go,” Marcus called back, “if only to spare us further trouble with Muldoon’s bunch. Besides, it’s an emergency. Your father’s stepmother has died down in New Jersey.”

  ii

  Marcus took him into the cottage by a servants’ entrance, and showed him a secondary stairway to the upper floor. Will was able to reach his room without encountering anyone.

  He cleaned himself up so there’d be no sign that he’d been fighting. The others would find out soon enough anyway, Marcus had gloomily predicted. “They don’t yet know where you went. I said I thought you’d gone out shopping for a house gift. I’ll have to tell them it was sheer luck that I found you so quickly.”

  Will packed in ten minutes. Downstairs, he said his formal goodbye to the family. Mrs. Pennel expressed sympathy but the words were perfunctory. Marcus took her arm and the two of them disappeared into the music room.

  Will and Laura stepped into an alcove under the main staircase for a moment of privacy. He told her that as soon as the funeral was over, he’d be spending a week in New York—an obligation, he said.

  She wanted to know the nature of the obligation.

  “It’s too complicated to explain, Laura. It’s just a piece of busin
ess I have to get out of the way. The moment I do, I’ll be back. We must make plans—”

  She kissed him and smiled, but he felt she wasn’t entirely teasing when she said, “Indeed we must. I’m counting on you to make an honest woman of me.”

  iii

  The second-class day coach that took him south on the mainland was airless and sooty. It made little difference to Will; he was uninterested in his surroundings or in the other passengers. He could only think of what had happened with Laura.

  He wanted to be pleased about the consequences of that hour on the shore. But something was wrong. He finally realized the cause of the feeling. Her remark just before he left.

  She had meant it.

  Like it or not, a new element of coercion had entered their romance. Before his visit to Maison du Soleil he’d had a choice. Now he had none.

  It wasn’t even a matter of pregnancy. That worry had been removed just one day after they’d been together. It was a matter of honor. He’d made love to her; therefore he had to marry her. His mother had always been insistent about that. Never mind that Carter called the idea ludicrous. This was one instance in which his stepbrother was wrong. Carter had never associated with girls like Laura Pennel. He had no understanding of the rules that governed behavior among her class of people.

  If Will did the honorable thing, as he knew he must, he’d achieve his highest ambition. An alliance with the Pennels would bring him absolutely everything he wanted. So why the hell wasn’t he as happy as he’d been yesterday?

  He knew. The answer lay in the imperative way Laura had spoken to him. As if he weren’t her lover but her—

  Her property.

  He spent the rest of the trip trying to forget that one remark. He couldn’t.

  CHAPTER X

  PARTING

  i

  “THEN SAID MARTHA UNTO Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.”

  While the vicar read the Bible, mourners fidgeted. Summer heat made an oven of Christ Church in the North End of Boston.