The Dinner Party

by Howard Fast

  “Daddy’s not Jewish,” Elizabeth said. “His name is Cromwell, unless he’s changed it from something. In our family, they only allow the women to be Jewish. That’s why Daddy can’t beat Mother.”

  “Elizabeth!” Dolly exclaimed. “How can you say such things! Forgive me, Frances. She’s making a silly joke.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Elizabeth said dutifully.

  “How strange,” Frances persisted. “I mean, why would they only allow the women to be Jewish?—Oh, you’re teasing,” she said to Elizabeth.

  “Yes. I am sorry.”

  “Shouldn’t we let Mr. Justin know about his wife?” Dolly asked, desperate to change the subject.

  “It’s happened before,” Frances said, pleased to find a moment of superiority.

  “Do you suppose they’ll be much longer?” Elizabeth asked.

  Dolly had no idea. “It’s twenty to eleven.”

  “Then it won’t last much longer,” Frances decided. “Webster always tries to be in bed before midnight.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  At the terrace beside the swimming pool, the senator sat with his son, sometimes silent, sometimes talking. Richard Cromwell realized that this was the first time he had talked to his son, not to ask or instruct or order, but simply to talk and allow each flow of words to set another into motion. And then to allow the silence to stay instead of rejecting it or fleeing from it. They talked about the senator’s plea for the Sanctuary workers, and Leonard asked him whether he had expected any more than what actually happened.

  “No, not really. Gus told me it was hopeless. It’s hard to believe that everything is so damn hopeless.”

  “Is that the way you feel—about everything?”

  “Sometimes. I was just a kid when we fought against the Nazis, but I can remember. We saved the world from the worst horror it had ever known, and then I grew up and all I ever wanted to be was a member of the United States Congress. That’s all I ever wanted.” The senator covered his son’s hand with his, thinking, And to have a son. But he left that unsaid.

  A gentle wind began to stir the leaves of the trees around them. After a while, the senator said, “We were poor when I was a kid. I was born into the Depression.”

  “You always feel like a stranger here.”

  “How do you know that.”

  “I feel that way.”

  It surprised him. How could Leonard feel that way? The night was becoming colder.

  Leonard pointed to the house. The front door had opened and sounds reached them. A flood of light splashed over the driveway. “Shouldn’t we go down there, Dad? Say good night to them?”

  “No!”

  “Then Mom takes the brunt of it.”

  “All right, we’ll say good night to them.”

  Elizabeth was calling them. “Dad! Lenny!”

  As Richard and his son approached the house, they saw Webster Heller and William Justin come through the open doorway. Winifred was a limp sack, dangling from their arms. The two Secret Service men rescued her, lifting her and placing her in the car. Augustus stood outside the door and said, “Will you shake hands, Web? I don’t want to see you go off like a frustrated fox in a chicken house.”

  Webster Heller held out his hand and said softly, as Augustus took it, “We’re going to make it very hot for you, Gus.”

  “I got that impression.”

  Justin walked past and into the car without saying a word.

  Frances was almost ready to grant Dolly and Elizabeth good night kisses, but Dolly’s set, uninviting expression broke her resolve. She squeaked her thanks and good night, and darted into the car.

  “Good night,” Richard Cromwell said, shortly and with no apologies.

  The car door slammed, and the big stretch Cadillac drove off down the driveway. The group at the open door stood in silence for a moment or two, and then Dolly said, “How could you do that, Richard?”

  “He had good reason,” Augustus said.

  And Elizabeth said, “Well, Grandpa, did you give them the road?”

  “Like hell I did! Where’s Jenny?”

  “She lied about a headache and went to bed, leaving Liz and me with those two creatures.”

  “Then I guess I’ll join her. Good night, children.” He stalked through the door into the house without another word.

  Dolly turned to Richard. “I will say it again. How could you do it and leave me to wind up this dreadful evening?”

  “There are other things to talk about.”

  “What other things?”

  “Dad,” Leonard pleaded.

  “No, Leonard,” the senator said. “This can’t wait. We’re a family, we’re together. Your mother’s angry at me now and she’s been angry at me before, but I love her very much, more than she’ll ever understand.”

  “What on God’s earth are you talking about?” Dolly demanded.

  “Come into the library. We can’t stand here outside and talk about this.”

  “About what?”

  Ignoring her insistence, Cromwell led the way into the library. They passed through the dining room, where Mac-Kenzie was removing the brandy glasses and the dirty ashtrays. “Will you want anything else?” he asked the senator.

  “Thank you, Mac, but I don’t think so. Finish up and go to sleep. You and Ellen have had a day.” In the library, Richard closed the doors. Leonard went to Dolly and stood beside her. Elizabeth crossed the room, turned to Dolly and watched, her face tight.

  “You are terrifying me, all of you,” Dolly said. “Please tell me what has happened. Is it Webster Heller?”

  “No,” the senator said. “When our guests came, I was late. When they left, I was late. I was with Lenny both times. A few minutes before the guests came, his effort to keep a secret collapsed, and he told me that he had Aids.”

  Dolly shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you crazy?”

  Leonard put his arms around her and said, “Mommy, listen. Don’t be frightened. I’m not frightened. I have Aids.”

  “No!” she screamed. “No! No! No!”

  “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry.” Dolly clung to him, and now he was crying, like a small boy who had done something terribly wrong and wept as a defense against his punishment. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, his own fear gone and replaced by a new anguish for the hurt he had inflicted on his mother.

  “It’s not his fault,” Elizabeth cried. “Mother, tell him it’s not his fault.”

  In Dolly’s mind and body there was only pain. She heard nothing, and made sense of nothing. Richard went to her. “Baby,” he said, “poor baby.” She was clinging to Leonard. “Let me take her,” Richard said. Leonard let go of her, and Richard moved her around so that her tearful face was turned up toward him, her mascara and make-up smudged, her lips trembling.

  “Where’s Leonard?” she cried.

  “Here, here, Mommy.”

  “You won’t leave me?”

  “No, never.”

  Her body began to slacken, and before she could collapse, the senator cradled her in his arms and lifted her, whispering, “All right, Darling. We’ll work it out.”

  “How? How?”

  “We’ll work it out.” And to Leonard and Elizabeth, “I’ll take her upstairs to her room. We’ll talk. She’s stronger than you imagine. Better if the two of us are alone.”

  She felt light in the senator’s arms. Leonard opened the door, and Richard left the room, Dolly cradled in his arms like a child.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Leonard and Elizabeth sat in silence for a time. Then Leonard said, “It was worse than I thought it would be.”

  “Poor dear Leonard, poor dear Dolly.”

  “Still,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “there are some advantages, small gifts.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Love. Giving. Wanting.”

  “Yes, I can understand that.”

  “Do you have anyone, Liz? I don’t mean
those kids you date—I mean someone for real?”

  She thought about the question before she shook her head.

  “Find someone.”

  “Ah, yes, find someone—someone who is not gross, boring, stupid, angry, arrogant, sniveling, or macho.”

  “Don’t try to do it alone.”

  “Let’s play tennis tomorrow,” she said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Exactly. I don’t give you up, and we don’t give up life. Anyway, it will do Mother good to see that we’re playing. We can offer her a set.”

  “She’s awful,” Leonard said, smiling.

  “Hooray. Anyway, she’s not too bad. I could let her win.”

  “Oh, no, you couldn’t. Lizzie, do you think there’s a chance, even one in a million, that they’ll beat this before I die. I have six months to a year. That’s not long.”

  “I will tell you something. When Gramps hears about this tomorrow, he’ll endow a lab of a hospital or a research center.”

  “They have all that and they come up with nothing.”

  The talk ended. The big grandfather clock in the hallway began to strike the twelve tones of midnight. When the tones stopped, Liz asked, “Tonight—did you go out right after dinner?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t face them any longer.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went up to the pool terrace, and I meditated. It helps me a little when I do.”

  “I saw you and Dad come back together.”

  “Yes, he joined me there after those two bastards turned him down. We talked about meditation.”

  “I think he lost out tonight. He wanted so much to stop the drive against Sanctuary, but it wasn’t that alone. He has nowhere to go.”

  “Have we?”

  “I don’t know, Lenny, I just don’t know.”

  FORTY

  Jenny was still awake when Augustus crawled into bed next to her. She pulled back away from him. “You stink of those vile cigars.”

  “A woman is just a woman—”

  “No! Stop! Don’t ever dare say that to me again. That’s the most wretched, stupid line that was ever invented, and I am going to insist that Dolly put twin beds in this room.”

  “I like a king-size bed.”

  “You like anything king-size.”

  “Why,” Augustus wondered, “are you so angry?”

  “Why? You dare to ask me why after bringing those contemptible people here, and then holing up with those two men and leaving Dolly and me to deal with those creatures they married.”

  “Oh—that’s pretty damn snobbish.”

  “You have your kind of protection. Let me have snobbery as mine.”

  “Granted.”

  “Do you know,” Jenny said tiredly, “you are absolutely impossible. You’re arrogant, insensitive, strident, and without a shred of manners.”

  Augustus chuckled. “That’s because I’m Jewish. I stay married to you because you have those gorgeous big tits. Why do you stay married to me?”

  “For your money, and I’m tired, and go to sleep.”

  “You old biddy—you love it when I talk about your big tits.”

  “You’re not simply a dirty old man. You’re a filthy old man.”

  “My love, we’ve been married over fifty years, and I still get horny as a kid when I crawl into bed with you.”

  She muffled her laughter while he pressed his face to her bosom.

  It was well past midnight before MacKenzie and Ellen had emptied the dishwasher for the third time, cleaned the dining room, opened the windows wide to allow the fresh air to wash out the cigar scent, cleaned the kitchen, packed away the leftovers, sent Nellie Clough off to bed, and then climbed tiredly to their own rooms. MacKenzie paused in his undressing, lost in his thoughts, his face grim and inwardly fixed.

  “What is it, old man?” Ellen asked him. “Come to bed and stop brooding.”

  “That beautiful young black boy—you know what he reminded me of, of the painting of the young Zulus in the old times.”

  “Everything reminds you of something. I’m too tired to jabber with you. I’m too tired to keep my eyes open.”

  “I think of the illustrations in the novels of H. Rider Haggard. Got him out of the library. I used to read a lot when I was a kid. I don’t read much anymore—my poor suffering god, Ellen, don’t you know what was here tonight. Both them boys got Aids.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Oh, you stupid ox, you and your crazy ideas.”

  “No, no crazy ideas. I wish it was just crazy ideas. Oh, my, I wish on the birth of little Jesus that it was so. But it ain’t that. The two boys, our Leonard and that fine Jones boy, they got Aids, both of them and both of them will die, God help us.”

  “How do you know?” she whispered: terrible trouble is whispered.

  “I heard them talking.”

  “Maybe you wrong.”

  He shook his head. She began to sob, and he sat down and stroked her hair. “It’s a bad world, baby, a lousy stupid place.”

  FORTY-ONE

  She had thrown up three times. Her body was ravaged, and looking at her, as he half-carried her out of the bathroom and back into bed, the senator realized how small and frail she was. He had given her a Valium. It eased her, and now she begged him to take her to Leonard. “It’s late, darling. Tomorrow, you’ll handle it better,” Richard said to her.

  “He could be dead tomorrow,” she sobbed.

  “Oh, no—no. He has months and months and maybe years ahead of him,” he lied, trying desperately to believe his own lie. “By then, there could be a cure.”

  “Do you think so, Richard?”

  “I do. Sure. They have hundreds and hundreds of people working on it. And we’re putting money into it.”

  “But, Richard, they have no money. Everything goes to the Pentagon. You know that.” Her voice was heavy and slow.

  “There’s enough. And good heavens, when we tell Gus, he’ll build his own research center.”

  “He will, you know.” She yawned and closed her eyes. “Don’t leave me tonight, Richard, please.”

  The door opened slowly, and Leonard poked his head in the room. The senator motioned him in. He entered with Elizabeth close behind him and both of them went to Dolly. Elizabeth sank down next to the bed, taking her mother’s hand and pressing it to her lips. Leonard bent over and kissed Dolly. “I know it’s you,” she said before she opened her eyes. “You won’t go away, Leonard?”

  “No, I like it here. Lizzie says I should play tennis with you tomorrow, but you’re not much good, and I know that when Liz beats you, you get upset.”

  “No. I don’t get upset. That’s not so.” It was difficult for her to keep her eyes open. “Give me your hand.” He held out his hand, and she pressed it to her lips. She was utterly exhausted, and feeling the effects of the Valium, she dozed off. Elizabeth rose and kissed her father, and he embraced her and then Leonard.

  “Go to sleep, kids,” he said softly. “I’ll stay with her.”

  When they had gone, he took off his clothes down to his undershirt and crawled into bed next to Dolly. Her instinctive response was to roll toward him, her face against his shoulder, her arm over his chest. He lay on his back, breathing quietly, considering the fact that this long, awful day was finally over. He had only underlined his impotence and achieved nothing. His son would die, and there was nothing he could do about that. He sat on the most powerful and important legislative body on the face of the earth, and there was nothing he could do—nothing to stop or slow a world gone mad and hurtling to its doom. He was not a brilliant man, but he was a decent man, a good man, full of love and hope and compassion—the final link in a line of such men going back through all the ages of man, to Socrates, who sat with a cup of hemlock in front of him, yes, and to a time before then; yet he could say, as had been said once, that the fault was not in the stars; the fault was in him. It was a flashing moment of illumination
that allowed him to realize the truth, and then he closed his eyes and wept, for his son and for himself.

  In the quiet solace of his own room, Leonard was wide awake; in a manner of speaking, more awake, more conscious than he had ever been. He sat cross-legged on a small round pillow, watching the rise and fall of his breath, listening to the question, Where were you before you were born? For this moment, his fear was gone. His mind was filled with the knowledge that he was here. Here was holy ground. Here was eternity. The meditator was once asked, “What is the difference between your way of being and mine?” He was answered, “In your way of being, you look upon your skin as the outside of you which separates you from the world. In my way of being, I look upon my skin as that which connects me with the rest of the world.”

  Leonard watched his breath rise and fall.

  A Biography of Howard Fast

  Howard Fast (1914–2003), one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century, was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. Fast’s commitment to championing social justice in his writing was rivaled only by his deftness as a storyteller and his lively cinematic style.

  Born on November 11, 1914, in New York City, Fast was the son of two immigrants. His mother, Ida, came from a Jewish family in Britain, while his father, Barney, emigrated from the Ukraine, changing his last name to Fast on arrival at Ellis Island. Fast’s mother passed away when he was only eight, and when his father lost steady work in the garment industry, Fast began to take odd jobs to help support the family. One such job was at the New York Public Library, where Fast, surrounded by books, was able to read widely. Among the books that made a mark on him was Jack London’s The Iron Heel, containing prescient warnings against fascism that set his course both as a writer and as an advocate for human rights.

  Fast began his writing career early, leaving high school to finish his first novel, Two Valleys (1933). His next novels, including Conceived in Liberty (1939) and Citizen Tom Paine (1943), explored the American Revolution and the progressive values that Fast saw as essential to the American experiment. In 1943 Fast joined the American Communist Party, an alliance that came to define—and often encumber—much of his career. His novels during this period advocated freedom against tyranny, bigotry, and oppression by exploring essential moments in American history, as in The American (1946). During this time Fast also started a family of his own. He married Bette Cohen in 1937 and the couple had two children.