IT’S TRUE: SOMETIMES Christopher frightens Eloise. Just a little.
Makes her shiver. The fine hairs stirring at the nape of her neck.
When he speaks so matter-of-factly of God, and God’s wishes.
As if he believes! Eloise confides in a divorcée she has casually befriended. As if what to others is mere prattle, to him is God’s very word.
MID MORNING IN the hotel suite sharply fragrant with yesterday’s flowers, and a commingled scent of stale champagne, liver pâté and scattered crumbs of Gorgonzola cheese. Yet: a delirium of satin sheets, and lace-edged pillowcases smeared with Eloise’s makeup, and gilded mirrors holding no reflections, and in the near distance, rooms away, the petulant whimpering of Princess and San Souci mad with jealousy of their mistress’s new love. A delirium of brawny sprawling limbs, hard-muscled limbs, limbs covered in fuzzy pale-blond hair . . . patches of darker hair, wiry, kinky, at armpits, belly, groin. No matter that there is a patina of grime between Christopher’s toes, no matter that his fingernails are permanently ridged with black, no matter that the ignorant world cries Fool! . . . and Harlot! . . . and Adulteress! . . . and Seductress!
For Eloise Peck would fling in their teeth just one word: Love.
DOES SHE DARE, now that he sleeps? . . . now that his breath has become a rasping snore, and his body gives off a warm rank damp heat? Does she dare, now that she has drained the bottle of champagne, and the world is a-tilt, to kiss her lover in that most forbidden and delicious of places?
A secret kiss; yet, at the touch of her swooning lips, the blood-warmed flesh at Christopher’s groin begins to stir like a very snake roused from sleep.
6.
Father has taught: The Game is never to be played as if it were but a game.
And the spoils we reap, but spoils.
So Christopher sleeps truly, exhausted from love; and, when he wakes, wakes truly; and “loves” truly . . . for it would be cruel of him to come between Mrs. Peck and God’s wishes for that improvident lady.
7.
Except: on the evening of 23 June 1909, in the space of a quarter hour, the lovers’ plans are as completely devastated as if an earthquake had struck Atlantic City, and the elegant Saint-Léon razed to the ground.
And what glorious plans the lovers had had: to be married in the eyes of God, as soon as the divorce decree from old Mr. Peck was finalized; more immediately, to dine early on the twenty-third, and to attend a musical evening (the much acclaimed operetta The Fortune Teller) at the new Gaiety Theatre.
Grown fatigued by an afternoon of indolence on the beach, Mrs. Peck lay down in the sumptuous four-poster bed for a brief nap; slept fitfully; woke, and slept again, and woke, or seemed to . . . disturbed by raised voices in the adjacent room. “Christopher? Is that you?” she whispered. The voices ebbed, and she lay for a while in a pleasurable trance not knowing if she’d heard accurately or had been dreaming; lazily calculating whether it was too early for her to summon a maid, to draw her bathwater. The evening at the Gaiety would be festive and public, covert eyes moving upon her and Christopher, and so her toilette must be impeccable.
Again the voices were raised: masculine voices. One of them was Christopher’s, unmistakably. But whose was the other?
“My dear boy, in an argument of some sort? Can it be?”
Excited, thrilled, Eloise quickly wrapped herself in her new emerald-green crêpe de Chine robe; powdered her unfortunately puffy face; made an attempt to smooth down her matted hair. No time! no time! At the door she paused to listen, for Christopher did sound angry, as she’d never before heard him; and who could it be who dared to answer him in such a provocative tone? Not a hotel servant, surely?
Eloise listened. Christopher was being threatened?
Or, no: Christopher was threatening another person.
. . . Another young voice, whining, childish, slurred with drink, a bullying intimacy; a brotherly tone alternating with one of crude malice.
Money, evidently, was the issue.
Someone was demanding money of her Christopher.
And Christopher was saying in a lowered voice that there was no money to be had, damn it. No money to be had—yet.
The other, unknown party laughed harshly, saying he didn’t intend to leave this damned hotel without some cash; no less than two hundred dollars. He was flat broke, his Baltimore plans had gone bust, he’d been lucky to have escaped with just a beating! . . .
Eloise was shocked to hear how Christopher cursed his companion, and commanded him to leave at once before the woman overheard, and everything would be ruined.
. . . two hundred did I say, shit three hundred’s what I meant.
Christopher stammered there was no money to be had yet! . . . no money of any significance.
The old bitch’s got jewels, don’t she? Come on. Before I lose my fuckin’ sand-frawd.
In this way, recklessly, the two young men quarreled with an old, heated intimacy; even Christopher seemed to have forgotten where he was; and, on the other side of the door, Eloise Peck stood paralyzed, her pretty crêpe de Chine wrapper fallen open to reveal her sad, slack figure, and her eyes filling with tears in one of those intervals of horror that mimic, and sometimes augur, the termination of a life.
8.
Here is how the catastrophe occurred.
Christopher, as he was known to Mrs. Peck, had gone swimming, alone, in the late afternoon, along a stretch of windy deserted beach a quarter mile from the Saint-Léon; returned to the hotel suite, and since Mrs. Peck was asleep, enjoyed a cigar, and one or two small glasses of Swiss chocolate almond liqueur, out on the balcony overlooking the frothy, winking surf; was roused from his reverie by a surreptitious knocking at the door, at 5:25 P.M., and giving no thought who it might be, suspecting it was one or another flunky of the Saint-Léon bringing Mrs. Peck some trifle she had ordered, went to open it; and saw to his astonishment his younger brother Harwood, in a disheveled state.
Before Christopher could speak, Harwood pushed his way inside, and, seeing they were alone, began to demand money from him. He was in a bad way, Harwood said; his life was in danger; he needed money, and he needed it immediately; and Thurston must provide it.
Christopher was so rattled at the sight of this brother of his, of whom he’d never been fond, whom he’d never trusted, in this place where his brother should not have been, he could only stammer that there must be some mistake: he wasn’t Thurston, but Christopher—“My name is Christopher Schoenlicht.”
Harwood said contemptuously he didn’t give a damn what Thurston’s name was or wasn’t; he needed money; and it was obvious that, here, money was to be had. He knew all about Thurston’s liaison with some wealthy old female and he wanted his share. “My luck has temporarily run out,” he said, “—and now, ‘Christopher,’ I want some of yours.”
Still Christopher stammered that there must be some mistake: he wasn’t Thurston, but Christopher: and unless Harwood left at once, he would be forced to eject him.
“‘Eject’ me, eh! Will you! Oh will you!—just try it, fancy boy!” Harwood laughed, lowering his head like a bulldog about to leap to the attack, and clenching his fists. “Dare to touch me, and see what happens.”
In the course of his precocious career, the young man who currently called himself “Christopher Schoenlicht” had encountered a number of upsetting situations, and calculated his way out of several tight spots; even at panicked moments he recalled a favorite epigram of his father’s—“‘The worst is not so long as we can say, This is the worst’”—though he couldn’t have named its source, whether the Bible, or Shakespeare, Homer or Mark Twain. Yet, his drunken brother Harwood standing belligerently before him in a place and at a time where Harwood was, by all the rules of The Game, not to be, these words ran rapidly through his head—“This is the worst!—this.”
For it had never happened before, that any of the Lichts had put another so at risk.
Brothers by blood are brothers by the sou
l.
Control, and control, and again control: and what prize will not be ours?
Christopher, or Thurston, had last spoken with Harwood several months ago at the old country place, as the family called it, in Muirkirk, in the Chautauqua Valley of upstate New York, around the time of Harwood’s twenty-second birthday. Afterward, as usual, the brothers had gone in separate directions, for they had quite separate destinations: Harwood to Baltimore, to attach himself to a relation of some sort, a “cousin” of their father’s, with whom he was to organize a racing lottery, and Christopher, or Thurston, with his very different gifts, to return to Manhattan and to his quick-blooming romance with the wealthy Mrs. Peck. When he was apart from his brothers and sisters, Thurston rarely gave them much thought, for how could thinking along sentimental, familial lines be productive?—as Father might say. He did allow himself moments now and then of reverie, smoking a cigar, sipping a rare liqueur, as he’d been doing on the balcony of the hotel suite just now; at such times he contemplated the Muirkirk home as one might contemplate a place of refuge; he might indulge himself in a mental colloquy with his father, whose spiritual presence he required to get him through knotty times. (Like “making love” with Mrs. Eloise Peck.)
As Mr. Licht had instructed his children, it was always wisest to say How would Father deal with this?—not How should I deal with this?—when they were faced with difficult situations.
But how would Father deal with this?—Christopher, or Thurston, asked himself, as his unwanted brother Harwood prowled about the luxurious room, sniffing doglike at vases of Mrs. Peck’s favorite flowers, pearl-pink roses; picking up items (a cashmere net scarf of Mrs. Peck’s, from India) as if to appraise them, and tossing them down; repeating, like a demented parrot, that he needed money, he needed cash, wasn’t going to leave until he got cash, he knew that the “wealthy old whore what’s-her-name—‘Peek?’ ‘Poke?’ ‘Pig?’”—gave Thurston money, for certain she gave him presents, and he wanted his share.
Had Thurston, or Christopher, happened to have seen his brother on the street in Atlantic City, he would probably not have recognized him at first: the stocky young man hadn’t shaved in days, and seemed to have suffered a beating—his upper lip was swollen, and his left eye luridly discolored. He was wearing a soiled golfing cap Thurston had never seen before, and a rumpled navy blue gabardine suit that fitted his muscular shoulders tightly; his white shirt, poorly laundered, was open at the throat, and missing a button. It was clear too that he’d been drinking.
Of the Licht children, Harwood had long been acknowledged as the least gracious, the least talented and, certainly, the least attractive: he had a face (as Mr. Licht had once half-admiringly observed) like the blunt edge of an ax; and small close-set suspicious eyes of no discernible color, moistly alert as the eyes of a large predator frog. Harwood had grown rapidly and prodigiously until the age of twelve, but then ceased to grow; he was now several inches shorter than his handsome blond brother, squat-bodied, rather clumsy, yet, if it came to a fight, Thurston knew from past experience that the wily Harwood would win: his tactics were improvised, wild, manic and lawless, no blow to the kidney, groin or throat, no gouging, or biting, or stranglehold forbidden. The law of the beast was Harwood’s unarticulated law. The last time the brothers had fought, at an edge of the Muirkirk swamp, Thurston had been able to save himself only by holding his brother’s head under water . . . until, after what seemed like a very long time, Harwood’s steel-like fingers relaxed their death-grip around Thurston’s throat.
Now Thurston relented. “All right, I’ll meet you somewhere tonight. But, damn you, you must get out of here now.”
“Bloody hell will I ‘get out of here,’” Harwood said loudly, his hands on his hips, “—you think I’m a bellboy, to take orders from you?”
So, fatally, it continued. Harwood, drunk and blustering, making his demands; Thurston, trying to placate him; the brothers’ voices more reckless, louder; until they were shouting, and the heavy gilt-framed mirrors on the walls began to tremble. It was a curiosity of the episode, as both would recall afterward, that neither dared to so much as touch the other’s sleeve . . . for fear of the murderous violence that might ensue.
And, in the adjacent room, Eloise Peck stood rooted to the spot, listening.
9.
It was unfortunate for all that Mrs. Peck lacked the cunning, or the simple presence of mind, to flee such a humiliating scene at once; to summon help from the hotel management, or to seek out her Filipino maid, that she might run for help.
And that the deluded woman lacked the wit (being, perhaps, as madly in love as she was habituated to claiming) to perceive that “Christopher Schoenlicht” did not exist; still less that, had he existed, he would not be hers.
Instead of acting with caution, however, as she would have done in her former respectable life, Mrs. Peck sobbed aloud, like a heroine in a Broadway melodrama, “I am betrayed—he does not love me,” and in a paroxysm of wounded pride flung open the door between the rooms to dramatically reveal herself; and rushed inside with a choked cry that “Christopher”—“my Christopher”—had deceived her. In a wild voice she ordered her fiancé and his brute brother (for even in her agitation it was self-evident to her that the two young men, for all their differences, were kin) out of the suite at once.
“Or I’ll call the police! The police!”
Eloise Peck’s indignation, hurt, female fury were surely sincere, like her hot gushing tears, yet even as she threw herself at her terrified fiancé, to rake his handsome face with her nails, she might have had the idea that this lurid event was but a “scene” of some kind; and that, like any glamorous heroine, she would be protected from actual harm. For hadn’t that been her experience through life, as a child, a young girl, a married woman? And didn’t such flamboyant emotion carry with it its own sanction?
So it was a total surprise that Christopher, who had always seemed so sweet-tempered, and so devoted a lover, should defend himself roughly against her attack; gripping her wrists hard, and telling her to be still—“Mrs. Peck, shut your mouth.”
It was more of a surprise that Christopher’s churlish brother, face swollen and discolored, narrowed eyes glistening like acid, should turn upon her a look of sheer loathing . . . in which no particle of sympathy, or respect, or alarm for her threats could be discerned; and that, with no more than a moment’s hesitation, and silently, he should wrench her from his brother, and press his hard gritty hand against her mouth to stifle her screams—“You heard him, lady. Shut your mouth.”
So they struggled. Mrs. Peck and the brute Harwood Licht. A table was overturned, a porcelain lamp smashed, the crystal chandelier swaying, the very walls swaying, a ruffian’s hand pressed so tight against her face, she was in danger of suffocating. Why, was he murdering her?—the beast murdering her?—as, frenzied as a wildcat, she jabbed at her assailant with her elbows, tried to claw his face, butted at his head with her own.
How degrading!—how preposterous! Eloise Peck, only partly dressed, hair disheveled, rouge with its subtle silver base streaking her teary cheeks, grappling with a stranger who threatened, dear God, to wring her neck!—while Christopher, sweet Christopher, her Christopher whom she had loved with such passion, tried to wrench him away, crying in a child’s voice, “Harwood, no. Harwood. Harwood. No.”
But within five seconds Mrs. Peck’s neck was snapped: she was to die, within minutes, an excruciatingly painful death.
10.
The woman fell heavily to the floor, her silky emerald-green dressing gown undone, revealing a soft, flaccid skin of the hue of curdled cream. For several seconds there was silence except for the brothers’ labored breathing and, in a room close by, a sound of—weeping?—laughter?—childish high-pitched prattle?
Harwood’s blood-threaded eyes snatched in panic at Thurston’s; but before he could speak, Thurston said simply, in a voice of infinite resignation and contempt: “Dogs.”
11.
Thurston whispers, “ . . . This hasn’t happened.”
Thurston whispers, a sob in his throat, “ . . . This can’t have happened.”
Harwood returns, impatient, panting, giving off a rank ripe fleshy odor of animal excitement; carelessly stuffing jewelry (a pearl necklace, a sapphire-and-diamond choker, a handful of rings) into his pockets, and pawing through a wad of bills . . . twenties, fifties, even several one-hundred-dollar bills.
Thurston doesn’t respond as Harwood slaps him in the arm, tells him they must leave, must leave the hotel separately, by different doors, the woman is dead and isn’t going to come back to life . . . .
Thurston says slowly, “Harwood. You didn’t do this.”
Harwood says quickly, “Did you?”
Harwood has cunningly dusted his face with the deceased woman’s face powder, a peachy-beige hue, but has neglected to powder his neck, which is none too clean; he’s grimacing to himself, grinning and frowning and muttering and licking his lips compulsively; dying for a drink; hastily knotting a silk paisley ascot tie (belonging to “Christopher Schoenlicht”) around his neck; though completely sober now he sways like a drunken man, perceives that the walls of the room are a-tilt, laughs and, as he backs toward the door, tosses a handful of bills at his brother. Harwood’s moist eyes glisten in panic that is also a kind of wisdom, for he knows that at last he has crossed over: he has committed a murder.
And what ecstasy in it, he’d never guessed: the need to flee for his life.
IN OLD MUIRKIRK
My Heart Laid Bare Page 7