by Howard Fast
“Sally, darling,” Barbara said, “I don’t have any quick answers. Perhaps there aren’t any, but I don’t think your marriage is breaking up. It won’t unless you want it to. Let me get through this stupid committee business, and I’ll be able to sit down and talk with both of you. Perhaps that will help.”
“Will you? Will you, Bobby?”
“I promise.”
Sam was asleep in his crib. Barbara kissed him lightly, thanked Eloise and Adam profusely, and then drove back to San Francisco alone. The cable was pushed under her front door. She tore it open, and saw from the date that it had been delayed five days. It read, “No way to get through on the phone. Flight successful, goods bought, and all planes safe in Tel Aviv. Flight out of here impossible. Booked passage from Haifa to Naples. Then to London, and hopefully flight home. Ten days at most. I love you. Promise never to leave you again.” It was signed “Bernie.”
***
Jean was standing in the corridor outside Dan’s hospital room when Tom appeared. Her surprise was more than she could cope with; she simply stared and said nothing.
“Well, I’m not a ghost, mother. I’m real,” Tom informed her.
“Yes, I know you’re real,” Jean said slowly.
“How is he?”
“Much better.”
“Can I see him?”
“I don’t want him upset,” Jean said. “I don’t want him hurt. He’s been hurt enough. What made you come here?”
“That’s a hell of a note,” Tom complained. “Instead of admitting that I might be doing a decent thing, you’re being hostile.”
“I’m not hostile. I’m just worried. You haven’t spoken to your father for twenty years.”
“And he hasn’t spoken to me.”
“All right, Tommy. This is no time to rehash anything. If you go in there, I don’t want any of that. Are you concerned for him?”
“I think so,” Tom replied uncertainly. The truth was, he didn’t know.
“Then if you go inside, you must forget the past. I don’t want you to talk about anything but your concern for him.”
“I’ll try.”
“That’s not good enough. I want you to promise me.”
Tom nodded.
“I’ll go in first and tell him. He doesn’t need a shock.” She turned to the door. “Wait here. Don’t lose your nerve and run.”
“I’ll be here,” he answered, thinking that she still treated him like a small, willful boy.
Dan, propped up in bed, was reading an old, battered copy of Masefield’s Salt Water Ballads. May Ling had bought it for him thirty years before, and it had her inscription inside the cover: “For a loving and gentle saltwater man.” Jean had found it among his things and had brought it to him, not mentioning the inscription. That puzzled him, but there were any number of things about Jean that puzzled him. Now he put down the book and said, “I wish you liked small boats.”
“That depends on how small they are. I could learn.”
“I’ve been thinking of something about thirty feet, sloop-rigged, something that the two of us could handle. I’d build it myself—well, not with my own hands, but I’d design it and watch it every step of the way. Build it of teak—none of this rotten plastic they’re using now. I’m not thinking of anything ambitious. There’s enough water and shoreline in the bay to keep a man occupied for years. I’d teach you to sail. You know, that was something I planned to do from the first day we were married, and believe me, you’d learn at the hand of a master.”
“It’s a thought.”
“Come on, Jeanie, would you?”
“Get well first. I’m not saying no. Meanwhile, there’s a visitor outside. I thought I’d tell you before he comes in.”
“Who?”
“Tom.”
“Tom?”
“Our Tom. Your son.”
Softly, Dan said, “No. Well, I’ll be damned. He wants to see me.”
“That’s right. Do you want to see him?”
“I want to see him. Yes.”
“All right, Danny. But the past is over. Otherwise, there’s no use seeing him at all.”
“I’ll buy that.”
“I’ll send him in and stay outside,” Jean said. “I think it’s best if you see him alone.”
Dan waited apprehensively. His heart was beating more rapidly, and he wondered whether that was good or bad after what had happened to him. It would not be literally true to say that he had not seen his son for twenty years. San Francisco is not a large city, and three times during the years he had caught sight of Tom, most recently in the distance, and before that twice in the same room at public functions. His feelings about Tom were a complex maze of contradictions. On one level, Tom was an unmitigated bastard; on another level, Dan blamed himself and softened the characterization; on still another level, he tried to grapple with the fact that his son was very possibly a homosexual, but since his notions of what constituted homosexuality were rather primitive, he dealt with the possibility by negating it and putting it down to an incorrect conclusion of others or as a temporary aberration from the normal. With all his faults, Dan Lavette was not intolerant; he was not given to hatred or grudges. After all, two generations ago, when the Chinese were an anathema to almost all of the white population of San Francisco, he had hired May Ling’s father as his bookkeeper and had subsequently made him the manager of all his enterprises. His judgment of himself was so unsparing that he hesitated to condemn others. And as far as Tom was concerned, he had lived with an aching desire, a dream that one day the boy would lay aside his hurt and bitterness and return to him, for Dan had never denied Tom’s right to despise him. By the measure of his own coin, he had failed his children, and if Barbara and Joe chose to forgive him that failure and to love him in spite of it, the virtue was theirs, not his. When he had given the hundred and ten thousand dollars to Bernie Cohen, his excuse that he was paying a debt to Mark Levy was an empty apology and no more; the truth was that a child of his, through her husband, had come with a plea. At that point he was allowed to give, and that was all that mattered to him. His was the peculiar anguish of a once poverty-stricken child whose family now was of the establishment. He still measured giving by the thing that was given.
So when Jean asked him to put aside the past, she was controlling her own ghosts. There was no thought of the past in Dan’s mind as Tom entered the room. He was unaware of his slight smile, thinking only that his son was a fine-looking man, tall, well built—his father’s frame and his mother’s color and good looks. He was thirty-six years old, one of a half dozen of the wealthiest and most powerful men in California. Dan made no obeisance to wealth and power, but they were the measure of the game he had played for most of his life.
“Hello, dad,” Tom said tentatively. He, too, was apprehensive. Dan held out his hand, and Tom took it. His grip was firm. “How do you feel?”
“Not bad,” Dan replied. “You know, this is a Jewish hospital. They have a funny expression about a coronary. They say, ‘Now you’re bar-mitzvahed.’ The words came out, and Dan didn’t know why he had said them. What a stupid thing to say, he thought. What a stupid way to begin! Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? “I guess you don’t know what that means,” he said lamely.
“Sure I do. Only it doesn’t apply. You were a man when you were still a kid. It’s people like me who have to do the growing up.”
Dan stared at him, wondering whether he meant it. He remembered a boy’s voice. This voice was strong, well modulated, the voice of a man who was listened to.
“I’m glad you came,” Dan said. “It’s been too long.”
“I know it has.”
“Pull over a chair. Sit down.”
“I should have brought flowers,” Tom said.
“Who the hell wants flowers! I’m not dead. The flowers keep coming and
I send them down to the ward. You know what you should have brought me? A cigar.”
“I wish I had thought of that. But mother would have killed me.”
“I suppose so. She prowls around here like a cop. You look good. Taking care of yourself?”
“I try.”
“How’s business?” Dan asked, unable to think of anything else to say, or unable to say any of the hundred things he thought of, unable to ask whether he had been missed, loved, cherished, hated, unable to ask whether his son was happy, lonely, fulfilled, resentful.
“Well, the chaps in Washington say we’re going to own the world, that it’s our century. I used to think that business was a matter of making money. But then money becomes meaningless, and the whole game becomes something else.”
“I know the feeling,” Dan agreed.
“I suppose we own a very substantial part of the world already. The question is, where do I go from here?”
Dan waited. He mistrusted the words on the tip of his tongue.
“I’m going to run for Congress,” Tom said.
Dan nodded. “I heard.”
“What do you think of the idea?”
Dan nodded again. “I think you’ll make it. Does that mean you’ll leave Whittier in control?”
“Not on your life,” Tom said. “I know you don’t like John. I guess you have your reasons. He’s no one to like or dislike. He’s an old fool and a hypochondriac. I’ve been pressing him to retire, and I imagine he will. You know, I’m getting married.”
“Yes, Jean told me.”
“Lucy Sommers.”
“I knew her father, but I never met her. I’m sure she’s a fine girl.”
“She’s a fine woman, dad. A year or two older than I. But that makes no difference.”
“Of course not.”
At that point Jean entered. Tom rose, explaining that he did not want to tire Dan. He shook hands with his father and kissed Jean, then left.
“How did it go?” Jean asked Dan.
Dan shrugged. “All right.”
“He was pleasant?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Nothing.”
“You were pleasant, weren’t you, Danny?”
“I was so damn glad to see him—”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Then Dan added, almost woefully, “He was a total stranger, Jeanie. I suppose I anticipated everything else, everything except that. But how could I expect anything else?”
***
The next day, when Barbara was already on her way to Washington, the story about her subpoena broke in the San Francisco press. The headline in the Chronicle read: san francisco writer subpoenaed by house committee. The Examiner’s headline said: barbara lavette cohen to be unfriendly witness at subversive hearing. Jean, realizing that Dan would have the news sooner or later, told him about it before she showed him the newspapers, assuring him that neither Barbara nor Harvey Baxter was greatly concerned. “No doubt it’s her experience in Germany that they wish to make the most of, but that’s no secret. Barbara wrote about it, and thousands of people know about it. It’s their wretched way of making headlines, and you are not to become angry, please, Dan.”
“Those filthy sons of bitches,” Dan said. “What in hell is happening, Jean? What’s happening to this country? And why didn’t Barbara tell me? When did all this begin?”
“About ten days ago. And it’s perfectly obvious why she didn’t tell you.”
“Did you know?”
“Yes, Barbara told me.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Danny, you can understand that.”
“She ought to have the best damn legal advice in the city.”
“She has Harvey Baxter with her.”
“Harvey Baxter is a damned old woman. You should have told me. I know people in Washington. I probably could have had this squashed.”
“You were in no condition to do anything, Dan. I spoke to Harvey, and he’s not worried.”
“Where’s the baby?”
“At Higate with Eloise and Adam. Don’t worry, please.” It was easier to tell him that than to keep her own fears down.
***
John Whittier entered Tom’s office and put the Chronicle on his desk. Whittier, a stout, red-faced man, looked sick.
“I’ve seen it,” Tom said. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. It’s either my stomach or a heart attack. This is terrible. This is absolutely terrible, Thomas.”
“Yes.”
“With the primaries three months away.”
“I can count, John.”
“Well, what do you intend to do about it? That damned sister of yours has been nothing but grief and aggravation since the day I met your mother.”
“I know. We don’t pick our relatives.”
“Did you know about this?”
“No, not until today,” Tom replied. “I am as upset and angry and frustrated as you are.”
“Why on God’s earth didn’t she tell you? We might have done something about it.”
“You’d have to ask her that.”
“Has the press been in touch with you yet?”
“Not yet. But they will.”
“How the devil can you sit there like that? Have you called her? Spoken to her?”
“I imagine she’s on her way to Washington. I called her home. There’s no answer.”
“Well, what are they after? Is she a commie? I’ve always suspected she was.”
“John, don’t be an ass.”
“Or is it that Jew husband of hers? I’ve heard all sorts of wild stories about him.”
“John, I don’t know any more about this than you do. I’ve been on the phone with the county chairman and the state chairman, and there was nothing I could tell either of them. I told Janet to hold all my calls so that I could think about this. Now I suggest you go back to your office and do the same.”
After Whittier left, Janet Loper, Tom’s secretary, buzzed him and said that Mrs. Carter was on the phone. Carter was Lucy Sommers’ married name; after her husband’s death, she had resumed her maiden name. Tom had to think for a moment before he made the connection.
“I’ll talk to her,” he said. He tried to pull his thoughts together. “Since when are you Mrs. Carter?” he asked her.
“Did I say that? Well, that shows you where my mind is. Tom, have you given any statement to the press?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Don’t. Get out of the office. I’ll meet you at Casper’s for lunch in half an hour. It’s a quiet place, and probably no one we know will be there. We must talk before this goes any further.”
“I can’t leave now. Everyone and his mother is trying to reach me.”
“Precisely why you should leave. Please trust me.”
At Casper’s, a tiny French restaurant tucked away on Leavenworth Street, Lucy was waiting for him, well hidden in a booth at the rear. Tom dropped down on the bench facing her and stared wordlessly.
“Poor dear,” she said. “I ordered a Scotch for you. I had to get you out of there. I can imagine.” She appeared so competent, so cool and self-contained, that Tom found himself relaxing. “You know,” she went on, “I’m rather glad we can face this together. I don’t think it’s the end of the world by any means, but we must sort out things before this goes any further. First things first. Is Barbara a communist?”
“John asked me that. I told him not to be an ass.”
“But now you’re not so certain?”
“How does one know? I talk to Barbara three or four times a year. We’re not exactly loving siblings. She has done some damn strange things.”
“The Examin
er calls her an unfriendly witness. What exactly does that mean?”
“I called my lawyer and asked him. Apparently they subpoenaed her, after which she made no gesture of cooperation.”
“Perhaps she has a clear conscience.”
“Lucy, Barbara has done some crazy things in her time, like giving away the fortune she inherited to set up the Lavette Foundation, but I’ve never had an inkling of her being a red.”
“And suppose the worst came out? How would the Republican party people feel about that? Would they still give you the designation?”
“They’re shaky.”
“All right, Thomas. Until we hear what happens in Washington, we make no statements and speak to no one. I have a lovely little cottage at Nicasio up in Marin. Suppose we go there and hide out for two or three days. It will give us a chance to think and plan—and to know each other a little better.”
Tom stared at her. Her use of “we” unsettled him; on the other hand, no one had ever taken responsibility for him or his fate before; looking at this strong-featured, handsome woman who sat facing him, he experienced a sense of relief. For the first time that day, someone had proposed an affirmative action.
“I have my car outside. Shall I order lunch?”
Tom nodded.
***
“One of my larger regrets,” Harvey Baxter said to Barbara, “is that I never joined the Masonic order. Not that Sam Goldberg didn’t urge me to. He was a Mason for forty years.” They were in the plane, flying east to Washington, when Baxter voiced his regret, apropos of nothing that Barbara could think of; she asked him why on earth he should think of that just then.
“It might help. I’m trying to think of anything that might help. There might just be a Mason on that committee, although it’s not too likely. Anyway, I should have joined. My wife talked me out of it. Said I had enough things in my life that kept us apart. Never met my wife, did you, Barbara?”
“I’m sure she’s lovely, Harvey.”
“But possessive, Barbara. Possessive. Women are possessive. With the exception of a few like you. If I had ever proposed going off as your husband did, my wife would have had a case of hysterics. Not that I see myself embarking upon anything as ill-advised. As your attorney,” he apologized, “I must state that I considered it ill-advised. You do understand?”