Carriage Trade

by Stephen Birmingham

  “So I suppose it’ll be Bonham.”

  She sips her tea thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she says. “The Times story didn’t mention it, but something happened between Si and Tommy a few months ago. I’ve no idea what it was. Si never discussed the business with me. But I got the distinct impression that Si had stopped trusting Tommy. I honestly think that if Si hadn’t died when he did, he would have—I mean, I believe Si was thinking of getting rid of Tommy.”

  “Ah,” he says. “That explains something I wondered about.”

  “You mean that in Si’s revised will Tommy Bonham wasn’t to be left the emerald ring.”

  “Now, you know I can’t tell you that.”

  “You don’t need to. You just did. And I think I know to whom, in the unfinished will, that ring was going to be left.”

  “Don’t ask me that, Connie.”

  “I don’t need to. I already know,” she says.

  “And so,” he says, shifting the subject again, “I suppose the store will have to be sold.”

  She nods. “Yes, though it seems a shame, considering how hard Si worked to make Tarkington’s what it’s become. He built the business for Blazer, you know. It was all for that boy, but then Blazer—let him down.”

  “There’ve been several offers already. Some quite lucrative.”

  “Yes, I guess I’d say sell it. Sell it to the highest bidder. Because, frankly, there was something troubling Si those last few months before he died. Part of it was Tommy, but part of it was something else. I don’t think business was as good as he pretended it was. He used to say, ‘My kind of woman isn’t affected by a recession. My kind of woman isn’t even aware of an economic downturn.’ But I think some of them were. I think a lot of them were. I think that was what was weighing on his mind. I think the store had begun losing money, perhaps was even hemorrhaging money. At times, these past six or eight months, I’d look at Si and see a very frightened look in his eyes, Jake—a terrified look.”

  “Of course, if the store were sold, it would become a very different sort of store.”

  “But perhaps that’s inevitable. After all, that kind of store may not have any place in this city anymore—maybe not anywhere in the world. Think about it: all those famous little Tarkington’s touches. Chanel Number Five in the ladies’ room. Chaise longues in case a customer felt faint or wanted to get off her feet for a few minutes. Monogrammed hand towels. Maids running about serving tea or drinks or little watercress sandwiches—whatever the client asked for. Endless alterations to suit the client’s whim, and never a charge for any of it. That sort of thing may have worked in the eighties, and even in the seventies. But this is the nineties, and people are tightening their belts, pulling in their horns. Tarkington’s has become an anachronism. Specialty stores like ours are becoming a thing of the past. The Times was right—Si was the last of the dinosaurs. His breed’s extinct, and so’s his breed of store. I’m sorry, Jake. I didn’t mean to launch into a long lecture on the state of the retailing business, a subject I assure you I know absolutely nothing about.”

  “I think you know more than you’re willing to admit,” he says.

  They sit in silence for a moment or two, and she sips her tea. “This tea simply will not cool,” she says, setting down her cup.

  “You know,” he says, “when Blazer made his little—outburst back there at the office, he said something about wanting to kill his father but somebody else beat him to it.”

  She shakes her head. “I have no idea what he meant by that.”

  “You don’t think there was any chance of foul play, do you?”

  “I don’t even want to think about it. What difference does it make? He’s dead. Foul play or not, he’s not coming back to life. Harry Arnstein said death was from a coronary, and that’s good enough for me.”

  “But still—”

  “The thing you have to remember about me, Jake, is that I loved the little son-of-a-bitch. In spite of the way he treated me, I still loved him. He may have treated me badly, but he treated other women badly, too. I wasn’t singled out. Being unfaithful to me was part of his nature. I don’t think it was possible for him to be faithful to any woman, much less a wife. And I miss him. Last night, I spent the night in town. I let myself into the apartment alone and realized he wouldn’t be there. It’s not that he was often there. In fact, most of the time he wasn’t there. But I realized he was never going to be there again. I realized I’d never hear him say again that he was going out to walk Blackamoor, his big old Labrador. Even when there were times that he—and Blackamoor—were going to wind up in some girlfriend’s apartment, I knew I was going to miss hearing him say that. I was going to miss him telling me his transparent little lies. Isn’t it funny? I was even going to miss the bad things he did. Suddenly I felt terribly alone. I went from window to window, throughout that big, empty apartment, looking out into the street, thinking I’d see him walking Blackamoor, or see him stepping into a phone booth to call one of his girlfriends, even though I knew he was gone for good and was never coming back. And you know something? Even though I knew he was gone forever, and was never coming back, I was still jealous of him. Because I loved him. If anyone ever does decide to write his biography, I hope they’ll put that in.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve already been approached on that subject,” he says.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Jake. I don’t think we want anybody writing his biography, do we? No.”

  “The young man has good credentials. He’s primarily a financial writer, and he understands retailing. He got some sort of an award for a piece he did in Fortune on Saks being taken over by the Arab consortium. His name is Peter Turner.”

  “No, I think not,” she says. “Si didn’t want anything written about him in his lifetime, and I think we should continue to honor those wishes. I hope you told him no.”

  “I told him I’d talk to him after I talked to you.”

  “And there are some things in Si’s past that we wouldn’t want—”

  “I know what you mean, Connie. But just remember this one fact about journalists. If a journalist wants to write a story badly enough, he’ll go ahead and write it anyway, whether you cooperate or not. And if you cooperate, you have a certain amount of leverage. You have a certain amount of control over the material, over what goes into the story, if you see what I mean.”

  She looks thoughtful. “Yes, you have a point.”

  “So you might consider cooperating with this Peter Turner—in order to have that degree of control.”

  She smiles faintly. “You’re a very wise man, Jake,” she says. “I’ve always thought so. How long have you and I known each other?”

  “Twenty-seven years. I was best man in your wedding. Remember?”

  “Of course. The day he died was my fiftieth birthday. Did you know that? Jake—am I getting old?”

  “Oh, no,” he says. “Not you.”

  “Whatever else could be said about my husband, you have to admit that Si Tarkington had balls.” She sips her tea. “This tea is finally cool enough to drink,” she says.

  5

  At the Beth-El Home for the Jewish Aged in Palm Beach Shores, Florida, it is time for Rose Tarcher’s weekly bridge game. Rose Tarcher is ninety-six and, she likes to boast, she still has all her faculties, though her hearing has begun to fail her in recent years. “Which way is north?” she asks. “Which? Is this north?” Rose is superstitious, and likes to be seated on the north side of the bridge table.

  No one really likes to play bridge with Rose Tarcher because she is notorious for being a bid hog. On the other hand, in the unwritten hierarchy of the Beth-El Home, Rose is what is known as “one of the higher-ups.” Being one of the higher-ups means that Rose has money—some money, at least, though of course no one knows how much. In her room, number 17, she has substituted her own chintz curtains and bedspread for the ones provided by the home. She also has her own colored sheets, which she likes changed twice a
week, though most residents get only one change a week, on Mondays. In her room she has a large-screen TV, with cable. She has her own Touch Tone phone, with an extra line and a hold button, and a sterling silver mezuzah on her door.

  Then there is her mink. It is a rather special mink, designed, she says, just for her. It can be worn at knee length. But then there is an eighteen-inch-deep panel of matched pelts that can be zipped onto the skirt of the coat, creating a floor-length garment. The coat has a high stand-up collar, and it also has a zip-on hood. Rose’s mink may have seen better days, but it still has its Tarkington’s label and Rose’s monogram stitched into the lining, and on chilly evenings she often appears at the dinner table wrapped from head to toe in her mink.

  In the draw for partners, Rose has drawn Ben Rosenthal, one of the few gentlemen living at Beth-El, and this draw is fine with him because, if Rose likes to hog the bids, Ben enjoys being dummy. The other players are Esther Pinkus and Lily Sachs. The bidding proceeds.

  Rose opens. “Two clubs.”

  “Two spades,” says Esther.

  “Pass,” says Ben.

  “Four spades,” says Lily.

  “Two clubs,” says Rose.

  “Now, Rose, you know you can’t do that,” Esther says. “My partner said four spades.”

  “What?”

  “My partner said four spades,” Esther says, louder. “You can’t go back to two clubs!”

  “I didn’t hear anybody say four spades,” Rose says. “It’s two clubs.”

  “Rose, you spoil everybody’s fun when you play like this!”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got for me, partner,” Rose says, and Ben lays down his hand. “Very pretty, partner,” she says as Esther leads. Her opposing partners look glum. Rose often plays like this, using poor hearing as an excuse for not noticing intervening bids, and it is very irritating to the others. But another unwritten rule of the home is that arguments and quarrels among the residents are to be avoided at all costs, and any long-standing feuds would surely raise the hackles of Shirley Weinstein, the home’s peppy redheaded Director of Activities.

  Rose takes the first trick. Ben Rosenthal, as dummy, rises a little stiffly and slowly circles the table, examining the other hands. Then he moves toward the television set where, at low volume, a developer is extolling the wonders of time-share living at Delray Beach. At eighty-four, Ben is one of the youngsters at Beth-El, and several of the ladies consider him their special beau. On top of the set is a copy of today’s New York Times, and Ben picks this up and idly glances at the headlines. “I see Silas Tarkington died,” he says to no one in particular.

  “What?” Rose asks.

  “Silas Tarkington,” he says.

  “What about him?”

  “He died.”

  Rose’s cards tumble into her lap, and she fumbles to gather them up again. The color has drained from her face.

  “Rose, are you all right?” Lily asks anxiously. Just the other day, old Mrs. Samuels suddenly turned pale like that and went to her Maker right at the dining room table.

  “He didn’t tell me,” Rose whispers.

  “How could he tell you?” Esther snaps. “He’s dead.”

  “Didn’t tell me he was sick.”

  “He wasn’t sick. He drowned,” Ben says.

  “How could that be? He was a beautiful swimmer.”

  “What’s he to you, anyway?” Esther asks.

  “Only my son,” she says. “Only my only son. You’d think someone would tell his only mother when her only son dies. Oh, Solly—” She reaches for the hanky in the bosom of her dress and dabs at her eyes.

  “Silas Tarkington’s your son?” Esther says. “How could that be? Your name’s Tarcher.”

  “It was Solomon Tarcher before. Before he wanted to get fancy and changed it.”

  Esther snatches the newspaper from Ben and quickly scans the the obituary. “If you’re his mother, how come you’re not mentioned in his write-up?” she says. “They list all the survivors. They don’t mention any mother. I don’t believe you, Rose. How come he never came to see you?” She is clearly still cross at losing a bid for game in a major suit.

  “I guess you would say we weren’t close,” Rose says. She removes her glasses and wipes them with her hanky. “But still—still, he was my son. My firstborn. I had my feet in the stirrups on that table, and my doctor said, ‘Push, Rose … push hard … push as hard as you can … you’re pushing life into your baby. If you push hard enough, I won’t have to spank his bottom when he comes.’ And then they handed him to me, and he smelled—so sweet! Why did he have to die? Why is life so unfair?”

  The others are silent now, and Rose, trying to collect herself, replaces her glasses on her nose.

  “We fought,” she says. “But he was still my little Solly.”

  “So that’s where your money comes from,” Esther says at last, and Lily, from across the table, makes soft hushing noises.

  “That’s what we fought about. After my late husband died, God rest his soul, and Solly needed money to start his store, I loaned him some. It was called buying his store’s stock. I didn’t get as much as I was supposed to get. Not nearly as much. Simma was smarter. My daughter fought for her fair share and got it. Simma wouldn’t have anything to do with Solly either, after he tried to do to her what he did to me. So you see I’ve had my share of tsuris. Lots of trouble in the family. My life hasn’t been the bowl of cherries some of you seem to think it was, or maybe I sometimes like to pretend it was. But what can you do? Oh, my.” She dabs at her eyes again. “Put one foot after the other, like my late husband used to say, God rest his soul. Funny, I always thought Simma was the brainy one in the family. I always thought Simma was the one who should have had all the success, not Solly. I can’t complain about Simma, can I? She’s given me a wonderful son-in-law I love like my own son, three beautiful grandchildren, and two greats. Simma visits me every week, come hell or high water, rain or shine.”

  “She’s nice, too,” Lily says.

  Rose closes her eyes, and blinks twice, and takes a deep breath. “So Solly’s dead,” she says. “Well, I don’t guess there’s anything I can do about it now, is there? Solly lived in New York. Had fancy friends. Get on with your life, as my late husband used to say, God rest his soul. Pick up the pieces.” With a sniffle, she slowly picks up her hand again, resorts the cards into suits, and fans them out between her fingers. Her hand trembles slightly. “Oh, dear,” she says. “I’ve forgotten what our contract was.”

  “Four spades,” Esther Pinkus says narrowly.

  Rose studies the cards in her hand and then the cards arrayed before her on the board. “Partner, how could you have bid us up to four spades with that mess?” she says indignantly, and leads with her club ace.

  Esther Pinkus promptly trumps it.

  Ben Rosenthal crosses the room to Rose’s chair and rests his hands gently on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Rose,” he says. “I just want to say that I’m truly, deeply sorry. I know how you feel. I lost one of mine, too. Car accident. It’s not easy.”

  “Well, you should be sorry,” she says. “We’re definitely going to lose this one. Thank God we’re not vulnerable.”

  Early that same evening, Diana Smith, thirty-four, lets herself into the side entrance of the store with her own key. Inside, she leans against the door for a moment, feeling dizzy. The last three days seem to have passed in a trance. Her doctor has prescribed Valium for her, and the pills turn time into a dreamlike haze, through which she feels she is moving silently and disconnectedly, like a swimmer under water, but going nowhere. She reaches in her purse to fish out a cigarette but then remembers where she is. She is here, in Si’s store, where there is a no smoking policy. She closes the purse. She is not even entirely sure why she came here. What was it? Oh, yes. To check her department. To say goodbye to it, perhaps. Because, the way things stand now, this may be her last time inside these doors. Who knows, when Tommy Bonham takes over—as he
surely will—what will become of her? She staggers forward, reaching out to steady herself against a display counter. Did I take two of those dreamy little pills or one? I can’t remember.

  Oliver, the security guard on duty tonight, nods to her. “Evening, Miss Smith.”

  “Good evening”—his name?—“Oliver.”

  “Sad day for all of us, ain’t it, Miss Smith?”

  “It surely is.”

  “Say, you feeling all right, Miss Smith? You look a little—shaky, sort of. A bit off your feed. Green around the gills, like the fella says.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just a little—upset. As we all are, Oliver.”

  Oliver nods again and continues on his rounds.

  At the Hermès boutique, she pauses and lifts a sample flask of Equipage and sprays it behind her ears, on the backs of her wrists, in the cleavage of her breasts. Equipage is Diana Smith’s signature fragrance, and the scent makes her feel more like herself. “I love the way you always smell,” he used to say to her.

  “When a woman finds a scent that suits her, she should always stick to it,” she told him. He used to give her bottles.

  She makes her way slowly down the center aisle, under the Baccarat chandeliers, toward the back of the store to where, under an archway of polished walnut, her own department is situated. There, in locked glass cases, her merchandise is displayed. On the store’s books, this merchandise is valued at four million dollars, but she knows enough about retailing to know that the value of a store’s inventory has little relationship to its real value, which is always considerably less. She moves slowly from case to case, earrings in one, rings in another, necklaces and bracelets in a third, pins and brooches and jeweled buttons in a fourth. Now she remembers why she came here tonight. She wanted to think about precious stones, and not about other things.