Sins of the Fathers

by Susan Howatch

  “Come and tell us the latest news of Alfred!” says Mother. She really does want to see me, and I feel guilty because I spend so much time sneaking up the west-wing stairs to see Vicky.

  We all go to the Gold Room for drinks. Cornelius and Mother sit on the couch and hold hands. Vicky and I sit opposite each other and try to look chaste. The air is thick with a sexual miasma. Even the Greeks would have found it hard to take.

  When we finally escape, we forget Postumus and race to our distant bedroom.

  “I’ve got to leave in ten minutes!” I mutter.

  “Is it worth going to bed? Why don’t we just have another drink and chat?”

  “I’d be awake all night thinking of you.”

  We rush to bed and for a few precious minutes all’s well, but then there’s one of those freak accidents, the kind which always happen to other people, usually to young kids who rely for their supply of contraceptives on the slot machines in men’s rooms. This batch of rubbers shouldn’t have left the factory. Quality Control made a mistake.

  I say nothing except a private prayer. Vicky says nothing either, and after I flush the disaster down the toilet, she slips past me for her shower.

  However, we’re both in luck for once, because this particular accident has no consequences. Ten days later Vicky says it’s the wrong time of the month again. I guess my face must have sagged with relief, for she adds, “Look, Sebastian, why don’t I take charge of the birth control for a change? I used a diaphragm for a short while once, and I’m willing to try it again.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  She gives the diaphragm a fresh try, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s a great improvement. I ask her three times if she’s happy with the change, and she says she’s not crazy about it but she feels safer than when I was using rubbers.

  That’s when I realize she doesn’t trust birth control when it’s provided by her partner, and on reflection I’m not one bit surprised. It would be just like Sam Keller to practice birth control like a suicidal gambler practicing Russian roulette. She even tells me fiercely that I’ve got to let her use the diaphragm every time, and when I assure her that Russian roulette has never been one of my favorite pastimes, her eyes fill with tears. Horrific vistas into the past open up. I take her in my arms and hold her close to block them off.

  I’m not Sam Keller and I’ll never, never, never stand in his shoes.

  June 12, 1959. In the nursery Postumus chews his beads and smiles speculatively at his nice kind Uncle Sebastian.

  His two brothers are smart enough to keep out of sight when I’m around, but little Samantha flirts with me and Kristin gives me Sam Keller’s smile.

  At home Elsa adopts a polite neutral manner toward me, has her hair tinted a lighter blond, and buys a book about dieting. Alfred runs around dragging his beat-up xylophone after him and tries to redecorate the hallway with Elsa’s nail polish, but I smack him hard on the backside. Yells and screams. Elsa calls me a brute. But Alfred looks up at me with fierce pale eyes and respects me. Alfred won’t do that again.

  Everything seems to be jogging along satisfactorily, but as the summer days pass a little cloud appears on the horizon, and as more days pass that cloud grows bigger and bigger.

  Vicky and I are waiting for the wrong time of the month, but the time always seems to be right, and slowly we realize we’re waiting in vain.

  It’s disaster time again.

  She’s pregnant.

  “How the hell did it happen?”

  “The doctor said I should have had the diaphragm refitted.”

  “But …” It’s hard to find the words to express my horrified incredulity. “Didn’t you get a new one?” I say dumfoundedly at last.

  “Yes, I did. I had a look at my old one, but the rubber part seemed odd, so I got a new one over the counter at one of those huge discount drugstores midtown—I didn’t want to ask my doctor for a new diaphragm when he knows I’ve got no husband at the moment. He might have given me a lecture.”

  “He might have what?”

  “Oh, doctors are always giving women lectures—you’ve no idea what it’s like. When I thought I might have Postumus aborted, they went on and on and on at me. I just couldn’t take it, I hated all doctors after that, particularly gynecologists—”

  “Okay. Hold it. I understand. Doctors are fundamentalist preachers trained in KGB interrogation techniques who lie in wait for women around Park Avenue. But there are clinics where everyone thinks it’s the most normal thing in the world to issue a diaphragm to a women under thirty with five children! Why didn’t you—?”

  “You don’t understand. You’re missing the whole point. I didn’t think it was necessary to go through the whole performance of being fitted for a diaphragm again. I knew the size I took and I thought one stayed the same size for life—just as one stays the same size in shoes. After all, one doesn’t have one’s feet measured once a year to see if they’ve got bigger or smaller.”

  “But someone must have told you!”

  “No. No one. You see, I only used a diaphragm for a short time when I was married, less than a year. When the doctor gave it to me he did say I was to be sure to have it checked every year, but he didn’t say why, and I just assumed he wanted to make sure it wasn’t broken. But then I got pregnant, and later Sam insisted on taking control of the contraception again—”

  “… with all the fervor of a man gearing himself up to appear in a fertility ad. Okay, now, let’s just think about this. We’re upset enough as it is, so let’s not make ourselves more upset by resurrecting the disastrous past. Let’s just focus on the present.” I give her a handkerchief for her tears and mentally kick off Sam Keller’s shoes, which seem to be trying to slide their way onto my feet. I do this by telling myself firmly that I’m not just an innocent bystander here; I can’t just sit back and announce that none of this is my fault. I know all too well that Vicky, thanks to Sam, has led a sheltered existence protected from the facts of life, and you don’t entrust sole responsibility for birth control to such a fundamentally innocent person without a thorough discussion of the entire subject to make sure there are no potentially lethal areas of ignorance. Vicky may have made a mistake, but I’ve made a big mistake too, and it’s now up to me to step forward, stand by her, and stave off tragedy as best I can.

  I fix us both large drinks, put my arm around her, and say, “Vicky, I’m not going to dictate to you about this. You had nine years of Sam dictating to you, and I’m not going to be like Sam. This is our joint mistake, and I assume full responsibility, but when all’s said and done, it’s your body. You have the burden of carrying this child for nine months. You have the ordeal of giving birth. You must decide what you’re going to do, but before you decide, I’ll say this: whatever your decision is, I’ll back you up. The decision must be yours, but you won’t have to deal with the consequences alone. That at least I can promise you.”

  She kisses me on the mouth. “I love you,” she says.

  I’m holding her tightly as I kiss her in return. Nothing else matters, nothing in the world. I want to speak but can’t. As I kiss her again, I grope in my vocabulary until at last I’m able to say, “Do you know what you want to do, Vicky? Have you any idea?”

  “I want to marry you,” she says.

  Willow and Wall. I go to Cornelius. Cornelius sits behind a big desk in a sterile room which could be beautiful but isn’t because he’s filled it with all the wrong things. Imagine hanging a Kandinsky over an Adam fireplace. Typical.

  “Sir”—I usually call him “sir” at the office in an attempt to crawl out from the shadow of nepotism—“I’ve come to ask for a three-month leave of absence. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  Cornelius, scenting trouble, looks watchful. “Why do you need such a leave of absence?”

  “I want to go to Reno, sir, to establish Nevada residency. I’ve decided to get a divorce.”

  “Sit down, Sebastia
n.” He’s chilly. Divorce is not normal. It happens, of course, but it’s not standard behavior. This has to be handled carefully if people are to be prevented from forming unfortunate opinions. Tiresome old Sebastian, he’s thinking, always a thorn in my side. “Sebastian, I blame myself very much for not having had a frank talk with you earlier about this. Of course I’m not unaware of what’s been going on, but I haven’t interfered, partly because you’ve been very discreet and partly because …” He gets stuck.

  This is difficult for Cornelius. He knows Mother is thrilled that Vicky and I have gotten together at last, and he wants Mother to be happy. But he hates the thought of Vicky in bed with anyone but her lawfully wedded husband, and even a lawfully wedded husband might be hard for Cornelius to contemplate with equanimity. However, on top of this emotional muddle lies the iron control of his pragmatism, and as usual with Cornelius, pragmatism triumphs.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” he says carefully. “I disapprove of the immorality, but how can I deny Vicky a little happiness with someone who cares for her? That would be wrong … and unnecessarily inflexible. I’ve no intention of criticizing you, Sebastian, but I do think you shouldn’t let your current success with Vicky jettison you into a rash decision. Wouldn’t it be better to keep the status quo for a while?”

  I decide I’ve had enough of him preaching to me without full knowledge of the facts, so I fire the truth at point-blank range.

  “Vicky’s having a baby,” I say tersely. “We’ll marry in Reno as soon as I have my divorce.”

  Cornelius looks incredulous; he can’t believe I would be dumb enough to get Vicky pregnant out of wedlock. Then he looks furious; I’m the bastard who’s knocked up his little girl. But finally an expression of unwilling fascination creeps into his eyes. Against all the odds, Mother’s soap-opera dreams are coming true. He and Mother will have a mutual grandchild at last. Forget Eric, Paul, and Benjamin. They’re just Sam’s sons. Vicky and Sebastian are going to produce the son he and Mother never had, and everyone is going to wallow in domestic bliss from here to eternity.

  Cornelius is suddenly pulsating with excitement. “I see,” he says, trying to keep calm. “Yes … yes, obviously you must marry!” He gropes for his customary practical outlook. “How much do the Reischmans know?”

  He’s nervous about Jake. This may be the final nail in the coffin of the informal partnership between the House of Reischman and the House of Van Zale.

  “Elsa’s already threatened me with divorce,” I say, “although since time’s important to Vicky, I don’t want to hang around here while Elsa activates the messy, unpleasant New York State divorce law. Moreover, I think Elsa will be glad if I go to Reno and wind the whole thing up as swiftly as possible. Elsa’s being very tough-minded about this, and that’s one of the reasons why I don’t think Jake will be too upset when he hears the news. It’d be different if Elsa were as wrecked as Vicky was when Sam died, but she’s not. She’s in good shape, already chalking the marriage up to experience and looking around for someone new. She’ll be just as pleased as Jake to get rid of me.”

  Cornelius is much impressed by this reassuring analysis. He’s already planning instructions to Scott on how to handle Jake with kid gloves. “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” he says, relaxed. “Good. I’m sure it’s all for the best. When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow at noon, if you approve the leave of absence.”

  Cornelius approves. He’s beside himself with excitement by this time, and as soon as I turn to leave the room, he’s picking up the phone to call Mother.

  September 29, 1959. I pretend to go to the office but sneak back to pack my suitcases. Elsa always has a hair appointment on Tuesday mornings and meets a girlfriend afterward for lunch.

  When my bags are packed I go to the nursery.

  Alfred is trying to figure out how to put different-sized cubes into the right holes of a bright red box. Nurse is in his bedroom next door while she puts away some clean clothes.

  I watch Alfred for a while.

  There’s a line by John Donne which begins: “Wilt thou forgive me?” and I try to remember the rest of the poem but I can’t. Will you forgive me, Alfred? No, probably not. “Damn bastard!” you’ll say when you’re big enough. You’ll turn your back on me and I won’t be able to explain that I’m capable of turning my back on you. It may look as if I’m turning my back, but I’ll be facing both ways, for I’ll be watching you always in my memory, watching you pick up those little cubes and drop them into the right slots of that gaily painted box.

  “Smart kid,” I say aloud.

  Alfred looks up. “Daddy!” he says, and hurls a cube at me. I pick it up and show him which hole to put it in.

  He drops the cube and beams up at me.

  Alfred and I have communicated for the last time.

  I want to take him to Reno, I want to take him to Mother, but what’s the point? The Reischmans’ll get him. Elsa’s an innocent deserted wife and she’ll be awarded custody. I’m not going to battle for Alfred either. I’ll let him go—and not only because I know I’ve no hope of winning a legal struggle. I’ll let him go because I can remember how it feels to be a child trapped between two parents fighting for custody, but my son’s not going to have that kind of memories, not if I can help it.

  I’ll probably get good access in time. Elsa will shed forty pounds and when she remarries she’ll be generous, just as my father eventually abandoned his bitterness when he remarried.

  I’ll see Alfred later. It’s the end of something, but it’s not the end of the world.

  It feels like it, though. It sure feels like the end of the world. Worse.

  I pick up Alfred and hug him. Then I put him down again, run out of the nursery, grab the picture of six-month-old Alfred from the living room, shove it in one of my suitcases, and blunder outside. I hail a yellow car but it’s not a cab.

  Can’t see properly.

  Stupid. I hate stupid things. Tears are stupid, permissible only for women and every other race on earth except Anglo-Saxons.

  Maybe I’m not such an Anglo-Saxon after all.

  We go to Reno and wallow in plastic culture for six weeks. When my residency is established I file for a divorce and bribe everyone to push the proceedings along as quickly as possible. Elsa signs the appropriate papers, and the day after the divorce is granted Vicky and I marry in a marriage parlor crammed with plastic flowers.

  That afternoon we leave for Los Angeles, and the next day we fly to Hawaii for a week.

  I look forward to the honeymoon, but sex hurts Vicky now, so I just go for walks by myself along beautiful beaches, very romantic, and I listen to the sea and try not to think too much about Alfred. Vicky and I talk a little, but she remains tense. Finally we decide it’s the wrong time for a honeymoon, so we fly home to New York, and Vicky can hardly wait to reach Fifth Avenue to see the kids.

  I watch the joyful reunions and think of Alfred. Presently I say hello to Postumus, who’s over a year old now, with thick reddish-brown hair, blue eyes, and an impudent look. He smiles at me chirpily and I smile back, trying to pretend he’s mine, but he’s not; he’s Sam Keller’s son, and brother to those two little horrors Eric and Paul. The thought of being stepfather to Eric and Paul is not one bit exciting. Soon we’ll be looking around for a brownstone large enough to accommodate the family and all the servants we’ll need to keep the domestic wheels turning, but I wish we could leave the four eldest kids with Mother and Cornelius and just take Postumus. I think Vicky would prefer that too, but she’ll never do it—and not just because she loves those children of hers. She’ll never leave them because she knows she could never handle the resulting guilt.

  Vicky and I aren’t meant to have a bunch of kids. Some couples are, some couples aren’t. Elsa and I could have managed six kids and enjoyed them; Elsa slobbers over Alfred only because she knows she can’t have more children, and if she had a large family she’d soon pull herself together to play the role of
materfamilias to perfection.

  But Vicky is incapable of being a materfamilias. Her children are a mystery to her. She showers them with affection, which is good, but beyond this she seems to have no idea how a mother should behave. If there are unpleasant scenes, she retreats behind Nurse; she not only can’t face the squabbles endemic in any large family, but she can’t face up to the fact that if you really love your children you’ll lay down the law occasionally in order to help them understand they can’t gallop through life trampling everyone underfoot as they grab what they want. Perhaps her desperate concern to demonstrate love by lavish kisses and misguided permissiveness springs from a subconscious knowledge that she doesn’t, in truth, love them as she should. But she’ll go to any lengths to conceal this from them, from the world, and from herself, so she beats her brains out trying to be what she thinks is a good mother, with the result that the little pests, spoiled rotten, walk all over her. This in turn destroys her confidence in herself, and the less confidence she has, the more she craves their love and the more she spoils them rotten in the mistaken belief that this will transform them into devoted sons and daughters.

  There’s only one ray of hope that I can see on the horizon, but it’s not much of a ray and it may be a mirage created by my intense longing to view the future with optimism. It’s possible, just remotely possible, that Vicky, contrary to most parents, may be able to handle those kids better when they’re teenagers. I think she has the potential ability to look back clear-eyed at her own adolescence and draw some honest, sensible conclusions. However, meanwhile she has five children under ten and she’s useless.

  With an understanding and supportive husband, Vicky could possibly manage one child. Two would put a strain on the marriage, but with additional luck and the same understanding, supportive husband, she could probably still manage. But five children is a disaster and six is a plain invitation to tragedy. How we’re going to survive, I don’t know, but all we can do is try.