Sins of the Fathers

by Susan Howatch

  I got up abruptly. My glass was empty. Fixing myself another fake Tom Collins, I used the notepad to make a list of matters which still had to be settled before I went to Europe. Then I called the superintendent of the building to arrange for my apartment to be sublet; I examined the Yellow Pages to find a firm who would remove and store my meager possessions; and I made a list of the books and records which I wanted to have crated and air-freighted to London. That used up some time. I fixed myself a hamburger but couldn’t eat it. That took another quarter of an hour, but the night still stretched endlessly ahead of me. Pushing my glass aside, I tried to write to Vicky again.

  This time I was more successful. I wrote: “Vicky, I love you very much. I think you’ve been too hasty in insisting that we’re through, and I know I was wrong in making no effort to compromise. Will you at least see me one more time before I leave to see if we can’t figure something out? I’m sure you were right to bring up the subject of marriage, and I’m sorry I mishandled the conversation so badly. Please, give me one more chance to put matters right. It’s very lonely here without you. All my love, Scott.”

  II

  I felt much more optimistic about the future once that letter was written. I thought that if only I could engineer a reconciliation she would agree to take a vacation in London in the new year, and once we had been together for a brief period there, the way would have been paved for future visits. I would, of course, give her an engagement ring to reassure her that I was committed to the idea of marriage, and once she knew I had committed myself, I thought she would find it easier to accept the idea of a long engagement. I was willing to concede that a long engagement wasn’t an ideal situation, but on the other hand it was neither unknown nor unmanageable. In the navy I had often met men who, engaged for years, only saw their fiancées at irregular intervals, and nobody had thought the situation in the least odd.

  “Could you have this letter mailed to Vicky, please?” I said to Cornelius later. “It’s very important and I know you have her address.”

  It was Thanksgiving, and the bank was officially closed, but I was about to go downtown to get on with my work. I had already excused myself from the family’s Thanksgiving dinner. When I called at the Van Zale triplex, I found Cornelius had finished eating his breakfast but was lingering in the dining room with a final cup of coffee.

  He gave me a hard look. “She didn’t want to be bothered by anyone. She was very upset.”

  “I realize that. The aim of this letter is to make her less upset. You want to read the letter? Go ahead. I’ll open the envelope.”

  “Good God, no, of course I don’t want to read your private correspondence! What happens between you and Vicky has nothing to do with me.”

  “Then you’ll forward the letter.”

  “Okay.” He eyed the envelope coldly.

  I sat down with him at the breakfast table. “I’m sorry about all this trouble, Cornelius.”

  “So you damn well should be. You’ve spoiled my entire Thanksgiving. I was counting on Vicky to be here. Alicia’s gone off to stay with Andrew and Lori, and I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

  “I’m … sure she won’t be away long.”

  “No, probably not, but all the same … You just don’t know what’s been going on here. I’ve had another row with Sebastian.”

  “Another row? For God’s sake, what about?”

  “Well, I … you know I never go back on an important decision, but …”

  “You offered to reinstate him?” I tried not to look appalled.

  “Yes, well, you see, Alicia was so upset, and … well, I figured maybe I’d been a bit hasty, and … oh, the hell with it, what does it matter! Sebastian rejected the idea anyway, so we’re all back at first base again.”

  “Sebastian refused your offer to reinstate him?” This time I couldn’t stop myself looking incredulous.

  “That’s right. ‘I meant every word I said when you fired me,’ he said. ‘I’m not coming back unless you resign and make me senior partner.’ So then I get so mad I threaten to see he doesn’t get another job on the Street, and you know what he says then? ‘Save your energy!’ he says. ‘I’m quitting banking. I’ve had it. Do your damnedest,’ he says, ‘and see if I care. I’m going off to Europe. It’s the only civilized place to live. I’m through with the savages and the philistines and the plastic society.’ ”

  “He’s crazy!” I thought how much Sebastian loved New York. “He can’t mean it!”

  “Just what I said to him. ‘You can’t do this!’ I said to him. ‘What about your mother? You can’t go off to live thousands of miles away from her! What’s she going to do?’ ‘That’s your problem,’ he says, ‘and I hope you enjoy solving it.’ And he walks out. My God! I tell you, it’s been a terrible forty-eight hours!”

  “I’m sorry … very sorry. I know it must seem as if it’s all my fault …”

  “That’s right. But maybe we’ll have a bit of peace once you ship yourself off to Europe. Thank God you’re going soon,” said Cornelius, slipping Vicky’s letter into his pocket, and walked out of the room without another word.

  III

  On Friday my possessions were taken away to be stored or crated, and vacating my apartment, I checked into the Carlyle Hotel for the remainder of my time in New York. However, since I spent the weekend working, I saw little of the hotel, and by the time I had wound up my business affairs on Monday night I was so exhausted I wondered how I could summon the strength to get back to my suite. I was just about to leave the office for the last time when the red phone rang on my desk.

  Apparently Cornelius had also worked late, perhaps to postpone the moment when he had to return to his deserted triplex. Alicia was still in California and Vicky had not responded to my letter. I was almost sure now she had never received it.

  “Yes?” I said abruptly into the red phone.

  “Will you be much longer?”

  “I’m just leaving.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you a ride uptown!”

  In the Cadillac we sat in silence for some time, but somewhere north of Canal Street he said, “Did you hear from Vicky?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. I forwarded the letter. I guess now you think I didn’t.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “Okay, I’m wrong.”

  We rode uptown a little farther.

  “Sorry I was so mad at you the other day,” said Cornelius. “I enjoyed Thanksgiving in the end. I get a lot of pleasure out of those kids. I’m damned lucky to have five grandchildren.”

  The Cadillac stopped at some lights. I looked out of the window at the wasteland, and in my weariness it had never seemed so ugly to me.

  “But of course they’re very young still,” said Cornelius. “They’re great, but I can’t really talk to them, you know, I can’t really … I’m not sure how to put it. I tried to teach Eric and Paul to play chess, but they didn’t seem to want to learn. Uh … Scott … how about a quick game of chess tonight? Just one last game before you go?”

  I saw only one answer which wouldn’t imply hostility. “Okay.”

  “Well, we won’t play if you’re too tired,” he said anxiously. “But have some dinner and a couple of Cokes with me.”

  “All right.” I pulled myself together with an effort. “Thanks.”

  In the triplex Cornelius uncapped our Cokes while we waited for our steaks to be broiled. “What do you think of this Southeast Asia business?” he said. “I wonder if Johnson’s right to keep on with Kennedy’s policies there. Still, war’s good for big business. Remember Korea.”

  “Right.”

  “Hope Andrew doesn’t get posted there. I’ve done my best to keep him out of it, but now he says he wants to go. That would be the last straw for Alicia, of course. Christ, this has been a terrible year. By the way, what do you think of the latest developments on the assassination? Of course, it’s all a communist conspiracy. I said
to Sam back in 1949 …”

  I mentally switched off, and as Cornelius went on talking, I looked at the ugly furniture in the room, the abstract paintings all hinting obscurely at violence, the shelves of unread books, the barren trappings of a barren life.

  We ate our steaks in silence. Cornelius unexpectedly opened half a bottle of red wine and drank every drop of it. Finally he said, “I can see you’re very tired. I’m sorry, I guess I was being selfish, dragging you back here for dinner. But the truth is, I’m not looking forward to losing you tomorrow. I’m going to miss you a lot.”

  “Your choice, Cornelius. Not mine.”

  “Choice? What choice? No, don’t answer that. Scott … we’re parting friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s good. Please understand that I’m truly grateful to you for stepping into the breach like this in London—and don’t think I’ve forgotten how to express my gratitude in a meaningful way when the time’s right.”

  After a slight pause I said, “Thank you. I don’t think you’ll find my performance in London a disappointment.”

  “I’ve every confidence in you. Good. I’m glad we understand each other again.”

  When we had finished dinner, he saw me out into the hall.

  “Well, I guess this is it, then,” he said. “This is where we say good-bye.” And he held out his hand shyly.

  I looked at the hand. Then I took it, shook it, and dropped it. “So long.”

  He looked at me. His eyes were bright with tears. I assumed the wine had made him uncharacteristically maudlin, and I found this display of emotion highly unpleasant.

  “You’ll always be my boy, Scott,” he said, “no matter what happens. Remember that.”

  I thought of him murdering my father and I wanted to vomit in his face, I wanted to beat him to a pulp, I wanted to take him by the neck and squeeze the life out of him very slowly so that he would know the full horror of dying by inches. But I never moved. I just thought remotely: I’ll wipe him out in the end, and aloud I just said, “I’ll remember.”

  Then I left him and walked back to the Carlyle.

  IV

  There was still no letter from Vicky waiting for me, and although I called her housekeeper, there was no message. I knew now that Vicky was determined to break with me, and I wondered if I could delay my departure, confront her on her return to the city, and persuade her to change her mind. Then I decided it would be dangerous to postpone my flight. If I postponed it once, I might be tempted to postpone it again. My nerve might crack. Already I felt as if I were on an emotional rack from which I might not emerge alive.

  The night wore on. I sensed Death was very close. I was thinking continuously of Vicky, wondering how I would survive if she insisted on ending the affair.

  The possibility of survival was suddenly a mere fragile thread which could snap at any moment, and as I watched the dawn break at last over the East River, I saw Death begin to walk toward me across the chessboard by the sea.

  V

  And so at last my fantasy merged with reality and I found myself acting out the myth which had mesmerized me for so long. As I stepped into the BOAC section of the departures building at John F. Kennedy International Airport, I stepped into the desolate landscape of Roland’s quest, and when I saw that blighted desert of concrete and glass, I recognized it as the wasteland which guarded the Dark Tower.

  I stopped as the recognition engulfed me. I knew there would be a sign then, a sign which pointed the way to the inevitable moment when I would have to make the decision sealing my future, and as I spun round I saw the departures board and read the letters that spelled London.

  Instantly I visualized the plane which would take me to England. I saw it as clearly as Roland had seen his Dark Tower, and suddenly I knew that this was the time, this was the place, this was where I had to choose whether to pursue my ambition or abandon it, this was where Roland had been forced to meet his destiny by raising the magic horn to his lips.

  Someone called my name. I looked back and found she was there, dressed in white in contrast to the black hooded figure of my fantasies, and the palomino mink was draped very tightly around her as if to ward off the chill of death. And as she ran toward me, weaving in and out of the crowds, she held out her arms and cried, “Scott! Don’t go!”

  Then a voice said remotely far above us, “British Overseas Airways announces the departure of their flight 510 to London …”

  “Vicky,” I whispered. “Vicky.”

  She was in my arms. For a moment nothing mattered but that, and I saw so clearly then what I had to do.

  “Oh, Scott, please—you mustn’t go, you mustn’t! Can’t you see what’s happening? Can’t you understand?”

  “… and will all passengers in possession of boarding passes please proceed to …”

  “I’d give up everything, I’d go to London with you, but it would be pointless, because the central problem crippling you would still be unsolved, and so long as that problem exists, there’ll never be enough room for me in your life …”

  “… Air France announces the departure of their flight to Paris, Rome, Beirut …”

  “Forgive yourself, forgive my father, end it, let go, stay, survive—I’ll help you, I swear it, stay with me and I know we can make it together, I know we can, I know it.”

  I knew it too. The sane rational part of my brain knew it. The part that loved Vicky knew it. I looked down at the passport in my hand, I looked down at the boarding pass, I took the boarding pass between my fingers to tear it in two, but then the past stepped in to paralyze me and my fingers never moved.

  The magic horn was at my lips but the fanfare of life was never sounded, and as I struggled in vain for the one breath that would set me free, I saw not the destiny I wanted but the destiny I could not avoid move forward to encircle my life and draw me on to the Dark Tower.

  “I can’t stay,” I whispered. “I want to but I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

  She recoiled from me. “Then I can do no more. I can’t help you. I can’t reach you. And I can never see you again.”

  We said nothing else. She looked at me numbly, too appalled to show deep emotion, too spent to attempt the futility of rational argument, but finally she stumbled away from me toward the exit.

  “This is the final call for British Overseas Airways flight 510 to London …”

  I walked through the great hall, I walked to the farthest reaches of that wasteland of concrete and glass, I walked with Roland and as Roland to the very end of that myth I had made my own, I walked to the Dark Tower and went inside.

  “First class, sir? This way, please. The seat by the window. … May I take your coat?”

  I sat down and waited, and after a while someone started talking to me again.

  “Would you like a drink, sir, before we take off?” said the pretty stewardess at my side.

  I looked at her and longed for death. The pain of living was more than I could endure.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’ll have a drink. Bring me a double martini on the rocks.”

  PART SIX

  VICKY: 1963–1967

  Chapter One

  I

  “GOOD MORNING,” SAID THE disembodied voice. “This is Mr. Van Zale’s private wire. May I help you?”

  “This is Mrs. Foxworth,” I said. “Get him.”

  There was a shocked silence. Even frivolous society women were supposed to know how to address a very important executive secretary with respect.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Foxworth, but Mr. Van Zale is in a meeting—”

  “Get him out, please.”

  “But—“

  “Get him out!”

  She gasped. Then the hold button was pressed and the line went dead. After lighting another cigarette, I found a second dime to use if the operator demanded more money, but the silence remained uninterrupted until the line was reopened and my father said breathlessly, “Vicky? Sweetheart,
what’s happened? Where are you calling from? Are you still up in Boston at the Ritz Carlton?”

  “I’m at Kennedy airport.”

  “But what’s happened? Is it Scott? Did his plane crash? Is he—?”

  “Scott’s on his way to London,” I said, “and now I think it’s time you started picking up the pieces of the mess you’ve made of his life and mine. Get out here right away, please. I’ll be waiting in the hall of the International Arrivals Building.”

  “But, sweetheart … honey … sure I understand that you must be very upset, and of course I’ll come out to you just as soon as I can, but I’m in the middle of a very important meeting, and—”

  “Screw the meeting! This is my life we’re talking about! You get out here right away or I’m taking the very next plane to London.”

  II

  Three-quarters of an hour later my father’s Cadillac halted by the curb and my father, flanked by two aides and a bodyguard, was assisted out onto the sidewalk by his chauffeur. I was waiting, the mink coat slung over my arm like a deadweight. I had had some coffee since concluding the phone call and had put on fresh makeup to disguise how much I’d cried earlier.

  The chief aide darted over to me. “Perhaps the VIP lounge, Mrs. Foxworth …”

  “Totally unnecessary. We’ll sit in the bar.”

  “His asthma—”

  “Oh, don’t hand me all that garbage about his asthma! Come along, Father, I’ll buy you a brandy and you’ll soon feel better.”

  My father just looked at me with furious eyes and began to wheeze something in his best asthmatic whisper, but I interrupted him.