The War Between the Tates: A Novel

by Alison Lurie

“I was.”

  “You were?”

  “Are you Erica Parker?”

  “I was.” Erica smiles fully, then laughs. “Sandy—” She moves nearer, holding out her hand. Zed hesitates, then takes it with his, which feels dry and cold.

  “I’m awfully happy to see you again,” he says.

  “Yes, so am I.” This was one of the nicest things about Sandy, she recalls: his childlike directness. But how changed and worn he is! He looks older than Brian, though he must be four or five years younger, and his freckled skin is lined and gray. She might not have recognized him on the street, except possibly for his eyes, which are still pale and wide under sandy eyebrows with an expression of perpetual surprise. “How long has it been, eight or nine years?”

  “Nearly ten. We met at the ballet in New York just before Christmas in 1959.”

  “Did we?” Erica frowns. “Yes, I think I remember. What ballet was it?”

  “The Nutcracker. You had on a purple dress and were with your son, and another little boy named Freddy and his mother. She was very pregnant.”

  “Emmy Turner. That must have been just before she had Hannah. What a fantastic memory! You probably still know all those Greek verbs, too, that I’ve completely forgotten.”

  “Some of them.”

  “I thought you were in Japan.”

  “I was in Japan.”

  “But you came back.”

  “Apparently.”

  Erica laughs again; she recalls this tone, and looks at Zed with reminiscent affection. “You know, you’ve been here all year, and I never knew it until about a week ago,” she says, altering the interval out of politeness.

  “Yes. I thought that.”

  “You thought that? You mean you knew I was here in Corinth?” He nods. “You should have called me.” He shrugs. This too she remembers about Sandy: his shyness and lack of social initiative. He was always willing to accompany her wherever she happened to be going, at any time—to Sage’s grocery, the library, the Fine Arts Museum in Boston, or Filene’s Basement—but he seldom suggested any excursion himself; and when invited to a party he usually did not come.

  “I don’t like telephones. Evil spirits of the air, a friend of mine in Tokyo calls them.”

  “But in Cambridge—”

  “I didn’t like them then either. I never phoned if I could help it. I always came over to Edwards House to see you, if you remember.”

  “You didn’t come to see me here.” Erica smiles, but she is thinking that perhaps this was just as well. The effect on Brian and the children of this pale, shabby ghost from her past; their probable impatience and irritation, even rudeness; the probable effect of this rudeness on him—

  “I don’t like automobiles.” Zed glances toward the street, where automobiles are parked, with a grimace she remembers well. “No. That’s not the whole truth. I thought of calling, or getting somebody to give me a ride out to your house. But then I thought, If it was meant to happen, it would happen. God’s will.” He smiles oddly, and looks at Erica. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  “It’ll take a few minutes.” Zed goes to the back of the shop and passes behind a curtain made of faded orange-striped madras bedspread. There is the sound of water running unevenly. She waits, looking at the shelves which line the room, the books with odd titles and obscure publishers, a notice announcing classes: MONDAY—ASTROLOGY. WEDNESDAY—BEGINNING MEDITATION.

  “You give lectures here, as well as selling books?” she says when Zed reappears.

  “Not really. Seminars. I don’t perform like Levin or Jaeger. I couldn’t if I wanted to; and I don’t want to. Though that’s what they’d like, most of the people who come.” Zed grins.

  “Because they’re lazy, you mean?”

  “Not so much lazy as intellectually passive. A lot of kids get interested in mysticism because it looks like a way out of all the pressure that’s on them. A way out of the system.”

  “And they’re wrong?”

  “No, they’re right. But that doesn’t mean there’s no work involved. Not just study—they don’t usually object to that; they’re used to it. They’ll do anything you tell them, really. Except think.” Zed smiles. “They have this idea that the Path is a sort of conveyor belt that’ll carry them along to enlightenment without any serious effort on their part. If they have questions, they think all they have to do is ask me.”

  “But if you know the answers—” Erica tries to keep irony out of her voice. She doesn’t want to mock Sandy; she is sorry for him, and mildly curious.

  “I don’t know the answers,” Zed says impatiently. He sighs and leans back against a shelf, where his elbows make two indentations in a row of works on alchemy. She can see the nearer one, white and knobby, through a raveled hole in his gray sweater. “I tell the kids who come in here, ‘Don’t lay that guru trip on me. I’m not qualified.’ I know something about meditation, and I can tell them what books to read, and what not to do if they want to get onto the Path, and that’s about all. If they want a real teacher they’ve got to go somewhere else: to the Zen-Center in Rochester, or to New York. Or the Far East. There’s the kettle.” He straightens up.

  This time Erica follows him down the dingy narrow room and past the bedspread to another even narrower and dingier room. Shelves and cartons of books take up most of the space, along with a narrow studio couch. In one corner there is a paint-streaked sink with dishes and pans stacked on the ledge beside it, and a row of canned goods, tomato soup and peas and applesauce, above. Hanging from nails are what must be Sandy’s clothes: a long overcoat, two long-armed wool shirts and some crumpled striped pajamas.

  “Do you live here, too?” she asks.

  “It’s convenient.” Zed shrugs. “And cheap.” The kettle is wheezing and spitting; he lifts it from the hot plate and tries to pour into a teapot on the shelf above. “Oh, blast.”

  As the hot water slops over, and he grabs for something to mop up with, Erica remembers another afternoon tea nearly twenty years ago. Sandy is sitting opposite her at one of the small square tables in Schrafft’s on Brattle Street. In front of each of them is a glazed paper doily with spiderweb designs punched out in opposite corners, and a cup and saucer with a green S monogram in Gothic script. Sandy raises the dark-green teapot and tilts it over her cup, and its oval top falls off, slopping hot water on the varnished wood. She can hear him cry “Oh, blast,” just as he did now, and see him lifting aside the cups and the silvery aluminum sugar bowl with its two handles like arms akimbo, and the plate of cinnamon toast cut into four parallel strips; mopping up awkwardly with his own and then her paper napkin; finally bending under the table to retrieve the top of the pot, because no one in rural Waterford, New York, ever taught him that you don’t pick things up off the floor in restaurants.

  It is not, however, an instance of Proustian recall, the discovery of a lost memory. Erica has thought of this scene many times, because it took place during the most important conversation of her and Sandy’s acquaintance. The subject of this conversation was, Whether it is worth doing anything after you realize you will never be first-rate at it. Or, as he puts it—referring to a philosophy essay on which he had labored for three weeks—“if you know it will always be an A-minus, never an A. Once you’re sure of this, shouldn’t you just quit the field?”

  But Erica, who had the same problem, found herself taking the other side. As Sandy rose into view above the table again with his red hair awry and the top of the teapot in one hand, she heard her own voice maintaining a position she had not, up to that moment, known she held. You didn’t leave the field, she insisted; you only moved to another part of it, where the ground wasn’t so hard. Take her cousin at MIT. He couldn’t do theoretical physics as well as some people, but he would still be a good engineer. Or suppose, like her, you knew you probably weren’t going to become a first-rate painter, she went on with conviction, gazing across the damp table at Sandy. You didn’t
give up art. Instead you concentrated on what you could do, didn’t he see? Which in her case was small amusing line drawings.

  “Yes; I see,” Sandy had replied; and for once he seemed to be considering Erica’s argument seriously, as possibly true and not just an expression of her own opinions. This was rare; in spite of his chronic shyness and naïveté, it was difficult for anyone to make an intellectual impression on Sandy. Perhaps, as a rural smalltown boy, he had picked up the automatic agrarian suspicion of all theorizing.

  Subsequent events seemed to prove that this time, though, he had been convinced. Not only did Erica follow her new rule from that day on—Sandy also seemed to be following it. The trouble was, he didn’t seem to know where to stop. Leaving behind the heights of logic and metaphysics, he moved down to the less difficult slopes of ethics and aesthetics; then, the next year, still lower, to the history of philosophy, with special emphasis on the Oriental tradition. After finishing his degree, he associated himself with less and less reputable institutions, finally ending up with a part-time appointment in a California city college.

  But no matter how far he descended, Sandy never seemed to reach his level of competence. Probably this was mostly due to self-doubt rather than lack of ability, Erica thinks sadly, watching him now as he spoons sugar clumsily from a cardboard box into a stained cup with no handle—why doesn’t he just pour it? Sandy had a good mind, and he always worked hard. But even now, on the lowest and muddiest slopes of philosophy (if it can still be called that), even here, in this dingy shop surrounded by half-literate tracts and astrology posters, he doesn’t feel competent. It is really pathetic. For over a year he has been living in this dismal back room on Iona canned peas and Heinz vegetarian baked beans, too shy to presume on their past acquaintance, thinking perhaps she wouldn’t want to see him now he has sunk so low. Something must be done about this.

  “You must come to supper sometime soon,” she therefore says, following Zed back into the shop and watching as he sets his improvised tea tray (a length of unpainted shelving) on the counter by the door.

  “I’d like to.” He unfolds a metal chair for Erica and takes the stool for himself. “I have a class tonight, though, and tomorrow I’m going out to Vinegar Hill—the commune. I could come on Sunday,” he adds hopefully, handing a thick crockery cup full of dark reddish tea across the counter to Erica.

  “Sunday, then.” Though she had in mind a date further off, Erica smiles with some kindness.

  “If you’re sure you want me. I’m a vegetarian now, you know.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll make a cheese soufflé, or something.” Yes; and without having to worry any more about how the soufflé, or Sandy, will irritate Brian.

  “And I haven’t any car. But don’t worry about that. I’ll get out there somehow.”

  “Mm,” Erica says, not really listening; it has occurred to her that there is something she must tell Sandy. “Brian won’t be there, you know,” she begins, her voice faltering slightly. “He and I ...

  “Yes, I heard about it.”

  “Oh? I suppose everybody has, by now. There’s so little to talk about in this town ...How did you hear about it?”

  Zed pauses, looking at Erica over his mug. “Wendy told me.”

  “Ah.” Erica tries to swallow this information, which tastes unfamiliar and hot, like her tea. She sets the cup down. “You know the whole story, then?”

  “Just what she’s told me.” His manner is vague, mild; but Erica is not fooled. She recalls how after quizzes in Greek class, when she asked Sandy how he’d done, he would reply in the same vague, self-deprecating tone. He knows everything.

  “I haven’t seen her for a while,” he adds. “I may not be up to date.”

  “Neither have I.” Erica looks at the floor, considering. Brian would be furious that someone like Sandy should know his story; yet she cannot blame Wendy for confiding in him. It was always terribly easy to tell things to Sandy, even things you wouldn’t tell your best friend; perhaps partly because he was so dim and out of it all.

  “She admires you very much, you know.”

  “Yes.” Erica lifts her face, on which a look almost of pride has appeared. “It was all an awful muddle really. I just tried to sort it out the best I could.”

  “Wendy said you were incredibly kind to her. She thinks you’re a fantastic, beautiful person.” Zed smiles. “She admires Brian too—maybe even more,” he adds in a different tone.

  “Oh yes, she thinks he’s—” Erica begins shrilly; then stops herself, for she has resolved never to criticize Brian to anyone except Danielle. “I don’t blame Wendy,” she continues more evenly. “Not for anything really. She’s a nice girl. A little naïve and weak, that’s all ...You’re shaking your head. Don’t you agree?”

  “I was shaking it at them.” Zed indicates the door of the shop, outside which two young people are standing. As Erica watches they turn away with disappointed expressions. “But I don’t agree, not exactly. After all, weakness can be a strategy like any other.”

  “A strategy?”

  “Or say a modus operandi. I see it here in the store all the time. And I know from my own experience. If you give up the struggle for conventional goals—money, status, power—a lot of energy is released, for one thing.” He refills the cups, and continues, speaking more slowly, “Also, you have certain tactical advantages. The battle isn’t always to the strong, as we learned in History I. The weak have their weapons too. They come and collapse on you, like defeated nations, and you have to take care of them. ‘Oh! What shall I do now?’ they cry. So you tell them what.” He grins mockingly. “Then they go and do it, and whatever happens after that is your responsibility. I’ve had to make myself a rule: never give advice to anyone.”

  “Yes, but she was so helpless—so desperate really,” Erica says, almost to herself. “She couldn’t—I had to—” she utters, and stops.

  “I know that.” Zed looks at her. “I don’t mean it’s calculated,” he continues. “Or even conscious, most of the time. But it works. How do you think Wendy got what she wanted from Brian in the first place? Essentially it was the same as it was with you. She went into his office and fell apart. Typical double Cancer.”

  “She fell apart,” Erica repeats, passing over the astrological joke, if it was a joke. She has a vision of Wendy crying and vomiting into her kitchen sink.

  “It didn’t work for a long time. Your husband kept giving her the wrong advice, the kind she didn’t want. He told her to find other interests, study harder, try cold showers—”

  “But she didn’t take that advice.” Erica frowns; she feels a little dizzy.

  “Oh yes she did. She took it, but she kept coming back again and saying it hadn’t worked. That’s how it’s always done. It’s a very old strategy, thousands of years old—It’s the standard method for getting into a Zen Buddhist monastery, for instance; I’ve used it myself.” Again Zed glances past Erica to the door. The two young customers have returned, with a third, and are gesturing through the glass; one holds up a book. “Just a second; I’ll tell them to come back later.” He stands up.

  “No, don’t do that,” Erica says, looking at her watch. “Let them in; I have to leave now anyway to get my children.” She begins to gather her things. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  “Well. All right.” Zed goes to the door, motioning to the people outside with the patting gesture that means “Wait a moment.” “What time shall I come?”

  “About seven? Then I can give the children their supper first.”

  “Fine.”

  “And I’d better tell you where I am, and how to get there; it’s a little complicated. If you could give me a piece of paper, I’ll draw a map.”

  “You don’t need to do that; I know where you are,” Zed says, turning his sign so that CLOSED faces in again, and unbolting the door. “I’ve always known where you were.”

  11

  IN THE VESTIBULE OF the Frick Museum, shortly pas
t noon on the day after Thanksgiving, Brian Tate strolls back and forth, occasionally glancing at two carved chests and a small bronze sculpture group depicting the triumph of Reason over Error. From time to time he pats the front of his jacket in a quick, concerned way which would inform an experienced pickpocket (who fortunately is not present) that a large sum in cash is concealed there. He is dressed more soberly and formally than usual, and his expression is one of confidence and well-controlled tension, like an officer directing a military operation—in fact, very like that of General Burgoyne in Reynolds’ portrait, which hangs in one of the rooms he has just passed through.

  Already today Brian has accomplished much. He has risen early, forced Jeffrey and Matilda to rise, breakfast, pack, and leave his mother’s house in Connecticut; he has driven to New York, garaged his car, bought Cokes and snacks for the children, put them on the bus for Corinth, and seen it depart—completing all these maneuvers in such good time that he was half an hour early at the Frick. His first action there was to make a quick reconnaissance of the galleries, in case Wendy had arrived even earlier. But the museum is unusually empty; it is an unpleasant day, promising cold rain or sleet, and there are only a few well-dressed old ladies and ill-dressed art students wandering about.

  Brian has chosen the Frick as a rendezvous for several reasons. First, it is easy to find and convenient to the address he and Wendy must proceed to later. Second, it is one of the few remaining places in Manhattan where it is possible to sit down in pleasant surroundings without buying food or drink. Also it provides the first-comer with something agreeable and educational to do while waiting, instead of wasting time. Even more important, it is never crowded. The Met and the Modern are mobbed by humanity during vacation, and among these mobs some of Brian’s students or ex-students are statistically likely to appear. The Guggenheim is quieter, but its design is unsuited to a meeting—besides, it always makes him dizzy, as if he had been swallowed by a concrete snail.

  Beyond its practical advantages, the Frick Museum has an important symbolic function—a lesson to teach. More than any public collection can, it stands for a way of life: for elegance, art, taste and civilized living conditions—in fact, for all that Wendy has to gain by having finally listened to Reason. In these high, airy rooms is the concentrated essence of everything lacking in her background and education—a sample of what he will show her next summer when they go to Europe. Wendy has never been abroad except for a three-week tour which seems to have consisted mainly of driving through foreign cities during heavy rain in sightseeing buses crammed with American students, all singing popular American songs. She has never met any Europeans except hotel managers and shopkeepers; never been to Sadler’s Wells or the Prado, or eaten in a good French restaurant. All this, and much more, he can give her, will give her—as otherwise he never could have, for as he and Erica proved years ago, it is neither economically or socially possible to tour Europe with a small child.