Pictures of the Past

by Deby Eisenberg

  “For sure not love,” she said, though she knew that would frustrate Sarah even more.

  “But it can’t be true that you understand physics, and yet you do not understand love.”

  “Darling,” her mother said, smirking now because she knew she could finally lighten the moment, “even the brilliant Albert Einstein got divorced.”

  “Mama,” Sarah finally whispered, “will we ever feel safe again?”

  “Sleep—my sweet child—we may only feel safe in dreams. Awake—I can promise only one thing—we will survive.”

  With those words, Sarah retreated to her own bed. But her mother was wrong already. There were no sweet dreams. She was plagued once again with memories of the nightmarish rifle butt entrance of the police in their Berlin home—them rushing into their parlor and attempting to grab her father as he sat working with papers. She was impressed and proud of his handling of the police bullies, his leading them himself out of the house, so you would barely observe him as a prisoner.

  Rachel

  New York

  February 1975

  By the time Rusty was five years old, Rachel had been in a two-and-a-half-year relationship with Richard Stone. It was one that was more than just comfortable; it was tender and sweet and loving and passionate.

  During her years in New York, she had continued to live with Aunt Ida, and then as a threesome with Rusty, but she remained very close to her parents. It seemed that twice a year they made the trip out East and at least that often she brought Rusty to Chicago. There were many friends and relatives so accepting and eager to see the pair. And there were museums to explore. Rusty was probably no older than three when she made sure he had an outing to her beloved Art Institute of Chicago and then farther south to the Museum of Science and Industry to watch the incubators with the baby chicks hatching and to go down in the coal mine and ride the train. She had a wonderful bank of cherished childhood memories and she wanted them to be a part of Rusty’s history as well.

  But she wasn’t ready to move back yet. Though times were considerably more liberal than in past decades, she still enjoyed the nonjudgmental anonymity of New York. She was a Chicago girl at heart and wanted to return to raise Rusty there, but maybe not until she was “husband in hand,” maybe not until she finally accepted Richard’s proposal.

  The first time he came to her on bended knee she was not really surprised. He was too predictable. It was their dating anniversary and they were at Tavern on the Green Restaurant, where there were probably at least five or six engagements on an average weekend. But she had not exactly said yes yet. It was, by no means, the Sharon Lee Stein fiasco, although Rachel did joke with him about the ring.

  “Don’t even try to give me that old, rejected one,” she had said when she laughed off his first proposal.

  “Rachel,” Richard began, trying to make light of her noncommittal answer, “the sale of that ring financed a portion of my MBA at NYU, so you can just thank Sharon Lee Stein that my debt level is low.”

  This time he did not hold forth for her an exquisite marquis cut diamond. For her, he was smart now. He came only with words. When she would say “yes,” they would go to Uncle Chal at the diamond exchange and together they would choose a stone she would want to wear forever.

  “Richard, you have been more than patient,” she had finally said to him some months later. “And I am going to ask you to indulge me just a little longer. I need to go to Chicago one more time and I need to call on Court Woodmere. I have his address in Kenilworth or at least his parents’ address, so maybe they can lead me to him. I just want to talk to him once. It has been over five years since I had that last awful encounter, and once I talk to him I will be ready to begin a life together with you.”

  Richard, of course, heard nothing past the words “call on Court Woodmere,” and that was why Rachel had not told her neurotic boyfriend what her plans were months ago when she made them. She waited until two days before her planned trip home and to Kenilworth, in an effort to reduce to days what she knew might be a difficult time for Richard.

  She had actually booked this weekend around her demanding work schedule at Young Miss Magazine. After graduating the year before, with highest honors and distinction, she had immediately secured a sought-after junior editing position there. But she was often tied to the hectic schedule of fashion openings in the city and feature layout shoots elsewhere, ever appreciative for her wonderful babysitter, Aunt Ida. Finally, Rachel had found a weekend to schedule herself out of any work commitments and to return to the Midwest with Rusty.

  Rachel

  Kenilworth

  February 1975

  On Saturday afternoon, as she left from her parents’ home in Rogers Park on the North Side of Chicago and wound her way along the beautiful, peaceful, elegant route of Sheridan Road to Court Woodmere’s home, she was silently reviewing her motivation.

  She didn’t want anything from him. But she wanted to be fair to him. Maybe he had grown up, matured. Maybe he suffered emotional ramifications for what he thought he had made her do. She convinced herself that she was coming this day for his benefit. Rachel knew that eventually she would be moving back to the area. She did not want to run into Court on the street one day, while she held her precious boy’s hand, and when he saw them, he would be tormented, or worse, maddened, that he was excluded, that he never really knew. And so today, for the first time in a long time, she followed Sheridan beyond Chicago’s limits, leaving behind the mixture of apartment buildings, storefronts, and small diners that lined its route, and entering the realm of the upscale suburban residences. In the spring and summer months, the extensive foliage of the mature landscaping fronting the houses on either side of Sheridan and bordering the intermittent parks of the lakefront to the east would actually camouflage the resplendent character of the area. But now, through thin, bare branches, she was astonished at the size of the homes and could barely keep the car aligned to the curves of the winding road, as she searched for the address of his parents’ house, in a town where addresses were not even needed for those in the know.

  She had no preparation, however, for the grandeur that would meet her. Over five years ago she had met a boy, a “college hippie” like herself, dressed shabbily in worn jeans and a T-shirt, driving in what, she initially thought, was a friend’s new red Mustang. Even when he said it was his, no bells went off. In her world, yes, such a car was the mark of indulgence of middle- or upper-middle-class parents, but it was not reserved for the wealthy only or the upper-wealthy—whatever this house would portend.

  Although Rachel had originally planned to park on the street in front of the home in Kenilworth, the wide expanse of the half moon driveway was so elongated that parking anywhere else would have required an extremely long walk just to reach the front door. And since the open position of the entry gates, decorated with the filigree monogram detailing of an iron master, was actually more inviting than intimidating, she decided to follow the curve of the brick pavers with her automobile and actually park inside the property, right in front of the steps leading to the impressive portico. After exiting from the driver’s side, she moved around the car and opened the door for Rusty who was easing himself out of his position in the backseat. Closing the door behind him, the two of them just stood there, visibly awestruck, and took in the exterior of the Woodmere residence.

  Impressive and imposing, but not at all garish, the white stone edifice presented itself. On either side of the five broad steps leading to the entrance, four marble columns accentuated the grandeur of the structure, gleaming with a polished finish that was enhanced by the beams of the midday sun. And it brought the observer to understand not just the mansion’s towering presence with its surprising height, but the tremendous width of its footprint on the lot. For once the eye followed the columns in each direction, right and left, it became apparent that the home had north and south wings that jutted back out toward the driveway, stretching for four more sets of windows on
either side, like broad shoulders protecting the more ornate middle section.

  Holding Rusty’s hand, Rachel continued up the steps, edging closer to her destination, but still moving slowly, in a somewhat nervous, guarded manner. Glass windows on either side of the huge wooden doors allowed them to peer through the whole depth of the home and Rachel now saw that beyond the backyard was a panorama of Lake Michigan. She envisioned that the astute architect when drafting the orientation of the blueprint had maximized the number of rooms that could boast views of the bustling waves of the dark blue water.

  Once she self-consciously wiped Rusty’s small prints from the beveled glass pane he had been fingering, she began searching for the doorbell. Her son, however, found the huge pair of lion head metal door knockers irresistible and he was jumping up to try to reach them. His childlike enthusiasm helped her to refocus on her mission, and so when she found the appropriately camouflaged heavy plastic rectangle she was seeking, she held Rusty up so he could be the one to ring it.

  As the front door was opened and the interior was revealed, it was all she could do to keep herself from releasing an audible “Oh…wow,” yet the words resonated so clearly in her ears, that it took her a moment to realize that that exact phrase had come instead from her young son by her side. The enormous foyer had such a broad diagonal pattern alternating black and white heavily grained marble squares, and the formally attired butler stood so rigid in his black uniform, that she felt she was stepping on to a giant sized game board and was greeted by a chess piece. And then her eye was drawn upward in the same manner as the outside columns had led her gaze skyward, but this time she followed the lines of an exquisite ebony, iron, and gold winding staircase that led to a second-floor landing and encircled a magnificent multilayered crystal chandelier.

  In their brief period of togetherness, except for the words Court had spoken at the end that wounded her, she had no indication of his background. She laughed now. When someone in her world said that three generations were living together in the same home, it usually meant a third-floor walk-up apartment. But now she understood—this is where he grew up—this impressive mansion—these were his roots.

  Although she had not really been cognizant of his social standing, she acknowledged to herself that part of his draw had been due to prestige. But it was that he must have been bright to be attending Northwestern University, not a city college like so many of the boys pursuing her in the restaurant. In her family, in her circle, education was what was valued. True, education that would lead to a respected career was always best; mothers spoke with highest pride when sons were doctors, lawyers, or accountants. Northwestern University— that had been her dream. But its private tuition made it unattainable at the time. Maybe graduate school, she had always thought, at the Medill School of Journalism.

  What Rachel had not known at the time was that Court had actually been accepted at Northwestern because of his family’s donations and not his own accomplishments. Although the two generations of men before him had attended the same Eastern Ivy League school, they wanted to contribute to Northwestern’s acceptance as an upper-echelon institute, as they were dedicated to the Chicago area. And what Rachel would never have imagined, clouded by her love and infatuation of the summer of 1968, was that Courtland Woodmere would never be an NU graduate. She could never have known that after his sophomore year, he would do poorly or do nothing in enough courses that his father, Taylor Woodmere, would be called by a college dean to consider finding an early place for Court in the family business.

  Yes, Rachel was a smart girl, but not street smart— more book smart, less worldly.

  The Woodmere Estate

  Kenilworth

  February 1975

  Taylor Woodmere had been enjoying the customary Saturday morning time in his library he reserved for interactions with Sylvie, his precocious four-year-old granddaughter. Although he was extremely busy at his company, often traveling for weeks at a time, he knew the importance of bonding with Sylvie, knew he was her strongest father figure. He had been showing Sylvie something on the globe, pointing out to her his latest international destination, when the lyrical doorbell rang. But he did not move to answer it, as those in his position have been conditioned to let others respond to such tasks.

  It was then that he had heard the lovely, almost timid, voice of a young woman explaining that she was trying to locate Court Woodmere. And Taylor had actually left his cushioned leather desk chair when he heard surprise in her tone when she continued, “Oh, he is home here—well, that is good—very good. May I see him?”

  The houseman, Reed, knowing that Court was, as usual, just milling around on the upper lounge and pleased to send him any interesting visitor, directed her to the second floor, indicating he was to the left of the reception hall. He had only meant to tell her that he would get Court—but she was following his gesture quickly up the stairs, as if, with a moment’s hesitation, she might change her mind.

  “Now Rusty, you wait here, please,” she admonished the little boy who accompanied her to the home and who remained in the foyer as she made her way. And she nodded to the butler so that he might watch that the child stayed put.

  It was actually Sylvie, emerging from her grandfather’s library shyly at first, who spotted the little boy and then with a burst of energy darted to this stranger. “Hi, I’m Sylvie,” she said, grabbing his hand.

  Taylor’s immediate reaction was that it was gratifying to watch Sylvie happy and playing with another child. Her personality, already so engaging with adults, seemed a magnet to the young boy. Taylor had glimpsed him just briefly as the two ran up to the playroom, the boy ignoring his young mother’s words to wait at the door. Something had compelled Taylor to watch the jubilant bobbing of their heads on the steps, and he noticed that this little boy had the same dark auburn hair reminiscent of Sylvie’s locks, and of Court’s.

  As the pair ascended, Taylor witnessed the boy stopping at his own favorite painting, pointing to Sylvie and saying something. Apparently the little boy had asked Sylvie if it was her in the painting.

  “I don’t know. I never looked at it,” was her answer. Watching closely over them, his houseman, Reed, responded laughing. “No, young man, that is a significant Impressionist work painted in Europe by a famous artist, Henri Lebasque, generations before little Sylvie. I am not totally sure of its provenance.” The young children looked at each other quizzically, not really understanding what Reed had said, and, giggling, continued on their way up the stairs.

  The grand scale of this child’s playroom was not lost on young Rusty. A native New Yorker, he had spent more than one Saturday afternoon as a wide-eyed, enthusiastic shopper at a dazzling FAO Schwartz store, and so he half expected a ringing cash register to be situated somewhere near the double door entry. He imagined Sylvie oftentimes cuddling herself within the paws and claws and hoofs of the menagerie of giant stuffed animals that greeted him to the right, or literally straddling the backs of the life-sized ponies or the four-foot-tall elephant and companion zebra. He thought she must have a great many siblings of all ages and both sexes to warrant the purchase of this assemblage of toys. Rusty was a bright child with an intense eye for details, and though perhaps he could not properly articulate this concept at his young age, he easily summed up his intuitive assessment by simply asking Sylvie where her brothers were.

  “No one else, just me…” she said quite easily, as if this was not the first time this question was posed by a visitor to this fantasy domain. “And now you,” she continued. “What’s your name?”

  “Rusty. I’m five, almost six,” he said without looking at her, darting a quick path to a train station table that miniaturized an entire Midwest village from the 1950s, full of “miles” of train tracks, every imaginable train car from a pricey HO set, and a collection of bridges and turntables, built-to-scale stores, a post office, school, and hospital. Eagerly, he ran his fingers over the fake green grass, easing himself to the prize of t
he control mechanisms, but found them to be just out of his reach. And then, once again, Sylvie led him by the hand, but this time to the area where an appropriately preschool-sized kitchen revealed itself. “You sit there,” she insisted, directing him to the blue chair at the little table. “Today we are serving tea and cakes and I will be cooking. Do you want sugar and milk in your tea?”

  For one moment only he sat as commanded, facing the colorful metal set of a refrigerator and matching stove. But after Sylvie opened the doors of the appliances and he saw the model foods within, the wooden milk and juice cartons, the plastic ketchup and mustard bottles, the lifelike eggs, he immediately raced for a scaled-down shopping cart and was briskly filling it with the inventory and then racing around with it in a most disruptive manner. Instead of being dismayed by his disobedience, as might have been expected by this seemingly prim little girl who at that time was distracted as she donned her Betty Crocker apron, Sylvie reached for a second cart nearby and yelled “race you.” Quickly, she caught up to him with a crash by the building block, Lego, and puzzle area, and shouted, “Hide-and-seek, this room only, you count to ten.” And it actually took him another two minutes to find her hiding in an enormous wooden playhouse structure near the rear wall of the room. She was sitting camouflaged behind a shelving unit hosting a collection of thirty or so exquisite dolls, representing countries around the globe, and when he found her they both screamed, leaving the highest tones of childhood delight to shake up the solid, formidable bones of the mansion.