by Ken Follett
iv
Woody Dewar impatiently inspected the yacht Sprinter, checking that the kids had made everything shipshape. She was a forty-eight-foot racing ketch, long and slender like a knife. Dave Rouzrokh had loaned her to the Shipmates, a club Woody belonged to that took the sons of Buffalo's unemployed out on Lake Erie and taught them the rudiments of sailing. Woody was glad to see that the dock lines and fenders were set, the sails furled, the halyards tied off, and all the other lines neatly coiled.
His brother, Chuck, a year younger at fourteen, was on the dock already, joshing with a couple of colored kids. Chuck had an easygoing manner that enabled him to get on with everyone. Woody, who wanted to go into politics like their father, envied Chuck's effortless charm.
The boys wore nothing but shorts and sandals, and the three on the dock looked a picture of youthful strength and vitality. Woody would have liked to take a photograph, if he had had his camera with him. He was a keen photographer and had built a darkroom at home so that he could develop and print his own pictures.
Satisfied that the Sprinter was being left as they had found her that morning, Woody jumped onto the dock. A group of a dozen youngsters left the boatyard together, windswept and sunburned, aching pleasantly from their exertions, laughing as they relived the day's blunders and pratfalls and jokes.
The gap between the two rich brothers and the crowd of poor boys had vanished when they were out on the water, working together to control the yacht, but now it reappeared in the parking lot of the Buffalo Yacht Club. Two vehicles stood side by side: Senator Dewar's Chrysler Airflow, with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel, for Woody and Chuck, and a Chevrolet Roadster pickup truck with two wooden benches in the back for the others. Woody felt embarrassed, saying good-bye as the chauffeur held the door for him, but the boys did not seem to care, thanking him and saying: "See you next Saturday!"
As they drove up Delaware Avenue, Woody said: "That was fun, though I'm not sure how much good it does."
Chuck was surprised. "Why?"
"Well, we're not helping their fathers find jobs, and that's the only thing that really counts."
"It might help the sons get work in a few years' time." Buffalo was a port city: in normal times there were thousands of jobs on merchant ships plying the Great Lakes and the Erie Canal, as well as on pleasure craft.
"Provided the president can get the economy moving again."
Chuck shrugged. "So go work for Roosevelt."
"Why not? Papa worked for Woodrow Wilson."
"I'll stick with the sailing."
Woody checked his wristwatch. "We've got time to change for the ball--just." They were going to a dinner-dance at the Racquet Club. Anticipation made his heart beat faster. "I want to be with humans that have soft skin, speak with high voices, and wear pink dresses."
"Huh," Chuck said derisively. "Joanne Rouzrokh never wore pink in her life."
Woody was taken aback. He had been dreaming about Joanne all day and half the night for a couple of weeks, but how did his brother know that? "What makes you think--"
"Oh, come on," Chuck said scornfully. "When she arrived at the beach party in a tennis skirt you practically fainted. Everyone could see you were crazy about her. Fortunately she didn't seem to notice."
"Why was that fortunate?"
"For God's sake--you're fifteen, and she's eighteen. It's embarrassing! She's looking for a husband, not a schoolboy."
"Oh, gee, thanks, I forgot what an expert you are on women."
Chuck flushed. He had never had a girlfriend. "You don't have to be an expert to see what's under your goddamn nose."
They talked like this all the time. There was no malice in it: they were just brutally frank with each other. They were brothers, so there was no need to be nice.
They reached home, a mock-Gothic mansion built by their late grandfather, Senator Cam Dewar. They ran inside to shower and change.
Woody was now the same height as his father, and he put on one of Papa's old dress suits. It was a bit worn, but that was all right. The younger boys would be wearing school suits or blazers, but the college men would have tuxedos, and Woody was keen to look older. Tonight he would dance with her, he thought as he slicked his hair with brilliantine. He would be allowed to hold her in his arms. The palms of his hands would feel the warmth of her skin. He would look into her eyes as she smiled. Her breasts would brush against his jacket as they danced.
When he came down, his parents were waiting in the drawing room, Papa drinking a cocktail, Mama smoking a cigarette. Papa was long and thin, and looked like a coat hanger in his double-breasted tuxedo. Mama was beautiful, despite having only one eye, the other being permanently closed--she had been born that way. Tonight she looked stunning in a floor-length dress, black lace over red silk, and a short black velvet evening jacket.
Woody's grandmother was the last to arrive. At sixty-eight she was poised and elegant, as thin as her son but petite. She studied Mama's dress and said: "Rosa, dear, you look wonderful." She was always kind to her daughter-in-law. To everyone else she was waspish.
Gus made her a cocktail without being asked. Woody hid his impatience while she took her time drinking it. Grandmama could never be hurried. She assumed no social event would begin before she arrived: she was the grand old lady of Buffalo society, widow of a senator and mother of another, matriarch of one of the city's oldest and most distinguished families.
Woody asked himself when he had fallen for Joanne. He had known her most of his life, but he had always regarded girls as uninteresting spectators to the exciting adventures of boys--until two or three years ago, when girls had suddenly become even more fascinating than cars and speedboats. Even then he had been more interested in girls his own age or a little younger. Joanne for her part had always treated him as a kid--a bright kid, worth talking to now and again, but certainly not a possible boyfriend. But this summer, for no reason he could put a finger on, he had suddenly begun to see her as the most alluring girl in the world. Sadly, her feelings for him had not undergone a similar transformation.
Not yet.
Grandmama addressed a question to his brother. "How is school, Chuck?"
"Terrible, Grandmama, as you know perfectly well. I'm the family cretin, a throwback to our chimpanzee forbears."
"Cretins don't use phrases such as 'our chimpanzee forbears,' in my experience. Are you quite sure laziness plays no part?"
Rosa butted in. "Chuck's teachers say he works pretty hard at school, Mama."
Gus added: "And he beats me at chess."
"Then I ask what the problem is," Grandmama persisted. "If this goes on he won't get into Harvard."
Chuck said: "I'm a slow reader, that's all."
"Curious," she said. "My father-in-law, your paternal great-grandfather, was the most successful banker of his generation, yet he could barely read or write."
Chuck said: "I didn't know that."
"It's true," she said. "But don't use it as an excuse. Work harder."
Gus looked at his watch. "If you're ready, Mama, we'd better go."
At last they got into the car and drove to the club. Papa had taken a table for the dinner and invited the Renshaws and their offspring, Dot and George. Woody looked around, but to his disappointment, he did not see Joanne. He checked the table plan, on an easel in the lobby, and was dismayed to see that there was no Rouzrokh table. Were they not coming? That would ruin his evening.
The talk over the lobster and steak was of events in Germany. Philip Renshaw thought Hitler was doing a good job. Woody's father said: "According to today's Sentinel, they jailed a Catholic priest for criticizing the Nazis."
"Are you Catholic?" said Mr. Renshaw in surprise.
"No, Episcopalian."
"It's not about religion, Philip," said Rosa crisply. "It's about freedom." Woody's mother had been an anarchist in her youth, and she was still a libertarian at heart.
Some people skipped the dinner and came later for the dancing, and m
ore revelers appeared as the Dewars were served dessert. Woody kept his eyes peeled for Joanne. In the next room a band started to play "The Continental," a hit from last year.
He could not say what it was about Joanne that had so captivated him. Most people would not call her a great beauty, though she was certainly striking. She looked like an Aztec queen, with high cheekbones and the same knife-blade nose as her father, Dave. Her hair was dark and thick and her skin an olive shade, no doubt because of her Persian ancestry. There was a brooding intensity about her that made Woody long to know her better, to make her relax and hear her murmur softly about nothing in particular. He felt that her formidable presence must signify a capacity for deep passion. Then he thought: Now who's pretending to be an expert on women?
"Are you looking out for someone, Woody?" said Grandmama, who did not miss much.
Chuck sniggered knowingly.
"Just wondering who's coming to the dance," Woody replied casually, but he could not help blushing.
He still had not spotted her when his mother stood up and they all left the table. Disconsolate, he wandered into the ballroom to the strains of Benny Goodman's "Moonglow"--and there Joanne was: she must have come in when he was not looking. His spirits lifted.
Tonight she wore a dramatically simple silver-gray silk dress with a deep V-neck that showed off her figure. She had looked sensational in a tennis skirt that revealed her long brown legs, but this was even more arousing. As she glided across the room, graceful and confident, she made Woody's throat go dry.
He moved toward her, but the ballroom had filled up, and suddenly he was irritatingly popular: everyone wanted to talk to him. During his progress through the crowd he was surprised to see dull old Charlie Farquharson dancing with the vivacious Daisy Peshkov. He could not recall seeing Charlie dance with anyone, let alone a tootsie like Daisy. What had she done to bring him out of his shell?
By the time he reached Joanne she was at the end of the room farthest from the band, and to his chagrin she was deep in discussion with a group of boys four or five years older than he. Fortunately he was taller than most of them, so the difference was not too obvious. They were all holding Coke glasses, but Woody could smell Scotch: one of them must have had a bottle in his pocket.
As he joined them, he heard Victor Dixon say: "No one's in favor of lynching, but you have to understand the problems they have in the South."
Woody knew that Senator Wagner had proposed a law to punish sheriffs who permitted lynchings--but President Roosevelt had refused to back the bill.
Joanne was outraged. "How can you say that, Victor? Lynching is murder! We don't have to understand their problems, we have to stop them killing people!"
Woody was pleased to learn how much Joanne shared his political values. But clearly this was not a good time to ask her to dance, which was unfortunate.
"You don't get it, Joanne, honey," said Victor. "Those Southern Negroes are not really civilized."
I might be young and inexperienced, Woody thought, but I wouldn't have made the mistake of speaking so condescendingly to Joanne.
"It's the people who carry out lynchings who are uncivilized!" she said.
Woody decided this was the moment to make his contribution to the argument. "Joanne is right," he said. He made his voice lower in pitch, to sound older. "There was a lynching in the hometown of our help, Joe and Betty, who have looked after me and my brother since we were babies. Betty's cousin was stripped naked and burned with a blowtorch, while a crowd watched. Then he was hanged." Victor glared at him, resentful of this kid who was taking Joanne's attention away, but the others in the group listened with horrified interest. "I don't care what his crime was," Woody said. "The white people who did that to him are savages."
Victor said: "Your beloved President Roosevelt didn't support the anti-lynch bill, though, did he?"
"No, and that was very disappointing," said Woody. "I know why he made that decision: he was afraid that angry Southern congressmen would retaliate by sabotaging the New Deal. All the same, I would have liked him to tell them to go to hell."
Victor said: "What do you know? You're just a kid." He took a silver flask from his jacket pocket and topped up his drink.
Joanne said: "Woody's political ideas are more grown-up than yours, Victor."
Woody glowed. "Politics is kind of the family business," he said. Then he was irritated by a tug at his elbow. Too polite to ignore it, he turned to see Charlie Farquharson, perspiring from his exertions on the dance floor.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" said Charlie.
Woody resisted the temptation to tell him to buzz off. Charlie was a likable guy who did no harm to anyone. You had to feel sorry for a man with a mother like that. "What is it, Charlie?" he said with as much good grace as he could muster.
"It's about Daisy."
"I saw you dancing with her."
"Isn't she a great dancer?"
Woody had not noticed but, to be nice, he said: "You bet she is!"
"She's great at everything."
"Charlie," said Woody, trying to suppress a tone of incredulity, "are you and Daisy courting?"
Charlie looked bashful. "We've been horse riding in the park a couple of times, and so on."
"So you are courting." Woody was surprised. They seemed an unlikely pair. Charlie was such a lump, and Daisy was a poppet.
Charlie added: "She's not like other girls. She's so easy to talk to! And she loves dogs and horses. But people think her father is a gangster."
"I guess he is a gangster, Charlie. Everyone bought their liquor from him during Prohibition."
"That's what my mother says."
"So your mother doesn't like Daisy." Woody was not surprised.
"She likes Daisy fine. It's Daisy's family she objects to."
An even more surprising thought occurred to Woody. "Are you thinking of marrying Daisy?"
"Oh, God, yes," said Charlie. "And I think she might say yes, if I asked her."
Well, Woody thought, Charlie had class but no money, and Daisy was the opposite, so maybe they would complement one another. "Stranger things have happened," he said. This was kind of fascinating, but he wanted to concentrate on his own romantic life. He looked around, checking that Joanne was still there. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked Charlie. It was not as if they were great friends.
"My mother might change her mind if Mrs. Peshkov were invited to join the Buffalo Ladies' Society."
Woody had not been expecting that. "Why, it's the snobbiest club in town!"
"Exactly. If Olga Peshkov were a member, how could Mom object to Daisy?"
Woody did not know whether this scheme would work or not, but there was no doubting the earnest warmth of Charlie's feelings. "Maybe you're right," Woody said.
"Would you approach your grandmother for me?"
"Whoa! Wait a minute. Grandmama Dewar is a dragon. I wouldn't ask her for a favor for myself, let alone for you."
"Woody, listen to me. You know she's really the boss of that little clique. If she wants someone, they're in--and if she doesn't, they're out."
That was true. The society had a chairwoman and a secretary and a treasurer, but Ursula Dewar ran the club as if it belonged to her. All the same, Woody was reluctant to petition her. She might bite his head off. "I don't know," he said apologetically.
"Oh, come on, Woody, please. You don't understand." Charlie lowered his voice. "You don't know what it's like to love someone this much."
Yes, I do, Woody thought, and that changed his mind. If Charlie feels as bad as I do, how can I refuse him? I hope someone else would do the same for me, if it meant I had a better chance with Joanne. "Okay, Charlie," he said. "I'll talk to her."
"Thanks! Say--she's here, isn't she? Could you do it tonight?"
"Hell, no. I've got other things on my mind."
"Okay, sure . . . but when?"
Woody shrugged. "I'll do it tomorrow."
"You're a pal!"
> "Don't thank me yet. She'll probably say no."
Woody turned back to speak to Joanne, but she had gone.
He began to look for her, then stopped himself. He must not appear desperate. A needy man was not sexy; he knew that much.
He danced dutifully with several girls: Dot Renshaw, Daisy Peshkov, and Daisy's German friend Eva. He got a Coke and went outside to where some of the boys were smoking cigarettes. George Renshaw poured some Scotch into Woody's Coke, which improved the taste, but he did not want to get drunk. He had done it before and he did not like it.
Joanne would want a man who shared her intellectual interests, Woody believed--and that would rule out Victor Dixon. Woody had heard Joanne mention Karl Marx and Sigmund Freud. In the public library he had read The Communist Manifesto, but it just seemed like a political rant. He had had more fun with Freud's Studies in Hysteria, which made a kind of detective story out of mental illness. He was looking forward to letting Joanne know, in a casual way, that he had read these books.
He was determined to dance with Joanne at least once tonight, and after a while he went in search of her. She was not in the ballroom or the bar. Had he missed his chance? In trying not to show his desperation, had he been too passive? It was unbearable to think that the ball could end without his even having touched her shoulder.
He stepped outside again. It was dark, but he saw her almost immediately. She was walking away from Greg Peshkov, looking a little flushed, as if she had been arguing with him. "You might be the only person here who isn't a goddamn conservative," she said to Woody. She sounded a little drunk.
Woody smiled. "Thanks for the compliment--I think."
"Do you know about the march tomorrow?" she asked abruptly.
He did. Strikers from the Buffalo Metal Works planned a demonstration to protest against the beating up of union men from New York. Woody guessed that was the subject of her argument with Greg: his father owned the factory. "I was planning to go," he said. "I might take some photographs."
"Bless you," she said, and she kissed him.
He was so surprised that he almost failed to respond. For a second he stood there passively as she crushed her mouth to his, and he tasted whisky on her lips.