“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“In the hamper in my bathroom,” he said. “I had dropped a shirt in it with my cufflinks still in the sleeves and when I opened the door to get it, the sheet fell out and the brassiere was wrapped in it.”
She was silent.
“He raped you, didn’t he?” It was more a statement than a question the way he said it.
She didn’t answer him.
“The sick, filthy old man!” he swore. “I don’t know how my poor mother stood him all those years. He belongs in an institution. It’s not the first time he’s done something like this. He tore the clothes off you, didn’t he?”
She looked down at the brassiere in her hand. “Yes,” she half whispered.
“Then why didn’t you do something?” he asked. “Why didn’t you scream?”
She took a long, deep breath and looked up at him. Her voice was clear and steady. “Because I wanted him to.”
His shoulders suddenly slumped and he seemed to shrink inwardly; before her eyes he seemed to grow twenty years older. His face turned gray and pale. He put out a hand and sat on the edge of his bed.
“He’s hated me,” he whispered as if he were talking to himself. “He’s always hated me. From the moment I was born. Because I came between my mother and him. Ever since I was a child, he always took things away from me. Once I had a doll. He took it away and gave me a toy car. Then when I wouldn’t play with it, he took the car away too.”
He stretched out on the bed on his stomach, burying his face in the crook of his elbow and began to cry again. Her face began to throb with the ache. Wearily she got to her feet and started back to her room.
“Sally!”
She turned and looked back at him. He sat up in the bed, the tears streaking his cheeks. “You’re not going to let him take you away from me too, are you?”
She stood there without answering.
“We’ll forget it ever happened,” he said quickly. “I’ll be good to you, you’ll see. I’ll never say anything about it again.”
He got out of the bed and fell to his knees and clasped his arms around her legs, burying his face against her thighs. “Please, Sally,” he begged. “Don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it if you left me.”
She let her hand fall on his head and rest there. For a moment, she felt as if he were her child. And maybe that was the way it was supposed to be.
“Get up and go back to bed, Junior,” she said gently. “I won’t leave you.” Then she turned, closing the door behind her.
On a day that came to be known as Black Friday in the economic history of the world, the New York stock market plummeted from the heights, throwing the nation and the world into the depths of an economic depression never known before.
Four months later in the middle of January, 1930, the doorbell rang in the suite at the Hotel George V in Paris where Loren was staying.
“Roxanne,” he called from his bath. “See who it is.”
A few minutes later she came into the bathroom. “A cable from America for you.”
“Open it and read it. My hands are wet.”
She tore open the pale blue envelope. Her voice was expressionless as she struggled with the English words.
LOREN HARDEMAN, SR.
HOTEL GEORGE V
PARIS, FRANCE
HAVE ORDERED PRODUCTION STOPPED AND DISCONTINUANCE OF LOREN TWO AT BANK’S INSISTENCE TO REDUCE LOSSES DUE TO LACK OF SALES, STOP. OTHER ECONOMIES IN WORK AND WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED AS TO DECISIONS TAKEN. ALSO WISH TO INFORM YOU THAT MY WIFE GAVE BIRTH TO A GIRL, ANNE ELIZABETH, YESTERDAY MORNING, AT EIGHT O’CLOCK.
LOREN HARDEMAN II
Chapter Ten
Angelo looked out the window as the plane settled into its final approach pattern in a wide banking turn over the Ford River Rouge plant. The giant industrial complex sprawled like a hydra-headed monster beneath him, its clouded breath rising toward the skies, its liquid wastes pouring into the grayed cloudy waters of the Detroit River, the multipatterned colors of the tiny cars parked like clusters of ants in the lots between the buildings. The no-smoke signal snapped on just as the late afternoon sun brightened the glass windows and façade of the long Ford Central Administration Building.
He snubbed his cigarette out in the tray and began to place the papers on the table back into his case. Finished, he pushed the table up into the seat and put the case on the floor.
The stewardess came down the aisle. She looked down at him. “Seat belt fastened?”
He nodded, holding up his hands so that she could see it. She smiled and went on to the next row. He looked at his wristwatch. Four thirty in the afternoon. Right on schedule. He turned to the window again.
River Rouge was now behind the plane. For the first time he began to feel a tinge of admiration for the men who had conceived it. It had to be an almost impossible task. He knew that now. In the year since he had been working on the West Coast plant, one problem after the other had arisen until there were times when he thought he was going out of his mind. And that plant wasn’t even ten percent of River Rouge.
But there were two things that made it all work and both were people. The knowledge, experience and wise counsel of John Duncan, and the driving, indefatigable energy and enthusiasm of Tony Rourke who became part of it all as if he were born into the automobile business. That, plus his inventive use and adaptation of the new technologies he had used in aerospace, brought them over the first and perhaps the most difficult hurdles.
The design and engineering division had been successfully transferred from Detroit and had been functional for over six months. The steel foundry they bought in Fontana was in the process of changeover to their production requirements, and the mill they had built at the plant would be ready for operation by the summer of next year. The casting division would be ready for work a few months later, and the final assembly line could be in operation as early as September, 1971, if need be. The labor pool was in the process of being analyzed, the requirement plans were being drawn and the thousand and one other details were being buttoned up. Now, all that was needed was a final decision on the kind of car to build. And that was the one problem on which no one seemed to be in agreement.
Perhaps it was because of the present state of the industry itself. Over the past few years a storm had been brewing, and now the eye of the hurricane was upon them and the whole industry was searching frantically for a place of safety with no clearly defined shelters in view. In response to pressure, local and federal governments were imposing stringent regulations that would affect the performance and production of automobiles. Ecological and environmental factors were subjected to new controls and stricter standards. There was a five-year plan to which the industry had to conform to reduce gasoline engine emissions to certain acceptable levels by 1975. Other safety factors were being regulated to protect the driver and the passenger, even against their own mistakes. All in all, it was a direct refutation of the policy that had been the industry’s privilege all these years. No longer were these decisions that concerned the public’s safety and welfare to be left to their own tender mercies. Despite their cries of economic ruin and that the costs would have to be passed along to the consumer, the standards would have to be met or the cars would not be allowed on the road.
There was another side to the problem. And that seemed to be the changing taste of the American car buyer. It seemed only a few years ago that the little Volkswagen Beetle had only been a subject for puns and jokes. But that was twenty years back. Suddenly Detroit turned around and found the little bug was the fourth largest-selling car in America in 1969 and that for 1970 the industry had already conceded that it would knock Chrysler Motors’ Plymouth out of the third place in sales it had held for many years. Then, to add to their woes, in 1967 another invasion began to take place, this one from the opposite side of the world. Japan. In just four years the Japanese had captured another giant section of the American market with their products. Th
e Datsun, Toyota and the others were now a viable part of the American scene. Their rates of market growth and penetration were so rapid and so complete, and, even more remarkable, showed no sign of slowing up. For the first time it was not only Detroit that showed evidence of concern, also concerned was the Volkswagen company, who saw its own eminent position in the American market being threatened. Now Volkswagen, like the Ford Motor’s famous Model T of many years ago, felt itself in danger of being bypassed in styling and improvements, and was casting about for a new car that would eventually replace the Beetle. But that was still in the future.
For now, the American companies had come forth with their version of the economy compact: the Vega, Pinto and Gremlin. Chrysler was still holding back from domestic production but had two of its cars, which had been manufactured abroad, imported into the States and sold under their own names: the Dodge Colt and the Plymouth Cricket. But it was all stopgap and even Detroit was ready to admit that.
The first reports on the sales of the American sub-compacts indicated that their market was drawn from their own sales of larger cars and that the sales of the import cars were not affected at all but continued to show an appreciable rate of increase.
All of these factors, plus the additional investment and costs added to the sales and manufacturing burden by governmental edict, turned the industry’s eyes inward upon itself. Trim, cut, pare and prune as much as they would or could, would not of itself supply the answer.
The answer itself would only come with a totally new car, one that was born of the technology of demand, a new car that would have built into it all the requirements of both the government and the consumer. And that was the one thing that Detroit was not yet ready to consider. For that meant calling the old ballgame and beginning a new one. And there were still too many fans in the old stadium.
The wheels of the plane touched the ground, jarring Angelo from his reverie. He sat there quietly while they taxied to the gate. They had to make the commitment. It was the only choice they could make. And at tomorrow’s board meeting, he was going to put it on the line. The Sundancer was yesterday’s automobile. It had to go. If they were going to build a new car, it would have to have the total commitment of the corporation behind it. Any continuation of the Sundancer would be taken as a hedge and would, in his opinion, lessen the chances of success for the new car.
The plane rolled to a stop and he picked up his attaché case and rose to his feet. But that was tomorrow and tonight there was another matter that was almost as important in the world of Detroit.
An event that had been heralded in the Detroit papers as the great social affair of the year, the preparations for which had been as religiously reported as the preparations for the inauguration of a President of the United States.
Elizabeth Hardeman’s debut. She was eighteen years old. And ready to take her place in the world.
“You look very well, Grandfather,” the princess said.
Number One smiled. “I feel good, Anne. Better than I have in years.”
“I’m glad,” she said simply. She walked over to his wheelchair and kissed his cheek. “You know that, don’t you?”
The faint scent of her perfume came to his nostrils. He reached out and patted her hand. “I know it,” he said. “And you? Are you happy?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “As happy as I could be, I guess. I’ve long ago given up the childish dreams of what happiness should be. Now, I’m content. Igor is very good to me. He looks after me. You know what I mean.”
He nodded. He thought he understood but never would be quite sure. The problem of being an heiress had destroyed the lives of many others. Being a rich girl had its own peculiar hazards. But she seemed to be one of the fortunate ones. It was difficult for him to realize that she was now forty years old, she was still a child in his mind. “Where is Igor?” he asked. “I haven’t seen him.”
“In the library downstairs with Loren,” she said. “You know Igor. He loves the chance to talk business, man to man. And if there’s a bottle of good whiskey around, that doesn’t hurt either.”
He smiled. “How is business in Europe?”
“Igor was concerned,” she said. Igor had taken over the operation of Bethlehem Motors S.A., France, when they had been married, and much to the surprise of everyone had done a very creditable job of it. “You know how he loves cars. He hated it when auto sales fell off, even if the other divisions went well. Now he’s all excited again. He couldn’t wait to get to Loren and talk about the new car.”
Number One said. “I’ll have him invited to the board meeting tomorrow. I think he’ll like that.”
“Are you kidding?” Anne laughed. “He’ll love it. That’s what he always dreamed about. Being there when the big decisions are made. He’ll be in paradise.”
“Good.”
“What time is it?” she asked.
He looked at his wristwatch. “Seven thirty.”
“I’d better begin to dress.”
“What’s the rush? The party doesn’t begin until ten.”
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” she smiled. “And looking like a princess takes a little longer.”
“You always looked like a princess to me,” he said.
“Do you remember, Grandfather? That’s what you used to call me when I was a little girl. Princess. And Daddy used to get angry. He said it was un-American.”
“Your father had some peculiar ideas,” he said.
“Yes.” She was thoughtful. “I always had the feeling that he didn’t like either of us. I used to wonder about that.”
“Does it matter?”
“Not now.” She looked at him and smiled. “You know, I’m glad I came home. I’m glad you opened the Manor for this party. I’ve always heard how grand the parties were here.”
“Some of them were pretty good.”
“How long has it been, Grandfather?” she asked. “Since the last one?”
He thought for a moment. Time washed over him like the tide of the ocean. He closed his eyes and for a moment it was yesterday and then he opened them. “Forty-five years ago,” he said slowly. “For your father and mother’s wedding.”
Chapter Eleven
It was really two parties, not one. The main ballroom was the formal affair. In that room one of Meyer Davis’ society orchestras held forth with what Elizabeth’s friends termed “music for the middle-aged.”
The other party was in the giant game room of the pool house. This had been transformed into a discotheque, and music was electronically blasted forth by two alternating rock groups.
Both parties were jammed with people and even standing room was measured in centimeters. There had been nothing like it ever seen in Detroit. It was an Armageddon of sound and confusion.
The warm late September gardens were also thronged with people wandering back and forth between the two parties, anxious to see everything and be everywhere at the same time. It was almost midnight before the jam of automobiles that had backed all the way down the long driveway into the streets around the house was cleared and Angelo found himself entering the wide-flung great wooden doors.
The reception line had long since broken down; Loren, smashed even before the party began, was nowhere to be seen, and Betsy had adjourned to the discotheque with her friends. Only Alicia, slightly frazzled and the worse for wear, remained anywhere near the entrance.
For the third time, Angelo presented his invitation for inspection. The first two times had been at the driveway entrance and in front of the house. This time a butler in formal livery took it.
The gray-haired man turned to the room. “Mr. Angelo Perino,” he announced in sepulchral tones that were completely lost in the clamor.
Angelo walked down the steps toward Alicia. He kissed her cheek. “You look lovely.”
“I look terrible and you know it.”
“Quite a party,” he said, glancing around the room.
“Yes,” she said. “But I wish we
had never given it. Somehow it all seems such a waste. But Loren insisted.”
“It looks like fun,” Angelo said.
“I hope he’s enjoying himself,” she said sarcastically.
“Where’s the deb?” he asked. “Shouldn’t I congratulate her or something? I don’t know exactly what you do at things like this.”
For the first time that evening she laughed. “Angelo, you’re marvelous. You have to be the only honest person left in Detroit.” She glanced around. “I don’t see her anywhere. She must be out in the game room with her friends.”
“I’ll catch up to her,” he said.
“Come,” she said, taking his arm. “I’ll find some pretty young thing for you to dance with.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Me?” There was a note of surprise in her voice. She hesitated. “I don’t know. I should remain here. Someone should.”
“Why?”
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “You know something? You’re absolutely right. There’s no reason at all why I should stay here.”
He led her out to the dance floor and she came into his arms. She was slightly stiff at first. He moved her closer to him. “Relax,” he smiled. “You’re allowed to have fun at your own party.”
She laughed again and they moved off to the music. She rested her head against his shoulder and after a moment, she looked up at him. “Thank you, Angelo.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel I’m really here. I’ve had the strangest feeling all night that I wasn’t.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know what’s happening,” she said. “Everyone does. It’s an open secret that Loren is keeping that girl in the apartment on top of the administration building out at the plant and that I’m leaving for Reno the day after tomorrow. People have been looking at me with that, ‘the queen is dead, long live the queen,’ sort of look. It’s been very strange. They’re just not quite sure how friendly they should be.”
The Betsy (1971) Page 16