“And who appointed you his nurse?” she asked herself aloud.
23
MRS. OLIVIA STARRETT AND Father Brian Callaway sat at the long dining room table and waited silently, with folded hands, while Charles served tea. He was using bone china from Starrett Fine Jewelry in their exclusive Mimosa pattern.
He offered a tray of assorted pastries from Ferrara, then left the platter on the table and retired, closing the door softly behind him.
“Very distressing news indeed, Olivia,” Father Brian said, adding cream and sugar to his tea. “You must have been devastated.”
“I was,” Mrs. Starrett said, “and I am. We have never had a divorce in our family, on either side.”
“Has he spoken to Eleanor yet?”
“Not to my knowledge. He said he wanted to tell me first. Clayton is a good son.”
“Yes,” Callaway said. “Dutiful. Was he asking for your approval?”
“Not exactly. He did say that if I forbade it, he would remain married to Eleanor. But I cannot order him to continue what he calls a loveless marriage. The poor boy is obviously suffering. Do have an éclair.”
“I think I shall; they look delicious. And how do you feel about his marrying Helene Pierce if the divorce goes through?”
“And I think I shall have an anise macaroon. Why, I believe Helene is a lovely, personable young lady, but much too young for Clayton. However, he feels the age difference is of little importance. And I must confess I have a selfish motive for wanting Clayton remarried, to Helene or any other woman of his choice. Before I pass over, I would like to hold a grandchild in my arms. Is it wicked of me to think of my own happiness?”
He reached across the table to pat one of her pudgy hands. “Olivia, you are incapable of being wicked. And your desire for a grandchild is completely natural, normal, and understandable. Eleanor cannot have another child?”
“Cannot or will not,” Mrs. Starrett said sorrowfully. “She has never fully recovered from the passing of little Ernie. Do help yourself to more tea, Father.”
“What a tragedy,” he said, filling their cups. “But pain, sadness, and passing are all parts of the holy oneness. We must accept them and indeed welcome them as a test of our faith. For from the valley of despair the soul emerges renewed and triumphant. Do try a napoleon; they’re exquisite.”
“But so fattening!” she protested.
“No matter,” he said, smiling at her. “You are a very regal woman, Olivia.”
“Thank you,” she said, glowing with pleasure. “Father, may I ask a favor?”
“Of course,” he said heartily. -”Anything you wish.”
“I suggested to Clayton that he might consult a marriage counselor or speak to you before his decision becomes final. If there is any way at all the marriage can be saved, I must try it. Would you be willing to talk to Clayton and give him the benefit of your experience and spirituality?”
“I would be willing,” Callaway said cautiously, “but would he?”
“Oh, I’m sure he would,” Olivia said warmly. “Especially if you told him it was my express wish that the two of you get together and try to find a solution to this problem.”
Callaway nibbled thoughtfully on a slice of panettone. “I gather that the solution you prefer is that the marriage be preserved?”
“That is my preference, yes. But if, in your opinion, the happiness of both Clayton and Eleanor would be better served by a divorce, then I’ll accept that. I trust your judgment, Father, and will agree to whatever you think is best.”
“It is an awesome responsibility, Olivia, but I shall do what I can. May I tell Clayton that you have told me all the details of your conversation with him?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll see what can be done. I agree with you, dear lady, that marriage is a sacred trust and those vows may only be broken for the most compelling reasons. We were put on this earth to nurture one another, to share, and every effort must be made to keep intact that holy oneness.”
“I knew I could count on your understanding, Father,” Mrs. Starrett said. “You’re such a comfort. Now do have more tea and perhaps a slice of the torte. I believe it’s made with Grand Marnier.”
When Brian Callaway departed from the Starrett apartment, he paused a moment in the outside corridor to loosen his belt a notch. He then descended to the lobby and used a public phone to call Clayton at Starrett Fine Jewelry. It was almost 4:30 and Callaway guessed the man would be ready to leave his office.
Clayton was cordial enough, and when the Father asked for a meeting as soon as possible, to discuss a personal matter of “utmost importance,” he agreed to meet Callaway at the bar of the Four Seasons at five o’clock or a little later.
“What’s this all about?” he asked curiously.
“I prefer not to discuss it on the phone,” the Father replied in magisterial tones.
He was the first to arrive and quickly downed a double vodka. He then ordered a plain tonic water and was sipping that when Clayton Starrett appeared, smiling broadly. The two men shook hands. Clayton ordered a gin martini.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to make this short,” Clayton said. “We have another charity benefit tonight, and I have to go home to dress.”
The Father nodded. “I’ll be brief,” he promised. “I’ve just come from having tea with your mother. She asked me to meet with you. She informed me of your intention to divorce Eleanor and hopes I may persuade you to change your mind.”
Clayton stared at him for a startled moment, then drained his martini. “Mother told you everything I said to her?” he asked hoarsely.
Callaway nodded. “She did. And gave me permission to tell you that she had. Clay, this is very embarrassing for me. I really have no desire to intrude on your personal affairs, but I could hardly reject your mother’s request.”
“Did she also tell you I want to marry Helene Pierce?”
“She told me. Clay, what’s the problem between you and Eleanor?”
The younger man took a gulp of his fresh drink. “A lot of problems, Father. I guess the big one is sex—or the lack thereof. Does that shock you?”
“Hardly,” Callaway said. “I guessed that might be it. Eleanor is not an unattractive woman, but compared to Helene …” His voice trailed off.
“Exactly,” Clayton said. “I want a little joy in my life.”
“That’s understandable. But what if you ask Eleanor for a divorce and then Helene turns you down? Your mother said you told her you haven’t even hinted to Helene about the way you feel.”
Starrett turned his glass around and around, looking down at it. “That wasn’t precisely true. I have told Helene about the way I feel about her and what I plan to do.”
“And what was her reaction?”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I hope I can depend on your discretion.”
“I assure you this conversation has all the confidentiality of a confessional booth.”
“Some booth,” Clayton said, looking around at the crowded, noisy bar. “Well, if you must know, Helene will marry me the moment the divorce is a done deal.”
“She told you that?”
“Not in so many words, but I’m positive that’s the way she feels. Even if the divorce takes a year, Helene is willing to wait. After all, it means status and financial security for her.”
“It does indeed,” Callaway said. “I think I’ll have another drink if you don’t mind. Perhaps a straight vodka on ice this time.”
“Of course,” Clayton said, and summoned the bartender. “Father, I appreciate your efforts—I know you mean well—but there’s no way you can change my mind.”
“I didn’t expect to.”
“How did mother sound when she told you about it. Is she still upset?”
“She is, and somewhat confused. She wants you to be happy, and she hopes to have grandchildren someday, but the very idea of a divorce in the family disturbs her. And, of course,
she’s aware of the distress Eleanor will suffer.”
“So mother really hasn’t made up her mind?”
“Not really. As a matter of fact, she said she would be willing to accept whatever recommendation I make.”
Clayton’s laugh was tinny. “In other words,” he said, “my fate is in your hands.”
“Yes,” the Father said, and took a swallow of his vodka, “you might say that. My main aim in this affair is not to cause your mother any unnecessary pain. She is a splendid woman and has made very generous contributions to the Church of the Holy Oneness.”
As he said this, Callaway turned to look directly into Clayton’s eyes. “Very generous contributions,” he repeated.
The two men, their stare locked, were silent a moment.
“I see,” Clayton said finally. “You know, Father, I feel somewhat remiss in not having offered any financial support to your church in the years I’ve known you.”
“It’s never too late,” the older man said cheerfully. “The Church of the Holy Oneness is constantly in need of funds. For instance, we hope to enlarge the church kitchen so that we may provide food to more of the unfortunate homeless. But at the moment that seems just a dream. I have obtained estimates and find it would cost at least ten thousand dollars to build the kind of facility we need.”
Clayton had a fit of coughing, and the Father had to pound him on the back until he calmed enough.
“Of course,” Callaway continued blandly, “I realize ten thousand is a large donation for any one individual to make. But perhaps a large New York corporation might be willing to contribute to the welfare of the city’s poor and hungry.”
“Yes,” Clayton said, much relieved, “that makes sense. Would you be willing to accept a ten-thousand-dollar contribution from Starrett Fine Jewelry, Incorporated?”
“Gladly, my son, gladly,” Callaway said. “And bless you for your generosity. The donation, of course, would be tax-deductible. And when may I expect the check?”
“I’ll have it cut and mailed tomorrow. You should have it by the end of the week. And when do you plan to give mother your recommendation on my divorce?”
Father Callaway smiled benignly. “By the end of the week,” he said.
24
ELEANOR AND CLAYTON STARRETT sat at a round table for eight, and directly across from Clayton was Bob Farber’s new wife. She was a petite young woman wearing a strapless gown of silver lamé, but all he could see above the starched tablecloth were the bare top of her bosom, bare shoulders and arms, bare neck, and head topped with a plaited crown of blond hair. It was easy to imagine her sitting there absolutely naked, amiably chatting with her husband, laughing, her sharp white teeth nibbling a shrimp.
He tried not to stare but, uncontrollable, his gaze wandered back. She seemed to him soft, warm, succulent. And beside him sat his hard, cold, bony wife.
He dreamed of the day when he might be seen in public with his new wife, Helene. He would wear her proudly: a badge of honor. Her youth, beauty, and sexuality would prove his manhood and virility. What a conquest Helene would be. What a trophy!
His wife kicked his shin sharply under the table.
“You’re allowed to blink occasionally, you know,” she said in a low, venomous voice, smiling for all the other diners to see. “You keep staring like that and your eyeballs will fall into your soup.”
“What are you talking about?” he said, injured.
Eleanor paid him no more attention, for which he was thankful. He sneaked continual peeks at Mrs. Farber and let his fantasies run amok. The candlelight gave her flesh a rosy glow, and he dreamed of Helene, a fireplace, a bearskin rug.
The remainder of the party was endured only by drinking too much wine. At least, he told himself, he had sense enough not to dance. Eleanor was a miserable dancer, stiff and unrhythmic, and Clayton didn’t dare ask Mrs. Farber lest he might suddenly become frenzied, wrestle her to the floor, and then … He shook his head. He could, he reflected gloomily, get twenty years for what he was thinking. Just for thinking about it.
He put his wineglass aside and rushed out onto the terrace. He stood there, breathing deeply of the cold night air, until his brain cleared and his ardor cooled. Then he was able to think rationally, more or less, and felt frustrated that so much time—perhaps a year!—must elapse before his dreams might be realized.
Eleanor was silent on the ride home, and so was he. They remained silent when they were alone in their suite, and finally this embittered silence convinced him that now was the moment. If he was going to do it, then do it. So, as she was removing her jewelry, he said, almost casually, “Eleanor, I want a divorce.”
Her reaction was totally unexpected. He had thought she might faint, scream, weep, or at least express disbelief. Instead, she nodded, continued to take off her jewels, and said coolly, “It’s Helene Pierce, isn’t it?”
“What?” he said, aghast. “What are you talking about?”
She stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. “You’re really brainless, Clay—you know that? I knew it before we were married, and nothing you’ve done since has changed my mind.”
“I swear to you,” he said hotly, “Helene and I have never—”
“Oh, cut the bullshit,” she interrupted in a tone of great disgust. “You’ve been banging her since the day you met. Do you take me for a complete idiot? I’ve seen the way you look at her. The same way you looked at Bob Farber’s new wife tonight. Is that what gave you the idea, Clay?”
“I’m telling you there’s nothing between Helene and me.”
“Laughing at her feeble jokes,” Eleanor went on relentlessly. “Agreeing with all her stupid opinions. Rushing to help her on with her coat. Any excuse to touch her. There’s no fool like an old fool, Clay.”
“I’m not old,” he shouted at her. “And you’re dead wrong about all those things. I was just trying to be a good host.”
“Oh sure,” his wife jeered. “That’s why you made certain you sat next to her every time she came to dinner. Playing a little kneesy, Clay? Listen, don’t ever get the idea that the wife is the last to know. The wife is the first to know. When her rotten husband starts being extra pleasant and accommodating. When he starts buying clothes too young for him and gets facials. That’s you, Clay. You’re really a moron if you think I haven’t known what’s been going on. Sure, you can have a divorce, sonny boy, but it’s going to cost you an arm and a leg, now and forever.”
“Believe me,” he said wrathfully, “whatever it costs, it’ll be worth it to dump a sour, dried-up hag like you.”
Still she would not weep. “Oh, Helene will marry you,” she said, showing her teeth in a mirthless grin. “That greedy bitch has a bottom-line mentality. I give it a year, and then she’ll walk. That’s another alimony check every month, Clay. Then you’ll find a new conversation piece—and I do mean piece—and do it again, and keep on doing it until you grow up, which will be never. You’re a victim of your glands, Clay.”
“Just have your attorney contact Arthur Rushkin in the morning,” he said stiffly.
“With pleasure,” his wife said. “Before I get through with you, you’ll be lucky to have fillings in your teeth. Did you tell your mother about this?”
“Yes.”
“Poor Olivia,” she said. “She’s the one I feel sorry for. She’s had more than her share of troubles lately. But she’s a tough lady; she’ll survive. I’m sure she already knew her only son was short-changed in the brains department. Now I’m going to bed, Clay, and I think it would be best if you slept somewhere else.”
He was outraged. “Where am I going to go at this time of night?” he demanded.
“You can go to hell,” Eleanor spat at him. “You miserable shit!”
25
TURNER PIERCE PACED ABOUT Helene’s apartment, head lowered, hands clasped behind him.
“My God, you’re antsy,” Helene said. “Calm down; it’s only Sid.”
“I have bad vi
bes about this,” he said. “I reminded him we had agreed on no private meetings unless there was an emergency. He said this was an emergency, but he sounded so damned smug. I don’t like the way he sounded.”
“He’s such a scamp,” Helene said.
“A scamp?” Turner repeated. “Darling, the man is an out-and-out crook—and a slimy crook at that.”
“It takes one to know one,” she said, and he turned to make certain she was smiling. She was.
He sat down on the couch, took a swallow of his Stolichnaya. “At least we don’t promise suckers everlasting life in the holy oneness. Now that’s slimy.”
“Yes,” she said, still smiling, “we do have our standards, don’t we. Did I ever tell you Sid has the hots for me?”
“That was obvious in KC. Did he ever make a move on you?”
“Once,” she said, not smiling now. “I told him what I’d do to him if he tried anything. He backed off.”
Turner glanced at his watch. “If he’s not here in ten minutes, I’m splitting. I have a date with Felicia tonight.”
“Where are you going?”
“Who said we’re going anywhere?” he said.
“Have you figured a way to stall her?”
“I have, but you don’t want to know it, do you?”
“Not really.”
“What about Clayton?”
“I can handle him,” she said. “He’s pussy-whipped. All we want is another year—right?”
He nodded. “That should do it.”
The phone rang and Helene picked it up. “Yes? That’s correct. Send him up, please. Thank you.” She hung up. “That was the concierge. Sid’s on his way up.”
“I’m not looking forward to this,” Turner said.
The first thing Father Brian Callaway did when he entered the apartment, even before he removed his hat and coat, was to rip off his clerical collar. “That damn thing is going to cut my throat one of these days,” he said.
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