Shades of Fortune

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “I want you back,” he says simply, “because I love you.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you want me back because I’m the only game you ever lost, the only deal you didn’t cinch. I think your poor little male ego has been bruised all these years.”

  He shakes his head slowly back and forth. “Why don’t you admit some things?” he says.

  “And why are you making these threats? Because that’s what they are—threats. Criminal manslaughter! Just who the hell are you talking about, anyway?”

  He hesitates. “Your mother, perhaps?”

  “That’s a lie! Mother was hundreds of miles away when Daddy died. You’ve been talking to Granny Flo, haven’t you? You’ve been talking to all my relatives, trying to get them to sell their stock to you. I know what you’ve been up to, and it’s not going to work. If you think you hold some trump card against me, you’ve picked the wrong opponent. And if you’ve been listening to what Granny Flo says, you’re even crazier than she is.”

  “I’m not talking about your Granny Flo, and I’m not talking about your father. I’m talking about stuff that’s in those diaries, and I’m talking about stuff that could damage living members of your family. But I’m not going to tell you anything more. I’ve told you more than I wanted to already.”

  “More threats. More bullying. That’s all you are, Michael, is a bully. That’s all you ever were.”

  “You didn’t use to think so, did you, kiddo? Remember?”

  “And stop calling me kiddo. I’m not a kid anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “How can you have forgotten, when I remember everything?” He inches closer to her on the banquette. “Why can’t you be honest with yourself? Do you remember the day we drove out to the new house I was building in East Orange? Do you remember walking through the empty rooms, telling me where I should put the piano? What color I should paint the walls of the den? Chinese red, you said—a nice lipstick color. And cafe curtains. The year was nineteen sixty, and cafe curtains were the big thing. Why do I remember all of this? The things you said you’d do if the house were yours?”

  “Ancient history. I haven’t thought of that for years.”

  “And do you remember we walked out onto the terrace, where the pool was going to be, and you looked across at the city skyline, and you said that was exactly where you’d like to keep New York—miles away, on the other side of the river? And you told me that you’d like to live in that house with me, told me that you were free now, and were ready to divorce Brad and marry me. Do you remember any of that? I remember, because you told me that you’d always loved me.”

  “I remember,” she says evenly, “that it was a terrible time for me. Grandpa had just died, my father was at his wits’ end trying to pick up the pieces of the company, and everything in the family seemed to be falling apart, and you seemed to be the only one—”

  “The only one who what?”

  “The only one who seemed able to make any sense out of the shambles Grandpa had left things in. It was a terrible time, and I was frightened, irrational, not knowing what was going to happen. I was weak then—at the weakest point in my life. I’m strong now. You were useful to us then. You’re not useful now.”

  “Yes, irrational. Don’t you think I saw that? That’s why I said no—no, because you’d made your choice of husbands. And I didn’t want to be called a home-wrecker.”

  “Yes! So pious, weren’t you? Mr. Goody Two-Shoes! But now that you’re so rich and powerful, you think you have a perfect right to try to wreck any home you want! Well, you can’t wreck mine!”

  “Ah,” he says. “So that’s it. You’re still angry at me because I rejected your proposal.”

  “You son of a bitch. I won’t even dignify that comment with an answer.”

  “But how can I be a home-wrecker now? Your home’s already wrecked, isn’t it?”

  “That. Is. Not. True,” she says through clenched teeth, making each word a sentence. “Now let me—”

  “I want you back because I think that now you’re able to make a sensible choice between Brad and me.”

  “The only choice I’m making is to leave this restaurant. If you have property belonging to my family, I’ll sue to get it back. If you have plans to take over my company, I’ll see you in court on that matter, too. Understand one thing, Michael. Nothing about me or my life belongs to you. Is that quite clear? Now I think I’m ready to make my scene. Ready? Here goes. Waiter!” she calls.

  “And because I think you’re the mother of my son.”

  She quickly reaches for her drink and, in so doing, overturns her half-filled cocktail glass. Both of them watch as the pool of clear liquid spreads across the white tablecloth, Mimi’s expression frozen.

  “Be honest, Mimi,” he says softly. “You have something that I want. I have something that you want. Why don’t we both admit that what we’ve both always wanted is each other?”

  “Dearest Mother,” she had written when the little party of summer tourists arrived at the Hotel du Palais in Lausanne late in August of that year:

  I feel a little strange writing to you to ask you the question that I am about to ask you, but there is no one else whom I can ask, and so I am asking you.

  There is a young man I’ve met who is in our tour group. His name is Bradford Moore, Jr., and he is from Boston, Mass. He is 24 years old, 6 ft. tall, with dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, and he graduated in June from Harvard Law School. This fall, he will start working with a N.Y. law firm downtown. He is nice, and pretty funny, though in a serious sort of way. For instance, he says that his real name could be Bradford Moore IV, but he thinks all that II, HI, and IV business is pretty silly, so he settles for the “Jr.”

  Those are the vital statistics. I like him very much. But the important thing is that he has asked me to marry him.

  Now this is the hard part, Mother. As you know, I was planning to start at Smith in September, and I have my scholarship and everything. I was really looking forward to college, and I told Brad that, but he doesn’t want to wait four more years. He says he is too much in love with me to wait four years, with me in Northampton and him in N.Y.C. He says four years is too long to wait, and he wants us to be married as soon as possible, if my family approves.

  Now here is the question, which is really two questions. For one thing, he isn’t Jewish. In fact, one of his grandfathers was the minister in the First Congregational Church of Concord, Mass., for several years. He says it doesn’t matter to him that I’m Jewish, if it doesn’t matter to me, or to my family, that he isn’t. Several of the partners in the law firm he’ll be joining are Jews, and he likes them very much. He likes and admires the Jews. But—what do you and Daddy think? More important, what will Grandpa say?

  Now the second question, which is really the most important question to me. He says he is in love with me, but I don’t know whether I’m in love with him because I’m not sure I know what being in love means. I thought I was in love with Michael H., but this feeling of mine now is so different! I mean, I like everything about him. He is so nice, so kind and thoughtful, and I love being with him. I like being with him better than any friend I’ve ever known, just because he is so nice to be with. We laugh at the same things, and we talk and talk and talk. Is that what being in love feels like? Mother, what is being in love? You and I have never talked much about what being in love is, what it should feel like, how you and Daddy felt about each other when you were married. What did you feel, Mother? What was it like for you? What should it be like for a woman? What should she feel? Mother—what is love like for a woman? Please tell me, if you know.

  I admire him, too, Mother. He is wonderfully ambitious and says his goal is to be a Justice of the United States Supreme Court. You see, I like and admire everything about him, and he is simply the nicest person I have ever met, and I think you will think so, too, when you meet him, but first, before I give him any answer, I need to know these other answers, and you a
re the only person in the world I can think of who can answer these questions for me. Please write to me here, or in Zurich, as soon as you can.…

  Her answer was a long cablegram from her mother.

  DARLING YOUR DADDY AND I SO EXCITED ABOUT YOUR NEWS. THIS IS THE MOST WONDERFUL THING THAT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU AND YOU MUST SAY YES. DO NOT WORRY ABOUT SMITH ETC. BECAUSE WHY IS COLLEGE EVEN IMPORTANT FOR A GIRL LIKE YOU. COLLEGES LIKE SMITH ONLY TURN GIRLS INTO BLUESTOCKINGS ANYWAY. SO EXCITED I CALLED YOUR GRANDPA IMMEDIATELY AND TOLD HIM THE NEWS AND HE IS THRILLED. HE KNOWS THE MOORES OF BOSTON WELL. DOESN’T REALLY KNOW THEM BUT KNOWS WHO THEY ARE AND WHAT THEY REPRESENT. A FINE OLD FAMILY. DARLING LOVE IS THE BIRD IN THE HAND AND THE RIGHT MARRIAGE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN ANY WOMAN’S LIFE ALWAYS BEAR THAT IN MIND. WHEN YOU COME HOME GRANNY AND GRANDPA WANT TO HAVE A LITTLE TEA TO MEET HIM. OH HOW LUCKY YOU ARE DARLING. YOUR DADDY WILL PROBABLY KILL ME FOR SENDING THIS LONG CABLE BUT IT’S TOO IMPORTANT FOR A LETTER. LOVE AND HUGS AND KISSES AND CONGRATULATIONS. MOTHER.

  19

  Naomi Myerson (interview taped 9/5/87):

  My relationship with my father? Well, let’s put it this way, dear boy. I was his mascot. I was his logotype. You know the little girl on the bottle of Miray baby shampoo? That’s me, taken from a photograph when I was eight weeks old. My third husband, who was a lawyer, used to say that I should have demanded a royalty for the use of my likeness on a commercial product. Just think of it. If I’d been paid a royalty of just two cents on every bottle of Miray Baby-Sham that’s been sold since the product was introduced, I’d be the richest member of this family—instead of what I am, the poor relation. But when I was eight weeks old, I was hardly in a position to demand a royalty, was I? I was exploited, my third husband said. I was the youngest victim of exploitive child labor in the history of commerce.

  I was also my father’s guinea pig. When I was nine or ten years old, my father was expanding heavily into hair-care products. He had read somewhere that if a straight-haired person’s head was shaved, the hair would grow back curly. My hair was always straight, and so my father had my head shaved to see if the theory was correct. My head wasn’t just shaved once. It was shaved seven, eight, maybe ten different times, and each time the new hair began to grow back it was sent to his labs to be analyzed for signs of curliness. You see, he hoped that this experiment would help the scientists and technicians in his labs come up with an ingredient that would give a woman permanently, naturally curly hair. My hair always grew back as straight as before. But in the meantime, I was the only fourth and fifth grader at Spence who wore wigs. During recess, the other girls were always pulling my wigs off and hiding them. Were there psychological scars as a result of this experiment? I leave it to you, dear boy, to answer that question.

  Other than in that hair experiment period, my father paid very little attention to me. Everything was focused on the boys. My brother Henry was supposed to take over the company. Edwee, in Father’s grand design, was to be the first Jewish President of the United States. I needn’t point out to you that this didn’t exactly happen, nor is it likely to. My father’s will told the whole story of how he regarded me. When my father died, my mother was left thirty percent of his Miray shares. My brothers, Henry and Edwee, each got twenty-five percent. Mimi was left fifteen percent, and I was left exactly five percent. You can imagine that I was in a state of shock when the will was read, and I realized how cruelly I’d been shortchanged.

  And that’s not the worst of it When my brother Henry died—unexpectedly—he left a third of his shares to Alice and two thirds to Mimi. That little maneuver made Mimi the largest family stockholder in the company. Next came my mother, then Edwee, then Alice, and then, right down at the bottom of the ladder, as always, me. And there’s even worse to come! You might say that five percent of my father’s Miray shares would be worth, today, quite a nice piece of change, and you’d be right. They would—if I could ever get my hands on them! But no, the others all got their shares outright, but mine were locked into an irrevocable trust, and all I’m allowed to touch is the income from it. And since Mimi believes in keeping dividends small, and in plowing earnings back into the company for research and development and blah-blah-blah, that income is pretty damn small. And who are my trustees, whom I must go to groveling for every extra penny I might need? In addition to two bozos at Manufacturers Hanover, my trustees are my mother, Edwee, and Mimi—who inherited her trusteeship from Henry. My trust runs until the year two thousand, and if I die before then, who gets my shares? According to my father’s will, they’re to be divided equally among any surviving grandchildren. But there’s only one surviving grandchild, and that’s guess who? Little Miss Mimi. Mimi is going to inherit all my shares! Do you begin to see the reasons for my bitterness?

  Even if my mother were to die tomorrow, and leave half her shares to Edwee and half to me (and there’s no guarantee she’ll do that), I’d never have the position and the clout in the company that the others, particularly Mimi, have. If I’m lucky, Mother will leave a little to me, a little to Edwee, a lot to Mimi, and a lot to Mimi’s son, and I’ll be screwed again.

  That damned trust! There they sit, on all the money I have in the world, and whenever I try to wheedle a few pennies out of them, they get together and practice saying no to Nonie. They’ve gotten very good at it: “No, Nonie, no, no, no, no, no.”

  And let me tell you one more thing, confidentially. Should I ask you to turn off your machine? No, because this is true, this is a fact. The fact is that I could have run the company just as well as Mimi has. Every idea she’s had could have been my idea. This new fragrance line of hers, for instance. I’m an expert on fashion, and an expert on fragrances. I could have developed that. I could probably have done it even better. What would it have been like if the new fragrance had been called Naomi, and not Mireille? Would it have been different? I say yes. Would it have been better? I say yes! If you ask me, Mimi’s new fragrance is much too herbal. Want to bet her new fragrance will bomb? I’m betting on it.

  But of course I never had the position and the clout in the company that Mimi had when she struck—pounced on the company—when the iron was hot, after Henry died. But I never had anything, never had zilch, never had zip, with my miserable five percent from my father’s miserable will. “To my beloved daughter, Naomi,” my father’s will said. Ha! He could have said, “To my beloved Baldie.” That was what they called me at Miss Spence’s School. “Baldie. Baldie Myerson.”

  My relationship with Edwee? Well, Edwee is interested in lots of things that don’t particularly interest me. He’s interested in art, for instance, and antiques. You’ve seen Edwee’s house; it’s like a museum! As you can see from my apartment, I like modern things. My apartment is almost high-tech, don’t you think? I don’t like musty old books, old paintings, old rugs, and all that. In fact, you’ve just given me an idea. Maybe you can help me. Edwee has this plan, this scheme, which he wants me to help him with. I need a witness. I need someone to witness a private agreement he and I have made. Now, do turn off that machine, because what I have to show you is strictly confidential.…

  That was when I learned about Nonie’s involvement with Roger Williams, and about Edwee’s plot to gain possession of his mother’s Goya.

  I was appalled by what she showed me. How, I wondered, could I possibly help her as a “witness” to this pathetic document she and her brother had signed, and how could I be a participant in this crazy, possibly illegal, maneuver that she and her brother were about to embark upon together?

  And yet, at the same time, I was swept by a sudden wave of pity for her. As I read, and reread, the document, not knowing what to say to her, I sensed that this was a frightened, even desperate, woman. She was also a woman who, despite her slim-ness, her stylishness in a dark green Adolfo suit, her gold rings and bracelets and careful maquillage, was not young. Though no one knew Nonie Myerson’s exact age, she had to have been born around 1920 and therefore must be in her la
te sixties. She had become, I knew, a creature of the evening hours and rarely ventured out of doors in broad daylight when shadows would etch the cat-scratch lines about her ears and eyes and mouth. Even today, though her apartment faces an expansive view of the East River, all the curtains in her rooms were drawn to exclude the sunlight, which had become her enemy, and to preserve the pink lamp-glow of twilight in her house.

  She watched me intently as I studied the sad little letter of agreement with its “whereases” and “to wits,” and, as though sensing my thoughts, she said urgently, “Don’t you see? I’ve got to have something. I can’t go through the rest of my life being nothing more than Adolph Myerson’s daughter. Help me, dear boy. Aidez-moi.”

  “I just don’t see,” I said finally, “how my being a witness to this could be of any help to anyone.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “It could help, believe me.”

  “And you want me to add my signature to this?”

  “That won’t be necessary. It’s enough that you’ve seen it, and know about it. That could help me, later on. And later on, it could also help you. You see, if Edwee plays straight with me, you can forget you ever knew about this. But I think he may be planning to double-cross me. If he tries to double-cross me, you could put that in your story—everything. You could ruin him.”

  In Mimi’s Fifth Avenue apartment, the telephone rings distantly and, distantly, the call is picked up. A few moments later, Mimi’s butler, Felix, appears in her living room with tea: a silver teapot, a china teacup and saucer, a folded napkin, and three slices of cinnamon toast in a silver rack, on a silver tray.

  “Who called, Felix?”

  Felix places the tray on a small table beside Mimi’s chair. “It was another of them, I’m afraid.”

  “Another of them?”

  “There have been quite a few of them lately, madam. The telephone rings, I answer it in my usual way, and the caller immediately hangs up, breaking the connection. It is most annoying, if I may say so.”