Thomas and Beal in the Midi

by Christopher Tilghman

  He could recall no particular outrage he had perpetrated at the hotel, so he entered with a slightly clearer conscience. There they all were, awaiting his arrival, and once again he remarked to himself that being Thomas and Beal’s friend had made him more popular, more acceptable than he had ever been in his life and, yes, had seemed to make him a better person. All the Richards were well, and there was one pleasant surprise: joining them was the journalist, Morris Malone, who had unwittingly crashed the goodbye party for Thomas and Beal two years earlier. Oh yes, it was explained, he had begun French lessons with Céleste the day after they left, and unless Arthur misread what he saw—well, it was crashingly obvious—Malone was on the way to becoming a member of the family, though not, alas, with Céleste herself, but with her sister, Oriane. Céleste watched this realization and gave him a brave, almost defiant smile: Yes, she was saying, Oriane was always the prettier of us two.

  The lunch concluded, Arthur went out the door with Malone, who was now, it seemed, employed by a New York newspaper as a correspondent.

  They walked a few paces. “Say,” said Arthur, “you’re from Boston, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me. You know a store? A store called Goodrum or something?”

  “Goodrum’s? Oh yes, but it’s not the kind of place where people like me shop. Very upper-crust. I hate the place, to tell you the truth.” He poked Arthur with his elbow, Irishman to Jew.

  “Hmmm,” said Arthur. “Do you know the family that runs it? The Goodrums?”

  “No. I don’t think I do. I don’t know anything about them. Our paths wouldn’t be likely to cross. They probably live in Back Bay.”

  Arthur tried to recall the details from the conversation a year ago. “South Boston, I think.”

  “No. I grew up in South Boston. Not too many Goodrums”—he rolled over the name—“in South Boston. It was probably the South End. I’d advise this family to get out of the South End, if I was asked.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s headed down the drainpipe, I’m afraid. I hope you won’t think me prejudiced when I say that the only people moving into the South End are Negroes. Why do you ask?”

  “I met one of the sons last year. He was over here buying wine, I think. Seemed an interesting sort.”

  * * *

  The past year had not been easy on Lawrence Goodrum, on Goodrum & Sons, on the whole Goodrum family. This was hard for any of them to admit to themselves, much less to one another, but for some time the Pierce brothers had been opening a gap between themselves and the Goodrums, and lately Wyeth’s store and the Wood family in Cambridge—once rather insignificant competitors—had been capturing the trade in Harvard Square and to the west. These other establishments provided neither superior products nor superior service. Neither the West End or the South End—the base upon which Goodrum’s had been built—showed signs of growth. On the contrary. It was becoming obvious to Lawrence that his family’s investments in the South End had been a mistake; the signs of decay were everywhere, starting with the appearance of men walking down Tremont Street in their shirtsleeves or a lady on Shawmut Avenue cussing out a dressmaker so loudly that passersby could hear every vulgar word. Families were moving to Back Bay, selling their houses and all their contents, it seemed, for anything they could get. Behind all this, seeping into the open from the back alleys, echoing hollowly in the voices of customers, was a slight off-odor that had previously been easy enough to ignore or to mask, the one vexation that was an arrow in the Goodrums’ hearts. Perhaps they had allowed themselves to overreach. The day of the Negro elite in Boston just might be fading, and the free fall, from their heights, could end in places none of them could bear to imagine.

  During all this time, Lawrence Goodrum’s obsession—he called it “love,” though he knew it was an odd kind of love—with Beal presented itself as his one possible joy. It didn’t matter that he had spent no more than twelve hours in her presence. That moment on the grand stairway in the moonlight, Beal laughing at his stupid joke, this was enough for him. And enough for her, unless he was wildly misinterpreting her manner at dinner, which he was sure he wasn’t. It didn’t matter that she was married; her professed loyalty to her husband simply revealed her as the kind of wife he wanted. None of these other things mattered, and the fact that she lived in France meant that she could appear, as if by magic, not as divorced or separated or any of those labels Lawrence could hardly tolerate. She was, in herself, a world apart, apart from the difficulties of his family’s business, apart from the squabbles he seemed to be having on a daily basis with his brother. Over what? Cabbage! That was yesterday’s fight: Lawrence dreamed of a future in French wine and Spanish leather and Russian caviar, and Randolph wanted to talk about cabbage! Beal was a princess in a château in France, and if, after the current patch of downturns in business had been overcome, she would have him, they would reenter Boston arm in arm, and when they took a stroll down the mall on Commonwealth Avenue—in his mind, he’d made the move to Back Bay by then—people would lay petals and blossoms at their feet.

  What Lawrence realized was that feeling love for another is more necessary to the deprived soul than feeling loved; to do its magic, it was not required that the love be returned. He preserved and treasured those minutes he had spent with her as if they were pockets of air; if his woes suffocated him, the thought of her revived him. Each time he was able to mention her plausibly, the name “Mrs. Bayly” or “my friend Beal Bayly” exploded on his lips, sent jolts of heat through his body. He was a man past thirty years old, but he believed that if he never saw his love again, the joy, the grace she had given him in those few hours would be enough to last him the rest of his life.

  That would be fine for the rest of his life, but not for now. He had pledged to Beal—threatened would be a better word—that he would see her the next summer, and he intended to make the trip even though his father and brother had concluded that their business could no longer afford his long-standing strategy on French wine and his trips to France. They felt this especially after his fruitless sojourn of the year before, and they knew that this infatuation with a grower’s wife was the cause of some of it. Calling it an “infatuation” made his behavior at once more forgivable and more frivolous, and the Goodrum family had time for neither. Orders could be given, but it seemed that orders would not solve the problem. Lawrence’s father loved him deeply, and amidst all their troubles, Lawrence’s sorrows were at least one thing that could be lessened.

  “All right,” said Lawrence Goodrum père one afternoon in the gray gloom of early March. They were sitting in the office that hung over the main floor of the shop. Through the knee-high windows along one wall, almost every transaction could be monitored; the snow cover outside was thick and icy, clotted with manure. “We will send you this last time, but by year’s end we are going to have to reckon whether our customers’ interests have changed.”

  “You mean,” said Lawrence, “we’ll have to reckon whether our customers are no longer our customers. We’ll have to reckon”—he knew it was impertinent of him to keep repeating his father’s word—“what it will take to get them back.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It is what it has always been. Quality.”

  The senior Goodrum had grown up as the son of a man who started out in business as a ragpicker. “Perhaps,” he said. “But you will swear one thing to me. You will do nothing improper. You will not compromise your integrity or the honor of this young woman. If she and her husband can help you see your way forward, that is all to the good. We need you here. But if you cause a scandal, I will not see you when you return.”

  14

  Thomas had a letter from Lawrence Goodrum in the spring advising him that he would be making his trip to Europe again this summer and would like to return to St. Adelelmus—“if I could be so bold as to ask for an invitation.” This surprised Thomas, as they had agreed the last time that it would be at least two
years, and probably more, before he had anything of sufficient quality to export. Goodrum’s letter seemed hasty, implying that there was some sort of deadline that had to be met. But the letter also pleased Thomas; he had liked Lawrence well enough despite his airs, thought the feeling was mutual, and would look forward to his visit as something more than a business call. Over the winter he had thought of him more frequently than he would have expected, and he mentioned him several times to Beal, in part as continued apology. Beal was indifferent, maybe even a bit dismissive. She had showered Lawrence with attention that evening, but by the end of the visit last summer she had seemed a little less enthusiastic. Not like any man I ever knew, she had said, returning that day from La Fontaine. Thomas thought that was the point: Lawrence was a man of a different sort, a man for the new century perhaps, and in any event Thomas believed that Lawrence could win her over.

  Over dinner one night Thomas told her about the letter. “You remember: the man from Boston.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course. All the best families.”

  “He was just trying to get our attention.”

  “So. What did he say in this letter?”

  “He is hoping to come back for a visit this summer. He seems to be inviting himself for several days.”

  “Why? Why would he want to come back so soon?”

  “I don’t know, really. Maybe he liked us. Maybe we have a friend in Boston. Do you have a problem with this? Should I tell him not to come?”

  “No. Of course not. He’s someone you like.”

  Thomas accepted this, although obviously he had his own reservations. “I’d have thought he’d be someone you liked.”

  “Let’s not get into that again, okay, Thomas? There’d be no real reason for me to like him.”

  She said she didn’t want to get into that again, but she was doing it; as far as Thomas was concerned, he was getting tired of being put in that corner. “Yes there is, and I don’t know why you can’t acknowledge it. You liked hearing his stories about Boston. You thought he was funny. You like people who talk. Who talk more than me.”

  She put her hand on his arm, which he took as a peace offering. “There is nothing in this world I like more than just being with you.”

  “Still, maybe this summer will be the time for us to open up a little. Let’s let him come.”

  It was now August—dead, deadly August—and the date of the visit approached. Arthur had only just returned from having been gone all summer, and they all knew that a diversion might well be a good thing before the harvest began. But on the day Lawrence was to arrive on the train from Narbonne, the domaine was in a panic. As the visit approached, the Señora seemed to become more and more agitated, and that morning she turned up missing, and when they did not find her in her usual spots, all of St. Adelelmus hitched up the carts and carriages and went looking for her. Beal went out with Gabriella and her father, but it was M. Cabrol and the cooper, M. Esquivel, who found her on the far side of the village, still heading west quite happily. She was always jolly and amenable when they found her—this walking made her feel good—but she had a deep gash in her leg and her skirt was torn. Gabriella was almost hysterical before they found her, and once the word came back that they were on their way with her, she was desperately assuring everyone that all was well, a sort of misunderstanding. Down to the youngest, newest worker, St. Adelelmus knew what was at stake here, or would be sooner or later: if she got worse, they’d have to do something, and aside from the asylum in Béziers, there wasn’t much else anyone could think to do.

  When it came time for Thomas to pick Lawrence up in the village, there was not a vehicle or draft animal to be had, so he walked down. He was late when he got to the village, but it took him very little time to spot Lawrence in the small crowd on the market square: a black bowler in this sea of boaters and berets; a stiff collar and sporty jacket, just the sort of thing to set him apart from the rumpled dress of the provinces. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and annoyed as he was knocked aside by a man with a cart. But none of this put Thomas off. In turn, he realized that Lawrence might have difficulty spotting him, as he blended so much into the scenery. “Lawrence,” he called out.

  Lawrence looked up with relief and walked over to Thomas.

  “Mr. Bayly,” he said. “I didn’t expect that it would be you meeting me.”

  “It’s August,” said Thomas. “No one is terribly busy in August.”

  “‘It’s August that makes the wine,’” said Lawrence.

  “Well, yes. That’s what they say.”

  As Thomas expected, Lawrence attracted some curious stares, this man clearly from somewhere outside the Midi. He had brought a relatively large suitcase with him, and he was looking around for the carriage. Thomas explained the situation at St. Adelelmus, and they arranged to leave Lawrence’s case at the hotel.

  “We’ll send someone down after the dust clears. But we’ll have to walk. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” said Lawrence, fanning himself with his bowler. “I walked last year with Mr. Kravitz. I gathered he was in Paris. I had hoped to see him on my way through, but apparently I missed him.”

  Thomas was a little surprised by this, as if Lawrence had inserted himself into St. Adelelmus more than he realized, surprised that Lawrence’s contacts in Paris seemed to run so deep. “Actually, he’s just back from Zürich, I think. He’s having a wonderful success.”

  They set out past the church square and down the steep streets to the flat where the road to St. Adelelmus branched off. In this wild and heaving land, everything was built on a hilltop or a peak, or even on a slight crest, but the corridors of transport took the lowest and flattest route. So it was on the Eastern Shore, with the original holdings taking what amounted to the heights, but the differences there were subtle: ten feet above the water’s edge, twenty maybe—these were the heights. Maybe it was warring tribes that drove the choice to take the high ground in France, but on the Chesapeake it was disease they feared, from which twenty feet did little to protect them.

  “I’m pleased you have come,” said Thomas. Lawrence was already panting. “I hope you’ll have scheduled enough time to visit some of our attractions.”

  “Yes. This is very kind of you. In the snows of Boston I found myself thinking of St. Adelelmus often, imagining this very moment. It was a long winter.”

  “I hope business is good. I hope your family is well.”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Our business continues to thrive.”

  Thomas politely waited for him to expand—last year he had avidly carried on about his life—but he left it at that. “I wish we had something to sell you, but we’ve made a start.” He planned to open a bottle of Xavier’s blend at dinner.

  “The last thing I would want is to rush the wine.”

  “Especially ours, I would guess. Out of the cask, it’s a little robust for American taste.”

  “We feel the American wine market is just waiting to be educated. As you know, Thomas Jefferson was a great oenophile.”

  Thomas had heard this about Jefferson, but he wasn’t sure it meant very much. The fields at this moment, still on the relatively low and flat ground, were planted with wheat and barley; as soon as the rise began, they would be in the vineyards, which went all the way to the summits of the mountains. “Before I came to France, I had never drunk a drop of wine in my life. I didn’t even know white wine existed. Champagne, of course, but that was it. Our red is hardly Champagne.”

  “Your wife said much the same thing last year. A family in the wine business that does not like wine. How amusing.”

  Thomas wasn’t sure that this was amusant, and it surprised him a little to hear Lawrence make reference to a private conversation with Beal, but all of it was roughly the truth. And besides, in the few minutes they had been together Lawrence seemed a little uninterested in wine himself. “There will be time for all this business,” said Thomas. “We have been looking forward to yo
ur visit. My wife is eager to see you.”

  “I look forward to seeing her,” he said, a bit out of breath as they walked.

  * * *

  From the moment Beal left Lawrence Goodrum at La Fontaine the year before—threw him out of the gig, in her memory of the event—she knew that a new obstacle had landed in her path, an obstruction that would try to force her somewhere she did not want to go. The conversation on the ride to La Fontaine had bristled with trouble; Lawrence had lunged at her like a cornered fox. This would never end—people either putting things in her way or taking pieces of her away. This is what she had said to Arthur, and Arthur had been Offender Number One at that time. But no, that wasn’t true. That was unfair. Because if she included Arthur, she’d have to include Mother Lucy and then work back to everyone else who wanted her to be this or do that, such as her brother Randall, and then back to crazy old Aunt Zoe, back to everybody except her parents, who were just raising her the best way they knew. Why did it matter to people so much what she did, why did they have so many opinions? Beal had no opinions about how others should behave, what they should do with their lives. One of her best friends in Hampton had left the colonel’s house to take up with an oyster tonger, and Beal had offered whatever points of view she thought might be useful, but she didn’t have opinions. If her thoughts were ignored, she did not press them. How was she to know, anyway?

  But—men. Men. Oh, men had been desiring her since she could remember, and that had never bothered her much, as most of them had no opinions. They didn’t care what she thought or how she behaved; they just wanted to get her into the hayloft. The real problem was the men who wanted to remake her before they did this, and the real, real problem was that she couldn’t ignore them. That Hampton student, Hiram Whatever, couldn’t let a moment pass without critique; so what if she had country manners—but around him she was confused. But what should I have said? These men had this hold on her, this purchase, this way of attaching to her fears that made them impossible to ignore. How did they do it to her? They could do it because they alone seemed to have answers to the questions that most bedeviled her; if their lessons were demanding and stern, the rewards could be great. What was the right way to say this? she asked herself, poised over her journals, her “writin’,” as she thought of it in that dismissive country way. What you doing all that writin’ for, Beal, honey? She did not need to reprise the story of Diallo Touré—“DT” as she wrote—except to think how much she regretted everything about that affair, how foolish it made her feel in retrospect, how weak it made her seem, how ashamed she was that she had fallen so easily and would remain shackled to that secret for the rest of her life. And yet this man had found something unfinished in her. He’d reached inside her and latched on to a loose end, something that needed or wanted to be tied off, taken care of, gotten over. He yanked on it, and she followed all the way to his bed, because the loose ends were real: ever since she was six years old, everyone had been telling her—everyone but Thomas, that is—that she was silly and flighty and inattentive. Beal knew better than anyone that she was young and ignorant of the world, that au fond—these days, French phrases had a way of coming to mind first—she was just a girl from Tuckertown, destined, at best, to live out her life as a domestic or, if one really dreamed high, as some kind of clerk or office assistant. But so what? And so what about Africa and stupid Senegal—she had never, from that first night in the dining salon, had the slightest interest in Africa—and so what about Boston, and so what if she had married a white man? After all, that white man was Thomas, and how could he be an issue, no matter what he was. Others had tried that attack, beginning with her own brother, and it hadn’t made a bit of difference. And so what, finally, about sex? She knew now the pleasure it could give, not just while doing it but simply while thinking about doing it, but at the end of the night with Thomas her body was so completely at rest, so sated, she feared that when morning came, she wouldn’t be able to move a foot. If she understood what Léonie intimated from time to time, not every woman felt the same about it.