Two
AFTER SHE GOT GINA upstairs and settled, Esther came back down and found her father in the banquet-hall dining room, alone at the long table, in front of his filled plate and brimming glass.
“Well?” Herman said. “What did she say?”
Esther sat down next to him while Darryl poured her a glass of wine. “Would you like to have something to eat, Madam?” Darryl asked. Darryl, unlike Louis, was white, but like Louis, he was old.
“No, thank you, Darryl.”
“Esther, I also asked you a question,” said Herman, his deep voice as strong as ever. “The difference is I asked you first.”
“She is having a baby.”
Herman nodded, his jaw trembling involuntarily. His hair had thinned out, turned white. He himself had thinned out, didn’t have quite the same ironing board posture of twenty years earlier. His hands shook slightly as he carefully took hold of his knife and fork. Age spots lined the stretched skin on his face. His own gray eyes, passed down to both of his children, were expressionless, nearly colorless. “Who’s the father?”
“Daddy!”
“My son has not been out of prison long enough to father a child. Surely it can’t be his.”
“Can you be serious?”
“I don’t seem serious to you? Does she want money?”
“She wouldn’t hear of it.” Esther took a sip of her wine. “I nearly lost her when I offered. She was ready to flee.”
“Is her brother still at Purity?”
“I suppose. She might have to go live with him if things don’t improve. He can’t keep paying her rent. Their mother just died of the flu.”
Herman clicked his teeth together, as he methodically, thoughtfully buttered his bread. “When is the sentencing?”
“Less than two weeks,” she said.
They didn’t speak while he took a few bites of his unwanted steak.
“The baby needs a father, Daddy,” Esther said.
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Herman said. “Perhaps we can introduce its mother to someone. Whom do we know?”
“Stop it!”
“What? It needs a better father than the one who’s in prison.”
“You have to help him.”
“Do I now?”
“Yes. You simply have to.”
“I can’t. I’m all helped out. You know I can’t.”
“She read somewhere he could get a pardon. Is she right?”
“How in the world could he get a pardon?” exclaimed Herman.
“That’s what I said to her. But she seemed sure. Something else perhaps?”
Herman shook his head. “Offer her some material assistance, Esther. She can’t work like she’s been working, the mill, housecleaning, the church, and carry a child. It’s ruinous.”
“I told you already, she won’t hear of it.”
“Offer again. Offer her enough so she doesn’t have to worry.”
“I’m going to force charity down her throat?”
“Offer her the penthouse apartment in our Back Bay building off Dartmouth.”
“She won’t take it. She won’t accept.”
“God, the pride! Why, tell me, do the poor have such a surfeit of it? It’s unseemly.”
“Because it’s all they have,” said Esther. “Now please. She doesn’t want your money. She wants her husband.”
“I refuse to believe that’s true. He’s been a terrible husband.” He paused. “Where is she now?”
Esther looked stumped by the question. “In the guest room upstairs, why?”
“You sent her up without dinner?”
“Of course not. I had Rosa take it to her.”
Herman put down his fork and stared at his daughter. “Why invite her to stay if you’re just going to insult her?”
“I did it for you. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“So show her the door. Escort her out. But if you’re going to ask her to stay, why lock her up? What am I, Bluebeard? Where are your manners, Esther?”
Herman looked into his plate. Shamefaced, Esther didn’t know what to say.
“Well?” he went on without looking up. “Are you going to sit there or are you going to ask her to come downstairs so I can finally meet her?”
Three
GINA STOOD ERECT IN the open double glass doors leading into the dining hall, watching Herman eat at the head of the table with the tall window to Cherry Street behind him. It was dark outside and the snow was falling, but the room was lit by table lamps and glowing candles. The fire was on. The house seemed to have a fireplace in every room. She wondered if the washrooms also had fireplaces, and nearly chuckled. It was incredibly comforting. She stood and waited, content to say nothing. Finally Harry’s father looked up. For a few moments he also said nothing, as they studied each other.
“So you’re Gina Barrington.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “I wish it were under different circumstances. Please call me Gina.”
“Please call me Herman. Would you like to sit down?”
“Yes, thank you.” Carefully she perched down next to him. She said no to Darryl’s offer of wine and food, and remained stiffly sitting with her hands folded in her lap and her back straight like his.
“Why come to me now?” Herman asked. “Why didn’t he come to me before when it could have done some good? He didn’t come to me when he was arrested during Bread and Roses, or after Paterson, or after any of his other numerous violations. He didn’t come to me even at the beginning of this current mess when he knew—knew—that he had transgressed an impregnable new act and was facing a severe punishment.”
Open-mouthed, Gina studied the table in astonishment.
But suddenly the world made sense again. Mimoo would be pleased. The father would not—could not—abandon his creation. She was always right, her mother. She had kept saying this. But no one believed her. Gina wanted to cry.
“He is still not coming to you,” she said when she had cleared her creaking voice. “I am. He doesn’t know I’m here. But . . . how do you know so much about him?”
“He made it my business to know,” said Herman, “by dragging my good name through the papers and the court records. Harold Barrington this, Harold Barrington that. I could hardly help knowing about it. Every person I met commiserated with me about my son and his unending quest for trouble. He’s never made it easy for me, never.”
“I wanted to come to you earlier. He forbid me. You had turned him away, and he learned his lesson. He has too much pride.”
“And he’s not the only one.” Herman carefully considered her.
Across from her on the wall near the fireplace was a gilt-edged rectangular mirror. Catching her reflection, Gina sat up straighter, if that were possible, under Herman’s solemn scrutiny, wanting to make a good impression. She was tall, slim, long-legged, wild-haired, passionate-looking, even as a grown woman. Hardship and anxiety had taken away the softer edges from her romantic face, and she acquired the suppressed tightness in her jaw and brow from keeping too many things hidden that were difficult to keep hidden. She knew that about herself. She called it her Protestant look. She would tell her mother that true Italians did not carry this feature because they never kept anything on the inside, and Mimoo had said, “You’re Italian and yet you do. You’ve now become fully American. Congratulations.”
“How have you been?” That was Gina asking after Herman.
“We’ve been fine, thank you.”
He didn’t say any more and after a few minutes of sitting by his side, she stood up to go, figuring she had been dismissed.
“Will you be staying with us?” he asked.
She tightened her jaw. “I don’t know the answer to that question,” she replied. “What about your son?”
Herman tightened his jaw. “I don’t know the answer to that question.”
When she turned from the table, she gasped, startled to see a whittled-down black man mutely e
ncased in a wingback chair, concealed from view by the open double doors that partially obscured him. He sat silent and motionless. She would not have noticed him even now, except he raised his arm to scratch his cheek, displaying to her his animation.
Turning her head back to Herman, Gina whispered, “Who is that?”
“Better not to whisper,” Herman replied loudly. “It’s Louis. He is deaf. And almost nearly blind. But if you’re not too frightened, approach him, and tell him you are Harry’s wife. Maybe he’ll hear. He used to be quite fond of my son. Knew him from the day he was born.”
“That’s Louis? Your old butler?”
“Harry told you about him? Yes. Been with our family since the war.”
“Which one?”
Herman smiled. “Very good. The Civil War.”
Carefully Gina approached the ancient black man. Pulling up a chair, she sat in front of him and leaning in, peered into his eyes. “Louis? Can you hear me?”
He sat.
“So you’re the famous Louis.” She took his dry old hands into hers. “Do you know who I am?” She squeezed his hands.
He sat.
“I’m Gina Barrington. I’m Harry’s wife.”
Louis blinked. A tear fell from his fogged-over glassy eye.
“Ah, so you can hear me.” Rising, Gina leaned over and kissed him on his bald head. “I’ll tell him you said hello when I see him next.”
After Gina went upstairs, Herman disappeared into his study. Soon there was a knock on the door. “Come in, Esther. What do you want? I have to get some work done. Billingsworth is coming first thing tomorrow and all my papers need to be in order.”
“What did you think?”
“What did I think of what? Your errant brother? He doesn’t make it easy on anyone who has the bad judgment to care for him, does he?”
“She knows what she’s doing, Father,” said Esther. “Don’t feel too bad for her. She’s always known. Come hither, once said the lithe Italian spider to a fly.”
“Your brother is solely responsible for his own actions, Esther. He is not the fly. He is a sentient human being. But what has she ever done to deserve him or his treatment of her?”
“You’re already defending her?” Esther opened her arms. “You’re making my case for me as we speak, Daddy,” she said. “When even you, at seventy, don’t stand a chance.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I guess I don’t have to ask what you thought of her.”
“You may ask. I’ll tell you. She is remarkable,” said Herman.
“Of course she is.” Esther waved her hands in front of her in a web-like pattern.
“Remind me to apologize to her someday,” Herman said. “I have gotten it exactly wrong. She is entirely too good for him.”
“It’s Harry who needs your help.”
Herman’s face was pale, his teeth were set. He motioned for Esther to close the study door. “What would you like me to do? He was convicted by a jury of his peers. His minimum sentence is ten years. Debs, the man who ran for president not too long ago, also received ten years. He’s not getting out. Haywood, the IWW ringleader, got twenty!”
“Harry can’t go to prison for ten years!” Esther cried.
Herman took a deep breath. For a few minutes they didn’t speak.
“He can’t go to prison . . .” she repeated.
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” he said. “I called in the last of my favors to get his previous sentence reduced to a year instead of five. You remember that, don’t you? When he was slapped with a mandatory five-year term for violating his easy parole with a felony? And the judge who helped me, a good friend of mine, has recently died! Who’s left?” He breathed hard. “Do you think she’ll want a divorce?”
Esther plied her hands together. “For God’s sake, divorce? They’re having a baby. They’re having a Barrington child.”
“I’ll thank you not to remind me of this.”
“She’s had trouble carrying . . .”
“Perhaps if your brother stopped shoving her in front of picket lines she might’ve had less trouble.”
“You know it has nothing to do with that, Daddy,” Esther said faintly, not looking at her father.
Herman blinked. A deep pool of lifelong compassion reflected on Esther, and for Esther. “Fine. Don’t get so overwrought. Tell her to stay. Tell her to come live with us.”
“Believe me when I tell you that this isn’t about her. I have no fondness for that woman, as you well know. This is about the child. He needs his father.”
Herman walked to the liquor cabinet to fix himself a drink. “Harry is not a child,” he said. “No matter how much he acts like one.”
“I’m talking about the baby, Daddy! Not Harry.”
They fell silent. Herman’s hands shook noticeably as he poured himself a whiskey, raised it to his lips, and drank it in one long, pained swallow.
“Esther, he has been convicted of inciting violence and of actual violence against our armed forces and law enforcement. He has been convicted of scurrilous and abusive language toward his government at war, convicted of aiding and abetting the enemy by willfully interfering with the operation and success of the United States armed forces by obstructing and preventing army recruitment. I mean, that’s almost a high crime, is it not? Ten years seems woefully insufficient. Who do you think I could possibly know on the federal bench who can help us?”
Esther folded her arms. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
Herman sighed. “Let’s say goodnight. He utterly exhausts me and I haven’t seen him in years. Before he was charged I whispered in the DA’s ear for weeks to persuade him to ask for a smaller sentence. He had wanted twenty! I have to sleep now. Tomorrow is another day. Though tomorrow I’m headed to Roxbury with Billingsworth. He wants me to look over some investment properties.”
“No. Go to court with him instead. Billingsworth is always bragging about how many people he knows at the DA’s office. And didn’t you sponsor the DA’s son through Yale? Doesn’t that count for something?”
“I don’t know how good a student he was, I can’t say.”
“All right. Joke. Do whatever you need to—just help my brother.”
“Esther,” said Herman, “that’s the very DA who asked for ten years for Harry instead of twenty. That’s the return favor we got for the Yale sponsorship. The well is dry.”
“Draw one last bucket from it.” She stood to go. “Remind all concerned that one, it’s Christmas, and two, Harry’s wife is expecting.”
“On the first count, the DA, I believe, is Jewish. And the second one might not be a plus either,” Herman said, putting down his empty highball and grabbing an inconspicuous cane near the corner bookshelf. “What if the DA stipulates that as one of the conditions of his release, Harold not procreate?”
Four
GINA REMAINED IN BARRINGTON. She barely got out of bed for the first few sleepy days, wishing that whatever was happening out of her line of sight with Herman and Esther would take just a little bit longer because it was a summer walk through a field to stay in a house this warm and comfortable in December. There was always hot water, and no drafts, and the towels were fresh and white, miraculously starched by someone other than her. She had brought no clothes with her, but as if by magic, the next afternoon new clothes appeared on her dresser; white undergarments, a navy wool dress, a plaid skirt, a cashmere shawl, a red scarf, new black boots with patent heels and in just the right size. Every few hours a woman came in, a maid, not Rosa, and inquired if Gina needed anything, anything at all. Some tea, a sandwich, a cake, another pillow, a book? Did she want to get dressed, did she want a bath? The woman offered to dress her, to bathe her. Her name was Donna. She cleaned up Gina’s cups and plates and crumbs from the cake that fell from her mouth onto the floor. She opened the drapes, she drew them. Every time she walked into the room, Gina cried.
She slept like a male li
on, twenty hours out of every twenty-four, praying to God that Herman would find a way to help them so she could find a way to be a better wife to her husband. She could not believe Harry would give up this life, even for a woman like her. And perhaps that was the source of his constant undercurrent of resentment toward her. Perhaps he realized early on she hadn’t been worth it.
Could she give it all up for a man like Harry? Gina wanted to say yes. She remembered fondly their once unquenchable blaze, but as she, covered to her neck by a down quilt, lay in the soft white four-poster bed the few hours she was awake, weeping repentance for her weakness, her loneliness, for her fleeting joy with another soul, not Harry’s, she couldn’t say for sure.
Five
“DON’T STUDY ME, ESTHER, I’m not a textbook,” Herman said after a week had passed. “No one wants to stick his neck out. The case is too high profile. He’s been so publicly tried, so publicly convicted! All of his co-defendants are going away for decades. Oh, and by the way, Emma Goldman may be deported to Russia.”
They were talking quietly in the library while taking their afternoon tea. They didn’t want Gina to overhear.
“What? No!”
“That’s the proposal. Two hundred convicted seditionists to be escorted onto a boat and shipped off to Russia as a present for Lenin and Trotsky. The reason I mention this is because that’s what the DA has offered me. In lieu of his current sentence, Harry would be put on the Soviet Ark and shipped to Russia.”
“Daddy, is this another joke? Because it’s completely without humor.”
Herman pointed to his face. “Do I look like I’m joking? Exactly. So don’t judge me. I barely managed to reschedule his sentencing until early in the new year, to give me and Billingsworth a little more time to talk to the sentencing judge, to see if he has any leeway.” Finished with his tea and requiring something stronger, Herman got up, poured himself a whiskey, and sat back down on the couch next to his daughter. “Trouble is, the Red Scare is in full gale mode. No one wants to go on public record for supporting a communist, showing leniency to a Red.”
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