“Be right with you, Jack,” Marylin’s voice said from far away. Then she spoke into the instrument. “Roy, you wouldn’t believe the scene going on here. A guest didn’t show. I’ll get back to you—oh, my God, all I can think of is Billy and Sari. How am I going to manage today?”
“The show must go on, hon,” Roy said. “It’s the same for all us working girls.”
* * *
Sari was still at Roy’s house four days later when the letter came from Billy.
68
Normally Joshua’s morning walk from his cottage-office to the mailbox by the electric gate was the highlight of his morning. He would climb back up to his little house with the letters, not showing them to Marylin, purposely implying importance to their contents. On this particular hot, smoggy Wednesday he was attending the funeral of Pearlie Lubold, former chief of production at Magnum, a form of final obligation to his industry friends that was becoming onerously frequent.
Therefore a neat pile of letters, magazines, and junk mail (the bills were mailed directly to the business manager’s office) awaited Marylin on the hall table.
The smog and lack of sleep bothered her eyes, and she squeezed her lids shut before she shuffled through the envelopes.
When she came to a thick letter addressed to them in Billy’s handwriting, the heap thudded onto the uneven handmade floor tiles. Billy never wrote to them, he always telephoned—and since she had made that calamitous New York trip, he had not called anyone in the family.
She picked up her son’s letter. Tears filled her eyes—Sari’s troubles and Billy’s desertion had made Marylin weep easily.
After a long hesitation, she slit the envelope’s edge. In the shadowy silence, the tearing noise sounded very loud.
June 5, 1970
Hey Dad,
After scrutinizing the envelope to reassure herself that she had indeed been included on the address, she did not even try to tell herself that this omission in the body of the letter was unintentional. Obviously her son was paying her back for that disastrous těte-à-těte in the Regency Hotel: when hurt, Billy took on Joshua’s clever vengefulness, a heavy streak of malice that her milder nature found incomprehensible.
Let’s rap awhile about what’s going on in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I get the feeling this war is an enormous put-on, all done with mirrors and dress extras for the telly. A gigantic scam to sell advertising on primetime News, not to mention bumper stickers.
Is there really such a country as Vietnam? Or are the battle scenes shot in the Philippines? Is Premier Ky a little-known off-off-Broadway actor with his eyes taped? Is Saigon really on the back lot? You made enough flicks to understand my question. Reality versus sleight-of-camera? And what about the My Lai massacre—was it a cleverly concocted script?
And how about this protective incursion Nixon has ordered on the alleged country “Cambodia”?
I mean, is that or is it not far-out humor?
Could there, in reality, be such black comedy as daily body counts? I for one cannot believe it.
The question I am aiming at is: has our beloved St. Richard the Nixon figured out a means of aiding the flagging economy of this great land of ours by inventing Southeast Asia?
Wars give a jab in the arm to industry, so why wouldn’t a dedicatedly patriotic president appoint a clever bunch of show-biz types to invent one?
You can understand my frame of mind? Good. Then you’ll also dig why I went into a recruiting office.
Marylin sank onto one of the paired hall chairs. Her hands were too shaky to hold the letter, so she smoothed the pages on her lap.
The sergeant on duty, a bluff old party, a ringer for Satchel Paige, embraced me. “Welcome, son, welcome,” he wept. “We don’t get you college-type honkies often.” I received similar heartwarming unctuousness from everyone.
Imagine my shock, Dad, to hear I am physically deficient. Me, William Roger Fernauld, bred in clear Beverly Hills air, raised on Wheaties and fresh orange juice, me, unwanted by my everloving Uncle Sam.
Marylin was mouthing the words, for the writing here fit Billy’s sharply overwrought jibing. T’s remained uncrossed, O’s unclosed.
This was my first concrete proof that the so-called battle for democracy in S.E. Asia is pure government bullshit. I ask you, if there really were a war, would they discard a volunteer able to count the bodies even into the hundreds simply because he once had a skull injury?
Marylin breathed a great sigh, retroactively blessing the driver of the car that had hit Billy.
By now my curiosity is thoroughly aroused. I have, therefore, used my friendship with the guys at Rolling Stone, and am on the payroll as a correspondent to bring home the real dirt on the situation. What ho, a foreign correspondent just like Bogey played so often. (Yes, Dad, I remember that you were his drinking buddy, I remember meeting him and wondering why he had hair in his movies.) I’ve had my shots and am booked on a flight to “Saigon.”
As soon as I find out the straight dope, I’ll clue you in.
Give my love to Sari.
Marylin clasped the pages against her abdomen.
Billy in Vietnam. This was the bitter fruit of her weekend in New York.
Slowly she climbed the stairs to the large bedroom she shared with Joshua, to await his return from Pearlie Lubold’s funeral.
* * *
“I do not believe this letter. That half ass, overintelligent clown of ours enlist? Sweet loving Jesus, he’s more against this fucking, stupefying crusade than anyone in this torn-apart country!” Joshua’s flamboyant bluster was all front. In his own demanding, overpowering manner he deeply loved all four of his children, but Billy, son of his old age, was his illusionary self projected into the future to conquer this gadget-ridden second half of the twentieth century.
“The letter’s not him—his humor’s never overworked or cute.”
Joshua slammed a hand on his bureau, and his silver-topped military brushes bounced. “He sounds like he’s been experimenting with LSD, dropping acid or whatever they call their mind meddling.”
“It’s my fault. I never should have gone to New York. Joshua, I’ve never interfered with him before. Why did I have to now?”
“Where in the letter, tell me, does it say he’s been thwarted in love?”
“Althea, she must have done exactly what I wanted her to. Told Billy they were through.” Marylin’s voice shook piteously.
“Angelpuss, quit blaming yourself.”
“That’s easy to say.”
Joshua sat abruptly on the edge of the bed. The bluster had evaporated. “First poor little Sari, now this,” he sighed. “Sweet Jesus, what’s happened to our kids?”
“The Coyne family,” Marylin responded bitterly.
“Billy’s a comedy writer, not a war correspondent. Even those fuck-ups at Rolling Stone must have enough unscrambled brains to see that.” He slumped, arms dangling between his knees.
When Joshua had suffered his heart attack in the spring of 1956, he had refused to stay in his hospital bed for the medically prescribed six weeks of rest, leaving Cedars of Lebanon without his doctor’s permission after twelve days to polish his current script: Joshua Fernauld had put his heart on probation. The doughty muscles had obeyed him all these years.
But now fierce anxiety pierced Marylin. “Joshua, it isn’t the end of the world,” she said in a tone of purposeful cheer. “After all, he’s not a soldier, he’s a reporter.”
Joshua didn’t reply. There was no reason for him to. Billy was courting danger, and they both knew it.
After a minute he said, “It’s time to talk some sense into him.”
“Joshua, we don’t have a phone number. There’s no return address on the letter.”
“Your sister’s friend.”
“Hahh!”
“I’ll soften her with reminders of how, lo these many years ago, I offered her comfort when she c
ame to your mother’s house in search of it.”
Althea’s servant informed Joshua that Mrs. Stoltz was out of town and would remain away for several weeks. Joshua then dialed Rolling Stone’s offices in Greenwich Village. Marylin’s concern about his bum ticker faded. This was the Joshua Fernauld of old, ranting, booming, bellowing in the roar that had shaken the film hierarchy above and below him. Evidently the people on the other end were unimpressed. He did not find out William Fernauld’s whereabouts.
He took out his three Gucci telephone books, thumbing through the alphabet for the most influential people. General Omar Bradley, US Army, Ret., Buffie Chandler, Henry Kissinger, Pat Kennedy Lawford, Governor Reagan.
BJ and Maury came over, and then NolaBee. The pinochle crowd. Roy. Among them they knew yet more heavyweights.
The Fernauld phone lines stayed busy until long after midnight.
It was Secretary of State Kissinger who called back to inform them that Billy was already in Saigon, an accredited member of the press, and that the death rate for newsmen was pretty low.
69
Just before eleven on the following Sunday, Roy—smart in her new navy slacks with matching blouse and a taupe blazer—stood in her backyard cutting zinnias to take to the Fernaulds’ where they were having brunch. Later, Sari would return here with her. Joshua and Marylin flinched from inflicting their daughter with their hyped-up anxieties about Billy.
The cheerful orchestration of a Beverlywood Sunday bubbled around Roy—the masculine voices broadcasting Dodger warm-up, the racket of a neighbor’s car starting up, the gleeful shrills of toddlers as they splashed in their wading pool. Roy paid no attention to the sabbath choir.
The full sunlight did bad things to her freckles and small lines around her eyes and mouth. The family’s dual crises had invaded her nights, yet at the same time her nurturing side got a real kick out of being needed by Sari. She knelt to clip an especially fine bloom.
“Auntie Roy.” Sari was holding open the kitchen screen door.
“Be with you in a sec, Sari. There’s a couple more really luscious ones.”
“You have company.”
“Oh, nuts. Hon, tell whoever it is we’re leaving right now.”
Sari moved onto the cement patio. “It’s Mrs. Stoltz,” she said in a low voice.
“Althea?” Roy’s grip on the flower stems tightened. Every trace of her perennial loyalty had been washed away on that night earlier in the week when she had accepted Althea as the instrument of her niece and nephew’s downfall. But how could Althea be here? During the week’s interweaving long-distance calls, Joshua had learned that she was in Sweden. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, Auntie Roy!”
Roy peered at the house. In this glare the living room windows were inscrutable blanks. It took her a few seconds to make out a tall, narrow shape that was—unmistakably—Althea.
Roy’s first impulse was to step protectively between the pregnant girl and Althea. In the next instant she determined to get her niece away. Draping an arm around Sari’s shoulders, she whispered, “You go pick up Grandma.” (Joshua had driven Sari’s Pinto to Beverlywood.) “I’ll spend a few minutes with her.”
“The way she looked at me, it was strange. Do you think she’s angry because of Charles?”
“Sari, anyone ever tell you you’re too darn sensitive?” Roy asked, improvising. “Sometimes she has migraines.”
“I mean really odd. I’ll wait for you, then you’ll have a better excuse not to hang around with her too long.”
Althea had moved to the window. Though Roy could discern only the pure oval face, Althea surely must see the two of them in sharp, sunlit detail. Goose bumps formed below Roy’s silk blouse. “Grandma’s waiting for us!” Her whisper was hoarse.
“I don’t like leaving. She’s—”
“She’s upset because her father just died.”
“Auntie Roy, listen, she’s really giving off bad vibes. If you’re trying to get rid of me so you can have it out with her about Billy—”
“Don’t be crazy. Now, will you please go pick up Grandma?”
“Okay, okay.” Sari moved toward the kitchen door.
Roy hissed, “Go out the gate.”
“My purse is inside with the keys. Auntie Roy, what is with you?”
Althea opened the glass door that led from the living room.
“Althea!” Roy cried, setting the garden shears on the low brick wall of the patio. “What a fabulous surprise! Sari said you were here, and I didn’t believe her. When did you get into town?”
Frowning delicately, as if Roy had presented an insoluble problem, Althea stepped onto the cement patio.
Roy gave Sari a little push. “Bye, dear—you guys start eating without me.”
“It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Stoltz,” Sari said.
Althea’s chin lowered a fraction, a minuscule movement that might, if generously construed, be labeled a nod.
Sari went into the kitchen; then the front door opened and shut. Roy expelled a breath of relief.
Althea said, “The paintings are gone.”
“On loan. Gerry’s having a retrospective.”
“Oh, yes, now it comes back to me.” Althea’s voice was rushed. “UCLA sent an invitation.”
Sari’s right, Roy decided. Something’s badly out of sync. Her gaze darted covertly over Althea. The exquisitely pleated cream silk blouse and gored leaf-green Chanel skirt were heavily creased, as if slept in, and a few strands of pale hair straggled from the chignon. Even in their earliest adolescence Althea had always groomed herself meticulously. She was gripping her large, soft kid purse with such tension that the flesh had whitened around her brutally short nails. Had Althea ever been a nail-biter? Yes, that last grim semester she had attended Beverly High.
“Let’s sit down,” Roy said, keeping her voice even, shifting one of the redwood patio chairs invitingly.
Althea did not stir from her listener’s pose until the roar of the Pinto’s engine faded into the Sunday sounds.
“What about something to drink?” Roy asked. “There’s nothing hard—not since you dried me out. But I do have Snap E Tom? Orange juice? Coffee?”
“Is she gone?”
“Sari? Sure. That was her car.”
“I don’t suppose there’s anybody else inside?”
“Of course not. Althea, you really look like you could use a little pick-me-up. Come on in the kitchen.”
“We’ll stay out here.” Althea’s imperious tone trailed off in a plaintive quiver.
“Sure, why not? Isn’t this a perfect day? But first let me fix us some coffee.”
“I hardly flew all the way to Los Angeles to be entertained with instant coffee,” Althea said.
A lawn mower had started in the yard behind, and the sound rasped on Roy’s uneasiness. “Althea, what is it?”
“I want to know why you wrote that to Charles.”
“Wrote what?” Roy asked, bewildered.
“The letter.”
“Althea, you know he and I’ve always kept in touch.”
Althea opened the purse, taking out Roy’s stationery. “This.” She extended linen paper.
Roy could read her own writing. Charles, there is something of absolute urgency to you that we must discuss in privacy immediately, so please telephone me at Patricia’s (not the house) as soon as you receive this.
The note she had composed with such effort on the night she’d heard about Sari’s pregnancy. With her fears about Billy, she had completely forgotten writing and mailing it.
“Oh, that,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
Althea placed the folded, heavy linen sheet carefully on the redwood barbecue table. Her face and posture had the brittle, mannered look of an eighteenth-century porcelain fashion doll. “What a distasteful way you’ve chosen to pay me back,” she said.
“Althea, what in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“For Gerry.”
It was
the first time in years either of them had mentioned the unfair triangle. Despite their friendship, Roy had never completely left behind the pain and jealousy that surrounded being an also-ran with her own husband. Her throat ached as she asked, “Anyway, how did you come by this?”
“I flew over to Stockholm for a few days.”
“So? Does Charles share his mail with you?”
“Hardly.” Althea prowled across the patio onto the grass. “I saw the envelope with your writing, so I opened it.”
Revulsion choked Roy. From earliest memory, she had embraced every dictum of her generation’s ideals. She behaved with absolute rectitude. Never in her life had she opened even a catalog addressed to another person. And now it flashed through her mind that Althea had never possessed this same code of honor. What a snap it must have been for her, arranging that the Coyne New York Bank dispatch Charles to Europe.
The lawn mower ceased. In the abrupt quiet, the chirp of a bird, the babies’ shouts, the radios seemed sweetly, innocently bucolic.
Althea was staring at her fixedly. “Well?”
“That’s a rotten thing to do, snoop.”
“You don’t have a child.” Althea plucked a camellia leaf. “Want to know my deepest regret?” This question was confided, jarringly, in the significant tones of their girlhood confessionals. “My . . . deepest . . . regret. . . .”—Althea drew out the words on a long, plangent chord—“is . . . telling . . . Roy . . . Wace . . . about . . . Charles . . . and . . . Gerry . . . Horak.”
Roy jumped to her feet. “You think that’s why I wanted him to phone?” she cried, aghast.
“What else? You and he can’t share any other urgent interests, can you?”
“Althea, listen to me. I would never in a million years betray a confidence, certainly never one this important. You know me better than that.”
Althea arched a pale, delicate eyebrow knowingly.
And into Roy’s mind came a picture of her nephew—her dear, fidgety comic who used to drop by her house to devour her cakes and make her laugh until the back of her throat ached. Billy the peacenik trying to enlist, Billy in Saigon, Billy being helicoptered into some remote, godforsaken, Cong-infested jungle—Billy. “But I suppose that it’s only natural you would see it that way. My God, what happened with Billy? How did you manage to mess him up that much?”
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