by Howard Fast
“Do you meditate?” she asked him.
“Yes. I began when I was a priest.”
“Do you believe in God?”
It took so long for him to answer that Barbara thought that he had not heard her question, or if he had heard it, had chosen not to answer. But then Philip said, “Most of the time, yes. I don’t have an unshaken faith.”
“I have no religion,” she said. “When I go into Grace Church for a funeral or a wedding, the place smells dry and musty and old and forbidding. I smell the money my grandfather put into its building. He was a wicked old man who was determined to buy his place in heaven. My first lover died in the Spanish Civil War. My first husband was killed in Israel in 1948. A man I loved was murdered in El Salvador. We’ve had our own holocaust, and I can understand what the great Holocaust meant. The only time I felt a sense of something you call religion was when I walked out of the rain into your church.”
His reply was unexpected. “I think you’re deeply religious,” he said.
“Oh no, Philip.” She shivered. “It’s getting cold. I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
She peered at her watch in the dim light. “It’s after ten. Shall we turn in?”
“If you wish. Don’t we have to go inside first and tell them?”
“No. I’m family, and they know you’re with me. The rooms are made up, and you’ll find a razor and pajamas and a robe in yours, and Eloise provided clean socks and underwear.”
“You’re teasing me. You make me feel like a stodgy, impossible old man.”
Smiling, Barbara agreed. “Yes, you’re rather impossible.”
“I try. I did agree to come here and spend the night.”
“And be bored to death with wine talk.”
“Oh no, no, absolutely not,” he protested. “As a matter of fact, it was enlightening. I know absolutely nothing about wine. At Saint Mary’s, when I was assistant pastor, I was responsible for the wine for communion. I used to buy Manischewitz, a sort of interfaith gesture on my part.”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Why not? It’s very sweet and everyone liked it.”
“I’m sure they did. But please, please never mention this to Adam.”
“Why? He’s half Jewish. I should think he would appreciate it as a gesture. And once or twice I bought an old Israeli wine—I believe it’s called Malaga. I felt that a wine out of Israeli grapes would enhance the Eucharist.”
“Oh, my dear, bless you.”
“You’re teasing me again,” Philip said, frowning.
“I am, and I promise never to tease you again unless I must. Let’s not talk about wine.”
In the guesthouse, the two rooms Eloise had prepared opened off the entry hall. The small stone cottage was plain and unadorned. Each guest room was furnished more or less alike—a double bed, wicker furniture, prints on the wall, a rag rug, and an adjoining bath. Before he went into his room, Philip grasped her by her shoulders and said, “I would like to kiss you.”
She made no reply, and he kissed her on the lips.
“Good night, dear Barbara.” He opened the door to his room. “I’m glad I came here with you. It was good.”
She smiled. “Good night, Philip.”
In her room, Barbara asked herself, How, oh how do I pick them? There must be a reason. It’s my fate, my destiny. Philip would say it’s my karma, whatever karma is. I should have known when he sent me that letter. Well, Barbara, faint heart never won fair love.
She stripped down, put on a shower cap and showered, and then rubbed her hair with a towel, combed it out, and brushed it. Eloise had laid out toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, comb, and an assortment of small perfume bottles—with a warning that Barbara was to take the room to the right. She chose a perfume at random and used a few tiny drops; she was not crazy about perfume. There was a freshly washed cotton nightgown on the bed, and for a few minutes she studied it thoughtfully. Putting it on, she looked at herself in the mirror. “Oh, what the hell!” she said, and pulled it off and wrapped herself in the cotton flannel robe that hung in the bathroom. Then she slipped out of the robe and regarded herself in the mirror. Not bad, she thought. Her breasts were small and firm, her hips and legs not too different from what they were twenty years ago. Sighing, she pulled on the cotton nightgown, which fell to her knees and was hardly fitted, but rather tentlike, to cover Eloise’s abundant bosom. She nodded and shrugged. Even Everest is climbed in stages, and to seduce a man who refuses to seduce you is not easy—and then the thought of seduction in terms of herself and Philip Carter made her burst out laughing. Then she pulled herself together, donned the robe over her nightgown, left her room, knocked at the door of Philip’s room, and entered. Clad in a pair of Adam’s pajamas, he was sitting up in bed and reading, his reading glasses perched halfway down his nose.
“I thought I’d peek in and see whether everything is well. You’re very handsome in pajamas. What are you reading?”
“Guide to California Wines.” He held up the book for her to see.
“Well, that is a surprise.”
“Found it on the bookshelf. There are also two books by Zane Grey, Finnegans Wake, and Just So Stories. A nice balance.”
“That’s Eloise.” Barbara seated herself at the foot of his bed. “Do you like reading aloud?”
“That’s part of my discipline. Yes, I rather enjoy it.”
“Then read to me,” Barbara said. “I don’t have my reading glasses. They’re in the car.”
“About wine?”
“Yes. Why not? Though I’d have thought you’d choose Finnegans Wake.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I. Let’s hear about wine.”
“If you insist.” And picking up the book, he said, “I chose Cabernet, since that’s Adam’s favorite”; and reading, “‘The finest Cabernet Sauvignons are produced from considerably more than the legal minimum of fifty-one percent of grapes of that name, as the wine will not stand much blending without loss of character. The best have a deep ruby color, an expansive bouquet, and a remarkable flavor, easy to recognize and appreciate. When young they possess a dryness and aromatic pungency that smooth out with age to a rich mellowness. A common mistake is to serve them at a temperature cooler than the average room. At room temperature their inherent tartness will dissolve—’”
“Philip,” she interrupted, “take off your glasses.”
He raised a brow. “I can’t read without them.”
“I know. I don’t want you to read.”
“I thought you did?”
“No, Philip, I didn’t come in here to have you read to me. I came in here because I think I love you and I’ve decided to seduce you. I am well aware that women of my age don’t seduce anyone much, but what the hell! Being nearly seventy doesn’t seem to stop me from loving a man, and I have the crazy notion that you are very fond of me.”
“I am,” he said.
“Good. Now put down the book and take off your glasses, and turn off that light.”
Like a small boy caught in some egregious act, he followed her instructions, saying lamely, “Barbara, I don’t wear the pajama bottoms.”
“That’s nice”—slipping out of her robe and crawling under the covers next to him.
JUDITH HOPE LIVED IN A SMALL WHITE HOUSE in Pacific Heights, and when she opened the door for Freddie, he realized that the entire first floor was a single room, backed by a curling iron staircase to a balcony. The windows were doors, floor to ceiling, and the room; paved in white vinyl blocks, was flooded with sunlight. The furniture was Mexican, the fine laminated wood and wicker that can be found in Guadalajara and nowhere else. She was dressed and waiting for him, and she nodded, smiled slightly, and held out her hand. She wore a long white pleated skirt, a white silk shirt, and a pale gray cape, buckled at her throat.
“Welcome, Mr. Vintner. You’re right on time.”
“I try,” Freddie said. “You look absolutely beautiful. If
I am permitted to call you Judith, might you call me Fred?” He had rehearsed. He had been rehearsing things he would say all the distance from Napa.
“My friends call me Judy. How about Freddie, and that will be a pact of peace between us.”
“Thank you, Judy.” His hand on her arm was a light touch, since she wore a cape. When they were in his car, he asked her where they were going.
“Russian Hill—it’s an apartment house. I’ll direct you.”
Sitting next to her, he sorted out the conversation he had rehearsed:
“Why did you agree to see me again?” he began.
“Were you surprised?”
“Yes, I was,” he admitted.
“Well, Freddie, I was touched by your letter, and I’m free, black, and well over twenty-one. I don’t have a boyfriend at this moment—and by the way, are you married?”
“I told you I was not.”
“So you did, but you told me other things, too.”
“I was divorced. I have a child, a little boy of four. He lives with his mother.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, in answer to your question—you’re very good-looking, you’re tall enough, and you dress well. Perhaps you’re also intelligent. We’ll see.”
“I hope so,” he said, with a sense of futility.
“And I haven’t ever dated a white man before. Consider it an experiment.”
He had been put down gently but deftly, and now he decided that his sins were forgiven. He would not try to match her wit or irony, but neither would he be subdued by it.
“Who are your friends—I mean, the people to whose home we’re going?”
“That’s Larry and Jane Cutler. It’s their apartment. There’ll be eight or ten couples—two doctors, the Browns; she was a nurse but when he began to make some money, she went on to medical school. Jerry Delrio—you met him that first night at the Fairmont—the jazz pianist, and his wife, Dotty, and the Gershons and Kier Dumas—and I suppose others that I’ve not met. You’ll see.”
He considered telling her the story of Barbara and the black man who had broken into her apartment, but he thought better of it. And then they were there, in front of an elegant apartment house on Russian Hill, with a doorman who took Freddie’s car and the ten-dollar bill that he pressed into his hand; and then up the elevator and into a crowded living room with a broad picture window that overlooked San Francisco Bay and the sky, bathed in the colors of the sunset; and men and women were kissing and embracing Judith Hope, well-dressed men and women to whom he was being introduced—and Freddie realized that he was the only white man in the room, and that this was the first time in his life that he had ever been in a room as the only white man present.
A woman put a drink into his hand. “It’s gin and tonic—but you can have Scotch, if you prefer, or white wine.”
“No, thank you. This is fine.”
He stood awkwardly alone for a long moment, and then a man came to him and said, “Did I hear Judy call you Frederick Lavette?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me, I don’t want to pry, but are you any relation to the Barbara Lavette I read about—oh, maybe five or six weeks back—the woman who said she wasn’t robbed of a hundred grand in jewelry?” .
Freddie hesitated, then nodded. “She’s my aunt.”
“I’ll be damned! How did Judy find you?”
“Judy,” someone called out, “come over here!”
Freddie shrugged uneasily. Another man joined them, and then a couple, and in a few minutes Freddie was the center of a circle of people.
“Come on, she really gave him the jewelry?”
“Did they know each other?” a woman wanted to know.
“No,” he replied, and tried to explain. “The way she put it, she was buying the fifteen years he would have served. She knows what prison is. She was in prison once.”
“Come on!”
Judith Hope had never made the connection, and as she joined the circle around Freddie she stared at him as if she had never seen him before.
Taken wholly aback by the look on Judith’s face, he had a sudden rush of panic. “Here I am babbling away—I shouldn’t be speaking about this. If a cop took down what I’m saying—”
“Freddie,” Judith said, “there are no cops here.” Larry Cutler, their host, was an attorney and knew Harry Lefkowitz, and he filled in pieces of the story. Freddie had another gin and tonic, and the talk turned to the first case of Robert Jones and the term he had served for punching the armed guard. Bit by bit, Freddie forgot his white skin, and when dinner was served, he ate hungrily of the fresh roast and fixings. He was just a little drunk, relaxed, and he accepted the plate of food that Judith chose for him with a whisper of gratitude.
When he dropped Judith off at her house, well past midnight, after she opened the door, she leaned toward him and kissed him—and then swirled away and closed the door behind her. He drove back to Highgate, lost in a maze of interesting thought. Fortunately, there was almost no traffic at that hour.
HARRY LEFKOWITZ WAS INVOLVED in the closing of an important case, and May Ling had agreed to meet him in San Francisco for lunch at his office so that they could talk to Philip Carter. Harry was perfectly willing to leave all wedding arrangements to Sally and May Ling, but Philip felt that he should at least have a talk with Harry before the ceremony. May Ling planned to do some shopping while in town, and she arrived early, with her four-year-old son, Danny. She had hoped to leave him with Sally, but Sally complained that she could not cover for May Ling in the surgery and take care of Danny at the same time.
At Harry’s office, his secretary, Alice Goldman, a fat, good-natured woman of fifty or so, said that she would gladly look after Danny for the next hour, but Danny refused vociferously, and May Ling decided that the best choice was to take him with her. After an hour of shopping, May Ling returned to the office with a tired and irritated little boy, explaining to Harry and Philip, who were already there, that this was not his usual behavior and that Market Street and Macy’s had gotten the best of him.
He was a handsome little boy, part Chinese, part Jewish, and part Anglo, straight brown hair and large brown eyes. Harry had put out a sumptuous spread—chicken salad, a pâté, a green salad, small rolls, and ice cream—but Danny would have none of it until finally, with his mother’s urging, he settled for the ice cream.
Harry shared the boy’s uneasiness. He had pondered the question of adoption, and while he felt that Freddie would not stand in the way of such a course, his feeling—not unusual in a Jew—was that with his natural father being a Lavette, the child would have more opportunities with that name than with the name of Lefkowitz. Harry had raised this question once with May Ling, and it evoked the only anger he had ever seen her display. “You are Lefkowitz and I shall be Lefkowitz, and. if Freddie agrees that you adopt Danny, he will be Lefkowitz and proud of it. My father was Jewish, Harry, and so am I. I don’t want you to forget that.” Harry realized that this was not strictly true, since under Jewish practice the descent is through the mother, and Sally’s mother was not Jewish; but Harry had been in no mood to argue the matter.
Harry had intended to look up Unitarian in the encyclopedia, but time and the closing of his case prevented this, and very uneasily he broached the question of cults to Philip, who took it with good nature. “No, Mr. Lefkowitz—we are older than the United States and we exist all over the world. We are a very simple and straightforward religion. I brought some material that we publish, which you may read when you find time.” He put the material on the table and selected a single pamphlet. “This is our marriage booklet. It has dozens of suggestions, and you may choose any of them or any combination of them—or May Ling and you may decide to write your own ceremony. We have no liturgy that we press on anyone.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Harry said. “If you’re trained as a lawyer, you live on liturgy. It becomes our religion.”
“From what I hear, that’s hardly the cas
e with you.”
“Thank you,” Harry said, looking at his watch. “I only wish it were so. I’m defending a man who may or may not have stolen five million dollars from his stockholders, and I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t actually know whether he’s guilty or not. Our liturgy is very complicated, Dr. Carter.”
“Well, there is one rule in our church. No one is permitted, without correction, to call me Dr. Carter.”
“I’ll remember that, Philip.”
THAT EVENING BARBARA DINED with Philip at her home. More and more often she had been inviting him to partake of her own cooking, since he insisted on getting the check when they dined out. She was a good cook. Her time in France had been at least in part an investigation into French cooking, and she had an assortment of French cookbooks on her kitchen shelf. He ate what she cooked with delight and gusto, and complained gently that for the first time in his adult life he was gaining weight, which she dismissed as nonsense. “You’re thin as a rail. It’s just that for the first time in years you’re enjoying what you eat, instead of what they serve you in those dreadful restaurants you patronize.”
“They’re not all dreadful.”
“Most are. Chinese food is very salty, and the doctor said you should cut down on salt. Oh, what’s the use? You don’t listen to anything I say.”
“I certainly do,” he protested. “And I’m healthy as an ox.”
“However healthy that may be… Tell me about today. What happened?”
“It went nicely. May Ling is a lovely, gentle woman.”
“And Harry Lefkowitz?”
“He puzzles me. I mentioned him to Bob Doyle, who’s a member of our church and a U.S. Attorney. He says Lefkowitz is one of the sharpest lawyers in town, and the others hate to go up against him because he ties them into knots and wins most of his cases. On the other hand, Doyle says that Lefkowitz’s office does more pro bono work than any large firm in town. I don’t like to judge people—especially when I know so little about them.”
“Saint and sinner?” Barbara asked.
“Perhaps.”