An Independent Woman

by Howard Fast

  Barbara loved the room, its comfortable old-fashioned look and its fireplace—lit that morning and now full of glowing embers, as in the kitchen.

  After they had collapsed onto a sofa and Eloise had lit her cigarette, Barbara said, “Well, what do you think?” It was obvious to whom she referred.

  “I think I’m in awe of her. I suppose it’s my own fault that I’ve known so few black people. To be perfectly honest, it is my pleasure to embrace her as a prospective daughter-in-law and take her to my heart. I almost accused Adam of being a racist, and I was very angry with him for no good reason at all. Do you think I’m a racist?”

  “No more than we all are. Give it time. There are thousands of people who are racist about Chicanos, but we’ve lived with them all our lives. The important thing is that Freddie loves her.”

  “He adores her.”

  “Yes, he does,” Barbara agreed.

  “I can see that part of it,” Eloise acknowledged. “I often ask myself whether I’m not the major reason Freddie has never married successfully. He’s a brilliant businessman and manager, and if truth be told, we would have failed long ago were it not for Freddie. We can’t produce enough of his dry Sauterne—and if it were up to Adam, we’d have no white wine at all—and his partnership with Harry is exactly what we needed, a Chardonnay that we’ll sell like hotcakes. But so long as I’m around—well, he’s forty-three in January.”

  Barbara smiled. “Darling,” she said, “don’t go psychological on this.”

  “Barbara, would you call me a martinet?”

  “As far in the other direction as one can get.”

  “But for years I ran this house and the guesthouse. I can’t let her walk all over me.”

  “What on earth makes you think she would? That performance in the kitchen was introductory, for our benefit. They’ll have their own home. And believe me, she’s not interested in housekeeping. You’ll probably never see her in the kitchen.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course,” Barbara assured her, reflecting that the appearance in the Highgate household of a woman as young and good-looking and robust as Judith could not help but shrink Eloise’s self-image. How little the young knew about the old—and especially of that inner self in women like Eloise that retains its image and sense of youth. Barbara understood that completely. There had been a day when she and Philip were walking on the Embarcadero and a sight-seeing boat was about to pull away from the dock, and on impulse they bought the last two tickets and leaped onto the boat just as it was beginning to pole off, and they stood at the rail laughing like a couple of kids—to the curious looks of chronological youngsters on the deck…. She still brushed her hair as her mother had taught her to, twenty strokes at night, twenty strokes in the morning, and she would still stare at her mirror and deny the wrinkles. When her son, Sam, informed her that they had a new substance that when injected into a wrinkle would make it disappear, she indignantly assured him that she had earned every wrinkle and meant to keep them—her usual defense to Birdie MacGelsie, who had had a face-lift and urged Barbara to do the same. No, she, Barbara Lavette Carter, would never have a face-lift; yet she brooded over the notion.

  ACTUALLY, THE THANKSGIVING DINNER worked out beautifully. Eloise seated Dr. Hope at the far end of the table, at Adam’s left, with Freddie at Adam’s right, and with Harry next to Freddie, so that the wine discussion might be localized. She instructed Rosa carefully in the pouring of the wine—the tall glasses for the white wine, the round ones for the red—“and keep them two-thirds full, and never, never mix them”—all of this in Spanish, to make certain Rosa understood. The Cassalas, in their late eighties or early nineties, were seated near Barbara on one side of the table, and near Philip on the other, both of them having volunteered their services for the two very old women and the two very old men. Barbara spoke of the old days, of the time of Mark Levy and Dan Lavette, of the run on the Cassala bank, of how Stephan had talked his father into financing the first shipping venture, of how Dan Lavette had courted the beautiful and wealthy Jean Seldon, of all the fascinating people who were dead and gone, and of how Admiral Emory Scott Land came from Washington and talked Dan Lavette into building liberty ships. For a few hours, these old people became young again, and Philip listened with fascination to Barbara as these two very old couples adjusted their hearing aids and resurrected the history of the Levys, the Lavettes, and the Cassalas.

  The other guests and the children were spaced down the table, three physicians and their wives and the two children, both of whom Barbara and Eloise had decided must be a part of the company. Eloise sat at the near end of the table, the stove end, with Mrs. Hope on her right and Judith on her left. Two silver seven-branched candelabra lit the table; and a great log burned in the fireplace over the still-glowing bed of coals; and the turkey, carved by Adam, stood like a mound of worthy exuberance. The challah was not sliced, but broken by hand.

  Philip suggested that they join hands for the blessing. “We are thankful for the goodness and love around this table, and for all the good memories.” Eloise wept, thinking of her son who had lived to see none of this; and old Adam dried his tears and offered a toast: “Shalom” to peace.

  Judith chose red wine. She tasted from her goblet, smiled at Adam, and then drank more deeply. “What is it?” she asked reverentially.

  “Highgate 1973,” Adam replied.

  “It’s magnificent.”

  “The best year we ever had. We tried, but we never could do it again.”

  “What do you suppose does it, Adam?” Dr. Hope asked. “Is it a condition of the soil, or the weather, or something mysterious that you can’t influence? And did you save enough for yourself?”

  “We can save only so much. When we have a great year, we have to sell the wine. It’s not just the money, but a year like 1973 is the best advertising in the world. To answer your question, Doctor, I simply don’t know. Yes, the weather, the days of sun— well, God only knows. We have had two successive years of fine wine, but not like 1973.”

  “I feel honored,” Dr. Hope said.

  “We’re honored by your daughter’s entrance into the family, and by you and your good wife.”

  Freddie listened in amazement. This was not the Adam he knew, and this was perhaps the longest speech he had ever heard Adam make.

  “How many bottles are left?” Adam asked Freddie.

  “About two cases. I tried to save more. But we have a few outlets where they really know wine, and they pleaded, and we had to satisfy them. I’m saving one case for our wedding—if you will permit me, Pop?”

  “I couldn’t think of a better use for it.”

  “Did you ever think of putting some up for auction?” Harry asked.

  “You can’t get one of those prices for an American wine,” Freddie reflected. “We worship the French. Yet I took a few bottles to France some years ago, and I could have sold them a thousand cases if we’d had it.”

  “It could happen again—although with the blight…” Adam shrugged.

  “Still, it could happen again,” Freddie said. “We make the best Cabernet in California. We also make a Pinot Noir that is not to be sneezed at. We use more than fifty-one percent of the Sauvignons in the blending. We keep a careful record of the blending and the aging casks. There are wineries that mix casks without a second thought. We keep careful records. We have records going back forty years. We use eight percent more than the legal minimum of the Sauvignons, but sometimes we vary that and vary the blending grapes. We never mix casks.”

  “I’m new to all this, Dr. Hope,” Harry said. “I bought a winery down the road, the Hawthorn place. I’m learning how much taste means. I’m sure it’s a foolish question, but can you teach taste, Adam?”

  “Not foolish at all, Harry,” Adam replied, in his element now. “It’s paramount. Taste is the only measure we have when it comes to wine. But can we teach taste? Well, not really, but you can teach people to recognize diff
erences. When it comes to taste in clothes or behavior, you can copy the taste of those you respect. Many of the big wineries have professional tasters, either under contract or intermittently—but then the winemaker must cast his hopes on the taste of others. If you like wine, your taste will sharpen.”

  “We won’t call Harry’s white wine Chardonnay,” Freddie said. “Harry and I and Adam agree that it should be called Highgate White Table Wine, and we’re reaching toward a sort of dry Sauterne Semillon—I’ve long been fighting a losing battle against the French names. I think our wines are distinct, and we’ve done some blendings, and Adam came on some that are very good, even though he has a bias against white wine.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Barbara cried out, “here’s this poor man at our Thanksgiving table for the first time, and you’re boring him to death with wine talk.”

  “Oh no, not boring at all,” Dr. Hope protested. “This is a wonderful new world.”

  “You’re not boring Dad,” Judith called out. “He’s asked me a thousand questions about this wine business, so please tell it all.”

  Freddie whispered to Harry, “I’ve had some labels printed up, and I’ll show them to you later—white paper, classy printing. How about a price of a hundred and ten dollars a case, which is rather high for a table wine, but we think the Highgate name will carry it?”

  Barbara and Philip—having, along with the aged Cassalas, finished their genealogical recollections and turned to the turkey and trimmings—were now listening to the discussion at the end of the table. Philip, locked into a wine family, was fortunately endlessly fascinated by the lore of wine, and he wondered whether the Greeks and the Jews, the great wine producers of antiquity, had engaged in the same discussions. Certainly the methods had not changed a great deal.

  Eloise attempted to apologize to Mrs. Hope for the wine talk, but Mrs. Hope said, “Thank goodness, because he won’t talk about dentistry. You know, so many poor people can’t afford any. real dentistry at all, and they go to dentists who simply pull teeth— even if the cavity is tiny, they just pull the tooth and charge five dollars, which is sinful, and Dr. Hope doesn’t do that. If a tooth has to be filled, he fills it, and if some poor patient can’t pay, he charges the same five dollars or nothing at all, because he’s a good decent Christian. But if he talks about dentistry among the poor, he gets so upset that it just spoils the evening, so I’m very happy that they’re talking about wine.”

  “But you haven’t touched your wine.”

  “Oh, I’m not a drinker. I tasted it though.”

  Barbara caught Eloise’s gaze, and Eloise nodded slightly in the silent language that existed between them. All in all, the meal was a great success. The log in the grate burned down happily. Periodically Adam arose to carve more turkey, and the great beast shrank to its bony skeleton. Contrary to Eloise’s expectations, the children ate the turkey with enthusiasm, forgetting all moral questions that might have arisen with Murtle and Turtle, and the hamburger went uneaten. There was enough turkey, but no more than enough. Later, in the living room, Philip, at Barbara’s urging, led the hymn of Thanksgiving, with Freddie at the piano. Barbara counted her blessings and tried to keep the tears back.

  THE WEDDING AT THE small Mount Zion Baptist Church in Oakland made Barbara feel that she might have preferred to be married in this manner than with all the poshness and poached salmon and pavilions at Highgate. There were pews for two hundred people at best, and every seat was taken, as well as folding chairs crowded into every inch of available space. Not only were the Levys and Lavettes represented in total, but there were at least a dozen photographers who had worked with Judith, and agency people, and magazine people. At least a third of the congregation was white. In the lower room of the church, where a party would be held after the wedding, Judith stood with her bridesmaids, all of them in pale lavender, while the bride wore white. Barbara went downstairs with Freddie’s belated bouquet of orchids, and Judith seized her and drew her to one side.

  “Tell me the truth,” she pleaded to Barbara. “I bulge, don’t I?”

  “Not a bit. Absolutely not a bit.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me?” Judith whispered.

  The wedding gown had layers of tulle across the front as well as a veil of beautiful Chantilly lace, and Barbara whispered that even if she did bulge—and she didn’t—no one would notice.

  “How’s Freddie taking it?”

  “Nervous as a cat.”

  “Hang on to him, Barbara. Don’t let him run away.”

  “He adores you.”

  Upstairs, in the vestibule of the church, Freddie stood with Sam, his best man, both of them in full-dress regalia; and with Dr. Hope, who would give away the bride. “When does this start?” Sam wanted to know. “I’m operating in two hours.”

  “You will be at the hospital in two hours,” Barbara assured him. “Don’t be impossible, Sam.”

  “Oh no,” Dr. Hope put in. “He’s right. If he has an operation in two hours, we must get started.”

  “When they’re ready, we’ll start,” Barbara said firmly.

  Eloise came bustling into the vestibule, and hearing Barbara, she said, “The choir’s ready. Freddie, you look absolutely beautiful.” She was in a marvelous array of blue silk that matched her eyes. “I am so excited.”

  The tones of the choir could be heard now. Dr. Hope turned to one of the ushers and suggested that he go downstairs and tell the ladies to start up the stairs. Sam relaxed, and Barbara, escorted by Sam, took her place in the church, leaving Eloise to enter on Freddie’s arm.

  Inside, the choir—ten men and ten women, the men in full dress and the women in white—were singing:

  Blessed are they who come before thee,

  Blessed are they who shall be joined …

  It all went beautifully, and in short order Freddie and Judith stood side by side, both of them towering over Reverend Baker, who said firmly, “If there be anyone here who knows of any reason why these two, Frederick Lavette and Judith Hope, should not be bound together in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

  Since no one spoke—quieting a sudden fear that took hold of Freddie—the Reverend Baker went on to say, “Holy matrimony is a blessed state, ordained by our Lord Jesus Christ, the joining of two souls for eternity. Do you, Frederick Lavette, recognize this state, and do you take this woman, Judith Hope, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to cherish and protect, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as you shall live?”

  Freddie nodded, and Judith poked him and whispered, “Say ‘Yes.’”

  “Oh—yes,” Freddie said. “Yes absolutely.”

  “And do you, Judith Hope,” Reverend Baker went on, “take this man, Frederick Lavette, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to cherish and care for, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as you shall live?”

  “I do,” Judith answered.

  Sam hunted for the ring, which he had stowed in his vest pocket, and handed it to Freddie, who appeared surprised to see it. “Don’t drop it,” Sam hissed.

  “Repeat after me,” the reverend said. “With this ring I do thee wed, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  Freddie repeated the words and then put the ring on Judith’s finger, and then he threw his arms around her and kissed her. The choir burst into a joyful chorus of “Oh Happy Day!”

  There was the throwing of the bouquet and kissing of the bride and groom, and then a very good catered dinner in the big room below the church. Then, at seven o’clock, Judith and Freddie changed clothes, took their already packed luggage, kissed Dr. and Mrs. Hope, Eloise and Adam and Barbara and Sally and May Ling, and rushed off to the airport to catch a plane for Paris.

  As Philip said to Barbara, raising a glass of wine, “Altogether, a wonderful wedding.”

  “I feel proud of Freddie,” Barbara agreed. “He did nobly, all things considered.”

  BARBARA FELT A
NEW SORT OF COMPASSION for Philip as she watched him slave over his Christmas Eve sermon. It appeared to her like tearing out pieces of his own flesh. She had seen him slave over other sermons, and none of them came easily, but now he filled his wastebasket with torn sheets of paper again and again. The process of writing had come naturally to her; she had written stories as a child, novels and screenplays as an adult, and newspaper columns. She wrote what she saw and what she felt, and whatever she wrote was an outcry against injustice and oppression; it was the way she saw the world, the way she had always seen the world. But Philip struggled with each word, and when it came to some three days before Christmas, he finally admitted that he had what he wanted—or as close to what he wanted as he was likely to come. For the two Sundays before Christmas, he begged his assistant minister to do the sermons for him.

  “Is it anything we can talk about?” Barbara asked him.

  “No. It’s something I’ve been struggling with. I have to fight it through.”

  Barbara asked him whether he wanted her to read it. She had read all of his sermons since they were going together, and very occasionally, she would make some small suggestion. She felt that the sermons were his, and she had no right to change them in any significant way; but this time he shook his head and said, “No, my dear. In this one I speak about you, and I want you to hear it as the congregation hears it—if you will allow me to speak about you and don’t consider it an infringement on our privacy.”