“Thank you, Mary. As always, you’re a godsend.”
“I hope it’s a lovely evening, Mrs. A.”
“Well, it couldn’t be worse than last Christmas, could it? Goodness, it’s almost Christmas again.”
“Good night, Mrs. A.…”
The first to arrive are Mogie and Christina—Mogie in black tie, and Christina in a red chiffon evening dress—and they are quickly followed by Joan, Josh, Charles, and the others.
“Golly, Mrs. Auerbach, what a beautiful apartment!” exclaims Daryl Carter—for that is the name of Karen’s young husband, Essie remembers it now—“It’s one of the most beautiful I think I’ve ever seen!” Mr. Carter still tends, Essie thinks, to be somewhat overawed by Auerbach purchasing power. But that, perhaps, will pass with time.
“Well, it’s a little hotelish and impersonal, but I’m only going to be here overnight.”
He takes her by the elbow and steers her to a corner of the big sitting room. “A quick word with you,” he says in a low voice. “I want you to watch my Karen tonight. We’ve been going to A.A. meetings together.”
“A.A.? What’s that?”
“Alcoholics Anonymous. We go together.”
“Are you an alcoholic?”
“No, but I’ve finally gotten Karen to admit she has a problem. I go to the meetings with her for support.”
“Very nice of you, I must say.”
Leaning close to her ear, he says, “She’s been sober for two weeks, and so tonight may be a little rough on her. Her first cocktail party. But I think you’re going to be proud of her.”
“I think this is all a very promising development,” Essie says.
“Just wanted you to know. I know how really concerned you’ve been about her.”
Essie wants to tell him that, on the contrary, she has long since passed the point of being concerned about, or even surprised by, the behavior of any of her children or grandchildren. She lets this thought pass through her mind, and out again, and simply says, “I’m glad.”
A waiter moves among them, passing drinks, and everybody seems to be expounding on how fit Charles looks. Well, he does look fit, but Essie permits herself a jealous thought: Why has no one remarked on how fit she looks? Essie moves back into the room again and says, “I’m afraid I was a little nervous and rattled on the plane, and I didn’t really get a chance to talk to any of you. But anyway, I’m glad you’re here.” She lifts her glass. “Cheers. L’chayim. And Merry Christmas.”
“Hear, hear,” several voices say, and there is the sound of glasses clinking.
“Here’s to Mother,” Josh says. “And thanks for coming.”
“Hear, hear …”
“Golly,” says Daryl Carter, who is still hovering close to her. “Just think—the tallest building in the world!”
“I think we’ll all be pretty proud and impressed by what we see tomorrow,” Josh says.
More drinks come, and hors d’oeuvres are passed, and the candlelit room fills with chatter.
“Mother Auerbach, are you ready for some exciting news?” a woman’s voice calls out. Mother Auerbach, Essie thinks? But surely she cannot be here. Essie distinctly remembers going to Lily’s funeral. It was years ago. Then she realizes that the woman speaking is Christina, and that Christina is addressing her. “News? What news?” she asks.
Christina Auerbach swirls the skirt of her dress with one foot, tosses her blond hair, and raises her glass high. “Mogie and I are going to have a baby!” she cries. “The O.B. says the end of March. You’re going to have another grandchild, Mother Auerbach. Is that super?”
“Well. Congratulations,” Essie says.
Christina winks broadly at her husband. “Lord knows we tried hard enough, didn’t we, honey?” she says.
Essie glances at Mogie for a reaction to what—or so it seems to Essie—is not an entirely appropriate remark. But Mogie’s face is beaming, pleased as punch.
Joan, who has seemed somewhat subdued up to this point, now sits forward in her chair and, with a little smile, says, “That’s lovely, Tina. And now I have some pretty exciting news of my own.”
Christina, looking somewhat crestfallen at having been so quickly upstaged, says, “Oh? What’s that, Joanie?”
“I’m going to make a movie.”
“Really? You mean produce—”
“No,” Joan says, still smiling in the direction of her left elbow. “Not produce. Act. Star in, actually.”
“Oh, Joanie, how fabulous! How did that happen?”
“Isn’t it funny? For years, people used to tell me I looked exactly like Gene Tierney. And now they want me to do this movie.”
“But how?”
“Roy. He set it up for me. He has all these Hollywood contacts.”
“Who is Roy?” Essie asks.
“Roy Conn. My lawyer.”
Essie thinks: clever Mr. Cohn, to come up with some new project for Joan, who has always needed a project of some sort, to divert her boundless nervous energy from her legal problems into something that probably has not much to do with anything, but will give her something to dine out on for a while. Still, there is something about Joan’s announcement, and the manner in which it is being delivered, which gives Essie a slightly uneasy feeling.
“Well, tell us more, Joanie!”
“It’s a made-for-television movie about the Kennedys. I play Rose Kennedy—as a younger woman, of course. When Roy heard about the part, he decided I’d be perfect for it. He asked me if I’d do it, and I thought—why not? My divorce from Richard will be final in three more weeks, and I’ll be free as a breeze.”
“That’s just fabulous, Joanie! When do you start?”
“We’re just waiting for the contracts. Once they’re inked in, we’ll have a deal.”
“Oh, Joanie, that is scrumptious news,” Christina says. “Can we come on the set and watch you? I’ve always wanted to see a movie being made.”
“Well,” Joan says carefully, “I may insist on a closed set. My first acting experience, after all.…”
Essie has been counting heads. Someone is missing. “Where is Daisy?” she asks.
“She telephoned,” Josh says. “She’ll be a little late. Her plane was delayed because of New York weather, but she’ll be here.”
“Oh, good.”
“Joanie, I just think that this is the most exciting news,” Christina says again. “I’m so happy for you—it’s much more exciting than having a little old baby. Any woman can do that.”
Christina, believe it or not, is rising in Essie’s estimation. Real joy over another’s good fortune is something one doesn’t encounter often these days, and it is altogether pleasant to behold. Essie only hopes that Joan appreciates this. Christina may not be a particularly bright woman, but at least she is a good-hearted one. For a good heart, a woman deserves high marks.
“… I just want to quickly go over the seating tomorrow at the speaker’s table,” Josh is saying to her. “On your left will be Uncle Charles, and on your right will be a fellow I want you to be particularly nice to—one of our most important suppliers, Ekiel Matoff.”
“Who?”
“Ekiel Matoff—head of the Matoff Shoe Company. He makes all our men’s and women’s footwear.”
Essie’s head feels as though there are cobwebs growing in it, and she reaches for another martini from a passing tray. Could it be possible that there were two men in the world named Ekiel Matoff, and both in the shoe business besides? No, she thinks, it could not be possible, he must be the same. So much, then, for her long-ago vision of Ekiel Matoff as a victim of the Old World who would never enter the new. So much for looking for symbols in anyone, or in anything.
“He’s sort of Mr. Shoes, U.S.A.,” Josh says. “Kind of a curmudgeonly type, like a lot of self-made men, but don’t worry. Under the gruff exterior he’s a nice old guy. You’ll like him.”
“I think I met him once, years ago,” she says at last, thinking: I am dreaming, a
nd this is a dream.
“The podium and the mike will only be one chair away from where you’ll be sitting. So when it’s your turn, and when I introduce you, all you’ll have to do is stand, step behind Uncle Charles’s chair, and you’ll be at the mike. A copy of your speech will have been placed on the podium ahead of time.”
“Josh, sit down beside me for a minute,” Essie says, patting the seat beside her. “I’m worried about Joan. What’s this movie business she’s talking about, anyway?”
“Just one of Joan’s schemes,” he says, sitting down. “Pie in the sky.”
“Another pie in the sky! I’m positive of it. Just like her newspaper. Nothing will come of it—you know that. But the trouble with Joan’s pies in the sky is that they always cost her money. This movie thing—wait and see. Before it’s over, they’ll be asking her to invest in it, and another pile of money will go down the drain.”
“That does seem to be Joan’s pattern, Mother.”
“Please don’t let it happen again.” She leans close to him and whispers urgently, “Joshie, I want you to promise me something. You know Joan as well as I, but she’s still my daughter and I don’t want to think of her going bankrupt or starving in the streets, with all her money spent on Hollywood lawyers. When I’m gone, will you promise to take care of Joan for me? Will you promise to take care of the money Joan will get from me? I want Joan to be comfortable, I want her to be well off as she has every right to be. But she needs to be controlled, Josh. Will you be that control when I’m gone?”
“Don’t talk like that, Mother.”
“But I must. It’s important. I’m going to be ninety, Josh. Joan’s money must be controlled. She must be put on an allowance, or something. When I’m gone, there’ll be only you to do it. Promise you will.”
“Joan isn’t going to like that very much, Mother.”
“I don’t care a fig whether she likes it or not! It’s got to be done. Otherwise, it’ll all go—” she waves her hand “—to Hollywood.”
“All right, Mother. I promise.”
“What are you two whispering about?” The voice is Mogie’s, and he is standing in front of them in his dinner jacket, smiling slightly, drink in hand. “Family secrets?”
“No!” Essie says impatiently. “It’s no secret at all.” The martinis have given her courage, and she raises her voice so that the whole room can hear. They want her to give a speech, she thinks. Very well, she will give them a speech. “Josh and I were talking about Joan,” she says, and her eyes find her daughter across the room. “Joan,” she says, “we’re all delighted with this movie thing of yours, as Christina has said. But your father used to talk a lot about a company’s ‘track record,’ and I was simply saying to Josh—and I will gladly remind you—that in business as well as matrimony your track record stinks!”
“Mother!”
“And so I was saying to Josh that I do not want to see my daughter going bankrupt or starving in the streets. And I was saying to Josh that I do not wish to go to my grave without knowing that Joan will always be comfortably taken care of.”
“Joan doesn’t need you to take care of her,” Mogie says.
“Shut up, Mogie!” Joan shouts. “We all expect to be taken care of, don’t we? Let her finish what she has to say.”
“And I was saying to Josh that since I do not want my daughter starving in the streets, it will be necessary to appoint someone to manage her money for her after I’m gone. To manage whatever sums she inherits from me. To handle the purse strings. And I have asked Josh to take on that assignment from me, and he has given me his promise to do so. Since you’re all family, this pertains to all of you. There. That’s all I have to say to you this evening, before God and this company.”
“Josh!” Joan cries. “Josh, Josh, Josh! It’s always Josh, isn’t it, Mother? Well, I won’t stand for this. I’ll sue. I’ll—”
“You won’t sue,” Essie says loudly, “because it’s my will. And you are all witnesses to my will, every Jack Stout of you! There,” she says, pausing for effect. “As I believe Huey Long once said, ‘I guess that will show the yellow-bellied sapsuckers where the bear sits in the buckwheat patch!’” In the silence that follows, Essie sees, out of the corner of her eye, Karen moving quietly toward the bar. “Karen!” she warns. “Remember Alcoholics Anonymous!” Karen sits down hard on the nearest chair, head lowered, shoulders hunched, twisting her rings.
“Mother, I think you’re drunk,” Joan says.
“Think what you will, said hard-hearted Jill.”
“Well, there’s one more thing I’d like to know, while we’re on the subject of Josh—” Joan begins.
And it is at this precise moment that Daisy Stevens St. George chooses to open the door to the suite, and step into the sitting room, a little breathless, in fur scarves. “Oh, dear,” she says after a moment, looking about at the others. And then, “I think I’ve picked a bad moment—”
“Nonsense,” Essie says. “We were just thrashing things out, as usual. Come right in—you know everybody here. You’re family, too. Joan just told me I was drunk, and maybe I am. Waiter, fix Mrs. St. George a drink, and while you’re at it, I’ll have another myself. Welcome to the family, Daisy. And now Joan says she has a question she wants to ask.”
“Oh, dear,” Daisy says again, sitting down, still in her scarves.
There is another silence, and then Mogie says, “You’ve put us all in a listening modality, Mother, with that little speech.”
“What does that mean? Psychobabble. You always were a damned fool, Mogie.”
Mogie is still smiling, but it is an unpleasant smile now, and his eyes are like slits, and Essie briefly wonders—as she occasionally has in the past—whether he is “on” something. The smile reminds her, too, of the terrible temper tantrums of his youth, when even Miss Kroger claimed she could not control him, and when that first alienist, who specialized in troubled children, Dr. Von Mark, was consulted and suggested a military school—advice which was not, though perhaps it should have been, followed.
As she watches him, the smile fades. Leaning back against a writing table, he says, “I’ll ignore the personal insult, Mother. It’s just that we all think you’re being terribly unfair to Joan.”
“Fair or not, it’s what I want,” Essie says. “Give the little lady anything she asks for, as the fellow says. Thank you,” she says to the waiter, accepting her drink.
Turning to Daisy, Mogie says, “Perhaps you’d like a little synopsis of the scenario thus far, Aunt Daisy.”
“Oh, dear. I don’t think—”
“Mother has just announced her intention of turning over Joan’s entire financial affairs to Josh. He’s to be in complete control of her. Of course it’s always been Josh this, Josh that, see what Josh says—just as Joan points out. And if it were me Mother was trying to zap, I wouldn’t be the least surprised. Nobody ever asks me for an opinion. Nobody ever asks me for the time of day, even though my sperm has managed to fertilize an egg cell that will bring another Auerbach into the world, which is more than anybody else has managed to do recently. But it isn’t me—Mother’s target is Joan. She’s going to see to it that she runs Joan’s life even after she’s gone. And she’s chosen to hit Joan at a particularly vulnerable moment of her life. Her husband’s left her, she’s had to fold her paper—pretty inhuman, don’t you think?”
“Mogie, for Christ’s sake!” Josh says.
“Mother is planning to leave Joan absolutely powerless in Josh’s iron grip. She’ll have no more free will at all. She’ll be reduced to a puppet, with Josh pulling the strings!”
With that, Joan leaps to her feet. “Well, we’ll just see how powerless, how much of a puppet I’m going to be!” she cries. She turns to the waiters. “Gentlemen,” she says, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room. We are about to have a private family discussion.”
“Joan, this is my suite. My party.”
Daisy reaches for her gloves and ba
g. “Really, I must—”
“Everybody stay where you are,” Joan says, as though she were holding up a bank. “Do as I say,” she says to the waiters who, exchanging anxious looks, hurry into the kitchen and disappear behind the swinging door.
“What I have to say won’t take a minute, Mother. But if I’m going to spend the rest of my life under my kid brother’s thumb, I think I have a right to know something. And what I want to know, Mother, is who Josh Auerbach’s real father is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You heard what I said.”
“Joan, you’re quite crazy.”
Mogie closes his eyes. Phase Three is beginning perfectly.
“But that’s what I want to know! He doesn’t look like any of us—anybody can see that. He doesn’t look like Papa. He has blue eyes—”
The Auerbach Will Page 42