Portraits

by Cynthia Freeman

  But Ann was quite wrong. After Phillip had said goodnight that evening, he crossed the street and stood watching as the light went on in her bedroom. He leaned against a lamppost and lit a cigarette, hoping she might come to her window. When the cigarette burned down to his fingers without a glimpse of her, he turned and walked away.

  Although Ann couldn’t know it, she had completely misread Phillip. Not only had he wanted to kiss her, he had become infatuated with her in the brief time they’d known each other.

  The reason he had tried to remain aloof was precisely because he liked her so much. And he couldn’t possibly think about becoming seriously involved with a woman, not with his present—and future—obligation to support his parents. Although he’d been lucky enough to get a position after law school graduation working for Levin, Cahn and Smith, one of the most prestigious firms in the city, in reality he was nothing more than a glorified clerk. His salary was so pitiful that there was almost nothing left after the rent and bare necessities were paid. So how in the hell could he think of getting married? And girls like Ann expected marriage. No, he had only one choice—to put her out of his mind.

  But every night for the next six weeks he lay in the dark and ached to feel her in his arms. All he could see was her face, those lovely violet eyes, that clear, porcelain skin. The harder he tried to forget her, the more difficult it became. As time passed, he decided he wanted Ann more than anything else in the world.

  The truth was that there had been little time for girls in his life, since he had been so busy earning enough to put himself through college and law school. Until he’d met Ann, his celibacy had been annoying, but not a serious problem. But she had evoked a desire he could not extinguish. Where he had gotten the strength to refrain from kissing her the night of Kenny’s wedding, he would never know.

  Although it wasn’t apparent to Ann, Phillip was very unsure of himself. He had become almost obsessed with the idea that he would never amount to anything, and as the notion of marriage continued to haunt him, he became convinced that he would never be able to offer Ann anything. For him to have to struggle financially was one thing, but to ask her to share his poverty seemed impossible.

  The dilemma that Phillip found himself in was not of his making. His father had been born to a wealthy family, and as a child Phillip had every reason to expect an easy life. He had been a change-of-life baby, and after years of longing for a son, his parents had lavished attention on him and indulged him to the extreme.

  It was the roaring twenties, and America was on a spending spree. Few could resist the lure of greater fortunes. One could buy stocks on the slenderest of margins. And Simon had plunged along with the rest, recklessly pledging his stores as collateral. Of course, he should have seen the gathering clouds, but he preferred to leave his investments to his broker. Then, when the dam broke, he bitterly blamed the broker as he was forced to sell his luxury shops at a fraction of their worth. By November 1929, he was wiped out, and like many other victims of the crash, he never recovered from the blow.

  Phillip had only been fourteen, but he would never forget the day his father had learned that he was bankrupt. He’d seemed to age all at once and afterward could never face his son with pride. Phillip had always displayed an interest in the business, and Simon had frequently boasted that he was a born merchant.

  But now all that was gone. And, without realizing it, Phillip had been emotionally scarred almost as deeply as Simon. Phillip’s ambition, his zest for life, would never recover. He decided he never wanted to be rich again; it made you too damn vulnerable. It made no difference that a fortune could be made again. He had seen what its loss had done to his father—and to others, friends of the family who had killed themselves rather than try to start over. No amount of money guaranteed security, he decided. Better to accustom yourself to living without it.

  Almost immediately; the house in Sea Cliff had gone on the auction block. Phillip had been shattered watching the eighteenth-century antiques, the china and paintings, being snatched up for next to nothing. Since birth he’d been taught to cherish them. They were his legacy. Try as he might, he could not keep from blaming his father for his lack of foresight. As Phillip withdrew into sullen silence, his mother’s heart ached to see the rift between the boy and her husband. Eva knew Simon was already racked with guilt and prayed that he was unaware of Phillip’s resentment.

  But her prayers were in vain. Simon recognized his son’s anger and despised himself for throwing away the legacy his family had entrusted to him to protect for the next generation. How could he have been so blind as not to see that the market could not expand forever? He almost welcomed Phillip’s silent fury; it was a fitting penance.

  The burden of Simon’s folly was not only in what he owed to the future, but to the past. Visions of his grandfather’s fury haunted him, and his sleep was frequently interrupted by dreams of the old man describing his long struggle to establish his fortune.

  Israel Coulter and Phillip Coulter, his great-grandson, were the same age, fourteen, when their respective worlds shattered—except that Israel had used the blow as a stimulus to create a new life.

  During an even more than usually bloody and widespread Russian pogrom, Israel Coulter’s entire family had been massacred by a drunken mob. He was the only survivor, and he realized that if he remained in Russia he too would eventually be destroyed like the rest. Even in the depths of his rage and grief, he knew that God must have spared him for some reason.

  With little to aid him beyond his own wits and a few miraculously salvaged coins, the boy made his way from the Crimea to Turkey, and, finally, three years later, to the shores of America and then across the country to San Francisco. At seventeen, he was already a man. With a small box of pins and needles, he set out to make his living as a tailor, a trade he’d been taught since early childhood. In a city where gold was god, he soon prospered.

  He was lucky in that first year to meet a lovely Jewish girl, Sarah, whom he married, and luckier still a year later when she gave birth to a son, Daniel. Israel never forgot the vow he made at his parents’ grave that their seed would never die.

  Watching Daniel grow tall and unafraid in the new world, Israel thanked his God. His happiest day was when he and Daniel watched the sign go up over the first store: COULTER AND SON, 1870.

  That was only the beginning. By the time Simon was born, there were over a dozen prosperous shops. America was booming, and Israel was a shrewd and prudent businessman. He lived to ninety, surviving his son, Daniel, by nearly a decade. Simon always remembered the day when Israel called him to his bedside and said, “This is your legacy, Simon. I leave it to you with my blessings. Guard it. Keep it safe, for your sons.”

  Israel could not have foreseen that the word prudence would disappear in the postwar boom of the twenties. If you had money, why not triple it, and Simon, like most of his generation, gambled recklessly and lost. He would never recover his pride. He envisioned Phillip finishing high school no closer to knowing what he was going to do without the family business than he had been on that tragic day in 1929.

  It hadn’t been an easy task, but somehow Simon had managed to salvage a little money from his collapsed empire. After dinner one evening, he sat across the kitchen table from Phillip and asked, “What are your plans, Phillip, now that you’re graduating?

  Phillip lowered his eyes. “I really don’t know.”

  “Well, Phillip, I’ve thought a great deal about your future.”

  For a moment, Phillip wanted to say, Why didn’t you think about me while I still had a future? But instead he asked, “And what have you been thinking?” hoping that his anger didn’t show.

  “The one thing no one can take from you is a profession. I’ve been able to scrape up enough money so that you can start premed at the University of California.”

  It had been decided for him, Phillip thought resentfully. But he said nothing, and only stared at his father’s worn face. Over the past y
ear he had been able to view his father’s failure with more compassion. He did love both his mother and father deeply, in spite of everything, and lately he had begun to realize that he himself was to blame for not having been able to accept the devastating change in their fortunes. He had made his parents doubly miserable by letting them see his resentment. Like his father, Phillip realized he too lacked Israel Coulter’s ambition and iron will.

  Looking at Simon, Phillip knew that he could not deny his father’s attempt to make amends.

  “I’ll do it, Dad,” he forced himself to say. “Thanks.”

  And with that, the die was cast. Phillip enrolled at U.C. But his future as a doctor was cut short the first morning he confronted a cadaver. Ice-cold perspiration rolled down his back, and his stomach heaved uncontrollably.

  Although he knew that his father would be terribly hurt, Phillip knew that he had to drop medicine. As he suspected, Simon took the decision badly. He had wanted Phillip to become a doctor as much for his own sake as his son’s. If Phillip were a success, Simon would not be a complete failure, so when he saw Phillip was adamant, Simon suggested law.

  Ironically, he could not have forced Phillip into a more incongruous profession. To be an attorney requires great confidence as a speaker and an adviser. Phillip had none. He’d been trained from childhood to be a merchant. That was all he’d ever wanted to be. Sure, he could have gotten a job in a men’s store. That was probably the only thing he had any talent for—selling socks over a counter, or perhaps Arrow shirts.

  But he could not bring himself to refuse his father the only thing Simon had left: pride in his son. Phillip finally acquiesced.

  Somehow he plodded through college and law school. Graduation left him with a strange feeling of relief, rather than the conviction that he had found his métier.

  Dressed in a black gown, the mortarboard on his head, Phillip stood on the stage, looking out at his parents. When he saw his father take out a handkerchief and wipe his eyes, Phillip knew that whatever his feelings about his profession, he had made the only choice possible.

  A year had passed since then, and the only change was that he had another birthday—his twenty-sixth. Every time he thought of Ann, he realized how empty his life was. Unhappy in his professional life, he had allowed nothing else to touch him—not beauty, not joy, not love. One night, after six weeks of ruthlessly trying to forget her, he realized that if he continued to deny his desire, he would never become a whole human being.

  Closing his mind to further doubt, he picked up the phone and dialed her number, which he’d committed to memory so many weeks ago. But when he heard it ring, it suddenly occurred to him, what if she wouldn’t go out with him? What if she wasn’t even interested in him? He had been so caught up in his own feelings that he hadn’t even given a thought to hers. She was probably offended that he hadn’t had the guts to call her. The thought of her rejection made his palms sweat. Then he heard her voice saying, “Hello?”

  “Ann—how are you? This is Phillip,” he managed to say.

  “Phillip?” She sounded surprised.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner, but I’ve been out of town … busy on a case,” he lied awkwardly.

  Ann didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All of a sudden she felt a surge of anger. She had an urge to scream, How dare you ignore me the way you have? But instead she swallowed the hurt and answered, “That sounds exciting.”

  The deception was almost too much for Phillip to sustain, as he held the receiver in his sweaty palm. “Oh, yes … very. Tell me, how have you been?”

  “Oh, wonderful, just wonderful, thank you. And you?”

  Lousy, plain lousy. But he said aloud, “Okay, I guess.”

  Ann suddenly sensed Phillip’s loneliness and she felt ashamed of all the ill-natured thoughts she had harbored about him. She even began excusing him for not calling.

  “What are you doing Saturday night?” he was asking.

  He’s asking me out! she realized, her pulse beating wildly. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Nothing. I wasn’t planning anything special, that is.”

  “Great. Would you care to have dinner with me?”

  “Oh, Phillip, that would be lovely.”

  “Do you like Chinese food?”

  She didn’t, but it didn’t matter. “Yes, I love it.”

  “Will seven be all right?”

  “Yes. And, Phillip, thanks so much for calling.”

  If I hadn’t been such a coward, I would have done it weeks ago, he thought. But he said only, “I’m sorry I haven’t had time sooner.”

  Chapter Three

  THE NEXT DAY ANN stood behind the hosiery counter at Magnin’s, scarcely aware of what she was doing. If she’d ever been happy that she only worked a half day Saturday, it was today. She was happy even though she was missing her weekly luncheon with Ruthie. Instead, she rushed home after work, washed her hair, and then sat before the mirror making dozens of tiny pincurls. She did her nails, plucked her brows, and changed into four different dresses before he arrived.

  Scrutinizing her reflection in the mirror, she sighed pensively. If only she knew his favorite color. In fact, if she only knew what he liked in general, she wouldn’t be so nervous. Tonight was so important. She just had to be perfect. Who should she pretend to be?

  The forty-nine-year-old Ann, sitting in her lonely living room, laughed bitterly. Oh, the naiveté of her generation. Why hadn’t it occurred to her to just be herself? But how could she have, when she’d had no idea in all the world who Ann Pollock was? Besides, to have “been herself would have been drab and dull.

  She remembered running downstairs the second the doorbell rang, grateful her father and stepmother were out. At least there would be no awkward introductions. When he stepped into the hallway, she saw again how handsome he was and was overcome with an unexpected rush of desire.

  Suddenly she had difficulty breathing evenly. She could scarcely meet his eyes for fear that he would see in them a reflection of her fantasies. She would just die if Phillip knew how she had longed for him to hold her.

  Praying for composure, she said softly, “How are you, Phillip?”

  “Fine, Ann. You look lovely.”

  “Thank you. Would you wait a moment while I get my coat?”

  “Sure.” He watched as she went to the closet.

  God, he’d been crazy to think that he could ever cut her out of his life.

  His feeling for her increased as he sat in the dimly lit dining room of Chang Lee’s Imperial Palace. She looked enchanting with the dark ringlets framing her delicate face.

  “Good evening, sir,” said the waiter in halting English. “You like order?”

  “What do you feel like having, Ann?” Phillip asked.

  “Gosh, I don’t know anything about Chinese food except chow mein. Why don’t you order?”

  He looked at her apprehensively. “I thought you said you loved it.”

  “Oh, I do! That is—well … it all sounds so good. I’ll let you order for us.”

  She didn’t like it. He could tell. Damn it, I shouldn’t have brought her here, he thought, but it was the only decent place he could really afford. Now she was just trying to be nice. She was always so sweet, so agreeable. Those were the traits that had attracted him in the first place. Beyond that, Ann was so feminine; she made him feel strong and masculine, when for such a long time he had felt weak and powerless. He needed someone like Ann to look up to him, depend on him.

  The waiter brought Phillip out of his reverie. “I come back when you decide.”

  “Oh … oh, yes,” Phillip answered rather blankly. He looked at Ann. “Have you looked at the menu?”

  She answered seriously, as though it were the greatest decision in the world. “Yes … well … Phillip, I really don’t know. What do you suggest?”

  “You won’t laugh if I tell you this, will you?”

  “Of course not, Phillip.”

  “Well, I don’t kno
w anything about Chinese food except chow mein, either.”

  They looked at one another for a long moment, then broke into gales of laughter. For the moment the tension was broken.

  When Ann saw the waiter placing the plate of pork chow mein in front of her, she felt a little bit queasy. True, she hadn’t been reared kosher, but—just the thought of it!

  “I think this is awfully good. Don’t you, Ann?” asked Phillip, adding a little more soy sauce to the steamed rice.

  “Oh … just wonderful, Phillip. Delicious.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Oh, yes—absolutely!”

  As the meal progressed, the tension between them returned. What do we talk about now? Ann wondered. They couldn’t keep on talking about the food.

  Finally she asked, “Have you seen Ruthie and Kenny since their wedding?” She already knew the answer, of course, since she’d asked Ruthie any number of times.

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been busy. How about you?”

  “Oh, I have lunch with Ruthie every Saturday.”

  Stirring her chow mein with her fork, she took a dainty bite. “It was a beautiful wedding, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it really was.”

  Although this seemed a perfect opening, Phillip couldn’t muster the courage to say all the things he had been thinking. Lying in bed fantasizing a conversation was not quite the same as sitting across the table from the actual girl, a girl who would probably think you were out of your mind for asking her to marry you on the first date.

  How could he explain that he felt as though he’d known her all his life? How could he tell her that she’d been constantly in his thoughts since he’d last seen her? He had no idea whether or not she even liked him. And if she did accept his proposal, would he be able to support her and his parents as well? No, he didn’t have the right to ask Ann to share the burdens of his life. He still had his parents to take care of. The more he thought about it, the more guilty he felt. He simply couldn’t ask her tonight.

  Suddenly he looked up at Ann. She looked so beautiful in the soft light. Why the hell was he analyzing all this? Love was a spontaneous thing—it made its own luck.