The LeBaron Secret

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “As I came to the glass door, I saw that Miss Melissa was sitting on the diving board. With Mr. Lance. They were both in a state of undress, Madam.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was quite clear to me what was happening, Madam. Miss Melissa was instructing her cousin on how to perform the sexual act.”

  “A boy of twelve …”

  “He had an erection, Madam, if Madam will pardon the expression.”

  “I see. And then what happened?”

  “I made a very large noise opening the glass door, and they saw me, and they grabbed their towels and ran into the dressing rooms.”

  “Into the same room?”

  “He ran into the gentlemen’s, and she into the ladies’. I came immediately here.”

  “I see. Well, thank you, Thomas. I’ll handle this.”

  She decided, for reasons of her own, not to apprise Joanna of this episode. Instead, she immediately sent for Dr. Obermark.

  Dr. Obermark’s face was very grave. “I would recommend two procedures, in light of what you’ve told me,” he said. “With her history of hysteria and intractability, and her refusal to accept any form of discipline or to conform to normal patterns of restraint, I can only see this latest symptom as a warning to us that she is about to embark upon a career of compulsive promiscuity. I recommend, therefore, that her uterus be surgically removed for her own protection. I would also recommend that she be immediately examined, and treated, by a clinical psychologist. I have an excellent woman in mind.”

  Melissa was told that her appendix was inflamed, and would have to be removed. The same story, incidentally, was told to Melissa’s father. On the domestic front, Sari handled things by tactfully suggesting to Joanna that, now that things were looking up financially for Baronet, it might be appropriate for Joanna and Lance to find another house or apartment in the city.

  But somehow, someone—a nurse, perhaps?—told Melissa what had happened. Or, just as likely, she simply guessed.

  A few months after her operation, she said, “Was I a difficult birth, Mother?”

  “You were a darling baby.”

  “But I’ll never know what birth is like, will I.”

  “Don’t be silly, darling.”

  “Then why don’t I menstruate anymore, Mother?”

  “Not all girls do, Melissa.”

  “That’s a lie! All girls my age menstruate!”

  “Most girls would think it a blessing not to have to menstruate—not to have to get the curse. I know I would.”

  “Why do you want me to be a monster, Mother? Why do you want me to be more of a monster than I am already?”

  The clinical psychologist whom Dr. Obermark recommended had the unlikely name of Dr. Lilias de Falange. She submitted Melissa to a battery of tests, followed by lengthy interviews, and at the end of that summer she sent out the following typewritten report:

  Subject is an attractive, intelligent, well-dressed Caucasian female, with a tendency to underweight, age 15 yrs., 7 mos.

  Interpretation of Rorschach session follows:

  Considering this child’s response to Card V, we clearly have a situation of sexual obsession, as evidenced by fixation on Dd 22, the noted appendage of butterfly, which patient described as a “pulsating toothpick.” That this response is sexual, no one can doubt, but more importantly it demonstrates her conviction that penile insertion is dependent upon emaciation, and thus this shows her own bodily concerns are intimately linked to frigidity in sexual development.

  Not only is this patient potentially frigid, she also has evidence of lacunae in affective responses generally noticed in absence of color remarks to cards VIII and IX. What seems to be occurring is a fear of loss of vital fluids. (Could she conceivably be frightened of the onset of menses?) But, more importantly, she seems to be showing a marked void in emotional reciprocity, resulting in a forced, rigid approach to the world, more commonly expressed as a masculine, sadistic front. In short, this child’s feelings are truncated.

  Patient shows a remarkably similar developmental pattern to that of Dr. Edward Lahniers’ pioneering treatise on “vagabond youngsters,” published last year in Psychological Disturbances of Youth. In that study he noted the forward progression of a syndrome in which supposedly “loved” children became antagonistic and disorderly towards those authority figures who were responsible for them. Why, he asked, does not affection beget affection? The answer, he found, lay in misaligned allegiances. The child identifies with or takes the part of (either positively or negatively) the parent who has secrets to hide from the other parent. In other words, the child develops symptoms which prevent the parents from recognizing or working out marital problems. The result is emotional mayhem, because so long as the child was serving as a “secret agent,” chaos ruled in the home, but the chaos at least neutralized the child’s basic fear of disintegration of the family unit.

  Clearly this child is trying to protect secrets. Either she learns to stop being the victim, or she succumbs to chronic hypochondria, insanity, or suicide.

  Attached to the report was a bill for five thousand dollars.

  Looking back, were the measures Dr. Obermark recommended too harsh, too Draconian? Or does it matter, now that it’s too late and the effects were irreversible? Looking back, does any of this matter? Does it matter that, five years later, Dr. Obermark was the same Dr. Otto Obermark, the prominent pediatrician you may have read about, who was arrested for sexually molesting an eight-year-old boy in the underground parking garage below Union Square, and was sent for two years to San Quentin? Does it matter that Dr. Lilias de Falange later ran off with a rodeo performer, moved with him to Albuquerque, and briefly made the papers when their month-old baby strangled itself in its crib, while Dr. de Falange was drinking in a saloon downstairs? Does any of this matter?

  It was all years and years ago.

  “Mr. Philip Dougherty is calling, Madam, from the New York Times.”

  “Good Lord, has the Times gotten wind of Eric’s shenanigans already?” Sari says. “I only had Eric’s letter yesterday!”

  “I believe this is about the other matter, Madam—LeBaron and Murdock resigning the Baronet account. Mr. Dougherty writes the advertising column.”

  “Oh. Well, tell him I’ll have a prepared statement for him in half an hour.”

  Sari has known that some sort of statement will have to be forthcoming from her end of things. It was only a matter of time. At first, she has considered some sort of angrily worded statement, repudiating Joanna and her agency. “My sister-in-law has obviously gone soft in the head,” she has thought of saying. Or, “LeBaron and Murdock didn’t resign us. We fired them for gross incompetence.” And yet, now, considering what Eric is proposing, and the fact that this, too, will eventually come to the attention of the press, the wiser tactic would be to diffuse any impression that a family feud might be brewing. One can sometimes accomplish more with honey than with vinegar, as they say. A more gently worded statement from Baronet’s president seems to be in order. In five minutes, she has composed it.

  It is with genuine regret that Baronet Vineyards, Inc., announces its departure from LeBaron & Murdock, its agency for more than thirty years. “As evidence of the deep respect in which we continue to hold LeBaron & Murdock, what more powerful evidence can we hold up than the fact that, since 1952, when we first came to the agency, Baronet’s sales have risen from 150,000 cases a year to over 3,000,000 cases a year,” a Baronet spokesperson said today. “The parting of the ways comes as a result of small but persistent differences in merchandising philosophies.”

  Baronet will be interviewing for new agency representation over the next few months. No new appointment will be announced until these interviews have been completed.

  And now, having done that, Sari has another idea. Why not, in this new spirit of honeyed friendliness, telephone Joanna and read the press release to her, and ask her what she thinks of it? The idea appeals to her, because it contains an e
lement of surprise. Joanna won’t be expecting to hear from Sari on a conciliatory note at this juncture. She’ll expect Sari to be mad as hell. As of course she is.

  “I just wanted to see if you approved of my wording, Jo,” she says when she has her on the phone, “before I ask Miss Martino to dictate it to the Times.”

  “Why, I think it reads very nicely, Sari,” Joanna says. “It’s certainly kind of you to give us all the credit for your wonderful figures. You had an awful lot to do with that yourself, you know.”

  “No, I believe in giving credit where credit is due.”

  “Sari, I’m really terribly touched, darling.”

  “Of course, I was a little hurt that you didn’t give me any advance warning that you were doing this,” Sari says.

  “But I thought I was just going through the proper channels, telling Eric. After all, Eric is your advertising director.”

  “Was.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Sari. But I’m not going to tell you how to run your company.”

  “I can’t have him on my payroll while he’s plotting to sell my company to someone else, can I? I presume by now you’ve had his letter to the shareholders.”

  “Yes. This morning.”

  “May I ask you what you think of his proposal?”

  “Well, I must say I find it very tempting,” she says. “Harry’s offer seems generous, and Eric seems to think he might sweeten it by a point or two when we get into negotiations. It would “mean a lot of money for all of us, and there’s also another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As you and I get older, Sari, it’s been on my mind. You and I are now the senior stockholders, in terms of age. With a privately owned company like Baronet, if something should happen to either of us, the government could come in and place whatever price they wanted to on the stock. Our heirs could be taxed to the moon. We’d have no control. But if we were to become part of Kern-McKittrick, that’s a publicly owned company, and the price of its stock would be established in the marketplace. We’d be providing much more security for our children, and your grandchildren. That’s the point my lawyers have been making to me. What do your lawyers say?”

  “I haven’t met with them yet.”

  “What I think we ought to do,” Joanna says, “even before we start listening to what lawyers think, is all of us sit down together, like civilized human beings, and talk this whole thing over. It doesn’t have to be a High Noon shoot-out. After all, we’re connected by blood as well as wine.”

  “And speaking of that,” Sari says, “in any shareholder vote, we are going to have what I call a Lance problem. Or it could also be called a Melissa problem, if you remember the terms of Peter’s will.”

  “Yes. I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Things could get very—unpleasant, couldn’t they.”

  “Yes. But that’s if there’s a High Noon shoot-out. First let’s meet and talk about it. Why don’t I clear a few things off my desk, and fly out for the weekend? How would that be? Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

  Sari is silent for a moment. Then she says, “But what about me?”

  “Hm?”

  “What about me? If you and Eric and Lance all vote against me, and if Melissa finds out she’s legally entitled to vote more shares than she knows she owns, and votes it all against me—”

  “Melissa must not be told. That would be—”

  “But suppose I were to tell her?”

  “You wouldn’t do that, Sari. You’d do a lot of things, but you wouldn’t do that.”

  “I would, if I thought she’d vote on my side!”

  “You’re still talking about a High Noon shoot-out. It hasn’t come to that.”

  “And if she voted on my side, that would put the kibosh on you and Eric, wouldn’t it? Because I’d also have Peeper on my side.”

  “Sari, we’re quarreling. Let me come out to San Francisco for the weekend, and we’ll meet and talk—like civilized—”

  “Of course, Melissa could decide to vote against me. It would be just like her! Then where would I be?”

  “Sari,” she hears Joanna’s voice saying, “you’ve worked so hard for the company all these years. I should think, at this point, that you’d be ready to slip out of your girdle, relax—maybe travel, take a cruise—relax, and enjoy your life.”

  “This company is my life! This company is my entire life! It’s the only life I’ve ever had. You, Jo, of all people ought to know that. Jo—remember I did you a big favor once, long ago. Why don’t I hear you saying that you’ll take my side in this? Do you remember a pact made in blood? Whatever became of that, my fair-weather friend? Let me just say this—if you side with Eric in this thing, it will turn into a High Noon shoot-out, and I will tell Melissa everything she needs to know. Everything.”

  “Sari dear,” Joanna says. “Please relax. I’ll come out for the weekend. We’ll talk.”

  Eight

  “Tell us more, Joanna dear,” Constance LeBaron said, “about this new little friend of yours.” They were sitting in the red-plush breakfast room of the old LeBaron house on California Street.

  “She is absolutely the cat’s pajamas,” Joanna said through a mouthful of fresh grapefruit. “She’s small and dark, and absolutely beautiful, and she’s the most divinely talented actress who’s obviously going to become a simply famous movie star. Her name is Assaria Latham. Isn’t that the most divine name?”

  “Where does she go to school?”

  “Public school.”

  “Public school! Really! Not Burke’s or Hamlin’s.”

  “Don’t be a snob, Mother. Not every nice girl in San Francisco goes to Burke’s or Hamlin’s.”

  “And you say she lives on Howard Street. I didn’t think people lived on Howard Street. Isn’t that a little peculiar?”

  “All struggling artists have to starve in garrets, until they achieve fame and recognition.”

  “Have you seen the neighborhood where this girl lives?”

  “Nope,” Joanna said, gouging out another grapefruit section. “But I’m going to. She’s invited me.”

  “When you see the neighborhood around Howard Street, I think you may be in for a rude awakening,” her mother said. Constance LeBaron was a woman who pronounced a word like “neighborhood” as though it were spelled neighbourhood. “It is not one of our more desirable residential districts. In fact, I’m not sure I should want you to go there alone.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a snob, Mother. She’s such a snob, isn’t she, Daddy?”

  “Joanna’s always our little free spirit, isn’t she, Mother?” her father said.

  “And tell me again where you met this girl?” her mother said.

  “At school. They did her play at school. It was a wonderful play, and she was the best thing in it.”

  “But don’t forget,” her mother said, “that next year is to be your debutante year. And with everything that will be going on for you then, this new friend of yours might not quite—fit in, if you see what I mean.”

  “Why not, I wonder?”

  “What I mean is that she might not—feel comfortable with some of the other people we know.”

  “You don’t know Sari,” Joanna said. “She’d be at home in the humblest hovel or in the mightiest millionaire’s mansion. You haven’t seen her on the stage. I have.”

  “I assume that Mother and I will have an opportunity to meet this paragon,” Julius LeBaron said.

  “Yep. I’ve invited her here for tea next Sunday.” She was intently squeezing her grapefruit into her spoon, determined to extract every last juicy polyp from the fruit.

  “It is acceptable,” her mother said, “when dining en famille, to pick up the chicken leg with one’s fingers, or the chop at the end. It is also acceptable to squeeze a grapefruit into a spoon, as you’re doing now, but only en famille. Never when dining out, or at a public restaurant.”

  “Oh, Mother!”
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  “It’s important to remember these things, dear, as your debutante year approaches.”

  “This coming Sunday?” her father said.

  “Yep. That’s her day off.”

  “Day off from what?” her mother said.

  “She works as an usherette in a movie theatre,” Joanna said. “Did you hear the one about the nervous usher at the wedding? He said, ‘Mardon me, Padam, but you are occupewing the wrong pie. Please allow me to sew you to another sheet.’ Isn’t it a screech?” She tossed her napkin on the breakfast table. “Well, I’d better be off or I’ll be late. I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep!”

  And she was off.

  “An usherette in a movie theatre,” Constance LeBaron said after her daughter had left. “What next, I wonder?”

  With a chuckle, Julius LeBaron said again, “Well, she’s always been our little free spirit, hasn’t she, Mother?”

  Assaria’s first impression of the house on California Street was of red plush—red plush everywhere, toy plush, cut velvet, and red damask window hangings. And gilt. Whatever was not coverable by plush or velvet was gilded—little gilt tables and uncomfortable-looking little gilt straight-backed chairs with velvet seats, and the walls were overwhelmed by huge mirrors in gilded frames. It was the kind of Nob Hill house you used to see a lot of in San Francisco in those days, but now see only rarely. It dated from San Francisco’s earliest era of affluence, the Victorian age, and it had managed to escape the fire. And as Joanna took her around the house, it seemed to Sari quite literally a palace. She had never seen anything remotely like it, not even in the movies.

  These were some of the things she marveled at that first day: The brass rods that gripped the crimson carpets to the stairs, thin from polishing; the heavy embroidered bellpulls in every room that were used to summon servants; these, she was told, were called “annunciators.” There was one whole room called “the Library,” lined floor to ceiling with books in identical morocco bindings, in cases with heavy glass doors, locked and secured by tiny keys. In a silver bowl in this room were what appeared to be nothing but dried petals—indeed, they were, dried tea roses, pikake and jasmine flowers and bits of vetiver root, Joanna explained—that, when stirred with one’s fingertips, threw a sweet odor into the air. “A perfectly ordinary potpourri,” Joanna said. Perfectly ordinary! In another bowl, a chocolate apple, which, when tapped, fell apart into perfectly shaped little slices.