The LeBaron Secret

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “Why did your father do that, Jo?”

  “It’s the whole Yale thing, of course. And Daddy found out that Peter’s been taking out the boat.”

  “Isn’t it Peter’s boat?”

  “Of course it is, really. But officially it belongs to Daddy.”

  “And Peter’s been taking it out without permission?”

  “What difference does that make? Oh, it seems that Daddy had promised the boat to some friends of his that Sunday we all took her out. The friends arrived at the marina—and no Baroness C! So now everybody’s sore as hell at everybody else, and poor Peter gets to shoulder all the blame. It isn’t fair.”

  “Poor Peter …”

  “And Daddy says if Peter ever does a thing like that again, he’ll take the car away from him. Can you imagine? We’d all be simply grounded. Isn’t Daddy being just too beastly?”

  “If I were Peter, I’d start doing things that were designed to please your father.”

  “Peter won’t. Peter has too much pride. It’s all so silly. It’s not that Daddy gives a rat’s rear end about sailing. He just wants to own a sailboat because sailing’s stylish. What a snob!”

  Soon other roadblocks were appearing that were also altering arrangements for scheduled get-togethers.

  “Sari darling, I can’t make it for lunch today. It seems Mother’s scheduled dressmaker’s appointments, back to back, all day long. Oh, I hate this debutante business! I don’t want to be a debutante at all. I’m only doing it because Mother absolutely insists.”

  Sari, innocently enough, had assumed that one ball gown was all that was required to be a debutante. A different gown, it seemed, would be required for each of the many functions Joanna would be attending during her debutante year—a gown for the Bachelors’, another for the Cotillion, and others for each one on the long list of luncheons, teas, cocktail parties, dances, and little dinners to which she would unquestionably be invited—a full year of entertainments. Each of these outfits required many hours of consultations and fittings with the dressmakers, and each gown had to be accessorized with shoes, gloves, handbags, and hats, even stockings and underwear, requiring still more hours of shopping. Then there were the consultations with florists and hairdressers and corsetieres and caterers, and long sessions with photographers and cosmeticians and stationers. The agenda of Joanna’s appointments seemed endless, endless …

  “Sari darling, I can’t make it for lunch today, either. I’m devastated. But there’s this photographer from New York named Hal Phyfe whom Mummy says is absolutely the cat’s—whom Mummy says is supposed to be the absolute tops, and Mummy insists on having him photograph me. I’m dreading it, but there’s no way out of it where Mummy is concerned …” When did Mother become Mummy? Sari wondered. “But look, Peter is free—why don’t the two of you have lunch? Poor Peter! He’s so at loose ends. All his friends are off to Europe, or at Tahoe, and Daddy won’t let him do any of those things. Daddy is being absolutely relentless about Peter getting a job.…”

  She and Peter had lunch in a small French restaurant on Telegraph Hill.

  “Are you looking for a job?” she asked him.

  “Don’t have to. I have one,” he said.

  “Really? How exciting. What are you doing?”

  “Clerking for a law firm on Montgomery Street.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “I’m there right now—helping prepare briefs, searching titles, settling estates and trusts, filing suits and underwriting quitclaim deeds on underpensioned debentures, torting out the torts and summonses and serving pensions and suspensions, and otherwise helping with the ancillary legalistic forensics of the prosecutor’s prosthesis. I’m having a hell of a time.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He grinned and touched his finger to his lips. “Ssh,” he said. “Our secret. That’s what my father thinks I’m doing. Actually, as you can plainly see, I’m having lunch and spending the afternoon with you.”

  “Oh,” she said, a little disappointed. “So you don’t have a job.”

  “No, but my father thinks I do, and that gets him off my back. Having lunch and spending the afternoon with you is much more fun. You’re good company. I like you.”

  “I like you, too,” she said. And then, “Why am I good company?”

  “You’re a good listener,” he said. “That’s an important thing in a woman—that she be a good listener. What shall we do after lunch? Shall we nip up to Muir Woods and look at the big trees?”

  “I have to be at the theatre at three,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “I’d forgotten about that.” And now it was he who seemed disappointed.

  “I could go with you to Muir Woods on Sunday,” she said.

  “Sunday? Oh. Well, I don’t know. We’ll see …”

  After lunch, he drove her to the Odeon in his car. Ben-Hur was playing. “I’d actually like to see that film,” he said.

  “If you like, I’ll sneak you in.”

  “Okay …”

  She sneaked him in, pretending to collect a ticket from him at the entrance to the auditorium, and, when the theatre had filled—the movie was playing to sell-out audiences—she came and sat beside him in the dark, in the only remaining empty seat, which he had saved for her. During the famous, exciting chariot-race scene, she reached out and covered his hand with hers. He did not respond. He did not take her hand in his, but he didn’t withdraw his hand, either, and merely left it there, resting coolly across the armrest of the theatre chair. Clearly, he didn’t mind her hand covering his. Was this a sign?

  “Sari dear,” Joanna was saying on the telephone, “all hell has broken loose here. Daddy’s found out that Peter really doesn’t have the job with the lawyers that he said he had. Daddy actually called the lawyers up to check on him! Wasn’t that the nastiest thing to do? And on top of everything, I can’t meet you today because of more photographs Mummy wants taken. But Peter’s free. See what you can do to cheer poor Peter up. The pressure’s really on him now …”

  But then, all at once, the pressure was off again. Julius and Constance LeBaron were leaving for the Islands. In the East, the Islands mean the Caribbean, but in California the Islands mean Hawaii. Julius was taking Constance, who was close to a nervous breakdown from all her shopping, on a three-week holiday. They were sailing on the Lurline. The children would have the California Street house to themselves. The pressure was not only off, it had disappeared.

  “The three of us will meet tonight at eight o’clock in the Mural Room at the Saint Francis,” Joanna said. “Peter’s made a reservation. After dinner, we’ll decide what else to do—but it’ll be something wild. Flaming Youth. I may be a few minutes late, because there’s something going on at the Burlingame Country Club. But I’m going to tear myself away from that. See you later …”

  Sari and Peter arrived first, and Sari was impressed to see that the headwaiter recognized Peter, bowed to him, and called him “Mr. LeBaron,” and “sir.” They were led to one of what were considered the best tables, on the aisle, in the front of the room. When they were seated, Peter poured a little whiskey into each of their water glasses from the silver flask he carried in his jacket pocket. By now, Sari knew that everyone in America was doing this, and nobody paid any attention to it. They clicked glasses. “Joanna really hates this debutante business,” Peter said.

  “Do you think so? I’m really not so sure. I think she rather likes it. After all—buying all those beautiful dresses?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “No, she hates it. Hates the whole thing. You mustn’t be fooled by what things seem to be …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jo is a Siren. She weaves spells. She lures people toward the rocks.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed a bit of that.”

  And then, when some time had passed and Joanna still had not appeared, Peter said, “Where the hell is she, anyway? She’s nearly half an hour late.”

  “She mentioned
something in Burlingame,” Sari said.

  “Yeah, that’s what she said.” And then, suddenly, he said, “Do you think she’s seeing somebody?”

  “Seeing somebody?”

  “Some man? Somebody we don’t know about?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Peter.”

  “Well, I think so,” he said, and his look was dark and almost angry. “I damn well think so.”

  “I’m sure she’d have told me if there were someone—special.”

  “What makes you so sure? What makes you think you can trust her? What makes you so goddamned sure?” He splashed more whiskey in his water glass.

  “We promised each other that we’d—”

  “And what makes you believe her goddamned promises?”

  “Well, she did mention a Flood boy.”

  “That nitwit! What would she see in him, for God’s sake? What would she see in that goddamned nitwit? All that goddamned nitwit wants is to be able to say he’s slept with every girl in San Francisco!”

  Sari hesitated. “Maybe we should order our dinner,” she said. “And not wait for her.”

  He consulted his watch, which he wore in his vest pocket, suspended from a gold chain. “Well, let’s give her fifteen more minutes,” he said.

  But easily twenty-five more minutes had passed, and Joanna had still not arrived, when the headwaiter approached their table. “Mr. LeBaron, sir,” he said. “Your sister just telephoned. She said she has been unavoidably delayed, and will not be able to join you for dinner. She says she will see you at home, later this evening.”

  When the waiter had departed, Peter slammed his wadded napkin on the table. “That bitch,” he said. “Now I’m sure of it. She’s seeing somebody, and she’s keeping it from me, and she’s keeping it from you. Sari, I want you to find out who this bastard is.”

  “Well, I’ll try, but I really don’t think—”

  “I want you to find out who my sister’s seeing,” he said. “I want you to find out everything you can about this bastard. His name, what he looks like, where he lives, where he went to school, how she met him, what she’s doing with him, where they go. Everything.”

  “I’ll try. But I don’t think—”

  “Dammit, why do you keep contradicting me? I know I’m right.” Sari had never seen him so angry. “Find out everything about this bastard,” he repeated. “I want to find out who’s screwing my sister.”

  “I said I’d try,” she said quietly.

  “Good.” He glared fiercely at the white tablecloth. Then he said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Please don’t be cross with me, Peter. For whatever it is.”

  “Dammit, I’m not cross. I just said let’s get out of here.” He began signaling for his check.

  “Where shall we go?”

  “Somewhere. Anywhere. I don’t care.”

  Then, for a time, they drove aimlessly and a little wildly about the dark city in his open car, up and down the steepest hills—Fillmore Street Hill, Powell Street Hill, Lombard Street Hill—driving too fast, and skidding around corners, bouncing against the curbs of sidewalks. He was not drunk, Sari decided. He was only—what? Upset about something.

  “What’s upset you so, Peter?” she asked him. “I mean, after all, suppose she is seeing someone? So what?”

  “Because she’s doing it behind my back. Because she’s lying to us, and keeping her dirty little secret from us, and that means she’s doing something she’s ashamed of.” Then he said, “Let’s go back to my house. We’ll catch her when she comes in, catch her red-handed when she comes in, and tell her what we know.”

  They drove back to California Street and let themselves into the quiet house whose master and mistress were thousands of miles away across the Pacific Ocean. MacDonald, in his tailcoat, had appeared. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Peter?” he asked.

  “A bottle of champagne,” Peter said gruffly.

  MacDonald nodded and disappeared on padded, slippered feet.

  “She hates our mother,” Peter said.

  “Really, Peter? Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s true. Hates her with a vengeance. Hates even being in the same room with her. That’s one reason for you, you know.”

  “A reason for me?”

  “Of course. Mother doesn’t think you’re quite—suitable to be Jo’s friend. Jo chose you as her friend as another way to get back at Mother.”

  She considered this unwelcome notion. Clearly, he was still in an unpleasant mood. “Well,” she said at last, “I thought Joanna genuinely liked me.”

  “Oh, she likes you all right. But she likes you even more because Mother disapproves.”

  MacDonald reappeared now with a bottle of champagne in a silver cooler, and two glasses on a silver tray. He set these on a low table between them, shifting a bowl full of cymbidiums to make room for them.

  “My mother is an alcoholic,” Peter said. Sari said nothing, and MacDonald began filling their glasses. In the bottom of each champagne glass was a fresh strawberry. “It’s true, isn’t it, MacDonald?” Peter said. “My mother is an alcoholic. Tell Miss Latham that it’s true.”

  MacDonald pursed his lips. “Well, Mr. Peter. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, thanks.”

  MacDonald withdrew on the same quiet, slippered feet, and now they were alone again in the red damask room, in this still, perfectly ordered house where fresh flowers were never allowed to die or even to fade in their crystal bowls, where Negro maids polished the mahogany tabletops with the palms of their hands, where no one seemed to have to lift a finger even to wind the eternally ticking clocks, where everything seemed so patterned, and yet where there now seemed to be also so much confusion. Peter scowled darkly at his champagne glass, and took a sip. “I nurse my drinks,” he said. “That’s what makes the difference. That’s why I’ll never be an alcoholic.”

  “Why is she—that way, do you think?”

  “Because she hates my father. Everyone in this house hates everybody else. This house is full of hate. Except for Jo and me.”

  “But I don’t understand. If Joanna hates your mother so, why is she going through the debutante thing, which she also says she hates?”

  “Don’t worry. Jo has Mother wrapped right around her little finger.”

  “Really? It seems to me the other way around.”

  “Jo always knows what she’s doing.”

  “She’s spent more time with your mother these past few weeks than she has with me. Why—if she hates your mother so?”

  “Jo always has a plan. With her, there’s always a plan.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “There’s a lot about this family that’s hard to understand,” he said.

  From a distance now, in the house, there was the sound of a ringing telephone, and Peter sat sharply forward in his chair. “That’ll be her,” he said. “That’ll be Jo calling. Wait and see.”

  Presently MacDonald reappeared. “That was Miss Joanna, sir,” he said. “She says to tell you that she won’t be coming home tonight. She’s spending the night with friends in Burlingame.”

  “I see. Thank you, MacDonald.”

  “Will there be anything else for you tonight, sir?”

  “No thanks. Good night, MacDonald.”

  When he had gone, Peter said almost triumphantly, “Well? You see? That sort of proves it, doesn’t it? She’s sleeping with someone else!”

  “Someone else?”

  “Some guy. She’s got to be!” And the look in his eyes was so fierce and wild that it almost frightened her. Then she was angry.

  She set down her champagne glass. “Look,” she said, “I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care. What Joanna does is her business. It’s late, and I’m tired. Will you take me home?”

  He held out his hand. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t go.”

  “I know I’m supposed to be a good listener,” she said, “but I’m bored wi
th this conversation. I don’t care who your sister’s sleeping with. Or if she’s sleeping with anyone at all. Take me home.”

  “Wait,” he said. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s you and I sleep together! Let’s you and I have sex! That would show her, wouldn’t it? That other people can play her little game?”

  She stood up. “That’s a stupid, disgusting suggestion,” she said. “If you won’t drive me home, I’ll take the streetcar.”

  “But wait—think about it!”

  “I don’t even like you, Peter LeBaron! I think you’re a stupid and disgusting man! You think you can get away with anything with all your money. Well, you can’t. I hate you, Peter LeBaron!” Then she picked up her wineglass and flung the contents, strawberry and all, into his face. “That’s what I think of you!”

  She had taken the streetcar home, struggling to hold back tears, certain that she would never see either of them again.

  But the next morning he telephoned her. “I’m calling to apologize,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I’d had too much to drink. I behaved like a cad. Please forgive me, Sari. I’m really terribly, terribly sorry, Sari, about last night.”

  “You behaved,” she said evenly, “as your sister might put it, like a rat’s rear end.”

  “I know. And I’m asking you to forgive me. Will you? Will you just give me another chance—one more chance, Sari? Please?”

  “Well. Perhaps.”

  “Tonight? The same place? The Mural Room? Let me show you that I’m really not a rat’s rear end.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Please. I know there’s no excuse for what I said and did, but I have been going through kind of a rough time lately.”

  “I understand all that.”

  “So—will you?”

  “Well—all right.”

  “I’ll stand on my head to get you to forgive me.”

  That night they met at the Mural Room, and he seemed so cheerful and eager to please her that the previous evening seemed to have occurred years ago, and to have involved an entirely different person. After a few minutes, the headwaiter approached them, and said, “Your dinner is served, Mr. LeBaron.”