Justin felt the blood drain from his face. In his hours in the waiting room it had never occurred to him that he might be accused of any crime other than illegal smoking and fighting with a sixth-grader. His entire body trembled. His bladder froze in pain.
Tom drove swiftly. A headache bound him above the eyes. This boy, who so resembled Antonia, whom she had adored, for whose sake she had kept him tucked away! How dare he turn out to be a pervert bully?
He braked hard at Hugh’s entrance bay. “Get upstairs,” he ordered. “I’ll give it to Hugh straight.”
Justin had arranged his room to be as similar as possible to his quarters in Rutland Gate, with his mementos of Claude, his now useless cricket bats, his squash and tennis rackets, his old desk with its warmly familiar scars. Only the full-length portrait of Antonia had not been in his room but had hung in the rear drawing room. He changed into worn flannels and a tennis sweater that was unraveling a little at the elbows, familiar clothes from England. He sat at his desk, which faced the mullioned windows. Beyond the terrace bricklayers worked on the cottage that was two thirds of normal scale, Zoe’s playhouse, and beyond that, half hidden by trees, Lake St. Clair glittered a barbarously hard blue. He stifled his tears, but he could not repress his dislocating, horrorstruck misery.
After a while Hugh came up, stepping into the room inflexibly, as if he were carrying a full tureen of hot soup. Justin did not put on a good face—Hugh was his friend.
Hugh sat near the desk. “Come on, Justin,” he said. He had been thoroughly shaken at the malign twist his schemes had taken, but the boy’s unhappiness triggered his heartfelt sympathy. “It’s not the end of the world. In a few days you’ll be at a better school.”
“Have I been sacked?”
“Expelled, yes. Colonel Marshall told my brother.”
“Hugh, I’m sorry to cause you so much fuss.”
“Boys go through this stage, Justin, they do. It’s part of growing up. The only wrong move you made was being caught.”
Justin traced an old initial with his shaking finger. It was one thing to have his enemies believe the worst of him, quite another to hear Hugh state it so casually. When Hugh left he made a dive for the big bathroom, heaving over the toilet until only a stringy acid came. He was sweating and wiping his face when he heard the car bring Zoe home.
She tapped on the door, inquiring, “What’s going on? Why did you leave school early?” She was radically pruning her voice of English inflections.
“Head off, Zoe,” he said. “Leave me alone.”
He sat with his chin pressing into his palms. His initial shock over, he was able to perceive a ubiquitous substructure beneath all of his lonely misadventures on this continent. The code of ethics, the reticence, the way of dealing with problems that he had packed aboard the Stephen Decatur were not cargo that could survive an Atlantic crossing. He mulled this over, avoiding blame, anger, self-pity. Within him was an unassimilable streak, or maybe it was a black obstinacy, that prevented him from easy adaptation. He could not jettison the past that was filled with his father, his mother (he knuckled away an unmanly tear), he could not grow a chameleon conscience, he could not tailor a new self for himself as Zoe was doing. With his penknife he carved into his old desk: To thine own self be true, a futile bravado that showed rawly on the oak and did nothing to numb either his grief or his loneliness.
Hugh, a solitary, respected his right to privacy. At dinnertime Zoe knocked again. Again Justin told her to go away. He had not eaten since breakfast, and he felt he would never more be hungry. At ten he undressed and turned out the lights.
Another knock.
“It’s late, you little nit,” he called. “Way past your bedtime.”
“It’s me, Tom Bridger.”
Tom came in, switching on the overhead light. He drew a breath at the full-length portrait: with slapdash brushwork and strange lavender skin tones, the artist, a modern, had captured Antonia’s lively, impetuous charm. He turned quickly away.
“Caryll explained what happened at school. Those little bastards gang up on everybody, he said. They were after him when you interfered.”
Justin felt no vindicatory triumph, only a pitying admiration for a young, shy boy with the grace to admit to the woebegone crime of being a patsy. “Any senior would have,” he said tersely and lay back in the pillow, hoping Tom would take the hint.
Instead, he came to the foot of the bed. “Why didn’t you tell the story to Colonel Marshall?”
“He heard my side, sir.”
“Not all of it, not by a long shot. Otherwise he never would have believed Hoenig and the Thatcher twins. As soon as you realized what they were up to, why didn’t you telephone him and clear yourself?”
The answer to this lay in Justin’s code. Caryll, a younger, weaker boy, needed his protection as much as ever: to waver under fire would be pusillanimous. Yet mud sticks to a sensitive surface, and Justin felt the shame of the charge as hotly as if it were true. “Sir,” he said in a low voice, “I was asleep.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel even more of a shit, you’ve succeeded. I’m on my way to school now to put this right.”
Justin’s head raised urgently from the pillow. “No!”
“What’s the point of waiting until tomorrow?”
“I don’t want you to go at all. Ever.”
“That’s insane.”
“Sir, leave it as it is.” There was a surprising command in his tone.
“What am I supposed to do, let him keep on thinking you’re a powder-puff bully?”
“This afternoon you said it was none of your affair.” Justin rolled onto his side, facing the wall.
“Listen to me. It’s not just the kissing noises and the sneers. You’re being expelled, don’t you understand? You won’t get into college and—” Tom stopped. Justin’s breathing came in muffled sighs, and the blankets were shuddering. Tom glanced up at the portrait, as if to beg forgiveness for his doubts and anger. You had every right to be proud, Antonia, he is very special. “I’ll do it your way,” he said quietly. “Good night, Justin.”
V
The following morning after Tom dropped off Caryll at school, he continued out beyond Gaukler Point to Hugh’s place.
At the first curve in the driveway two setters barked around Justin as he walked along, head bent, hands thrust into the pockets of a too small maroon blazer. Tom drove by. Justin glanced up, nodding. Tom parked on the curve ahead, getting out to lean against a front mudguard. When Justin caught up, he asked, “Ever driven a Fiver?”
“Good morning, sir,” Justin said in a subdued voice. “No.”
“Any car?”
“My mother’s Lanchester. Drum—he was our man; you may remember him—taught me.”
“Like to try this?”
“Thanks, but I don’t feel much like it this morning.”
“Things that bad?”
“Nothing to do with the other,” Justin said too hastily. The dogs were running circles on the grass, their tongues lolling to catch dew. He looked at them, not Tom. “It was a mistake coming over here. I don’t fit in at all.”
“Look, Justin, I don’t get much comfort from the way I behaved yesterday—”
“No need to fret over that, sir.”
“Let me finish. I understand you didn’t stoop to set me right. There have been times when I’ve kept quiet, too, after I was unfairly attacked. But I couldn’t figure out why you didn’t want Colonel Marshall to know what really happened. This morning it came to me. You think if those little turds are punished, they’ll never let Caryll forget it. Am I right?”
Justin reddened. “Haven’t we given this enough time, sir?”
“Colonel Marshall’s come up against this sort of thing before. He’ll know how to handle it.”
“About an hour ago he telephoned to say he’d been hasty about sacking me. I can do something called a tour of punishment—they do it at West Point. It’s only marching.”
“I told him I’d be there tomorrow morning,” Justin said and whistled. The dogs bounded to him, planting muddy forepaws on his blazer while he rubbed their silky red muzzles.
Tom’s gaze remained on the boy, then he gave his short laugh. “Dressing up like soldiers, pretending Detroit is West Point, kindergartners saluting old farts—what idiocy! You’re right, let’s forget it.” He opened the car door. “Hop in.”
The dogs scrabbled over one another to get into the backseat. Justin started around, but Tom handed him the ignition keys. “Here,” he said. And when Justin was in the driver’s seat, he pointed. “There’s the spark.”
Justin retarded it.
“In a Fiver you have to push her clear up. That’s better. Now. There’s the gas—the petrol.”
Justin pushed down on the gas lever, switching to battery. The coil box began to buzz. He jumped out, stooping to use his full force to spin the crank, pulling the choke wire carefully so as not to flood the engine. He gave the crank another spin. The engine caught. He ran to get back in, advancing the spark, retarding the gas, switching to magneto.
The engine putt-popped triumphantly.
The Fiver bounced slowly along the drive, picking up speed as Justin gained confidence.
“Hear that?” Tom asked.
“What?”
“That. She’s missing. Take her round back.”
The Fiver circled the house, coming to a shuddering, dust-clouded halt on the gravel outside the big garage. The doors were open, and the new Packard Twin Six was gone. Tom pulled off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves.
“Lend me a hand, will you,” he said, opening up the hood.
Together they checked the carburetor, the commutator, and the spark plugs. The problem lay in the commutator. Tom replaced the rotor spring. They went into the garage to wash up.
“Mr. Bridger.” Justin dug his three middle fingers into the gritty mechanic’s soap. “People think they’re wonderful geniuses if they can repair a motorcar, and you built one before there were any to copy. You invented everything. And you’re helping the British war effort.…” His freckles stood out. “But—”
“You do like things square, don’t you?” Tom was grinning. “Yesterday I was a horse’s ass, Justin, but that doesn’t mean it’s a permanent condition. I realize you don’t exactly love me.”
Justin concentrated on using the nail brush.
Hugh, topcoat slung over his shoulders, stepped inside the garage. “Nothing like a little honest labor,” he said. “Justin, it’s lunchtime.”
“Already?” Justin smiled. Retrieving his blazer, he ran into the brilliant sunlight, swerving, kicking at gravel as though steering a rugby ball, an excess of animal energy.
They watched until the servants’ door slammed behind the boy. Hugh said, “This is the first time I’ve seen him happy since he got here.”
“Mind if he keeps this?”
“The Fiver?”
“Yes. Your chauffeur can give me a lift over to the Hamtramck. I’ll pick up another this afternoon.”
Hugh rubbed his thumb against his coat, a thoughtful gesture. Last night the brothers had sat in the big living room, Hugh denigrating himself for believing the worst of his ward. A couple of brandies made him yet more ashamed of himself, and more admiring of Justin’s honorable behavior. His self-chastisement was sincere. “Tom, I was up all night. I can’t think of a way to apologize without making it worse.”
“He prefers it forgotten,” Tom said.
Hugh nodded: “Yes.”
“So you don’t think he’ll take the car?”
“He’ll realize you’re paying him off,” Hugh said. “He’s going back to school tomorrow.”
“It’s going to be rough on him,” Tom said.
“What a mess.”
“Maybe Caryll could invite him on a tour of the Hamtramck.”
“He’s very intelligent about machinery.” Hugh’s voice held a trace of smugness.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Tom said quietly.
“Whose suggestion was it?”
“I swore to her he’d never find out.”
A swift darted into the garage. The brothers ignored the frantic rustling of wings in gasoline-odored gloom. This was Tom’s first confession of paternity.
“I’d never suggest a word—it would hurt him too much. He’s made an idol of Claude Hutchinson. A crazy idol. All I meant is that you’re on the right track. He’ll need something to help him through this.”
Tom held his arms under the faucet, rinsing off the soap. “I’ll give him a Saturday job.”
“Good,” Hugh said softly.
“Listen to me, Hugh. I’m not sure why you brought those two over here, but whatever you have in mind for Antonia’s boy, forget it.” A regretful sigh mitigated the decisiveness in Tom’s voice.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hugh, this is me, Tom. No games, hear. I’m not about to draw him into my life. For one thing it’s not fair to Maud. She’s gone through a lot, and I’m not putting her through any more.”
“Justin’s a person too. The most honorable, decent person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m proud of him.”
“Then you wouldn’t say it’s asking too much for you to be a little generous to him? It’s a difficult period of adjustment for him, and after all he’s your own—”
“Hugh,” Tom said, a low, flat warning that pierced the shadows.
Hugh glanced at the emptiness beyond the sunbright doors. “Nobody heard,” he said.
“You’re a dead man if you ever say it.” Tom did not raise his voice, so it was inexplicable how the low, normal timbre managed to ring with ominous threat.
Hugh backed toward the Fiver truck that his gardeners used.
Tom dried his hands on the grubby towel. After a minute he said, “She asked only that one thing of me in all the years. It meant everything to her.”
“Stop worrying, Tom.”
“If I go around playing fond benefactor, people might guess. Justin might guess.”
“I can’t see why. You’re very generous to the Sinclair boys, and they’re nephews. Justin is my ward.”
“Hugh, no wheedling, no maneuvering.”
“There’ll be no leaks from me,” Hugh said. He watched his brother fasten his cufflinks. “Come on. Let’s have lunch.”
“Nope.”
“But I had them set a third place.”
“No lunches.”
“An appointment?”
“Justin’s here.”
“You worked on the car with him. What difference will one meal together make?”
“Hugh, get it through your head that I’m afraid. What if some extra note of affection slips out?” He sighed deeply. “The only way this’ll work is to keep it strictly automobiles between us.”
“If that’s how you feel.”
“No personal involvements.”
While Tom started the Fiver, Hugh watched him with that peculiarly satisfied expression usually described in terms of cats and canaries. Tom was indebted to Justin, was proud of him, admired him, was giving him a Saturday job at the Hamtramck, and if that wasn’t personal involvement, it was one sweet beginning.
BOOK THREE
Woodland
Woodland was unique in size and function. Here, by the Detroit River, on a tract more than two miles long and three quarters of a mile wide, Thomas Bridger’s vision had conceived one enormous machine to mass-produce automobiles.
The History of the United States by Edwardes and Whitney
CHAPTER 16
“A hamburger sandwich?” Justin asked.
“Ground beef on a bun. It’s one of our favorite American del-icacies,” retorted Elisse Kaplan, the cutting edge of her sarcasm not blunted by the remarkable charm of her smile.
“I know. I’m American,” Justin said. He ha
d sworn to uphold the United States government and its laws nine years ago, on April 6, 1917, the day that the country had entered the war, the day he had enlisted over Hugh’s protests and his own most profound beliefs. “I doubt if you can get one here.”
She glanced around Verona’s, an eloquent shrug of her pretty shoulders dismissing the velvety lights, the darting, solicitous waiters, the tables with stiff, floor-length damask encircled by well-dressed, middle-aged diners—and him as well, Justin decided, for the unconscionable stuffiness of patronizing what was considered the top restaurant in Los Angeles.
He barely knew Elisse Kaplan.
They had met once before, in London this past June. She was the cousin of his old school friend, Rosburg, visiting from California. Justin had been passing through on his way to inspect the French Onyx plant in Asnières, and for maybe fifteen minutes he and Elisse had sat on the Rosburgs’ lounge window seat, afternoon sun shining gold on her curly brown bob as she alternately irritated and entranced him. Breezy, witty, assured girls, the dishes like Elisse, always threw Justin off-balance. He was disbelieving when Zoe informed him that in Detroit he had a reputation as a ladies’ man, for though he escorted debutantes and postdebutantes to the usual parties, he had embarked on only two truncated affairs, both with married women: during the course of these entanglements his affection and even his physical gratification had eroded like sand at the necessary undertow of adulterous sneakiness—he had never outgrown that boyhood rectitude. Arriving in Los Angeles on Onyx business, he had immediately looked up Elisse in the telephone book (her father was a musician, he recalled, and his name was Harris Kaplan: in point of fact he had total recall of their brief conversation), inviting her out to dinner. She had hesitated, a long silence on the line that had wrenched him surprisingly, before saying she would meet him at Columbia Pictures’ studio on Gower Street in Hollywood.
She was now staring quizzically across the shaded table lamp.
“If a hamburger sandwich is what you want, we’re in the wrong place,” he said.
“You’ve caught on.”
The word bitch clearly in his mind, he rose to pull out her chair. The gray-haired captain swooped around tables. “Is anything the matter, sir?”
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