by John Jakes
“If they continue to oppose me—if they push their demands—yes. The depression just makes the reds more reckless. They want to show they can succeed with their programs, while honest businessmen are failing.”
“You don’t fear violence, do you? Surely not.”
“It’s entirely possible.”
“Well, I pray it never involves your son.”
“Who knows? He’s turned his back on me.”
“Young men are often at odds with their fathers. It seems to be a necessary part of growing up.”
“Necessary? The scorn he has for all I’ve tried to give him? All I can offer him? Oh, no.”
Joe Crown’s hat blew off suddenly. Agile, he leaped down from the ledge and caught it as it bounced away over the frozen brown earth. Putting it on, he blinked suddenly, and stuck out his tongue to taste something in the air.
Schurz felt it too. He peeled off a mauve glove, and touched his cheek.
“Snow.”
“Yes.” Down from the north, where the sky was slate-colored, tiny snowflakes sped, growing fatter every moment.
“A sure sign of winter, Carl. Perhaps Joe Junior will give us a few months of peace. He revels in the outdoors in the winter. He loves to ice-skate. My nephew bought himself skates too, he showed them to me just yesterday. He wanted to know how soon the lagoons in Lincoln Park would freeze. Come along, we should be getting back.”
32
Paul
LOW ON THE HORIZON, huge as a house, the winter moon turned the ice pale gold. Wind rattled the tree limbs above the bank where Paul sat lacing his skates with fingers half numb. Close by, Joe Junior trotted in place, hugging himself, sailing little clouds past the moon each time he exhaled. It was five-thirty in the morning.
“This is insane, Paul. You don’t know how to skate.”
“If I cannot skate, I cannot meet her. You said so.”
“I also said it won’t matter a damn if you do meet her, Vanderhoff despises Germans, Bohunks, Irish—the whole lot. He’s got a special hate for Pop.”
“I don’t care, I am going to meet her. Help me up, please?”
Cousin Joe put his hand down and Paul took hold, struggling upright on his skates. Lincoln Park lay desolate and empty in the moonlight.
With his left skate Paul took a three-inch step on the ground. His legs were strong but his ankles still wobbled dangerously. Another three-inch step slid his right runner to the edge of the frozen lagoon.
“I don’t know whether that ice is thick enough,” Joe Junior said. “It only froze night before last.”
“Even so, I must try.”
Paul’s cheeks felt like raw meat. His woolen winter coat seemed thin as newspaper. He tugged the stocking cap down over his tingling ears, and pulled on wool mittens. He inched his left skate onto the ice, then his right. His left ankle rolled over. He fell down.
“My God, this will never work.”
“Help me up, Joe. I will learn to skate.”
“And die in the attempt.” But Joe Junior gave Paul his hand again. He maneuvered effortlessly on skates.
Paul swayed, barely holding his balance. “Please, give me a push. See if I can skate a little way.”
Joe Junior pushed the small of his back. Paul glided forward about three feet, the blades rasping in the silence. Far away, a train wailed. The sound rose up toward thousands of white stars.
“I’m moving, I am skating,” Paul cried. With a whoop, he windmilled his arms. He fell down. This time he got up without assistance.
“Sit down, Joe, rest, I will practice by myself.”
“If you do, we’ll be here till Christmas.” Joe Junior skated to the bank and there sat down facing the lagoon, hugging his knees to keep warm.
Paul slid his right skate forward and fell down.
He got up and tried again.
He fell down.
Soon his rear hurt. He kept trying. He fell down seventeen times before he managed to skate ten feet, out toward the center of the lagoon. The moon, rising higher, changed color from gold to bone white. The ice crackled under Paul’s skates.
“Joe, look, I’m staying up, I am learning how,” he called. He pushed off and sailed on toward the middle, the ice crackling more and more noisily under the blades. Frigid air raked his raw face. He laughed, delighted, sailing along—
The ice broke. He dropped into black water, hearing Joe Junior yell as he sank.
His clothes dragged him down. The freezing water terrified him. But he’d always been a fair swimmer, and he was strong. He touched the lagoon bottom, flexed his legs, kicked upward. He lifted his right hand over his head and found the ice. It broke the moment he grasped it. Oh, God, I’m done, he thought, sinking again.
Something took hold of his arm, arresting his descent. Joe Junior, precariously balanced on ice that was creaking and threatening to break, pulled him halfway out by main strength.
Then the ice collapsed. Both of them floundered in the water, their thrashing throwing silver drops in the air. Joe Junior had presence of mind; he knew which side of the widening hole might have the thickest ice. There he managed to climb out. He pulled Paul out after him.
“Christ, what damned foolishness,” he gasped. Then he laughed. “You’re a sight.” Paul’s soggy wool cap was cocked over one eye.
“You are also.”
They both laughed.
Paul’s teeth started to chatter. “This is enough for one night,” his cousin said. “We’ll go to the brewery, the night watchman will let us in. We can dry off before we start work.”
Paul followed his cousin toward the bank, managing to skate rather than walk. “But I am coming back tomorrow night.”
“I’m afraid you mean it.”
“I am going to meet her, Joe. You don’t have to come with me while I learn.”
“You expect me to stay away and let you drown? A dead capitalist or two wouldn’t bother my conscience, but a dead cousin—that’s different.”
Joe Junior nudged him. “There she is.”
It was a Sunday afternoon. December; very cold. But the sun shone. From a large public pavilion on the lagoon’s east side there drifted the jaunty melody of “Grandfather’s Clock” played on a hurdy-gurdy.
Despite the temperature Paul felt warm. Perhaps it was due to nerves and excitement. The ice was crowded with skaters, boys and girls, families with children, some skating slowly, others speeding, darting in and out. Even so, it was impossible to overlook Juliette Vanderhoff. She was inside a smaller pavilion on the near bank. The pavilion was dark green, with a brick hearth and chimney in the center. A log fire blazed. A sign hung on the eave facing the lagoon.
LINCOLN PARK SKATING CLUB
—Members Only—
Warming herself in the pavilion, Juliette Vanderhoff stood out because of her cape and wide hood of scarlet velvet. Seven or eight young men surrounded her, laughing and chatting. The young men all had a sleek, prosperous look.
“We must go over there,” Paul said. “You can remind her we met this summer.”
“All right, but you’ve got heavy competition. A bunch of swells.”
“Swells?”
“Rich boys. Don’t worry, what can you lose?”
Everything, Paul thought.
They stepped on the ice. Paul skated fairly easily now; nights of practice had steadied him and given him confidence. “Hey, Julie, hello,” Joe Junior called as they clattered into the club pavilion, scraping their blades on the rough flagstones. He shouldered a couple of her admirers aside. “Do you remember my cousin Paul?”
Paul snatched off his cap, ready to say something. He could think of nothing. The gray eyes, the lovely warm smile bewitched him. Her thick black hair shone within her hood.
“Why yes, the German boy.” The word boy crushed him. She held out a black-gloved hand. “How nice to see you again.” They shook hands. She said to the others, “This is Joseph’s cousin, Paul Crown.”
Paul was aware of t
he looks the young men were giving him. A tall, smirky blond fellow slapped him on the back. “Hello, Dutch. Julie, shall we skate again?”
“I suppose.” She smiled at the blond boy, though she seemed to be casting a hopeful glance at Paul. “Paul, this is Strickland Welliver II. He’s our club speed champion.”
“Watch my smoke,” Welliver said, very smug. He touched Julie’s arm in a possessive way. Hurry, think of something. If he didn’t, Welliver would sweep her off; his chance would be lost.
“Miss Vanderhoff, I think you had better come with me first,” he said, struggling equally with his English and his nerves. “There is a park police officer who wishes to see you.”
Strickland Welliver said, “A what?” Joe Junior almost choked.
“Police officer—isn’t that how you say it?” Paul gestured toward the crowded lagoon. “Just over there. If you will come with me—”
Fearing she might slap his face, he nevertheless took hold of her arm. Her gray eyes probed his, curious, surprised, then pleased.
“All right. Excuse me, Strickland—Joe—all of you.” She followed Paul out of the pavilion into the sunlight.
They skated.
They glided around the lagoon, moving with the flow, counterclockwise, toward the pavilion where the organ grinder finished “The Bowery” and swung into a quick-time version of “Old Black Joe.” Julie’s cheeks were bright pink. She skated with short, crisp strides, her upper body seeming to float without effort or direct connection to her legs. Paul was tense, fearful of falling.
Julie shielded her eyes. “Where is the officer? I don’t see him.”
“Well—” Paul couldn’t stand it. He twisted to a stop. She bumped into him.
“Oh,” she said softly, pulling back but still standing close. They were the same height. Their condensing breaths mingled. This close, her gray eyes seemed enormous. Between his legs, he ached.
“Miss Vanderhoff, I have a confession. There is no officer. I did it to get you away.”
“That’s very ingenious. Audacious—”
“But if there were an officer, he would wish to see you because—” He gulped and risked everything. “You are sehr schön—I’m sorry, I’m nervous—you’re beautiful.”
“Why, thank you, Paul.” She didn’t seem angry; touched, rather. She glanced back at the club pavilion where Strickland Welliver was watching them, gloved fists on his hips.
“You’re a most unusual young man. Polite, but very clever.”
“I am not so young, Miss—”
“We’ve been properly introduced, you must call me Julie.”
“Julie.” The music of it, on his tongue for the first time in her presence, almost drove him out of his mind. “You called me a young man—well, I’m not so young. I am sixteen.”
“So am I. My birthday is May 28.”
“Mine is the fifteenth of June.”
“Then I’m older. Let’s see—eighteen days older. So you’ll just have to do whatever I say.” There was a teasing light in her eye. “Paul—I have a confession also.” She waited until two men skated past. “I knew there was no police officer. But I was happy you invented one.”
Clouds of her breath touched him, faintly sweet with clove. Her scarlet cape brushed his coat; for a moment he felt the soft mass of her breast. His head pounded.
“Paul.”
“Yes? Yes?”
“Shall we skate?”
She sensed that he was inexperienced, and skated slowly. He kept pace, mercifully with no falls. Her acceptance of his crude trick overcame some of the initial awkwardness between them.
Joe Junior skated by, backward. His red face crinkled in a smile. He waved and kept skating backward, somehow missing people without looking at them.
“You speak English very well,” she said.
“Thank you. I have studied hard, on my own and with a—ein Hauslehrer.” Mortified, he mumbled, “I don’t know the English.”
“Do you mean a teacher? A tutor?”
“That’s it! I had a tutor! Thank you.”
They skated.
“Are you working at Crown’s brewery now?”
“Yes. Sunday is my day off.”
They skated.
“I like your cousin Joe. I consider him a good friend. He’s very intelligent. He reads a lot, doesn’t he? Some of his ideas are rather alarming, but I always enjoy hearing them. I wish I could see more of him. I’m afraid my father is very—well, disapproving of people who haven’t been in this country as long as our family. The first Vanderhoffs came to Connecticut before the Revolution.”
“You have to do what your father wishes, I suppose.”
“True. In this day and age daughters are expected to be dutiful.”
They skated.
“I thought I might not get away from home this afternoon,” she said. “My mother is bedridden again. Quite sick.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Was it sudden?”
“Oh, no. Mama suffers from a recurring condition called neurasthenia. Extreme prostration of the nerves and brain. Her spirits sink very low. Sometimes she won’t even speak for days. It upsets me awfully, but Dr. Woodrow says it’s perfectly normal for women. My Aunt Willis who lives in New York says that’s nonsense, but Father doesn’t believe her. He hates all of Aunt Willis’s ideas. She visits twice a year, he hates that too.”
“Do you like your aunt?”
“Very much, although some of her ideas are awfully bold. She reminds me of your cousin.”
They skated.
“How do you like America?”
Since the exposure of his little ruse, he felt he could be truthful with her. “I don’t like it as much as I thought I would.” He smiled. “But I’m liking it better now.”
A man skated by, doing a slow expert Dutch roll, moving forward and back and forth laterally at the same time. He was a man of middle height, wearing a derby, a long scarf of dark blue plaid, expensive pigskin gloves, a turtleneck sweater under his double-breasted tweed suit. Paul wouldn’t have paid much attention but for one other touch. The man had a monocle with a long ribbon.
He seemed interested in Julie. Paul stared at him. The man smiled and abruptly skated off to the left. Paul quickly forgot about him.
A roast chestnut seller pushed his little wheeled stove along the bank and cried his wares. The hurdy-gurdy pealed out “Daisy Bell,” a hit song of last year; you heard it everywhere. Fritzi said it was inspired by the cycling craze.
Julie looked at Paul. He looked at her …
“Watch out, you young idiot.” A fat nursemaid barely managed to lurch out of the way, dragging along a child on tiny skates. Paul made a violent move that threw him into the bank, where he crashed.
Julie had the skill to stop herself just where the ice ended. Humiliated, Paul scrambled up, brushing off his pants. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good skater.”
“You said you skated a lot in Berlin.”
“You remember that?”
“Of course.”
“Juliette—that—it was another tale. I wanted to—to—ach. I can’t think how to say it.”
“Is the word you want ‘impress’?”
“Yes. Impress. I wanted to impress you.”
With a kindly smile, she laid her glove on his arm. “You have.”
Blond Mr. Strickland Welliver II came hurtling out of the blaze of the sinking sun, calling to her while he executed a flawless figure eight, “Are you going to hang out with him all day?”
“No, Strickland, don’t be impatient.” She whispered to Paul. “If you like I’ll give you some skating pointers next Sunday.”
“Yes. Wonderful!” But how could he live through six whole days without seeing her?
“Goodbye, Paul. Thank you.”
She squeezed his hand and skated away, pursued by the blond young god, Strickland Welliver.
On the crowded cable car clanging south on State Street
, Paul blurted his secret to his cousin.
“I love that girl. I have fallen in love with her.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I am in love.”
“Then, my friend, you are in trouble. She may fancy you, but if Papa Pork finds out, he’s liable to take a cane to her, and you too. Didn’t I tell you old man Vanderhoff hates foreigners? He hates anybody who isn’t a blueblood—and that means us.”
Paul was dreaming deliriously of Julie’s eyes, inky hair, fair round bosom; he scarcely heard the warning.
33
Elstree
HE SKATED SLOWLY. THE pickings were poor this afternoon.
Which was unfortunate, since the circumstances were ideal. He saw no one he recognized, other than Vanderhoff’s daughter, who had gone.
He let the more vigorous skaters pass, the better to survey possible choices. Dusk came down, drear and bitter. An old caretaker set kindling alight in iron barrels placed around the lagoon. Reflections of flames danced on the skater’s monocle.
It was perhaps foolish of him to wear a monocle, since it drew attention. But he liked the aura of gentility it created. You could look at it another way, too. If others fixed on the monocle, and remembered that, they would forget his face. Yet there remained an element of risk, which he enjoyed. It lent spice to these outings.
He thought of the Vanderhoff girl, Juliette. She had been skating with a young man with blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and a sturdy physique. He was jealous of the boy but reasoned that even if Miss Vanderhoff had been unescorted, he couldn’t have spoken to her. She might have remembered him.
Unlikely, but she might. He had been presented once, three years ago, in the dress circle foyer of the Auditorium, to which Vanderhoff and his affected Southern wife had dragged their daughter for an evening of symphonic presentations of the music of Wagner. “Juliette,” her father said, “may I introduce Mr. William Vann Elstree III? His family owns the department store where your mother prefers to shop—to the chagrin of Mr. Marshall Field.”
He vividly recalled Juliette’s youthful prettiness that night. The gown she wore—virginal white, matching the aigrettes in her incredible black hair. Her breasts had been budding then. The memory turned him hard as he skated.