Rich White Americans

by Virginia Dale

  “Do you think your parents might object?” Albert’s tone changed to one of sarcasm.

  “They object to everything. They’re… They don’t love me.” I looked at him with pleading eyes. “I don’t know what love is, but I want to be loved more than anything.”

  Albert laughed softly. “What do you think we’ve been doing?”

  “We’ve been making love, and it feels so good; I know I ought to love you, but I’m not sure… I keep thinking of my parents, even though they’ve been awful.”

  Albert looked away. “One has to be sure about such things.”

  I could hear my mother’s voice saying, ‘No one will ever love you…’

  I didn’t know how to respond. My head reeled, for perhaps the tenth time that evening. I turned and ran down his staircase to my studio, leaving Albert speechless.

  Albert stared after me. I didn’t know what he thought. I was scared to death… of love… and of marriage.

  The world turned on its axis. Soon, the morning sun lit up the garden, which had been trampled by the police searching for the gun that came out of nowhere to shoot Jerry.

  I jumped out of bed and ran to take my test.

  I heard Billy Holiday’s peerless voice singing from Albert’s apartment. No one could sing like her. Incongruent thoughts ran through my head as I ran toward the Psychology Building to take my mid-term examination.

  As I walked out of the Psychology Building with my head still spinning from questions about the results of experiments performed on rats, I thought of Jerry in the hospital. I looked up at the leafy foliage surrounding the path to the commons from Sproul Hall, the building that housed Berkeley’s administration, including Dean MacGruder, who had threatened me with perjury not long ago. A large, lovely space with a beautiful fountain off to one side faced the two-story building with marble stairs leading to it. A sense of serenity usually flowed through me when I walked through the commons, but today was different.

  Someone had shot Jerry last night and narrowly missed me.

  I turned towards Crowell Hospital, Berkeley’s student hospital. I walked past the Campanile, Cal’s famous bell tower, which had been imitated on its other campuses. It stood sixty feet tall, a noble symbol of academic endeavors. Walking down the tree-lined path that led to Crowell, which loomed large and imposing in the distance, I felt a bit queasy. Jerry shot. Sally distraught. Me? The one to help Sally, if that was possible.

  A nurse in a crisp white uniform sat at the registration desk. I approached her and asked if I could see Jerry White.

  “Are you a member of the family?” she asked.

  “No. I’m just a friend.”

  “He’s in the Intensive Care Unit. No one is allowed in.”

  I took a deep breath. “I was with him when he was shot.”

  She looked me over. I stood erect, waiting for her decision.

  “You may wait in the waiting room.” She returned filling out a form, without lifting an eyebrow.

  “Thank you.”

  I walked down the narrow corridors of the clean, but windowless, hospital. A doctor walked by and I smiled at him. He nodded and went on his way.

  At last, I found the waiting room, where Sally sat, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. When she saw me, she started to cry.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “They operated on him last night. He’s still in a serious condition. The bullet almost hit his heart.” Sally sniffled. “It’s so awful!”

  I looked at her bedraggled hair, which half hid her reddened face. I could tell she’d been through a lot. I put my arm around her shoulders. “It’s going to be all right. They have excellent doctors at Crowell Hospital.” Sally cried a bit more. Then, she hit me with the zinger.

  “My period’s late.” She looked at me with a tear-streaked face.

  I turned and took my arm off her shoulders. “I know.”

  “Two months.”

  “Jesus, Sally! Aren’t you taking the pill?”

  “I ran out.”

  I put my head in my hands, wondering if there was ever going to be an end to her litany of bad luck or carelessness.

  “One thing at a time. Right now, Jerry’s hovering between life and death.” I looked into her woebegone face with commiseration. She wasn’t the first of my friends to have missed a period.

  “If he dies, who will pay for the abortion?” Sally asked.

  I pushed myself to my feet. My head reeled.

  “Come on, Sally! He’s in good hands! He’ll recover, and you’ll get your period. Are you sure it’s been two whole months?” I started to pace back and forth like an expectant father. I couldn’t believe she could be thinking such thoughts when he was so near death. I didn’t like him, but I thought she loved him. Apparently, I was wrong. She was hopelessly insecure and seemed to be incapable of taking care of herself.

  A young doctor walked up to us, impeccably dressed in his white doctor’s uniform. We looked up at him expectantly.

  “Are you friends of Jerry White’s?”

  “Yes,” we said at the same time.

  “He’s doing better. We’ll be moving him out of the ICU into a regular room if his vital signs continue to hold.”

  Sally stared at the doctor, looking a bit hopeful. “Does that mean he’s going to live?”

  “We’ve removed the bullet from his chest. It was close call, but he should pull through.”

  I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Sally started crying again, releasing her pent-up emotions.

  I smiled at the doctor and told him she’d be all right. I’d take care of her. I was beginning to feel like her big sister. I thought of my own younger sister, seven years younger, so bright, so alert, and always a straight-A student. I loved her dearly.

  Chapter 11

  In Montecito, my mother sat waiting for Andronicus Wyland at the Biltmore Hotel. She sat with perfect posture, hoping she looked younger than her forty-five years. She wore a conservative but elegant dress. She drummed her fingers nervously on the table, looking at the lovely eucalyptus tree in the immaculate lawn in front of the window-vaulted dining room. A waiter had brought her some water in a crystal glass. She took a sip and fingered the white linen napkin at her place setting. She began to smile.

  Andronicus pulled into the driveway of the Biltmore in a sports car and snapped his fingers in the air. A valet ran to park his vehicle. He frowned at him for no reason other than he was angry at the headlines of the Los Angeles Times. The stock market was down. His father was losing money. His stepfather. He jumped out of the car and ran into the Biltmore.

  Mrs. Johnson spotted him at the arched entranceway to the dining room and waved discreetly. Andronicus saw her and nodded as he made his way to her table, brushing a waiter aside in the process.

  “Excuse me,” said the waiter.

  “Watch where you’re going,” snarled Andronicus.

  He sat down opposite of my mother and frowned. He’d shot a man, perhaps killed him, for this woman, and he was beginning to think she wasn’t worth it.

  My mother smiled and asked him if he was all right.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” he hissed.

  “Oh!”

  “Just order lunch and act like everything is fine.”

  “What happened, Andronicus?”

  He kicked her under the table.

  She kicked him back. Then, she smiled and said, “Sorry.”

  She’s just like her daughter, thought Andronicus. These bitches are all alike. He smiled a gratuitous smile, one that emphasized his double chin. Mrs. Johnson looked over her shoulder to make sure no one she knew was there, which was unlikely, because she hadn’t made many friends in Montecito yet. Still, she had to keep a sharp eye out, just in case.

  “How was your trip to San Francisco?” she asked.

  Andronicus flinched. He pursed his fleshy lips and said, “I enjoy the Bay Area.”

  Mrs. Johnson batted her long eyelashes at him. “Did you see an
yone we know?” She hoped he’d finished off his relationship with her daughter. She’d already proven to be too much competition in so many domains that Mrs. Johnson hadn’t entered academically and socially. What was worse, she often disobeyed her. Going around with a black man was the penultimate slap in the face. She deserved to be punished. After all, they were from Virginia, and miscegenation was a sin there, not that Inny would ever marry a black man…

  “I saw Inny. And some of her friends.” Andronicus smiled his ungracious, fleshy-lipped smile.

  “Who was she with?” Mrs. Johnson leaned forward, waiting to hear the worst.

  “I couldn’t get a clear look at them. I only saw them from a distance.” He decided to torment Inny’s mother, who sat and listened to him with attention that bordered on devotion. She was smitten by his youth and social status. If I can’t get my revenge on Inny, I’ll settle for her family, he thought, a sly look crossing his face.

  “She lives in a dumpy little studio apartment near Berkeley. I’d be ashamed to associate with her.”

  Mrs. Johnson nodded in agreement. Inny should be disapproved of. She should be shot. Well, no… but she must be punished. Afterwards, they could bring her back into the fold. Of course, now that Andronicus was secretly part of the fold, this would be risky. Oh, she’s too much trouble, thought Mrs. Johnson as the waiter approached to take their orders. Deep down, she still wanted Inny dead. Her own flesh and blood. If she marries that black man, I’ll shoot her myself. No, I want the nigger dead.

  She skimmed the heavy leather-bound menu quickly and ordered a sandwich. Andronicus grinned and ordered a leg of lamb with potatoes. A sandwich? He laughed at her under his breath.

  “Wouldn’t you like something more,” he asked, amused that Mrs. Johnson had no idea of what had transpired last night in Berkeley, even though she’d asked him to kill Inny’s black boyfriend. She was acting different today.

  Women!

  “Oh, no thank you. I always have a sandwich for lunch.”

  Andronicus pushed the heavy chair away from the table full of lovely silverware and porcelain plates. What a peasant. I want Inny, not this old frau… Although, she still has a nice shape. He looked at the curve of her breasts under her crisp linen dress with approval. Mrs. Johnson took a deep breath, unused to having a man look at her so intimately. Her husband never did, or perhaps never dared, after… after she became frigid and insisted on twin beds.

  “Well, I hope she can find a good job after she graduates from Berkeley,” she huffed. “She’s costing us a fortune.”

  Andronicus arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Are you having financial difficulties?” He hadn’t thought of this aspect of their relationship.

  Mrs. Johnson cleared her throat. She looked him squarely in the eye. “Mr. Johnson has had, um, some career upsets. That’s why we came to Santa Barbara. Things didn’t work out for him at Douglas Aircraft, so he had to take another job here. And we have our second daughter to think about.”

  “Second daughter?” Andronicus’s eyes lit up. Another Inny?

  “Yes, our younger daughter is only fifteen, but we have to plan for her college years as well.” She picked up her napkin and twisted it a bit absently. “I don’t know what will happen if this job at AFM doesn’t work out.”

  “Perhaps you’d like some financial aid?” Andronicus almost snarled. So this is what the old whore is after. Fifteen is a bit young though. Then, his eyes lit up at the thought of a virgin fuck. I can get to her through her mother. “Would you like to walk on the sand like we did last time?”

  “Oh, I’m wearing heels.” Mrs. Johnson blushed.

  “You could take them off.” He grinned his fatuous grin at her.

  “Well, let me think about that.”

  The waiter arrived with their lunch. Andronicus snapped his fingers and said, “Two Bloody Marys, please, on the double.”

  The waiter lowered his well-coiffed head. “Yes, sir.” He was used to rude people in this setting.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly…” Mrs. Johnson offered Andronicus her best finishing-school look of indignation. Then, she lowered her head and smiled a mysterious smile, wondering if he could lend them money. They certainly could use it. Such was the birth of prostitution. She fed Andronicus the information he wanted about her oldest and youngest daughters. Andronicus would not let that slippery bitch get by with cheating him out of a good fuck. He eyed Mrs. Johnson and gave her a crude grin, thinking he might continue his revenge today by bedding her in a Biltmore bungalow.

  After making torrid love with Andronicus, Mrs. Johnson retreated to the bathroom of the bungalow to comb her hair and make herself look presentable for her husband that night. She put on some bright red lipstick that accentuated her brunette beauty.

  She came out of the bathroom, stared at him and said in a steely voice, “Next time, make sure you don’t miss.” Andronicus let go of her and stared in disbelief. Even he was shocked.

  “Sure, Iris, whatever you say,” he heard himself say. His thoughts were jammed together. Later in the afternoon, he called to tell her he was going to Berkeley to carry out her wishes. He didn’t want her to know he usually botched his attempts.

  A few days later, Mrs. Johnson watched her husband eat his breakfast methodically, one forkful of overcooked scrambled eggs at a time, before he left for work. Her mind was five hundred miles away, in Berkeley. Had she really sent a boy, a boy who’d tried to rape her daughter, who was now sleeping with her at will, to Berkeley to kill her daughter’s black lover? She looked absently at the hydrangeas that bloomed by the kitchenette windows. “I had to do it,” she mumbled. “To protect Inny.”

  “We have to protect Inny.” Mrs. Johnson got up and started pacing around the kitchen.

  “What, Iris?” asked Mr. Johnson, hastening to finish his breakfast so he wouldn’t be late for his job at AFM, an engineering firm where he had no idea what he was doing, other than trying to make a living. Supposedly, he was helping design machines that scraped away the remaining bowling pins if someone didn’t make a strike, which was most of the time. Craig Johnson thought of the days when he was captain of the USS Forrestal, a naval destroyer, when he blissfully rolled with the waves, lobbed an occasional cannonball at the islands near Japan and loved showing off his officer’s uniform, loved saluting and being saluted at. That’s all he had wanted, plus a nice family to come home to, which he believed he had.

  After he was summarily passed over for the rank of captain, something that had been guaranteed to all Annapolis graduates until he came up for promotion, his life changed. The treasury, or someone, had decided to economize by passing over twenty percent of the naval graduates that year; he’d been one of them, due to his miserable grades in Spanish. Mr. Johnson couldn’t fathom foreign languages. He’d been at the bottom of his class due to his Ds in Spanish. He couldn’t fathom a table being anything other than a table. What the heck was a mesa?

  He pulled into his parking space outside of AMF, looking dully ahead and nearly running into the car next to him. He’d been in a serious depression ever since he’d been passed over, five years ago. Now, Inny was about to graduate from college and his youngest daughter would be applying for colleges soon. He winced, wiped his nose with its perpetual postnasal drip, opened the car door, got out, and walked stolidly toward his office.

  Mrs. Johnson was already on the phone with Andronicus, dressed in one of her prettiest mid-calf house dresses. She thrilled at the sound of his deep, masculine voice and the daring act she’d put him up to. “How… how did things go in Berkeley?” she asked with a girlish trill coming into her voice. She’d never slept with anyone before other than her husband; her sole aim in life was to play bridge, have occasional dinner parties, and be socially acceptable by the right people, who were rich and white in her book. When she scratched Albert’s arm and drew blood, everything changed.

  Inny had always infuriated her with her independent, headstrong, insulting manner; she knew she’d alw
ays do whatever she wanted, but she admired her for passing tests and getting accepted into good schools, which was something Mrs. Johnson hadn’t done. Not that she couldn’t have, what with her father’s wealth and high position as president of the post office in Washington, D.C. but she’d gotten a D in algebra, which convinced her she wasn’t smart like her younger sister, who got straight As. Beautiful and sharp-witted, Mrs. Johnson undermined herself and others every time she got the chance. Criticism was her forte.

  She was more direct with Andronicus today.

  “He and Inny were struggling with a knife! I shot him just in time! I think he’s dead!” Andronicus smiled at his skill at lying. He wasn’t aware that he’d shot Jerry by mistake.

  Mrs. Johnson caught her breath. “You mean that nigger was trying to kill Inny? Oh, what a horrid man!” She imagined a dark man of monstrous proportions trying to drive a knife into Inny’s heart. Oddly, a smile crept over her face.

  “Not anymore.” Andronicus smiled into the receiver of the phone as he rubbed his penis inside his pants. “Could I come over so we can talk about it? Or do you want to meet somewhere?”

  “My husband’s at work, my younger daughter’s at school – come on over! I’ll fix you some lunch!”

  “Do you have any of that gin you had last time?”

  “The Tanqueray? Yes, we never drink. It’s for company.”

  Andronicus continued rubbing his penis until it was hard as a rock. “I’ll be right over.”

  “Fine!”

  He jumped up, took a furtive look at the family vault, which was ajar. He deftly pried it open and took a few hundred dollars, just in case they wanted to celebrate up the coast. Then, he ran outside into the bright Montecito sunshine and got into his road-hugging red Ferrari sports car. He took off at top speed. He’d hardly had any sleep, but he felt alive, invigorated by the excitement of the hunt.

  Mrs. Johnson was thrilled to the core of her being. She had a rich young lover who’d killed a black man for her, or so she thought. She’d saved the family’s reputation. No one would ever know because she’d threaten to stop Inny’s monthly checks to pay for her room and board if she protested. The thought of her headstrong, disobedient daughter agitated her, which Andronicus took for ardor, and led to passionate lovemaking in her own bedroom.