Girl in the Moonlight

by Charles Dubow

  Cesca resisted. She told him that her fiancé had been offered a job at Morgan bank. Marriage was an attractive notion. Like many children of divorced parents, she was torn between her desire for a secure home life and the disbelief that such security was ever possible. She might have moved on from wanting to be the wife of a Catalan pharmacist, but she hadn’t lost the craving for consistency, for a settled life where circumstances could impose a kind of order on her. It was the dream of a child, like wishing for snow at Christmas or a happy ending.

  Izzy urged her to wait until after she’d graduated from Barnard. “Then if you want to get married, you’ll have my blessing,” he said. “But maybe by then you’ll change your mind. Think about it. You are destined for bigger things, my dear. Marriage is not yet part of the equation. One day but not yet.”

  He pointed out that she still had much to accomplish before she should consider such things. Husbands, after all, were demanding. Children even more so. Would she be able to pursue her dreams? Did she still want to study theater design? He knew the Nederlanders, the theater owners. He could make introductions. If necessary, he would even invest in a show. She would be a triumph. Broadway would beat a path to her door. But only if she remained single.

  Izzy’s nature was to expect the exceptional from his offspring, but that also meant he was destined to be disappointed. Like many self-made men, he believed that anything was achievable through the power of hard work and determination. But when his children inevitably failed to fulfill his ambitions for them, he kept urging them on.

  Roger had been the first. From a young age, Izzy had set him such a high bar that it would have been nearly impossible to succeed. Not for any son of Izzy Baum was it good enough to simply do well or lead a productive life. No, from Izzy there was always the constant pressure to be great. “You can be great!” he would tell Roger, and later his grandchildren, even my father. “You can be great!” And he meant it too. With his scrapper’s will, he truly believed that greatness was attainable with enough effort and encouragement.

  In his own way, he had become great, but he never thought so. He knew he had become a success, had money and houses and the trappings of wealth, but those were not great things to him. They were simply the benefits of a lifetime of toil, combined with a certain pecuniary cunning. By the time his children had come along, he no longer aspired to greatness for himself, but he believed he could give Roger the tools to become great. More than power and influence, that would be Izzy’s ultimate reward. To be pointed at and hear said, “You see that man, Izzy Baum? He’s the father of Roger Baum.” Nothing would have been sweeter to him. This had been his dearest wish since the moment he had first held his son, amazed by the pink-skinned perfection of the boy.

  So he gave Roger all the advantages he had never had. Private schools. Lessons in French, riding, and sailing. Extra tutoring in geometry. He would invite different men—corporation presidents, politicians, college professors, architects, artists, doctors—for dinner at the palatial house on East Sixty-Eighth Street and have his son sit with them to absorb their knowledge. And at the end of every evening, Izzy would stop by Roger’s room and, as the boy was drifting off to sleep, would ask, “Did you learn anything tonight?”

  “Yes, Papa,” was the answer.

  “You will be great!” repeated his father, stroking the boy’s hair. “I know it.”

  And as the boy grew, Izzy kept an eye on him, wondering what shape the spark of genius would take. Would he become a scientist, a doctor, a poet, a political leader? The first Jewish president even? Anything was possible. Unlike his own father, Izzy was irreligious. He had no ambitions for his son to grow up to become a rabbi or Talmudic scholar. His years in the business world had taught him that the only thing to believe in was oneself. But he wouldn’t have minded if Roger became a university professor or even a critic. It did not matter if his profession of choice was lucrative or merely consequential. After all, he did not have to worry about sullying his hands with labor. Money would never be an issue for Roger. Izzy had already drawn up with his lawyers extremely generous trusts for each of his children, but his real hope was with Roger.

  And for years that hope appeared to be well founded. During Roger’s prep school years, he was a star, winning prizes in a wide range of academic and athletic pursuits. He was captain of his football team and president of his student body. Boys liked him, and girls found him exciting. Even his teachers, normally so jaded by the constant change of faces every year, envisioned great things for him. When Roger graduated from private school in New York, Izzy threw a huge party at the Stork Club to celebrate. Eddie Fisher sang, and among the luminaries in attendance were the mayor of New York, Ernest Hemingway, Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, Rocky Marciano, and Jackie Gleason. It was covered in the Times. Roger’s graduation present from Izzy was a Jaguar roadster.

  Izzy would continually send letters to Roger, citing recent remarkable actions he considered of the same caliber as the ones that would one day redound to him. Of particular interest at one point was Dr. Salk, and during this time Izzy actively encouraged Roger to identify other diseases that might be cured as well. Just think of it, he would write, one day to be mentioned in the same breath as Jonas Salk. You can do it! With your brains and my money, there’s no reason you can’t find a cure to any of the terrible diseases currently afflicting the globe. Have you thought about changing your studies to science or even medicine? If so, I will have a word with the president immediately. Should you decide to pursue this course of action, I might even see my way clear to donating a new laboratory.

  If Izzy had actually left Roger alone, it is entirely possible that his own intelligence and inborn abilities would have assured him of a good, if not a great life. But Izzy couldn’t help meddling. It was in his nature to control.

  It was different with Kitty. Izzy had tried to control her too, but, unlike Roger, she rejected him. Even as a child, she fought him. When he said he admired her blue dress, she’d wear the green one. She would come home from school and, instead of doing her homework, would read Nancy Drew stories or listen to programs like The Romance of Helen Trent. As she grew older her rebellion manifested itself in her choice of men. She went to Vassar and was nearly kicked out after her freshman year for having a man in her room. By the end of her junior year, she quit school entirely and moved to Paris, where she rented an apartment overlooking the Tuileries and studied painting. She went to nightclubs on the Left Bank and became the mistress of a married politician.

  Her father was furious, but he never stopped sending her money every week to the American Express office on Rue Scribe. In spite of it all, he still doted on his eldest, and nothing could put him in a better mood than a word or a smile from his daughter.

  She and my father had even been lovers for a period, although I did not find that out for many years. My father was Roger’s bosom friend, his regular crony. In college they would travel down to New York from Cambridge on Fridays and go to “21” with girls Roger knew, and Roger picked up the tab every time. For many summers, while my father worked first as an intern and then as a young attorney at various Manhattan law firms, he would come out most weekends to stay with the Baums, his first introduction to the East End of Long Island. He thought it was paradise. Izzy liked to live well and enjoyed sharing his pleasures with the people he loved.

  Some nights, if she was alone, Kitty would knock on my father’s door. The first time it had happened my father was startled. She was his friend’s sister, and Izzy’s daughter. “Don’t be silly,” she said, unhooking her bra. “Look, do you want to or not?” Afterward, she said, “I’m not interested in dating you, Mitch. You’re cute, but you’re not really my type. If there was another man here, it just might as well have been him.” Over the course of that summer, whenever they both happened to be in the house, she would knock again if she felt like it, and she usually did. Occasionally, at dinner, when no one was watching, she’d slip her hand onto his thigh. For my fa
ther, it was like living in a French novel.

  If Roger had too much of his father’s attention and Kitty scorned it, the youngest, Dorothy, was virtually ignored. Prettier than her sister and more delicate, Dot was treated like a doll by her father. He never made demands of her, never expected much of anything from her. She, in turn, tried everything she could to please him, to not have him treat her like a baby. In the end the only thing she could do was shock him. She took lovers. Drugs. Dabbled in left-wing politics. Became a hippie. Lived on an ashram. Protested the war. She wasn’t married. Didn’t have children. Apparently my father also slept with her.

  Like an old jockey training for a last race, Izzy was not yet ready to give up. He was determined that one of his descendants would be great. Nothing was more important to him. He would spend whatever it took. It was a pact he had made with a god he didn’t believe in. You make me rich, Lord, and I’ll make someone great, someone who can give back, who can make the world a better place. Who can be a better person than I. Even if his own children would never be great, there were still Kitty’s children. If he couldn’t succeed with his own, he would make one of them great. But now he was an old man. He might not live long enough to know what his grandchildren could, or could not, achieve.

  Sitting at lunch, Cesca knew her grandfather would give her the old speech about how she could be great. She had heard it all before. But unlike some, she actually believed she could be great. She already knew that Aurelio would become a great painter. That Cosmo would become a great musician. Carmen was brilliant as well as beautiful. She could be anything.

  Cesca just didn’t know what direction her own life would take. There was so much that impassioned her but not any one thing more than another. From a young age she had learned how to draw, but she never felt the same love for it that Aurelio did.

  Yes, she could do theater design, as Izzy suggested, but there were other things that interested her too. Fashion, for example. She had always been told what a good eye she had. And what if there was something out there that she hadn’t come across that was to be her destiny? To commit to one thing now would be a mistake. She couldn’t afford not to be ready when it announced itself. If only she could be sure. What she needed was a sign. In the meantime, why not marry? If she was destined to be great, what did it matter whether she was married or single?

  After lunch, she started walking down Fifth Avenue, weighing her grandfather’s words, determined to prove him wrong. She loved him, but she thought he was a bully, wielding his money like a weapon. It had been easier when she was a little girl. She could always get what she wanted then, but her desires were basic, childish. A cookie, maybe. A new party dress. This was a different matter. It was a big decision—but it was her life. She knew he had never listened to anyone and had always followed his own course. Why couldn’t she do the same? It made her angry.

  She wished Aurelio was in the city. He was the only one of her siblings who would understand. He would listen, would help her weigh the pros and the cons. Despite his cavalier attitude toward his own life, he possessed an instinctively philosophical nature. Ethics were important to him. What is right and what is wrong? “What is the real reason you want to get married? Your motive for moving away?” Many times they had stayed up late plotting an adventure or agonizing about the future. In most cases he would decide that the best course was direct action. Fear was never a factor. Something always had to be dared, to be risked, for it to have any meaning. That was the crucial consideration. The gesture had to have import, if not it should be abandoned.

  Cosmo and Carmen could never offer such counsel. Cosmo was still too brash, too unformed, too selfish. He would not care where she went but would only miss her after she was gone. And Carmen? All her life she had brought her problems to Cesca, seeking an older sister’s advice. Cesca had never brought her problems to Carmen. It was important to be strong, to show no indecision. That was the basis of their relationship. No, only Aurelio could help, but he was in Barcelona. She hoped he was taking care of himself and remembering to eat.

  She found herself in the Twenties and decided to walk the rest of the way home. Crossing Fourteenth Street, she became aware of a man following her. Young, brown, Puerto Rican or possibly Italian. Hollowed cheeks.

  New York was more dangerous then. Muggings a frequent occurrence. It was important to not let down your guard. She walked faster and thought about turning in to a store when the man crossed to the other side of the street. She was only a few blocks from home now. She turned a corner and he was there, a knife in his hand. A single thin blade. “Gimme all your money, bitch,” he said.

  Even during her freshman year, Cesca had chosen to stay with her mother and siblings in the house in the Village. Crime, she knew, was everywhere, but this was her neighborhood. The familiar brownstones and stoops. The people who worked in the shops, the pizzeria, the hair salon around the corner all knew her. The old lady who spent her days leaning out of the window watching for trouble. They waved at each other. She felt safe here. Suddenly the street was empty.

  He thrust his hand at her, and she reached into her purse to remove her wallet. Here, she said, almost in slow motion. She was not afraid. Not exactly, though she was unable to bring herself to look directly at the man.

  “Now the ring.”

  She looked at her hand, at the engagement ring that had belonged to an Astor. Money was one thing. There could always be more. But not this. It was unique. It was hers. It was out of the question.

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no? I’ll cut you.”

  It was as though someone had woken her up. Suddenly alert to what was happening, she looked at the man. His eyes shifting side to side, desperate to get away. Standing there foolishly, impotently, brandishing a small knife. She sensed his weakness, his cowardice, and despised him for it. An impulsive fury rose within her. “I said no,” she repeated and began screaming at him in Catalan. The vilest things she could say. “Bastardo! Ves a la merda! Poca polla!” Swinging her purse at him. Surprising him, hitting him in the face.

  There were other people on the street now. “Fill de puta!” she screamed and swung again. Her house keys spilling on the street. Her makeup. She didn’t care. The purse came down on him again and again, as he shielded his face, dropping his knife.

  “Concha!” he shouted and ran.

  “Cabro!” she screamed after him.

  By now there were other people around her. “Are you all right, lady?” asked one of the men.

  Shaking with fear and anger, out of breath, she started picking up her things from the street. A handle on her bag had snapped. The man’s knife lay there, but she avoided it. Even the money was still there. One of her shoes had come off. She picked it up and wedged it back on.

  “I’m fine,” she said in English, but she knew she wasn’t.

  She just wanted to get out of there. To leave this place, the halfhearted solicitude of strangers, now that the danger had passed. Hot tears burned her cheeks as she ran off in the other direction. Someone shouted she should wait for the cops, but there was no point in that, even if they ever came.

  She told no one about what had happened. Her mother would overreact and tell her she needed to be more careful. That she shouldn’t walk and should only take cabs. Her fiancé would be equally alarmed. There was nothing any of them could do, though. No one can really protect you from danger if the danger is meant to find you. You are the only person who can do that.

  She was proud of herself for having stood up to the mugger. She knew she was brave. No one else she knew would have done it. Aurelio would have given him everything. Offered it. Here, take my coat too. That was the way he was. And it would have been different too if she was a man. A man who fought back might have been stabbed. But she had caught the mugger unprepared. He had thought she was a helpless woman, but she’d turned into a fury. She almost wished he hadn’t run away. She was the descendant of Catalan women who had castrated French troop
s and nailed them to trees in reprisal. Vengeance and cruelty were in her blood.

  The next day she began taking karate classes. The sensei was a large black man with an Afro. She was a willing pupil, learning how to disable an attacker and where on the body were the best places to strike. She went every day, proud of her ability to deliver a roundhouse kick high on the body bag.

  It was not enough to defend herself though. She began to seek out danger. It was easy to find then. Park Avenue was as unsafe as Harlem. I remember my father telling me about one of the older members being attacked right outside of the Harvard Club in broad daylight. He was a veteran of the First World War. He was knocked down and his wallet and watch were taken. He had a gash on his forehead.

  Cesca refused to be intimidated. At night she would stride down the middle of the street, waiting for someone to attack her. Silently willing it, her hands flexing, a can of Mace in her pocket. Let them try it, she thought. I am ready. You can’t scare me. Fortunately, no one ever did. Possibly any assailants sensed the fight in the beautiful young woman and passed her over for an easier target.

  There was more. Someone told her it was possible to climb to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, walking up the sloping cable using the auxiliary cables as handrails. It was a simple matter of scaling a gate intended to keep out potential suicides. She would go up often, either alone or with friends, late at night. Her fiancé tried to go once but suffered from acrophobia and had to turn back. To the horror of those of her friends who were able to make it to the top, Cesca would sit on the edge, her feet dangling in space, staring out over the twinkling city, flicking her cigarette ash into the night sky while the East River rushed blackly by far below.

  She also took up skydiving and heli-skiing, anything that could provide an adrenaline rush. And she conquered them all. Proving to herself that she could overcome fear. Her fiancé tried to put his foot down. They would have arguments. He yelled at her to stop taking such crazy chances. He told her she was going to hurt herself seriously one day. She called him a coward. Covard. Marieta. Unforgivable words. Doors slammed. His calls went unanswered.