New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  It had been a while since he’d looked at the wampum belt. He took it from her and gazed at it thoughtfully.

  “Any guesses?”

  “It looks Indian.”

  “It is.” He ran his fingers over the tiny decorated beadwork, which was rough to the touch. “It’s wampum,” he explained. “You see all these tiny white beads? They’re seashells. The dark beads make a pattern, as you see, and that’s actually a kind of writing. This wampum belt probably has a message.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “It’s been in the family for a long time. Maybe hundreds of years. I don’t know how we first got it, but it’s supposed to be lucky. Like a charm.”

  “Has it ever brought you any luck?”

  “My father was wearing it the day he lost all his money—after the crash. He told me he had it on when he decided to jump off the GWB. But then he didn’t jump, or I guess we wouldn’t still have the belt. So that was lucky, you could say.”

  “May I look at it?”

  He handed it back to her. She took it over to the small table by the window and studied it. As she was doing so, Charlie thought about the belt and the process of making it. How long had it taken? Was it a labor of love, or perhaps just a tedious duty? He liked to think the former, but there was no way of knowing.

  “Whatever it means, this is an amazing abstract design,” Sarah suddenly said. “Very simple, but strong.”

  “You like it?”

  “I love it. That’s a wonderful thing to have in the family.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “It’s a work of art,” she said.

  Ten days later, she had given him a tie. Needless to say, her choice was perfect—a rough silk with a dark red background and a faint paisley pattern. Discreet but elegant.

  “Is it all right?” she asked.

  “It’s more than all right,” he said.

  “You’ll wear it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She smiled with pleasure. “I have something else for you,” she said.

  “Another present?”

  “Just something I saw. But I can take it back if you don’t like it.”

  She handed him a rectangular package wrapped in plain paper. It looked like a book, but felt too light. He opened it carefully. Then stared, amazed.

  It was a drawing by Robert Motherwell.

  “I thought it might go over there,” she said, and pointed to a space on the living-room wall. “If you like it, that is,” she added.

  “Like it?” He was still staring at the drawing, almost unable to speak. It was a simple abstract, black on white, which reminded him of a piece of Chinese calligraphy. And so beautiful.

  “Don’t move,” she said, and taking the drawing from him, she went over to the place on the wall she had indicated, and held the drawing up there. “What do you think?”

  It was more than perfect. It transformed the entire room.

  “You’re a genius,” he said.

  “Really?”

  She looked so pleased.

  What had it cost her? He didn’t like to think. No doubt Betty Parsons would have given her terms, let her buy it over time. But Sarah, on her modest salary, would probably be paying for this drawing for months if not years.

  And she was prepared to do this for him? He was both astonished and moved.

  For days after that, he wondered what he could possibly give her in return. What would be appropriate? It had to be something that would give her pleasure. But more than that. An expensive coat or a piece of jewelry, something she couldn’t normally afford, might give her pleasure, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to find a present that showed he had gone to particular trouble. Something of significance. Something of emotional value. He racked his brains for what it could be.

  And then, at last, the idea came to him.

  It was a Sunday, on a clear, crisp day, just before noon, when he arrived at her apartment. She’d been out to see her parents in Brooklyn, but come back that morning to spend the day with him. He took the present carefully out of the taxi. It was awkward to carry, and he had to proceed slowly up the stairs to her door.

  Inside, he laid his parcel down on the floor of her living room.

  “For you,” he said with a smile. “From me.”

  “Whatever can this be?” The package was certainly strange, about four inches wide and six feet long. It took her a minute or two to get the wrapping off.

  “It’s a little awkward,” he said. But she was managing fine.

  “Oh, Charlie.” She was staring open-mouthed. “You can’t give me this.”

  “I can.”

  “But this is an heirloom, Charlie. You have to give this to Gorham, for your children’s children. It belongs in your family.”

  “He isn’t expecting it. He doesn’t even know about it. I think you’d appreciate it more than anyone I know. The framers did a good job, don’t you think?”

  They certainly had. The wampum belt had been laid flat and mounted on a long, thin, cloth-covered board with simple lip mounts, so that it could be easily removed. The board slid into a long white box with a glass front, and this display case could then be hung or fixed to a wall for display.

  “Nice piece of abstract art,” Charlie said with a grin. “I can’t believe you’re giving me this, Charlie,” she said. “Are you really sure?”

  “I thought about it a lot, Sarah. I know you’re the right person to have it.”

  “I’m touched, Charlie,” she said. “I’m really touched.”

  “In that case,” he said happily, “I guess it was a good present.”

  It was from that weekend that he began to wonder if they could be man and wife.

  He thought about it every day. Of course, you couldn’t deny the difficulties—there were plenty of those. But then again, what were they, if you really came to think about it?

  He was older, yes. But not so old as all that. He knew of other couples where a man had married a much younger woman, and they seemed to get along. He made her pretty happy, he was certain of that.

  What would they do about religion? he wondered. Her family would have wanted Sarah to marry the Jewish doctor no doubt. On the other hand, when all was said and done, marrying him would be quite a step up in the world for her. He wondered what sort of wedding ceremony they’d have. The simple Episcopalian ceremony was so close to the Jewish service anyway.

  And when they were married, she’d be under his protection. If his mother’s doorman dared even blink at his wife, he could say good-bye to his job. His friends would all welcome her—and if they didn’t, then they weren’t his friends. Were the old-money crowd so wonderful anyway? Did he really have that much in common with them? What if he just went his own way completely? He’d known other people, old-money people like his own family, who’d married appropriately the first time, been unhappy, married completely inappropriately the second time round, and been happy for the rest of their lives.

  There was the question of finances to be considered. Being young, Sarah would probably want a child or two. Could he afford a new household, private schools and all that? If he really put his mind to it, Charlie reckoned he could make a hell of a lot more money than he did now. Being married to Sarah would inspire him. The Keller show had been so successful, and the book contract might bring in quite a bit of money. He’d be passing some of that on to the remaining Kellers, of course—that went without saying—but he wasn’t actually obliged to give them any particular percentage. It had been left to his discretion, and God knows he’d done all the work. There was a bit of cash coming right there.

  And besides, if he was really going to step out of the club, so to speak, then maybe he’d go even further. Little Gorham was going to be all right, with the private education he was providing, and his mother’s money. Sarah’s expectations for her children would be quite different. What if they moved out to some place like Greenw
ich, where the town had schools that were just as good as the private schools? You could do that. As he thought about all this, Charlie felt as if his life was flooded with a bright new light. He felt a sense of freedom.

  In short, he was a middle-aged man in love with a younger woman.

  The day was pleasantly warm. It was May, almost June. They had just been to look at a collection of prints in the New York Public Library, and they had come out onto its broad steps.

  “There’s a bit of a family tradition associated with this place,” Charlie said to Sarah.

  “There is?”

  “Dates back to the time when it used to be a reservoir. It’s where my great-grandfather proposed to my great-grandmother. In the street somewhere, I suppose, though that would be a bit dangerous nowadays.”

  “Lethal. Were they happy?”

  “Yes. It was a very successful marriage, as far as I know.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Suddenly Charlie went down on one knee.

  “Sarah, will you marry me?”

  She laughed. “I get it. That must have been very romantic.”

  But Charlie didn’t get up.

  “Sarah Adler, will you marry me?”

  A couple of people were coming up the steps. They looked at Charlie curiously. Then they started to whisper to each other.

  “Are you serious, Charlie?”

  “Never more so in my life. I love you, Sarah. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “Charlie, I didn’t imagine …” She paused. “Can I think about this a little while?”

  “Whatever time you need.”

  “Charlie, I really … You caught me by surprise. I’m so flattered. Are you sure about this?” She smiled. “I think you’d better get up now, you’re collecting a crowd.” It was true. There were half a dozen people watching them now, some of them laughing. As he got up, she kissed him. “I’m really going to have to think about this.”

  Rose Master was most surprised, two days later, when George the doorman called up to inform her, in a voice that suggested he was keeping the visitor outside on the sidewalk, that there was a person called Miss Adler who desired to see her.

  “Send her up,” said Rose. She met Sarah at the door herself, and once they were in the living room, she was even more surprised when Sarah asked her if she might speak to her in confidence. “Of course you may,” she said guardedly, “if that is what you wish.”

  “Has Charlie spoken to you about me?” the girl said.

  “No.” He hadn’t.

  “He wants to marry me.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “So I came to ask what you think about it.”

  “You came to ask me?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Rose stared at her. Then she nodded thoughtfully. “Well, dear, that’s very nice of you.” She paused. “You’re very clever.” She was sitting in an upright chair; Sarah was on the sofa. She glanced toward the window where the early-evening light from Park Avenue was casting a gentle glow.

  “I’m sure you want me to be truthful.”

  “Please.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s a good idea, though I can quite understand his being in love with you.”

  “A Jewish girl with glasses?”

  “Oh yes. You’re intelligent and attractive—I dare say he should have married someone like you in the first place. Of course, I’d have been horrified.” She shrugged. “Well, you said you wanted me to be truthful.”

  “I do.”

  “I just think it’s too late now. Do you like him?”

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking really hard. I love him.”

  “Lucky Charlie. What do you like about him?”

  “A lot of things. I think he’s the most interesting man I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s only because he’s older, dear. Older men seem interesting, because they know things. But they may not be so interesting really.”

  “Don’t you think he’s interesting? You’re his mother.”

  Rose sighed. “I love my son, my dear, and I want the best for him. But I’m too old to hide from reality. Do you know the trouble with Charlie? He’s intelligent, he may even have talent, but he’s old money. Not that he has any, you understand. But he belongs to it. That’s my fault, I’m afraid.” She sighed again. “I mean, it always seemed so important.”

  “It isn’t important now?”

  “I’m getting old. It’s strange how your view of life changes when you get older. Things …” she made a gesture with her hands, “fall away.”

  “I never met old money before Charlie, Mrs. Master. I love Charlie’s manners, and he’s so charming.”

  “He is charming. He always was. But let me tell you the trouble with people like us, my dear. We have no ambition.” She paused. “Well, sometimes people of our class have ambition. Look at the two Roosevelts. Two presidents from one family—very different branches of the family, of course, but still …” She stared out of the window again. “Charlie’s not like that. He knows all kinds of things, he’s interesting to talk to, he’s thoughtful, he’s very kind to me—but he’s never done anything. And even with you beside him, dear, I’m afraid he never will. It isn’t in his nature.”

  “You think it takes pushy Jewish people to get things done?”

  “I don’t know about Jewish. But pushy? Definitely.” She looked at Sarah seriously. “If my son marries you, dear, I don’t know how he’ll be able to afford another family. But even if he finds the money, he will still be old a long time before you are. And as time passes, I’m afraid you will become impatient with him. You deserve something better. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to hear you talk like this.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have learned anything, would you?”

  “No,” said Sarah, “I guess not.”

  On Friday Sarah went home as usual. It was good to be back with her family, and to hear about the daily lives of her brothers. The Shabbat meal passed quietly. During the morning service, she listened to the rabbi and tried not to think about anything else. In the afternoon, though, her brother Michael won three games of checkers against her so easily that he couldn’t believe it. After that, she sat quietly with her thoughts.

  What did she feel about Charlie? She really hadn’t expected him to propose to her like that. She hadn’t been prepared at all. Did she love him?

  She realized one thing. Whenever he wasn’t there, she missed him. If she saw a picture she liked, or heard a piece of music, or even a joke, she wanted to share it with him. The other day an objectionable client had come into the gallery, and she automatically found herself thinking: I wish Charlie were here, he would hate this man so much.

  She liked to dress him the way she thought he ought to look. She’d bought him a blue scarf that he looked very nice in. But he had this terrible old hat, and he absolutely refused to stop wearing it. She didn’t really mind—it just became a challenge to figure out how long it would take to get him to give it up. In fact, she liked the challenge. If he’d given it up without a fight, she’d have been disappointed.

  So how would she feel if Charlie were her husband? Pretty good, actually. As for having a little boy that was like Charlie, or a little girl he could dote on—why, that seemed the most wonderful thing in the world.

  But what about religion? Would the Master family insist that she or the children be Christians? That she couldn’t agree to. However, Charlie hadn’t raised the question, so he couldn’t care about it that much, she supposed. She’d expected that old Mrs. Master would be the one really to object, but unless Rose was bluffing, Sarah’s Jewishness no longer bothered her that much. If Christians used the term, Sarah thought, the Episcopalian Masters appeared to be secular rather than observant.

  As for herself, though she loved her tradition, Sarah reckoned that she could probably live in Manhattan without too much difficulty as a secular Jew, and even bring her
children up that way—so long as they could experience their heritage whenever they visited her parents. If Charlie would make that compromise, then she could cope. She knew it could be done. She had friends in the city with mixed marriages who seemed to be happy enough.

  But that still left the big problem. Her parents. Her father especially. Everyone knew the views of Daniel Adler.

  Might it help that her father liked Charlie? “I was worried about you going into the city,” he had told her. “But the gallery is serious, this I can see. And your client Mr. Master—that is a distinguished man, a fine man.” There was no question, her father had liked Charlie a lot. Perhaps that would count for something.

  Besides, she could remind her father, his grandchildren would still be Jewish. They’d have a Jewish mother. Maybe Daniel Adler could reconcile himself to having secular grandchildren, so long as they came to Seder at his house where he could educate them. “After all,” she could hear herself telling him, “this way, they still have the choice as they grow older. There’s nothing to stop a child of mine becoming a rabbi even, if he wants to.”

  These were the hopes, the calculations, the little scenarios Sarah invented for herself as she sat in her home and thought about the man she loved.

  Maybe it could all work out. She didn’t know. Perhaps by the end of the weekend, she’d have a clearer picture. For the time being, she decided it would be better not to speak to anybody about it.

  She was caught completely off guard, therefore, when her mother suddenly turned to her in the kitchen that evening before they went to bed, and said: “I hear this man, Mr. Master, is falling in love with you.”

  Fortunately, Sarah was so taken by surprise that she just stared at her.

  “What do you mean?” she managed to say.

  “Ach,” Esther Adler threw up her hands, “you know nothing.”

  “Who would think such a thing? And why?”

  “Your sister. She told me two days ago. She noticed it when he was here. She was talking to him when I asked you about Adele Cohen’s grandson, and he overheard. He was listening so hard, Rachel said, that he didn’t even answer her questions.”