If Tomorrow Comes

  The Charles Stanhope Seniors lived in an impressive old mansion in Rittenhouse Square. It was a city landmark that Tracy had passed often. And now, she thought, it's going to be a part of my life.

  She was nervous. Her beautiful hairdo had succumbed to the dampness in the air. She had changed dresses four times. Should she dress simply? Formally? She had one Yves Saint Laurent she had scrimped to buy at Wanamaker's. If I wear it, they'll think I'm extravagant. On the other hand, if I dress in one of my sale things from Post Horn, they'll think their son is marrying beneath him. Oh, hell, they're going to think that anyway, Tracy decided. She finally settled on a simple gray wool skirt and a white silk blouse and fastened around her neck the slender gold chain her mother had sent her for Christmas.

  The door to the mansion was opened by a liveried butler. "Good evening, Miss Whitney." The butler knows my name. Is that a good sign? A bad sign? "May I take your coat?" She was dripping on their expensive Persian rug.

  He led her through a marble hallway that seemed twice as large as the bank. Tracy thought, panicky, Oh, my God. I'm dressed all wrong! I should have worn the Yves Saint Laurent. As she turned into the library, she felt a run start at the ankle of her pantyhose, and she was face-to-face with Charles's parents.

  Charles Stanhope, Sr., was a stern-looking man in his middle sixties. He looked like a successful man; he was the projection of what his son would be like in thirty years. He had brown eyes, like Charles's, a firm chin, a fringe of white hair, and Tracy loved him instantly. He was the perfect grandfather for their child.

  Charles's mother was impressive looking. She was rather short and heavy-set, but despite that, there was a regal air about her. She looks solid and dependable, Tracy thought. She'll make a wonderful grandmother.

  Mrs. Stanhope held out her hand. "My dear, so good of you to join us. We've asked Charles to give us a few minutes alone with you. You don't mind?"

  "Of course she doesn't mind," Charles's father declared. "Sit down...Tracy, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The two of them seated themselves on a couch facing her. Why do I feel as though I'm about to undergo an inquisition? Tracy could hear her mother's voice: Baby, God will never throw anything at you that you can't handle. Just take it one step at a time.

  Tracy's first step was a weak smile that came out all wrong, because at that instant she could feel the run in her hose slither up to her knee. She tried to conceal it with her hands.

  "So!" Mr. Stanhope's voice was hearty. "You and Charles want to get married."

  The word want disturbed Tracy. Surely Charles had told them they were going to be married. Yes," Tracy said.

  "You and Charles really haven't known each other long, have you?" Mrs. Stanhope asked.

  Tracy fought back her resentment. I was right. It is going to be an inquisition.

  "Long enough to know that we love each other, Mrs. Stanhope."

  "Love?" Mr. Stanhope murmured.

  Mrs. Stanhope said, "To be quite blunt, Miss Whitney, Charles's news came as something of a shock to his father and me." She smiled forebearingly. "Of course, Charles has told you about Charlotte?" She saw the expression on Tracy's face. "I see. Well, he and Charlotte grew up together. They were always very close, and--well, frankly, everyone expected them to announce their engagement this year."

  It was not necessary for her to describe Charlotte. Tracy could have drawn a picture of her. Lived next door. Rich, with the same social background as Charles. All the best schools. Loved horses and won cups.

  "Tell us about your family," Mr. Stanhope suggested.

  My God, this is a scene from a late-night movie, Tracy thought wildly. I'm the Rita Hayworth character, meeting Cary Grant's parents for the first time. I need a drink. In the old movies the butler always came to the rescue with a tray of drinks.

  "Where were you born, my dear?" Mrs. Stanhope asked.

  "In Louisiana. My father was a mechanic." There had been no need to add that, but Tracy was unable to resist. To hell with them. She was proud of her father.

  "A mechanic?"

  "Yes. He started a small manufacturing plant in New Orleans and built it up into a fairly large company in its field. When father died five years ago, my mother took over the business."

  "What does this--er--company manufacture?"

  "Exhaust pipes and other automotive parts."

  Mr. and Mrs. Stanhope exchanged a look and said in unison, "I see."

  Their tone made Tracy tense up. I wonder how long it's going to take me to love them? she asked herself. She looked into the two unsympathetic faces across from her, and to her horror began babbling inanely. "You'll really like my mother. She's beautiful, and intelligent, and charming. She's from the South. She's very small, of course, about your height, Mrs. Stanhope--" Tracy's words trailed off, weighted down by the oppressive silence. She gave a silly little laugh that died away under Mrs. Stanhope's stare.

  It was Mr. Stanhope who said without expression, "Charles informs us you're pregnant."

  Oh, how Tracy wished he had not! Their attitude was so nakedly disapproving. It was as though their son had had nothing to do with what had happened. They made her feel it was a stigma. Now I know what I should have worn, Tracy thought. A scarlet letter.

  "I don't understand how in this day and--" Mrs. Stanhope began, but she never finished the sentence, because at that moment Charles came into the room. Tracy had never been so glad to see anyone in her entire life.

  "Well," Charles beamed. "How are you all getting along?"

  Tracy rose and hurried into his arms. "Fine, darling." She held him close to her, thinking, Thank goodness Charles isn't like his parents. He could never be like them. They're narrow-minded and snobbish and cold.

  There was a discreet cough behind them, and the butler stood there with a tray of drinks. It's going to be all right, Tracy told herself. This movie's going to have a happy ending.

  The dinner was excellent, but Tracy was too nervous to eat. They discussed banking and politics and the distressing state of the world, and it was all very impersonal and polite. No one actually said aloud, "You trapped our son into marriage." In all fairness, Tracy thought, they have every right to be concerned about the woman their son marries. One day Charles will own the firm, and it's important that he have the right wife. And Tracy promised herself, He will have.

  Charles gently took her hand which had been twisting the napkin under the table and smiled and gave a small wink. Tracy's heart soared.

  "Tracy and I prefer a small wedding," Charles said, "and afterward--"

  "Nonsense," Mrs. Stanhope interrupted. "Our family does not have small weddings, Charles. There will be dozens of friends who will want to see you married." She looked over at Tracy, evaluating her figure. "Perhaps we should see that the wedding invitations are sent out at once." And as an afterthought, "That is, if that's acceptable to you?"

  "Yes. Yes, of course." There was going to be a wedding. Why did I even doubt it?

  Mrs. Stanhope said, "Some of the guests will be coming from abroad. I'll make arrangements for them to stay here at the house."

  Mr. Stanhope asked, "Have you decided where you're going on your honeymoon?"

  Charles smiled. "That's privileged information, Father." He gave Tracy's hand a squeeze.

  "How long a honeymoon are you planning?" Mrs. Stanhope inquired.

  "About fifty years," Charles replied. And Tracy adored him for it.

  After dinner they moved into the library for brandy, and Tracy looked around at the lovely old oak-paneled room with its shelves of leather-bound volumes, the two Corots, a small Copley, and a Reynolds. It would not have mattered to her if Charles had no money at all, but she admitted to herself that this was going to be a very pleasant way to live.

  It was almost midnight when Charles drove her back to her small apartment off Fairmount Park.

  "I hope the evening wasn't too difficult for you, Tracy. Mother and Father can be a bit stiff sometimes.
"

  "Oh, no, they were lovely." Tracy lied.

  She was exhausted from the tension of the evening, but when they reached the door of her apartment, she asked, "Are you going to come in, Charles?" She needed to have him hold her in his arms. She wanted him to say, "I love you, darling. No one in this world will ever keep us apart."

  He said, "Afraid not tonight. I've got a heavy morning."

  Tracy concealed her disappointment. "Of course. I understand, darling."

  "I'll talk to you tomorrow." He gave her a brief kiss, and she watched him disappear down the hallway.

  The apartment was ablaze and the insistent sound of loud fire bells crashed abruptly through the silence. Tracy jerked upright in her bed, groggy with sleep, sniffing for smoke in the darkened room. The ringing continued, and she slowly became aware that it was the telephone. The bedside clock read 2:30 A.M. Her first panicky thought was that something had happened to Charles. She snatched up the phone. "Hello?"

  A distant male voice asked, "Tracy Whitney?"

  She hesitated. If this was an obscene phone call..."Who is this?"

  "This is Lieutenant Miller of the New Orleans Police Department. Is this Tracy Whitney?"

  "Yes." Her heart began to pound.

  "I'm afraid I have bad news for you."

  Her hand clenched around the phone.

  "It's about your mother."

  "Has--has Mother been in some kind of accident?"

  'She's dead, Miss Whitney."

  'No!" It was a scream. This was an obscene phone call. Some crank trying to frighten her. There was nothing wrong with her mother. Her mother was alive. I love you very, very much, Tracy.

  "I hate to break it to you this way," the voice said.

  It was real. It was a nightmare, but it was happening. She could not speak. Her mind and her tongue were frozen.

  The lieutenant's voice was saying, "Hello...? Miss Whitney? Hello...?"

  "I'll be on the first plane."

  She sat in the tiny kitchen of her apartment thinking about her mother. It was impossible that she was dead. She had always been so vibrant, so alive. They had had such a close and loving relationship. From the time Tracy was a small girl, she had been able to go to her mother with her problems, to discuss school and boys and, later, men. When Tracy's father had died, many overtures had been made by people who wanted to buy the business. They had offered Doris Whitney enough money so that she could have lived well for the rest of her life, but she had stubbornly refused to sell. "Your father built up this business. I can't throw away all his hard work." And she had kept the business flourishing.

  Oh, Mother, Tracy thought. I love you so much. You'll never meet Charles, and you'll never see your grandchild, and she began to weep.

  She made a cup of coffee and let it grow cold while she sat in the dark. Tracy wanted desperately to call Charles and tell him what had happened, to have him at her side. She looked at the kitchen clock. It was 3:30 A.M. She did not want to awaken him; she would telephone him from New Orleans. She wondered whether this would affect their wedding plans, and instantly felt guilty at the thought. How could she even think of herself at a time like this? Lieutenant Miller had said, "When you get here, grab a cab and come to police headquarters." Why police headquarters? Why? What had happened?

  Standing in the crowded New Orleans airport waiting for her suitcase, surrounded by pushing, impatient travelers, Tracy felt suffocated. She tried to move close to the baggage carousel, but no one would let her through. She was becoming increasingly nervous, dreading what she would have to face in a little while. She kept trying to tell herself that it was all some kind of mistake, but the words kept reverberating in her head: I'm afraid I have bad news for you...She's dead, Miss Whitney...I hate to break it to you this way...

  When Tracy finally retrieved her suitcase, she got into a taxi and repeated the address the lieutenant had given her: "Seven fifteen South Broad Street, please."

  The driver grinned at her in the rearview mirror. "Fuzz-ville, huh?"

  No conversation. Not now. Tracy's mind was too filled with turmoil.

  The taxi headed east toward the Lake Ponchartrain Causeway. The driver chattered on. "Come here for the big show, miss?"

  She had no idea what he was talking about, but she thought, No. I came here for death. She was aware of the drone of the driver's voice, but she did not hear the words. She sat stiffly in her seat, oblivious to the familiar surroundings that sped past. It was only as they approached the French Quarter that Tracy became conscious of the growing noise. It was the sound of a mob gone mad, rioters yelling some ancient berserk litany.

  "Far as I can take you," the driver informed her.

  And then Tracy looked up and saw it. It was an incredible sight. There were hundreds of thousands of shouting people, wearing masks, disguised as dragons and giant alligators and pagan gods, filling the streets and sidewalks ahead with a wild cacophony of sound. It was an insane explosion of bodies and music and floats and dancing.

  "Better get out before they turn my cab over," the driver said. "Damned Mardi Gras."

  Of course. It was February, the time when the whole city celebrated the beginning of Lent. Tracy got out of the cab and stood at the curb, suitcase in hand, and the next moment she was swept up in the screaming, dancing crowd. It was obscene, a black witches' sabbath, a million Furies celebrating the death of her mother. Tracy's suitcase was torn from her hand and disappeared. She was grabbed by a fat man in a devil's mask and kissed. A deer squeezed her breasts, and a giant panda grabbed her from behind and lifted her up. She struggled free and tried to run, but it was impossible. She was hemmed in, trapped, a part of the singing, dancing celebration. She moved with the chanting mob, tears streaming down her face. There was no escape. When she was finally able to break away and flee to a quiet street, she was near hysteria. She stood still for a long time, leaning against a lamppost, taking deep breaths, slowly regaining control of herself. She headed for the police station.

  Lieutenant Miller was a middle-aged, harassed-looking man with a weather-beaten face, who seemed genuinely uncomfortable in his role. "Sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport," he told Tracy, "but the whole town's gone nuts. We went through your mother's things, and you're the only one we could find to call."

  "Please, Lieutenant, tell me what--what happened to my mother."

  "She committed suicide."

  A cold chill went through her. "That's--that's impossible! Why would she kill herself? She had everything to live for." Her voice was ragged.

  "She left a note addressed to you."

  The morgue was cold and indifferent and terrifying. Tracy was led down a long white corridor into a large, sterile, empty room, and suddenly she realized that the room was not empty. It was filled with the dead. Her dead.

  A white-coated attendant strolled over to a wall, reached for a handle, and pulled out an oversized drawer. "Wanna take a look?"

  No! I don't want to see the empty, lifeless body lying in that box. She wanted to get out of this place. She wanted to go back a few hours in time when the fire bell was ringing. Let it be a real fire alarm, not the telephone, not my mother dead. Tracy moved forward slowly, each step a screaming inside her. Then she was staring down at the lifeless remains of the body that had borne her, nourished her, laughed with her, loved her. She bent over and kissed her mother on the cheek. The cheek was cold and rubbery. "Oh, Mother," Tracy whispered. "Why? Why did you do it?"

  "We gotta perform an autopsy," the attendant was saying. "It's the state law with suicides."

  The note Doris Whitney left offered no answer.

  My darling Tracy,

  Please forgive me. I failed, and I couldn't stand being a burden on you. This is the best way. I love you so much.

  Mother.

  The note was as lifeless and devoid of meaning as the body that lay in the drawer.

  That afternoon Tracy made the funeral arrangements, then took a taxi to the family home. In the
far distance she could hear the roar of the Mardi Gras revelers, like some alien, lurid celebration.

  The Whitney residence was a Victorian house located in the Garden District in the residential section known as Uptown. Like most of the homes in New Orleans, it was built of wood and had no basement, for the area was situated below sea level.

  Tracy had grown up in that house, and it was filled with warm, comfortable memories. She had not been home in the past year, and as her taxi slowed to a stop in front of the house, she was shocked to see a large sign on the lawn: FOR SALE--NEW ORLEANS REALTY COMPANY. It was impossible. I'll never sell this old house, her mother had often told her. We've all been so happy together here.

  Filled with a strange, unreasoning fear, Tracy moved past a giant magnolia tree toward the front door. She had been given her own key to the house when she was in the seventh grade and had carried it with her since, as a talisman, a reminder of the haven that would always be there waiting for her.

  She opened the door and stepped inside. She stood there, stunned. The rooms were completely empty, stripped of furniture. All the beautiful antique pieces were gone. The house was like a barren shell deserted by the people who had once occupied it. Tracy ran from room to room, her disbelief growing. It was as though some sudden disaster had struck. She hurried upstairs and stood in the doorway of the bedroom she had occupied most of her life. It stared back at her, cold and empty. Oh, God, what could have happened? Tracy heard the sound of the front doorbell and walked as if in a trance down the stairs to answer it.

  Otto Schmidt stood in the doorway. The foreman of the Whitney Automotive Parts Company was an elderly man with a seamed face and a body that was rail-thin, except for a protruding beer belly. A tonsure of straggly gray hair framed his scalp.

  "Tracy," he said in a heavy German accent, "I just heard the news. I--I can't tell you how sorry I am."