“Next week. England will never be the same after this war. Lloyd George and the other socialists will take care of that. This is their opportunity. And America will not be the same either. I predict she’ll enter the war sometime in 1917.” He paused, then said, “The investment I have in England is important. I shouldn’t have left it as long as I did.”
The skeptical Irishman went to confession the day before he left for New York—the first time Father Sweeney had ever seen Daniel take Communion. The priest was moved. He had long suspected that Daniel was unhappy, though he did not know the cause, for Daniel was invariably cheerful and confident.
The priest said, “Take care of yourself, Dan.”
“I will.” He seemed about to add to this, but then remained silent.
Daniel never returned. His ship was torpedoed near the coast of Ireland, by a U-boat. Its hold was full of explosives. The fire flared like a sun above the black waters before it sank into the December sea.
On a snowy January day a memorial Mass was celebrated for Daniel Dugan by Father Sweeney in St. John the Baptist Church. Numerous relatives and friends came from Boston and New York. Most of the mourners from Belleville were business acquaintances. Molly was not popular, despite her husband’s wealth and her impressive house. The women claimed she was not “friendly or warm”; she belonged to no women’s organizations, no clubs. She did not even belong to the Rosary and Altar Society, and she was seldom seen at Mass. The rare times she “socialized,” she had “nothing to say of interest.” In short, she did not gossip.
“She puts on airs. She thinks she is better than we are, because she married a rich man from Boston. But she is only shanty Irish!” But Molly even as a child was discriminating; fools bored her; she could not bring herself to be falsely cordial to people or pretend interest in them, as could her genial brother. She was not hypocritical, and as a consequence, people did not like her. She talked forthrightly; if she did not favor something, she said so.
But Lionel’s and Joan’s friends crowded the pews. Joan was considered an “angel and a saint for bearing her painful cross with dignity and pious resignation.” Joan was always tactful, and her secret scorn and disdain were hidden beneath her celestial smile. Her physical beauty was taken for beauty of soul. She was patient with Molly, and people approved. She rarely expressed a strong opinion. While Molly had a well-hidden compassion, Joan was cruel and loved no one except her husband and Sebastian. Joan had a reputation for concern and affection. Molly gave great sums to the hospital and the parochial school, and gifts to the priests and numerous other charities, but people did not admire her for this. “She can well afford it.” Joan gave meagerly, and was celebrated.
At the memorial Mass, Molly was surrounded by people, yet she gave the impression of being alone. Jason sat beside her, and their clasped hands were hidden by their coats. Only Jason knew that her hand trembled and was very cold. She was not tearful as she seemingly concentrated on the ceremony. “No feeling” was the general consensus. Patrick Mulligan sat on her other side, as if in a stupor. Monsignor Garrity, in his distant parish, sent prayers and assurances that he would include Daniel in special Masses. Jason had requested it, and sent a donation, out of respect. And guilt.
Mrs. Lindon was there, with a contingent of beautiful new nieces, and their decorum was exemplary, as was their rich and subdued clothing. Some knelt, with rosaries in their exquisitely gloved hands. The little church was filled with a profusion of flowers—a gift of Mrs. Lindon. Father Sweeney had accepted them with grace. He was very tolerant these days, and charitable. After all, Mary Magdalen’s gift was accepted by our Lord. Father Sweeney could do nothing less.
Chauncey Schofield and his wife and his wife’s daughter, Elizabeth, were there. Elizabeth, with her wicked child’s beautiful face, had not married, though she had suitors from as far away as New York and Philadelphia. She was an “old maid,” and her friends wondered. She was “devoted to her mother,” so the story was told. Joan and Elizabeth were great friends.
In spite of the Irish tradition, Molly gave no dinner, as was customary. She returned alone to her silent house and refused visitors. Only there did she give herself up to tearless sorrow. She knew Daniel had loved her deeply; she knew that he had known she had only regard and affection for him. She had not deceived him as to that. Dan, Dan, she thought in her quiet bedroom. If only I had loved you as you loved me!
Condolence cards received no acknowledgment from Molly.
Daniel had left his whole fortune of five million dollars to “my beloved wife,” save for some charities in Boston and the purchase of Masses for the repose of his soul.
Molly put her house up for sale, with no explanations to anyone, and when it was sold she moved to New York to a small and luxurious town house on Fifth Avenue. She wrote infrequently to her brother and a few acquaintances. She never wrote to Jason. In time she was forgotten, but never by Jason; she continued to haunt his life with increasing desire and despair. He did not know where she lived; he never inquired.
Patricia had returned home for Christmas with a nurse. She had sunk into a silent immobility that nothing could disturb. She did not come down to meals. She sat in her room, and when her father and children would visit her, she only stared at them dumbly and seemed unaware of their presence. But she had gained weight and was neat, and Patrick was heartened. “My colleen is home, and there she will stay! She’s herself again!”
But she returned to her sanatorium near Wilkes-Barre in January 1917, after Daniel’s funeral, which she did not attend. Dr. Conners advised her return, and Patrick was devastated and bewildered.
Dr. Conners had said to Jason, “She is far from cured. They keep alcohol from her, and she’s physically improved. They tell me she employs her time writing letters, but to whom, they do not know. And sleeping. She cries a lot, but she won’t confide in the doctors and nurses or the new psychiatrist. No, she isn’t cured. The last days she was home, she was extremely agitated, in spite of being guarded from visitors. Best she return.”
“Will she ever be cured?” asked Jason, but with no real interest.
Dr. Conners hesitated. “Not until she gets rid of what bothers her and has bothered her for years. A secret sorrow, as Pat says. But she never impressed me as a deep girl. How deceived one can be!”
Mrs. Lindon said to Chauncey Schofield. “Soon we will move. Confidentially, the bankers are almost agreed to my buying up Jason’s loans. Ed Schultz has agreed. I won’t touch Patrick for now. He may be Jason’s father-in-law, but I hear they’re open enemies. Patrick blames Jason for his daughter’s condition—I hear.”
It was late April 1917.
“Jason hasn’t done himself much good with his Bulwark America. The people are all for war with Germany. I admire the propagandists. They’ve done a good job. Besides, it is certain to cure the depression that’s dogged us for years. Anyway, Jason’s highly unpopular at the moment. He protested the Preparedness Parades here and in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia.” She chuckled, shook her head. “Fools never learn that man proposes and governments decree. Jason actually opposed the proposed draft! He advised ignoring it! He financed a mothers’ antiwar meeting in Washington, and he’s strapped for money. Patricia’s costing him a fortune in that sanatorium of hers.”
“The new hotel is practically finished, Clem.”
“I don’t know how he managed it. He’s deeply in debt, though we’re solvent. It’s opening this summer.” She added, “It’s nothing personal. I’m fond of Jason. After all, he put me in the way of making huge profits. But money is money. Love never should interfere with it. Love is a rose, but money is a fortress.”
She studied Chauncey. “I admire your recent discretion with Elizabeth. Hideaways in Philadelphia and New York and country boardinghouses here. I still offer you my house.”
Chauncey said, “No. It would be too gross.”
She laughed richly. “Elizabeth wouldn’t think so! Men! You’re all puritans at hea
rt. Women are much more pragmatic.”
Chauncey smiled, his most charming smile. The old depraved bitch, he thought. “I agree. Men are romanticists.” He put on an expert pretense of admiring Mrs. Lindon, but she was not deceived.
She chuckled again. “Dear Chauncey, I don’t like your sex. I never did, ever since I was seduced by an uncle when I was twelve years old. And I never extend hospitality to a girl who likes men. I see it as a weakness which will bring only trouble to the girl and my house. You never knew that about me, did you?”
“I suspected that, dear Clem. I never knew a lady in your profession that did like gentlemen.”
Mrs. Lindon mused, while turning her wineglass on the table. Chauncey eyed her uneasily. Suddenly she laughed as if at a colossal joke. She refilled Chauncey’s glass and laughed again.
After he had left her house, she thought: Dear Chauncey. I don’t have anything against you, but the time is coming that you are expendable. Yes, indeed. Sooner than you expect.
That night Chauncey Schofield said to his wife, Anita, “Darling, I’ve just had a talk with Clem Lindon. The old bitch is up to something, and that’s bad news to us. Wish I’d taken your suggestion months ago—asked the trustee of your late husband’s estate to talk to Ed Sunderland of the Belleville Savings Association—”
“To buy up Jason Garrity’s paper, you mean? Yes. I thought Gary Winslow might be interested. I did talk to him confidentially, without your knowing, love. After all, I am a woman of substance and still officially a resident of New York.” She smiled archly, and Chauncey was unpleasantly reminded that in spite of Anita’s love for him and in spite of her extravagantly silly affectations, she was a hard, keen woman.
Gary Winslow was her late husband’s trustee and the manager of Anita’s money. He did not approve of Chauncey, as bankers did not approve of rich widows remarrying, since the new husband might induce his wife to change banks.
“What did the prig say, Anita?”
“Now, now, dear. Gary is a banker. At that time he was dubious, seeing Jason was head and shoulders in debt to the banks. He advised me not to. But suddenly he seems to have changed his mind. He didn’t confide in me about it, but advised me to buy up Jason’s paper, and he offered to press Mr. Sunderland about it. He suggested a price that exceeds the Philadelphia offer—I don’t know, that they were interested. Bankers are so devious—like moles, they work in the night.”
“Well, well. What else did the mole have to say?” Chauncey was impatient.
“He advised me, as my friend as well as my banker, to buy Jason’s paper. If I’m not interested, his own bank will. What a coincidence! He gave me till next week to make up my mind!”
“And you didn’t tell me anything about it. I’m hurt, dear.”
Anita laughed and fondled his neck. “I intended to tell you when I made up my mind. After all, I managed before I married you, precious, and I’ve gotten into the habit. And you have, sometimes, a dreary habit of arguing with me—about my own money—and then a tiresome dispute ensues. Finance is a tedious subject, isn’t it?”
Seeing Anita’s smile, Chauncey was overcome with dislike. He suddenly knew that he had always disliked her. He said meanly to himself: Money bores you? Clem and you are a pair, madams under the skin!
In the past, Anita had financed some of his more clever schemes—and profited by them—for he was a true entrepreneur. He used his own money for riskier investments, and chortled in triumph when they were successful. Anita was generous enough not to remind him that he had money to finance the more precarious due to her financing of the others. But he suspected her of thinking that. When he was disappointed in a venture, her lawyers in New York came to the rescue, and he lost little money or stayed even. Anita paid their bills. She also gave him a decent allowance, “for you do sometimes make me pots, lover, and your allowance is a bonus.”
She owned the house they lived in in Belleville, and three other residences, fully staffed, in addition to other property and investments, and the income from her late husband’s estate. Elizabeth would inherit the principal from her father’s estate, and at least half from her mother’s. Anita often talked as if it were settled. It was not. Elizabeth was not aware of this. She thought her own fortune was secure and only Chauncey’s might be threatened, and given a choice between Chauncey and her parents’ money, Chauncey would be the loser, much as she was infatuated with him, much as he was the first man she had ever faithfully loved.
Consequently Elizabeth protected Chauncey and was much more discreet than he. A divorce would be disastrous to him. Smug at the “security” she fancied to be her own, she worried for him. She had prevailed on him lately to buy a secluded little cottage a mile from Belleville, where they would meet if they considered that Elizabeth’s room was too hazardous.
Chauncey and Elizabeth did not dare to use the cottage overnight. That would have led to questions of Elizabeth’s whereabouts. Chauncey himself had plenty of excuses for his absence. He was frequently away overnight visiting clients in Philadelphia, Scranton, Pittsburgh, or New York. Anita’s anxiety over her daughter’s spinsterhood was becoming acute; she believed Elizabeth to be a virgin. She often confided her anxiety to Chauncey, who was indulgent. “Let the girl alone. She’s devoted to you. Beautiful women, as well, know their value. She’ll make a choice soon, never you fear.”
Chauncey was becoming anxious himself. Anita was eminently healthy. He wished he was ruthless enough to … The dark shadow remained in his mind, even though it shocked him to realize it was there. If it had not been for Elizabeth, the shadow would not have existed, and he would have settled for temporary liaisons in other cities, or become a more frequent patron of Mrs. Lindon’s house. But Elizabeth was too valuable to him. He loved her and believed the rumors that she would inherit a vast estate.
Tonight he had other things to think of.
“At the risk of boring you, Anita, what is your final decision?”
She laughed with surprise. “To buy up Jason’s paper, of course!”
“The sooner the better!” Chauncey was exultant. “I suspect Clem of making a move.”
“Mr. Sunderland will be informed tomorrow of my bid. Not a moment later. And Gary will call him. I still don’t know why Gary changed his mind on this matter. Lawyers and bankers are so mysterious.”
It was late, and Anita smiled beguilingly. “You look tired, dearest. Come to bed.”
Chauncey sighed. Elizabeth and he had a rendezvous tonight; it would have to be delayed. After all, he was still elated and felt grateful to his wife.
As they prepared for bed, he asked, “Do you think it could be kept a secret from Clem? And from Jason—for a while?”
Anita yawned luxuriously. “When you have money, lawyers and bankers would be drawn and quartered before they’d reveal your secrets. I’ll tell Gary.”
“I’d like to see their faces when they know—Clem and Jason!” Chauncey’s face changed. It had become vicious.
He did not know Mrs. Lindon knew all about the cottage in the woods. She made it her business to know the secrets of her clients. “You may never know when you will need them.”
Jason’s paper was not the only one the bank held.
31
It was April 1917 and America was at war. President Wilson had been elected in November 1916 on the slogan “He kept us out of war.” In March 1917 he had been inaugurated for another term. Some weeks later he solemnly asked congress for a declaration of war against Germany.
The announcement was greeted with great excitement. There was dancing in the streets, parades, and a wild rush to volunteer. The kaiser was burned in effigy, all Germans, even those born in the United States, were regarded with hostility, and the German language was banned in the schools. Famous actors and actresses from Hollywood and New York began appearing in theaters urging the purchase of Liberty Bonds, and “Over There!” was played constantly on the radio.
The nation had gone mad.
J
ason Garrity told large numbers of acquaintances, “All Americans who support this war are either total innocents or guilty traitors. The innocent will die on battlefields ‘somewhere in France,’ and the guilty will come into their own, in power and triumph.”
He was reported to the police as a “subversive.” The police in Belleville were mainly of Irish and German descent, and their faces, on reading the reports, were enigmatic. Later, Jason’s enemies, frustrated at local police inaction, reported him to senators and congressmen in Washington.
Lionel advised him “to keep your mouth shut.” To which Jason had said, “A free country?” and laughed bitterly. “It’ll never be free again.”
Saul Weitzman said, “I am afraid.” Father Sweeney said, “I am afraid.”
Jason replied, “The whole goddamn world needs to be afraid.”
An insignificant corporal in the Austrian army named Adolf Hitler, a man of little stature but with compelling and hypnotic eyes, began watching world events with interest. A youthful Italian named Benito Mussolini regarded the war with Latin humor and dreamed of the ancient grandeur of Rome. And one Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, a Communist, lately released from Siberia, mysteriously disappeared. His comrades called him Stalin, “man of steel.”
These men, as early as 1917, had caught the attention of certain individuals. They had “potential.”
Patricia was released from her sanatorium the last of April in the custody of a nurse. She was pronounced “cured, though she will need a little care for a while.” She still remained in her bedroom and a converted sitting room next to it and did not come down for her meals. But she displayed a renewed interest in the twins, and she insisted on their presence an hour a day, until she tired of Nicholas’ “healthy rowdiness.” She would take her medicines with smiling obedience from Nicole, but would frequently burst into tears without provocation, or laugh hilariously at nothing.