Alfie came in, looking despondent. “I’ve been on the phone again with Ben’s office. He hasn’t come back and hasn’t called in. Could something good be happening?”
No one answered, and Alfie followed Paul back across the hall.
“Dan and his socialist politics,” Alfie grumbled. “But I have to say this much: He’s sincere about it and always was.”
“He’s not a political Socialist,” Paul argued, having a penchant for absolute accuracy. “He never was in politics.”
“Same thing,” Alfie replied, glumly. “This Red Scare business—it will all pass. Sticking your neck out, what does it get you? And I’ll tell you something: Margaretta had no business being there. She ought to be back in college right now, but I can’t budge her.”
“Meg’s grown. She has her own mind, Alfie.”
“Oh, I know, I know. Of course, I understand she’s crazy about Hennie, always was even when she was a little kid. You know, in many ways I think Meg seems to be more like her Aunt Hennie than like her mother.”
The afternoon grew shorter. The women, having apparently consumed their limit in coffee and tea, drifted in from the dining room and sat down. They picked up sections of Paul’s discarded newspaper and conversation ebbed; they had run out of it. Someone turned lamps on, and this reminder that the day had almost gone, with still no word, was depressing.
Presently Hank and his friends came rushing down the stairs. When he had seen his friends out at the front door, Hank came back. His entrance stirred them all to life.
Uninhibited and boastful, he had to display his writing sample, his arithmetic paper, his drawings, and all his second-grade prowess. He did it with the ease of a child who is used to grown-ups and expects to be listened to. He has Dan’s charm, Paul thought, while Hank, curled on the sofa next to Hennie, spread his artwork on her lap and brought to her face the first relief from the blank, awful trance that had lain upon it all through these last three days. And Paul felt loving thankfulness, observing the little scene. It could have been so different for the child: either a household without a father at all, or else, if Freddy’s fate had been different, a sorrowful home with a troubled father and an unhappy mother striving, as he knew Leah would have striven, to conceal her unhappiness. Yes, poor Freddy’s tragic end had not been without its benefit for his child, who now had a cheerful home, two parents, and in Ben a father who, it was plain, was good for him.
These thoughts were interrupted when Alfie, who had been using the telephone in the library, came back and called everyone to attention.
“I’ve just talked to Ben’s office. The secretary said he’s on his way home. She didn’t know anything more than that. He left almost half an hour ago, she said.”
A general sigh moved around the room. And then in the midst of the sigh, the downstairs bell rang; they heard a maid run from the rear of the house to answer the door; heard voices, several voices … Everyone stood up.
They were all standing when Ben came into the room, wearing a wide, triumphant grin. Then Dan came rushing to Hennie. And a third man followed, to wait at the door unnoticed in the tumult.
“Oh, my God!” For the first time, Hennie broke and wept, while Dan held her and Hank pulled at him and everyone else crowded around.
“What happened?”
“How do you feel?”
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, Ben, what a miracle!”
“How did you do it?”
“Dan, sit down! Are you hungry? Let me get you a drink.”
With his free arm, Dan waved them all away. The other arm held Hennie firmly around the waist.
“I’m fine. I’m all right. Not hungry. But you can get me a brandy.”
Meg rushed away for the brandy.
“Now let the man sit down,” Ben said. He was in command, and enjoying it. “Let him rest, I’ll do the talking. This is the man we must all thank. This is Donal Powers, who knew what to do.” And he motioned to the man on the threshold, who had been quietly watching the happy commotion. Mr. Powers made a gracious gesture.
“My pleasure to do a favor for Ben’s family. My pleasure.”
Introductions were made; Mr. Powers was surrounded; everyone had to shake his hand and marvel that he had been able to do what no one else had been able to do. Everyone thanked him again and again, while Hennie kissed him and cried.
In a second, the dismal vapor of the afternoon had been dispelled. A holiday atmosphere now filled the room; everything glittered. Champagne was brought in; a maid appeared with plates of all the little extras that go with it, hot stuffed mushrooms and crabmeat cups, and everyone was invited to stay for supper.
“It’s last-minute, but we’ll manage to throw something together. You won’t go hungry,” Leah cried gaily. This was what she loved, being the dispenser of hospitality, the center of celebration. She did it well, too.
But Paul withdrew. He removed himself from the babble of pleasure. It was a mental trick of his, seldom used, and then only when he was tired—as he now was after these days of trial—or when his mind was troubled.
He was aware of his own mixed feelings. Gratitude—of course he was grateful! There was something else, though, that he felt, something quite—well, not quite nice. He felt, to a certain extent, humiliated. Always, young as he was, he had been the one in the family who knew how to manage, to arrange things. Today was the first time he had failed.
His respected name, which ought to have been influential enough to vouch for Dan, even in the face of the crazy fanaticism of the times, had not been. But this other man’s, this stranger’s name, had been. Why?
Puzzled, Paul observed him. He was no more than thirty, dark and well built. Women, no doubt, would find him handsome. He was impeccable, as if he had just come out of the shower. His cashmere jacket fitted his shoulders in a way that only English tailors knew how to fit them. He wore handmade shoes. His demeanor was correct as a funeral director’s, he carefully moved and carefully spoke, always with that small, gracious inclination of the head. Yet, for all this gentility, Powers had what Paul recognized as an untamed air. He had known enough powerful men to know what he was looking at. Powers! Well named, he thought.
Who was he? Whom did he know? Well, time would tell. It told most things eventually.
The supper was a buffet. Paul filled his plate and carried it into the library, finding the only vacant chair directly opposite where Powers was sitting, talking to Ben. Even though Paul was unable to hear what they were saying, he could see that Ben was deferential. Powers had a commanding mouth; one could imagine the lips drawn under in anger. His eyes were long-lashed and feminine, but there was nothing else remotely feminine about him. Women would love those eyes.
Briefly, the eyes met Paul’s and looked away. He knows I am trying to figure out who he is, Paul thought. And a few minutes later, when Ben got up, Powers came over to Paul.
“I understand you’re in banking. The Werner.”
“Yes,” Paul said, not liking the emphasis.
“This must have been quite an experience, having an uncle arrested. An unusual occurrence in a family like yours.” The eyes were amused.
“Dan is an unusual man,” Paul answered, rather stiffly.
“So I heard. Ben told me something. An inventor, isn’t he?”
Paul didn’t feel like talking about Dan. Yet surely it was natural for the man to be curious about someone whom he had rescued, so he explained briefly.
“He must have made a pile of money,” Powers said.
“He did. But he didn’t keep a cent of it, because it was war money. Radio transmission used at sea.”
“Ben’s told me about this house. Quite a place! And right off Fifth Avenue.”
“Yes. Dan gave it to the boy. To Hank.”
“While grandpa lives in a tenement.” Scorn was obvious.
“It’s comfortable and clean,” Paul said, controlling himself. “And they are happy in it.”
??
?Well, you meet all kinds, don’t you?” Powers said.
“Indeed you do.”
And Powers, not defeated, but wanting apparently to conclude on an easy note, said calmly, “He’s a nice old codger, though. I’m glad I could help him out.”
“I’m glad you could too.”
“By the way, who’s the girl in the red dress?”
“That’s my cousin, Meg. Meg DeRivera.”
“I seem to have missed her before. I think I’ll go over and introduce myself.”
What does he want with Meg? Paul wondered as Powers walked away. Meg’s surely not his sort … and he turned his attention to little Hank, who well knew that he could always get attention from Cousin Paul.
Much later, an hour or more, after he had gone up to Hank’s room and been shown all his toys, Paul came downstairs again, still trailed by the little boy. He went into the living room, out of which there now came the sound of singing.
Meg was at the piano. She had no great talent, but played well enough to accompany herself in Fanny Brice’s “Secondhand Rose.” Donal Powers was standing in the curve of the piano, watching her.
Her red dress was the color of ripe cherries. It had a French look and came, undoubtedly, from Leah’s place. She looked flushed and happy. Of course, everyone in the room was happy tonight. But was there not something special, different, unusual, in her animation?
“You aren’t listening, Cousin Paul,” Hank complained.
“Oh,” Paul said, “it’s all that food and being sleepy.” He was thinking, Why, she is lovely. And saw for the first time that Meg could be radiant.
Quite clearly, something had happened during this last hour. She had stopped playing; her hands were just drifting over the keys making tinkling sounds, while her face was upturned to whatever Donal Powers was saying.
Paul was standing next to Alfie when Powers came over with Meg beside him.
“I hope,” he said, “I have your permission to take this young lady out to dinner tomorrow, Mr. DeRivera.”
Alfie was flustered. “Why, if you’re sure you—very kind, yes—you’ve been so kind,” he said, unaware of the awkwardness of his response. “You’ve gone to so much trouble for us,” he went on, more awkwardly still.
Powers’s smile dismissed him. “No trouble at all. It’s a disgrace, holding such a harmless gentleman in jail.”
Paul winced inwardly. Dan, the stalwart warrior, would hardly relish being thought of as “harmless”! However, Dan hadn’t heard.
Alfie thought of something. “Meg really ought to be going back to college tomorrow.”
“It’s Saturday,” Donal Powers reminded him. “She can take an early train Sunday morning. I won’t keep her out too late.”
“Yes, Dad. I don’t have any Saturday classes this semester.”
“Well,” Alfie said.
Donal Powers looked at Meg. The look was mischievous, triumphant, intimate. And in the instant, Paul saw what was happening, what had already happened. It was an unmistakable sexual attraction, as if the very air were scented with it. There was something palpable between those two, like sudden heat. It had happened almost as rapidly between himself and Anna. The signs were clear: the girl’s flushed cheeks, high voice, and averted eyes; the man’s frank stare; the sudden silence. He recognized them all.
“I don’t even know who he is,” Alfie complained later. “But in the circumstances, I couldn’t very well refuse, could I?”
Ben assured him that Meg was in responsible hands. “He’s a decent man, you’ve nothing to worry about.” He became enthusiastic. “It’s really remarkable, another remarkable American story. Absolutely self-made. Grew up poor as the devil in Hell’s Kitchen. Turned himself into a polished gentleman, as you saw.”
“But what does he do?” insisted Alfie.
“Oh, a lot of things. He’s an entrepreneur, an investor. Owns a couple of restaurants, mostly.”
For some reason Paul doubted that.
Ben continued, “He’s a big investor in real estate, too. Has contacts everywhere. Always mixed up in politics. Either party, it doesn’t matter. Politics makes strange bedfellows.” Like Alfie, Ben was apt to use clichés. “I believe, though I’m not sure and I’m not about to ask, that he got Dan out through somebody in the Department of Justice. The main thing is, Dan’s home. And none the worse for the experience, it seems.”
For Dan, still close to Hennie, was laughing.
That I wouldn’t say, thought Paul; it must have been unforgettable, especially for a man who suffers with angina. Dan was haggard and his cheeks were colored an ominous dark blue-gray.
“Better get him home to rest,” Paul warned, and then told Dan, “I’ve had the car with me all day, ready for you. It’s downstairs. Marian and I can take you now.”
“Always the optimist,” Hennie said gratefully.
Outside in the foggy night, the Holmes Protective man, a private detective hired by the homeowners of the street to guard their treasures and comforts, was pacing up and down the sidewalk. As always, turning eastward toward the humble street where Dan and Hennie lived, Paul was struck by the contrast. You had to be made of very different stuff to turn your back on these treasures and comforts, when you could have possessed them.
Dan was exhausted; he sat without speaking, holding fast to his wife’s hand. As soon as he had delivered them to their home, Paul sighed.
“All’s well that ends well.”
“It would end a good deal better if he didn’t have four flights to climb with that heart of his,” Marian replied. “It gets to be absurd, this pose of poverty and wanting nothing.”
“If there’s anything you can’t accuse either of those two of, it’s posing.”
“Well, the whole business these last few days has been ridiculous, anyway. Just gone too far.”
Some unusual perversity in Paul drove him to argue, to pretend that he hadn’t understood. “Who went too far? The police. Of course they did.”
“I didn’t mean the police, I meant Dan.” Mimi was exasperated. “He opens his mouth and asks for trouble. Asks for it! He knew perfectly well it was risky, and although the authorities may be quite wrong, any sensible person would keep his mouth shut.”
“That’s just what Alfie says.”
“Well, Alfie happens to be right. All this agitation! It’s so—so Russian.”
“Now that’s absurd. And anyway, Dan isn’t a Russian.”
“He acts like one. You know I like him well enough, but the truth is the truth.”
Paul’s urge to argue died as abruptly as it had risen. He felt suddenly, now that the crisis was past, the full strain of events, from the shocking moment when the police had seized Dan on the platform to the moment he had walked into Leah’s house this afternoon.
It had begun to rain; an oily film slid over the pavement; the windshield wipers creaked. He leaned forward, concentrating on the car, while Mimi resumed complaint.
“I always think it’s so odd that there are such extremes among us Jews. People like—oh, people at our temple, or at the club, and then people like Hennie and Dan.”
He had to argue again. “Without realizing it, you’ve fallen into the trap of anti-Semitism. Why shouldn’t we differ among ourselves? Nobody finds it strange that an Oxford don and an Appalachian hillbilly are both Anglo-Saxon.”
“Well, all right, then, it’s not strange. Let’s just say that some of us embarrass the rest of us. Let’s leave Dan out; he’s too close to home. Take that other man who was arrested with him. He probably came to this country ten years ago, survived on the charity of families like ours, and now that he’s getting somewhere, has to go around making speeches and attracting attention, instead of being satisfied to make a living out of whatever he’s doing. The garment industry, most likely,” she finished with disdain. “It’s always been full of troublemakers.”
“Why scorn the garment industry? You think well enough of Leah, don’t you?”
“Of cou
rse I do. I’m fond enough of her, although I must say I liked her better before she got so prosperous and important. And yet you do know perfectly well that she would be entirely out of place at the Harmonie or at Century, don’t you?”
“Indeed she would.”
At the Century Country Club, you had to be of German stock. No one said so; it certainly was not in the bylaws, but that’s the way it was, all the same, and everyone knew it. Although he was a member, he seldom went there and wasn’t about to challenge their customs. If that’s the way they wanted things, it was their business. One could exercise oneself over far greater injustices in this world, and Paul did. Social affairs he left to Mimi anyway. He was not a club man. He had no time.
Mimi got out at the apartment house and he garaged the car. Walking back, he felt himself frowning and relaxed his facial muscles. Of course, like himself, Mimi had been reared in a certain “milieu.” It formed you and you could never escape it entirely; he was aware that he had not done so, and moreover had no burning wish to do so. It was a decent, refined, and comfortable milieu. But he had a different set of mind from his wife’s. Had she always been what she was now? He couldn’t recall that she had ever taken this—he reflected—this hard attitude, or been as absorbed with class and snobbery as she was now. He tried to understand. She suffered. She was still so young, just thirty, and had lost that vital organ, the womb. She had been robbed; perhaps she felt mutilated. Perhaps it was like a man’s being emasculated? He couldn’t know.
He resolved to be very patient with her, not to get into any more of these pointless, peevish tiffs.
Yet things kept happening that tried him and irked him. The way she talked in public about what she called her “ordeal.” Of course, it had been one; the doctor himself on that dreadful night had used the same word. But why did she have to keep recalling the pathetic stillborn boy? Sometimes, after dinner, when the men were divided from the women at opposite ends of somebody’s long drawing room, he could hear her voice, repeating her tale of suffering endured, with a kind of pride in her tone as though she were waiting for praise of her heroism. He would wince; she was boring people, making herself foolish. Once he had intercepted glances between two other women who, having quite normally brought forth one or more healthy children, were regarding Mimi with pity and scorn as they preened themselves, with equal foolishness, on their own fortunate good health.