The Sight of the Stars

  “So? What are you going to do about it?” asked Reilly.

  “There’s nothing to be done. Anyway, it’s Mrs. R.’s business, not mine.”

  Reilly, with a gesture of complete dismissal, retorted that Mrs. R. was the last person in the world to manage such an affair; she would only put a monkey wrench in it, and the niece had no business getting mixed up in it, either. What did she know, a woman, and a young one at that?

  “Well, that leaves nobody,” Adam said.

  “I was thinking,” Reilly went on. “I didn’t sleep last night, I was just thinking. You remember that man back east who gave you the idea you should leave home and start up for yourself? The man who played golf?”

  “Mr. Shipper? What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “Nothing, I guess. But he must have thought a lot of you, the way you told it, at least. Didn’t he work in a bank or something?”

  “He was an investment banker.”

  “Oh. I don’t know anything about them. But if he thought you were so smart, and the way you built up this business here, he’s a banker, so maybe he’d lend you some money and you could beat Brown at his game.”

  The proposal was so absurd, and at the same time Reilly’s expression so anxious, that Adam was touched. Reilly truly cares, Adam thought, and recalled the time he had said: Pretend I’m your father.

  “The man hasn’t seen me in almost nine years, Reilly,” he answered gently.

  “Well, that’s not so long. What does it cost to try it?”

  Plenty. All those records to be collected, an expensive journey to New York, precious time away from the job, and in the end, he would only have made an embarrassed fool of himself.

  These two kindly innocents, Reilly and Archer, were looking at him expectantly. Wanting to get rid of them and their foolishness, he said that he thanked them more than he could say, which was sincere, and that he would think about their suggestion, which was not sincere.

  Yet when morning came and he went about the usual routine, he became aware that their idea was lying at the bottom of his mind like a discarded letter, or more accurately, like an insect bite or an itchy woolen sweater. For the next two days it kept irritating him; he neither mentioned it to Emma nor allowed himself to give it any serious consideration, but kept the itch to himself.

  Then in the middle of the third afternoon, something said to him: Shipper did take an interest in you, this defunct store has prospered under you, this merger would be what my turncoat friend called a “bonanza,” and Shipper is in the business of lending money for profit.

  With these thoughts in mind, Adam returned to Spencer Lawrence’s office, half expecting to be cruelly and courteously dismissed. Instead, Lawrence listened for more than half an hour to his story.

  “Mr. Shipper is someone I used to know, you see.” Adam’s eyes drifted from the smooth rubber plant in the corner back to Lawrence’s impassive face. “I was his caddy, and he liked me. I have no idea whether I could even get an appointment with him. I ask myself: Why should he do anything for me, when Theo Brown, who was my good friend, the salt of the earth, as my father used to say, is betraying us all?”

  “Too much salt can kill you,” Lawrence said wryly. He paused. “You mention your father. What is his business?”

  “He has a little grocery store. It makes a bare living. He started out as a peddler when he came to America after the Civil War.”

  “Arnring. What kind of a name is that?”

  “Jewish, from Germany.”

  “You’ve had two strikes against you. Poverty and being Jewish, like Mrs. Rothirsch.”

  “But she’s not poor anymore, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “She’s been up and down, on a roller coaster. She was on the way down when you came along. You’ve built something for her. It couldn’t have been easy. She has her ways.” And again there came that wry smile.

  Adam, stifling a chuckle, agreed that certainly she did have her ways. But then he found himself defending her.

  “Apart from poverty, she’s had a lot of hardship in her life.”

  “So I’ve heard. Well, she’s done a lot of good in her time. She’s done a lot of charity, and she adopted that niece—a lovely young woman, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, very,” Adam said.

  “Well. To get back to you. I don’t know if you’ll accomplish much with Mr. Shipper. That’s one of the two most important investment banking firms in the country.”

  “Am I a fool to try?”

  “No, it never hurts to try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Isn’t that true? I’ll give them a phone call and find out whether it’s worth your while to take the journey. If it is, I’ll send them all the records, all the documents, yours and Cace’s. I’ll also take the matter up with Mrs. R., but I doubt there’ll be any objection on her part.”

  Hardly, thought Adam, so astonished that for a moment he could hardly speak.

  “I can’t tell you, Mr. Lawrence, how grateful I am,” he said finally. “Even if nothing at all ever comes of this, I’ll always remember that you gave me your time and effort.”

  Lawrence nodded. Did he ever show a real smile? Enough to show his teeth?

  “You know, Mr. Arnring, I have had a very privileged life, as did my father and grandfather. Every advantage was given to us. So I have a great deal of respect for any hardworking, ambitious man who hasn’t had these advantages, and if I can help in any way, I will. You are a fine young man. You are well-spoken and mannerly. You are a gentleman. Mrs. Rothirsch is a very difficult woman with honest, good qualities, and I do not like to see her being tricked by Theo Brown, a person she and you both trusted. It’s a very dirty affair.”

  Then, rifling through papers on his desk, Lawrence dismissed Adam. “Well, I have a lot of work to do here. I’ll get back to you in three days.”

  Whoever could have thought it? Critical, chilly, stiff as a ramrod—or was he, really? Was that only an outer manner, natural to people of a certain type and class? He surely had a great heart. Who could have expected it?

  When Adam looked toward the window and raised his eyes, the Woolworth Building was there, a spear that cut the sky in two. It was the tallest building in the world. Below him was Wall Street, one of the richest streets in the world. On the other side of an enormous, carved desk sat Herman Shipper, one of the most powerful people on that street. Here in the midst of superlatives sat Adam Arnring, an average man.

  “You haven’t changed,” Shipper said, “except for your clothes,” and he winked. “‘I’m a man of the world,’ that suit says.”

  How I wish it! Adam thought. What did he know or what had he ever known of “the world,” in which, after you have scrambled for a toehold on the rock, it crumbles under your toe?

  “Have you been back in the old hometown at all since you left?”

  “Just once, four years ago when my mother died.”

  “I thought your mother had died long ago.”

  “Well, yes. But this one raised me, so I—”

  Mr. Shipper nodded kindly. “Of course. Tell me, what’s happened to the brother who was such a fine student?”

  “He’s getting ready for medical school.”

  “And you’re still helping him?”

  “I have to. I want to.”

  “Not easy, is it?”

  “The hardest part is getting accepted. The Jewish quota, you know.”

  “What else is new? It’s only been two thousand years.” And Shipper sighed. “At least he stands a better chance than if he were one of those eastern Europeans, those Russian types. We don’t want them around us ourselves, don’t want them in our clubs, do we? We want to be with our own kind.”

  Words flashed through Adam’s mind. The upper-class Jews don’t want Sabine . . . Archer says Reilly’s got a hangover from last night. He’s a fine guy, the best, but the Irish, you know, they can’t keep away from the drink . . . Reilly says, I’ve lived next door to Archer for the last twenty years,
and he’s a fine guy, but still he’s cold. That’s some funny thing about the British.

  Mr. Shipper continued, “They have no polish, no background, no taste. They give us a bad name.”

  Poor Sabine Rothirsch . . . No polish, no background, no taste.

  Adam, clearing his head, returned to the business at hand. “The heart of the matter is that she wants the deal but is afraid to spend what’s required. She’s old, scared, and not sufficiently competent to understand that the business is flourishing well enough to handle a debt.”

  Shipper nodded. “I know. I had a couple of conversations with Mr. Lawrence. Look at this pile of documents that he sent last week. What startled me was the record of profit that changed in the very first month after you took over.”

  “It was a challenge. I enjoyed it, and I still do.”

  “That’s what Lawrence said about you. Sort of a stiff-upper-lip type, isn’t he? But very helpful, very thorough, and answered practically all my questions before I asked them.”

  Shipper leaned back in his chair, offered Adam a cigar and, being refused, lit his own and savored it for a minute or two. While the smoke rose, Adam waited in suspense. Yes or no, Mr. Shipper, so I can go home.

  “You told me yesterday, Adam, and Mr. Lawrence also said that Mrs. Rothirsch wants the deal, but will not advance the money. Let me ask, what if you had to undertake the debt yourself?”

  “I, Mr. Shipper? However could I—”

  “Very easily. I discussed it with Lawrence. We would make you a loan at five percent. We then own your proportion of the new firm’s stock. You would be a part owner. It would take a very few years, if all goes well, and there is no reason to think it will not go well, for you to pay us back.”

  Adam responded hesitantly, “I don’t understand. You’d trust me with over half a million dollars?”

  Shipper laughed. “You know better than that. You’re surprised, and that’s why you’re asking a foolish question. Look here, if you don’t repay me, then I will become a stockholder in your firm. That’s putting things in simplest terms. I assure you, I’m not worried in the least.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  Adam’s eyes began to fill. He blinked, and hoped that Shipper would think it was the cigar smoke’s fault.

  “Say nothing. Just continue to do a good job and be well. By the way, you didn’t say. Do you ever think of marriage?”

  “Well, yes, I have been thinking, but—” and apologizing for his eyes, he added, “The smoke. My eyes get funny.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it bothered you.”

  “No, just keep the cigar, please. I don’t mind, it’s nothing.”

  “Mr. Lawrence was really quite enthusiastic when I gave him my idea about you. He said you are very, very worthy.”

  “This is all too much for me to believe,” Adam said.

  Mr. Shipper laughed. “Well, believe it. Our lawyers will be in touch with Mr. Lawrence tomorrow.”

  Somehow or other, the lengthy meeting came to a close. After handshakes, best wishes, and the most earnest thanks that Adam had ever bestowed upon anyone, he found himself down on the street, staring up at the Woolworth Building. Then he went to a telephone, spoke a few halting, gleeful words to Emma, and made his way to the westbound train.

  Chapter 14

  Adam was stunned, and he was not alone. In no time at all, once he had received his check from New York, the merger papers that Lawrence had long ago readied for signature were signed. The news spread through the city, and a handsome sketch of the proposed new building was printed in the newspaper, accompanied by a Jeff Horace feature article.

  “It seems like a dream,” Emma said. “I’m so glad for you, Adam.”

  “Be glad for us both.” He wondered whether in time he would take it all for granted. Not wanting ever to forget where he came from, he relived the events of these last days. He considered the actors in this drama: Brown the betrayer, Lawrence the righteous, Shipper the generous, Sabine the incredulous, Emma the joyous, and the last, who could well be counted the first, that old friend, Reilly.

  How ironic that Reilly, of all people, had steered him in the right direction. So what did that prove? Never assume. Never dismiss.

  “The first thing I’m going to try for when I have some say in the combined store is to get a raise for all the employees, the women especially. They don’t earn nearly enough. And Reilly and Archer have been there since Rothirsch opened the store, so there should be something very special for them.”

  A tremendous excitement was stirring. It was amusing to see its effects on various people: on Theo Brown, who, pretending not to see Adam, had crossed to the other side of the street; or on Sabine, who, having heard Spencer Lawrence’s high opinion of Adam along with the news that Adam was now a stockholder (even though a small one), now fully accepted him as the man whom Emma was to marry.

  “I was thinking,” she remarked one evening at the dinner table, “that you might suggest a change of name. Instead of Cace Rothirsch, wouldn’t it sound better to have Cace Arnring? I’ve always thought that Rothirsch was an awful name. People can’t spell it, and they can’t even pronounce it.”

  “I’m only a very small stockholder,” Adam protested.

  “But I’m a big one. And I can have my say. It’s my name that would be the one changed. And as for you, Emma, wouldn’t it be nice to get rid of Rothirsch? Emma Arnring. That’s much better.”

  What some money and a bit of prestige can do to change an attitude! Adam reflected.

  They were determined not to give in to Sabine’s urging that they live in her house.

  “Five empty bedrooms! It’s ridiculous for you two to spend money when all this space is going to waste,” she protested, up to the very day on which Adam signed a contract to purchase a house.

  It was an old one in the historic district, not far from the circular house that had so fascinated him when first he arrived in the town. Two acres of grass, cottonwoods, and an old red cedar sixty feet tall surrounded it, and there was space in the rear where a room would be added to accommodate Emma’s piano.

  She was elated. “I can close the door and give lessons while you read in the front room, and you won’t be disturbed at all.”

  “I shall never be disturbed by your music or anything you do,” he said gravely.

  She wanted a gas stove. The old coal range was a treasure for cooking and for warmth, but the gas range was modern, and they would have both.

  He teased her. “So you are going to be a domestic wife as well as a piano teacher?”

  “Why not? I love both, and I can do both. Darling Adam, you have a lot to learn about me.”

  If happiness can be called “divine,” then Adam and Emma were divinely happy.

  Dear Family, he wrote, electing to write one letter to all three to save time.

  The work on the new building is going along at top speed. The foundation is laid, and the steel for the structure arrived this morning. Three huge truckloads of it. Do you remember when I wrote about the glass-roofed section that I dreamed up? It’s going to be done. The people at Cace were delighted with the idea. They’re all tremendously enthusiastic about our joint venture. It has surely taken long enough to be born, but the result is worth all the delays. Mr. Lawrence, the lawyer who I said wouldn’t give away an icicle in January, has turned out to be my guardian angel. As the lawyer for Cace Arnring, he has assured me that I will be part of top management with a very nice salary, this in addition to being a stockholder.

  It’s hard to believe, but I need have no more concern about my job or about money in general. Compared with a lot of people around here, I certainly have no fortune, but I do have enough now to satisfy my needs and yours, too. Pa, you always say, “Nothing,” when I ask you what you need, so I will not ask anymore. I will just send. Please take care of your health, and write soon. Love,

  Adam

  The tip of his pen wanted to continue with t
he story of Emma, but somehow it would seem, he thought, just all too glorious on top of so much good fortune. So he stopped the pen. Better to wait until the house was ready and the wedding date set. Better to let Jonathan and his Blanche occupy center stage for a while; she was wearing his little ring, she was the most wonderful girl, and Adam must come soon to meet her and see for himself.

  In March it seemed as if the question of war with Germany that had so long been debated in the newspapers and on street corners was about to be answered: Yes. In February, diplomatic relations had been severed; now three American ships, homeward bound, had been sunk by submarines. England had three weeks’ supply of food, and the Allies had a death toll in the hundreds of thousands, with no end in sight. So, on the sixth of April, the President appeared before a joint session of Congress and asked for a declaration of war.

  Men between the ages of twenty-one and forty-five were subject to the draft. Jonathan was called, while Adam was not, at least not yet. He had complex feelings about the difference. Should he or should he not volunteer? He decided that if he was needed, he would be summoned. But since he was obviously not needed immediately, he would go on with the work at Cace Arnring and the repair of the house.

  “Jonathan expects to sail in early June,” he told Emma. “I’ll have to see him before he leaves.”

  When she offered to go along, he declined. “I haven’t even told anyone about us,” he explained. “And since I’m still here with you and he’s leaving his sweetheart, it would seem rather unfeeling, don’t you think so?”

  Emma did think so. And therefore on a fine May morning, Adam boarded a train crowded with draftees and relatives on their way to the eastern coast.

  A sense of strength and accomplishment rose in Adam. There was no trace of arrogance in the feeling; indeed it was largely made up of gratitude. Here he was in his old hometown, in its best restaurant, taking his family to dinner and able to give them almost anything they might need. At the head of the table he sat and observed them.