Our Father (7 page)

She swung around in his huge desk chair to face the window behind her. Liked a window behind his desk, light behind him, blind the appellant, halo him.

Graybrown November trees grass, gray light fading.

Day’s end, year’s end, end of an era. When I go it will be the end of an era, he said at his last birthday, his face rigid as a robot’s, staring glaring at us, his hand cradling the bowl of a brandy snifter. Who could tell what he felt or why? If he dies this year, 1984, symbolic. End of an era. End of his branch of the family too, he didn’t say but thought. His brothers had sons with sons, Uptons still walked upon the earth but not of his getting except me but girls don’t count. No, he meant the new men were not men of distinction, character. All punies now. Different breed, he said. End of an era. End of the Republic. Slimy moneygrubbers appealing to the mob in a world of television and computers, Jews and Arabs and Japs and Chinks and godknowswho taking over the world. Not English gentlemen no matter how many generations removed from the seat of empire. Lords of the earth recognizable by their good shoes and tweeds. Japs can buy those too. Come on, ever see a Jap in tweeds? Hah. England a third world country now, yellow people taking over the world.

You never saw that I am like you, Father.

After sipping it, Hollis Whitehead set down his drink. “So your best bet is to petition for a conservatorship,” he concluded. “He was stubborn, your father, I tried to get him to give me a power of attorney for just such an eventuality. You know, we old men have to think ahead, expect things like this, I did it myself five years ago, gave my son a power of attorney conditional on my being put out of action, of course Cab didn’t have a … a, anyone in practice with him the way my son is with me, but I warned him years ago, when he retired. …” Deciding to stop before he stepped even deeper in the elephant shit, he sat back and sipped his Manhattan.

“How long will it take?” Elizabeth asked.

“A month. Six weeks. If there’s no problem.”

“What do you mean, what kind of problem?” Mary leaned her full bosom toward him, tilting her head up so it seemed he was above her even sitting down. Had to do it, Elizabeth thought, had to seduce every man she met. Even a dried-up old coot like Hollis Whitehead. One of the reasons I hate her. The way she always tilts her head just a little when she speaks to a man, exposing her neck. Just like a wolf losing a fight exposes his vulnerable spot, statement of defeat. Don’t attack me, I submit. Then he feels safe, relaxes, expands, takes her over. And she begins to take control over
him
through
his
weakness—which he is completely unaware of. Mary a master at that. Age-old game, way of the world. I was better off out of it.

He leaned toward her smiling warmly. “Well, for instance, Mary, my dear, a family conflict. If one of you were to oppose the petitioner, for instance.”

Mary sat back, biting her lower lip. She must be thinking. I wonder if her lips move when she reads. She looks at him like a six-year-old, in utter credulity, Elizabeth thought.

“What happens in the meantime? What about the bills that need paying right away?” Elizabeth threw in.

“I don’t imagine there’s much that can’t wait a month or six weeks,” he said dismissively.

“Mrs. Browning and the gardener/chauffeur are paid by the month,” she said, “but the dayworkers are paid by the week.”

“Ah, well, can you cover them yourself for the time being? You can repay yourself later.”

Mary looked aghast.

“Did he make a will?” Elizabeth prodded.

“Yes. It’s in my office safe.” He shut his lips.

“I see.” She thought. “Will you draw up a petition for us?”

“Sure, if you know which one of you is making the application.”

Elizabeth looked at Mary and Alex, then back at the lawyer. “I will make it.”

“That all right with you two?”

They nodded. “Okay. Well, if that’s all, I’ll be getting along.” He pulled his body slowly from the chair as if it hurt. “Good to see you all again. Really sorry about the occasion, though. Cab and I have been friends since the war: we were both in Washington together. I was just starting out then, a young lawyer. He was my mentor, he taught me the D.C. ropes. I’ve known Cab for almost fifty years,” he concluded solemnly.

The three sisters ushered him to the door. “I’ll drop in on him tomorrow,” the lawyer said, patting Alex, kissing Mary’s cheek, shaking Elizabeth’s hand.

They returned to the sitting room, where the drapes were drawn and where, tonight, in honor of Hollis, a fire was burning in the hearth. Mary sat on the sofa opposite it, fanning herself. Alex refreshed their drinks at the sideboard bar, then sat beside Mary. Elizabeth sat in an armchair near the hearth.

Nothing warms her blood, Mary thought. She can sit by the fire but she’s still frigid. Iceberg. Always like that. Please play with me Lizzie, oh Lizzie, can we play ball dolls pretend will you teach me to swim please Lizzie.

“So you’re taking over,” Mary accused her.

“I am the only one of us who is qualified to handle financial matters, after all.” She sipped her Perrier (Perrier!) and lighted a cigarette. Mary glared.

“You don’t seem to understand my work,” Elizabeth exploded. “I travel around the world for the government, working out economic agreements and policies that will benefit this country. I went to Egypt last week and was met at the airport by two three-star generals in a limousine! I meet with the highest-ranking economic officials of every country I visit, often with the head of state! Whereas you, I daresay, cannot even balance a checkbook.” She looked meaningfully at Mary. “Do you really want to pay Father’s bills? I’ll be paying the servants out of my own pocket.”

Mary studied her rings.

“I mean, if you want to be conservator, just tell me. I’ll call Hollis in the morning and tell him to draw it in your name. It’s a lot of work for nothing, and I’m not about to take it on if you are going to pout and sulk about it afterwards. I don’t need that.”

“Oh I wouldn’t think of standing in your way, Elizabeth,” Mary snarled. “I know what happens to people who stand in your way. You just cut them out.”

“And I know how you whine and sulk!”

“Even Father said you were a bitch,” Mary cried.

Elizabeth whirled. “And he called you a cunt!” she screamed. “I was right there at the breakfast table, I heard him!” Summer before she left for college, long dark hair in a pageboy, pouty lips ruby-red, begging, Daddy, please let me take driving lessons and buy me a car, any little car, an MG maybe, so I can get home to see you. Father smiled his sneer: “Any time you want to come home, I’ll send the chauffeur with the limo.” Mary’s face fell, she whirled out of the room. He puffed on his pipe, watched her go. Cunt, he muttered. Was it because of her mother, because of the way Laura died that he wouldn’t let her drive? But why “cunt”?

Mary screamed, “He
loved
me!”

Elizabeth saw the tears in Mary’s eyes. Palpable hit. “He
respected
me,” she smiled coldly.

Mrs. Browning came in and announced dinner.

Elizabeth prepared for bed automatically, but her mind was racing. Oh god why did I have to come back here, why does she have to be here, remembering everything, it’s like drowning in a wave. All these years, I managed to forget. Why Jesus Christ why should I hate her so much? She’s nothing, means nothing to me. My life has gone on, she’s stuck where she was. I have accomplished something, have even a degree of fame, the book maybe someday, soon, yes. All she has is three kids after four husbands. Typical woman, life in her cunt and uterus.

Did I really have to make her cry.

Oh Christ, she cries at the drop of a hat. Always did.

Alex sitting there looking white staring at us, well so what, who cares what she thinks or feels. Stupid housewife like her mother, Amelia.

Amelia, slender, young, long honey-colored hair, plain clothes, nothing like Mary’s mother, Laura. Must have been hard for her, stuck up here all summer with Stephen’s daughters, her own baby, Alex, only about six months old. That day she laid her hand on my knee, me sitting in the sun room reading, face looking up to me just the way Alex looks up at people, will you be my friend, Elizabeth?

Why on earth would I want to befriend my father’s third wife, only four years older than I?

I already have a mother, several sisters, and aunts, none of whom love me very much. What in hell do I need with you? But my insides were crying, can you help me? Save me? Made me hate her—she was just a stupid woman, what could she do. “Sure,” I said, in a tone that meant don’t be ridiculous. She smiled a little, turned away. She was trying to embrace me, help me, I guess, but what could she do. And she was Father’s wife. I was relieved he married her but jealous jealous.

Mother asking about them all, I probably know more about Stephen’s life than anyone, watching all those years, Mother’s spy on all his later wives. With each new wife: what does she look like, how tall, what color hair? God she was splenetic about Laura, society girl, dark and slender, beautiful to Mother’s pretty, her family rich and old like his. How she crowed when Laura had Mary, another girl! Hah! She didn’t give him a son either! Maybe it’s his fault! He wouldn’t have thrown me out the way he did if I’d had a son, believe you me Elizabeth Upton. Five I was. What did she think she was saying to me? Didn’t notice, didn’t care, driven by hate, I a mere weapon in her war against him, against her own boozing heavy-handed father, little Irish Catholic girl never got no respect. I wrecked her life, and my being a girl compounded the ruin. Oh god. …

I would lie in bed figuring out ways I could redeem myself. When I grow up, I’ll be rich and famous and take care of Mother. I’ll buy her a big house on Beacon Street and a long car and pay a man to drive it. That will make her smile. She’ll be happy. She’ll love me then.

But after all the golden Laura killed herself in a drunken accident, suicide if I ever saw one, spoiled brat angry at him for never being around, for working day and night for the War Effort. Laura a selfish little princess, Mother had that right, she paid little attention to Mary, cared about her ladies, her admirers, her cocktails, her fittings. She would stroke Mary’s head, kiss it, call her sweet names—on her way out. I knew that. Still I hated Mary for having her, having even that much sweetness in her life. Mary hardly knew her. Raised by nannies. For Mary, her mother was a yearning. Me too: Lizzie please play with me.

The baby’s heart yearned after me.

But Father always made so much of her, looking around for her, crying Where’s my Mary? Where’s my baby?

Heah I are, Daddy! Leaping into his arms. He always caught her, hugged her, kissed her. Me a bad smell hanging in the air, one people were used to, barely noticed. He built the playhouse for her. Gave her everything she asked for. I had to fight to go to private school. He never held me when I was little. …

Mother’s fault.

But if Laura made her crazy Amelia really threw her, hah! Amelia was ordinary, not upper-class, didn’t even go to college, Stephen forty-four to her nineteen. Mother’s teeth clenched when I told her (how I enjoyed that) (yes, but you ached for her too) Amelia’d been a secretary in his office like Mother. I didn’t tell her the rest. That Amelia was a sweet kid, that he seemed to love her and she him. The soft way they looked at each other, the way she laid her hand over his so lightly, careful not to disturb, just to touch. Holding her breath. And he sitting back, a glint in his eye with no cruelty in it, all pleasure. But Mother triumphed when Amelia had Alex, another daughter. So much crowing about girls, you’d think people were glad to have them. Hah!

What happened there? Was Mother right: her sin was having another daughter and no sons? Suddenly Amelia was gone, taking Alex with her, never came back. Did Father summon them to the July Fourth party the way he did us? Did he not ask or did Amelia not allow her to go? Did he pay her alimony? Child support? What was the deal? I was long gone myself, no longer had to report to Mother. Mother lost some of her interest in me when I had nothing more to tell her about him. Still calling herself Mrs. Upton, Mrs.
Catherine
Upton, no claim to the Stephen Cabot part anymore, dressing in Chanel suits and necklaces but the suits were ready-made, the necklaces
faux
as they say, smoking, drinking Manhattans, living in that Back Bay apartment, playing bridge, going to any party she was invited to, woman alone not all that acceptable, not many invitations, trying to keep up her standing with her lady friends. Scorned her family, the boozing old man, the worn-down old woman. Why not? Her father in that three-decker in Somerville couldn’t lay eyes on her without starting to rail, here’s Mrs. Highhorse. We only went there at Easter and Thanksgiving and Christmas. That was enough. Her brothers and sisters resented her too. And me.

I astonished her, I think, ambitious as she’d been herself. The most she could aim for was a good marriage—which meant marriage to money. I was in another solar system. “London School of Economics: what’s that? Why in the name of all that’s holy do you want to be an economist, what do they do?” Looked at me as if I came from another planet. Still does. Seventy-four, voice grating with whiskey and cigarettes, still good-looking, still as bitchy as ever, saying she’s determined to outlive him so she can inherit something from the bastard. Reconciled to me in her way: “You may be a frigid bitch but maybe you were smart after all not to marry and have kids. At least you never went through what I went through.” Wentthroughwentthrough.

And I escaped?

Mary woke in terror, wet, got her bearings: Lincoln, Father’s house, Father not here. She pulled herself up, looked around the room, then rose and went into the bathroom. Dripping, she was. She dropped her nightgown to the floor, turned on the shower and pulled a plastic cap over her head, then stepped inside. Lincoln, Father’s house, Father not here. He’s in a coma. Same old nightmare: car over embankment, Father driving, me in flames. Don. She started to cry and let herself sob, no one could hear her over the shower. When would it end? Cry Mary baby poor Mary. Oh god Don, how could you? How could you die, how could you leave me, how could you? When you knew how I loved loved loved …