The Americans (10 page)

still "Nor do I, sir. Nor do I!" Roosevelt exclaimed, and hurried off. The Irishman stared after him, then shook his head: "He's one of the strangest ducks I've ever met." "We need more like him. He's a comer in the party," Gideon said. "Got quite a remarkable history, too. Family's old New York aristocracy. Lot of money. As a boy, he was almost incapacitated by asthma. His father built a gymnasium in their townhouse, and Theodore exercised for hours every day to overcome his physical weakness." "He's done it, obviously. He looks strong as a bull." Gideon nodded. "He whipped everything except his bad eyesight. That doesn't keep him from going hunting in Dakota. He's been out there quite a lot this year. In February, his wife and his mother died in circumstances no editor would ever find credible in a story." In response to Michael's quizzical look, he went on, "They died on the very same day, of unrelated illnesses. It was quite a blow to him. But he pulled through. He doesn't give up. That's one of the reasons I like him." "You know him well?" "I met him just this past winter. But I'd say we've become good friends. We exchange letters from time to time. I like the way he thinks. For instance, he can't stand what he calls fireside moralists. You know-the sort of people who are forever crying about bad government, but who sit home and do nothing to correct the flaws. Theodore isn't that kind." Michael glanced at a nearby table where Roosevelt was scribbling on one of his papers. "I liked him because he's willing to support the Republican candidate. Without reservation." The remark was pointed. So was Gideon's reply: "That's certainly more than you can say for me." "We disagree, then." "On that and a few other things, from tariffs to the money policy, I should imagine." Gideon fought down his annoyance; he managed a wry look. "But politics should be barred from the conversation when relatives eat together. How do you feel about the buffalo steak?" Michael sampled another morsel with his fork. He dabbed his mustache with a stiffly starched napkin. "Damn good. Some of the best I've ever tasted." I "Well, there's a common ground." For the first time since their meeting at the convention, both men smiled. Vll The chance encounter in Chicago touched off an occasional correspondence that extended throughout the summer and into the fall. Blaine had taken the nomination on the fourth ballot. And as predicted, Cleveland was the choice of the Democrats. Independent Republicans were faced with the question of whether to support the candidate or bolt. Gideon joined the so-called Mugwumps who bolted. Young Roosevelt, who was trying to embark on a second career as a Dakota ranchman, did not. A letter mailed from the town of Medora, Dakota Territory, told Gideon the decision hadn't been a happy one. Never had Gideon witnessed a more vicious national campaign. In late July, the Buffalo Evening Telegraph confirmed that Cleveland had indeed fathered an illegitimate child. The mother was a woman named Maria Halpin. The candidate quickly admitted his culpability, and supplied evidence that he'd provided for the child's care. His candor turned a liability into an advantage. But the Republicans were soon singing a derisive song in every one of their torchlight parades: Ma! Ma! Where's my pa? Gone to the White House - Ha! ha! ha! The Democrats were no more scrupulous. They sang lustily about "Blaine, Blaine, James G. Blaine! The continental liar from the state of Maine!" In letters Michael and Gideon wrote during September and October, they twitted one another about supporting a lecher and a swindler. The letters grew more and more cordial. Politics gave way to chatty news of their respective families. Michael and his wife Hannah had two children-a son Lincoln, named after the president, and a daughter Erin. Gideon soon found himself enjoying the correspondence imbleaaj mensely. He and Michael might never be warm friends, but at least he regarded the Irishman with less suspicion now. He still considered Boyle an idiot for remaining loyal to Blaine. On election night, Gideon was at Democratic headquarters in Boston. In the fine baritone voice he'd once used to sing in the saddle with Stuart's cavalry, he joined the rest of the revelers as they praised the victorious Cleveland: Hurrah for Maria, Hurrah for the kid! We voted for Grover, And we're damned glad we did! viii When Gideon arrived at Kent and Son the next day, Helene Vail was waiting for him with a paper in her hand: "I think you'd better read this at once, Mr. Kent." He held his head and slumped into his chair. "I can't read anything this morning." "Please make an effort, sir. This is a telegraph message from your daughter." Giving him a severe look, she laid the paper on the desk. Then she brought a damp cloth from the wash stand concealed behind a screen in the corner. "Here, sir. Put this on your forehead. I fail to understand how you can be so debilitated from a night of celebration." "Then you've never celebrated with Democrats." He laid the cloth over his eyes and put his head back. The throbbing persisted. After a moment, she cleared her throat "Mr. Kent-was -- He groaned. "Miss Vail, can't the message wait?" "Not long, sir. It's November already. Your daughter wants to be married here in Boston before the year is out." his On the thirtieth of November, the coastal steamer M. S. Prince of Fundy docked at Boston on her way northward from New York to Halifax and St. John's. Among the third class passengers was a man with a red bandana tied around his curly black hair, his few worldly possessions packed in a stolen carpet bag, and a knife hidden under an expensive sheep-lined coat he'd killed to get. Deck lights whitened the facial scar shaped like a fishhook. A gale wind had begun blowing off the dark Atlantic, and he had to struggle down the gangway against its buffeting fury. He hadn't been in the city for more than a year and a half. He was glad to return. But in order to resume his life, and have people again treat him with respect, there were matters to which he must attend. One involved the young student who had humiliated him at the Red Cod, the night all his trouble had started. Ortega would accept many things that life or other men dealt out, but humiliation was not one of them. Fortunately, thanks to a friend in Boston, he knew where to find the student any time he chose. He wanted to settle that particular score, and several others, very soon. Then he could celebrate the holy Christmas season in good spirits. CHAPTER XI The Secret Door ELEANOR KENT ARRIVED HOME during the first week of December. She was glad to be back in Boston. Glad to see the familiar rooms and furniture of Beacon Street. Glad to be reunited with Julia and her father and brother. And yet, from the moment she stepped off the train and ran into her father's embrace, the visit was marred by uneasiness. She hoped there would be no overly frank discussion of her decision to marry Leo Goldman. Such a discussion could lead into areas she must avoid. It could lead to the dark door kept closed for so many years- Still Eleanor was in a cheerful mood when she got home. She'd spent a few days visiting at Mrs. Louisa Drew's Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia and found it an enjoyable experience. The Christmas season was just getting underway, with decorations greening the windows of homes and shops, and the lovely old hymns pealing from choir lofts on Sunday-and from the throats of carolers the rest of the week. To heighten the excitement, there was the wedding. A one-hour family meeting on her first night home produced a mutual agreement on the date; the wedding would be held during the week after Christmas. Leo would be bringing his father up from New York. Mr. Goldman, a widower, had finally consented to come even though he disapproved of his son marrying outside the faith. Eleanor had a great many anecdotes to relate to her family during her first days at home. She preferred talking about the theater rather than the forthcoming marriage, simply because she was of two minds about the latter. She loved Leo Goldman, and she wanted to marry him. Yet a small part of her held back, and it was that part she feared for Julia and her father to see. There was no danger of Will seeing it-he was too young. And Carter-well, he worked nights, and when he reeled home the morning after her arrival, he bussed her sleepily and went staggering upstairs to bed. He smelled of fish and-shockingly-beer. She quickly sensed that there was trouble in the house, tension between Gideon and Carter. But no one mentioned it. Nor was she critical of her stepbrother. If Carter had flaws, so did she. One of the worst was her confused reaction to the prospect of marriage. On one hand, she wanted to be Leo's wife, and make him happy, and enjoy a normal existence. But against that, there was the door. The hidden door she kept closed almost constantly. Surely it would be opened at least a little, commencing with her wedding night- As best she could, she avoided giving any hint of this turmoil to her parents. At twenty-two, Eleanor was not only a stunning dark- haired bea8uty, but also a veteran actress. She'd embarked on a career as a touring performer at fifteen, looking mature enough to convince audiences she was three to five years older. She and her father hadn't been getting along at the time she left home-due to her poor, demented moth113 er's schemes to divide the family. But Gideon had had nothing to say about her decision to go on the road with J. J. Bascom's third-rate troupe of players who traveled the country performing Uncle Tom's Cabin. Some years later, long after Margaret's plotting had been exposed and Eleanor and Gideon were friendly again, her father told her that one factor had caret sened his worry when she joined the Tom show. That was the presence of young Leo Goldman in the same company. Leo had been in love with Eleanor even then; the two had met at one of the amateur theatrical clubs which had flourished in New York in the seventies. For years, Leo had pursued Eleanor in a good-humored but persistent way, frequently stating his intention of marrying her. And then one day, she realized she had indeed fallen in love with him. Soon after, she told him so. It took her a couple of years beyond that to accustom herself to the idea of marriage. Leo talked of it constantly. She joked and fended off his pleas that they visit a justice of the peace in some town where they were appearing. She invented reasons why she couldn't do that Many women in her situation would have worried about marrying Leo because he was a Jew. They'd have fretted about being exposed to the insults and the irrational hatred Jews seemed to inspire. She'd confronted that sort of thing with Leo before, and learned a method of coping with it. And it was nothing- nothing comcompared to the fright she felt in connection with her own inadequacy as a woman. The inadequacy made her hesitate. She wanted to marry him, she would say, but the time wasn't right. The frequently repeated excuse had finally provoked an argument during the recent theatrical fiasco in Fort Wayne. Leo was growing impatient; Eleanor realized she'd better say yes or she might lose him. Only that danger enabled her at last to overcome her fear. She flung her arms around Leo and whispered, "Oh, yes, dearest, I'm tired of waiting too. Let's go to Boston and get married before the year's over." Thus Eleanor crossed a kind of emotional rubicon. But even then, the image of the door persisted. Perhaps now it was more important than ever. The image was vivid because she had made it so. She had created it. It was of a single door, made of reddish114 brown wood heavily decorated with intricate carvings whose subject matter she never got close enough to examine, but which gave her a faintly unclean feeling, somehow. The door hung in a vast, gloomy limbo without a visible source of light. Yet when she approached the door in her imagination, she could see it with a fair degree of clarity. The door was not unlike the one leading into the room where Margaret Kent had hidden from reality during the last years of her life, concealing her alcoholism, her deteriorating mental condition, and the diary in which she recorded all the deceptions she had used to drive a wedge between Gideon and his daughter. Eleanor never wanted to be like her mother. But she found the imaginary door useful for blocking out a part of the past she didn't want to remember because the memories produced overpowering feelings of guilt and self-hate. She learned to control those emotions by picturing the memories as being safely locked behind the imaginary door. Yet the influence of those memories remained profound. They were responsible for her reluctance to agree to marry Leo, despite her love for him. They were responsible for feelings of apprehension that were with her almost constantly now that a wedding date had been chosen. For although Eleanor would come to her marriage bed never having made love to any man, she was not a virgin. u Gideon Kent's New York City mansion had been invaded in 1877, just a few months before Eleanor's departure with the Tom show troupe. Enemies of her father had hired hoodlums to wreck his property and injure his family. The men had done their work well. During the attack, two of them had cornered her, and she had been raped. She was fifteen years old at the tune. The experience had left an emotional wound that had never healed. It had left a feeling that she had been permanently soiled by the experience, and could never cleanse herself, no matter how she tried. For years afterward, it was necessary to prepare herself mentally before she could let a man touch her, even a man she liked. A sudden, unexpected contact would thrust her back to the night of terror. To the feel of the hard floor beneath her naked hips, and all the raw, punishing pain. She never told anyone of the experience, of course. What woman would willingly announce to the world that she had been raped? Eleanor's mother had had a strongly Puritanical view of sex, particularly toward the end of her life. She considered it a filthy act, and those who indulged in it equally filthy. Eleanor would not consciously go that far; she wanted a healthy relationship with a husband- someday. But there was no question that the rape had sullied her permanently. Hence she never mentioned the despicable event to Julia, and certainly not to her father or her younger brother. It was her secret, and would always remain so. But it still had the power to bring cold sweat to her palms and dryness to her throat when she recalled it. The reaction was far worse than stage fright; that she could control. This she could not. And so she created the imaginary door, and pictured herself gliding toward it along a corridor of vast space. She pictured herself checking