The Americans (17 page)

class section. In contrast to the splendid morning outfits of the men seated at nearby tables, Gideon's suit struck Will as plain and drab. Gideon finished another bite of melon. "When we're back in Boston, we must give some thought to your future. As young as you are, you can still enter Harvard if you can pass the entrance examinations." Will grimaced at the reference to his age. He liked to be taken for older than he was. Gideon went on, "I'm sure you can do that. The Latin School's given you excellent preparation. Besides-you're a smart young man." Will said nothing. Gideon's smile quickly faded. Once more he grew businesslike: "Naturally you'd take a general course of study at first. But it isn't too soon to consider the various careers open to you." Silence again. Perhaps it was that rebuff which goaded Gideon into going farther than he'd intended: "I do expect you to choose a career, you know. A life's work-was Will looked at his father. "Somehow I thought managing the family financial interests might be enough." "Absolutely not. Our money is managed by the Rothman Bank. I'll permit no son of mine to live off an inheritance and dp nothing else." Gideon's anger brought a resentful look to Will's face. "Do you suppose there'll be any news of Carter waiting for us?" Gideon whacked the tablecloth. "Don't change the subject, young man." The hovering stewards exchanged looks. "I know you're upset about your stepbrother dropping out of sight. But it does no good to mention it a half a dozen times a day. I'm sure Carter's all right." "I'm not." "You won't help him by worrying. Stop it, if you please!" Instantly, he was sorry he'd been so sharp. He apologized. Will sat motionless. Gideon drew a long breath: "I suppose I should explain why I reacted so strongly to your suggestion of a moment ago. I mean about making a career of managing the family's affairs. As I'm sure you realize, there is a long-standing tradition among the Kents. A tradition of serving others in some way. Managing family assets doesn't qualify. Many other things do, however. Being a journalist, for example." "I don't want to work for your newspaper, Papa. Or for Kent and Son, either." Gideon's lips compressed. He was clearly restraining his temper: "I can understand your wanting to strike out on your own. Read the law, perhaps-was "That doesn't interest me either." "Then what does?" "Nothing I can think of." Will rose. "Excuse me, sir." He left the table and hurried from the saloon. Gideon shook his head and swore softly. The years were passing. In another forty-eight months, he'd reach that symbolic age which had by now become an obsession with him. He was rapidly approaching the end of an average lifetime, and he was no closer to finding someone to whom he could give the mantle of family leadership. Will, his best hope, was rejecting all appeals that he think constructively about the future. It made Gideon sad and furious at the same tune. He would have run after his son and forced him to finish the conversation except for one factor-the dislike he'd seen in Will's eyes as they spoke. All sons resented their fathers to a degree. But Gideon feared Will's animosity had somehow gone beyond normal bounds.

*. During the debarkation into the customs shed, Will deliberately separated himself from his parents. They were waiting a hundred feet farther down the boat deck. He planted his elbows on the damp rail and gazed at the pier below. Rather than leaving the vessel en masse, passengers were summoned to customs in groups. The first group of men and women were moving down the gangway into the shed where each of them presented a passport-a large, unwieldly sheet of parchment covered with official seals, and bearing a few descriptive phrases inked in an elaborate hand. Will was some distance above the pier, but even so, he was able to see the great profusion of diamonds and other gems worn by the women leaving the liner. First-class passengers, obviously. How insignificant, even dull, Gideon and Julia looked by contrast. Julia wore no jewelry except her rings. Her clothes were colorful, but in good taste. Her gored skirt of burnt orange velvet, seven feet in breadth, was conservative in comparison with some of the styles and hues visible to him. And Gideon's wardrobe was nothing short of drab, today and every day. Of course Will knew his parents were rich. But they didn't show it in an unmistakable way. They weren't interested in letting the world know they were important, as Carter said you must. Will still hadn't figured out how he'd fulfill the promise to Carter. But he was positive of one thing. Being as unassuming as Gideon and Julia was not the way to go about it. The people he must emulate were the more typical first-class passengers-gaudy, rich, and proud to have others know it. He cupped his chin in his hands and gazed down at those splendid people with undiluted admiration. When the signal sounded for the boat deck passengers to disembark, Gideon had to call his son three times. IV After selling his upper Fifth Avenue mansion, Gideon had never entertained another thought of owning property in New York. Yet business often required his presence there. His answer to it was to rent a large suite in the old, prestigious Fifth Avenue Hotel. The hotel was located on the west side of Madison Square, which was still the cultural and commercial hub of the city that was rapidly expanding to accommodate new waves of immigrants from Southern and Eastern Europe. Gideon kept the suite year round. The cost was exorbitant; two thousand a month. But having the suite gave the Kents a comfortable, homelike base when they were in town. Gideon also liked the suite because he could look across Madison Square and see the mansion Amanda Kent had occupied during the last years of her life. The original dimensions of the residence had been remodeled out of existence. But there was a house, large and neo-Gothic, on the site. In this decade of swift change, with America losing its rural orientation and becoming an industrial colossus, Gideon found it reassuring to have a sense of his own family's past. Of course, when he dwelled on that past these days, it prompted thoughts of the future-and he was face to face with his problems again. After leaving Julia, Will, and their small pyramid of luggage at the hotel, Gideon proceeded downtown to the Union's offices on Printing House Square. There he spent an hour sorting through a couple of hundred letters that had arrived during his long absence. Many went unopened but not the one from Theodore Roosevelt, which spoke enthusiastically of Roosevelt's ranching activities out West. Next Gideon went into a meeting with Theo Payne, his senior editorial men, and the heads of the related departments such as production and circulation. Gideon listened to a summary of the Union's financial position over the last few months; to several complaints about rising costs; and to pleas for a new Hoe press as well as a retail price increase of a cent a copy. He promised to consider acquisition of a press, but refused to raise the price of the paper: "You don't charge more when you're in a circulation war with Joe Pulitzer. I'd lower the price if I could. Since we can't afford that, we'll hold the line." There were disgruntled looks but no arguments. Payne then took over, highlighting for his employer several foreign and domestic stories which in his opinion bore watching. In May, Pierre Lorillard would be opening Tuxedo Park, his 600,000-aere planned community for the rich. Gideon reacted with skepticism: "You think a walled compound where the rich can hide constitutes news, Theo? I don't." "Then you don't understand the significance of Tuxedo." "Oh? Enlighten me." "In my opinion Tuxedo is the first concrete manifestation of a trend which has been developing for a number of years. The well-to-do have sustained the cities in the past, but they are no longer willing to do it. They're starting to pull out. Flee to the suburbs. They're tired of rubbing elbows with all the Italians and Hungarians and Greeks and Russians and Poles pouring off the boats. If the trend continues for any length of time, our cities will be in a hell of a fix." A moment's reflection convinced Gideon that this editor might be on to something. The wealthy were developing private vacation enclaves all along the Eastern seaboard. More and more of their sons were attending exclusive private preparatory schools, and living in privately maintained dormitories at Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. Older American families, conveniently forgetting that they too were the children of immigrants, no longer wanted to associate with newcomers. Gideon urged Payne to send his best man to cover the official opening of Tuxedo, scheduled for Memorial Day. Payne touched on several other topics, saving until last the one which might be the most explosive. In May, American labor unions were planning nationwide demonstrations on behalf of an eight-hour day. The editor wanted a special appropriation to send teams of writers and artists to several major cities, in case the demonstrations led to violence: "If we get one gusher as it were, it will more than com189 pensate for the entire cost of the drilling program." Payne covered his mouth and emitted a gentle belch which suggested he'd fortified himself with more than facts before the meeting. Gideon wasn't enthusiastic about the suggestion: "In other words, we'll be banking on trouble. Hoping for it the same way we did in '77, when I went to Pittsburgh and got shot." "You got shot because Tom Courtleigh was after you," Payne replied. "Besides, anticipating trouble is less opprobrious than creating it, don't you think? Joe Pulitzer isn't above the latter. Your trouble, Gideon, is that you've never stopped being disappointed over one fact." "Which is-?" "Peace and morality don't sell newspapers. Do I get my special appropriation for the teams?" Gideon sighed. "All right." The meeting broke up at eight-thirty. Gideon caught a hack on Park Row and reached the hotel a few minutes later. He'd had no dinner but he had no appetite. He discovered his son sprawled in front of the parlor fireplace reading a letter. Will barely nodded to his father. Gideon's return greeting was equally brusque. He threw off his overcoat and went to find his wife. The sound of splashing led him to the suite's imposing bathroom. In a large marble tub, Julia lay up to her neck in perfumed suds. He peeled off his jacket, threw it aside and knelt beside the tub. He received a damp kiss from Julia as he rolled up one sleeve, then picked up a sponge floating on the surface and began to scrub her back with slow, languid motions. It was one of their companionable rituals; she scrubbed his back when he bathed. "You don't have to do that, dear," she said. "You look exhausted." He finished scrubbing and rested on his haunches. "The meeting was tedious. The World is steadily whittling away at our circulation." "A challenge like that used to spur you to work twice as hard." She touched his wrist. "Not that I'm urging you, mind. It's time you relaxed a little." "Relaxed?" He uttered a humorless laugh. "I just came home from a European vacation. I've got to deal with my son, Julia. I've got to take him in hand. After Carter left, I decided the boy needed more attention. Now I think I was wrong. I'm afraid I've been guilty of coddling him. He needs toughening." "You used that very word a couple of years ago." "I remember. I'm sorry I didn't pursue the idea. Will needs to stand on his own feet a while. Find out what the world's really like. Maybe then he'll accept his own lot with more enthusiasm. He's an intelligent boy, but so far as I can tell, absolutely without ambition. He can shoot passable golf out at Brookline. He can ride a horse and play a good game of lawn tennis. He can read a chart aboard Au- vergne, and he's even learned to be a pretty fair four-in- hand driver. We've given him all the social graces and somehow failed to give him much substance." Gently, she said, "You're being very hard on your own son." "On myself! I've raised him. Or rather, I stood by and let Carter serve in my place. Will acts more and more like a swell every day. Let him start debauching shopgirls and he'll be a perfect candidate for society with a capital S." At the end of the vehement speech, Julia nodded. "I agree, we don't want that. But do you really think you can jolt him out of this phase merely by finding some way to- toughen him, as you put it?" "I think it's worth trying. I have an idea about the way to do it, too." Bitterness crept in: "Naturally I can't guarantee the results, having made a botch of fatherhood most of my life." Again she patted his hand. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, dear. Sometimes your expectations are much too high." He pulled a face. "Theo said the same thing a couple of hours ago." He snatched a heavy towel from a solid brass ring in the wall. He was drying his hands when Julia said, "I got a letter from Carter. It was in the batch Miss Vail forwarded here from Boston." Gideon looked hopeful until he saw her expression. She climbed from the tub, her diminutive body still firm and trim. He wrapped the towel around her. "Where is Carter?" "Someplace called Texarkana, on the Texas border." "Do you have the letter in here?" "Will has it." "So that's why he looked so glum when I walked in." Gideon pivoted and returned to the fireside. Win had laid the letter down and was staring into the flames. still mustn't be angry with him, Gideon thought. I'm responsible for this. I sent his best friend away. He picked up the letter and read its three short paragraphs. Carter was working as a swamper in an establishment he euphemistically termed a parlor house. He didn't care for Texarkana, and had made no friends save for an- agreeable young nigra who plays the piano and composes lively tunes. His name's Joplin. Like the piano player, Carter was thinking of quitting and moving on again: still can't seem to find a place I want to stay, or anything I'm happy doing. But I am in good health and earning my own keep, so that should set your mind at rest. I will write again if I ever have something worthwhile to report - which by now I am beginning to doubt. My regards to Gideon, and a special hello to little brother. C. Gideon shook his head, speaking half aloud: "He sounds miserable." "He isn't the only one," Will said. He rose and walked out. An hour later, Gideon finished a long letter to Theodore Roosevelt. Eleanor and Leo LEO GOLDMAN'S INDEX FINGER moved across the purple bruise under his left eye. He said to Gideon, Julia, and Will: "By some wondrous chemistry which only a mob possesses, my father-a hapless, harmless little Jew who'd done nothing but travel to Philadelphia to see his son and daughter-in-law perform-was transformed into an anarchist. Those four hooligans looked at him and saw some invisible brand that said, still was in Chicago. 1 threw the bomb." Leo's shoulder lifted in weary disdain. Eleanor, seated next to him, laid her hand on top of his. The gesture did little to alleviate the bitterness in Leo's dark eyes. From all around the dining saloon of Auvergne, lamps cast a rich light on the dinner table, and burnished the half- inch bands of gold which decorated the edges of each piece of the china service. In the center of the plates and saucers, there was an additional decoration, also in gold. The Kent and Son emblem; the stoppered, partially filled tea bottle. Auvergne's triple-expansion engine throbbed softly. She was making about eight knots, Gideon reckoned. Her top speed was fifteen. It was late May; a peaceful, moonlit evening with only a light chop on the Atlantic. Eleanor and Leo had come up to Boston for a short holiday between shows, and the family had embarked on a cruise around Cape Cod and down through Muskeget Channel into the open sea east of the village of Slaconset on Nantucket Island. Eleanor squeezed Leo's hand again, then took up the story: "Papa Goldman had just stepped into the alley for some still still air after the performance. That's where the hooligans saw him, and attacked. Leo heard him yell, charged into all four and drove them off." Again Leo's finger ticked against the bruise. "And earned in the process this decoration for valor. Plus a few others which politeness prohibits me from showing you. Maybe they're decorations for stupidity. Only a thin-skinned Jew would take on a quartet of bully-boys from the Delaware River docks. Eleanor didn't approve." "No, but it was necessary." She sounded dubious. Gideon said, "Damned unfortunate business." In more ways than one. Evidently his daughter wasn't finding it as easy to avoid anti-Semitism as she'd expected. "Your father wasn't hurt, was he?" Leo shook his head. "Just ruffled a little." "Feeling has been running high in Boston, too. Just last week, on the Common, a Jewish woman was mauled and pelted with rocks." "It's no wonder, Papa," Will blurted. "I don't mean to insult you, Leo. But everyone knows the Jews caused the strike at the McCormick plant. And started the riot." Leo's hand clenched around his napkin. Gideon was growing pale. He saw Julia's glance of warning and did his best to check his temper. It was hard. Lately his son's behavior had become intolerable. Thank heaven Roosevelt had finally sent an affirmative reply to the letter Gideon had written in March. Julia tried to reprove her stepson gently: "I don't believe you have your facts in order, young man. The Union reporters who were in Chicago said no one knows who threw the bomb in Haymarket Square. It's likely no one will ever know. The situation was extremely confused." Undaunted by the correction, Will said, "Yes, but eight men were arrested and charged. Some of them are Jews, aren't they?" dis8May I ask what that proves?" Eleanor asked. Gideon's voice was heavy with irony. "Why, it proves the Jews are responsible, just as he said. Everyone knows that if a man worships at a synagogue, ipso facto, he's an anarchist." Will began sulking as his father went on, "These days, Eleanor, your brother