The Betsy (1971) (4 page)

 Chapter Five

I woke up to the ringing of the telephone. I groaned at the pounding in my head. That lovely romantic place she took me to last night wasn’t exactly. The drinks were watered, you couldn’t talk for the screaming acid rock and the dance floor was more crowded than the Edsel Ford Freeway at rush hour.

“Mr. Hardeman would like to speak with you, sir,” Donald’s voice came from the receiver.

“I’ll be right down.”

“The young Mr. Hardeman,” he said quickly. “He’s calling from Detroit.”

Suddenly I was wide awake. And Number One thought there were secrets. I wondered who filed the report, Donald or the secretary. “Put him on.”

“Mr. Perino?” It was a girl’s voice.

“Yes.”

“Just a moment for Mr. Hardeman.”

I glanced at my watch. Eight thirty. Detroit was an hour earlier and he was already in the office.

“Angelo.” His voice was friendly. “It’s been a long time.”

“It sure has,” I said.

“I’m so pleased that you’re down there visiting Grandfather. Number One was always very fond of you.”

“I’m fond of him,” I said.

“Sometimes I think he spends too much time alone down there.” Concern came into his voice. “How does he look to you?”

“Feisty as ever,” I said. “I don’t think he’s changed in the thirty years I’ve known him.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear you say that. We get all sorts of wild stories back here.”

“Like what?”

“You know. The usual thing. Old-age things.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said. “He’s all there.”

“I’m relieved,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to get down there but you know how it is. The pressures never let up.”

“I understand.”

“There’s talk about you retiring from racing,” he said.

“That’s what Number One is trying to talk me into.”

“Listen to him,” he said. “And if you should make up your mind, come up and talk to me. There’s always a place here for you.”

I smiled to myself. Very effectively, he let me know who was in charge. “Thank you,” I said.

“Not at all. Mission accomplished. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” I put down the telephone and reached for a cigarette. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” I called.

The door opened and Number One came rolling in, followed by Donald bearing a tray. Donald set the tray on the bed and took the cover from it. There was orange juice, toast and coffee.

“How would you like your eggs, sir?” he asked.

“Nothing else, thank you,” I said. “This will do just fine.”

He left the room and Number One rolled his chair over to the bed. I picked up the coffee and took a swallow. It helped.

“Well?” he asked.

“Good coffee,” I said.

“I know it’s good coffee,” he said irascibly. “What did my grandson have to say?”

I took another swallow of the coffee. “He said he was glad I was down here and he told me to come and see about a job if I were serious about giving up driving.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said you were alone down here too much and wanted to know how you were.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you were nuts,” I said. “You had some crazy idea about building a new car.”

He started to get angry, then suddenly he began to laugh. I laughed with him and we were like two kids playing a joke on the teacher.

“I almost wish you had,” he said. “I would have loved to see the expression on his face.”

“He would have shit,” I said.

Number One stopped smiling. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Me.” He spoke slowly, cautiously, almost as if he were reluctant to get an answer. “Is what I want to do the crazy dream of an old man?”

I looked at him. “If it is, the whole world is crazy. And so is our business. A better car has to be everybody’s dream.”

“Last night I thought a great deal about what you said. It won’t be easy.”

I didn’t answer. Just drank more of my coffee.

“It will take a lot of money. GM will have at least three hundred million dollars in their new sub-compact; Ford will be a lot less because they’re just redesigning their British car for the American market and will import the engines from Britain and Germany. And still it should cost them close to two hundred million.” He looked at me. “I figure that’s the least we would need.”

“Has Bethlehem got that kind of money?” I asked.

“Even if they had,” he answered, “I’d never be able to get my grandson to go along with me. And he has the board of directors in his pocket.”

We were silent for a long time. I poured myself more coffee.

He sighed heavily. “Maybe we better just forget about it. Maybe it is just the dream of a crazy old man.”

He seemed to be shrinking into himself before my eyes. I think it wasn’t until that moment that I realized how committed I really had been.

“There is a way,” I said.

He looked at me.

“It won’t be pleasant and they’ll fight you every step of the way.”

“I’ve done that all my life,” he said.

“It will mean getting out of Detroit.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Spin-off. Sell the appliance company. You said it nets forty million a year. You could get at least ten times earnings for that. Four hundred million. With your eighty percent of the stock alone, that’s three hundred and twenty million.”

“I vote eighty percent,” he said. “But I own only forty-one percent, thirty-nine percent belongs to the Hardeman Foundation.”

“Forty-one percent is a hundred and sixty-four million. It shouldn’t be that hard to get the rest of it. Then you move the automobile division.”

“Where?”

“California. Washington State. They’re loaded with big aerospace assembly facilities that are going to turn to instant shit with the cutbacks that are coming in the next few years. It won’t take much to make them into automobile assembly lines. They have the space and the trained labor pool right there.”

He looked at me. “It might work.”

“I know damn well it will,” I said confidently.

“Who would buy the appliance company?”

“I know a lot of companies that would grab at it, but you’d wind up with very little money and a lot of paper,” I said. “There’s only one way to do it. Sell it to the public. And, maybe, at the same time, sell a little bit of the car company and get the rest of the money we need.”

“That means going to Wall Street,” he said.

I nodded.

“I never trusted them,” he said suspiciously. “They want too much say in what you do.”

“That’s where the money is,” I said.

“I don’t know how to deal with them,” he said. “We don’t speak the same language.”

“That’s what you got me for. I’ll translate for you.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he began to smile. “I don’t know what I’m so worried about,” he said. “I started out poor. And no matter how it comes out, I had to be poor a lot longer at the beginning than I will be at the end.” He turned his chair and rolled it toward the door. I got out of bed and opened it for him.

He looked up at me. “I wonder how my grandson knew you were here.”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “You have a large staff.”

“That girl you went out with last night. Where did she come from?”

“Hertz-Rent-a-Girl.”

“You’re crazier than I am,” he said, and rolled his chair out into the hall.

 Chapter Six

The plane put me down in Detroit at six o’clock in the evening and I was home by seven o’clock. Gianno opened the door and, in a moment, enfolded me in a bear hug.

“Signora! Signora!”
he shouted, forgetting his English.
“Dottore!
Angelo is here!”

My mother came flying down the stairs. She was crying before she reached the halfway landing. I ran up the steps to her and put my arms around her. “Mamma.”

“Angelo, Angelo! Are you all right?” Her voice was anxious.

“I’m fine, Mamma. Absolutely fine.”

“I saw the smoke coming from your car,” she said.

“It was nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.” I kissed her. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

“Angelo, you say such silly things. How can a woman of sixty be beautiful?” She was beginning to smile.

I laughed. “Sixty-one. And still beautiful. After all, I should know. A boy’s best friend is his mother.”

“Stop teasing, Angelo,” she said. “Someday you will find a girl who is really beautiful.”

“Never. They don’t make girls like you no more.”

“Angelo.” My father’s voice came from the doorway to the study off the foyer.

I turned to look at him. The gray hair over his slim patrician face was the only thing that had changed about him since I was a boy. I ran down the steps.

He stood there very quietly, his hand outstretched. I pushed it aside and hugged him. “Papa!”

He hugged me back and we kissed. There were tears in his eyes, too. “How have you been, Angelo?”

“Fine, Papa, just fine.” I looked into his eyes. He seemed tired. “You’ve been working too hard.”

“Not really,” he said. “I’ve been cutting down since my attack.”

“You should,” I said. “Whoever heard of a Grosse Pointe doctor going out all hours of the night?”

“I don’t do that any more. I have a young assistant who makes my night calls.”

We were silent for a moment. I knew what he was thinking.

I should have been that assistant. It had always been his dream that I would follow in his footsteps and come into his practice. But that was not the way it was. My head was someplace else. He never mentioned his disappointment, but I knew it was there.

“You should have let us know you were coming, Angelo,” my mother said reproachfully. “We would have had a special dinner.”

“You mean you have nothing to eat in the house?” I laughed.

“There’s always something,” she said.

At the dinner table I told them the news. Gianno had just put down the coffee. Espresso. Hot, thick, and heavy. I put two spoons of sugar into it and sipped. I looked at them.

“I’m giving up driving,” I said.

There was complete silence for a moment, then my mother began to cry.

“What are you crying about?” I asked. “I thought you’d be happy about it. You always wanted me to give it up.”

“That’s why I’m crying.”

My father was more practical. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to work for Bethlehem Motors. Number One wants me to be vice-president in charge of special projects.”

“What does that mean?” my mother asked.

“You know,” I said. “Handle problems. Things like that.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay here in Detroit?” she asked.

“Some of the time,” I answered. “My job will keep me on the move.”

“I’ll have your room redecorated,” she said.

“Not so fast, Mamma,” my father cut in. “Maybe Angelo wants a place of his own. He’s not a boy any more.”

“Do you, Angelo?” my mother asked.

I couldn’t stand the look in her eyes. “What do I need my own place for, when my home is here?”

“I’ll get in touch with the painter tomorrow,” she said. “You tell me what colors you like, Angelo.”

“You pick the colors, Mamma.” I turned to my father. “I want to get my face fixed. I’ll be meeting a lot of people and I don’t want to have to worry about it. I remember once you told me about a doctor who was the best in the world at it.”

My father nodded. “Ernest Hans. He’s in Switzerland.”

“That’s the one. Do you think he can do anything?”

My father looked at me. “It will not be easy. But if anyone can do it, he can.”

I knew what he meant. It wasn’t only the nose, which had been broken a few times, or even the left cheekbone, which had been flattened and crushed. It was the white patch of burn scars on my cheek and forehead. “Can you make the arrangements for me?”

“When do you want to go?” he asked.

“As soon as he will take me.”

Two days later I was on the plane to Geneva.

Dr. Hans lifted the last gauze pack from my cheek and placed it on the tray. He leaned forward and peered closely at my face. “Turn your head from one side to the other.”

I did as I was told. First to the right. Then left.

“Smile,” he said.

I smiled. My face felt tight.

He nodded. “Not bad. We weren’t too bad after all.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he said quite seriously. He rose from the chair opposite me in which he had been sitting. “You’ll have to remain here about another week until the redness disappears. It’s nothing to be disturbed about. Quite normal. I had to plane the old skin remaining on your face so that it would come in new with the grafted skin.”

I nodded. After four operations in ten weeks another week more or less didn’t matter.

He started to leave and then turned back. “By the way,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “you can look at yourself in the mirror if you want to.”

“I will,” I said. “Thank you.” But I didn’t make a move to get out of my chair. Oddly enough, I wasn’t in a hurry to look at myself.

He stood there for a moment and then, when he saw I was not getting out of the chair, he nodded and left the room followed by his six flunkies.

I sat there watching the English nurse cleaning the surgical tray and placing the bandages into a waste container. She didn’t make a big thing out of looking at me, but I did notice that she kept glancing at me out of the corners of her eyes.

I caught her hand the next time she walked in front of me and turned her toward me. “What do you think, Sister?” I asked. “Is it that bad?”

“Not at all, Mr. Perino,” she said quickly. “It’s just that I never saw you before your accidents. I did see you when you came in. The transformation is quite remarkable. You have an interesting face, almost handsome I would say.”

I laughed. “I was never handsome.”

“See for yourself,” she said.

I got out of the chair and went into the bathroom. There was a mirror over the sink. I looked into it.

In a moment I knew how it felt to be Dorian Gray and never grow old. It was almost the same face that I had at twenty-five. Almost. But there were subtle differences.

The nose was thinner, more aquiline. The doctor had taken the original Italian out of it. The cheekbones were slightly higher, making my face thinner and longer, my jaw more square. The ridges of proud flesh that had puffed up under my eyebrows after they had been split were gone, as were the white burn scars, and my skin was all pink and new and shining like a baby’s. Only the eyes seemed wrong in that face.

They were old eyes. They were thirty-eight-year-old eyes. They hadn’t changed. They hadn’t been made younger to match the rest of the face. They still held the pain and the glare of the sun and the lights of a thousand different roadways.

In the mirror I could see the nurse standing in the doorway behind me. I turned toward her and held out my hand. “Sister.”

She came toward me quickly. There was concern in her voice. “Are you all right, Mr. Perino?”

“Would you be kind enough to kiss me?”

She looked into my eyes for a moment, then nodded. She came toward me and, taking my face in her hands, turned it down to her. She kissed me.

First, on the forehead, then on each cheekbone, then on each cheek, and finally, on the mouth. I felt the kindness and gentleness flowing from her. I lifted my face from her.

There were tears standing in the corners of her eyes and her lips were trembling. “Did I make it better, Mr. Perino?” she asked gently.

“Yes, Sister,” I said. “Thank you.”

She really did make it better.