The Cosmopolitans (11 page)

“How?” asked Hector.

“Ask your secretary.”

Suddenly all eyes were on Bette. This had never happened before. She had never once been called upon in a meeting to give an official opinion. All her guidance had been sought by the Tibbs men privately, in quiet conversation. When Hector was a boy playing under the desks, she'd put bandages on his knees and helped him when he lost his glasses. Yet, she had never considered actually participating in conversations like this one. Of actually having a voice.

“You're an emblematic American,” Valerie bestowed, as though this were a good thing.

“I'm not sure,” Bette said.

“We'll see.”

Valerie turned to face Bette entirely. Like they were having a romantic tête-à-tête in the Russian Tea Room, and no one else in the world existed. She shone her light on Bette. And the rest of the world was obscured.

“Now, Bette. Tell me. What values do you look for when choosing something?”

That was a bigger question than Bette had anticipated, and she started thinking about what the true answer might be.

“Or . . .,” Valerie cooed. “Someone.”

This follow-up was so insinuating, it carried the weight of its own frisson. Bette was actually flustered. The idea that she would choose someone spoke to something forbidden, unseeable. And yet this woman saw that it was there.
Potential
.

“So?”

“Yes?”

“So, tell me, Bette. When you go to the market to do your grocery shopping, what kind of soap do you buy?”

That was easy.

“The least expensive.”

Valerie came a bit closer. Bette could inhale her perfume. Promising, like an unripe apricot. Bette could see the hint of her cleavage. It was all a tease, wasn't it? Suggestions of something more. That was Valerie's lure.

“So!” Valerie eureka'd. Her enjoyment was infectious. What had once been a dreary day at the office had become a huge romp in the snow. A free-for-all of fun. “You let THEM decide for YOU?”

Now, here was yet another thing that Bette had never considered.

“You let THE PEOPLE WHO SET THE PRICES determine what you will hold in your hand every single morning? What will touch your face?”

Bette had truly never thought about things this way, and she was intrigued to examine her own habits. In fact, she wanted to. She wanted to know herself better as much as she wished to understand her own time,
this historic moment—where was the society headed? She realized she'd like to know.

Valerie explained carefully that the ways that “things” were going were called
trends
. And that these trends no longer happened by chance or because of huge global events like wars and floods. They now were dreamed up in offices, just like this one, and then
marketed
to the rest of the world. A new sector was in charge, and governments would realize this and have to follow. Basically, Valerie explained, from now on people would only buy things on purpose, instead of by accident. And people like Valerie and Hector—if he was lucky—would be the ones to decide what others would own. For a handsome fee, of course.

“Wake up!” Valerie sang, like Mary Martin in
South Pacific
. “You have the RIGHT to CHOOSE your own soap! The same way you have the RIGHT to CHOOSE your own man. It's YOUR world! TIDE or ALL!”

At first Bette thought that
tide
referred to the natural rhythm of waves, and
all
was eternity, but then she realized that Valerie was referencing the two boxes of laundry detergent that sat side by side at the Daitch Shopwell on University Place.

“That's what hard sell does, Bette.” Valerie looked at her with an expression of reluctant truth, conveyed out of loyalty, for her own good. “It lets
you
decide.”

“I see,” Bette said. And then, remembering to take notes, wrote down the words
I decide
.

“I see,” Hector said.

Bette had forgotten he was there.

“Now, Bette,” Valerie led her to the next moment. “What if you could have any brand of soap that you
wanted, regardless of price? What brand name most appeals to you?”

This time the answer just slid out. A thought she had never previously entertained became so obvious and on the top of her consciousness.

“Truthfully,” Bette said. “I have always liked the name LUX.”

Again Valerie rewarded her with a grateful smile, those big brown eyes, an expression of contentment bordering on the obscene.

“You see, Hector?” She spun around on her chair, reaffirming that this entire exhibition had been for his benefit so he could feel addressed and serviced. “Hard sell! LUXXURRRYYY.
Luxury
,” she purred. “Persuading people to imitate the habits of the idle rich.”

Hector literally leapt from his seat with enthusiasm, then felt perplexed about where to go next, and so flopped back down again. Then he leaned back and assumed, for the first time since he had come into ownership of Tibbs Incorporated, an air of empowerment.

“She likes LUX,” he pointed out, delighted at having a perception. “But she doesn't buy it.”

“Americans dream of being rich,” Valerie retorted on the beat, with a gravitas previously reserved for the United Nations. “But they are NOT rich. This is a very important insight when you try to sell them something.”

“But the rich don't wash dishes.” Bette was practical at heart, and there had to be a place for that. Even though she, herself, no longer washed dishes. Now that Hortense was in her house.

“RIGHT! And they don't do their own shopping.”

Bette had to admit that she still did her own shopping and wouldn't want it any other way.

“So,” Valerie let out some more rope. “Wouldn't you rather
feel
rich while doing what poor people
have
to do?”

Yes, she would. The answer was obvious, even though Bette wasn't poor, but she understood the logic. She had a secretarial job. That meant she could pay her rent, buy groceries, go to the doctor, see plays on Broadway, buy all the books she wanted, give something to charity, and count on a stable pension in her old age. Yet, Valerie's argument was illuminating, it was the
feeling
of being free that Valerie was after. And so another door was opened. Once Bette let herself buy LUX, she would keep buying it. The way she had come to the same job day after day. It would become known, stable. It would make her feel safe. And then someday an innovative personality in another office somewhere would come up with a marketing breakthrough that would make Bette feel strangely bold. On an impulse that had been fabricated, but would feel organic, she would try something new. Something she'd never even noticed before but had seen
advertised on television
. She searched her memory, scanning a picture of the supermarket shelves, settling on something previously invisible but subconsciously planted. Cutex. It sounded like LUX but it was hard to say why. Cutex. Was it the Texan? Or was he just Cute?

“What is Cutex?” she asked.

“Nail polish remover,” Valerie answered, fanning her red-tipped fingers.

“Oh,” Bette laughed. “First you would have to sell me the polish.”

“NOW YOU GET IT!” Valerie was in love with Bette. Or at least that's how it
felt
. “STRATEGY! I could sell you anything if I had to. I could sell you fake nails, nail files, nail polish remover, and then I could sell you a salve to soothe your aching nails. If I need to sell it more than you need to buy it, you will buy it.”

That, Bette came to understand, was the essence of hard sell. She looked up at her child boss. He was lost in Valerie's web. And so was Bette. Hector didn't have to worry any longer. Someone else would solve all the problems. He reached his decision without a moment's hesitation.

Hector put his hand out over the desk and rose to the occasion.

“Sold,” he said.

And the deed was done.

Chapter 11

H
ortense was thinking:

Discovery itself is freedom
.

Earl was thinking:

Sex is filled with gratitude, but then back to real life like it never happened
.

Bette was thinking:

I am capable of more
.

Earl realized:

I am capable of more
.

Bette realized:

I love Earl, Hortense, and in its own way, I love Valerie
.

Hortense realized:

Discovery is endless. Therefore freedom is endless
.

All three were mistaken. And yet, two were also right. Tragic, isn't it?

Bringing their family back to three, just like the old days with Anthony, rejuvenated some lost pleasures for Earl and Bette. They retained the nightly listening of
music, talking over the day, reading poetry and sitting, united by the radio, as they always had. This elevated all of them, especially as Bette and Earl were able to instruct young Hortense with their ardently hard-won knowledge. The presence of three made possible again the reading of plays, which corresponded to the needs of Hortense's acting class scene preparation. So now, when Earl returned home from the nightly bloodbath, he entered an apartment that combined the steaming scent of dinner with the studying of scripts.

This one evening a succulent pot roast with parsnips, carrots, and a can of tomatoes was simmering under cover. Hortense's presence at home some afternoons allowed for more thoughtful and slow cooking dishes, as she and Bette could cooperate on the nourishment of them all. Bette sat at the already set table, spectacles positioned, book in hand, as Hortense recited from memory. Bette, of course, had performed this very service for Earl for years, helping him learn his lines. And so she was well versed in the role—not to prompt unless called upon but not to lag either. Her job was to help, not to have an ego, and as far as acting went, better left to others more emotionally expressive than she.

Hortense stood in the living room, ethereal yet royal. She recited.

              
My lord, I have remembrances of yours,

              
That I have longed long to re-deliver;

              
I pray you, now receive them.

Bette knew, of course, that there was a problem
with the way Hortense understood the line. But she had no idea of how to correct it. Hortense seemed to be a bit bouncy. She didn't grasp where the pauses were. And the wrong words seemed to be emphasized. But Bette was not knowledgeable enough to help in that way. So, she simply stuck to the task of memorization and hoped that the rest would follow.

“No, not I,” read Bette. She needed stronger glasses. Age had come upon her. “I never gave you aught.”

              
My honor'd lord, you know right well you did;

              
And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed

              
As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,

              
Take these again; for to the noble mind

              
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

Earl's key scratched hello in the lock.

Bette heard the sound and felt joy.

Hortense did not hear, but looked up and smiled when she saw his face.

He walked in on his two ladies, waiting, in the court of Denmark. Hortense curtsied him a welcome.

“There, my lord.”

Bette gave her best stage laugh. “
Ha, ha!”
She wasn't above acting from time to time, after all. “Are you honest?”

Now, Hortense's Ophelia joined Bette's challenge, but with a more girlish yearning finding its way into the question. “My lord?”

“Are you fair?” read Bette. She definitely had
to go visit the ophthalmologist and strengthen her prescription.

Hortense gave Earl a hard look, in character of course. “What means your lordship?” She was full throttle into Ophelia's seductive invitation.

Now Earl, like all actors, had memorized
Hamlet
many years before, alone in his apartment. Often, after too many drinks too early and with a long, lonely night before him, he'd recite the play, lying in his bed as the room spun. But this evening Earl was in his princely glory, turning his workingman's jacket into a royal cape and his bottle of beer into a saber.

“That if you be honest and fair,” he said, “your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.”

Earl felt, at that moment, that he could still play Hamlet someday. It wasn't all over.

Hortense twirled her skirt. “Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?”

“Aye.” Earl was sweeping across the room. Flying. “Truly . . .”

Ophelia was his now, she was entirely his. With his dignity, his grace, his boyish good looks, still. It wasn't all gray yet. He could still play a prince.

Then, for one minute, he thought of Leon. Remembered the boy, softening a bit at work. That very day Leon had changed his shirt in front of Earl, rather than hiding in a corner. He gave the gift of his glistening chest. It was a form of apology, perhaps. There is a sweetness, an undeniable pleasure, when an older man sees the beauty of a younger one. There is a knowledge there that the young can never grasp. Of course that is a longing, but there is also a wisdom.

“. . . for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness.”

Earl was over Leon. No, he wasn't. His feelings ricocheted from corner to corner. He felt this and then he felt that. Leon was weak, but someday he could be strong. Leon was shallow, but someday he could have depth. Earl had been strong and had been deep, and so it was all doomed—that was the truth. That was the problem. That was it. An equal. If he expected equality, he would never be happy. It was Leon's potential that was so crushing. Earl had to ignore those who
could
do the right thing but did not. He had to be able to accept a man with half his character and do whatever that guy wanted.
It's my fucking standards
, he thought.
They're killing me. Forget about them and stop living in heartbreak
. Earl was unsettled at how much better that felt. That unfamiliar consideration of taking less just to get something. Much, much less.

He looked into Ophelia's blue eyes. She didn't have Leon's beauty, but at least she was game to play. She would try to have a better life.

“This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.”

That was it. It was as if, right there, Earl had told Leon that he had loved him,
once
. Earl had just said it, admitted it out loud in apartment 2E, with Leon on his mind. He was healed. What a heartbreaker. What a relief. What a loss. How sad. But now it was over.

They were all three satisfied. They were all three at their best. This was it, what everyone else had: their own crowd, their own team, their own built-in set of
hands. This, Earl, Hortense and Bette discovered, was the secret world of home. Here everyone had a playmate, and it was a little bit safer, a little bit more secure. Each could imagine a new possibility. Each could take on a new feeling. There was always a witness and there was always a friend.

“Now, Hortense,” Earl hung up his jacket directly onto the wooden hanger. “Let me help you with that.”

Hortense was relieved. She knew she had talent, she could tell. She looked in the mirror each day and saw the life force circling her soul. Others spotted it on her in the street,
charm
. She saw the smiles as they noticed her. It was pleasurable, watching her. She had
it
, but she lacked craft. If she was honest with herself, clearly inexperience was her problem. Earl had a special situation. He couldn't be judged by his lack of success. This she had come to understand. It wasn't fair out there for Negroes, and gifted people had to suffer. But she, she didn't have those obstacles, so, if he would offer to help . . . well, that might make all the difference. She'd been hinting, and now here it was. The moment that could change her life.

“Thank you.”

In particular, the more Hortense heard Earl discuss theater, tell stories, analyze performances, and layer motivations, the more she understood that when it came to most plays, she did not know how to say it. And he did. Once he laid it out, she'd be able to show off at scene class, and they'd be stunned by her improvement. And would be able to see her potential as well. Everybody would.

Putting the most important things in life first, Bette
turned off the pot roast, as the family decided to postpone dinner until Hortense grasped at least one of the basics.

“Stop
pronouncing
it,” Earl said, slowly. He wanted her to understand by example so she would see what was to be avoided. “Just speak it,” he said, simply.

“Okay,” she almost whimpered. It was embarrassing, but she wanted to learn.

“Just talk it.”

“Okay.” Brave smile. “Here goes. ‘Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?'”

“Could it?”

“What?”

Earl went soft and slow, as was necessary when instructing most young actors. The central lesson of the evening was being imparted. Hortense had to know what the line meant in order to really ask the question.

Earl liked Hortense, she was fun, that was the truth. But would he ever be able to respect her? This question had circulated in his mind for a while now. And truth be told, the moment at hand was a test. Could she learn from him? Could she see what he knew? Could she accept her own limitations and follow his instructions? Could she see his value? If she could not, he wouldn't care. But if she could, she would have a better time of it in scene class. He wasn't invested in her class, but generally everyone benefited when some reality was on the table. He watched her take in the challenge to understand, to understand what in the hell she was saying. It wasn't just actors who had this problem. Most people don't listen to themselves half the time. They say things that they are trying out in
their mouths, sliding around the sounds, but they don't mean them. An actor can choose for his character to not mean the lines of the script, but he has to understand what his shadow does not.

On Hortense's count, she got the gravity of the moment. Yes, she had been stupid not to consider the meaning, to focus on the sound. But now that Earl had caught her, it could only help. How else are people supposed to learn unless someone knowledgeable explains it to them? Earl was kind. He wanted her to do her best. Just what he wanted for himself. That was a gift. She knew that. She stared back at the page. She concentrated. Hortense looked at those words as she had never looked at any words before. She mumbled them to herself, trying to decipher the puzzle.

“Could beauty have a better business partner than truth? Is that what it means?”

Bette went back into the kitchen and turned the flame on low. This was best left to professionals. Besides, she could see that progress was getting made and dinner would soon begin.

Earl crossed his arms. The maestro! Every actor had to find his own solution. Make his own choice. No one should tell him. Unless it was hopeless.

“Well? Hortense?”

Hortense was confused. “Aren't they the same thing?”

Bette returned from the kitchen with a sealed casserole between two beloved frayed potholders.

“Cousin Bette?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Cousin Bette,” Hortense asked with a newly found
intensity, as if this were the singularly most important question of her life. And perhaps it was. “Aren't they the same thing?”

“What, dear? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you.”

“Cousin Bette! Are truth and beauty the same thing?”

Bette and Earl laughed so loud and so long. And it united them. Of course they had always laughed together, but each of the two had had the responsibility for initiating it. Once Anthony was gone, they'd never been both relaxed and then moved to joyful guffaws by the comments of a third party. It was normalizing. Easy. Warm. This adorable girl. She brought love all around.

“Truth and beauty are
not
the same thing,” Earl explained with the kindness of really knowing.

“What's the difference?” She really wanted him to tell her the answer. If he didn't, she would have no way of ever finding out.

“Well,” he paused sagely. “How much is your allowance?”

“Enough to live on.”

Enough to not say so
, he thought.
Ah, the discretion of the rich
. But he also realized that he and Bette had never discussed the matter. He didn't even know if Bette was aware of the figure. And that felt unusual. That something such a part of their lives would go unspoken. Or more importantly, that he no longer knew every thought in Bette's head. He felt somewhat angry about this. But then noticed his own feeling and felt all right. He looked from Bette to Hortense. Who was smarter? Hortense was reaching for something. Bette
was not. She had been more animated of late. They both had. But she was still not ambitious. Hortense was. At that moment, Earl realized that Bette did not, in fact, know the amount of Hortense's allowance.

“Well then,” Earl said out loud. “Truth and beauty can look very much alike. When you have the dough. But, without the cash, they're two entirely different things.”

Bette felt a stark honesty coming from her own heart. “Hortense, my dear. You have both. Earl and I have only one.”

“Which one do you two have?”

Bette and Earl looked at each other with all the tenderness and understanding they had earned together.

“Truth,” they announced with one voice. And laughed.