The Cosmopolitans (13 page)

Hortense nodded.

“We were served punch, out of a cut-glass bowl. And I still had the scent of Frederick's love on my skin. I was so pure, so calm, the right thing had happened in my life. I had found my calling.”

Hortense was absorbed. Bette could see. She had lost the artifice.

“His father, your grandfather . . . is he still living?”

“No, long passed. I only knew him as a feeble, helpless mass, sitting silently under a shawl in a corner chair.”

“Of course. Well, at that time he was one of the most powerful men in the county. He stood tall, with a glass of punch in his hand, and announced that your father would soon marry my cousin. Crevelle. Your mother. And the room was filled with cheers.”

“Oh, Bette.”

“My tears are their cheers. It would always be that way.”

“I understand.”

“Something came over me then. The discord between their joy and the lie at the base of it. The world would divide into two at that second forever. For all time, at the same time. There would be the world of falsity and the world of reality, coexisting, ever in conflict, ever in struggle. I looked at the cross around your mother's heaving breast. I called out.”

Bette stopped here. She did not know why.

“What did you say?”

“
Stop.”

That was what she'd said after all. In fact, she'd said it twice. And Bette stood erect, in her apartment, just as she had done in that room full of tyrants, and held out the same hand, now wrinkled, and called out, “
Stop
. This is not the truth.”

Everyone had turned to her. Innocently. Wondering. But not Frederick. He knew what she would do.

“The truth is,” Bette returned to that critical moment, raising her head with the same primitive defiance. “That Frederick seduced me last night. By
the banks of the Ashtabula River. He pledged his love to me, and I to him. He cannot marry my cousin. He cannot.”

“Oh my,” Hortense gasped.

Bette looked into the young woman's eyes. Hortense finally understood her own legacy. She finally saw the real Bette. She saw her strength.

“
That is not true,” Frederick lurched. His spilled punch
.

“
Yes, it is,” Bette told him, told them all. “Yes, it is the truth.”

Bette felt weak. She backed up a few steps and collapsed into her chair. Hortense saw this but knew better than to move. The two of them lived together in the silence, while Bette regained some direction. She soothed herself by reviewing the facts, internally. Reviewing the memorized list of facts. This brought her back to the crucial moment of the story. The moment when Frederick chose a life of lies and Bette had to forever pay his price.

“Frederick said, ‘That is not true. You offered yourself to me, but I told you my heart belonged to Crevelle. You would not accept my truth, and here you are again, weaving a web of lies.'”

“Father,” Hortense spoke. But this time there was no gasp. She recognized the man that she knew in that story. She understood that this was exactly what had taken place. “I see.”

“Do you understand?” Bette asked.

“I am not surprised,” Hortense said.

Bette nodded her head. “He claimed that the truth was a lie, and so he attempted to eclipse all the joy
that had existed between us. But I would not cooperate with that eclipse. It was only the sun passing behind a cloud. Eventually it would reappear. As it always does. As you arriving on my doorstep has confirmed.”

“What did your parents do?”

“My family had more to gain by believing him. After all, I was claiming to have committed a sexual transgression, and this was not a reasonable claim in their minds. It was not something that could be defended. Crevelle was my cousin, the daughter of my father's sister. Frederick's father owned half the town. My parents would do nothing but lose if they took my side. There was no honor in the truth for them, for it was shrouded in social niceties and material realities, and for my family those superseded love. Believing me, supporting their daughter, would have cost too high a price.”

“What price?”

“A decent marriage, an upstanding citizen. As a sacrifice to those things, I was vilified and forced from my home. My father gave me a one-way ticket to Cleveland. I begged my brother to intervene, but he just stood in the corner and smoked.”

“I see.”

“Because of your father's cruelty, I lost my home. Because of his cruelty, I lost everything I knew. And yet, he is still in the center of my heart.”

“Why? Cousin Bette, why do you feel this way?”

The answer to Hortense's short question was the most hard-won revelation in Bette's long life. She had worked toward an understanding for decades. The feeling of love persisted, that was undeniable, but why did
it persist? This was the most central mystery in her struggle to understand, to be aware, to acknowledge that
yes
, in fact, she still loved Frederick. Even if she wasn't supposed to, even if it made no sense. But because she had done the labor of understanding, she had finally come to realize why.

“Because I saw him be good and tender, so I know that he can be.”

That was the knowledge she had found within.

“All right,” Hortense said. “I understand.”

Bette had made the right choice. Hortense's lack of protest showed that she was capable of recognizing the obvious. All of Bette's life the obvious had been denied. She was smarter than Hector, but he owned the company. Earl was a brilliant actor with the soul of an angel, but petty prejudice kept him in the slaughterhouse. If Anthony had owned the love that he felt, he would be alive today. These clefts between truth and power pervaded. But now there was a third party who could take this in. Accept it. Not pretend it wasn't so. Hortense had fulfilled that need.

“I saw him receive grace, so I know that he can.”

“You witnessed his true self.”

“Yes, my dear,” Bette's heart broke with gratitude. “I did.”

They were both feeling the weight.

“All of these years he has
chosen
to be one kind of person. A liar. But because I
witnessed
him be truthful and good, I know he can choose that again. Goodness will eternally live on as a possibility within him because it was part of him once. The body remembers. That potential is never lost. Once a person is kind, they
always have the option to be kind again. They know what it feels like.”

Hortense's head was cocked to one side. The pose had long ago been discarded.

“You see, Hortense, Frederick caused me to lose my family and my home. I know in my heart—actually I knew it that moment when he denounced me in your grandfather's parlor . . .” Then she realized. “I suppose that is now
your
parlor, after all.”

“Yes, it is,” Hortense answered flatly.

“In that moment, something inside me became broken. I am not . . . I am not . . .”
Tell the truth
. “I am not a hero. I am regular. And I have been . . . affected. Because of him, I came to New York. And I made a new home. And now, Hortense, you and Earl have given me a new family. You too have come to New York
because of him
. I know that I will never lose you. It is all now as it always should have been.”

“What do you want from Frederick?”

Bette extended her hand to Hortense who took it without question. This conversation had gone far better than Bette could have ever imagined. Now she would offer this dear girl the greatest treasure of Bette's life, her insight, the product of all her effort. The gift that all that loneliness and suffering had borne.

“After thinking about this for so many years, Hortense. I have come to realize that I believe in . . . the duty of repair.”

She watched.

Had Hortense fully comprehended that phrase? That long sought-after phrase that Earl had helped her discover?

“I know there is cruelty in life,” Bette said. “But I believe that it can be followed by reconciliation. In order for this pain that remains in me to heal, Frederick must see the healing. That is what I want from him. To make peace with me, in person. I know this can be done.”

Hortense nodded.

“And Earl?” Hortense asked, her heart racing.

“Earl?” Bette felt peace. “Earl will never betray me. Earl will never lie.”

“So, you're not lovers then?”

“No,” Bette said. “Earl is the most important person in my life.” Bette was exhausted now. She was ready for bed. “He has my keys.”

“I see,” Hortense murmured, waiting another half hour before stepping out into the hall.

Chapter 13

T
he truth being revealed, everything in Bette's life had become exciting, something to look forward to. She now hurried to Union Square to catch the IRT to the office because it was so much faster than the bus. She'd pass the old D.W. Griffith studio, then Lüchow's German beer garden, to jump on the subway in front of Klein's department store next to Hammer's Dairy Restaurant. There was a passion in her gait, a connection.

Running up to Union Square each day also provoked her imagination. In the past there had been labor gatherings in the square, Communists and people wishing for great change parading around with banners, signs, and hope. But the last few years had quieted down somewhat. Perhaps due to Senator McCarthy and his ilk. The park was getting a bit shabby, unsure of its new social role. Too preoccupied with new activities to make a sandwich, she'd buy a pretzel off an ancient wooden stick from the old lady with a basket full of
them on the corner and nibble all through the day. Warm and chewy with huge crystals of thick salt, a full lunch hour seemed frivolous. Too much going on.

At Tibbs Advertising, a cyclone had hit. Hector hired Valerie Korie to come in one day a week on a consultancy basis, yet she seemed to be there for five. Plus, Bette suspected, she stopped in on Sundays. Valerie couldn't stay away. Her enthusiasm brought an excitement to the place, which made them all take their new tasks very seriously. As though, suddenly, advertising really mattered. As if it were world peace, wash-and-wear clothing, and a man in space rolled into one. Hector and Bette got in earlier but still tried to gesture toward old-fashioned hours: arriving punctually at eight and leaving precisely at five. Valerie's hours had more flare to them: unpredictable, a kind of reflection of an unimaginable way of life. She'd saunter in at nine or ten, which implied late nights filled with lascivious enterprises and rides home in empty subway cars. Or some days they'd arrive at work and she would be just finishing some mysterious task, having acted impulsively all night on a new idea. At other times, she'd hover in the office long after Hector ran off to the commuter train, which implied to Bette that Valerie had no one expecting her and certainly no one waiting on her for supper. All that freedom made Valerie increasingly intangible and a bit wild, and therefore far more trustworthy as a source of information about the future and culture's edge.

Bette and Hector both loved this. But for different reasons. Hector, having spent his entire youth and manhood in Connecticut, could not, for the life of him,
imagine where she went, what she did, and with whom. Bette, who had seen and heard a great deal, without having to go through too much of it herself, had a clearer idea of what was involved. The known and the unknown had equal pull. Valerie emerged as a curious, interested person who had apparently found joy in the discovery of all things. She loved solving problems, finding solutions, and constructing ways to persuade others of these very conclusions. Her brown hair was full and she tossed it like a presiding mare. Her fingers were garnished with rings. Her neck was exposed so that everyone guessed what lay just a few inches below. Her arms were teasingly garbed, then revealed. It was all a promise, Valerie's package. She loved having ideas, and she loved carrying them through. And, as all love truly is infectious, hers caused an epidemic. Bette was a perfect candidate, since she had always been a reliable person who fulfilled her assigned tasks, but they were rarely amusing. Now, the office was a strange new fun house, one that would rival Coney Island even without the fried clams. But instead of the mindless distraction of a tunnel of love, Tibbs Advertising was becoming a laboratory where the future was being born. And therefore . . . anything could happen.

The first thing Valerie did was rearrange the desks. She preferred to have the staff together in one room, talking to each other constantly throughout the day. Then she painted the whole place a new color called
teal
, or at least she persuaded some muscular, dark-haired man in a T-shirt to do it for her. She brought in mirrors and flowers and—of all things—a cigarette machine, which no one used but her. Valerie would
light a cigarette, perch on the end of Bette's desk from time to time, and ask her advice about very important matters: about packaging and phraseology and what Bette was aware of and what had eluded her consciousness. Questions about singers and products and automobiles, about beer and hats and cosmetics. As far as Bette could assess, not knowing was as important as knowing, and whatever answer she gave seemed to be taken very, very seriously. Bette found the new organization to somewhat parallel the important changes unfolding at home. More cozy. More intimate. A lot more conversation. Valerie believed that this was good for business and allowed them all to be “liberated” from the drudgery of the old-style “office drone” setup, permitting them to think together and most importantly, “act on impulse.”

The general enchantment was so consuming that Hector became like Dorothy, asleep in Oz's poppy field, only to dreamily awake one morning, two months later, and decide, almost haphazardly, in the commuter train on the ride home, to examine the budget. What he found there was so alarming that for the first time in his life, Hector had a fourth cocktail. In fact, he was so disturbed that he actually ordered something he'd never had before, a Rob Roy. One half Scotch, one half sweet vermouth, a dash of bitters, and a maraschino cherry. It went down like cough syrup mixed with moonshine and required an extra helping of ice. By the time the evil concoction had completed its slide along his throat, Hector faced facts. It was time to panic. The costs Valerie anticipated and had started to happily accrue were so unimaginably enormous that all he could
envision was his house seized for lack of tax payments, the office closed down for lack of rent checks, and the impossibility of ever purchasing the new automobile of his dreams. One that Valerie had pointed out to him in a magazine. The 1958 Lancia Aurelia.

Hector had been spending as much time thinking about the car as he had thinking about Valerie. One had come to symbolize the other. If he could have a car of that quality, he could certainly have a woman of the same caliber. Yes, it's true, Hector had been having forbidden thoughts about his new consultant but was dutifully channeling them into a desire for this car. The more research he did, the more Hector felt driven to own the Lancia Aurelia. When the maker, Vincenzo Lancia, had been born in 1881, his father already had decided that the boy would become a lawyer. This paralleled Hector's own fate. And like Hector, Vincenzo was not suited for his appointed task. Instead of hitting the books, young Vincenzo defied his father and hung out at bike shops, becoming a mechanic, eventually going to work for Fiat, and then starting his own company. The Aurelia had the world's first V6 engine. Hector wasn't quite sure what that meant exactly, but it was the first. More importantly, Valerie thought it was
elegant
, and that's what Hector wished to become.

This drunken reverie on the sports car he would now never be able to drive came to an end as the train pulled into the Greenwich station, and Hector had to face facts. She was breaking him. She would destroy everything his father had amassed and leave poor Hector penniless. Did they still have debtors' prison? Because that's where he was going. Most immediately, Hector
would have to explain to Sue that the olive-green Frigidaire she was dying to install was just going to have to wait. And the braces for Stevie and Sally's ballet lessons. Who was the devil who'd invented colored kitchen appliances that every housewife in Connecticut simply had to possess? Who?
Who?
Now the whole house had to be redone. It was just the kind of thing Valerie would have come up with. An expenditure that served no purpose and fit no need but for some emotional reason everyone had to have it. Olive-green refrigerators. If only Valerie could do that for Tibbs Advertising. Come up with something preposterous that everyone with a spare dollar felt they had to own. That's what she was promising, after all. The mysteries of desire and consumption. And when wanting the best, one has to pay, but . . .

The next morning Hector and Bette got in on time and waited for Valerie to appear. Bette did her weekly books, calculating, balancing, adding, and subtracting, making deposits and signing checks. Hector paced endlessly, anxiously clutching Valerie's budget and waiting for the clock to strike nine. Then ten. It was excruciating. He practiced his speech over and over again.
Of course I've always known that television would be an expensive proposition. That's why the profits were so inviting
. But this budget of Valerie's was just . . .
over the top
. He hoped she had a simple explanation and would not be revealed as a fantasist, living in a wax-paper world made out of other people's money. Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, he thrust the documents under Bette's nose, and she adjusted her reading glasses to have a better look.

By ten fifteen, Bette had seen what she needed to see and had come to a conclusion about the situation. She was simultaneously intrigued and uncomfortable with Valerie's level of risk. But that had been the draw all along. It was personally challenging, and Bette liked that. After all, for most of her life she had usually wished for things to remain the way they were. Surprise had never served her, and this budget was very surprising. Yet, Bette had a strong instinctive confidence that Valerie knew what she was doing. That she knew more about how things worked than Bette or Hector did, and discovering how much one does not understand can be very frightening. It was time Bette and Hector committed to facing the music, learning what needed to be learned, and stepping up to the challenges of the unknown. Bette found this prospect thrilling, and that desire to change overrode her traditional hesitancies about spending.

After all, Hortense had excavated a whole new arena of trust in today's youth, and Bette was realizing that being born
after
the Great Depression and growing up
after
the Big War seemed to make this new crop of young people a lot more open minded, bolder, and more inventive than their frightened predecessors. In fact, she had to admit that this get-up-and-go that Hortense and Valerie exhibited was more
adult
than Bette herself had ever been. It wasn't about keeping to one's self to stay out of the line of fire, but instead reaching to be the person who gave the command:
Ready . . . Aim
. There was a new line of attack in the hearts and minds of this fresh crop of young ladies, and Bette found all
the strategizing involved to be energetic. In fact, she found it inspiring.

“Well?” Hector asked, trembling.

“We have to hear what she has to say.” There was nothing to do but wait.

Finally, at ten seventeen, Valerie, the leopard, pounced into the office. She was sleek, lethal, lovely, and ready to win. Hector paced before her, sweating, nervously stating his case.

“We can't . . . the budget . . . impossible . . . risk . . . risk . . . risk.”

Valerie stayed calm, friendly, and in a poised place of supremacy over all the financial and psychological nooks and crannies of the situation. Bette noticed the way Valerie took in and assessed the evidence before her: Hector's expressions of worry, the stammer in his speech. Bette knew as Valerie appeared to listen with sincerity and respect that she was actually preparing her comeback. Valerie's mind was on two tracks simultaneously, like the Sarnoff stereo systems being advertised in the magazines she left around the office. Bass and treble. She could engage in the present and plan for the future at the same moment.

To be a winner in this world, one had to be able to think about a few different things at the same time
, Bette noted. And she resolved to try this out for herself.
It's the only way to get ahead of the game
.

Bette noticed her own thinking in terms of
the game
and laughed. What game? She wasn't playing any game. This was all Hector's problem, but it couldn't hurt to learn how to play, could it? It might someday
come in handy, somewhere. If she ever really wanted something so badly she couldn't live without it. In that case, it would be good to know how to get it.
Wouldn't it
?

Back to the workplace action, Hector was finally winding down his long-winded frightened soliloquy, and the second he landed, Valerie actually leapt off her perch and launched into what Bette could now identify as
hard sell
.

“It's a new world,” Valerie smiled, opening her arms and reaching for the sky. That was the kind of gesture that won people over right away. A shapely, attractive seductress, casting all pose aside to move as freely as a child in an open field is supposed to move, but rarely does. The image evoked a liberty that might have never been, and in that case was evocative and compelling, provoking desire in those watching her for a better childhood, and marvel that someone else could have one now. Valerie twirled around the office like Leslie Caron in
An American in Paris
and looked to the heavens above. When Hector and Bette followed her gaze, all they saw was a dirty pressed-tin ceiling that had escaped the new paint job. They both recognized it immediately as something that needed to be renovated into a surface more modern and sleek, using materials they could barely pronounce, like
asbestos
or that new . . .
fiberfill
.

“Look,” Valerie laughed, pointing at the dirty patch of ceiling. “Soon we'll have a man in space.”

She had a beautiful smile, and Bette looked closer, transporting through the water stains to imagined trails of rocket ships to Mars, and this tickled her greatly.

“Do you really think so?”

Being lost in Valerie's dream was a lot more fun than being lost in Hector's worries. Bette was getting the hang of this, what Valerie had called
positive thinking
.