The Immigrant’s Daughter (42 page)

“Is Danny here?” Barbara asked.

“He'll be here this evening. May Ling was here. She had to go home. Freddie is upstairs with Clair. I just spoke to Sam, and he'll be here tonight.”

Eloise and Adam joined them in the kitchen. “She asked us to leave,” Adam said uncertainly. “She asked to be alone with Freddie.”

“Where's Sally?”

“In her old room,” Adam said. “You know, Mother always kept it just as it was. Sally's in there, crying. She's taking it very hard.”

On the other hand, Barbara thought, taking it very dramatically, with much histrionics, which Sally would do if she faced the end of the world.

“Mother wants to see you,” Eloise said. “Why don't you go up now?”

“If she wanted to be with Freddie —”

“Don't worry. Go up. We'll join you in a few minutes.”

In the bedroom where Clair lay in bed, her Mexican servant, María, stood by the door, a somber stone figure. She opened the door at the sound of Barbara's steps. Evidently, alone with Freddie did not mean María's absence. Freddie sat by Clair's bedside, holding her hand. Clair, her face bloodless, lay still, her eyes closed.

“Freddie?”

He read the question and shook his head. Then Clair opened her eyes and saw Barbara.

“Hello, my dear,” she whispered. And then to Freddie, “Kiss me, dear, and then leave me with Barbara.” She spoke with great effort.

Freddie bent and kissed her, and then he left the room. Barbara sat close to the bed, leaning over to hear Clair say, “Don't let this break us up, Barbara. We're a good family, and if we tug at each other, that's only natural.”

“I know, Clair.”

“I'm very tired, Barbara.”

She appeared to doze off again. Barbara waited for a while, and then Adam came into the room. “I'll sit with Mom for a while, Barbara. Go downstairs and have something to eat.”

At seven-twenty that evening, Clair Harvey Levy died. She was eighty-two years old, and her last wishes were observed, to be cremated and her ashes spread among the vine rows. “I want no grave,” she had written. “No one lives in a grave. If I can leave a little nourishment for the fruit of the earth and some memories for those I love, that will be enough.”

Adam had a simple stone cut, and fastened to it a bronze plaque with the words of his mother's wishes engraved on it. Two days after the cremation, they gathered together at Higate, the family and friends, for a sort of memorial service. Barbara, now the oldest surviving member of the family, knew that Clair had been born a Christian, but of which denomination and whether baptized or not, no one seemed to know. Neither she nor Jake had ever appeared to require or thirst for the comforts of religion, and when some religious ceremony was required at the winery, Father Gerry Mulligan would drive up from Napa and help out, since almost all of the workers at the winery were Catholic; and every year, a case of sacramental wine was sent to the Catholic church in Napa for Christmas service and a case of nonsacramental wine for Christmas cheer. So at this memorial service of sorts, Father Mulligan contributed a touch of a sacrament, more to please Eloise than the others. They gathered together in the big whitewashed hall of the old stone winery, once the aging room and now a sort of reception room for visitors, during the thirty days when Higate opened its doors to the public for tasting. In the room, along with the family and friends, were the families of the men who worked at the winery, some of them resident there and employed at Higate all of their lives.

Father Mulligan, a stout, small man, was helped onto the tasting counter, and standing there, he blessed the people assembled, the children and grandchildren of Clair Harvey Levy. “It's a pity the dear, lovely lady was not Catholic, since she would have honored our religion. But she was a grand, decent, generous and beautiful woman — oh, in her youth, she was something to see, with that great head of flaming red hair. Somewhere in back of her was Irish, believe me, so there was somewhere a bit of the Catholic, but it wouldn't matter. Whatever golden gates she faces, they'll open, rest assured.”

After this, food and wine; and people wept and others laughed. Barbara found herself in a corner with Sally and May Ling and Freddie, Sally begging her to talk about Clair. “How did it begin?” Sally begged her. “Mother would never tell us. She loved her secrets.”

Barbara felt like a storytelling teacher in a crowded classroom. Others were gathering around. It had become a mixture of a wake, a Jewish sitting-in-mourning, and a class in the history of San Francisco. Surely, the Easterners were right when they spoke of going back to the States from California. This whole place was a new thing.

“I only know what Pop told me,” Barbara protested. “Clair's daddy, old Captain Jack Harvey, commanded one of those lumber freighters that ran up and down the California coast in the old days, and then things changed, most of the lumber ships were docked and so was Jack Harvey. Just for a place to live, he took the job of caretaker for a big iron lumber ship that was docked. He had Clair with him. I guess she was eight or nine. You know, my daddy and old Jake's daddy were partners. They decided to take a big step and buy this old iron ship. Harvey had been married to some pretty kid who became pregnant, delivered Clair, and then took off. Jack was father and mother to her. Jake was Mark Levy's kid, thirteen years old at that time, and he saw Clair, and that was it.”

Sally burst into tears and made her way outside. Adam started to follow her, but Barbara stopped him and said she would go to Sally, and that tears at this time should not be interfered with. Outside, alongside the tasting room, the Mexicans had set up cook-fires in the stone remains of an old pressing tank. They were cooking steaming plots of beans, chicken mole, and fish and peppers, and on a slab of hot metal they were heating tortillas. Sally crossed the road and stood under a tree, her shoulders heaving. Barbara went to her, and Sally fell into her arms. The tears dried; Sally clung to Barbara, and finally Sally said, “The damn trouble is that I can't take a step anywhere here without seeing Mom and Pop. Do you know what she did, Barbara? She told Cándido Truaz that when she died, there was to be this kind of a memorial right here, and she even told María what kind of food they were to cook. Damn it, she was something.”

A week later, Barbara had finished her piece on El Salvador. Reading it through, she regretted that she hadn't done better, but that was very much the case with everything she had ever written — and here at least she had achieved, she felt, a sense of that miasma of horror which pervaded that poor damned land. The report, over twenty thousand words, had been written as coldly and objectively as possible. She had always felt that her writing was most effective when she put down the facts and let them speak for themselves. Yet never before had she been involved in this manner, so deeply and emotionally and with such a sense of weariness and despair.

She addressed the envelope that contained the manuscript, brought it to the post office and sent it off to Carson without even a note. She disliked commenting on her own work.

That night, she dined with Sam. He had told Mary Lou that he had to talk to his mother, just the two of them alone, and when Mary Lou asked whether it was a medical matter, he said no, it was simply a question of relationship.

“That's very interesting,” Barbara said after Sam spelled out his excuse to Mary Lou. “You were thinking of our relationship?”

“Mainly. There was a time, Mom, when we could talk openly and frankly about a great many things.”
Mom
was the soft, neutral ground.

“Yes,” Barbara agreed. “There's a lot of that in our family, and it's one of the best things we have. I pity people who bottle up their angers and frustrations. They remain prisoners of themselves.”

“On the other hand,” Sam reminded her, “it has not been easy to be Barbara Lavette's son.”

“I can go along with that.”

“Or the son of my father. Do you know, when I was studying medicine in Israel, I was a curiosity. Cohen's son. Whenever they needed a figurehead or a hero, another Mickey Marcus, they trotted me out and recited the deeds of a father I never knew, how he flew the planes across the continent and across the ocean to Czechoslovakia to buy arms for the War of Independence, and I would stand on the platform like a total horse's ass, full of anger inside, screaming inside of myself, Who the devil needs a hero? The world is filled with dead heroes. I want a living father.”

“And then you wanted a mother.”

“No, it doesn't follow quite that way. I had a mother. I loved you so much it made me a little crazy. I still do. I look at you and nothing has changed for me. You are a great lady. I remember you telling me about the time you met Eleanor Roosevelt and your feeling that she was the most remarkable person you had ever known. I remember listening and thinking that there I was, sitting and facing the most remarkable person
I
had ever known. So I had a mother, and I still do. I was talking to Toby Fitzsimmons, who's chief of psychiatry at the hospital, and rambling about my two failed relationships — it's the word we use these days instead of love and fealty — the lovely Rachel in Israel and Carla here, both of them round, dark and beautiful women, and he pointed out that they were the absolute opposite of my mother. They were sweet as honey, but it didn't work. I finally made it work with Mary Lou, who is like you in more ways than you can imagine, with at least something of the same background that you had, and what it all adds up to, I don't know, but it seems to have smoothed away the hard edges. Do I make any sense at all?” he asked her. “Did I tell you Mary Lou is pregnant?”

“That makes the most sense of all.”

“You know, I was talking to Toby Fitzsimmons because last week they made me chief of surgery. It's an honor, Mom.”

“It's more than an honor. It's absolutely wonderful, and I am overwhelmed. Totally overwhelmed. Do you know how I feel, Sammy? I once met a Japanese Roshi who had experienced what they call
satori
, or enlightenment, and I asked him what it felt like, and he said not very different than he felt before, except that every step he took, his feet were two inches above the ground. And I am absolutely sure that when we leave here, every step I take will be at least six inches above the ground.”

He stared at her lovingly and thoughtfully. “Do you mind it very much — being old?”

“I don't think so, Sammy. Sometimes it's tiresome, but mostly it's quite extraordinary.”

“Would you be young again if you could?”

“You do ask the strangest questions tonight. The answer is, I don't think so, and please order a bottle of champagne, and when is the baby expected?”

Sam ordered the champagne and informed his mother that the baby was progressing nicely and would be born in November. “Scorpio,” he said.

“If you believe that nonsense.”

“Mom, when you are born and bred in California, there's an obligation to accept a certain amount of nonsense. Your birthday's in November.”

“Good heavens, was I invited here to be instructed in astrology? What would your learned colleagues at the hospital think of all this?”

“They have compartmentalized minds. It's a California affliction. No, Mom, I asked for the two of us here alone just to talk. I think I'm coming of age. I'd like to be your friend.”

The champagne arrived and was opened. Sam poured two glasses.

“To you,” Sam said.

“No. What will you call the child?”

“If it's a boy, we'll call him Bernie. If we have a girl, we'll call her Barbara. Mary Lou agrees.”

“Then we'll drink to them, whosoever!”

Carson ran Barbara's story for five days in five parts, front page, column one. He brought the first issue up to San Francisco himself, hot off the press, appearing at her house slightly before midnight. Unable to talk him out of doing just that, she was expecting him. She had prepared a supper of cold cuts and salad, which Carson lit into hungrily while Barbara reread the first section of her report, experiencing the writer's pleasure of reading her finished product in type. When she had finished and Carson had washed down a plate of cold chicken and potato salad with half a bottle of Higate Mountain White, he said to her, “How do you like it?”

“Decent, objective journalism — wouldn't you agree?” “A little less objective than it might have been, but what the hell. If it doesn't get a Pulitzer, it won't be the first really good story that they overlooked. It will be noticed, be sure.”

“If you've come up here to turn me down personally when I ask you for another assignment — well, you can just forget it. I'm not asking.”

“What the hell kind of a publisher would I be to come all the way up here at midnight, carrying a newspaper hot off the press, to turn down a request by you? You're scrambling your buttons, Barbara.”

“It happens — sooner or later.”

“You want an assignment, come down to my office in L.A. and ask. Make an appointment first.”

“Hear! Hear! You're an old fussbudget, Devron.” She put the newspaper aside, went over to Carson, and kissed the small bald spot on top of his head. Then she stood behind him, her palms against his cheeks. “I wish we had made it,” she said. “I like you.”

“I like you too.”

“No more assignments, dear Carson. I shall sit in front of the fire for a while. I shall learn to knit.”

He stood up and faced her. “You don't have a fireplace.”

“No, I don't.”

“Well, I did have an idea. How about a column twice a week? You're always in a royal rage over something. We'll put you on the op ed page, alongside Bill Buckley, so as to balance him, you might say.”

“Carson!”

“Space rates.”

“That's cheap — unworthy. I'm an old pro, and you offer me space rates.”