The Wrong Kind of Money (44 page)

Try to get rid of me, she would tell him, and I will take Bathy with me, and then where will you be? She is part of the package, part of the deal you made when you bought me.

Try to marry Bathy, and I will spill the beans about what has been going on, and you, Mr. Respectability, will discover what a real Liebling family scandal is all about. Try to mess with me, Mr. High-and-Mighty, Mr. Probity, and the first person I'll go to will be someone like Roxy Rhinelander, and smear your precious name all over town.

And so, that moonlit night in the garden, Bathy's news seemed to Hannah almost like a blessing, the answer to a prayer. Now, if she could just produce another son for Jules, the blessing would be complete. Her final obligation to her husband would be paid. The anchor of her life would be set even more securely. She could never become unmoored. With a son Jules would remain tethered to her for the rest of his life, and she would be free at last.

That night in her dressing room, as she sat before her mirror creaming her face, preparing for bed, there was a tap on her door. “Come in!” she called out airily. It was Jules in his dressing gown, and as she looked up at his reflection in the mirror, his expression was serious, almost solemn, as though embarrassed by his mission. “Shall we try again tonight?” he said a little hoarsely. “To make another son?” “Of course, darling,” she said with a bright laugh. “Why not?” Outside, the heat lightning flickered palely through the drawn window hangings. Why not, indeed? With the way her luck was running, this might be one of the last times she'd have to do it.

And yet when she remembers that night now, she recalls approaching the chore in a different spirit. This was what her mother had described as a woman's wifely duty to her husband, her cross to bear. But that night it didn't seem like that at all. Knowing that she now knew his and Bathy's secret gave her a certain sense of power. She no longer felt submissive. She was in control and, wonder of wonders, she'd even felt herself beginning to enjoy it a little. Is it possible that, in the middle of it, she actually cried out, “I love you, Jules”? It is possible. Life is filled with such conundrums.

And when Noah was born nine months later, she thought of this baby as a special gift from Bathy. Bathy owed this to her.

Owed? Yes, owed. Bathy owed everything to her, her whole life. But did she owe Bathy nothing in return? No, nothing, except, perhaps, the truth.…

“You must simply forget that Bathy is your daughter,” her mother had said to her. “You must simply drive it from your mind. She is your
sister.
It has been made
official.”

“But couldn't I tell her—someday?”

“Never!”

“Why not, Mama?”

“Because if she ever knew, she would never be able to find a decent husband. No decent man would have her. She would die a spinster, the worst thing that can happen to a woman.”

And so she had kept her promise, and now Bathy would die a spinster anyway.

“Just forget she's your daughter. Drive it from your mind. It will be the easiest thing in the world to do.”

But of course it was not the easiest thing in the world to do. It was impossible to do. There was no way she could ever drive it from her mind, no way she could simply forget it. It was there, in Hannah's mind, indelibly imprinted, every waking moment of her days, and often in her dreams at night. At times in the past she has thought of telling Bathy in her will: “To my beloved daughter Bathsheba Sachs, I bequeath …” But that seemed too cowardly, to tell Bathy the truth from her grave. Which was worse, clinging to a painful secret or breaking a promise? It is another conundrum, all the more difficult when the secret and the promise are the same thing. And now, perhaps, it no longer matters. Too much time has gone by. Too many opportunities have been missed. It is too late. Still, Hannah reminds herself, everything you did to Bathy years ago, every way you used her, every lie you told her, she was—and is, and always will be—at the bottom of things, your daughter. Forget that. Drive that from your mind. But it's useless even to try. Even helping Bathy and Jules become lovers didn't help. It was supposed to help, but it didn't.

Hannah is thinking all these thoughts as she wanders through the empty rooms of the vast apartment—empty now, for her servants have the half day off. There is Orion on the ceiling, chasing the Pleiades endlessly across the heavens. There are the twin Steinways, the golden harp, the Stradivarius quartet, the Mozart manuscripts. But of all the treasures money can buy, the greatest is power, and power comes from need. “The secret of a successful business is making a product people need,” Jules used to say. “People need booze, and so I sell it to 'em.” She is in the entrance hallway now, where the curving staircase used to lead up to the floor above, where Cyril lives now, and where God only knows what goes on. Next door, in the library, hangs the Sargent portrait of her father. “Would you be proud of me, Papa, for what I did?” she asks him now. “Or would you be ashamed?” The answer is merely Papa's steady gaze.

What I did, she thinks, was to create a perfect circle of dependency and need, with myself at the center of it. Bathy needed me to keep her secret for her, and to keep Jules, and to keep her job. Jules may have needed Bathy, but I made sure he needed me more. Noah needs me, and I've made sure he goes on needing me. Now Noah's wife needs me, and so does their daughter. Ruth needs me to protect her from herself, and Cyril needed me to protect him from his father, and he still needs me because he wants to inherit this apartment. The need for me goes on and on, I've made sure of that.
Oh, how we all need you, Nana Hannah!
their angry faces seem to scream at her. Is there anything more rewarding to a woman than seeing she is needed by every life she touches? Nothing. And is there anything more shameful than knowing the heavy prices she has made them all pay for needing her so?

Jules's portrait in the dining room frowns down on her now. She asks him, “Did you ever know how scheming I was? Did you ever know I was ready to blackmail you to keep you? Will you ever forgive me? At least I gave you Noah.” Naturally, there is no reply.

But I didn't give you Noah as a gift to anyone but myself, did I? He was my insurance policy, my secret weapon, my hostage with a heavy ransom on his head. And there were worse injustices than that. As all these memories, trapped like hapless insects in the cobwebs of Hannah Liebling's mind, struggle to free themselves, she sees the inequities and contradictions. Hannah, who forsook her marriage, still got to keep the husband she didn't love. Bathy, who did love him, couldn't marry him, and never fell in love again. By rights Noah should have been Bathy's child, but Hannah got him. Hannah is rich, Bathy is poor. Bathy was told the biggest lie, and yet Bathy is the only one who really doesn't need Hannah anymore. Is that why she wants to bring Bathy back into the company? To make Bathy need her again? Because right now Bathy is the one who is free, while Hannah, who wanted freedom, remains enslaved, chained to the lies of the past.

Nice going, old girl, she tells herself. You did it all. And what have you got to show for it? Mozart manuscripts. And a heavy heart.

The telephone rings, and Hannah answers it.

“Hannah,” he says, “it's George.”

“George …”

“Your message was on my answering tape. I'd really like to see you again, Hannah.…”

In the apartment at River House, she lies sprawled across the bed, but even in this decidedly compromised position she looks up at him adoringly as he rebuttons himself into his shirt and trousers. “You're so wonderful for me, Billy,” she is saying to him dreamily. “You've taught me so many different things.”

“Oh?” he says, suddenly interested again. “What sort of things?”

“You've taught me to rethink my whole life,” she says. “My needs, my priorities. My desires. I've decided to pay more attention to the
me
in me from now on. I'm not going to let other people walk all over me anymore. I'm tired of living my life for other people. I've decided to set out on a new course in life and discover my true self. And it's all thanks to you, Billy darling.”

“Well, you're quite welcome, I'm sure,” he says with a little bow.

“You've helped to unmask the real woman in me, Billy. I'm a whole woman now.”

He grins down at her. “If a little bondage has done all that,” he says, “maybe I'll leave you like this. Maybe I won't unlock the cuffs.”

A brief look of fear crosses her face. “Now, Billy, don't tease me,” she says. “Please don't tease me, darling. Unlock me now. I'm getting a cramp in my shoulder.”

He has actually considered doing this, leaving her like that. It is an amusing picture: Beryl Stokes left naked in her bedroom, shackled, with her hands pinned behind her back in police-issue handcuffs. Could she dial 911 with her nose or with her toes? And how would she explain her unusual situation to the rescue squad when it arrived? With her hands pinned behind her, would she even be able to lift a telephone receiver from its cradle? With her teeth perhaps? She would probably be able to operate a doorknob, by backing into it. And he has the uproarious mental vision of Beryl creeping, naked, in the handcuffs, out into the elevator lobby, pushing a button and confronting one of River House's notoriously haughty elevator men. Or making her way to a next-door apartment and kicking—or knocking with her head—on a neighbor's door to be let in. And then trying to explain what had been going on. She certainly wouldn't dare tell the truth. And then a locksmith being called. The picture of all this is so hilarious that he laughs out loud.

“Now, darling, no more teasing. Unlock me now.”

“Get down on your knees and beg,” he says.

She slides sideways off the bed and kneels in front of him. “Please, darling,” she says.

“Now give me a nice lick, and promise to be a good puppy dog.”

She licks his trouser leg. “I promise to be a good puppy dog,” she says.

He pats her head. “Nice doggie,” he says. “Nice doggie. Say bow-wow-wow.”

“Bow-wow-wow,” Beryl says.

He fishes for the key in his trouser pocket and unlocks the handcuffs. After all, she could still be of some use to him.

She stands up, rubbing her wrists. “Oh, look,” she says, “you've hurt your hand. Did that happen when we were—fooling around just now? I know we both got—a little rough.”

“That happened several days ago. Slammed a car door on my hand.”

“Ooh, poor baby. Look, it's still swollen.” She reaches out and touches his hand. “Does it still hurt?”

“Hey, cut it out!” he says sharply, pulling his hand away from her. “Now look what you've done! You've made it start bleeding again, bitch!”

“Ooh, I'm so sorry, darling,” she says.

He licks the blood from his palm. “I've gotta go,” he says.

“Will you—will you be back, my darling?”

“I dunno.”

“Oh, please, Billy.”

“Well, maybe. When's your husband get home?”

“Tomorrow night. But not till quite late. Nine, ten o'clock, at the earliest.”

“Well, we'll see.”

“I'll be here alone all day, Billy.”

“I said we'll see.”

“Where do you stay in New York?”

“Yale Club.”

“You could—spend the night here,” she says hesitantly.

“Can't do that. Things to do.”

“I'll call you in the morning, then,” she says.

“No, don't call me. I'll call you. Or write me a letter.”

She reaches for her robe. “I'll see you to the door,” she says.

“No, I'll let myself out,” he says, and he is gone.

But when he reaches the elevator lobby, he does not push the elevator call button. Instead he heads quickly down the hallway toward a lighted
EXIT
sign and the service stairway. He is counting on two things. It is Thursday afternoon, and Thursday afternoons in Manhattan are usually the maids' afternoons off. Also, he knows that Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are when Carol Liebling works as a volunteer for the museum. So the first thing he is counting on is that the apartment will be empty. He is also counting on the good possibility that the service entrance, which opens into the kitchen—the Lieblings' apartment has the same floor plan as the Stokeses'—will be unlocked. He leaps up the metal staircase two steps at a time. With luck, good use will also be found for his bleeding hand!

He tries the door. Unlocked. He opens it, and steps quickly inside, and pauses, listening. Silence. There is a penciled note to Carol on the kitchen table, a good sign. The maid is out. The first room he checks is the maid's room, just off the kitchen. He opens the door cautiously. Empty. Then, moving fast and on tiptoe, he checks all the other rooms, and is satisfied that he is alone in the apartment. Now, still moving swiftly, he goes about his other work.

He finds the thing he wants, in Carol's desk in the library, almost immediately, but there is still much more to do. He goes through the apartment, room by room, starting from the back of the apartment and moving toward the front, doing his work thoroughly, systematically. Order is of the essence here. Ah, Melody's room!

It takes him no more than fifteen minutes to complete what he has to do. He then takes one last look around to assure himself that his work is complete. Suddenly the telephone rings, and he stops dead in his tracks. The phone rings twice, a third time, and a fourth. Then he hears a click as the answering machine picks up, and he listens as a woman's voice says, “Carol, darling, it's Georgette. Give me a tinkle, sweetie, as soon as you can. It's desperately important. Bye-eeee.”

The sound of another human voice in the apartment has managed to spook him, and he rushes back through the rooms to the kitchen, lets himself out, remembering to push the button on the spring lock so the door will lock behind him, and runs down the stairs again to Beryl's floor. He presses the elevator call button, and is still out of breath when the car arrives.