Onyx (53 page)

“Olaf knows how pinched we are. The deficits.”

Pain stabbed below Caryll's navel. These argumentative lunches with their rich food invariably triggered his indigestion. He extracted a tin of antacid from his pocket.

Hugh watched him down one. “You're too soft, Caryll,” he said. “When this eternal whining stops and people put in an honest day's labor, then the country'll overcome its problems. Labor's fallen into the hands of foreign agitators.”

“Justin's no foreign agitator.”

“His wife is. And her friend is a card-carrying one. Justin's cut his conscience to suit them.”

Tom had not spoken. There was a heaviness to the set of his shoulders, as if the spot by the window where he stood had a stronger gravitational pull.

II

At five Caryll's car was waiting for him outside the Tower. A thin, cold drizzle was falling into the twilight, and Hoskins settled the beaver rug about his knees. Normally Caryll luxuriated in the Swallow's teak and pigskin interior, which he had taken a big hand in designing, but today he leaned forward to peer at the throng that hurried to be on time for the shift change.

He could not fully accept that Justin might be one of these shabby, trotting men. Justin? Justin, whom he envisioned with a silvery nimbus, like a storybook illustration of Sir Galahad. Justin, who had rescued him from many of his childhood's dark hours. Justin, who had stood up to his father, Justin his friend—Justin, one of
them
?

The Swallow eased out of Gate Two, turning in the direction of Grosse Pointe. Caryll leaned back considering Justin's immeasurable fall to time-clock worker. Yet wasn't there an inevitability to it?
Justin always was for the underdog
, Caryll thought.
He's putting himself on the line because he believes organizing is the only way for the men
.

All at once Caryll sat up straight, blinking.
Suppose Justin's on the right track for all of us
, he asked himself.
Supposing the union were indeed to provide a forum where the men could air their grievances, where we could explain our side
?

Why are we fighting in this eternal, demeaning warfare to prevent a union
?

The question had eluded him until now for the simplest of reasons: he had confused the hateful necessity of protecting his family with the goings-on at the plants.

But what was the point of guarding factories as though they were prison camps? Why hire thousands of Security and sink to spying on your employees just to keep out labor organizers? What was the inherent evil in a closed shop? Caryll's mind began to race. Justin was the most moral and the fairest man he had ever known. He and Justin could thrash out reforms, then side by side confront his father.

Caryll knew it would not be easy. He knew his father would fight long and hard before he let anyone tell
him
how to run his “shop.” Yet he also knew that his father viewed Security as a malignant tumor. If he and Justin had once been able to convince him to dump the Fiver, why could they not convince him to at least consider collective bargaining?

In a light sweat of excitement Caryll was unaware of the miles passing. Suddenly he had arrived at Grosse Pointe.

His ivy-veined gatehouse arched over and around the drive. Two uniformed Security—Dickson Keeley's top men; still, they were decent enough fellows—barreled forth to unlock the massive iron-banded oak gates. The drive curved around huge, bare trees, coming suddenly upon the welcoming outthrust honey-colored wings of the house. Caryll, with his unrelenting eye for beauty, had worked with the architects for three years, and this unpretentious loveliness was an original amid Detroit's blatantly crude imitations of Hampton Court and Versailles.

Rooms opened one into the other, log fires crackled, and masses of cut flowers from the greenhouse spread their scent. Two Irish setters bounded into the hall to have their ears tickled, and Clarice and Petra flew out from the playroom to hug him. Lynn, they informed him in their sweet trebles, was still having her piano lesson.

Kneeling, he lifted a tiny girl in each arm. Petra, the baby, resembled her Grandma Maud, with bright cheeks and brown hair, while Clarice, the quiet one, his own girl, had gray eyes and wispy hair. He buried his face in their necks, inhaling the clean butter fragrance. They squealed joyously, quieting as they proceeded into the cardroom, where Zoe sat at the bridge table with Berenice Rocheville and Agnes and Joan Sinclair. The guests, in dark afternoon frocks, each with a large diamond pin on her left shoulder, greeted him warmly. Zoe tipped her gleaming, vivid head for his sideways kiss, continuing to play out the hand. As hostess, she wore a tea gown, a rich blue, immaculately seamed garment made for this one hour of the day.

Caryll went to the long silver cocktail tray, pouring the little girls ginger ale highballs, fixing himself a weak Scotch and soda. As he listened to the children's prattle his eyes strayed to his wife.

Zoe's beauty had ripened spectacularly. Rotogravures and fashion magazines in their hyperbole dubbed her the world's most beautiful woman, and even those observers not from the fourth estate admitted she was among the most exquisite women alive. Thick lashes shadowing her cheeks, she bit her full, delicately scrolled lower lip in concentration. With a cry of triumph she leaned over the table, her breasts swaying lightly against the silk jersey as she gathered in the final tricks. That gorgeous and disquieting carnal vulnerability showed yet more in the current, fitted styles.

Agnes and Joan counted out bills with jolly cousinly derision of Zoe's luck, while Berenice, a friend from school days, reached for her checkbook. “The rich get richer,” she sighed, tearing out the check. “Let's pray this clears. You girls can't imagine what it's like, having to live off dividends nowadays.”

Three large cars rolled off into the rainy darkness. Lynn ran in, fresh from playing scales, and Miss Henderson, whose smile revealed her poorly fitting English dentures, waited to collect her charges for supper in the nursery. Caryll and Zoe went upstairs to change.

She headed across their bedroom to her boudoir.

“Zoe, I have to talk to you.”

“Later,” she said. “We're having dinner alone.”

“This is something I'd just as soon the servants didn't hear.”

She made a pretty moue. “Won't you come into my parlor said the spider to the fly.”

Thick shagged white carpet showed the identation of her high heels. At the dressing table she turned to him. Venetian-mirrored paneling reflected endless vistas of an ordinary-looking man with thinning brown hair as he faced an impatient beauty.

After a long silence she inquired, “Is it that bad, poor baby? Another battle with the lakefront phantom?”

“Uncle, yes.” Caryll's gaze shifted from her reflections to his wife. “He mentioned that Justin's in Detroit.”

Zoe's hand jerked. A perfume flacon toppled. The stopper had not been secured, and the sweet, libidinous scent that Guerlain made solely for Zoe Bridger filled the room. She mopped a handkerchief. Caryll watched her closely: Zoe, pitiably blanched, fingers erratic, lashes aflutter. But not in the least surprised.

“You knew,” he said. “How?”

“I can't remember.”

“Zoe, we're talking about your only brother.”

“He must have telephoned. Yes, that's it. In January. Something about wanting to see me. The girls. You.”

“And you never mentioned it.”

She fretted the perfumed-soaked cobweb of linen. “I blocked it, I willed myself to forget it, do you understand, Caryll? It's traumatic for me to think about him, you know that.” Tears intensified the darkness of Zoe's huge, pleading eyes. “We were so close and now it's as if I don't exist for him.”

“In his letters he always asks about you.” Caryll spoke gently, comfortingly. “Honey, he remembers all sorts of little things about you. He misses you like anything. Did he mention why he's here?”

Zoe shook her head.

“He's a labor organizer,” Caryll said.

Zoe sat on the silk-pillowed vanity stool. “You mean she's turned him into a Bolshie?”

“Now don't you start,” Caryll sighed. “I've had
that
up to here with Uncle Hugh. My God, as if Justin ever let himself be a puppet. He's the only man I ever knew who stood head to head with Dad. This is his way of putting himself on the line to improve conditions.”

“But he's a radical.”

“There's nothing so radical about believing in collective bargaining. Believe me, he's not the only man we know who's for a closed shop. Justin hasn't changed, Zoe. I'm positive of that. First thing tomorrow I'll call Employment for his telephone number and address.”

“He's with Onyx?”

“Yes. Woodland.”

“Then why haven't you seen him?”

“Maybe I have and didn't recognize him. He's in the tire shop.”

“A laborer?” Zoe asked in a faded whisper.

“Honey, it's not a catastrophe,” Caryll said, recollecting that an hour ago, peering at the drab throng, he, too, had been ajangle with consternation, perplexity, disbelief.

“But … our grandmother was a contessa. And he was a top man at Onyx.”

“The workers would hardly trust him if he had offices in the Tower,” Caryll said. “We're going to get together with him and his family on Sunday.”

She blinked. “What?”

“We're inviting them to lunch or dinner.”

“Caryll … I can't.” The tear-drenched eyes held a look of deep hurt.

Caryll ignored this attempt at emotional blackmail. “Lunch'll be best. Then the children can be with us. It'll be fun showing off the girls. And meeting his son and daughter—and his wife.”

“They're working against us,” Zoe whispered.

“They're tackling the same problem but from another angle,” Caryll said. “There's been too much meanness at Woodland these past years. And what's the point of it? Why do we keep Dickson Keeley's army of goons? Half of them belong in Sing Sing. Why hire an army to exclude a few labor organizers? That's the reason I'm in such a rush to get together with Justin. The sooner we start discussions, the better.”

“Whatever's the matter with you, Caryll? You know Father Bridger'll never negotiate with a union.”

“That's the whole point. This isn't simply a union. It's Justin. He always listened to Justin.”

“And he's forever saying nobody'll tell him how to run his factories. Look at how often the President's called! It's never made a dent.”

“He's always aimed at decent working conditions. Between us, Justin and me, we can convince him that a closed shop will be more efficient, fairer, and cheaper than hiring hordes of Security.” Caryll had unconsciously lapsed into the businesslike determination he took on when dealing with his departments.

Zoe looked up at him, her lovely, full mouth pulling back against her teeth. “You're serious about this, aren't you, Caryll?”

“The country's on a collision course and I feel so damn helpless. The least I can do is take a stab at bettering conditions at Onyx.”

“Of course I'll invite him—all of them. He's probably in the telephone book. I'll call tomorrow morning. You're right. It'll be wonderful to see him and his children.” Her voice went higher. “Caryll, I'm so proud of you. I'll help all I can.”

The surrender was off-key, but Caryll for once showed none of his litmus paper sensitivity to his wife's moods. Full of his plans, he kissed her forehead gratefully and went to his dressing room to get ready for dinner.

III

The next morning was sunny, and Caryll drove himself in the Swallow coupe to the Grosse Pointe Country Club—the links had just opened for the season. He preferred to spend his weekends at home playing with the girls or puttering with his watercolors; he found golf a repetitive bore and could never understand the fuss that grown men made about their scores, handicaps, and tournament standings. He had joined the club in the belief that Onyx had an obligation to participate in attempts to solve the economic foulup. Neither his hermit uncle nor his abrasive loner of a father communicated with others in the industry, so he mingled with automotive leaders along the fairways and in the clubhouse.

He did not get home until after three.

Zoe was in bed, propped by a tumble of miniature pillows. Her brilliant, uncombed hair seemed to drain all her color, and the exquisite, ashy face was slack save for one delicate furrow of pain between her brows. The curtains were drawn. The air smelled smoky and thick: next to the limp narrow hand with the carmine nails was a precariously balanced saucer filled with cigarette butts.

“You're so late,” she whispered.

“I got to talking to Edsel about donating to the Relief Fund.” He kissed her forehead. “Headache?”

“The usual.” She pressed two fingers against her temple. “I'm sorry, honey bear. I couldn't telephone Justin.”

Caryll, empathetic as a psychic when it came to his wife, realized she was not faking her migraine. He sat on the bed. “That's all right. I'll get to him on Monday and make the date.”

“You aren't angry?”

“Worried about you. I better let Agnes know we won't be there tonight.”

“I'll be fine.”

With a seemingly casual kiss, he said, “You're not up to dancing.”

“At the end of the day it wears off.”

“Honey,” he said as firmly as he dared. “We're staying home.”

“Artie and Agnes are counting on us.” She handed him the saucer. “Take these, will you?”

He watched butts whirling down plumbing, his molars grimly clenched. Though he had come to recognize that Zoe's bad times were beyond her control, he had never been able to put into manageable perspective the actions that resulted from them, the cruelties that appalled them both and left them equally heartsick.