Rich Friends (9 page)

“I'm dragging my butt for you.” Sheridan was breathing loudly. “I might not be up to your fancy Family, but I give you and the boys all I've got and then some!”

“When you graduate, you'll have your pick of pharmacies.”

“You're sucking for a bruise, Em.”

“Nobody's going to hit me,” she said, sipping coffee, no longer calm but pretending calm. “The house keeps a file of tests and term papers, so if you need help—”

Sheridan was on his feet, crew cut hunched forward, glowering, a bull with the bewildering picks in him. Now, she told herself. Now.

“Or do you have some particular reason for hanging around Cambro's?”

Startled, he blinked.

“I saw you this morning.” The words jerked painfully. “With. That. Girl.”

He hesitated. “Girl?”

“Redhead.”

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Thompson's Menswear.”

“Vi and me, we were walking on a public street, so what?”

“That awful hair, that tight blouse!” Em burst out. “She's so common!”

“Like me.”

“Where were you taking her?” There was a wildness in Em's voice.

“For coffee,” he muttered.

“Why not Mr. Cambro's fountain?”

His eyes refused to meet hers. Nasty, she thought, yes, he's been nasty. Earlier she had determined not to weep, but tears oozed under her glasses. Averting her head, she stacked dirty dishes, carrying them past cribs. In darkness she gripped the sink. Em, rocking back and forth, her ancient miseries and inadequacies battling with her new needs, which were the needs of the twin blue-eyed scraps of humanity sleeping in the adjoining dinette.

Years older, she returned to the living room.

“It's not just a house,” she said. “There's nursery school, bicycles, lessons, college, everything.”

“A nickle cup of coffee, Em, I swear on a stack of Bibles.”

“Don't perjure yourself.”

“You gone crazy?”

“This morning I was. But not now. Not anymore. I thought and thought and after a while the craziness went away.” She sat on the ottoman. “See, Sheridan, I finally understand about marriage. People say you have to work at it, and that's true. But working isn't enough. Both people have to give. We've made mistakes. Mine was letting you drop out. Yours is her. Now we each have to put in the kitty.” Her face, with hints of wrinkles on brow and mouth, was swollen, the tip of her Van Vliet nose red. “It's only fair,” she said. Indomitable.

“I buy a girl a cup of coffee, and—”

“This summer you'll bone up. In the fall you'll go back. And I'll forget.”

His big-knuckled hands dangled. “Your grandmother,” he capitulated, “what makes you so positive she'll let us use the money?”

Em wasn't positive. Victory, a forlorn little fire, crept through her veins, though, and she said, “Grandma won't mind.”

“What if I can't make it?”

“You will,” Em said. “I'll help you. We'll do it together.”

“She means nothing.”

“But did you and she …?”

“You're my wife.”

A moth thumped at the dark screen, and Em rose, pulling the string of aluminum venetian blinds.

“Did you?” Em mistrusted ambiguities, and painful as the knowledge might be, she couldn't bear not to have it. She needed to feel their exchange was just. “Sheridan?”

“A wife is permanent. There's all the difference in the world.”

And briefly, in a low voice, he made confession. Odors of spaghetti, coffee, Grape Nuts pudding hung in warm air, one of the babies (it was Roger) whimpered, then all was silent, except for a cricket fiddling into the California spring night. Em and Sheridan, wordless, both losers. Em and Sheridan exchanging small, wretched smiles.

Then, in a peculiar gesture, he shook her hand, exactly as a buyer would clinch a deal.

Em, anxious-voiced, inquired of Mrs. Van Vliet if she could cash in the bonds. “But naturally.” The clear voice emerged from telephone receiver tainted with amusement. “Em, the day I lend you any necklaces, we'll have to get the appraisers in.” She laughed.

Em couldn't see the joke. Admittedly, she lacked a sense of humor, but what was funny about de Maupassant's poor woman drudging her entire life to repay false jewels with real?

By the time Sheridan had graduated from USC's School of Pharmacy, Em knew that his girls were a condition she must live with. Generally they were waitresses or somesuch, not the kind her relations or friends were likely to run into, so at least she never was publicly humiliated.

The girls. She didn't understand them. (To be honest, though, she rarely wasted time on painful speculation.) Uniformly cheap, seldom pretty, many didn't even have decent figures. So why? She came to various conclusions. Possibly the girls were Sheridan's way of getting back at her for the Family so awesome, or possibly they took up the slack in bed (what slack? didn't she always let him?), or possibly there was the early imprimatur of his faithless father.

Or—and this one hurt to think—his life consisted of one drab pressure after another, and in order to keep going, he needed a little excitement.

Whatever. It became part of their relationship. After each episode he would confess, his head hunched forward like a great, truant oaf. Em, using interchangeable phrases, always forgave him. It became integral to their bond. As long as Sheridan carried out his side of the bargain, how could she not?
Noblesse oblige
.

To Em none of this harbingered marital failure. Theirs was, in her opinion, as solid a marriage as any. And as they crawled through that universal tunnel of their time, a GI education overhung with diapers and floored by a rock-bottom budget, they did share what each considered important.

They shared joy in their sons.

5

“Does he yearn to have his own pharmacy?” asked Mrs. Van Vliet.

It was a sunny March day two weeks after Sheridan, in rented mortarboard and gown, had collected his hard-won diploma. Em and the twins had been summoned to the gray château in Pasadena. Her grandmother's sprawling house always acted on Em's personality as a magnet does on steel filings, drawing from her every atom of self-confidence. From time to time she would reinforce herself by glancing out the bay window to the sun-dappled slope where her boys picnicked under Geranium's large black supervision. Em and her grandmother were lunching on breast-of-chicken salad.

“Sheridan? I don't think he does.”

“Haven't you discussed it?”

“Mr. Cambro's pharmacist has retired. Sheridan's accepted the job.”

“He prefers to work for someone else?” Mrs. Van Vliet rarely said Sheridan. Em had pondered if this avoidance signified disdain.

“Mr. Cambro and Sheridan get along well.” Em stubbornly, if apprehensively, countered with her husband's name. “As far as I know, Sheridan's never given a thought to owning his own business.”

Mrs. Van Vliet stopped buttering a homebaked roll, her pretty mouth forming a faintly malicious smile. “Which means you have?”

Em admitted she had.

“And?”

“Sheridan's very bright. He just doesn't come from people used to dealing with money.”

Mrs. Van Vliet nodded.

Em took a deep breath. “Grandma, are you leaving us anything, Sheridan and me?”

“I'm not departing.”

“I didn't mean—Oh Grandma. I'm s-sorry.”

“As a matter of fact, I'm about to rewrite my will. One of the pleasures of age, writing a will. You're testing your wits against the future.” Delicately she freighted chicken on sterling. Chewed. Swallowed. All the time watching Em questioningly.

“The will.” Em's voice faded.

“Yes?”

“C-could …”

“Em, I'm no ogre, am I?”

“Could, uhh, if you're leaving me—us—anything, would you give it to the twins?”

Mrs. Van Vliet laughed. “And I invited you here in order to make my donation now!”

“Now?”

“For the great drug emporium.”

Em, knowing how her grandmother held onto possessions, said sincerely, “Thank you, Grandma.”

Mrs. Van Vliet stopped laughing. “Change your mind, if you want.”

“Sheridan and I don't need anything. The boys will, though. Education, travel. Things the Family has.”

Mrs. Van Vliet sat back, examining her oldest grandchild. Em nibbled uneasily on her roll.

“Well.” Mrs. Van Vliet raised immaculate white brows. “Well.” And Em, positive she was being mocked, jerked with surprise as the old lady said, “Em, come kiss me.”

Em walked around the cherrywood table, resting her lips on beautifully set hair. After she was in her chair again, she asked, “I, uhh, well—do you think it's unfair?”

“To your husband?”

“Yes, to Sheridan.”

“Em, one cannot be unfair to a husband. Our world isn't set up for the contingency. And as you pointed out, he'll do best without undue pressure.”

“But I haven't discussed this with him.”

“You want your sons to be gentlemen.”

Em reddened.

“Oh, I agree, it's suspect in this egalitarian age,” said Mrs. Van Vliet. “But this worship of the average is our loss. What's happened to breeding, strength, the ability to reach for the highest? Em, don't look like that. To the mediocre, excellence always is a vice.” Mrs. Van Vliet set her fork on her plate, her clear eyes narrowing as if she were reading fine print. “I'll leave the money in trust. The principal to go to them when they're thirty—is that what you have in mind?”

Em nodded.

“Thirty's not too old?”

“No.”

“You're positive?”

“Thirty's just right,” said Em, who was twenty-five.

“The income to be used for education.” Mrs. Van Vliet stopped. “No. That's confining. At your discretion.”

“For camp, travel, lessons, college. Clothes.”

“The amenities yours to bestow.”

“Whatever they need.”

“Whatever you think they need. Em, do change that look. It's an excellent idea. I'm delighted.”

Em couldn't face her grandmother. Oh, that wrinkled, enigmatic smile. Is she delighted because Sheridan won't get any of her money? But Sheridan wants the same as I do. We'd rather the boys have the money. Em's thoughts hesitated. This was true for her, but was it for Sheridan? They hadn't discussed the matter, so how could she be sure? She glanced at tiny, distant figures lit by a shaft of sunlight coming through tall sycamores. Her sober little mind corrected: He wants the best of everything for them.

Em raised her eyes to her grandmother.

“Thank you, Grandma,” she said. “When the boys are old enough, they'll really appreciate what you're doing.”

Mrs. Van Vliet's expression was quizzical, as if by looking at Em she could divine the future. “I'm sure they will,” she said dryly.

Chapter Four

1

Caroline circled the UCLA quad, her heels coming down sharp on red bricks. With each step her full breasts jiggled pleasantly. On one hip she carried her books. Her free hand clasped a long clipboard.

This was the second Friday in February, 1950, a crisp day, chilly as good champagne, with a brilliant blue sky.

“Sir?” Caroline slowed her pace to that of a youngish, round-shouldered man, possibly a teaching assistant. “My name is Caroline Wynan, and is there any way I can convince you to sign this?”

He stopped, shifting his briefcase, examining the pretty, rose-cheeked brunette. He reached for the clipboard.

WHEREAS
all employees of the University of California, faculty and otherwise, are obliged to sign the so-called loyalty clause:

WHEREAS
the clause is in direct conflict with the State Constitution:

WHEREAS
the clause is not compatible with the freedom necessary to a university:

His eye flicked down
WHEREAS
es to:

WE THE UNDERSIGNED
respectfully suggest that the so-called loyalty clause shall not be required of University personnel
.

There were eight signatures, one in red ink.

Thrusting the board back at her, he said, “I don't have the time.”

Yes, a teaching assistant, a chicken TA, she thought, afraid of losing his job. She held out her pen. “One second,” she said.

“I'm late already,” he mumbled.

She smiled. “Then why be chintzy about another
second
?”

“Uhh, very late.”

“Between us,” she said, “
no
body looks at the signatures.” This time a conspiratorial hint of her golden laughter rose from the softness below the undone top button of her red cardigan.

Grabbing at her pen, he signed hastily, illegibly.

“You're not the type,” he accused, and escaped up the chem building steps two at a time.

Reactionary, Caroline thought, her mouth tight. Yet until six months earlier she, too, had stereotyped politically oriented girls as ones who never shaved their fat legs and couldn't get dates. She lifted her hand perpendicular to her face. She thumbed her nose after the disappearing reactionary, chicken, bigoted, and et cetera TA.

Progressive.

Caroline Wynan's new incarnation.

On graduating from USC last June, Caroline had decided to get her master's, switching to UCLA where, not coincidentally, Gene Matheny was working for his PhD in English. On this campus, Caroline had become as one with the Issues. Her commitment was derivative. That is to say, she derived her political views from Gene. Yet not in a phony way. Not unless taking Holy Communion to become as one with God is phony. Caroline wanted to become as one with Gene.

Gene was intelligent, deeply read, with a gift for hard work that is rare in academe. He believed in equality of mankind. Clean Gene. His drawback was he didn't believe in himself. Caroline perceived that she had certain countering qualities: decisiveness, a lively sense of style. And, well, love doth not alter upon alteration finding, or however Shakespeare put it. She loved Gene
exactly
as he was. So she boostered his rallies, mimeoed his antiloyalty-oath leaflets, contributed to his causes, his friends (all liberal—Sheridan described them as parlor pinkos) were her friends, his causes her causes. They were one in mind and body, both, last April having written
fin
to the frustrations of college love. (She, natch, had been a virgin, and Gene'd had only one other encounter.) According to current mores, therefore, they had become, as Caroline put it, engaged to be engaged. They would be married. One day.