Saying Goodbye (What the World Doesn't Know) (11 page)

            “Chaplin’s not a Communist,” said Marcus.

            “Maybe not, but he is a sympathizer,” replied Stanley.

            “Who cares what people in show business believe? Who cares if they have sympathies?” questioned Marcus. “Isn’t this a free country?”

             Stanley chuckled. “It depends on your definition of freedom. Freedom is only relevant to whoever is currently in power. McCarthy is on a witch hunt to promote his name and his power, and your name made the list. My suggestion is to lay low. Break contact with some of your colleagues on the list.”

            Marcus squirmed in his chair. “Am I going to have to testify? Am I going to have to prove I am a loyal American? Is there any danger of being arrested?”

            “You’re on the list, but you’re not
high
on the list. You’re only guilty by association. If your associates can prove their loyalty, you’ll be free from guilt.”

            Marcus sighed heavily and shook his head. “This is ridiculous. What about work?”

            “Not until this blows over,” replied Stanley.

            “How and I going to provide for my family if I have no income?” asked Marcus.

            “How are you going to provide for your family if you’re arrested?” Stanley leaned forward to flick cigar ash into an ashtray on his desk. “Your image and good reputation are at stake here. Just take some time off and allow this to pass.”

            Marcus slumped in his seat, feeling overwhelmed. He couldn’t fathom how this could possibly be happening to him. He was one of the good guys—a faithful husband, a loving father, and a man who did his job with pride. He did everything he could to be a good American, and now someone was trying to ruin him who didn’t even know him. His lifelong squeaky-clean image was in danger of being tarnished with lies.
Where is the justice in judging a man without any proof?
 he thought.

            As Marcus drove home from the city, he thought long and hard about the current Communist red scare in America. He knew it was real, but he never thought that he would be targeted. Sure, there were plenty of entertainers who spoke of radical ideas, and he knew a few of them; but he never judged anyone based solely on his thoughts or opinions. Now all these freethinkers, including himself, were being rounded up as threats to America’s national security.

            He wondered how on earth this could be happening, when suddenly a car horn blared at Marcus. While deep in thought, he had accidentally driven straight through a red light, narrowly avoiding an accident. Overcome with emotion, Marcus pulled over to the side of the road, took a deep breath, and wiped his brow. There was never a prior moment in Marcus’s life when he had been brought to tears; but today, sitting on the side of the road in his suburban neighborhood of Sunnyside in Queens, he cried. He had no idea how to respond to these allegations.

            Later, Marcus quietly arrived home. He walked into the bedroom to find Geraldine stretched out on their king-sized bed. She lay under the satin spread, reading a book. She read more than anyone Marcus knew. He often criticized her for living most of her life in a fantasy book than in the real world. She always responded, “There is no reality. There is no fantasy. Both exist simultaneously for one cannot exist without the other.”

            “What are you reading?” he asked.

            Geraldine said nothing as she held up the book for Marcus to view
Beyond Good and Evil
on the cover while her eyes never left the text.

            Great. My wife—a suburban Friedrich Nietzsche,” he replied in a morose tone. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at Geraldine to gain her attention.

            Marcus’s stare worked when she reluctantly removed her gaze from the page and looked up at him. “I’m not in the mood tonight.”

            He sighed; she was seldom in the mood. “No, it’s not that. I have bad news.”

            “What is it?” she asked, returning her attention to the book.

            Marcus took a deep breath. “I’ve been blacklisted as a Communist.”

            “You?!” Geraldine laughed. “Then it is true: McCarthy
is
just doing this for attention and to promote his political agenda.”

            “It doesn’t help that my wife reads works by European socialist philosophers,” said Marcus, “and discusses politics at luncheons.”

            “I’m not the one blacklisted; besides, McCarthy doesn’t care about the cackling at a ladies’ luncheon.”

            “What about Dorothy Parker, Uta Hagen, Lee Grant, and so many others? Don’t think because you’re a woman you can escape the witch hunt.” Marcus stood firm. “This is serious. My reputation, my image, our livelihood is at stake! This could ruin me . . . us. Do you want to lose everything and have to live in a studio apartment in the city? Or will you just leave me for another—a lover, perhaps?”

            Geraldine chuckled. “There is no one else, Marcus. I gave up fulfilling any sexual fantasies long ago.” She closed the book, rested it on her lap, and looked into Marcus’s eyes. “Call Martin Escapone,” she said. “He might know some people who can help you.”

            Martin Escapone was a swashbuckling Italian crooner from New York City. Marcus was a fan of the man’s music but not necessarily a fan of the man himself. Rumors of Martin’s Mafia connections frightened Marcus, so he always tried to stay on Martin’s good side. He also tried to keep things light with Martin’s associates to prevent them from losing their own sunny dispositions. So far he had succeeded.

             “I can handle this without Martin,” said Marcus.

            “Can you? Martin Escapone isn’t blacklisted. According to McCarthy, he is an upstanding American citizen,” remarked Geraldine, turning the next page in her book. “Imagine the irony.”

            “He’s a thug,” replied Martin. “I don’t associate with thugs.”

            “You’re the one blacklisted as a Communist, and you of all people should know that you shouldn’t judge a man by his associations,” said Geraldine smartly. “Talk to Martin. He’s a nice man, and he thinks very highly of you. I’m sure he’ll give you some good advice.”

            Marcus shrugged, defeated, and headed downstairs to his study, locking the door behind him. He collapsed on the leather couch and rested his face in his palms.
I never did or said anything to cause harm to anyone,
he thought.
All I ever wanted in life was to make people happy. Now my life, my career, and my reputation are in jeopardy of being destroyed.

            There seemed to be absolutely no justice in the world. Marcus, who had played it straight his entire life, was now at risk of losing everything while men like Martin Escapone, who seemed to play the game of life by an entirely different set of rules, always came out on top. Martin would most likely benefit from the opportunities lost by blacklisted entertainers who were out of work and struggling.

            Marcus poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey and quickly downed it, followed by another . . . and another. After a while the numbness turned into fatigue, and he was able to get some sleep.

            Morning came, and Marcus was awakened by the sound of pounding on the door.

“Dad!” Frankie called from the opposite side. “What’s wrong, Dad? Dad, let me in!”

            Marcus lifted his head from the couch and realized he was in no condition to see Frankie. Thankfully, he heard Geraldine call her away. His head was throbbing and his eyes ached. He knew he had no choice; he needed to swallow his pride and do whatever it would take to look out for his family.

            That evening Marcus drove back to the city and entered a small, quaint restaurant in Little Italy. Murals of Italian scenery were painted on the walls and were lighted by a chain of dim light bulbs strung along the edge of the ceiling. In a small stage area a beautiful, full-figured Italian-American woman sang, accompanied by a pianist. In a quiet, dark corner lit with a small candle illuminating from a red glass jar, sat Martin Escapone as he enjoyed a large portion of linguini and clams. For the most part, Martin Escapone was a lot like Marcus—a good, loyal, and hard-working family man. It was Martin’s demeanor that rubbed Marcus the wrong way; Martin was tough and wise, but a little too flashy for Marcus.

            Martin saw Marcus and enthusiastically beckoned him to the table. As Marcus took a seat, Martin waved for the waiter’s attention. “You really need to try the linguini and clams—best in the city.”

            Marcus rubbed his stomach. “I’m not really hungry.”

            “You look terrible,” Martin said. “Eat something.” He snapped for the waiter to bring Marcus a plate of linguini. “Geraldine called and said you had a problem. What’s up?”

            The waiter poured Marcus a large glass of merlot. He took a large sip of the wine and then said, “I’ve been blacklisted.”

            Martin broke a piece of garlic bread in half. “Sorry to hear that. A lot of good people and talented entertainers are going down. Leonard Bernstein, even—can you believe it? The most talented and brilliant in our country are being targeted. You should consider yourself in good company.”

            Marcus chuckled. “Not quite the company I’d like to keep these days.” He wrapped his hand around the wine glass and then glanced up at Martin. “Geraldine said you could help.”

            “Well, I don’t know what
I
could do. But I do know people who can help keep your name clean,” he said, twisting his fork in the linguini.

            “That’s the thing,” said Marcus, “I don’t want more trouble.”

            “What trouble?” Martin questioned, sounding insulted. “Look, it’s not a crime to take care of the ones you love. Everybody needs people to look out for their interests. That’s all I’m suggesting. Think of it as an insurance policy.”

            The waiter placed an order of linguini before Marcus. He lifted his fork and played with his food. “What’s the cost?”

            “Try not to think of it in terms of ‘what’s this gonna cost me?’” said Martin. Think about what the value of your investment is. Everything you have—your image, reputation, career—is tied to family. So the question is, what are you willing to give to protect all that?”

            “I guess as much as I have to,” Marcus said with a sigh.

            “You’re a good man, Marcus. You won’t be disappointed.” Martin reached over and gave Marcus a reassuring pat on the hand.

            Marcus removed his hand from under Martin’s palm and then dug into the linguini and took a bite. It was delicious, but it didn’t sit well in his stomach. He knew that by signing this
“insurance plan” with Martin’s associates he would be giving up some of his existing freedoms and privacy and choice for the rest of his life, he would forever be in Martin's debit.

            Within a couple of weeks, Stanley was able to present Marcus with good news: his name was cleared and his reputation saved. Life went on for the Robinsons as before. His career not only got back on track, but more opportunities arose for both him and his family. Doors opened for both of his children—Eddie and Frankie. It was Frankie, however, who was completely comfortable being in the spotlight. She was spectacular on camera and, within a few short years, was signing all kinds of contracts—motion picture, television, and modeling.

            The years went by quickly and eventually, at the age of eighteen, Frankie announced that she was moving to Hollywood. There was nothing Marcus or Geraldine could do to stop her; she had already made up her mind. But no matter where Frankie went, there were always eyes on her every movement. Men in Hollywood were paid good money to make sure Frankie remained safe and her image kept clean.

Even while his precious jewel was on the West Coast, Marcus could sleep soundly, knowing that his daughter was being protected.

 

            Now, sitting beside his daughter on the couch, Frankie’s laughter was music to Marcus’s ears. He knew his sacrifice years ago had made this evening possible, and even those once worrisome connections turned out to be very helpful in aiding and protecting his daughter in the madness of the entertainment industry. Marcus turned to Frankie and smiled when suddenly the telephone rang. Frankie jumped from her seat on the couch to answer it.

            “Hello?” She smiled excitedly, turned away from Marcus, and twisted the cord between her fingers. “What’s the matter with you?” asked Frankie. “Why do you sound so weird?”

            “I’m tired.” Alex sighed on the other end of the line with a grumpy tone in his voice. He was stretched out on his hotel bed, dragging on a cigarette.

            “Then get some sleep.” She glanced sideways at Marcus. “Why be a grumpy Gus when you can take a nap?”

            Alex twisted the phone cord in his fingers. “Would you rather I didn’t call?”

            “No, but I’d rather you call me when you’re in a good mood,” Frankie said.

            Marcus carefully studied Frankie, curious. “Who are you talking to?”

            Frankie covered the receiver of the phone. “A friend,” she said and promptly carried the phone into the hallway where she could talk better in private.

            “Who were you talking to?” Alex asked.

            Frankie slid down the wall and slouched on the hardwood floor. “Geez! My father, jealous.”

            Alex exhaled smoke from his cigarette and then said, “Well, I had no idea who it could be. I heard you’ve had a lot of boyfriends.”

            “From who?” questioned Frankie.

            “A reporter,” replied Alex.

            Frankie curled her legs up to her chest and pressed her back against the wall. “Since when do you listen to reporters?”