The Auerbach Will (26 page)

“Funny questions. What color were his eyes, for instance. I told her I couldn't remember. Then she wanted his unpublished number.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“I wasn't sure whether I should or not. But then I thought—why not? Because—” And Daisy reaches out and touches Essie's knee, “Because I know that Arthur will never talk to her, Essie. I'm sure of that. I know Arthur very well. Arthur may be a lot of things, but he's also a man of his word. There's no way Arthur will ever see her, or talk to her, or tell her anything.”

“His unpublished number.”

“She can dial it as often as she wants, he won't come to the phone. He won't even come to the phone for
me
. I have to leave elaborate messages. Then he calls me back.” She laughs. “From pay phones. His pockets are always full of quarters.” Then she leans closer. “But I wanted you to know about this because, you know, Joan has always been a troublemaker. You've had enough trouble, Essie. I don't want you to have any more. So watch out for Joan.”

“Thank you, Daisy. And if she calls you again—”

“She's learned all she's going to learn from me. But now, tell me why
you
wanted to see me.”

Essie rises, a little stiffly, from the loveseat, and, addressing the Douglas Chandor portrait, says, “He wasn't very generous to you.”

“No, he wasn't. That hurt, too, at the time. But it doesn't anymore. I understand it now. He felt I'd let him down.”

“I was going over my will with my lawyer the other day, and I thought perhaps I could remedy that situation, in my new will.”

Behind her, Daisy's eyes grow pensive for a moment. Then she says, “No. It's a kind thought, Essie, and thank you, but no. I'd rather you didn't.”

“Please. I want to.”

“No,” Daisy says, shaking her head. “No, I have everything I want. A nice apartment at the Gramercy Park. Full hotel service. Really quite luxurious. Not this, of course,” she adds, gesturing around her at the room, “but all the luxury and comfort I'll ever need. So, no.”

“For your daughter, then.”

“No. She'd wonder why. It would raise too many questions that at this point I don't feel like answering. Let the dead past bury its dead. It's best.”

Essie turns slowly to face her. Having been rebuffed, Essie feels a brief moment of resentment, which she knows is quite unworthy. Then she has a better idea. “Still, I want you to have something, Daisy,” she says. “Stay here. I'll be right back.”

She leaves the room and goes down the long central corridor, past the paintings in their lighted frames, to her dressing room where there is a wall safe. She twirls the dial to the combination that will open it and, from the various drawers, compartments and trays that compose her jewelry case, she removes the long rope of pearls.

“I want you to have this, Daisy,” she says when she returns to the library, and she places the necklace in Daisy's lap. “These were the first pearls Jake ever bought me. I used to wear them in four loops. If you wear them as a single strand, they touch the floor.”

“Oh, Essie.”

“They're real pearls. They were very expensive when Jake bought them, but today, now that everything is cultured, they're only worth a fraction of what they cost.”

“They're very beautiful.”

“It's appropriate, isn't it?” Essie says. “That I should give you something that Jake gave me—which was very costly—and that has since declined in value? From a man who has declined in value to both of us? I think so, yes.”

“Yes,” says Daisy, holding the pearls in her lap, lifting them with her fingers. “Sometimes I used to wonder what all that money was really for.” Essie sits beside her again on the love-seat.

Suddenly Essie laughs. “Do you remember Paris?” she says. “Remember—that afternoon?”

“Oh, Lord—yes!”

“Look at you—you're blushing!”

“I can still blush! Look at
you!
You're blushing, too!”

“I can, too—”

“We were so
naughty!
”

“Isn't it funny?” Daisy says. “Isn't it
nice
—to sit here on a winter afternoon, two old ladies, and talk about the past, and the people we both knew and loved, and remember how young and naughty we both were?” The two women clasp hands. The pearls slide, like a river of light, from Daisy's lap to the floor.

What was all the money for? Well, it was for the seven Cézannes, the five Van Goghs, the precious
L'Arlésienne
, the Manets, the Monets, the Degas, the Renoirs, the Rousseau, and the splendid Goya which the Prado had tried to buy for years so that it could be returned to Spain. It was for the Picasso room, and the Gainsborough room, and the Oriental room with the Chinese Export porcelains, and the Coromandel screens, and the collection of incunabula, and for indulgences. And it had been for the children in a day when children themselves had been indulgences, and for old friends who, when they were offered money, had the temerity and wisdom to say no.

Thirteen

Somehow, she had felt that it was essential that she lie to him. Looking back, perhaps it wasn't, and perhaps the lie had not been a very clever one, though it had been the best she had been able to come up with at the time—a sweepstakes. The newspapers were full of sweepstakes winners, ordinary people who had been elevated out of poverty to great wealth through the good fortune of holding a lucky number. It was the era of the great circulation wars, and every newspaper seemed to offer a sweepstakes of one kind or another. Suppose, she had asked herself, she simply told him the truth about her mother's miraculous savings passbook. If he was too proud to accept money from his Rosenthal relatives, who were rich, surely he would never take money from Minna Litsky, who sold
Tageblatts
on the Lower East Side. She had seen the indulgent expression, often enough, that came across his face whenever she spoke of her mother and her father. They were the Eastern European poor, whom he had once spoken of wanting to uplift, but who had resisted the Uptowners' efforts, preferring to carry their Old World ways into the New World, refusing to join the twentieth century and America. These were the people he had called ignorant, superstitious, “Medieval.” No, she had been married to Jake long enough, knew him well enough, to know that it would be too humiliating to him to know that the money had come from the life's savings of a Minna Litsky.

And she could hear him asking her, “How did your mother know that I needed money? Do you mean you discussed my business affairs with
her?
” That was the German in him. He would have insisted that she return the money, that it was money tainted by the sweat of the ignorant East Side poor. And besides, she had reasoned, the whole purpose of her journey to New York had been a lie to begin with. It seemed logical to carry the deception to its conclusion.

“Now tell me again how you got all this money,” Jake said, looking skeptically at the packet of large bills.

“I told you. I was coming out of Grand Central, and a man was selling tickets for a sweepstakes, and suddenly I had this very strange, strong feeling—like a vision, almost—that if I bought a ticket I would win. It was the strangest sensation, Jake. The ticket was only a dollar, and when I looked at the numbers on it—1891–1884—I realized that it was the combination of our two birthdays, and that made me even surer. The next day, in the paper, I read that I had won.”

“There's something fishy about this,” he said. “Are you sure you didn't wheedle this out of Uncle Sol? Because if you did, it's going right back to him today.”

“I didn't see either of your uncles when I was in New York,” she said, relieved to be able to tell him something that was the truth. “Should I have? I thought of going by, just to pay a call—but I didn't see or speak to either of them while I was there.”

“I can easily check on this, you know.”

“Go right ahead! Check all you want, if you don't believe me! Write them, pick up the telephone and call them. They'll think you've lost your mind, of course, but go ahead. I can just see their reactions when you ask them—‘Did you give Esther fifty thousand dollars?' They'll think you're crazy, but go ahead, make a fool of yourself, I dare you to.” Suddenly she scooped up the pile of money from the table and began stuffing it back into the envelope it had come from. “And if you don't want to use this to buy into that company that Abe wants to buy, then
I
will!” she said.

“No, no,” he said. “I believe you. Don't be angry. I'm sorry.”

The brief, near-quarrel had left her feeling flushed, befuddled. You've done it, she told herself; you've convinced him, don't push him any further. She put down the envelope. He was sitting in his favorite armchair, and she crossed the room to where he sat, moved behind the chair, and put her arms around him. “Ah, Jake, dear Jake, I'm sorry, too.” She kissed the top of his head. “But just think, just think what this could mean—for us, but for you mostly. A business of your own. Not having to write to
them
every month, apologizing for the sales figures. Apologizing for running out of umbrellas. You know I have funny instincts, Jake. Don't forget that I'm a Russian girl—a believer in dybbuks and charms and miracles. The minute I heard about Eaton and Cromwell, my instinct told me that this could be your big chance. It can be, I'm sure of it. And now a little miracle has happened.”

She came around and sat on the arm of his chair. “Because I also believe in you, Jake,” she said. “Have I ever told you that? It's true. From the first day I went to your lectures. I said to myself, What is so special about this man? So different from all the other boys I knew. And then I knew the answer. It was
quality
. I said to myself, this man has quality. But I also saw something else. I've never told you this, but I also saw that there was something about you that was strained, trapped, bottled up, like the genie inside Aladdin's lamp. Rub this lamp the right way, I thought, and that genie will be released, and more miracles will happen.”

“My family.”

“You said that, not I.”

“They won't make it easy for me, you know.”

“I know. Your mother—I like her, you know that. But she has this obsession that Rosenthal's, Purveyors of Fine Men's Suitings, is something that must be passed along from generation to generation like a kind of Holy Grail. She doesn't realize that you're a man who needs to create something of his own. And here it is—little Eaton and Cromwell, waiting for you to apply your creative touch. Your personal touch.” She took his hand and placed it against her bosom.

“Forgive me, but it's taking me a little while to get used to the whole idea,” he said. “You know, a famous doctor once told me that I lacked—ambition.”

“I know all about that.”

“You do?”

“Doctor Bergler. Forget about him. There's nothing the matter with your mind. When I think about Doctor Bergler I think about a little man in a black mask carrying a satchel, crawling across rooftops to break into people's houses. When they told me about that, I said, ‘I'll be his ambition.' I said I'd be your ambition until all the ambition they've bottled up inside you finds a means to escape.”

He laughed and touched her hand. “You know, you amaze me, Essie,” he said. “Nearly every day, it seems, you do something that amazes me.”

“I've thought a lot about this,” she said. “And I have just one more thought.”

“What's that?”

She stood up. “Abe is—well, Abe is a jack-in-the-box. He jumps from one thing to another. He's smart, but he's always been impulsive. As for you, everybody knows that you can run a men's clothing store, but this mail-order business is going to be so different.”

“I know. Neither Abe nor I knows a damn thing about it.”

“So I was thinking, before you plunge into it, maybe you should get someone else's opinion—from outside.”

“Whose, for instance?”

“Coming home on the train, I was sitting next to a young man—twenty-two, twenty-three perhaps. Very nice, good manners—quality. In fact he made me think of you. We got to talking. He's just graduated from the Wharton School. I think he's very bright, and just before we got off the train, he said to me, ‘Let me know if I can ever be of service.' What if you asked him to look over this Eaton and Cromwell business before you finally decide to go ahead with it? I have a feeling he could be helpful. He gave me his card.”

Jake studied the card. “Charles Wilmont. Well, he's certainly staying at a good address—Lake Shore Drive. No, I guess an outside opinion wouldn't hurt.”

“You'll like him,” Essie said.

April 17, 1913

Personal and Confidential

Dear Uncle Sol:

Thursday last my wife came home from a visit to her mother in New York, bringing with her a substantial amount of cash which she says she won in a sweepstakes
.

What I want to know is whether you or Uncle Mort either gave or loaned her this. It is important for my personal peace of mind that I have your honest answer
.

Sincerely
,

Jake

“Where on earth do you suppose she got it?” Lily Auerbach asked.

“Do you know anything about this, Lily?”

“Certainly not.” All at once she laughed shrilly and clapped her hands. “Do you suppose the little Kike robbed a bank? I'll bet she's capable of it!”

“For our sake, let's hope she didn't,” said Uncle Sol. “The important thing is, if he's come into some money, that he not be allowed to squander it foolishly, as would be his wont.” He gave his sister a stern look.

“Of course,” said Lily, composing herself. “Of course.”