The Auerbach Will (54 page)

At least that was the way she remembered it.

It may not have been that way at all.

You know.

Twenty-eight

Now Essie and Josh are seated in the wide backseat of the limousine, and Mary Farrell sits on one of the jump seats facing them, a briefcase on her lap. The car moves slowly through the uptown traffic on the East River Drive, toward the Triborough Bridge and LaGuardia Airport. A light snow is falling, and Essie adjusts the soft fur robe across her knees.

“Do you have your little speech down pat?” Josh asks her.

“As pat as it'll ever be. At least Mary thinks so.”

“You'll be fine,” Mary assures her. “Besides, you'll have the words right on the podium in front you, Mrs. A, if you should happen to lose your place. Which you won't.”

“Ha! Don't be so sure. Let me look at it again, Mary.”

Mary removes the sheet of paper, neatly typewritten, triplespaced, from her briefcase, and hands it to her.

“‘My husband, Jacob Auerbach, was a pious man …'” she begins. “Oh, but he wasn't, Josh! That's the trouble with all this. He wasn't the least bit pious, and you know it.”

Josh touches her gloved hand. “That's just what's called a lead-in, Mother. To get to the Talmudic part, which we all like so much. He was interested in history, which is the point.”

“Was he? I don't seem to recall this interest in history, unless it was trying to get one of his great-grandfathers related to the Rothschilds. Now tell me again who's going to be there.”

“Mayor Byrne, Chuck Percy, Vice-President Bush …”

“I mean family.”

“Everybody. Except Babette and Joe. Oh, and Linda. Linda can't get the time off from her job. And Babette says she won't be under the same roof with Joan.”

“Why not?”

“She's suing Joan, Mother—remember? For pirating her trust. So under the circumstances—”

“And what's Joan doing about that?”

“Well, she's hired Roy Cohn as her lawyer. Need I say more?”

The car has moved out of the heavy traffic now, and moves smoothly up the curved access ramp to the bridge.

“So who does that leave?”

“Mogie and Christina, Joan, Karen and Daryl.…”

“Daryl?”

“Karen's new husband, Mother, remember? You were at the reception.”

“Of course I remember. Now don't try to rattle me, Joshie. I'm nervous enough as it is. What about Daisy?”

“Daisy says she'd rather not be at the speakers' table. But she'll be in the audience. She'll also be coming to your little cocktail party tonight at the hotel.”

“Cocktail party? What cocktail party?”

“Mother,” he says patiently, “I went over all this with you last week. Just a small cocktail party, in your suite at the Ritz. You don't have to do anything, the hotel will handle it all. It's just for the family. And—of course—Daisy.”

“Of course. Well, I'm glad she's coming to that.”

“Then, the plan is for you to have a quiet Room Service dinner in your room. You can invite anyone you want to join you. But I'd suggest early to bed, so you can be fully rested for tomorrow.”

“Charles,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“I think I'll ask Charles to dine with me. He's coming, isn't he?”

“Of course. We're all meeting at the plane.”

Essie looks out through the blue-tinted glass at the passing shapes of the city, as Manhattan gives way to the less prepossessing aspects of Queens. “What must people think of us?” she says.

“Who, Mother?”

“People. Watching us drive by like this. Like royalty.” And then, “Chicago. It used to take a full day or a full night to get there on the train. Now it takes—what?”

“Less than an hour, Mother. And with the time change, we'll actually get there a few minutes before we left.”

“I'd forgotten about the time change,” she says.

“So you get an extra hour of sleep tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to go out to see The Bluff tomorrow? We can fit it into the schedule, if you'd like.”

“No. Definitely not. Whatever they've done to it, I don't want to see.”

“Very nice housing, actually. It's called Lake Bluff Estates.”

“Well, nice housing or not, I don't want to see it.”

“You were wise to sell it when you did. In today's market—”

“Wise? I just wanted to stay in New York.”

“But still—”

They ride in silence for a while, and Essie studies the typewritten words on the sheet of paper in front of her in the fading afternoon light. “Of course this is temporary,” she says.

“What's that, Mother?”

“
This,
” she says, shaking the cane that rests against the seat beside her. “Didn't I tell you? I tripped on the rug in the library. But it's just a mild sprain. Nothing broken.”

“I know, and remember what I told you, Mother. I think you should replace that Aubusson with a good wall-to-wall carpet. The Aubusson tends to bunch up. It's dangerous.”

“And get rid of my Aubusson? Never.” She looks out the window. “Now where are we?”

“Coming into LaGuardia. The jet's parked in the Eastern Shuttle terminal, and the driver will take us right to the plane.”

“I never met him.”

“Who?”

“Mayor LaGuardia.”

Mary Farrell shifts her position in the jump seat. “Now, there's nothing at all to worry about, Mrs. A,” she says.

The car turns through a gate in a hurricane fence marked
NO ADMITTANCE
, moves slowly across the tarmac, and comes to a stop in front of the Eaton & Cromwell jet. The chauffeur hops out, moves quickly around the car, opens the door on Essie's side and offers her his arm. “This is only temporary,” she explains, showing him the cane. Nonetheless, he holds her elbow firmly as he helps her out of the car. Then Josh is at her other elbow, and they move slowly toward the short flight of steps leading up into the plane. At the top of the steps, a young man in a white mess jacket stands at attention. “Mother, this may be a little slippery, because of the snow,” Josh warns her.

“I'll be fine.”

“And this is our steward, Jim Ulrich,” he says.

“Mrs. Auerbach, welcome aboard.” Jim Ulrich is all youthful smiles, and his fine brown hair is blowing in the wind. “Here, give me your hand.…”

“This is only temporary,” she says again, indicating the cane. And then, sharply, “Mary—have you got my speech?”

“Right here, Mrs. A,” Mary says, patting the briefcase.

“Good! Don't lose that!”

Mary, who has many other Xeroxed copies of the speech in the briefcase and in various other pockets of her luggage as well, says nothing.

Helped aboard the plane, Essie sees the various members of her family rise from their seats to welcome her. There is Katie, Josh's wife, and there is young Josh; there is Karen and What's-his-name, her new husband, and there are Joan, Mogie, and Christina, and there indeed is Charles. Essie waves them all a distracted greeting. The interior of the plane is like no other she has ever seen—more like a small lounge on an ocean liner than an aircraft. It is all done in blue and gold which, of course, are the Eaton & Cromwell company colors, and instead of ordinary airplane seats there are a series of swivel club chairs and sofas in blue leather, each with a coffee table in front of it. On each table, there is a white telephone. In the front of the cabin is a bar, with barstools, and over this hangs a large television screen. The entire cabin is carpeted with thick gold carpet. “I want to sit in the back,” Essie says.

“You'll get a better view from up front, Mrs. A.”

“No. Whenever I read about a plane crash, it's always the stewardesses sitting in the back who get saved. Everybody else gets killed.”

“Wherever you like, Mrs. A,” Mary says, and they head toward the curved blue leather sofa that wraps around the tail end of the jet.

“When do we leave, Josh?”

“As soon as you're settled, Mother.”

“Can I get you something from the bar?” Jim Ulrich asks her.

“Yes!” Essie says, perhaps too loudly. “A martini. Gin. Very dry. On the rocks.”

The door of the plane is closed and, beside her, Mary Farrell helps Essie extricate the seat belt from the tufts of the blue sofa, and helps fasten it about her middle. “Let's keep your coat on till the plane warms up a bit,” Mary says. The plane begins its taxi toward the runway and, over the loudspeaker, the pilot's voice is saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Eaton and Cromwell's flight to Chicago. There are a few facts you might like to know about our aircraft and our flight today. We are flying a Gulfstream Three, one of the newest, fastest …” Essie realizes that she has to go to the bathroom, and she whispers to Mary Farrell. Mary takes Essie's hand and says, “Can you wait a minute or two until we're in the air?” But it is too late and, throwing Mary an agonized look, Essie feels the warm water gathering in her underthings, her dress, and in the folds of the lining of her mink coat. “Ssh,” Mary whispers. “Pay no attention. No one will notice. We'll take care of it later.”

The twenty-eighth-floor suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel is certainly very nice, and Josh, who has overseen the arrangements, certainly appears to have thought of everything. The sitting room and dining room are filled with flowers. Though Essie has never been personally fond of florists' “arrangements,” preferring simpler treatments with just two or three blooms, there are bowls of spiky gladioli interspersed with calla lilies, anthuriums, rosebuds and baby's breath, dramatically framed by tall ti leaves. Bowls of salted nuts and Godiva chocolates have been placed about on tables, along with two baskets of fresh fruit and cheeses, with appropriate napkins and silverware. A full bar has been set up, and bottles of iced champagne are chilling in silver coolers. The kitchen refrigerator has been stocked with orange juice and sweet rolls, and Josh has even thought to provide her with a small stack of dollar bills, in a silver money clip, to be used as tips for maids and waiters. Essie has bathed and changed, and her laundry, including the mink coat, has been sent out for cleaning—with a discreet explanation from Mary of the problem, and with the promise that everything will be returned first thing in the morning. Now it is six o'clock, and a waiter has arrived with a large trayful of hors d'oeuvres—smoked salmon, caviar, stuffed artichoke bottoms, little Vienna sausages in a chafing dish—and soon the others, who are all staying in the hotel, will be gathering, and Mary is lighting the candles. “We've asked for three waiters,” Mary says. “One to tend bar, and two to pass. I think that's everything, Mrs. A. If you need anything, my room is right across the hall. I've written the number on the note pad by your bed. Just pick up the phone.”

“Thank you, Mary. As always, you're a godsend.”

“I hope it's a lovely evening, Mrs. A.”

“Well, it couldn't be worse than last Christmas, could it? Goodness, it's almost Christmas again.”

“Good night, Mrs. A.…”

The first to arrive are Mogie and Christina—Mogie in black tie, and Christina in a red chiffon evening dress—and they are quickly followed by Joan, Josh, Charles, and the others.

“Golly, Mrs. Auerbach, what a beautiful apartment!” exclaims Daryl Carter—for that is the name of Karen's young husband, Essie remembers it now—“It's one of the most beautiful I think I've ever seen!” Mr. Carter still tends, Essie thinks, to be somewhat overawed by Auerbach purchasing power. But that, perhaps, will pass with time.

“Well, it's a little hotelish and impersonal, but I'm only going to be here overnight.”

He takes her by the elbow and steers her to a corner of the big sitting room. “A quick word with you,” he says in a low voice. “I want you to watch my Karen tonight. We've been going to A.A. meetings together.”

“A.A.? What's that?”

“Alcoholics Anonymous. We go together.”

“Are
you
an alcoholic?”

“No, but I've finally gotten Karen to admit she has a problem. I go to the meetings with her for support.”

“Very nice of you, I must say.”

Leaning close to her ear, he says, “She's been sober for two weeks, and so tonight may be a little rough on her. Her first cocktail party. But I think you're going to be proud of her.”

“I think this is all a very promising development,” Essie says.

“Just wanted you to know. I know how really concerned you've been about her.”

Essie wants to tell him that, on the contrary, she has long since passed the point of being concerned about, or even surprised by, the behavior of any of her children or grandchildren. She lets this thought pass through her mind, and out again, and simply says, “I'm glad.”

A waiter moves among them, passing drinks, and everybody seems to be expounding on how fit Charles looks. Well, he does look fit, but Essie permits herself a jealous thought: Why has no one remarked on how fit
she
looks? Essie moves back into the room again and says, “I'm afraid I was a little nervous and rattled on the plane, and I didn't really get a chance to talk to any of you. But anyway, I'm glad you're here.” She lifts her glass. “Cheers.
L'chayim
. And Merry Christmas.”

“Hear, hear,” several voices say, and there is the sound of glasses clinking.

“Here's to Mother,” Josh says. “And thanks for coming.”

“Hear, hear …”

“Golly,” says Daryl Carter, who is still hovering close to her. “Just think—the tallest building in the world!”

“I think we'll all be pretty proud and impressed by what we see tomorrow,” Josh says.

More drinks come, and hors d'oeuvres are passed, and the candlelit room fills with chatter.