The Wrong Kind of Money
by
stephen birmingham

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part one

 River House, 1994
Nine Lives

 Unless you happened to be a spectator at the trial, you probably
have no idea what Hannah Liebling looks like. And it's unlikely
that you were among the spectators. Because of the prominence of
the individuals involved, it would have been easy enough to have
turned that trial into a national sensation. But, thanks to the
shrewd public-relations work of Miss Bathy Sachs--of whom you'll
hear more later--the more sensational aspects of the case were
played down, and spectators were kept to an absolute minimum. It
was no coincidence that Judge Ida Kaminsky, who heard the case,
was assigned the smallest courtroom in New York County, with very
limited seating. The right to a jury trial was waived because, as
Bathy correctly put it, "When you've got a defendant who might be
guilty, you want a jury. But when you have a defendant you know
is innocent, it's better to let a judge decide." And it was no
coincidence that, throughout the proceedings, the matter was
referred to as a homicide and not a murder. As Bathy said, "All
murders are homicides. But not all homicides are murders." Was it
a coincidence that the judge assigned to the case was a woman?
You decide.

Television or other cameras were not allowed in Judge Kaminsky's
courtroom. Of course, the press and public could not be
completely excluded, and courtroom sketch artists were able to
capture Hannah Liebling's bulk, but not much else. They were not
able to capture the fiery iciness in her blue eyes. They were not
able to capture her commanding presence, though the few reporters
who managed to find seating space tried to describe it for their
readers. They were not able to capture what can only be called
Hannah's heroic poise, her sense of self.

When the county prosecutor produced, for a second
time, the lethal weapon, she did not flinch. When he showed
again! the photographs of the bloodied corpse blown up, in color,
on the screen, many people averted their eyes. Not Hannah. She
gazed expressionlessly at the screen, her face a mask. Has she no
heart? people asked. Is she a woman devoid of human feelings?

Judge Kaminsky kindly set aside a small room adjacent to her
courtroom for the use of family members during some of the more
troubling parts of the testimony, and some members of the family
repaired to this room from time to time. But Hannah--never. She
was there day after day, calmly, collectedly, sitting in the seat
that had been assigned to her, taking in every word, occasionally
scribbling short notes to herself on a pad of paper. She had made
a point, in the trial, of not being represented by any legal
counsel. And when it came to her turn to testify she strode,
almost regally, to the witness box, in her hat, her gloves, in
her long mink coat, with her reticule slung over her left arm.
She removed her right glove to be sworn in, and repeated her oath
in a clear, strong voice. And when she began to testify, she did
so in an accent that immediately caused the prosecutor to appear
deferential, even shy, in her presence. He addressed her as
"ma'am."

"In whose name is this weapon licensed, ma'am?" he asked her.

"Mine."

"And who gave this weapon to the defendant, ma'am?"

"I did."

No sketch artist could ever replicate that voice.

"May-huhn."

 Mrs. Hannah Liebling speaks with the kind of Old New York accent
that has almost disappeared from the Manhattan scene. It is an
accent that is a product both of Hannah's generation and social
class, and as a result, it is spoken nowadays mostly by dowagers
and grandes dames, both of which she is qualified to label
herself, though she never would. ("Well, I have been called a
doyenne," she once told a reporter.)

This accent, peculiar to New York City, where it evolved after
the Civil War, involves a flattening and
protracting of certain vowel sounds, turning short vowels into
diphthongs. Take the word bird, or the word word. These become
buh-uhd and wuh-uhd. There is a perceptible hint of what we call
Brooklynese here, and also an echo of the Old South, as well as
something that might have been borrowed from the German in that
invisible umlaut. Hannah, it might be added, comes by all these
influences naturally. Her great-grandfather, the first Marcus
Sachs, emigrated to these shores from the Rhenish Palatinate and
settled in Montgomery, Alabama, where he became a cotton broker
before moving his family north after the war. The first Marcus
Sachs actually kept slaves--not many, but three or four--and,
following the principles of Deuteronomy, these were always
manumitted after seven years of servitude, as Hannah Liebling is
always careful to point out whenever the subject comes up, though
it rarely does. As for Brooklyn, Hannah was born in one of those
fine old houses on Prospect Park, a neighborhood that is now
almost entirely black. But let's go back to last January, before
all the trouble, before the trial.

 Hannah Liebling is sitting now in the backseat of her Lincoln
Town Car as it moves slowly down Park Avenue in heavy traffic.
The rainy street ahead of them is a glittery sea of red brake
lights refracted by the Lincoln's wiper blades. "Perhaps, Mr.
Nelson," she says to her chauffeur, "it would have been better if
we'd gone down Third." Thuhuhd.

"Perhaps, Mrs. Liebling," he agrees. He does not point out to her
that Third Avenue is, and has been for many years, a one-way
uptown thoroughfare. After all, Hannah Liebling can remember when
all the avenues in New York were two-way. The other two
passengers in the Lincoln's backseat do not point this out to
her, either.

These are Hannah Liebling's older son, Cyril--pronounced
"Kyril"--and her granddaughter, Anne, who is just eighteen. Anne
is the daughter of Hannah's younger son, Noah. Hannah often calls
Anne her Little Bird. Lit tuhl buh-uhd. It is an accent that
surely, in another generation's time, will have disappeared
altogether.

"Sit up straight, Cyril dear," Hannah Liebling says
now, tapping him sharply on the knee with a white gloved
fingertip. "Don't slouch. Good posture is so important. It keeps
the internal organs in alignment, and it's so easy to do. All it
requires is practice."

Cyril straightens up, just slightly. His slouch is deliberate
because he knows it irritates his mother. Though, at six feet
four, Cyril instinctively ducks his head before passing through
most doorways, he affects a scholarly stoop when in his mother's
presence. "And straighten your necktie, dear," his mother says,
reaching out to do this for him. Actually, Cyril is a fastidious
dresser, but just before being picked up by his mother's car this
evening, he had deliberately skewed his tie, confident that his
mother would notice this and take him to task for it.

"And tie your left shoelace, dear."

She caught this, too. In the dark backseat of the car, Cyril
smiles to himself.

"Appearances are so important," Hannah says. "We are judged by
how we appear to other people. Actually, bad posture runs in my
family. My father--your greatgrandfather, Little Bird--had
terrible posture. I actually think it shortened his life. When he
died, the doctors said his internal organs were out of alignment.
I also think bad posture may have killed my sister Settee. Settee
had a tendency to slouch."

"Why would a slouch have killed your sister, Nana Hannah?" Anne
asks her.

"Haven't I told you the peculiar way your great-aunt Settee died?
It was most peculiar."

"No," says Anne. "What was so peculiar about it?"

With the back of his hand Cyril suppresses a faint yawn. His
mother catches this and gives him a sharp look. But, after all,
he has often heard how his aunt Settee died. From the front seat,
Mr. Nelson looks straight ahead as the traffic inches forward.
He, too, knows how Settee Kahn died, just as he knows many other
of this family's secrets, but his job is to drive and not listen,
though he is perfectly capable of doing both things at the same
time.

"Was there a scandal, Nana Hannah?" Anne asks her grandmother
eagerly.

"No, there wasn't any scandal," her grandmother says. "But it was
a tragedy, a terrible tragedy, and I still believe that if it
hadn't been for that slouch of hers, she'd be here with us
today."

Cyril Liebling, who has resumed his own slouch in the backseat,
sniffs audibly, and his mother gives him another sharp look.

"Tell me about her, Nana."

"You see, my sister Settee had everything--beauty, brains, a
perfect husband, a perfect marriage, two beautiful homes, all the
money in the world--"

"She was a vain, stupid, money-grubbing bitch," Cyril says.

"Hush, Cyril. She was not\ She was beautiful from her soul
outward. She had a beautiful, swanlike grace, and it was like
watching a dancer to watch her move."

"When she walked into a room, she was like a star stepping out
for a curtain call."

Cyril's mother ignores this. "But Settee had one flaw, or
imagined she did. She thought--imagined, really-- that her, well,
that her fronts were too big. She grew up, you see, in the
flapper era, when it was fashionable for women to have very flat
fronts. Women taped themselves to make their fronts appear
flatter. There was an artist named John Held, who always drew
women with very flat fronts, and every woman wanted to look like
a John Held drawing. Fortunately, I was three years younger than
Settee, and so I escaped all that. But Settee, who thought her
fronts were too big, used to scrunch her shoulders together to
make her--fronts--seem less prominent. That accounted for the
slouch. Actually, her fronts were a perfectly normal size." She
touches her own ample bosom in demonstration.

"Anyway, her best feature was her long, swanlike neck, and, just
by coincidence, there was a finial at the end of the stair rail
in her apartment at fourteen East Seventieth that was in the
shape of a swan's head, carved out of ivory. The staircase curved
between the two floors of the apartment, and I always admired
that lovely swan's head at the top of the banister--it had blue
jade eyes and a rather wistful expression on its face. Settie's
eyes were also blue, and she also had a kind of wistful
expression sometimes--for which I can hardly blame her,
considering what she had to put up with from Leo Kahn! Anyway,
she had a lovely silver satin pelisse
trimmed with chinchilla that she often wore at home in the
afternoons. And one afternoon, in December of 1937, she was
wearing that pelisse, and she started down the stairs. ... I have
a mental picture of her, her shoulders scrunched together, with
that little slouch of hers. The sleeve of her pelisse must have
caught in the ivory swan's head, and it pulled her off her
balance. She felt, caught by the stair rail, and she was
instantly killed. Instantly killed, the doctors said. The ivory
swan's neck also broke off in the fall. So there was my
beautiful, blue-eyed swan, destroyed by another beautiful, blue
eyed swan. Rabbi Magnus spoke of this in his eulogy at her
services." Hannah Liebling dabs her eyes.

In the backseat, Cyril Liebling draws an imaginary bow across his
crooked arm as though stroking a violin.

"What a sad story, Nana Hannah," Anne says softly. "I wish I
could have known her."

"Yes," she says. "Yes, it was. Very sad."

"What happened to Uncle Leo?"

"He married again. Much too soon, of course. I never saw him
after Settie's funeral. Later, I read he died. If Leo hadn't been
in Seattle when it happened, I would have sworn he had something
to do with it. He was a dreadful man. But the only person in the
house with her when she died was Celestine, her French maid."

"Actually, I suppose he did have something to do with it," Cyril
says, slumping deeper in his seat. "He was always making remarks
about her big boobs. And he bought her that dressing gown--or
pelisse, as you call it. With those big, dangerous sleeves."

"But I thought you said she had a perfect marriage, Nana," Anne
says. "I thought you said he was a perfect husband."

"Well, he was the right kind of husband, was what I meant. After
all, he was a Kahn. Otto Kahn was a cousin. But he wasn't very
nice to poor Settee."

"Screwed every showgirl hi New York," Cyril says
matter-of-factly. "Other than that, I found him quite a jolly old
chap."

"Now, Cyril, we don't have any proof of that," his mother says.
"And don't use vulgar language in front of the child."
IS

"Otto did the same. All the Kahn men did. It was a Kahn family
trait."

"And I'm not a child, Nana," Anne says.

"My point is, it's important to choose a husband from one's own
world," Hannah says. "Settee did that. In fact, Settee married
up. Of course, I had to be the rebel. I married down."

"But I thought Grandpa had pots and pots of money, Nana."

"Oh, it has nothing to do with money," Hannah says. "It has to do
with one's being of the right sort. I was a Sachs, you see. We
were of the right sort. Sachs, Saks, Seixas,
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha--we're all connected. You have royal relatives,
Little Bird, on my side of the family. They say the best Jews
come from Frankfurt, where the Sachses came from--not from
Odessa, or wherever my husband's people came from."

"Daddy says we're only secular Jews, so it doesn't matter," Anne
says.

"Well, my husband used to say that once a man has ten million
dollars he's no longer thought of as being Jewish. He's merely
thought of as being rich."

"Of course, they were both wrong," Cyril says. "Both my brother
and my father. If it's the wrong kind of money, and you're the
wrong kind of Jew, it makes all the difference in the world."

Hannah says nothing, merely stares straight ahead. She knows the
sort of thing to which Cyril is alluding. There have been
episodes, episodes from the past, that would be better off
forgotten. There was the time, for instance, when Jules and
Hannah Liebling were buying the apartment at 1000 Park Avenue, on
the northwest corner of Eighty-fourth Street. One thousand Park
is a massive brown brick box, one of the great Park Avenue
buildings put up before the First World War. Flanking the
entrance are two Gothic figures, one a medieval warrior and the
other a builder, replete with Masonic symbolism. More terra cotta
figures, executed in a baroque manner, depict the builders of
medieval cathedrals and Greek temples. The apartment itself was
large--fourteen rooms and seven baths. The front rooms had views
of the East River and, in the back, even the servants' rooms had
views of Central Park and the reservoir. The apartment was being
sold by Richard McCurdy, the pharmaceuticals tycoon. The price
was $200,000, which was a lot of money in the 1940s. Today,
apartments like Hannah's are priced in the millions.

In those days there were certain New York buildings that were
known not to want Jewish tenants. But, it was thought, north of
Seventy-sixth Street, attitudes were more forbearing.

Mr. Truxton Van Degan III, of the building's board, contacted
Jules Liebling. "I'm sorry, Mr. Liebling," he said, "but your
application has been rejected by the board."

"May I ask why?" Jules Liebling asked him.

"The board of a cooperative may reject any applicant without
stating any reason," Mr. Van Degan said.

"Surely it's not financial," Jules said. He had submitted
documents to the board indicating a net financial worth of at
least $10,000,000, which he assumed would be quite sufficient.
"If necessary, I can produce evidence of additional assets," he
said.

"The building is not required to tell you why you were rejected,"
Mr. Van Degan said again.

"Mr. Solomon Brinckmann, the investment banker, owns an apartment
in your building. He is a Jew. So I assume that the reason is not
because I am Jewish," Jules said.

"I'm sorry, but I can tell you nothing more," Mr. Van Degan said.

"In fact, Mr. Brinckmann is on your board, is he not?"

"That is correct, Mr. Liebling."

"May I ask how Mr. Brinckmann voted?"

"I am not required to tell you how any board member voted," Mr.
Van Degan said. "But I can tell you that Mr. Brinckmann voted
with the majority."

"I see," said Jules.

"I believe there was a general feeling that one family of your
sort in the building was enough," Mr. Van Degan said. "That
another family might start a trend. Of the wrong sort, as Mr.
Brinckmann put it."

"I see," Jules said again.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Liebling."

"Let me ask you one question," Jules said. "I understand the
building badly needs a new roof. Your board
wants to assess the tenants twenty-five dollars per square foot
of floor space to pay for this. The tenants on the lower floors,
who are not affected by the leaks, feel this is unfair. They feel
the costs should be borne by the upper-floor tenants only. There
have been many angry tenants' meetings about this. Am I correct?"

"That is correct, Mr. Liebling."

"And of course the longer the tenants fight about this, the worse
the roof will get, and the more expensive it's going to be to
repair it. Correct?"

"Sadly, sir. Yes." "Suppose you were to tell your board that if
they will reconsider my application, I will be personally willing
to pay for the new roof?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Mr. Van
Degan said, "I'm sorry, but you cannot bribe your way into a
building like ours. It's been tried before, Mr. Liebling."

"Bribe? An act of generosity is a bribe? Let me ask you one more
question. Mr. Stuyvesant Miller, of Miller Publications, is
president of your board. Correct?"

"Yes. Correct."

"That magazine he just bought--City Lights, I believe it's
called. It's not doing as well as Mr. Miller hoped. That new
editor he brought in from England. She hasn't been able to turn
the magazine around the way he hoped she would. Advertising
revenues are down. The bottom line looks very bad. You might
mention to Mr. Miller that I may be forced to cancel my
advertising because of this situation."

"What situation, Mr. Liebling?"

"The situation I have just outlined to you."

"You would cancel your advertising in City Lights'?"

"No. I would cancel in all Miller publications. There are seven
of these, actually, in which my company advertises."

"I see," Mr. Van Degan said carefully.

"Mention that to Mr. Miller, won't you?"

There was another, longer pause. Then he said, "Very well."

"You do that," Jules said.

A few days later, there was another call from Truxton
Van Degan. "The board has accepted your application," he said in
a pained voice.

"I see," Jules said.

"And your generous offer to pay for the new roof."

"Sorry, but that offer has been withdrawn," Jules said. "But I
will be happy to purchase the McCurdy apartment for a hundred and
fifty thousand dollars."

"Sir! The price of the McCurdy unit is two hundred thousand!"

"It just went down," Jules said. "I happen to know that Richard
McCurdy is seven months delinquent in his maintenance payments.
He's scrambling for money to pay off his wife in what could
become a very messy divorce suit. He's also a vice president of
Miller Publications, and Stuyvie Miller won't be very pleased to
see some of McCurdy's wife's accusations if they hit the
newspapers. I also know that your fancy building isn't very happy
with the--shall I say, caliber?--of the young men Mr. McCurdy has
been--shall I say, entertaining? shall I say shacking up
with?--since his wife moved out on him. I happen to know that
your building would do anything to be rid of McCurdy and his
friends. Am I correct?"

"What--?" Truxtpn Van Degan sputtered. "What-- what do you call
this, Mr. Liebling? What do you call what you're trying to do to
us?"

"What do I call it?" Jules said. "It's called doing business."

As it happened, the Lieblings' new apartment and the Solomon
Brinckmanns' were on the same elevator stem at 1000 Park. Solomon
Brinckmann died in 1976, and his wife sold the apartment and
moved to Arizona a year later. Through the years when they shared
the elevator, the Brinckmanns and the Lieblings did not encounter
each other much. But whenever they did, they nodded and smiled at
each other politely.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brinckmann."

"Good morning, Mrs. Liebling."

Only once had Hermina Brinckmann attempted something that might
have been termed an intimacy in the elevator. "Someone told me
that the great Mr. Al Ca pone himself offered to be your son's
godfather," she said. "How exciting!"
"We Jews don't have godfathers," Hannah Liebling said.

"Oh, how I envy you your traditions," said Hermina Brinckmann.

"You have a few traditions of your own, if you cared to observe
them," Hannah said.

After that exchange relations between the Brinckmanns and the
Lieblings were somewhat frostier. The Brinckmanns often gave
large parties. So did the Lieblings. In her ballroom Hannah could
comfortably accommodate a seated dinner for sixty. But the two
families never entertained each other. About a year after Jules
and Hannah Liebling moved in, however, they received an
invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Stuyvesant Miller.

"What shall we do about this?" Hannah asked her husband. "It's
for a Christmas tree-trimming party. But they're not people we
visit. We hardly know them."

"We do this with it," Jules said. He took the invitation and tore
it in half, then in quarters, then in eighths.

"But it says R.S.V.P. on it," she said.

"They need us more than we need them," he said.

This is one of several episodes that are never talked about in
the family. It is not a family secret, exactly. The Liebling
family secrets are quite another matter. But the episode is a
painful reminder that Jules Liebling's money was not made in one
of the more fashionable ways. In fact, there are some who hint
that his money was made illegally. The connection with people
like Al Capone is the circumstance most often cited.

 Ahead of the Lincoln now, the traffic on Park Avenue has come to
a complete standstill. There seems to be an almost newsworthy
case of urban gridlock at the corner of Fifty-seventh Street.
Nothing moves. Police whistles sound shrilly. Arms in orange
slickers gesticulate furiously in the air, to no avail. Park
Avenue has become a parking lot. "I suppose it's the rain that's
causing this," Hannah says to no one in particular.

"Anyway," Anne says, "I think it's silly to talk about how
important it is to get married, and to marry the right sort. It's
so old-fashioned, Nana. Nowadays a woman doesn't have to get
married at all to have a successful life. In fact, I don't think
I'll get married at all.
I'll just have a lo-o-o-o-ng series of lovers. Like your sister
Settie's husband, I'll just screw around." She lies back against
the seat and stretches her arms above her head, touching the
car's ceiling with her fingertips, and smiles.

"Knees together, young lady," her grandmother says. "Gracious, if
I'd talked that way in front of my grandmother, I'd have had my
mouth washed out with Pels Naphtha soap! If you're saying things
like that to try to shock me, you haven't succeeded. I refuse to
let you try to shock me, Anne."

"Were you ever in love, Nana Hannah? Deeply, madly, passionately
in love?"

"What a question! Of course I was."

"But I bet it wasn't with Grandpa, was it?"

"What a thing to say!"

"Look! I can tell by the expression on your face that it wasn't.
I knew it! Who was he? Who was your one true, deep, passionate
love, Nana?"

"I do not wish to pursue this line of conversation," her
grandmother says.

It is another characteristic of Hannah Liebling, ge boren Sachs:
whenever the conversation gets vaguely interesting, she changes
the subject.

"And look at your sister Settee. She didn't marry for love,
either, did she? You say she married the right sort of man. But
you also say he made her miserable."

"I don't want to talk about Settee. It makes me too sad."

"But it was you who brought the subject up, Maman," Cyril says.

"No. It was you. You, with your slouching. Sit up straight,
Cyril!" She raises the sleeve of her mink jacket and consults her
gold watch. "We're going to be late," she says. Outside, the
traffic lights go from red to green, then to red again, and then
to green, but nothing moves. Horns are blowing loudly from all
directions. Anne says nothing. She knows just how far she can
push her grandmother, and she has pushed her just far enough.

Now, in front of the Lincoln, a small band--perhaps six or
seven--of black youths jaywalks, or rather jay-runs, across the
middle of the street. Some wear dreadlocks. Others have haircuts
hi extravagant topiary designs. They
run zigzagging between the bumpers, leapfrogging the fenders of
the unmoving automobiles, and one of the boys slaps the Lincoln's
hood sharply as he passes. Mr. Nelson presses the button that
locks all four of the car doors and, simultaneously, taps the
car's horn twice.

"Um-fuh-wuh," one of the boys shouts.

Another boy makes a leering face at the invisible passengers
behind the tinted glass in the backseat of the limousine, while
another makes a vulgar gesture with his fist. Then the first boy
break-dances back across the street toward them and slaps the big
Lincoln's hood again, harder. Mr. Nelson sounds his horn again,
louder.

"Muhfuhl"

"Goodness, right here on Park Avenue," Hannah Liebling whispers
as the boys, shouting and jeering, skip and hop away and
disappear into the traffic. "I didn't know they came out when it
rained." She leans across the back of the front seat. "I have my
can of Mace in my purse, Mr. Nelson," she says. "Do you have
yours?"

"Definitely, Mrs. Liebling. Right here in the glove box."

"Do you really carry a can of Mace, Nana?" Anne asks her.

"Absolutely. I wouldn't step outside my house without it. This
isn't the same city I grew up in, when I could walk to school and
go skating in the park without my nanny. I also carry a gun." She
pats her purse authoritatively.

"Really, Nana? Can I see it?"

Her grandmother hesitates. "I'll let you look at it," she says,
"but you mustn't touch it. It's fully loaded." She reaches into
her reticule and withdraws a small Smith & Wesson .38-caliber
automatic pistol with a bone handle, and places it across her
lap. "I know how to use it, too," she says. "I've had fourteen
hours of target practice."

"Pistol-packin' grandma," Cyril says drily.

Outside, the noise in the street is deafening, as all the
motorists in the street, having nothing better to do, sit on
their horns. Had Hannah Liebling fired off her pistol now, no one
would have heard it. "I knew he should have gone down Third
Avenue," Hannah Liebling says. "It's a wider street, and the
lights are synchronized."
"He didn't take Third Avenue because Third Avenue is a one-way
street going uptown, you stupid old fool!" Cyril says.

There is silence in the backseat of the Lincoln now, following
this outburst. Anne, embarrassed, stares at her folded hands in
her lap. Hannah gazes out the window. Finally she says, "Cyril,
your nerves are bad tonight, I can tell. You need one of your
pills. Take one of the little yellow ones. Besides, Third Avenue
runs downtown. I am quite positive of that."

That is another thing to remember about Hannah Liebling: You can
be right. But she cannot be wrong.

"Now do sit up straight, Cyril," she says.

And so there you have Hannah Sachs Liebling at eighty-two, a
despotic old harridan with a will of iron and a heart of stone,
who has managed to break the spirit of all three of her children,
one after the other, and who is now, all sails flying and loaded
with money to the Plimsoll line, determined to perform the same
feat on the next generation, charging ahead at full speed,
leaving devastation in her wake, taking no prisoners, two hundred
forty pounds of pure hell. Why do some love her so? Perhaps
because she has managed to keep two terrible and linked secrets
locked in her hard but still evergreen heart. Once you tell a
secret to another person, it's no secret anymore. Spill the beans
to another, and you might as well tell the world.

 Her husband was not a nice man, from all reports, though it
wasn't easy to know him really well. Few did, in fact. Some women
claimed to find him sexy. But then, money itself is sexy. He was
certainly not handsome. He was a small man, but his head seemed
too large for his body. By contrast, his hands were tiny, almost
dainty. His manicurist always applied clear polish to his nails,
and the sparkly fingernails only served to emphasize the
daintiness of those hands.

They say all rich men make enemies, but Jules Liebling seems to
have made more than his share. There are other stories along the
line of the one about how he bought the big apartment at 1000
Park. There is the story of how he built Grandmont, the huge,
extravagant house in Westchester, in Tarrytown, on the Hudson
River, overlooking the Tappan Zee. Again, this was in the early
1950s, and the contractor's price was $500,000. Again, this was
considered a huge price in those days, though today, to replace
Grandmont--it is gone now-- it would cost many times that figure.
The grounds contained a pool with a wave-making machine, two
tennis courts, industrial-sized playground equipment for the
children, and a sandbox for Cyril's baby brother, Noah, that was
as big as a squash court. When the house was finished, Jules
Liebling presented the builder with a check for $400,000.

"But, Mr. Liebling, our contract price was five hundred
thousand."

"I'm paying you four. Take it or leave it."

"Mr. Liebling, I have a contract. I can sue."

"Go right ahead. Your lawsuit will cost at least a hundred
thousand in legal fees. And until you get a judgment, you won't
get a penny from me."

"Mr. Liebling, you are robbing me of my contractor's profit."

"Your profit is the boost your reputation will get from having
built a house for me," Jules Liebling said.

There are other stories like this, not all of them involving real
estate.

When he died, twenty years ago, it was decided that his funeral
would be small and very private. "Only members of the immediate
family, and certain Liebling employees, are invited to attend,"
the obituary notice said.

Jules Liebling had many influential acquaintances. The Duke and
Duchess of Windsor were frequent house guests at Grandmont. The
duchess traveled with her own especially cushioned toilet seat.
There is a photograph of Cyril, as a little boy, seated on the
lap of Queen Marie of Romania. Bernard Baruch nearly choked to
death at Grandmont on a piece of shell in his Maryland crab cake.
Ike and Mamie Eisenhower made a point of requesting separate
bedrooms there because, as the first lady explained hi her note,
Ike snored. And speaking of bedrooms, the whole household was
awakened one night when Frank Sinatra tried to get into Lana
Turner's bed. Lily Damita was already in that bed, for what
reason no one was ever quite sure. Hedy Lamarr was suspected of
pinching silverware during her visit. John Huston once
got drunk and fell head-first into the fireplace in the Great
Hall, and had to be treated for third-degree burns. But when
Jules Liebling died, it was decided to keep the services small
and private. Hannah Liebling was afraid that if she tried to
stage a large public funeral at Temple Emanu-El, nobody would
come.

 In the eyes of some people, Jules Liebling's will treated all
three of his children unfairly. Here is what Business Week had to
say about it at the time:

 It is not uncommon, when a rich man dies, to discover that he
has punished one or more "bad" children through disinheritance.
But when a mogul's Last Will and Testament seemingly rewards two
errant offspring and overlooks a loyal son, that is news.

And that, on the surface of it, is what Jules Liebling did in
arranging for the distribution of his estate, estimated to be in
excess of $800,000,000 upon his death.

Jules Liebling's widow, Hannah Sachs Liebling, was bequeathed 52%
of her late husband's Ingraham Corporation stock, effectively
putting her in control of the family-owned companies, with the
specific wish that Mrs. Liebling assume, at least temporarily,
her late husband's role as president and CEO of Ingraham. The
older of the Lieblings' two sons, Cyril Liebling, 40, is a
Manhattan public relations man. Though he has never been
considered much more than a playboy --and a sometime Peck's Bad
Boy--he was left 24% of Ingraham stock in a lifetime trust, from
which he is to derive the income. In 1969, Cyril Liebling was
briefly jailed on charges of child molestation. The charges were
later dropped when the alleged victim admitted that the charges
were a publicity-getting hoax, and the name of the plaintiff, a
minor, was never revealed.

Jules Liebling's daughter, the oft-married Ruth Liebling Hower,
35, was left an additional 24% of the company in an identical
trust. In 1956, when Ruth Liebling was just 18, she eloped with
Brazilian copper heir Antonio Fernandez-Just, a man 39 years her
senior. That marriage lasted barely three months and was
terminated by divorce. There followed a three
year career in Hollywood, during which Miss Liebling, using the
name Ruth Radcliffe, appeared in several mostly forgettable
motion pictures. But her film career ended in 1960, when she
walked off the set of a picture she was making on location in
Italy to marry Count Giulio di Pascanelli of Rome. Columbia
Pictures sued her, but the lawsuit was settled, and the scenes of
the movie in which she appeared, The Archbishop's Wife, were
reshot without her.

Soon afterward, her second marriage was annulled when it was
discovered that Count di Pascanelli had a living wife in St.
Moritz. But a year later she was able to marry the count again,
since he had by then shed himself of his previous marital
entanglement. However, that marriage lasted only seven weeks
before the couple divorced, with the count demanding alimony.
This matter resolved itself with the count's suicide.

In 1965, Ruth Liebling married William Hower, who had been her
personal physical fitness trainer. The Howers have since
separated, and Ruth Liebling has reassumed the title Countess di
Pascanelli, a title that she claims is papal, though the Vatican
will not confirm this.

These marriages, and her abortive film career, are said to have
caused her late father extreme distress, and are presumed to have
cost him considerable sums of money.

Meanwhile, Jules Liebling's "good" son, Noah Liebling, 27, was
left no Ingraham stock at all in his father's will. Noah Liebling
has worked in his father's companies in various capacities since
his cum laude graduation from Nevada State six years ago. In the
industry, it was widely assumed that the younger Mr. Liebling was
being groomed to head Ingrahams. But this is not to be, at least
not for a while. For the time being, Noah Liebling is essentially
just one of his mother's employees.

Jules Liebling's will does, however, offer Noah a window of hope
for the future, if he plays his cards right. The will stipulates
that 25% of Hannah Liebling's shares in the company--that is, 13%
of the shares outstanding--are hers to do with as she wishes.
Mrs. Liebling could, presumably, make a public offering of these
shares. The remainder of her shares are earmarked as
"discretionary holdings." At such time as she feels is "fitting,"
the will stipulates, the remaining 75% of her voting shares are
to be turned over to Noah, giving him a majority voting position
in the company. That time will come, the will states, "when my
dear wife feels that my son is fully ready to assume the reins of
my company." That time could come next week, next year, or many
years from now. Until that time Noah Liebling remains effectively
tied to his mother's apron strings and could remain so until her
death, at which point his mother's discretionary shares go to him
without restrictions.

If Jules Liebling's will seems grossly unfair to Noah by some
industry insiders, Noah himself--a highly popular figure in the
industry--does not see it that way at all. Speaking to Business
Week's reporter without a trace of bitterness, Noah Liebling
said, "My father was a very kind and loving man, and a very fair
man. His will is a very human, and very humane, instrument, it
seems to me. My older brother, Cyril, has his own business, and
has never had any interest in running the company. My sister is
an extremely talented and artistic woman who, by her own
admission, let her heart rule her head several years ago when she
turned her back on a promising Hollywood career to marry. As a
result, as she puts it, she 'can't even get arrested' in the film
or television community. Until she finds herself artistically,
she will need the funds from my father's trust to live in the
style to which she is accustomed.

"Placing my mother at the helm of the family enterprises makes
perfect sense to me. Though she never had an office in the
Ingraham Building, or had a title in the corporation, no
corporate decision, large or small, was ever made by my father
without first consulting my mother. As anyone who has ever worked
for us knows, my mother and my father were true partners in the
family business in every sense of the word. This is why theirs
was such a loving and lasting marriage.

"As for myself, I am much too young and inexpertenced to assume
the stewardship of a company the size and complexity of Ingraham.
At the moment I could not possibly run this company without my
mother's help and guidance. And so both my mother and I are very
happy with the present arrangement, as are my brother and sister.
Though we will always miss our father, we are all happy that he
left things as he did."

Cynics point out that it is lucky that the Liebling family is
happy with the will. A stern final clause declares, "Anyone who
makes the slightest move to challenge this Last Will and
Testament shall be immediately stripped of any of its benefits."
Asked to comment on this clause, Noah Liebling dismissed it as
"routine." Asked about the tied-tomother's-apron strings factor,
Noah Liebling replied, with a wink, "I can assure you that my
mother has never worn an apron."

Mrs. Hannah Liebling, 62, was in Europe, traveling on company
business, and could not be reached for comment.

 All that, of course, was written twenty years ago, and many
things have changed since then. For one thing, all the people
mentioned in that story are now twenty years older. But, as you
will see as our story unfolds, there are many things that have
not changed. You may well ask: Was it the intention of Noah's
father's will to keep his son from assuming the presidency of the
company for this long a time? Or was it the old man's wish that
his widow act as a sort of regent until Noah was a little
older--four or five years, perhaps, or until Noah was in his
mid-thirties? But Noah Liebling has now passed his mid-forties,
and his mother is still very much, and very firmly, in charge of
things, and has offered no visible sign that she is ready to let
go. Was that what the old man really wanted, or expected, to have
happen? By now quite a few people have asked that question.

 But in the meantime, we have backed away from our story. We have
left three of the principals--Hannah Liebling, her son Cyril, and
her son Noah's daughter Anne--stuck in a traffic jam on Park
Avenue, while we digressed backward to Hannah's late husband. It
should
be possible to tell this story in as straightforward and linear a
fashion as possible, and avoid these flashbacks. But this may be
hard to do. J. B. Liebling, twenty years dead, continues to
influence his family as powerfully today as he did when he was
alive. At certain intersections, as in a logjam of traffic, it
will be difficult to bypass the old man.

 Where are these three going? Where are they coming from? They
are coming from Hannah Liebling's apartment at 1000 Park, where
Anne has had tea with her grandmother. Anne is a freshman at
Bennington, home on winter break. Ever since Anne reached her
teens, these afternoon teas with her grandmother have become a
ritual. Indeed, for Anne they are a command performance. They are
always very formal, always preceded by a handwritten invitation
on Hannah Liebling's embossed Cartier note paper:

 One Thousand Park Avenue Dearest Anne,

Your mother tells me you will be coming down from school on
--------.

Please join me here for tea on the afternoon of _____ at four
o'clock.

I look forward to seeing you. Nana Hannah

 Devotedly,

Hannah Liebling pours from the big silver teapot. ("Lemon or
sugar? One lump or two?") Then she hands the little teacup to
Bridget, her parlor maid, who delivers it to Anne, who always
sits in what is known as "the visitor's chair" opposite her
grandmother in the glassed in terrace that is called the morning
room, since it faces east. Hannah then pours for herself, and
Bridget passes the tray of thin finger sandwiches, cucumber, and
watercress, followed by tea cakes and cookies. Hannah is
determined that Anne shall at least be exposed to the kind of
manners and social niceties which she herself was brought up to
observe. She suspects that Anne's mother, Carol Liebling, is a
little lax about such matters.

But Carol Liebling takes her mother-in-law's teas
every bit as seriously. "Glove inspection," Carol says cheerfully
as her daughter prepares to depart. "Are they white-white-white?
Clean-clean-clean? Good. Now keep them in your purse until you've
rung her doorbell. Then slip them on. Have you got a clean white
hankie, in case you need to blow your nose?"

"Moth-err!"

"And don't tease your grandmother," Carol says. "Remember, she
holds the purse strings."

But Anne, blond and bubbly, knows she's pretty, and she knows her
grandmother thinks she's pretty--a fair haired Elizabeth Taylor,
that same oval face when she was about Anne's age and played in
National Velvet. (National Velvet is Nana Hannah's favorite
movie.) And so she doesn't really mind dressing up and looking
her prettiest for her grandmother, sitting with her ankles
crossed in the visitor's chair, balancing her teacup in its
saucer. And of course she can't resist teasing her grandmother a
little bit. Not too much, just a bit. She has discovered that her
grandmother actually enjoys the teasing--if it doesn't go too
far, that is.

"Tonight there's a real sexpot coming for dinner," she said to
her grandmother this afternoon. "I hear he's a real hunk."

"Really, Anne, such language!" her grandmother said. "If I talked
like that when I was a girl, I'd have my mouth washed out with
Pels Naphtha soap."

Have we mentioned that tonight is New Year's Eve? This accounts
in large part for the amount of traffic on Park Avenue. Everyone
is on his way to a party somewhere else in town, or to a
nightclub or restaurant, or to the theater. But New Year's Eve is
another ritual in the Liebling family. It is the night that Carol
and Noah Liebling have their annual family dinner and it, too, is
a command performance, and that is where the Lincoln is headed
now. Carol and Noah live at River House, on East Fifty-second
Street.

At six o'clock, Cyril Liebling joined his mother and his niece in
the morning room at 1000 Park. He did not have far to go, since
he lives on the floor above. After Jules Liebling died, Hannah
decided to divide the duplex apartment horizontally. "I don't
need all this acreage," she said to Cyril, "now that I'm all
alone. I'm going to
have the staircase taken out and the upstairs sealed off. You can
live up there. You'll have your own elevator entrance, complete
privacy, and I'll pay the maintenance on both apartments."

It was not an arrangement designed to please Cyril, exactly.
While the idea of a large, luxuriously furnished, and rent-free
apartment at a splendid address was not without its appeal, Cyril
did not much fancy the idea of living in such close proximity to
his mother. With the income generated by his father's trust, he
could easily have afforded an elegant place of his own.

"I suppose this is your way of keeping me under your thumb," he
said.

"I'd like to keep my eye on you, Cyril. To make sure you stay out
of trouble. You know what I'm talking about."

"But, Mother, that was a long time ago, and it was just a
childish prank."

"A childish prank at age twenty-two? A little early to be
entering your second childhood, don't you think?"

"Joey Fernandez was the child. It was all his idea, not mine."

"I do not wish to hear that name again! Anyway." she added in a
gentler tone, "as I get older, living alone, I like the idea of a
family member living close to me. You know--in case something
should happen to me."

And so he had agreed to go along with her, though not for the
reasons she outlined. It was because, secretly, for years he had
been in love with that particular apartment. He had always hoped
that when she died, she would leave that apartment to him. When
it was his, he would reinstall that gracefully curving staircase
between the two floors. He would redecorate the rooms to his
somewhat more extravagant taste. He would turn the downstairs
library into a screening room for his private collection of
films. He would give large and lavish entertainments for
glittering gatherings of his beautiful friends. "Darling Cyril,"
they would say to him, "no one lives as magnificently as you."
And the magnificence of his final apartment would attract even
more beautiful friends, and on and on. After dinner they would
all file into his screening room for a film or two. The
apartments at 1000 Park were all wonderfully soundproof.
None of his neighbors would ever suspect the intensity of the
excitement that would be generated in his apartment. It was not
such an outrageous dream. It made sense that his mother should
leave the apartment to him, particularly if, when she died, he
was already living in half of it. He'd already dropped little
hints to her in this regard. "I'd love to see this place made
whole again," etc. Meanwhile, half a loaf was better than none.
With half the apartment he had his toe firmly in the door. And
for the occasional dalliance there were always hotels.

But, of course, who would have expected that the old lady would
live to be eighty-two? A number of years ago, she'd had a serious
bout with cancer, and the family had gathered at Mount Sinai
hospital around what was supposed to be her deathbed. Cyril had
planned his funeral wardrobe. He had the perfect dark blue Sills
suit. He would have the temple filled with white dahlias, her
favorite flower. As the coffin rolled slowly toward the ark, he
would utter an audible, uncontrollable sob, and grasp the back of
the pew in front of him, as though about to collapse. For a month
afterward, he would wear a black grosgrain ribbon on his lapel,
and a mournful slouch.

But then she bounced back, healthier than ever. And year by year,
Cyril has seen his beautiful dream recede before his eyes, as he
has remained his mother's house guest. Is it any wonder he
occasionally loses patience with her?

 And whom will we meet when the Town Car finally arrives at River
House? Well, Anne's parents, of course, Noah and Carol Liebling,
the host and hostess. Cyril and Noah's sister, Ruth, will also be
there, who still likes to be introduced as the Countess di
Pascanelli, though she insists she uses her "good" name only
because it is useful in making hotel and restaurant reservations.
There have been a couple of other husbands for Ruth since that
Business Week story was published in 1974, but none of them
amounted to anything. They were totally and thoroughly
undistinguished, and have no bearing whatsoever on this story.
Tonight Ruth has asked if she may bring a new beau of hers along.
It is interesting that, at fifty-five, Ruth still uses the term
beau. Whether
or not this beau will turn out to be husband material, who knows?
We shall have to wait and see. Ruth has still not succeeded in
finding herself artistically, though she continues to try.
Recently she announced that she is writing a novel.

Noah Liebling now wears the title of executive vice president of
H. & W. Ingraham Sons, Inc., the second in command. He commands a
salary of over $500,000 a year. But his mother still holds the
title of president and CEO, and Hannah has not yet found it
"fitting" to turn over to Noah the controlling shares of stock as
stipulated in his father's will. This, apparently, does not
reflect any dissatisfaction on Hannah's part with Noah's work for
the company. She has given him steady raises and promotions over
the years, but has held back giving him full control. Some people
believe that this is because Hannah does not yet quite trust
Carol, Noah's spirited and independent-thinking wife. Hannah
tends to think of Carol as too free-spirited, too independent,
too much of an influence on Noah. Could it be that Hannah sees
Carol as a rival, and thus a threat? Hannah is not a woman who
likes to share control. And so Hannah thinks of Carol as a loose
cannon, capable of capsizing the family battleship--or perhaps
the family flotilla of battleships would be the better term.

Noah Liebling remains his mother's favorite son, just as he was
his father's. To most people Noah seems like the ideal son--tall,
athletic, affable, with the dark good looks of a Gentleman's
Quarterly model. Once upon a time Cyril was the favorite son. But
as a result of a series of differences and misunderstandings
years ago, he no longer is.

 In the winter of 1945, the telephone rang at 1000 Park Avenue.
Jules and Hannah Liebling were at dinner, and Philip, their
butler, conveyed the message to Jules Liebling at the dinner
table. "Mr. George Litchfield of St. An selm's School is on the
phone, sir," Philip said. St. Anselm's was the boys' school in
northwestern Connecticut where Cyril Liebling was a first-year
student, and George Litchfield was its headmaster.

"Tell him I'll call him back."
"I told him you were at dinner, sir. But he insists it's urgent."

A look passed between Jules and Hannah. "Very well," Jules said.
Looking pained, he placed his napkin on the dinner table, pushed
his chair back, and went to take the call in the next room.

"I'm sorry to say that it has become necessary for us to expel
Cyril, Mr. Liebling," Mr. Litchfield said.

A pause. Then Jules said, "For what reason, may I ask?"

"For--for unnatural sexual activity, Mr. Liebling," Mr.
Litchfield said.

"What sort of activity?"

"They were--I believe it is called fellatio. He and another boy.
They were discovered in the lavatory, by Mr. Smith, the dormitory
master of Ward's Hall."

"Who was doing what to whom?"

"I--it's my understanding from Mr. Smith--they were doing it to
each other."

"I see." Now Jules attempted what was intended to be an
understanding chuckle between two men of the world. "Well,
surely, Mr. Litchfield," he said. "Surely, in an all-male
environment, at a school such as yours-- two adolescent boys. I
mean, certainly this isn't the first time this sort of thing has
happened at a school like yours. Two young boys, experimenting--"

"Well, perhaps not, Mr. Liebling," the headmaster conceded, "but
that sort of activity cannot be tolerated at St. Anselm's."

"And the other boy involved in the--incident? I presume he is
being expelled also."

"No, in fact he is not," the headmaster said.

"May I ask why not?"

"It seems the other boy was an unwilling--at least a reluctant
participant, Mr. Liebling."

"Hah! How do you know that? The boy could be lying!"

"It seems--well, it seems that your son was paying the other boy
for this--activity."

"Paying? How can you prove that?"

"When Mr. Smith walked into the lavatory and found them there,
the other boy had your son's personal check in his pocket.
Apparently this has been going on for
some time. The other boy has been cashing your son's checks in
the bursar's office, and our bursar had begun to wonder about
this. You see, the other boy is a lower former, a scholarship boy
from an underprivileged family in Harlem. He was only doing this
for the money."

"The other boy is a Negro?"

"Yes. An honor student on a full scholarship."

"And so a Negro honor student on a full scholarship gets the
benefit of the doubt, and a Jewish boy from a privileged family
gets expelled--is that the way you work? Is that what you call
justice?"

"Mr. Liebling, that has nothing to do with it."

"Give me the other boy's name."

"I am not at liberty to give that to you, Mr. Liebling," the
headmaster said.

There was another pause. Then Jules said, "Look, Mr. Litchfield,
there must be something your school needs. A new hockey rink
perhaps? A new dormitory? An endowment of some sort? I'm sure you
and I can work something out."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Liebling," the headmaster said. "We do not
operate St. Anselm's that way. I'm afraid our decision is final."

"I see," said Jules.

"Cyril is in his room now. Mr. Smith, his dormitory master, is
helping him pack up his things. He is to be off the school's
grounds by midnight. Will you arrange for his transportation
home?"

"I'll send for him," Jules said. "And you, Mr. Litchfield, can
eat my shit." He hung up the phone.

He returned to the dining room, his face a mask, and picked up
his napkin. His small, polished fingernails caught the
candlelight.

Hannah's fork was poised in midair, though there was nothing on
it. "Well," she said at last, "what did Mr. Litchfield want?"

"I'm withdrawing Cyril from St. Anselm's," he said.

"Oh, no! But why?"

"Other boys have been forging Cyril's name on his checks."

"But that's the other boys' fault! That's no reason to punish
Cyril."

"He should be taught to keep his checkbook in a safer
place," he said. "I knew we should never have given him that
checking account. That was your idea."

With a little sob she dropped her fork, got up from the table,
and quickly left the room.

When Mr. Nelson, Jules's young chauffeur, arrived at the school
that night to collect Cyril and his belongings, George Litchfield
was a little surprised to see that Mr. Nelson was not accompanied
by either of Cyril's parents. He found himself somewhat at a loss
for what final words he might say to the Lieblings' driver. "Get
some nice classical music on the radio," he said to Mr. Nelson.
"In these circumstances I find that often helps."

That was the night, Cyril often thinks, that his parents threw
him away.

That night, after Hannah Liebling had cried her tears and was
about to turn off her bedside lamp, her bedroom door opened and
her husband, in his dressing gown, stepped into her room. He
closed her door behind him. He moved toward her bed and sat on
the edge of it. At first Hannah was startled. It had been a long
time since her husband had entered her bedroom. He reached out
and began gently rubbing the back of her neck, her shoulder
blades, and the soft flesh of her upper back. "I want us to make
another son," he whispered.

 There will be a seventh Liebling family member coming to Noah
and Carol's house tonight. She is Rebecca Hower, Ruth's daughter
by her third marriage or, if you count the two di Pascanelli
marriages, her fourth. Rebecca, who likes to be called Becka, is
twenty-five, and though she has been around all these years, she
is something of a newcomer to the family, having only recently
rejoined her mother after a long estrangement. This will be
Becka's first appearance at a Liebling New Year's Eve. We will
see how it goes, for Hannah Liebling barely knows this
granddaughter.

In addition to Ruth's beau, there will be two other non-family
members at tonight's dinner party. One is Melody Richards, who
was Anne's best friend at boarding school and is now her roommate
at college. Anne and Melody strike many people as an unlikely
duo. It used to be said, with some truth, that two extremely
pretty girls could never be best friends at that age. But
here you have Melody and Anne, acknowledged to be the two
prettiest young women at Bennington, and over the years they have
become inseparable. The two girls' looks are like the opposite
faces of the moon. Anne is blond and blue-eyed. Melody is dark,
almost Latin-looking, with large, dark, wide-set eyes like an
Andalusian girl's. In terms of personality, they are also
opposites. Anne Liebling is as light and bubbly, and often as
silly-making, as a glass of champagne. Melody is sober, quiet,
thoughtful, often given to long silences. Anne is majoring in
art. Melody, rather in keeping with her name, is majoring in
drama. At school the two have been given the nicknames Toots and
Caspar. We'll leave it to you to guess which name belongs to
which.

Melody is also nearly a full year younger than Anne, making
Melody one of the few seventeen-year-olds in their class. She has
always been an intellectually gifted child. At the age of four it
was discovered that Melody had taught herself to read. In grammar
school, because she was so much more gifted than the others in
her class, she was allowed to skip the entire third grade so she
could be placed in a group where she would find the work more
challenging. She has been challenging her classmates, and her
teachers, ever since.

Melody, in further contrast to her best friend, is from a
relatively poor family, and attends Bennington on a special
scholarship. Her father, a career diplomat, holds a minor post in
the U.S. State Department, and is presently stationed in Japan.
Because her parents can ill afford to send their daughter halfway
around the world for the winter break, for the past four years
she has been spending these weeks with Anne and her family in New
York. Noah and Carol have become very fond of Melody, and have
begun to think of themselves almost as her foster parents.

There will be one other guest at the little family dinner party
tonight, thanks to Melody. His name is William Luckman. You may
have heard of him. Only twenty one, he is the prodigal young Yale
senior who has just published his first book, Blighted Elms, that
has been climbing best-seller lists all over the country. His
book's title is ironic. Taking as his central image the Dutch elm
disease that has devastated Yale's once leafy campus, he
wrote a book that is a startling expose of the degree of sexual
promiscuity that has afflicted, and diseased, a prestigious
Eastern university. Names, of course, have been changed, but just
barely. Yale, for instance, is called "Eli University" in the
book, and several members of Yale's faculty and student body are
said to be able to recognize themselves in Mr. Luckman's pages.
There has been some sword-rattling talk of lawsuits.

Homosexuality and lesbianism account for only some of the tamer
revelations. The amount of faculty-student sex is prodigious,
according to the author. Incidents of sexual blackmail within the
college community are rampant, as are cases of physical and
sexual abuse and harassment of minors. A child pornography ring
operates openly, while drug and alcohol abuse abounds. Male and
female students in need of money sell themselves as prostitutes,
while a prominent dean earns handsome sums as a pimp and a
procurer. Orgies involving students, professors, and
administrators are described in vivid detail, while the top
administrators--from the president on down--and even the
college's trustees provide an elaborate and cynical cover-up. In
Blighted Elms Eli University emerges as a cesspool of degeneracy
and depravity, crime and vice.

The book has become a succes de scandale. And, needless to say,
Mr. Luckman's scorching depiction of this college and its sexual
mores--and the book's sudden huge popularity and the publicity
surrounding it--have left Mr. Luckman's future at Yale somewhat
problematic. He has not yet been expelled--and has in fact almost
arrogantly dared the college to expel him. "The only reason they
haven't done it is because they know that will only generate more
publicity for my book," he has stated. "I hope there are
lawsuits, because lawsuits sell books, and whoever sues me will
have to prove that what I say isn't true. They're scared to expel
me. They're caught between a rock and a hard place. If they don't
kick me out, they're admitting my details are accurate. If they
do, I'll be crying all the way to the bank. The book's already
been sold as a miniseries."

Melody Richards met the young literary lion in October, when she
happened to be in Bloomingdale's White Plains store while he was
autographing copies of Blighted
Elms. Curious to see what the notorious young author was like,
she stepped over to his signing table during a lull in sales and
fell into conversation with him. She found him witty, charming,
and handsome. They exchanged telephone numbers. For the past
month he has been on tour, promoting his book, and he called her
several times from various cities. When Melody learned that he
would be in New York for the Christmas holidays, she asked Noah
Liebling if she could invite Bill Luckman to the family's New
Year's Eve party. At first Noah was dubious. "I haven't read his
book," he said, "and I'm not planning to. From what I gather,
it's nothing but a piece of smut in an academic setting."

"I think he's actually a very moral person," Melody said. "He was
outraged by the things he saw going on there, and thought the
public should know about them."

"Isn't he a little old to be dating you?"

She laughed. "He isn't a date, Mr. Liebling," she said. "I met
him only once, in a roomful of people."

Carol Liebling was more sanguine about the idea. "I haven't read
the book, either," she said. "But it's certainly causing quite a
stir, and everybody's talking about it, and he's been on all the
talk shows. He's very attractive. I think it would be fun for the
girls to have him, Noah. And he'd help balance out the sexes at
"the table." Bill is the sexpot Anne was referring to.

 And so Carol Liebling's dinner table tonight is set for ten,
though only nine of these people are principal characters in our
story: Hannah, Cyril, and Anne, Carol and Noah and sister Ruth,
Ruth's daughter Becka, Melody Richards and William Luckman. Those
are our en nead. Others--such as Ruth's new beau and Noah's and
Carol's friends, Frank and Beryl Stokes, who also live at River
House--will drift in and out of the proceedings, of course. But
those nine are the ones to keep your eye on.

 In the stalled traffic on Park Avenue, the horns continue to
blow and the police whistles continue to shriek to no avail.
Hannah Liebling leans across the back of the front seat of the
Lincoln again and says, "Mr. Nelson, perhaps you'd better phone
my son and daughter
in-law and tell them about this pickle we're in with this
traffic. I know she's serving a lamb roast tonight, and she knows
I like it pink, but not bleeding."

"Certainly, Mrs. Liebling." He picks up the car phone by his side
and begins pressing buttons.

"And incidentally, Mr. Nelson. Which way does Third Avenue
run--uptown or down?" "Downtown, Mrs. Liebling." "Ha!" she says
to Cyril. "I told you so!" The traffic inches slowly forward, the
rain continues to pour down, and the windshield wipers of the
Lincoln thrash furiously back and forth. Manush, manush, the
wipers say.

Cyril thinks: Mr. Nelson knows which side his bread is buttered
on.
An Intermezzo

 One spring morning when she was fifteen (Hannah is remembering)
and when the gardenia in the upstairs formal parlor was just
coming into bloom, she tossed a blossom from the open front
window into the street below. It was intended to land at her
father's feet as he left the house on the way to teach his
school. But she missed, and her father strode on in his
purposeful way without seeing it. But a young sailor carrying a
navy duffel bag happened to be passing the house on his way to a
great adventure. He saw the flower fall to the sidewalk and
stooped to pick it up. He looked up at the young girl in the
window, and a breeze blew the parlor curtains aside. He smiled up
at her, and she smiled back. Then he put the gardenia between his
teeth, gypsy-style, and danced a little jig. Then he hoisted his
duffel to his shoulder and walked on. But after a few steps he
stopped and turned back. He removed his cap and hung it on one of
the iron finials of her front gate posts. Then he walked away,
whistling.

Later she read about his great adventure. At least, when she saw
his picture in the newspapers, Hannah was sure that this was a
photograph of the same young man with the same, slightly
off-center smile. His name was Radioman First Class George
Noville, and he had just completed a historic mission--the first
radio-equipped transatlantic flight, in a trimotored Fokker
monoplane, under the famous U.S. Navy Commander Richard E. Byrd.
The year was 1926. A few years earlier Commander Byrd had circled
the North Pole.

Two years later, her doorbell rang, and Hannah, who happened to
be alone in the house at the time, went to the door. "I've come
for my cap," he said. She let him in.
He brought with him a diary he had kept of his many travels since
they had last seen each other. Pressed between its pages was her
flower. "It brought me luck," he said. "And it brought me back."

 All we know of what happened next is contained in a slender
packet of letters, tied with a faded pink hair ribbon, which
Hannah keeps in a shoebox at the bottom of one of her dresser
drawers. The stamps are mostly foreign--from Tunis, Gibraltar,
Malta, Tripoli, and other mostly Mediterranean ports--and the
postmarks are faded, and the letters are undated, so it is
impossible to tell how long the relationship lasted, and Hannah
seldom looks at the letters anymore.

 My darling--

 It is midnight, and all my other shipmates are asleep, and I am
writing this to you by flashlight so as not to disturb the
others. And because it is hard to write with a flashlight in one
hand and a pen in the other in this cramped bunk (the bunks in
this #%$&## old tub are particularly narrow), this will just be
to tell you that you are in my thoughts all day long, and in my
dreams at night. Even an ocean and a half away, you are with me
always. Nothing can ever separate us, my darling, but meanwhile I
am working hard to get a stateside assignment so we can truly be
together again.

The fellow in the bunk below me is snoring softly, making sounds
that sound like manush, manush, so I guess I should try to get
some sleep now, too, which will be easy because I plan to see you
in my dreams. Good night, my love.

George

 My darling Hannie--

 Something you say in your last letter worries me a little. You
say you hope your father will like me. Well, I can promise you,
my love, that I will do my #%&## best to make him like me! And
your mother too! And your married sister, and her husband, and
all the rest of your family, once I have a chance to meet them!
Why would they not like me, my darling? I happen to think I'm a
pretty nice guy, and so--thank God--do you, as the rest of your
letter seems to indicate! You even use the word "love"--thank
God!

Genoa is a dirty city, with very little to offer, it seems to me,
so I am not going ashore with the others tonight. I would rather
stay on board and write to you and think of you. Meanwhile, I
expect to hear about my request for stateside duty very soon. All
my love, G.

 Darling Hannie--

 Good news--I think! There's a rumor about that Cmdr. Byrd is
planning another expedition--don't know where as yet. But he'll
need a good radioman, and I know he was pleased with my work on
that last flight of his, so I'm putting in a request for that
assignment. That would bring me back to Washington, at least for
the planning stages, and Washington is not far from New York, and
that means perhaps it won't be long before you're in my arms
again.

Don't worry that the expedition will be dangerous. Old Byrd knows
what he's doing, and every detail is planned perfectly ahead of
time.

I love and miss you so, my darling. Ever, G.

 My dearest darling--

 Please tell your father that I do have a future in the navy! In
fact, I'm expecting a promotion any day now, and once I work my
way up into the officer corps, there's going to be no stopping
me! Tell your father that.

Yes, I know what you mean when you say our backgrounds, and our
religions, are different, but what possible difference could that
make to us as long as we love each other? Tell your father that,
and I'm sure he will understand. And when he says he doesn't
think I'll "fit in" with your New York friends, who says we have
to live in New York? There is a whole world out there for us to
live . . , and love in.

And as for "backgrounds," well maybe we Novilles aren't high
society. But we've always been ambitious, and hard workers. And
maybe your father, the famous educator, doesn't think too much of
a fellow with only a high school diploma, but things like that
shouldn't come between us. When I meet your father, I'm sure I
can make him understand. Trust me, my love.

No word yet about stateside duty and/or Cmdr. Byrd, but I'll let
you know as soon as I hear anything. Your always loving George

 My darling--

 Please don't listen to what people are telling you! When two
people are in love as much as you and I are, the only people they
need to listen to are each other.

Meanwhile, every time I take out that flower from the pages of my
diary, I see your sweet face and dream I am holding you in my
arms and kissing your sweet lips.

Love always, G.

 My darling--

 What is wrong? Reading between the lines of your last letter, I
feel that something is terribly the matter! If something is
happening that is troubling you, I'll go AWOL and jump on the
next ship to New York. I'll be a stowaway!

What do you mean when you say something could "stop" us? This is
America. We were born free. We are free to marry anyone we wish,
aren't we? This isn't the Dark Ages. My darling, your last letter
worries me terribly. Please write to me immediately and answer
all my questions. I know this: I can't live without you, my love.

(unsigned)
My darling--

 It has been a week since I've heard from you, and I am sick with
worry. I can't think of anything else but what you may be going
through. Please, please write. If only I could be at your side to
help you . . .

But don't give in to them, my love. I know you're strong. Fight
back! Fight hard! Our love is stronger and bigger and better than
any of them--that is what you said yourself.

Write to me, my love. Write to me!

 The correspondence breaks off at this point.

"Hannah needs a tour of Europe, Marcus," her mother said to her
father. "All the other girls her age are having them, and I will
accompany her as her chaperone."

"Can we afford it, Sadie?"

"I can, yes. I'm going to dip into my inheritance if need be."

"I won't have you doing that, Sadie. I can afford it."

"Very good. I've booked passage for us on the Be rengaria. We
sail for Hamburg Thursday week. The trip should be a broadening
experience for her, I should think."

A few letters survive from that memorable European trip which, as
it turned out, would last for the better part of a year.

 Dearest Papa,

 Today we visited the Cologne Cathedral, which is very beautiful
and contains much beautiful stained glass above the chancel,
depicting 48 queens and the Milan Madonna. The Shrine of the
Three Kings on the High Altar was also beautiful and interesting.
Tomorrow we visit three more museums, and will hear a performance
of Parsifal at the Offenbachplatz. . .

I hope Bridget is remembering to feed Pussy, and to see that her
water dish does not go empty.

Mama joins me in best love.

Your loving daughter,

Hannah    ;
My dear Marcus,

 All has been going well for Hannah and myself until today when,
after feeling unwell for several days, I consulted a physician,
Dr. Ebert with the American Hospital in Berlin, who advises me
that I am in the third month of a pregnancy. It all comes as
something of a surprise to me, at my age, but Dr. Ebert assures
me that this is a not uncommon occurrence for a woman of my age.

As you know, I have always had difficult pregnancies, and in
light of this, Dr. Ebert strongly recommends that I not attempt
an Atlantic crossing at this point, but rather that I remain here
in Germany for my full term. Here, of course, are some of the
finest physicians and medical facilities in the world. . . .

Please do not consider coming abroad to join me, dear Marcus.
Such a trip would serve no good purpose, and I would not wish to
see you interrupt your academic year on my account. I assure you
that I am in the best of hands with Dr. Ebert and his staff.

Hannah will remain with me here, and I have enrolled her in some
classes at the university, where she will be able to improve her
German language skills.

Your loving wife, Sadie

 My dear Marcus,

 Your beautiful baby daughter, weighing 6 Ibs 11 oz, was born
yesterday at 5:30 p.m., or 11:30 a.m. New York time. She is
healthy and nursing lustily, and though I know you were hoping
for a boy this time, I know you will fall in love with this
little darling when you see her. She has your blue eyes and, it
seems to me, your ears. What shall we name her? I am thinking of
naming her after your grandmother Sachs.

As for me, I am doing well, though feeling somewhat tired and
weak. Because of this, and because we are approaching the winter
stormy season, and because I have never been a "good sailor," Dr.
Ebert recommends that I remain in Berlin for at least another
four
weeks before attempting an ocean crossing. So I have advised Frau
Stockelman that we will keep our little flat for that additional
period.

Hannah joins me in warm greetings. Your loving wife, Sadie
Placement

 In another part of the city--on upper Fifth Avenue, to be
exact--Mr. and Mrs. Truxton Van Degan IV are sitting in their
living room overlooking the Metropolitan Museum. The Van Degans
make it a point never to go out on New Year's Eve--it's such a
cliche--though if you read the social columns you know that these
two go out many other evenings, either here, or in Palm Beach, or
in Southampton, whichever place they happen to be. Their butler
has just brought them a bottle of chilled champagne, and the
atmosphere in the room is equally icy. As often happens when
Truck and Georgette Van Degan are alone together, they find that
they have very little to say to one another. Perhaps the
champagne will lift their mood. It hasn't yet, though Georgette
is doing her level best.

"Well, darling," she says brightly, "are we happy to see 1993
come to an end?" She lifts her glass and tries to smile her most
radiant smile. It's the smile she does for Women's Wear.

"Damn right," he says. "It's been a shitty year. I told you Bill
Clinton would be bad for business. He sure the hell has been."

"Well, here's to a better 1994," she says.

"Yeah." He sits hunched forward in his chair, his glass cradled
between two hands, not raising it in response.

She pretends to ignore this. "Patsy Collingwood called this
morning," she says. "She's having a little dinner Thursday for
William Luckman."

"Who's he?"

"The young man who's written that new book about all the nasty
things that go on at Yale. Or it's supposed to be Yale. Desire
Under the Elms, I think it's called."
"No, that's not it. That's the title of some other book."

"It's something like that. Anyway, I told her we had the thing at
the Pierre on Thursday."

"Oh, yeah. That thing at the Pierre."

"Unless you'd rather go to Patsy's, darling. It might be amusing,
and I could get us out of the thing at the Pierre, though I hate
to do that to Marcella, who has her placement all worked out."

"Yeah."

"I do think the thing at the Pierre is really more important,
darling. It will get more media coverage. And if we back out,
Marcella will have to seat the entire party all over again."

"Yeah."

"And she has us tres bien place, at her most important table.
With the Shugrues, the Dominican ambassador, and that divine new
hairdresser everybody is insisting I've got to try."

"Yeah."

"So I won't call Patsy back."

Following this exchange, there is a long silence.

"And I'm going to try him, too," she says at last.

"Try who?"

"The new hairdresser. Philippe. They say it takes weeks and weeks
to get an appointment with him, but if I'm seated next to him on
Thursday, I'll work on him."

There is no immediate response to this, and another silence
follows. Georgette extends one foot and studies her ankle
critically.

Then she says, "He charges two hundred dollars just for a
comb-out, but I'm sure he'd do me for less, considering."

"Who've you talking about?"

"Philippe! The hairdresser! Really, Truck, what's the matter with
you tonight? I don't think you've listened to a word I've said."

"As a matter of fact, I haven't," he says.

"And you haven't touched your champagne."

He sticks his index finger in his glass. "There," he says. "I
just touched it." He licks his finger.

"Really, darling, what's the matter? Something's on your mind, I
can tell. What is it?"
"New Year's," he says. "Resolutions."

"Oh?" she says brightly. "What fun! I love New Year's
resolutions. Mine's to get an appointment with Philippe as soon
as I possibly can once these wretched holidays are over, before
we go to P.B. What's yours?"

"I've made a resolution for you, Georgette."

"Oh?" She eyes him narrowly. "You made a resolution for me?"

"That's right, sweet tits."

"Oh, my, how romantic! You haven't called me sweet tits in years.
Now tell me: Just what is this resolution that you seem to've
made for me."

"I want you to do something for the Lieblings."

"For the what'

"Noah Liebling and his wife."

"Oh. You mean the liquor people?"

"That's right."

"You mean you want us to entertain them?"

"That's right."

"Oh, Truckie--puh-lease\ No, never. No way. Are you quite madl
The Lieblings have just come down out of the frees!"

"Why not? I want you to do something for them, Georgette."

"All our friends would think we'd lost our minds. They're so
N.O.C.D., those Lieblings."

"What's N.O.C.D. mean?"

"Not Our Class, Darling. They're definitely N.O.C.D. There's
absolutely nothing they could do for people like us."

"Nevertheless, it's what I want you to do."

"But, darling. Don't you remember? Your parents moved out of one
thousand Park when the Lieblings moved in. And they made a point
of having their moving people come at exactly the same time as
the Lieblings moving people, so everybody in town knew what was
happening. Roxy even put it in her column."

"My dad had some sort of business disagreement with old J. B.
Liebling. But that was years ago. This is an other generation."

"But that story is too well known. People still laugh about it.
What would our friends say if we appeared to be taking up with
people like that? One son is a faggot.'
"So is that hairdresser you're so eager to sit next to Thursday
night."

"Darling, that's quite different. Philippe is a great artist."

"Anyway, I'm not interested in that son. I'm interested in Noah
Liebling." "The son still lives at one thousand. With his mother.
They say the Lieblings have ruined that wonderful old building.
Nobody lives there anymore."

"Funny, but I walked past the building the other day. It looked
fully occupied."

"I mean nobody we know. Park between Seventy-sixth and
Ninety-sixth has gone way, way downhill. And the sister who calls
herself a countess. Everybody says the title is bogus."

"I'm not interested in the sister, either."

"And the father was a bootlegger. He had people killed."

"The old man got his start in Canada, during Prohibition. But
there was no Prohibition up there. So you can't call him a
bootlegger. Everything he did was perfectly legal. Meanwhile, his
son Noah--"

"Oh, Noah Liebling is all right, I suppose. He's almost
attractive. But it's her, his wife, that nobody can stand."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Oh, it's so hard to explain," she says. "She's so pushy, so
climby, so enthusiastic. She smiles too much. She's too friendly.
She doesn't talk about the things people like us talk about. She
bubbles. She bounces. She doesn't wear black at night. She
doesn't even frost her hair."

"What's wrong with a bubbly, bouncy woman?"

"New York women don't bubble and bounce. They just don't, which
is why she's never fitted in. She's from somewhere like Kansas,
and she has a Kansas sort of face. People do imitations of Carol
Liebling, and that sort of thing. When she first came to New
York, she thought Porthault was only sheets. She'd never heard of
the towels. Someone had to explain to her what Rigaud candles
were."

"Of course, you, growing up in Cicero, Illinois, knew all about
things like that," he says with more than a trace of sarcasm in
his voice.
"Maybe not! But when I knew I was going to marry you, I
learned--and I learned fast! And I learned to do party talk.
She's never learned that. She'll get on a subject and just stick
to it."

"When I first met you, Georgette, all you knew how to say was,
'Please raise your seat backs, place your tray tables in a fully
locked and upright position, make sure that all carry-on luggage
is securely stowed beneath the seat in front of you, and pass all
plastic cups and glasses--'"

"So what! So I was a flight attendant! I wanted to better myself,
and I did! Look where I am today--le plus Men place! Patsy
Collingwood probably isn't even going to have her dinner party if
you and I can't be there. She as much as said so."

"You bettered yourself, all right. Thanks to me."

"Okay--thanks to you!"

"And my money."

"Okay--and your goddamned money. You got what you married me for,
too! The best blow job you ever had!"

"One of the things I married you for," he says evenly, "was to do
as you're told. And I'm telling you I want you to do something
about Noah Liebling and his wife."

"Why? Tell me why you want me to entertain them?"

"Because I want his business, that's why. Old lady Liebling is
getting up there in years. The old battle-ax can't live forever.
She's either going to die or retire, and when she does one of
those two things, the son is going to take over the company, and
when that happens I want his business. Do you realize that for
all the years the old battle-ax has been running Ingrahams, the
biggest distiller in the world, she's never placed a single order
from my bottling plant?"

"Probably because your father made a point of moving out of one
thousand Park at the same moment the Lieblings moved in. Talk
about royal snubs!"

"That's water over the dam. I want you to do something for Noah
Liebling and his wife."

"Truck, I will simply not have those people in my house."

"Then invite them to dinner at a restaurant."

"And be seen with them? In public*! What if Rnw ™
Liz, or Cindy, or Billy should see us? They'd think we were
friends."

"Then they'd invite us to their place. They live at River House."

"How that board passed them I'll never know. She knows nothing
about placement. She has a needlepoint pillow in her living room
that has "Thank you for not smoking' on it."

"Maybe she's allergic."

"No. She says the smoke would damage her paintings. Paintings!
She hasn't got any, at least none that you or I would hang. Oh,
she has a couple of Warhols. But nobody hangs Warhol anymore.
After that disastrous sale at Christie's, I took our Warhol down.
I was too embarrassed. Warhol is one of yesterday's painters."

"I wondered where the Warhol went. Where is it?"

"Stacked behind the dryer in the laundry room. Where he belongs.
But Carol Liebling--she still hangs him. So you see what I mean."
With her hand she gives her frosted hair a flip from behind.

He takes a sip of his champagne. "For someone you dislike so
much, you seem to know an awful lot about her," he says.

"She has a daughter the same age as Linda. They were at Brearley
together. I used to see Carol at parent teacher meetings. And
speaking of that, do you know what that woman had the nerve to
say to me?"

"What?"

"She said, 'Have you thought about doing anything with your
Chinese porcelains?' "

"What the hell did she mean by that?"

"Oh, she does some volunteer work for the museum." She gestures
vaguely in the direction of the building across the street, which
is invisible behind the drawn drapes. "She's on a couple of
committees. I'm sure she's hoping to get on the board, which'll
never happen, of course. She asked me if I'd consider giving our
collection to the museum."

"Oh," he says.

"She even said--and this is the worst part--she even said, 'Just
think, if you gave your porcelains to the Met, you could run
across the street and visit the collection
whenever you'd like.' Can you imagine a more gauche remark?"

"Actually," he says thoughtfully, "it's not such a bad idea."

"What's not a bad idea?"

"Giving that stuff to the museum. We'd get a nice tax deduction.
My grandfather collected it. I've never given a shit about all
that stuff."

"Truck Van Degan, are you out of your mindl That pair of Lang Yao
sang-de-boeuf vases alone is worth a fortune! I had an appraiser
in. He said you almost never find a pair. No way do you give any
of it away. That collection is my insurance!"

"What do you mean--your insurance?"

"You won't buy life insurance. When you die, that collection is
one thing I'll have to fall back on."

"I don't buy life insurance because I don't believe in it."

"Don't give me that, Truck. I know you too well. You won't buy
life insurance because you're scared to take the physical."

"So," he says carefully, "you're getting ready for me to die. Is
that it, sweet tits?"

"Well, after all, you are twenty-two years older than I am,
darling. A girl has to think about her future, after all."

"Okay," he says, leaning forward in his chair, "let's talk about
the future. Let's talk about the immediate future. I've asked you
to do something about Noah Liebling and his wife. I haven't asked
you. I've told you. I don't give a shit what you think about his
wife. I don't give a shit what she knows about placement, or
whether she hangs Andy Warhol or not. I happen to own a glass
manufacturing business. I make bottles. It used to be that we
could do okay selling to the pharmaceutical companies. But the
pharmaceuticals are all switching to plastics. It's killing us."

"Maybe you should get into the plastics business, darling."

"Shut up. Listen to me. There's a rumor on the street that
Ingraham is about to launch an important new label. A new label
means new bottles. I want the contract for those bottles, and
you're going to help me get it. Is that
clear? Can you get that through that thick skull of yours? The
girls are the way to do it."

"What girls?"

"Linda and their daughter. They went to school together. That's
your reason for inviting Noah and his wife to dinner."

"But I can't. Our friends would--"

"Don't tell me what you can and can't do, Georgette. I'm telling
you what you will do. Understand?"

"Well, I won't." She jumps to her feet. "/ won't!"

"You want to get into it with me, Georgette? Remember, I own this
house. I own the porcelain collection. And I own you. You defy
me, and you'll just have to accept the consequences."

"You're saying you'll divorce me? Listen, you son of a bitch,
I've got enough goods on you--all documented, don't forget--that
if you try to dump me, I'll get a lawyer to slap a divorce suit
on you so fast you won't know what hit you! How would you like
some of your recent shenanigans, up in Westchester and elsewhere,
dragged through a divorce court? You think I had your daughter
for the hell of it? I had your child so if you ever tried to dump
me, you'd be paying alimony and child support till you bleed to
death, you bastard! You think I'm kidding? When I finish with
you, you bastard, you won't know your ass from chopped liver! You
think business is bad now? When I finish with you, Van Degan
Glassworks will be in Chapter Thirteen!"

From where he sits, he reaches out and seizes her left wrist,
which is encased in a heavy gold bracelet. "Georgette . . . I'm
warning you," he says.

"Let go of me!" she screams. She is a tall woman, five ten, and
very thin, but also very strong. He, however, is easily a hundred
pounds heavier than she. With his hand on her wrist, he tries to
force her back into her chair again while, twisting her wrist in
his grip, she tries to claw the back of his hand with her
fingernails.

"You want rough stuff, bitch?" he says. "I can do rough stuff.
Want a little rough stuff?"

"Stop! You're hurting me!"

He reaches for her other wrist, but she is too quick for him.
With her free hand she reaches for her champagne glass and throws
it in his face. A spot of blood appears above his left eyebrow.

"Bitch!" He raises his hand and is about to strike her when the
butler appears at the door.

Pretending not to have heard the scream, or to notice anything
unusual in his employers' situation, the butler says, "Dinner is
served, Mrs. Van Degan."

The butler might have made one pertinent observation: Evenings
when Truxton and Georgette Van Degan dine at home alone are
extremely rare, but at least during this one they have been
actually having a conversation.

 River House! He must have been out of his mind, Noah Liebling
often thinks, when he bought an apartment in this building, and
he must have been further out of his mind when he agreed to be
elected president of the building's board. Noah and Carol have
discussed selling their apartment at River House, even though the
market for apartments like theirs is soft right now. With Anne
away at college, they hardly need these five bedrooms and five
baths. But now that Noah is the board's president--well, selling
would seem like a gesture of bad faith, wouldn't it? A coward's
way out.

Besides, this is--River House! Thirty stories high, a full city
block in width, and containing only seventy three
apartments--many of them duplexes, one of them a triplex with a
two-story living room--when it was put up it was heralded as the
most luxurious, and most expensive, apartment building in the
world. It still is. It is also an unpluggable sinkhole for money.
The building soaks up money like a blotter, like a giant sponge.
It always has.

River House was built, Noah often thinks, as an act of sheer
defiance, or an act of sheer folly--though not on the builder's
part. He got his money out of it right away, and left the
owner-tenants with the burden of maintaining his extravaganza.
Ground was broken in 1930, hard on the heels of the great stock
market crash of 1929. "A symbol of the city's faith in its
economic future," the Times called it at the time. But in 1930
the city's economic future looked decidedly grim, and during the
next decade, as the Great Depression deepened,
things got even grimmer. The building faces the East River, and
when it was built, it had its own private marina for its tenants'
yachts. Yachts were in short supply during the 1930s, and the
tenants heaved a collective sigh of relief in 1941 when the city
acquired the riparian rights from the building in order to
construct the FDR Drive.

But this was only one economic burden lifted from the building.
Another burden has always been the River Club, which occupies
five floors and includes dining rooms, party rooms, tennis
courts, a swimming pool, and twenty-one guest bedrooms.
Originally, the River Club was to be for the exclusive use of the
building's tenants. Of course, this didn't work when many tenants
declined to purchase club memberships and pay club dues. The
River Club was advertised as "a family club," just as River House
was supposed to be a family building, meaning that bachelors and
single women were discouraged. But soon the club found itself
forced to sell memberships to families outside the building, and
to rent out its party rooms for outside functions. The twenty-one
guest bedrooms remain a problem. They were designed to be
available for "overflow house guests" of the tenants. But since
few families suffer from overflow house guests nowadays, these
rooms are usually vacant and, in any cooperative building, vacant
space stands for lack of revenue. When Noah suggested that these
rooms might be rented out to transients, there was consternation
among the tenants. "You mean running the building like a hotell"
cried one. "With total strangers coming in and out?"

"No new assessments!" Each new board president has made this
valiant promise to his neighbors. At least Noah knew better than
to promise such a never-never world. There will always be new
assessments. The need for new assessments arises as often as once
a month, at the monthly tenant meetings, and of course the owners
of the largest apartments always scream the loudest. It is no
wonder that the tenants' meetings often turn into name-calling,
free-for-all shouting matches. Sometimes it seems to Noah as
though no one in the building is really happy living there.

Tenants' meetings are designed to follow the format
of the New England town meeting, with each tenant permitted to
have his or her say. As happens in New England, this means that
very little actually gets accomplished. Here are some of the
issues covered at the most recent tenants' meeting over which
Noah Liebling attempted to preside:

The building's exterior badly needs a cleaning, and to sand-blast
and steam-clean the facade will cost about a million dollars.
(Everything that needs to be done to the building seems to cost
about a million dollars.) Of course, that will mean a special
assessment. There are cries of outrage over this. But the
contractor has warned that sand-blasting may loosen the mortar
between the bricks, and if that happens, the entire building will
have to be repointed, and this will cost a good deal more.

Then Mr. Dellamore on fourteen got up to say that he has heard of
a new method for cleaning buildings involving an acid wash. But
Mrs. Corning on seventeen pointed out that acid washing would
cause acid to drip down the sides of the building into the
surrounding plants and shrubbery, killing it all, and Mrs.
Ellinger on seven declared that she didn't want her section of
the building washed with acid. Didn't acid have poisonous fumes?
She had no intention of wearing a gas mask around her house for a
month.

Mr. Gerridge on twenty-one suggested that only the building's
facade that faced the street be washed, but Mrs. Conklin, on
eighteen, pointed out that the side facing the river was the
dirtiest and deserved the cleaning most, since that was the side
the tourists saw when they went up and down the river on the
Circle Line cruises. And speaking of views, Mrs. Townsend on nine
interrupted, she would like to ask Mrs. Laidlaw, also on nine, to
stop drying her panty hose from her windowsill, of which Mrs.
Townsend's dining room had a full view. Mrs. Laidlaw hotly denied
doing any such thing. In the end it was decided to appoint a
committee to study ways and means of getting the building
cleaned.

Next on the agenda was the matter of the building's entrance
drive, which needed to be resurfaced. Caroline Taylor, on
seventeen, claimed she had nearly broken an ankle when she caught
her heel in a crack in the pavement. What if that sort of thing
happened to a visitor,
who might then sue? Very simple, said Mrs. Vadrick on nine.
Simply tell your taxi driver to take you straight to the front
door, and you won't have to walk on the pavement. Anything to
avoid another assessment, she added, and besides, didn't the
building have insurance to cover accidents of that kind?

That brought up another problem, Noah reminded them. The
building's insurance carrier had announced a rate increase of
fifty thousand a year. An assessment would have to be levied to
cover the added premium. Mr. Sturtevant, on twenty-four, reminded
the group that he was president of an insurance company. He was
sure his company would give River House a new insurance policy at
a much lower premium. It was decided to form two committees, one
on the need for repaying the drive and another to look into new
insurance policies.

Then there was the problem of Dr. Skidmore's storm windows. Dr.
Skidmore, who lived on four, wanted to install aluminum-frame
storm windows throughout his apartment. He was willing to have
this done at his own expense, so no additional assessment would
be involved, but a number of the other tenants thought aluminum
frame storm windows looked tacky. Leading the tacky contingent
was Monica McCluskey, the mouthwash heiress. After Ms. McCluskey
made her point, Dr. Skidmore got up and made a long, impassioned
speech about the environment, and the importance of conserving
energy, and stressed the fact that his aluminum-frame storm
windows would help reduce the building's heating and air
conditioning bills, which were already staggering and getting
bigger all the time. Ms. McCluskey replied that it wouldn't be so
bad if the Skidmores occupied "one of the more desirable
upper-floor apartments," such as her own, where storm windows
would not be visible from the street. But as it was, from their
"less desirable" space on the fourth floor, and in full view of
passersby, "Dr. Skidmore wants to add tacky-looking storm windows
that will make the whole building look tacky." Dr. Skidmore then
called Ms. McCluskey "a postmenopausal old bag." Ms. McCluskey
called Dr. Skid more a "creep."

It was decided to table the storm-window issue for the time
being, until tempers cooled. Sometimes it seems to
Noah that everybody in River House hates everybody else.

"But while we're on the subject of floors," Mrs. Curtis LeMosney
rose to say, "as we all know, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, who live on
the floor below mine, have recently, on their own and without the
building's permission, hired a contractor and knocked down the
wall between their living room and library in order to enlarge
their living room. My apartment has the same configuration as the
Hamiltons', or it did before they removed that wall. And now my
living room floor squeaks when I walk across it, which it never
did before." This drew no comment, since the knocked-out wall was
a fait accompli. "I would like the board to reprimand the
Hamiltons," Mrs. LeMosney added.

The last matter of business involved the canvas entrance canopy
over the front door, which had been ripped in a recent storm and
needed to be replaced. "The individual assessments for this
should be relatively small," Noah added in what he hoped was an
encouraging tone. Everyone agreed that the torn canopy looked
awful, but there was considerable disagreement about what color
the new canopy should be. A few traditionalists favored the same
color as before, a sober dark brown. But others wanted something
different for a change, dark green, perhaps, or a deep Venetian
red, or dark blue, or black "to match the black marble in the
entrance foyer." Each color, it seemed, had its small band of
advocates. Monica McCluskey suggested a color that would be
"bright, gay, and inviting," like yellow, orange, baby blue, or
pink. There were boos and hisses when she got to pink. The
argument over colors grew quite heated until it was decided to
appoint a committee to study canopy colors and collect fabric
samples.

There being no further business, Noah could always count on his
old friend Frank Stokes to move that the meeting be adjourned,
and on Beryl, Frank's wife, to second the motion.

Everyone who lives in River House is supposed to be rich. But,
Noah sometimes suspects, some of the building's tenants may not
be as comfortably off as they pretend to be. There is the curious
case of the Darius Satterthwaites, for example. Joanne (called
"Pookie")
Satterthwaite and her husband are in the Social Register. Pookie
and Darius Satterthwaites' names are often in the columns and, in
fact, Pookie Satterthwaite, Georgette Van Degan, and Patsy
Collingwood are often referred to as "The Big Three" among New
York's social ladies. The Satterthwaites own one of the grander
duplexes in River House, on the twenty-ninth and thirtieth
floors, and yet they have no furniture. Not a stick of it. Where
do they sleep, Noah often wonders--on the building's famous
mahogany parquet floors?

And then there is the perennial problem of Graham Grenfell, the
famous interior designer. Mr. Grenfell's apartment is lavishly
furnished in antique pieces of museum quality. In fact, some
people suspect that Graham Grenfell uses his apartment as his
showroom, though this is strictly against the rules. Graham
Grenfell has decorated a number of River House apartments,
including Monica McCluskey's, who is said to have spent fifteen
million on interior decor, including Fortuny wall coverings and
window hangings, marble bathrooms, and a Baccarat chandelier in
her dining room that cost a cool million in itself. Too big for
the freight elevator, the chandelier had to be hoisted up from
the street by a construction crane mounted on the roof. And yet
despite assignments the size of this one, Graham Grenfell is
always at least three months delinquent in his monthly
maintenance payments. Just when the board is about to write him a
letter, threatening to cut off his services, meaning he will have
to carry out his own garbage to the street, Mr. Grenfell makes a
partial payment and the board withdraws the letter. Noah Liebling
has promised to do his best to put River House on a sound fiscal
basis, but with tenants the likes of Graham Grenfell, this is
going to be hard to do.

 Noah and Carol Liebling own what is considered a midsize
apartment at River House, and on a middle floor, the fifteenth.
Their friends Frank and Beryl Stokes--Frank is an Ingraham
vice-president, and Noah helped the Stokeses get into the
building--have the same apartment on the floor below. Tonight
Carol has set her dinner table for ten, with place cards. She
has, in fact, given considerable thought to placement. She and
Noah will sit at either end, of course, and since the sexes are
not evened out--six women, four men--she will give herself two
women: Noah's mother, on her right, in the place of honor, and
Ruth's daughter, Becka, reunited with her mother at least for the
time being, will be on Carol's left. Noah will then be given two
women: sister Ruth, on his right, and Melody Richards on his
left. Carol had thought it would be fun for the two girls to have
the young celebrity author sit between them, and so she has
placed Bill Luckman between Melody and Anne. Across the table,
next to Becka, will go Ruth's new beau, whose name is Ector, and
then Cyril, on Ruth's right. The table looks very pretty, with
yellow tulips, out of season, as a centerpiece, but the candles
have not yet been lighted. After receiving Mr. Nelson's telephone
call from the car about the traffic situation on Park, Carol told
Edna, her cook, to take the roast out of the oven so it won't be
overdone. It can be slipped back in again when the last three
dinner guests arrive.

Now the other seven are in the living room having cocktails.
Mary, Carol's maid, is passing hot hors d'oeuvres. The lights
from Long Island City, across the river, glitter from the tall
windows, and William Luckman has assumed center stage, spreading
his arms in wide demonstration before his temporarily captive
audience. "The trouble is," he is saying, "is that the so-called
modernist poets have lost the power to express emotions.
Feelings. Lost it--they've thrown it away! When somebody like
Keats talked about high-piled books in charactery, you could just
see, you could almost reach out and touch all those wonderful,
dusty old volumes. Thumb-worn, with heavy leather bindings--all
piled in a sloppy sort of stack. Just in those five words you can
feel the lamplight, feel the almost runic content of those books.
Now someone like Merwin, on the other hand--"

"Oh, I agree with you," Carol Liebling says. "I've always loved
the English romantic poets. They wrote with meter, and they wrote
with rhyme. Meter and rhyme require work, and thought, and
discipline. So much modern poetry seems just lazy to me. My
friend Beryl Stokes is a former English teacher. She taught
creative writing at the high school level. She said her
kids would put any jumble of words on paper and call it a poem."

"They do the same thing at Bennington today," Melody Richards
says. "The teachers try not to let them get away with it. We're
asked to write an Alexandrian sonnet, a Shakespearean sonnet.
They're not easy."

"You're both absolutely right," Bill Luckman says, nodding his
approval. "Modern poetry is too easy to write. That's why no one
reads it. And that's why no one wants to publish it. How long has
it been since each of you has read a contemporary poem? Becka?"

"Months." Becka is trying hard not to look bored.

"Ector? I'm particularly interested in hearing your views."

"Uh--" He blows his nose into a paper cocktail napkin.

"Melody?"

"Well, at school we do read Eliot. And Pound. And--"

"They're almost classicists now, aren't they? Carol? How long?"
"Years. Years and years." He is a bit full of himself, she
thinks, taking over the conversation like this. But he is
certainly a nice-looking young man, with looks that suggest a
young Tyrone Power. His eyebrows grow straight across the bridge
of his nose, in a single dark, unbroken line along his brow. This
is supposed to say something about a man's character, but Carol
can't remember what it is. Like a cleft chin, or dimples. Does it
indicate strength or weakness? "What about you, Noah?" he asks.
"How long since you've read a contemporary poem?"

Noah is busy refilling drinks. "I've never been much of a
literary type," he says. "But I think I do agree with you about
the moderns."

He turns to Noah's sister now. "Melody tells me you're writing a
novel, Countess," he says.

Ruth merely smiles.

"Can you tell us what it's about?"

She hesitates. "Love, I suppose," she says at last.

"Wonderful. Every great novel must contain a great love story."

Ruth has learned one thing from her days in films.
She has learned how to find the key light. She has found it now,
in a tiny low-voltage ceiling spot that was placed to illuminate
Andy WarhoPs Double Marilyn with purple hair and green lips. When
this light touches the tip of Ruth's nose, the tiny lines of
aging, aided by periodic collagen injections, seem to fade away.
Still, Carol thinks that Ruth, at fifty-five, has kept her beauty
remarkably well, along with her figure. If only Ruth didn't
always seem to be so unhappy . . .

". . . You're brave to hang your Warhols," Bill Luck man is
saying. "A lot of people nowadays are nervous about owning
Warhol. They're saying he's not a has been but a never-was."

"Noah and I buy pictures we like. We don't think of them as
investments, if that's what you mean."

"I admire your courage, Carol," he says. "I truly do."

"Have you ever thought of writing a novel, Bill?" Melody asks
him. "Perhaps you should."

He gives her a sudden, hard look. "Are you suggesting that
Blighted Elms is fiction?" he says.

"No, I only meant--"

"I assume everyone here has read my book," he says.

There is a brief, embarrassed silence, and Carol moves about the
room with a plate of tiny sausages wrapped in pastry. "Do try one
of these. My cook makes them herself. . . ."

Ector yawns noisily. ("It's Ector, not Hector," he said when
introducing himself. "It's a Welsh name." And Carol has been so
busy remembering this unusual first name that she has forgotten
his last, which is something simple like White or Smith or
Jones.) "Anything good on TV?" he asks now. "New Year's Eve,
there ought to be some really neat shows." He looks around the
room. "Hey, where is your TV?" he asks.

"There's a set in the library," Carol murmurs, "but--"

"You got a library here? Like the public library?"

"The room where we keep our books." She smiles brightly at him.

"You don't have a TV in the living room, where you can watch it?
Are you shitting me?"

From the moment he entered the room, Carol suspected that Ruth's
new beau was going to present a problem. For one thing, he must
be less than half Ruth's
age. For another, he is not appropriately dressed, in a blue
windbreaker and an open shirt that is unbuttoned down to his
chest hairs. He looks like a young thug, or a stevedore. He has
heavy, pouting lips, like the young men who pose in leather
zip-front bikini briefs for some of the kinkier menswear
catalogues that show up in your mailbox. Carol Liebling suddenly
has the wild thought that Ruth may have hired him for the evening
from an escort service. He looks like a boy toy, and she wonders,
with a sense of grim amusement, what Ruth's mother, when she
arrives, will think of Ruth's newest romantic interest.

Ector, apparently sensing that he has said something out of
place, stands up. "Gotta take a leak," he says. "Where's the
John?"

"Straight down the hall, on your right," Carol says brightly. She
glances at Ruth, who is following Ector adoringly with her eyes,
and she hears Bill Luckman murmur the words "free spirit," but
she is not sure whether he is referring to her, and her choice of
artists, or to Ector.

Bill Luckman, without missing a beat and not wishing to lose his
audience, turns to Ruth. "It's such a pleasure to meet you,
Countess," he says. "I happened to watch The Archbishop's Wife on
television the other night, and now that I've met you I can see
that you would have been perfect to play the part of Rosalie.
Brenda Scofield, who ended up playing your part, just didn't do
the role justice."

"Thank you," Ruth whispers.

"Was it wonderful working with the great John Mardsen?"

She nods, and smiles, and spreads her hands in what can-I-say
gesture.

He turns to Carol. "You see, I've done my homework on the
Liebling family," he says, and the implication is left floating
in the air that the Liebling family has not done sufficient
homework on him.

"I know you're all going to be impressed with Bill's book when
you've had a chance to read it," Melody says. "It's really a
blistering indictment of academia in the nineties."

"That's what the New York Times says," he says.
Ector has returned from the bathroom, and now makes a point of
sitting in a loveseat next to Becka, rather than Ruth, which Ruth
notices but pretends not to notice. "What do you do, Ector?"
Becka asks him.

"Do?"

"For a living, I mean."

"Oh. Entertainment business."

"You're an actor?"

"More in the entertainment end, I guess," he says.

"Interesting."

Now there is another small crisis. Though he is sitting on a sofa
next to a needlepoint pillow with the legend thank you for not
smoking, Bill Luckman has just casually reached into his jacket
pocket, removed a pack of Dunhill cigarettes, and is lighting one
with a slim gold lighter. There are several anxious glances in
Carol's direction, but she merely says, "Let me see if I can find
you something to use for an ashtray, Bill."

And as Carol goes to the drawer of a small table in search of an
ashtray, Ector, seeing what Bill is doing, reaches in his own
windbreaker pocket for cigarettes. Ruth raises her fingertip in a
small warning gesture.

"Hell, if that guy can smoke, why can't I?" Ector says angrily.
"What's so special about that fucker?"

"Let me see if I can find ashtrays for you both," Carol says,
rummaging through the drawer, feeling suddenly short of breath.

There is something almost arrogant in Bill Luckman's smile, and
in the way he holds the cigarette poised in his hand, waiting to
be served an ashtray. Turning to Noah, he says, "Melody tells me
you and Carol are almost like foster parents to her, Noah," he
says, exhaling sharply.

"Surrogate," Noah says. "More like surrogate parents. At least at
holiday times. We're all very fond of Melody."

"Tell me, Bill," Carol says. "Are you working on another book?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am," he says, looking pleased with
the question.

"Can you tell us what it is? Or is it a deep, dark secret?"

"Well, Blighted Elms is about sex, as I guess you all
know. Sex is one of the two most powerful forces in human life.
Sex itself is an act of raw power. In every sexual act there is
one partner who is the victor, while the other is the conquered.
Sex is an act of overpowerment. There is only one other source of
power to equal it, in fact, to surpass it, and that is what I am
writing about in my new book."

"Is sex really an act of overpowerment? Not for me." This is from
Carol, in a bemused tone. "It seems to me more like a kind of
sharing."

"Money," he says. "Sex is about physical power. Money is about
emotional and psychological power. My book will be about
America's secret rich."

"Oh? And who are America's secret rich?" Becka asks him. Becka,
Carol thinks, does not much care for this young man.

"Take families like the Pritzkers of Chicago. They're enormously
rich. They're a family of lawyers, but lawyers whose only clients
are themselves. They're into all sorts of things. Hotels. Vast
real estate holdings. But nobody really knows anything about
them. Then there are the Weyerhaeusers of the Pacific
Northwest--lumber barons. Except for the extraordinary number of
vowels in the family name--six--nobody knows anything about them,
either. But all these families have skeletons in their closets,
family secrets that they make sure no one ever knows about.
Shameful secrets."

"The secret rich and their shameful secrets," Becka says.

"Exactly," he says.

"What makes you so sure there are secrets? And if there are
secrets, that they're so shameful?"

"There always are. There've got to be. If there weren't any
secrets, they wouldn't be rich."

"Hmm," Becka says. "Interesting."

Melody, Carol notices, has been oddly silent through all of this,
her eyes fixed on some indeterminate middle distance.

"And then there are the Lieblings of New York," he says.

Carol laughs lightly. "I'm not sure the Lieblings have any
shameful secrets," she says. "But we're a family
who've always enjoyed a certain amount of privacy. Most of us
intend to keep it that way."

"Gotta take another leak," Ector says, standing up again, and
Carol wonders briefly if he is possibly on some sort of drug.

"Some rich families have enjoyed too much privacy."

"And how," Becka asks him, leaning forward, "do you intend to go
about extracting these secrets from the families you plan to
write about? How do you go about shaking family skeletons out of
closets?"

"That," he says with a little smile, "may take a certain amount
of engineering."

Carol watches as Ector returns to the room and slumps in the
loveseat again beside Becka, who barely seems to notice him.

"Engineering?"

"It's part of the creative process. Causing things to happen that
wouldn't happen otherwise. It's part of the artist's job, molding
the ordinary realities of life into what becomes a work of art."

"Do you mean to say you'll simply make things up?" Becka asks
him.

"I assure you," he says sharply, "that my book will not be a work
of fiction. It will, on the other hand, be a work of art."

"Fascinating," Carol says, to fill the little silence that has
fallen across the room. "Another little quiche before they get
cold?"

"Shit," Ector says, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray
that Carol has provided. He turns to Ruth. "Is this all your
family ever does? Talk about shit like this? Books and art and
stuff? Let's see what's on TV."

But the moment is saved by the sound of the doorbell.

"They're here," Carol says, and hurries to the door to greet
Hannah Liebling, Cyril, and Anne. There follow the usual
apologies for being late, descriptions of the state of traffic on
Park Avenue, the collecting of coats and scarves, greetings and
kisses. Cyril kisses Carol on both cheeks, then turns to his
sister, performs a deep bow, and lifts her thin hands to his
lips. "My dear Contessa," he says. "Looking lovelier than ever,
and younger than springtime." He turns to Ector and stares
at him imperiously. "And this must be your new beau. Oh, my. Will
wonders never cease."

"I need to tell Edna to put the roast back in the oven," Carol is
saying.

"Yes. I like my lamb pink, but not bleeding. At least my slice.
Noah, I'd like to have a few words with you alone after dinner."

"Sure, Mom."

During all this Becka returns to Bill Luckman. "You used the word
engineering," she says. "Do you mean you can engi/xeer family
scandals in these rich families you'll be writing about?"

"I'm simply describing the artistic process," he says. Turning
life into art."

 Not too many city blocks away, on upper Fifth Avenue, Georgette
Van Degan is lying across her bed weeping. "Please, darling," she
is saying to him, "please let me do what you like the most. Both
your balls in my mouth at once. Isn't that what you like the
most, darling? Isn't it? Let me do that for you now."

"Make that phone call first," he says. "Then you can do that."

"Please," she sobs. "Take off your clothes, darling. Let me get
both of those fat juicy balls--"

"Make that call now! Call Carol Liebling now! Do you hear me?"

"But it's New Year's Eve, Truck! People don't call other
people--people they hardly know--on New Year's Eve!"

"Make it now, I said. I want to watch you make it." He hurls the
heavy Manhattan phone book onto the bed beside her. "Look up
their number and make that call."

She stifles one final sob, blows her nose into a Kleenex, wipes
her eyes, and rolls over on her side and reaches for the
telephone book.
A Telephone Call

 "Your roast is perfect, dear," Hannah Liebling is saying to
Carol at the table. "Just the way I like it. Pink, but not
bleeding. And yes," she says to Mary, who is passing the lamb
roast a second time, "I do think I will have a second slice." She
helps herself from Mary's outstretched platter.

"When I heard you were going to be late, I had Edna take it out
of the oven," Carol says. "So it wouldn't overdo." And yes, she
thinks, her table looks perfect, too--the Spode, the Baccarat
wineglasses, the lighted candles in their heavy silver
candlesticks, the flatware freshly polished by Mary just this
afternoon, even though Ector has clearly had some trouble
selecting which fork to use and left his dinner fork in the bowl
in which the carrots were being passed. Mary quickly removed it,
replaced it with a serving fork, and gave him another dinner
fork. The yellow tulips in the centerpiece are drooping
gracefully, just so, and Carol dares to hope that the rest of the
evening will go well.

"I'm glad to see you using the Sachs family silver," Hannah says.
"You're taking such good care of it, too, just the way my mother
used to do. My mother always said that good silver should be
polished every day."

Bill Luckman lifts a dessert fork and balances it between his
thumb and forefinger. "This is German silver, isn't it, Mrs.
Liebling?" he says.

"Indeed it is. In my mother's day, German silver was considered
to be the best."

"How'd you know that?" Ector asks him from across the table.
"How'd you know it was German silver?" His tone is almost
aggressive, and the two young men, who are roughly the same age,
exchange cool looks. This is
the first acknowledgment that Bill has made of Ector's presence
at this gathering.

"A Yale education, I suppose," Bill Luckman says, a bit drily.

"Huh!"

"Bill has written a book about Yale," Melody says, trying to be
helpful.

"The traffic was really terrible coming down Park Avenue," Hannah
says. "Bumper to bumper. I told my driver he would have done
better to come down Third. There are more lanes, and the lights
are synchronized."

"Excuse me," Bill says, "but isn't Third Avenue an uptown
street?"

There is a little silence, and then Cyril says, "There is one
thing you should know about our mother, Mr. Luckman. If she wants
Third Avenue to run downtown, even for a few minutes and for just
a few blocks, she will pay to have it done."

There is polite laughter at this, and then Hannah says, "And
there was the most awful-looking group of young Negroes, with the
strangest hairdos, who came right out into the street, and were
jumping over cars, including ours. Right on Park Avenue! This
isn't the same city I knew when I was growing up."

"But Mother has her pistol, and her can of Mace," Cyril says.
"Our mother is always armed to the teeth, ready to do battle in
any contingency."

There is more polite laughter. "New York just isn't the city it
used to be," his mother says. "It just isn't. It's all those
Negroes who came up from the South after the war."

Carol reaches out and touches her mother-in-law's wrist, and
glances toward the kitchen door where Mary, who is black, is
emerging to pass the vegetables a second time.

"It's true. That's what it is," Hannah says.

"Of course Mother is referring to the first war," Cyril says.
"The Battle of Ardennes. Now, that was my idea of a battle. No,
thank you, Mary," he «ays to the vegetable plates, one in each
hand.

Now there is a little lull in the conversation.

"Beautiful tulips," Melody says.

"Tulips in midwinter."
"They force them in hothouses."

"Delicious roast. Be sure to tell Edna."

Bill Luckman clears his throat. "You're all so kind to include me
in this little family gathering," he says.

"Of course," says Cyril, "it would be more of a family gathering
if Aunt Bathy were here." He winks slyly at his brother, and Noah
and Carol exchange glances down the length of the table.

"Aunt Bathy?" Bill says. "What a charming name. Who is Aunt
Bathy?"

"My baby sister," Hannah says. "Her name is Bath sheba, after my
father's grandmother, but we've always called her Bathy."

"Bathsheba? Wasn't Bathsheba an adulteress in the Bible?"

"Yes, but she and David repented, and the Lord forgave them. She
gave birth to Solomon, whom the Lord loved."

"Of course, you're absolutely right," he says.

"Bathy is what my mother called her change-of-life baby. She's
seventeen years younger than I am."

"With that much difference in your ages, she must have seemed
more like your daughter than your baby sister, Mrs. Liebling."

"Well, perhaps. More like a little doll I could play with. My
father used to call us his three graces--my big sister Settee, my
baby sister Bathy, and me."

"And why isn't she here tonight?" he asks.

There is a little silence around the table, and then Cyril says,
"Let's just say that some people in the family see Aunt Bathy,
and some people don't."

"I see her all the time," Hannah says. "She lives in Brooklyn
Heights. Bathy's tragedy was that she never married. And she was
the prettiest of all of us. But she just never seemed able to
find Mr. Right."

"Or perhaps Mr. Right turned out to be Mr. Wrong," Cyril says.

"She just never found her one true love," she says.

"Granny's one true love wasn't Grandpa," Anne says with a giggle.
"Right, Nana Hannah?"

"Anne, whatever are you talking about?"

"You said so in the car."

"I said no such thing!"
"Anne, don't tease your grandmother," Carol says.

"What's this?" Ector asks as Mary places a finger bowl on the
silver service plate in front of him.

"It's called a finger bowl," Bill Luckman says. "Remove the spoon
and fork from the plate. Place the fork on your left and the
spoon on your right. Now lift the bowl, and the doily, and place
them both at eleven o'clock above your service plate."

"Why's there a flower floating in it?"

"Ignore the flower."

"What's this? More Yale shit?" He takes a gulp of his wine.

"Tell me more about your sister Bathy, Mrs. Liebling," Bill
Luckman says, turning back to her.

"My father adored Bathy. She was the apple of his eye. My father
was a famous educator, Mr. Luckman, but I suppose you knew that,
since I gather you're interested in education."

"No, I didn't know that," he says.

"My father was Dr. Marcus Sachs."

"Should that name ring a bell, Mrs. Liebling?"

"Well, it would to a lot of people. He ran the Sachs Collegiate
Institute. Of course, it died when he died. But he educated the
sons of some of the finest families in New York City."

"She means some of the finest Jewish families, Mr. Luckman,"
Cyril says.

Ector looks across at Ruth. "You Jewish?" he says. "You didn't
tell me that. I thought you said you was a countess."

Ruth merely smiles faintly and lowers her eyes. The key light now
comes from the flickering flames of the candelabra.

"My father believed in discipline," Hannah says. "He did not
believe in sparing the rod."

"Like some other fathers I could mention," Cyril says.

"And yet he turned out young men who went on to become some of
the greatest business leaders in this city, including Bernie
Baruch. My father taught that sort. Not someone like my husband."

"And you didn't even love him!" Anne says.

2

Stephen Birmingham
"That's not true, Anne. It's not true that I didn't love your
grandfather."

"Then why--"

"This is Edna's famous chocolate mousse," Carol says brightly,
picking up her spoon. "It's made with Deme rara rum."

"The great Bernard Baruch," Bill Luckman says. "That really is
impressive, Mrs. Liebling."

"He went on to become a family friend. Whatever money Papa left
to my sisters and me, we have to thank Bernie for his advice to
Papa on investments."

Bill turns to Carol. "This is all so interesting," he says. "Tell
me about your family, Carol."

She laughs. "Not as distinguished as my husband's, I'm afraid."

"On the Sachs side, at least," Hannah says. "The Lieblings
weren't anybody."

"My parents were quite ordinary, small-town people," Carol says.
"My father died"--though this is not quite the truth--"and my
mother is in a nursing home in Connecticut."

"So you're able to visit her fairly often?"

"Not as often as I should, I'm afraid," she says. "On her
birthday, and at Christmastime, and whenever I feel particularly
guilty about it. Those visits aren't easy--"

Anne giggles again. "Mom tries to think about Granny Dugan as
little as possible," she says. "She even forgets where Granny
Dugan is, and has to look the place up in her address book every
time she goes up there!"

"Anne, will you pass that little plate of cookies?" Carol says,
to change the subject.

"You visited her this Christmas, then?"

"Unfortunately, no, I--do try one of Edna's delicious almond
macaroons."

Bill Luckman turns to Anne, on his left, ignoring the cookies.
"What a rich mixture of genes you've inherited!" he says. "See
how much I've managed to learn already about the secret rich?"

"The secret rich?" Anne says.

"It's a book he's writing," Becka says. "About little known rich
families in America. The Lieblings are going to be one of them."
Anne giggles. "This family has plenty of secrets, that's for
sure," she says, and Bill Luckman gives Becka a look that says: I
told you so.

"We most certainly do not," Hannah says sharply. "I assure you,
Mr. Luckman, that my family will take no part in any such
enterprise."

Now Mary enters from the living room and goes to Carol. "A
telephone call for you, Mrs. Liebling," she whispers.

"Find out who it is, and tell them I'll call them back after I
finish dinner."

"It's Mrs. Truxton Van Degan, ma'am."

Carol frowns. "Georgette Van Degan," she says. "I wonder what she
wants. I guess I'd better take it. I'll take it in the other
room. Excuse me." She rises and steps into the next room.

"The famous Georgette Van Degan," Bill Luckman says.

"A typical New York story," Cyril says. "One day she's pushing a
cart down the aisle of a plane over Salt Lake City. The next day
she's living in a penthouse over Central Park, the toast of New
York society. Instant old money."

Hannah sniffs. "There used to be some Van Degans in our
building," she says. "We didn't know them."

Ector takes another swallow of his wine. "Hell, I don't mind if
you're all Jewish," he says. "I got nothing against the Jews. But
it's just that the way you was all quotin' the Bible a while
back, I thought you was the other way around."

"The Bible contains an Old Testament and a New Testament," Bill
Luckman says.

Ector scowls. "I gotta take a leak," he says, and pushes back his
chair.

But before he has completely left the room, or is fully out of
earshot, Hannah says in a loud voice, "Ruth, where in the world
did you ever dig up such a thoroughly unsuitable young man?"

And Ruth, who has said very little all evening, suddenly bursts
into tears. She flings her napkin on the table, jumps out of her
chair, tipping it over as she does, and runs after Ector,
screaming, "Ector! Ector! Take me homer
Noah reaches out and sets his sister's chair upright again, and
her daughter Becka, red-faced with embarrassment, says, "Should I
go with her? What do you think?"

"I'll see that you get home okay, Becka," Noah says quietly.

And in the long silence that follows Ruth's outburst, Melody
Richards says, "I heard a cute joke the other day. It's about the
nervous usher at the wedding. He's an usher at this big wedding,
you see, and he's very nervous about getting all these people
seated in the right seats. So when he sees a woman seated in the
wrong place, he says, 'Mardon me, padam, but you are occupewing
the wrong pie. Please allow me to sew you to another sheet.'"

Noah chuckles at the joke and thinks: Dear Melody! She must
sometimes wonder how she got involved with this crazy family.

"That," says Bill Luckman, "in case you didn't know it, is called
a Spoonerism, after William Archibald Spooner, 1844 to 1930, who
for many years was warden of New College, Oxford. He was famous
for his word transpositions, a form of metathesis. He once
proposed a toast to Queen Victoria as 'our queer old dean.' "

There is more polite laughter among the seven remaining at the
table, but Noah Liebling throws Bill Luckman a hard look. He has
decided that Ector is just a stupid clod, but Bill Luckman is a
wise-ass little prick.

"Ruth is so touchy," Hannah says.

Now Carol returns to the dining room, looking flushed and
excited. "That was Georgette Van Degan," she says. "She wants to
take me to lunch next week. I can't imagine why, I hardly know
her. Unless--and this is a really wild guess--unless she's
thinking of giving her Chinese porcelains to the Met. They really
have a fabulous collection, including a pair of Lang Yao
sang-de-boeuf vases that the museum would practically kill to
have. Do you suppose that's it? I suggested that to her a couple
of years ago, and maybe I planted a little seed in her mind. That
must be it. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Wouldn't that be a
feather in my cap--if I were the one who helped get the Van Degan
porcelains for the Met?"
Then she notices the two empty chairs. "What became of Ruth and
Ector?" she asks.

"I believe they went out to answer a call of nature," Cyril says
with a tight smile.

"I see," she says. And then, "Well, shall we have our coffee in
the living room?"

"I'd like to see you for a minute in the library, Noah," his
mother says. "A little family business."

 And now the little group, reduced to six--Carol, Bill, Cyril,
and the three younger girls--has gathered in the living room, as
Carol pours coffee. "The Van Degan collection is really
fabulous," she is saying. "There are some eleventh-century bowls
from the Sung period, for instance. Wouldn't it be great if the
Met could get it all?"

"This is a beautiful room," Bill Luckman says, "and such a
wonderful building. I understand that Noah is president of the
building's board. That's quite an honor."

Carol makes a face. "I think he's finding it more of a headache
than he bargained for," she says. "I think he's grateful that
it's only for a year."

"The architects were Bottomly, Wagner, and White," he says. "And
do you know that after they did River House, they never designed
another important building in New York? River House was their
Arbeit, and their swan song."

"What interesting tidbits of information you have at your
fingertips, Bill," Carol says.

But despite the attempt at light chitchat, the atmosphere in the
room is strained and tense. Becka, Ruth's daughter, still looks
uncomfortable. She would like to ask Carol who, after all, has
known her mother longer and better than anyone else in the room,
to tell her more about her mother. But somehow, in the presence
of non family members, this doesn't seem appropriate.

Perhaps, Carol thinks, Melody senses this. Melody suddenly turns
to Bill and says, "Would you like me to show you the rest of the
apartment? It's really awfully pretty."

"I'd love that," he says matter-of-factly, setting down his cup.
As soon as they have left the room, Becka leans forward and says,
"Aunt Carol, can you explain my mother to me?"

Carol hesitates. Then she says, "I've been wondering why you
decided to come here, Becka."

"I didn't decide to come. She sent for me."

 "This is the door to the library," Melody says, leading him
across the long central gallery. "We can't go in there right now,
because Anne's father and her grandmother are having a meeting in
there. So. What did you think of them?"

"Who?"

"The Lieblings."

He shrugs. "Pretty ordinary. Nothing sensational."

"Not sensational enough for this new book you're writing?"

"Well, you know what Proust said--happy families are all alike."

"It wasn't Proust. It was Tolstoy."

"No, it was Proust."

"Have it your way," she says. "And this is what they call the
blue guest room," she says, holding open a door. "You didn't tell
me you wanted to meet the Lieblings because you were thinking of
putting them into a book."

He smiles. "I guess I forgot to mention that."

"Do you think that was quite fair?"

"All's fair in love and war," he says with a little wink.

She gives him a sideways look. "Really? You disappoint me, Bill.
I'd have expected a more original comment than that from the
great writer."

His smile fades briefly, then returns. He says nothing.

"You see, it puts me in kind of an awkward position," she says.
"After all, I asked if I could bring you tonight. The Lieblings
are like a second family to me, and I've probably already told
you certain things about them that I wouldn't want to see in a
book."

"I think they're a little more to you than a second family," he
says. "I think you're hoping they'll be your passport to a
different sort of life."

She ignores this, opening another door. "And this is Anne's
bedroom . . ."
"Tell me more about the countess."

"Poor Aunt Ruth. She's had a lot of problems. I'm sorry she ran
out like that tonight. She can be quite sweet. But Nana Hannah
tends to criticize her."

"Does she always wear that thick pearl choker?"

"Quite often, yes."

"She tilted her head at one point tonight, and I could see why. I
saw the scars. The countess tried to slit her throat once, didn't
she? See how observant I am?"

"Her romance with the count was pretty unhappy, I guess," she
says. "It's funny to hear you call her the countess. She's always
been plain Aunt Ruth to me."

"But I think she likes being called a countess, doesn't she?"

"I suppose so. But if you're looking for family scandals, there's
sort of one there. When she married the count, he already had
another wife."

"I know all about that. That's not good enough. Too ordinary. Too
long ago. I'm looking for real family fireworks. Current
fireworks. Current fireworks that have never been written about
before. That's what'll sell a book."

"And I suppose if you can't find real family fireworks, you'll
simply make some up."

He grabs her wrist. "What do you mean by that crack?" he says.

She twists her wrist free. "Nothing. But I've noticed you get
very touchy whenever anyone suggests that everything in Blighted
Elms isn't based on fact."

"It is fact. Anyway, with the Lieblings I've just scratched the
surface. I'll be doing a lot more digging."

"Noah didn't like you. I guess you noticed that."

"Who cares? He's a cipher. It's obvious the old lady runs the
show."

"I don't think Nana Hannah liked you, either. Watch out, Billy
boy."

He stares at her. "You watch out," he says. "Don't start playing
any games with me."

She opens another door. "And this is Noah and Carol's room," she
says. "They each have their own separate dressing rooms and
bathrooms. Pretty, don't you think?"

"You know, I usually like girls your age, Melody."
"Really? Why?"

"Because most girls your age have no history."

"You think I have no history?"

"Maybe you do. But I also think you're busy writing a new kind of
history for yourself right now."

"Really? And this is the yellow guest room. It's the one I use.
It has a small terrace with a river view. But it's too cold to go
out there tonight." She starts to turn away.

"I observed something else tonight," he says.

"Oh? What's that?"

"You're in love with Noah Liebling."

"What? Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, yes. I can tell. You didn't say much, but you couldn't keep
your eyes off mein host. Think you'd like to be the next Mrs.
Noah Liebling? Is that it?"

"Nonsense. Noah is Anne's father, and Anne is my best friend. And
I happen to be devoted to Carol." She feigns a yawn. "You bore
me."

"What's that got to do with it? It's lucky for you that Anne has
popcorn for brains. I observed that, too. You know what? I'll bet
you do Anne's homework for her at college. I'll bet Anne would
have flunked out of Bennington long before this if it weren't for
you. Am I right? But Anne is too useful to you for you to let her
do that--right?"

"Wrong! You're so off base, Billy boy, that it's--"

"Listen. I know why you invited me here tonight."

"I invited you because you said you wanted to meet the Lieblings!
Now please--"

"But you had a little different agenda--right? You know that Noah
has a little bit of an itch for you. You invited me here to make
him jealous. Is there a better way to whip up a man's interest
than to make him a little jealous? You like to use people--don't
you?"

"Really! You think I want to make Noah jealous of youT'

"Sure. I'm a hell of a lot younger and better-looking than he is,
aren't I? Aren't I being called one of New York's most eligible
bachelors? Aren't I getting more column mentions than that
asshole John Kennedy, Junior?"
"Your craziness is only exceeded by your vanity, Billy boy."

"Sure, you invited me here tonight to build a little bonfire
under Noah Liebling. And it worked. Of course he didn't like me.
So this little dinner invitation was a little bit of a quid pro
quo, wasn't it? Something for me, something for you."

She turns toward the door. "I'm not enjoying this conversation,"
she says. "Let's go back and join the others."

"Not yet," he says, and closes the guest room door behind them
and turns the bolt. "Lucky for us, these old buildings are pretty
soundproof."

"Soundproof?" She steps away from him.

He seizes her hand and plunges it against his crotch. "I promised
you a nice, big fat reward if you introduced me to the Lieblings.
This is it, sweetheart."

She pulls away from him. "That's not the kind of reward I had in
mind," she says.

"What do you mean? You as much as said so. 'I expect a nice, big
fat reward,' you said."

"I never said that!" "Liar!"

"Well, if I said that, I've changed my mind," she says.

"This is what you've been wanting from the minute we met. You
never fooled me once. You've been asking for this since you came
over to me in the book department at Bloomingdale's. I read you
like a book that afternoon. This is what you've been asking for,
and now you're going to get it."

"No!"

"What about all those phone calls when you were trailing me
around the country? What was that all about? What about Cleveland
and all that dirty talk? Almost every night on my tour."

"I told you, I've changed my mind."

"Don't hand me that. You got me here. You got what you wanted,
and now I'm gonna get what I want. I want my quid pro quo."

"You've gotten everything you're going to get from me!"

"Or are you just pissed off because I figured out what you're up
to? Caught on to your little game with Noah Liebling?"
"Stop this! Stay away from me!"

"Not before I fuck you, sweetheart."

"Let me out of this room!"

"Oh, you want to play a little hard to get? Okay, I can play that
game, too. Let's have some fun."

"I'll--"

He advances steadily toward her as she backs away. "You'll
scream? Nobody'11 hear you. Go ahead--scream. I'd like to hear
you scream." With one hand he seizes her wrist again, then her
other wrist in his other hand.

"No! Stop!"

"I like a little--resistance." Now he has both wrists grasped
behind her in one solid grip, and with his free hand he is
dipping deep into the front of her dress, pinching her breast
hard, and at the same time forcing her with the weight of his
body backward against the bed. "Give me a little more fight," he
says.

"Stop! You're hurting me!"

"Good. It's better if it hurts a little. . . ."

"No! Stop! Oh, help!" she cries at the top of her voice.
"Noah--help me!"

But now he has her pressed against the bed with the full weight
of his six-foot-two, one-hundred-eighty pound frame. One elbow is
jammed forcefully across her throat, and with his other hand he
snatches up the front of her dress and seizes her panties and
roughly grabs her pubic hair. "Finger-fuck you first," he mutters
in her face. "Warm you up."

"No! Oh, help! Someone help!" she screams again. "Noah!"

But now he takes his left hand and covers her mouth, while the
right hand gropes and twists her panties, pulling them down
across her knees, and there is the sound of fabric ripping. His
own knee comes up hard between her legs, spreading them apart,
and his finger penetrates her, first one finger, then two, then
three, and she twists her head to one side and bites down, hard,
on the fleshy part of the palm of his hand. There is a gush of
blood, and he pulls sharply away from her and looks down al his
bleeding hand. "You bit me, you little bitch!" he whispers. He
says this in a tone almost of wonder and bewilderment.
"I told you to stop. I meant it," she says. Blood trickles from
her mouth, and she spits it out.

He reaches into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, and quickly
wraps his bleeding hand in this. Then, in almost the same
movement, he reaches into another pocket for a cigarette, and
lights it with the gold lighter. Lighting his cigarette, his hand
trembles, and he glares down at her with a look of purest hatred.
"What did you want me to do?" he demands. "Did you want me to
rape you? Is that what you wanted?"

"That's what you tried to do."

"Liar! That's one thing I've never had to do, thank God. But you
wanted it. You know you wanted it. Why'd you ask me into your
bedroom if you didn't want it? Why'd you make your bedroom the
last room on the little house tour?"

"I told you. I changed my mind. Woman's prerogative. But this is
a real first for you--right?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's the first time a girl has said no to the great Bill
Luckman--and his big, fat cock. Well, frankly, it didn't feel so
big and fat to me."

He steps toward her, and his right hand, still holding the
cigarette, swings suddenly in a wide arc, and he strikes Melody
hard and sharply across the face. Hot ashes from the cigarette
fly into her eyes, and she cries out again. "Take that, you
little cock tease!" he says. "I'll get even with you for this,
you know."

"And I'll see to it that you never write anything about the
Lieblings," she says.

He turns toward the door, unbolts it. "You're going to pay for
this," he says. "I'm going to see to it that you keep paying for
this. Writers work with words. I'm going to have the last one."

"And it was Tolstoy, asshole!"

He lets himself out of the room, closing the door behind him,
leaving Melody sprawled, dry-eyed, across the bed.

She giggles briefly. Then, soon afterward, she hears a new set of
footsteps in the hall, and she begins to sob.

 From the hall, he goes into Carol Liebling's bathroom and runs
cold water on his bloodied hand. He stanches
the blood with toilet paper and flushes the paper down the
toilet. In the medicine cabinet he finds a box of Band-Aids in
assorted shapes and sizes, selects one, and covers his wound with
a wide adhesive strip. Also in the medicine cabinet he sees a
pharmacist's plastic bottle with a label reading, "Mrs. Carol
Liebling--for sleep." For reasons that he himself may not
entirely understand, he reaches for this and pockets it. Then he
pees noisily in the toilet and flushes it again. Then he returns
to the living room, his left hand thrust deep in his trouser
pocket.

"I've had a lovely evening, Carol," he says. "Thank you so much
for including me."

"Can't you stay till midnight? We thought we'd watch the ball
drop in Times Square, and I've got some noisemakers, and we're
going to open some champagne. It's sort of a tradition for Noah
and me."

"Thanks, but I promised some friends that I'd stop by at another
party," he says. "Thank Noah for me. It was wonderful to meet you
both."

"Where's Melody?"

"Powdering her nose. Or she may have gone to bed. She mentioned
that she was quite tired."

"I'll walk you to the elevator," Anne says.

Outside the apartment, as they walk toward the elevator, he says,
"Actually, your friend Melody is pouting. She's quite a piece of
work, isn't she?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Her little tour of your apartment ended in her bedroom. She
tried to put the make on me. I told her I didn't do that sort of
thing with minors." He presses the elevator call button. "She got
mad. I told her to cool her jets. So, if she tries to bad-mouth
me, that'll be the reason."

Anne giggles. "Melody did that!"

He shrugs. "Price of fame, I guess. Girls throw themselves at me.
It gets to be embarrassing. But you--I can tell you're
different."

"Melody!"

"Oh, I suppose you have certain lesbian feelings for her. That
would be natural at your age."

"I can't wait to have my first lesbian experience! But
it wouldn't be with Melody. I'd want it to be with a perfect
stranger. Melody is my--muse!"

He studies her face in the soft hall light. "I think you're a
little like your aunt Ruth, the countess--beautiful and
glamorous, but a little . . . flighty, and easily hurt. You're
very sweet." He bends and kisses her lightly on the lips. "Happy
New Year," he says. "I hope to see you again." Then the elevator
doors slide open. He steps inside, the doors close, and he is
gone.

Anne stands for a moment in the elevator foyer, her fingers on
her lips.

 Now, as Noah is leaving the meeting with his mother in the
library, which did not go well, he passes the door to the yellow
guest room and hears what seems to be the sound of a woman
sobbing. He hesitates, then taps at the door. When there is no
immediate response, he opens the door a crack and sees Melody,
fully dressed, lying across her bed, her shoulders shaking.

"Are you all right, Mellie?" She half rises, and he sees that the
front of her dress is covered with blood. "My God, what happened,
Melody?" he asks her, quickly closing the door behind him. She
looks up at him, and he sees her red eyes and swollen face, and
there is a fresh burst of tears. "Who did this to you, Melody?"

"Oh, Noah," she sobs. "It was so awful ... so awful . . ."

"Tell me what happened, Melody."

"He . . . Bill Luckman ... he tried to ... tried to rape me. . .
."

"There's blood on your mouth."

"He bit me. He pushed me down on the bed and bit me."

"My God . . ." He steps quickly into her bathroom and runs cold
water onto a facecloth. He returns to her, and though he can't
see where the skin is broken, he wipes the blood from her face
and lips. "My God," he says again, and he sits down beside her on
the bed. His face is grim. "Now, tell me just exactly what
happened," he says.

Through more tears, she tells him. Not just exactly, perhaps, but
enough.

"Did he--?" He wants to ask her, "How far did he
get?" or something to that effect, but somehow he cannot bring
himself to ask such a surgical question of a girl like Melody.

But she knows what he is thinking. "No!" she says. "But he was
hurting me. When I started to scream, he stopped. Then he hit me
in the face."

"Little bastard. Arrogant little bastard. I knew there was
something about that arrogant little bastard I didn't like."

"Oh, Noah, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I asked him to come
tonight. I thought he was--nice. He said I'd been teasing him,
leading him on, but I swear to God I hadn't been. At least I
didn't mean to be."

"Of course you weren't. And it's not your fault at all. He's just
an arrogant little bastard and a bully, and now, thank God,
you've found out what kind of a guy he really is. In a way you're
lucky, Mellie. It's better he's shown his true colors now than
later--if you'd gotten any further involved with a thug like
that."

"Oh, Noah, I feel so--ashamed. And stupid."

"He's the one who's stupid--anybody who'd try a thing like that.
He could go to jail. You know what's wrong with a guy like that?
He's had too much success too soon. It's gone to his stupid head.
He thinks because he's suddenly some kind of celebrity, he can
get away with murder. He's got a stupid, sick mind to begin with.
And when a sick mind gets hooked up with a swollen ego, you
get--somebody like Mike Tyson, for Christ's

colfci **

 "What should I do, Noah?"

"Do?" he says. His face grows thoughtful. "Look," he says at
last, "unpleasant as it was, I don't think we should get the
police involved in this. You could file charges. Criminal
charges. But do you really want to do that? You'll just be asked
a lot of terrible questions. Who invited him into your
bedroom?--things like that. He'll deny everything. He'll say you
led him on. All I can say is that I saw what he did to you. I
didn't see him do it. It will be your word against his. He's been
in the public eye a lot lately, and so there'll be publicity.
Maybe even national publicity. And then a trial. Do you want to
go through all that, Melody?"

She shudders and shakes her head.
"A thing like that could destroy your reputation, Melody. Even if
we put him in prison, that sort of thing could follow you for the
rest of your life. Everywhere you go, people will say, 'She's the
girl who claimed--' And so on."

She nods. "But the only thing that scares me, Noah-- the thing
that scares me is that someday he might really hurt somebody,
maybe even kill somebody. . . ."

"I don't think so. He's too much of a coward. Rape is a cowardly
act, it seems to me. Maybe he's learned his lesson. Let's hope
so. And as for you, you're young, Mellie. You've got an awful lot
of years ahead of you. If I were you, I'd chalk this up to
experience--learning that there are a lot of bastards out there
like him. I'm not saying forget about it. I'm saying remember it,
and maybe you'll be quicker to catch the signals next time."

"Should I tell Anne? Should I tell Carol?"

"What's the point? What good would it do? Why would you want to
relive the experience all over again with them? Just keep it in a
little secret drawer in the back of your mind."

"There's blood on the bedspread. How do I explain that?"

"You could always tell Mary that you--"

"Yes," she says quickly. "I know what I can say. But do I look
just horrible, Noah?"

He smiles at her. "No, you don't look horrible. You look as
though you'd been through a rough experience, but you don't look
horrible. And I'm glad you told me about it," he says. He reaches
out and covers her hand with his, and she squeezes it hard.
"Let's keep this our little secret, Mellie, okay? No sense
upsetting other people. This will be our secret," and he brushes
his lips across the top of her dark head. And for a moment-- oh,
just for the briefest of moments--he asks himself why he has just
done this. "Your secret will always be safe with me, all your
secrets, always," he says, and there is one final small sob as
she rests her head lightly on his shoulder. "I'm proud of you,
Mellie," he says. "You handled a difficult situation in the best
possible way."

"Thank you, dear Noah."

"Now, why don't you take a nice, long hot bath with
salts?" he says. "Then get into bed and have a nice, long sleep.
Do you want a sleeping pill? Carol has some."

She shakes her head.

"And here's something else you should probably do." He rises,
picks up the facecloth, and steps into her bathroom again. He
rinses the cloth with fresh cold water and squeezes it out.
Returning, he says, "Keep this over that left eye as much as
possible. Keep adding cold water. Also hold it against your
mouth. You may have a shiner in the morning, and also a fat lip
where he bit you, though that doesn't look so bad now. We'll have
to think up an excuse for that. Maybe you slipped in the shower
or something." He presses the cold cloth against her face. "Do
that, at least until you fall asleep."

"Thank you, dear Noah," she says softly. "I love you, Noah."

He laughs nervously. It was that fresh, clean scent of her hair
that wouldn't seem to disappear.

"That wasn't meant to be funny," she says, not looking at him.

 Carol Dugan Liebling is sitting in her nightgown at her dressing
table, removing her makeup, using many tissues, when he steps
into their bedroom. Hearing the door open and then close, she
looks up at his reflection in her mirror. "Well, darling, how did
it go?" she asks him. "The meeting with your mother." Then she
says, "Not well. I can tell by the expression on your face."

"A ten percent salary increase. That's all."

"Not the big job."

"Not yet."

She sighs. "Well, darling, you've been patient this long. I
suppose you can be patient a little longer." "It's beginning to
look as though I'll have to wait until she dies. And from the way
she's going, it looks like I'll have a long, long wait. I'm
beginning to feel like Prince Charles, waiting for the queen to
die."

"She didn't even mention it?"

"Oh, yes. She mentioned it. But--"

"But with the usual condition."

He nods.

"Aunt Bathy."

He nods again.
"The same as last year."

"And the year before that."

She studies his face in the mirror for a moment. Then she turns
in her chair and faces him. "Darling," she says, "perhaps it's
time you told her why you can never accept that condition.
Perhaps it's tune you told her what you know. About Bathy.
Wouldn't she understand why you feel the way you do?"

"I don't think so," he says. "She'd deny everything. She'd accuse
me of having dreamt the whole thing. She wouldn't believe me. I
know her." He removes his jacket, tosses it across a chair,
loosens his necktie, and lies down across one of the pair of twin
beds, staring upward at the ceiling.

She rises and goes to him, smelling of cold cream, a peppery,
cucumbery smell. She sits on the bed beside him. "But look on the
bright side, darling," she says. "A ten percent salary increase.
That's not bad, is it? I think that's pretty nice. And the big
job? You'll have it sooner or later. It's only a matter of time."

He says nothing. With one hand she smooths his forehead and
pushes back his dark hair in which flecks of gray are beginning
to appear, and with her other she begins unbuttoning his shirt.
"Let's get some sleep, darling," she says. "It's been a long
evening."

He brushes her hands away a little roughly. "Don't get into your
mothering modality," he says. "Hell, I don't even think I want
the damn job!"

"Now, darling, of course you do. You've worked for it for years."

"What makes you think I want to stay in this lousy business for
the rest of my life?"

"Darling, I know it's frustrating at times, but--"

Still staring at the ceiling, he says, "There's always Aesop."

"Aesop? What are you talking about?"

"Aesop. A.E.S.O.P. It stands for An Exceptionally Solid Other
Plan."

"Now, darling, don't talk like that. You know it worries me when
you talk about quitting."

"Well, that's what I'm damn well talking about!"

She shifts her weight on the bed. "Well, slip out of your clothes
and come to bed," she says. "It's late."
"I feel like lying here like this for a while," he says.

"Okay," she says. She rises and turns off the lamps beside both
beds, and then slips between the turned down covers of her own
bed. In the darkness she says, "Becka told me your mother said
something unpleasant to Ruth while I was on the phone. That's why
she and Ector left."

He says nothing.

"I wish your mother could learn to be a little nicer to her
children," she says.

He still says nothing.

"Poor Noah," she says.

"Now, don't start feeling sorry for me, Carol!" he snaps.

For a moment or two she, too, says nothing. Then she says softly,
"Happy New Year, darling," and turns away from him in her covers,
facing the wall.

But a little later, finding that she cannot sleep, Carol Liebling
decides she must take a pill. But when she goes to her bathroom
and opens the medicine cabinet, where they are always kept, her
bottle of Seconals is nowhere to be found. She also notices that
the toilet seat is up. She puts it down again.

 Outside in the street, the Lincoln Town Car moves homeward
toward 1000 Park Avenue, bearing but two passengers now, in the
still heavy rain. Miraculously now, considering the congestion of
traffic earlier, the streets are nearly empty. Theirs is the only
car in sight. The windshield wipers thrash furiously back and
forth, fighting the rain.

Cyril yawns noisily. "Notice, Maman," he says, "that we are now
on Third Avenue. And we are moving uptown."

"Snoring sailors," his mother says.

"Hm?"

"The sound the wipers make. Manush, manush. It always reminds me
of the sound of snoring sailors."

"Now, when have you been around any snoring sailors, Maman?" he
asks her.

She settles back in her seat with a smile. "Don't slouch, Cyril,"
she says.
Bike

 A man, in his house, where he lies, and sleeps sometimes with
his wife (especially on summer nights when it is hot and still
outside and cool and air-conditioned inside, when one can lie
naked on the bed without covers or a sheet) on one of the twin
beds--pushed, at first, romantically close together, but now,
because it is harder to vacuum that way, separated by a prim
nightstand, should be a man at his bravest and best. And this
man, when he is lucky enough to have a wife he has once loved
thoroughly, and an apartment in a fine building that his money
has bought, and his own money manages to maintain, is a man of
countable blessings. But to be that man, and to be, as he is, so
sure that this man nearly approaches the idea of the man he had
once dreamed of himself becoming (white-flanneled, randy, sipping
cool beer on warm afternoons after tennis, white-shirted
shoulders by Lacoste in the summer sunlight on some lawn, a child
playing happily somewhere in the distance) was sometimes of
little tangible comfort as you approached age fifty, and your
contemporaries were suddenly talking of early retirement and
needle fishing in Florida, and here you still were, in this one
of a pair of twin beds (long ago, you agreed, tacitly, which one
it was to be), staring mutely at the changeful pattern of night
city lights on the ceiling, and getting a hard-on for no
practical reason. And then, too, though the apartment is yours
and bought with your own money, and though you worked closely
with your wife on furnishing and decorating the rooms, there were
times when that apartment had little reality except for the heat,
which sometimes sounded like Ross Perot's laugh when it came on
(There had been complaints about this in the monthly tenants'
meetings. Should the building invest in a new
heating plant? No!), and a small spot on the guest bathroom
wallpaper that always reappeared, no matter how many times you
repapered it (something to do with the Ryersons on the floor
above, and he really should mention it to Harry Ryerson someday,
but he never had), and the carpet in the long hallway which,
unless you walked consciously up and down the edges of the
carpet, which one tried to do, grew thin and bare at the center
after a couple of years. And then, though your wife did not age
like a rug or grow thin and shabby, or fade in the sun like
drapes and wallpaper, your wife grew, too, after a time, to lose
the precise outline she had once had in your mind, until, coming
home, your home was merely a structure, and the picture of your
wife in the dining room was no longer a picture of your wife when
young, but merely a picture of a young woman full of spirit, and
part of the dining room, which was a territory within the
structure. With a certain deliberate aim at dissolving yourself
this way in the familiarity of furniture and routine, you
discussed things with your wife, made plans, agreed, disagreed,
quarreled, made up, blamed, took the blame, apologized, and all
these processes of course took time, and the time was charged to
the future as part of the plans which were for the future and, if
anyone asked, you would say this was half the fun. But the
trouble was that after a few of these interactions, you both knew
how and where they would end even before you had begun. But the
discussions and the let's- talk-this-over idea were too sacred,
too precious a part of whatever you believed your marriage to be,
to be discarded, and so you observed the ritual and began and
ended the discussions as time-honored custom decreed, politely.
"I'm sorry." "No, you're probably right." "I didn't mean it." "I
shouldn't have said that." Et cetera, et cetera. Looking at it
this way, Noah tries to remember when, if ever, their talks had
not had this quality of ceremony--the subject, deemed appropriate
by a mutual nod, was opened, it was advanced a little, then
thrust gently back, then was perhaps dropped altogether, for the
moment, to be brought up again at a mutually agreed upon, more
propitious time. He couldn't remember any times when it hadn't
been this way, and he decided finally that for many years he had
been walking
cautiously up and down the edges of his wife, carefully avoiding
the center where the fabric was tender.

He was once much more venturesome. Sometimes it startles him to
remember how venturesome he once was. At the small elite men's
college (now co-ed) he'd attended in New England, his father had
offered to buy him a car. But Noah hadn't wanted a car. He'd
wanted a motorcycle, and so his father (the apple of whose eye he
then was) had let him pick out a big, muscular, 600 cc
Harley-Davidson, bright red with scrollwork of reptilian design.
In those days he thought of himself as Steve McQueen, Jimmy Dean,
the young Marion Brando, a rebel without a cause--not a Hell's
Angel, exactly, but a What-the-Heck's Angel.

There were a number of other cyclists in the little college town,
and with their bikes they formed an informal little club, tearing
up and down the highways and country lanes, across fields and
sand-lots, up and down the sides of quarries and gravel pits. The
more experienced bikers taught Noah the tricks of the
sport--front and rear wheelies, creek jumping, rock jumping, and
stump jumping, and racing up and down the concrete steps of the
hilly campus. On what had once been the college's football field
(before the new stadium was built), they devised a game of
motorcycle polo, using croquet balls and mallets.

Style is everything to a biker. They'd carefully prime their
carburetors so their bikes would start on the first kick. A biker
whose "hog," as they called them, wouldn't leap off like a rocket
suffered a real stigma. It was tantamount to a gun jamming in
combat, or an actor blowing a key line in a major speech: "To be
or not to be, aye, there's the rub." If you flooded your
carburetor on the first launch, you tried to atone for it by
screeching off on one wheel, gunning your engine mercilessly to
get up a head of steam before popping the clutch. There were
injuries, of course, though none of them major. That was part of
the game.

At college Noah had been invited to join Delta Chi Epsilon, which
was considered one of the top fraternities. But after a while he
began to sense that--despite the ritual hugging and handholding
and singing of the sacred Delta Chi songs at the secret monthly
meetings
in the fraternity house's Goat Room, where members, rather like
Klansmen, wore robes and hoods--he was not really a popular
member of Delta Chi. He began to suspect that this had something
to do with his bike and his "townie" biking friends. His
fraternity brothers looked on disdainfully as his biker friends
roared up to the Delta Chi house to collect Noah for an
afternoon's adventure on their wheels. This, of course, made Noah
even more defiant and rebellious as he slammed on his helmet,
kick-started his Harley, and thundered off after the others,
leaving his fraternity brothers in a cloud of dust and exhaust
fumes. To hell with them, he said to himself, and their Mustangs
and Corvettes. To hell with Delta Chi Epsilon and:

 Delta Chi, thy loving eye

Is on us all today!

All strong and true,

We follow you, In brotherhood's grand wa-a-ay!

 Then, in Noah's third year at college, there was an incident. It
was on a Saturday night in February, after one of the monthly
house meetings, when the brothers of Delta Chi gathered in the
upstairs party room for drinks and beer before the jacket-and-tie
dinner.

The president of the fraternity, whose name Noah has now
forgotten, approached him rather haughtily and said, "I guess you
know, Liebling, that you're lucky to be in this house."

"Oh?" said Noah warily. "What do you mean by that?"

"When your name came up during rush week, most of the members
didn't want you," the president said.

"Oh?" Noah said. "Because of my bike?"

"It had nothing to do with your bike, Liebling. It's just that
we've never taken in people like you. In fact, there's a clause
in our national charter that we had to ignore to take you in."

"Okay," Noah said. "If nobody wanted me, why did you pledge me?"

"It was simply because, at our final pledge meeting, when you
were about to be unanimously turned down,
Charlie Washburn said, 'But listen, guys. If we take this guy in,
his old man will probably supply the house with free booze for
four years.' That swung the vote the other way. That's the only
reason we took you in. The chance for free booze. But we never
got any free booze, did we? So it really wasn't worth it, was it,
for us to take in our first Jew? And risk getting kicked out of
the national."

 That night he got very drunk. Around midnight he went outside,
pulled the tarp off his Harley, hopped on her, and started her
up. He swung her at full speed toward the fraternity house steps,
mounted them, and threw his hog at full throttle into neutral
outside the front door, shouting, "Open up, you bastards!",
racing his engine until one of the brothers, in Jockey shorts,
came down from his room to see what was causing the commotion.
Once the door was open, Noah charged into the house at full
speed. First he swung the bike to the right, into the room that
was called the library, careening between sofas and chairs,
knocking over tables and lamps. Next, on a wheelie, he charged
across the entrance hallway into the living room, where the bike
continued on its path of destruction through the furniture. He
log-jumped a sofa, overturning it as he went, and headed for the
big dining room, charging at chairs and tables that had been set
up for the next morning's breakfast, sending crockery and
glassware flying and crashing in all directions. Meanwhile, the
brothers, in various stages of undress and sleepiness, were
gathering on the upstairs landing to try to figure out what the
hell was going on. "Take that, you bastards!" Noah shouted as he
came down from his wheelie across the head table with a
splintering crash.

Next he headed straight for the swinging doors that led to the
kitchen, crashed through them and into the kitchen, where, at
full speed, he circled the central cooking island several times,
knocking over serving carts and steam tables as he went. Then it
was back through the crazily swinging doors again, back into the
dining room on an obstacle course between overturned tables and
chairs. He slalomed out into the entrance hall again, and then,
still at full throttle, galloped up the front staircase
to the second floor where the bedrooms were, while the brothers
cowered and hugged the walls to get out of his way. Then it was
down the long central corridor, churning up the carpeting in
great folds as he went, heading for the president's room, which,
naturally, was the largest and best-situated room in the house,
with its own bathroom. The door to this room stood open, and Noah
and his bike sped through it and into the room, and around and
around it, while Noah kicked out with his feet at every object in
the room that could be knocked over and destroyed--stereo, radio,
television set, nightstand, desk lamp, typewriter, everything in
sight. With one neat shot that would have made his polo playing
buddies proud, he caught a tennis racket, in its press, with the
toe of his shoe and booted it straight at a window, shattering
the glass.

Then it was out into the corridor again, bounding down the
stairs, across the entrance hall, out through the front door,
which still stood open, and down the front steps into the night
street. The whole episode had lasted less than five minutes, but
in that short time he had trashed the Delta Chi Epsilon house.

At the street corner he stopped, idling his motor. He was
breathing hard, and the cold night air burned in his chest. Six
inches of fresh snow had just fallen, and the streets were eerily
hushed and silent, that cushioned and cottony silence that always
follows a snowfall, though in the distance he could hear the
rising wail of police sirens. What now? What next? Because
somehow he knew he was not yet finished with them. His rampage
must continue.

At the end of the street, bathed in the glow of a streetlight,
was the white Georgian mansion where the president of the college
lived. Its windows were dark. He headed for that. On his bike he
mounted the four curved steps that led up to the front door with
its graceful fanlight, and stopped. Idling the bike at full
throttle, he dismounted and unzipped his pants. Then, choosing a
stretch of virgin snow as his canvas, he began to pee, writing in
yellow on the doorstep of the president's house. He was able to
write fuck you--noah l before he ran out of pee. Then he
remounted his bike, bounded down the four steps, and roared off
into the night again
as the sound of sirens drew closer and lights in the president's
mansion began to come on.

The next morning--fined, released, and expelled--he headed home
to his parents' house in Tarrytown.

It was a Sunday morning, and his parents should have been there.
But when he entered the house, it seemed as eerily silent as the
snow-bound streets of the New England college town the night
before. He was still on an adrenaline high, and he walked through
the empty rooms, calling, "Hey, Mom! Hey, Pop! Hey, Pop, I got
kicked out of college! Hey, where is everybody?" He started up
the wide double staircase.

The door to his parents' room was closed, and when he flung it
open, he saw that the curtains were drawn, and it was a moment
before his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Then he saw a
stirring in the room. "Hey, Pop, I got kicked--" he began. And
then he saw a sight he would never be able to erase from his
memory as long as he lived. He closed the door quickly and ran
back down the stairs.

Later, his father said to him, "Son, I heard about what happened
up there at that college of yours, and I want you to know I'm
proud of you. You were insulted, and you fought back like a man.
You didn't take the insult lying down. You stood up to the sons
of bitches and showed them what you thought of them. Unlike that
poor excuse for a brother of yours."

"What should Cyril have done? Lied?" He'd heard the Cyril story.

"He could have denied everything. That's what he should have
done. Denied everything. Sons of bitches never could have proven
anything. But your damn fool brother had to confess to the whole
thing."

Noah said nothing.

"Anyway, I want you to know I'm proud of you, son. You're five
times the man your brother will ever be. Ten times. Twenty
times."

Noah still said nothing.

"And incidentally, son, what you may have thought you saw the
other morning wasn't what you think."

Noah stared at his father, and then, feeling tears welling behind
his eyelids, he turned his head quickly away. He had never known
his father to lie to him before. But
he knew what he'd seen. And now the only feeling he could summon
for his father was a kind of blind, abstract pity. "Okay, Pop,"
he muttered.

His father touched his arm.

That summer he would sell his bike. In the fall he would set off
for another college in the West.

 "Too much success too soon," he had said to Melody tonight,
blaming that. But what of the man who has had too little success
too late? Where did one place the blame for this? Among his
friends and contemporaries Noah was certainly considered a
success. In the Ingra ham Building, and within the organization,
he was treated with deference and respect. After all, he was the
only male member of the family in the company. At the same
time--but perhaps this was only his imagination working--he was
certain that some of the people who worked with him and under him
regarded him with a certain amount of pity. Edith, his secretary,
for instance. After all, he was also a man who worked for his
mother and who, in the end, followed his mother's orders and did
what she said. "Yes, Mom." He was now, technically, in charge of
the production and marketing for all the Ingraham's
labels--Ingraham's Royal Charter, Ingra ham's Regency Rye,
Ingraham's Colonial Gin, Ingraham's Imperial Vodka, Ingraham's
Majestic Bourbon, Ingraham's Sovereign Blended Whiskey, and
Ingraham's V.S.O.P. Scotch, a twelve-year-old single malt, where
the initials stood for Very Special Old Pale. These were the
so-called prestige brands, the only ones actually to bear the
Ingraham name. These were the labels advertised in magazines like
The New Yorker and Town & Country. These were the brands designed
to give the company its high-class image. But, as everyone in the
company knew, the real moneymakers were the lower-priced blends
that were advertised on outdoor billboards and matchbook covers.
When the apartment of the murderer Jeffrey Dahmer was
photographed in the press, with an empty pint of Thunderclap
Whiskey lying on his bed, no one, fortunately, noted that
Thunderclap was also an Ingraham product.

When Rodney King was arrested for drunken driving
in Los Angeles, with a .19 alcohol count in his bloodstream,
Thunderclap was what he had been drinking.

Thunderclap was ten times as profitable as Ingraham's V.S.O.P.,
yet V.S.O.P. was promoted as the company's flagship label. These
were the ironies of this industry. V.S.O.P. had been the only
Ingraham's label to have been granted a Royal Warrant, "By
Appointment to Her Majesty. . . ." and Noah's father had given
his other Ingraham brands their royal-sounding names--back in
Canada, where he first started--in the vain hope that one day the
British monarch might give him that rare thing, a Canadian
knighthood.

His father, who had always looked, even if he had not always
been, the picture of success, had been both proud and fond of
Noah--proud of him for, of all things, that wild biking
spree--even if Noah had not always been fond or proud of his
father. And before he died, Jules Liebling (geboren Julius) had
felt assured that he, as Noah's father, would be to a great
extent responsible for whatever success in life his son might
achieve. Noah knew this was only partly true. Noah had come as
far in the company as he had not only thanks to his father, but
thanks to his own luck, charm, grace, smile, good looks, poise,
and better than average mind. But in Noah's better than average
mind he was under no illusions about his father's capabilities.
His father had had plenty of luck, but very little charm, grace,
good looks, or poise, and his father's mind had hardly been
analytical or even very original. In fact, Noah occasionally
wondered where it had all come from, all his father's success ...
all the money.

Perhaps his father's secret was that he never took the distilling
industry very seriously. It was, he used to say, a license to
steal, a license to print money. The discovery of the science of
distilling, if you could even go so far as to call it a science,
was lost in history. The ancients had known how to produce their
equivalent of booze. Any grain, fruit, or vegetable could be
fermented to produce alcohol. The world's most primitive tribes
have been doing what Ingraham's does for centuries. Besides
alcohol, and various flavorings, the only other basic ingredient
was the earth's most plentiful resource--water. All the rest was
packaging and promotion, and you had
something called the Distilled Spirits Industry. "I betcha even
the caveman had his hooch," his father used to say.

The world's most primitive tribes, furthermore, drank without
suffering from hangovers. They drank for days on end to glorify
their pagan deities, and then passed out. But they awoke not with
headaches or dry throats but with a sense of having been
purified, renewed, redeemed, forgiven, blessed. It was only
civilization that brought guilt to be associated with
overindulgence in drink. Hangovers were nothing but an expression
of guilt. All this was part of Noah's father's philosophy of
liquor.

The distilling process was very similar to another ancient art,
the making of bread, or "the other staff of life," as his father
used to call it. The same chemical processes were involved. In
fact, his father liked to tell the story of how, early on in his
career, some ingredient --no one ever knew what it was--had
fallen into a vat of whiskey at Jules Liebling's first
distillery, and whatever it was had turned the whiskey, which
still tasted like whiskey, an unappetizing purple color. Rather
than throw out the vat, his father had suggested filtering the
tainted whiskey through slices of bread. It worked, and the
result was a clear, rich golden hue. "It took about four loaves
of Wonder Bread at eight cents a loaf to do it," his father would
say with a laugh. "We'd saved eighty bucks' worth of rotgut."

His father's mind was a vast repository of arcane liquor lore. He
even knew the formula prisoners used to make Jailhouse Punch,
which was also simple. You took a few slices of bread and soaked
them with the canned orange drink they gave you at the prison
breakfast table. In a few days fermentation would begin. Then you
strained the resulting mess through a T-shirt. "It doesn't taste
like much," his father said, "but it does the trick for the
inmates." His father went so far as to claim that something very
like the distilling process was what had caused the first
organisms to emerge from earth's primordial ooze. Thus, in his
mind, distilling was linked to Creation.

And so, with notions no more complicated than these, the former
bartender had become a distiller. Of course, it didn't happen
overnight. At Jules's bar in the little
provincial town of Baie St. Paul, in Canada, one of his best
customers had been a man named Henry Ingraham, the last of a
dissolute line of Ingrahams, who had inherited a small,
unproductive distillery on the banks of the St. Lawrence. "Henry
could have made his own whiskey," Jules Liebling used to joke,
"but it was easier for him to drink at my bar." Henry liked to
drink rather a lot, and he preferred Jules's bar because Jules
offered him a particularly generous line of credit. After several
years, when Jules politely suggested that the time had come when
Henry might consider paying his bar tab, a deal was struck. In
return for the deed to Henry's distillery, Jules would forgive
Henry his bar bill, and give him free drinks for the rest of his
life. As luck would have it, that life lasted barely six months
longer. Henry Ingraham, drunk, was gunned down one night in the
streets of Baie St. Paul. The murder was never solved but, as it
turned out, there were many other people in the town to whom
Henry Ingraham owed money. No one ever suggested that Jules
Liebling had anything to do with it. Why would he have? Henry's
debt to Jules had been satisfactorily settled.

A little research--rather scanty, if the truth be told-- revealed
that the Ingraham distillery had been in the family for several
generations before the intemperate Henry lost it. To Jules the
Ingraham name had a respectable, Presbyterian ring to it, and so
his first bottles bore the label "Ingraham's Fine Whiskey . . .
Since 1789." Later, when "age" became a selling point for
whiskey, Jules's labels began to read, "Ingraham's Fine Aged
Whiskey . . . Since 1789." If customers thought the whiskey had
been aging in oak barrels for over a hundred years, that was all
right with Jules. Today the Ingraham Corporation letterhead bears
the words "Distillers of Fine Spirits Since 1789," and five years
ago the company made a promotional splash when it celebrated its
"bicentennial" --"Two Hundred Years of Trust and Quality."
Promotion of promotions, saith the preacher. All is promotion. It
illustrated another maxim of Noah's father's: "If you say
something loud enough and often enough, it becomes the truth."

Actually, the Ingraham label did not appear until 1917, when
Jules launched it. He was twenty-three, had
no more than a fifth-grade education, and had been bar tending
since age fourteen. These are the bare facts None of them made
its way into Jules Liebling's paragraph in Who's Who in America,
though when the small western college that accepted Noah after he
left his signature in the wintry New England snow presented his
father with an honorary doctorate of science degree, he liked to
be introduced on speakers' platforms as "Dr Jules Liebling." If
he could not be Sir Jules, then Dr Jules would have to do. Poor
Pop, Noah thinks. Poor Pop? Back in 1917 he was on his way to
becoming very rich. Around the corner was Prohibition. Jules
always said that he had seen it coming, and perhaps he had. Once,
when asked by a reporter for the secret of his success, Jules had
answered, "The three P's--Packaging, Promotion, and Prohibition."
He also once called Prohibition, with a wink, "The most important
development in modern American history --more important than the
atomic bomb." In fact he claimed, Prohibition was responsible for
the Bomb, "Prohibition created the Roaring Twenties," he said,
"The Roaring Twenties created the Great Depression. The Great
Depression created the Second War, and the Second War created the
Bomb. Think about it!"

As for packaging and promotion, Jules had always believed in what
he called "classy stuff." Classy was one of his favorite
adjectives. Prohibition may not exactly have been a classy period
in our nation's history, but to those who were around and willing
to take advantage oi it, it had turned out to be a nice little
thing, and Jules Liebling was one of them. Jules was savvy enough
to realize that Prohibition would never be enacted in the
province of Quebec. The wine-loving French would never stand for
it. And he soon discovered that Americans --even those who could
not really afford it--would pay any price he and his friend Meyer
Lansky asked, and they set their prices somewhat arbitrarily, for
good liquor. With Prohibition the money came rolling in, and it
has never really stopped.

And so, when Prohibition ended, Jules Liebling moved down to New
York and built a castle called Grandmont in Tarrytown on a hill
overlooking the Hudson River and the Tappan Zee, where Noah and
his
brother and sister grew up, and where they were taught, by
nannies and governesses, that their father was the kindest and
wisest man in the world, their mother the most beautiful woman,
their home the most secure and graceful, and they themselves the
most fortunate of children. Now, of course, at age forty-eight,
Noah is cynical enough to know that none of this was really true.
When had he begun to realize that, though Grandmont was the scene
of many grand entertainments, his parents had no real friends?
Though Grandmont was surrounded by other sumptuous homes and
estates, the Lieblings had never met their neighbors. Down the
road lived the Duchess de Talleyrand-Perigord. On the next hill
lived various Rockefellers. Noah's family did not know these
people. Nor was Noah's family invited to join any of the various
neighboring clubs where these people swam, played golf and
tennis, and sailed their boats in summertime. Instead, Grandmont
had its own pool, tennis courts, nine-hole golf course, and
boathouse. Somehow, Noah thinks, his father must have felt like
Jay Gatsby gazing across the bay at the inaccessible green light
at the end of Daisy Buchanan's dock, but without one of Gatsby's
great advantages: Nobody knew, exactly, what Jay Gatsby did for a
living. Everyone knew what Jules Liebling did. Sheer money was
not enough.

And why, Noah wonders, whenever he is thinking thoughts like
these, do his thoughts inevitably turn back to money? Why should
a man earning the salary Noah earns be beset by money worries?
And yet he is. Beset. Besieged. Money is like somebody's law. Is
it Parkin son's? It is the law that states that the more closet
space you add, the more clothes you will have to hang there. The
more bookshelves you put up, the more quickly you'll run out of
shelf space. The higher you promote a business executive, the
higher you must continue to promote him until he reaches such a
level that he can no longer do the job. Money was like that. The
more you had, the more you seemed to need. "Money's just a way of
keeping score," his father said. Not to Noah.

To Noah, the expenses of his family seem to keep spiraling upward
in a kind of endless Laffer curve. In his mind he ticks them off.
To begin with, more income means more taxes. The maintenance on
the River House
apartment has now reached six thousand a month, and the end is
nowhere in sight. Certainly it will never go down. Plus there are
the periodic assessments, which Noah himself, as the building's
president, is now in the difficult position of imposing. Each
assessment seems bigger than the last. He and Carol employ only
two servants, Mary the maid/housekeeper and Edna the cook, and in
terms of staff the Lieblings operate a household that is modest
by River House standards. But add another five thousand a month
for these two worthy ladies. Their daughter, Anne, attends what
surely must be the most expensive college in the world,
twenty-five thousand a year tuition, plus five thousand more for
room and board, plus another three for books and equipment, plus
library fees, laboratory fees, special lecture fees, infirmary
fees, studio fees, gym fees, plus the cost of the little car she
needs, plus insurance for a driver under age twenty-one, plus,
plus, plus. Running a college, he thinks, must be like trying to
run a co-operative apartment building, except that the tenants of
a college cannot protest all the extra assessments as they come
along. Then there are the costs of Carol's mother's care, in that
place Carol prefers to call a nursing home, but which is really
more than that, since Carol's mother requires constant
supervision. Add another eight thousand a month for that. Plus
the cost of ever changing, ever more expensive medications that
seem to have turned the poor woman into an ongoing scientific
experiment.

And these expenses he has just listed in his mind are only the
fixed, immutable expenses which must be met each month before the
members of his little family have even begun to live and feed and
clothe themselves, to pay the doctor, the dentist, the butcher,
the baker, and the candlestick maker, Rigaud candles. Sixty bucks
a

pop But would more money make all these worries disappear? Or is
it power that he wants--the kind of power over his company that
his father once had, and that his mother now has, the power of a
clearly defined majority stockholder? He used to think that that
was it, but now , he is not so sure. And of course Carol was
right, the power would come someday, it was only a matter of
time, a question of patience. And patience, after all, is a
virtue in itself.

And yet, you see, all that is not enough. There is something more
that is just beyond his grasp. And yet, he thinks (and he is
thinking all these things as he thinks of most things, while
waiting for sleep to overcome him, to fell him with its golden
bullet), there is still something restless and thirsty inside him
that nothing--not the comfortable and safe apartment, not money,
not power, not his job, his wife, his friends--is quite able to
satisfy. It is as though there is a volcano that seems to be
bubbling now inside him, on the verge of eruption, and what Noah
wants is neither definable as love, or money, or knowledge, or a
certainty of the future, but is a thing that cannot be expressed
in any concrete terms, a thing with feathers. I have no offering,
no grail, he thinks. But no, that is not it, either, for
offerings or grails are not hard to come by if you want one. It
is simply this: For the past two, or maybe three, years he has
been unable to look forward to next week. So many next weeks have
been the same as last weeks, and there is very little hope now
that anything of importance or great joy will ever happen in any
of them. Next week is sales conference. That is supposed to be
important, and in one sense it is. Noah has an important
presentation to make at this particular sales conference. A lot
of the company's future hangs on it. A big investment is at
stake.

Okay, but next week is also home again when sales conference is
over, no different. Next week is also next year, and again no
different, except for another birthday. And on and on the years
arise and speed, over the past. You got out of the taxi, paid the
driver, crossed the sidewalk to the gracious canopy that
announced your building, crossed that stark marble foyer to the
elevator, smiled at the elevator man who knew your floor, and
returned to the apartment where you lived and slept, sometimes,
with your wife, especially in the summer when it was warm outside
and cool in the house. . . . And there she is, her breathing soft
and regular now, in the other bed. And yet he is thinking of the
scent of a young girl's dark hair, and the taste of her hair when
he brushed his lips against it. "That wasn't meant to be funny,"
she said.
He reaches his hand under the covers of his twin bed, and begins
the gentle, loving process of his hand on himself that will ease
the path to sleep.

On his bike, defying death without goggles or a helmet, he had
charged, at full speed, up a mountainside, jumping rocks and
outcroppings, to the top, where he had stopped, suspended, left
foot on a rock, in neutral but gunning the engine at full
throttle to survey all the Berkshire foothills that lay in the
distance and were waiting to be conquered. On his bike he had
felt free.

And yet, still glimmering in his mind, is Aesop. Every Aesop
fable had a moral at its ending.

 Like most married couples who have been together as long as Noah
and Carol, they do not always tell each other the truth. This is
not to say that they lie to one another. Outright lies are too
dangerous. It's just that they don't always tell each other the
full truth about certain matters. After all, there are times when
the full truth just complicates things. The full truth can be
time consuming, leading to unnecessary arguments and mindless
tautology. Noah, for example, did not tell his wife the whole
truth about his meeting with his mother that evening in the
library. There seemed to be no point in telling everything that
was said, especially since tonight's meeting was not much
different from a similar meeting a year ago, or a year before
that. What happened tonight was this: They sat in the pair of
wing chairs facing each other, and his mother said, "I'm ready to
turn the business over to you, Noah. I'm even readier than I was
last year when we talked about it. The time has come."

"I see," he said guardedly, because he was pretty sure he knew
what was coming next.

"I'm going to be eighty-three," she said with a sigh. "I'm too
old for this stuff. An old woman shouldn't be running a business
like this. A woman shouldn't be running a business like this to
begin with. This is a man's business, your father always said so.
I want to put you in the driver's seat, Noah, where your father
wanted you to be when you were ready for it. You're ready for it,
and everybody knows it. My presidency was only meant to be an
interim thing, and that interim's gone on long
enough. I'm ready to turn over my shares to you, according to the
terms of Pop's will. The lawyers have drawn all the papers up.
Everything is ready for my signature."

"I see," he said.

"However--"

"There is a condition," he said.

"Yes."

"Same as last year's? And the year before that?"

She nodded.

"Sorry, Mom, but your terms are unacceptable," he said, and
started to stand up, "Your terms have always been unacceptable.
As far as I'm concerned, this meeting is over."

"Now, wait a minute," she said, holding out her hand. "Sit down,
Noah. I intend to get to the bottom of this once and for all.
Just what have you got against your aunt Bathy?"

"I won't have your sister working for this company. That's it.
There's nothing more to say."

"Why notl She did wonderful things for this company over the
years she worked for us. She can still do wonderful things.
You're letting a valuable talent go to waste, Noah, by not
finding something for Bathy to do. She could be a brand manager.
She could be a regional sales rep--"

"Sorry, Mom. The answer is no."

"But what's your reason, Noah? Is it stubbornness, or is it--"

"For one thing, she's too old. She's past retirement age by now."

"Old? If she's too old, what does that make me?"

He said nothing, merely gave her a sideways look.

"People don't have to retire just because they reach retirement
age. Look at your own father. He didn't retire when he reached
retirement age. He retired by dying."

"Then let's just say I don't believe in nepotism," he said.

"Nepotism.' You're the personification of nepotism! Where would
you be if you weren't Jules Liebling's son?"
"Unemployable? Is that what you're saying, Mom? I don't happen to
agree."

"Then why! Why won't you find a position in the company for her?"

"Let's just say I don't like Aunt Bathy, Mom."

"That's ridiculous! You used to be crazy about her when you were
growing up! And she's always adored you!"

"It's a long time since I was growing up. My opinion of the lady
has changed."

"But why? Why?"

"Look," he said. "Let me put it this way. If I'm going to run
this company, I'm going to run this company, and I'm going to run
it my way, without a lot of my relatives hanging around."

"Bathy wouldn't be just hanging around. She'd be working hard,
contributing a lot. And it's not a lot of relatives. It's just
one woman--my baby sister."

"One relative is too many. Sorry."

"Or is it just because this is something 7 happen to want you to
do?"

"Yes," he said, "that's part of it, I suppose. Because it will
look as though you're still running things from behind the
scenes. Think of what the press will say-- 'Mother Resigns
Presidency in Favor of Son. Mother's Sister Named to Important
Post.' That will get a lot of laughs in the trade, won't it?"

"Who the hell cares what the press says? Who the hell cares what
the trade says? If we'd cared about things like that, we'd have
gone belly-up years ago! We've always done exactly what we damn
well wanted, and to hell with what people say!"

"Well, I care about what people say," he said.

"We wouldn't have to announce my resignation, your appointment,
and Bathy's appointment all in the same breath, Noah. We could
wait a few months--six months, perhaps, and then--"

"No. Because Bathy isn't going to be appointed--now or ever. Not
while I'm around, at least."

"It's because she's a woman, isn't it."

"Yes," he said, "Perhaps it is. Perhaps that has a lot to do with
it. Perhaps I've become a little gun-shy about working with women
after all these years."
"That's supposed to be a slap at me, isn't it. But I've never
ordered you around, have I, Noah? I've always let you do pretty
much everything you wanted, haven't I? This new label you're
launching, for instance. That's been your baby right from the
beginning. I was against it, as you know. I was against taking
that kind of a financial risk. But when I saw how much you wanted
to do it, I gave you my go-ahead. Didn't I do that?"

"Yes, but it was an uphill battle to get that go-ahead," he said.

"I could have vetoed it outright! I had that power. But I didn't
do that, did I?"

"No, Mom, you're a dream to work with. A real dream."

"Don't be sarcastic!" Now her eyes began to wander around the
room, and he watched her as they settled on a single shelf of
books. "Those books," she said, pointing. "All those books about
education. Motivation. Human development. Boundaries of learning.
All those books by authors with Jewish-sounding names-- Seligman,
Maser, Garber, Rosenhan--all with Ph.D.'s after them. Do you
actually read those books?"

"They happen to be books on topics that interest me."

"It's not for that silly Aesop business, is it? Is it?"

"I said those're books that interest me."

"I don't want to hear any more about that Aesop nonsense, do you
hear? You're in the liquor business, Noah. If you work for me,
you're in booze, not crazy pipe dreams."

"You're changing the subject, Mom. We were talking about
Bathy--remember? Not my reading habits."

Now she shifted slightly in her chair, and Noah knew his mother's
body language well enough to know that this meant she was about
to try a different tactic. "Suppose I told you," she began.
"Suppose I told you that this was what your father wanted.
Suppose I told you that your father wanted Bathy reinstated in
the company. Suppose I told you that this was his deathbed wish.
Suppose I told you that this was what he made me promise him with
his dying breath."

"If you told me that, I'd know you were lying," he said. "If Pop
had wanted that, he'd have said so in his
will. His will was very specific about what he wanted for this
company. No mention of dear old Bathy."

"Look at it this way, dear," she said--still another tactic, he
knew, was coming when she began to call him "dear." "Think of it
this way. It's all so unfair. We all have so much--you, I,
Ruthie, and Cyril. We all have so much. But poor Bathy, who
worked so hard for this company for so many years--she's wound up
with nothing at all!"

"Then why don't you help her out, Mom? After all, she's your
sister. It seems to me that you've got plenty to spread around."

"I've tried. I've tried again and again. I've begged her to let
me help her out. But she's too proud. She'd never accept anything
from me. But you, on the other hand-- that would be a different
story, dear. If you offered her a job, she'd be so thrilled!"

"Look," he said, "when Pop first asked me to come into the
business with him, right after college, I said to him, 'Okay, but
on one condition. Bathsheba Sachs has got to go.' He said okay,
and that was that. He let her go. He knew how I felt about your
sister."

"But why, dear--why! Why do you feel this way about her?"

He stared at the square of carpet between his feet. "Personal
reasons," he said. "Private reasons."

"But don't I have a right to know what those reasons are?"

"Why don't you ask her? She knows how I feel about her--and why."

"I swear to you she doesn't, Noah! She's at a loss! She has no
idea why you seem to hate her so, and it hurts her terribly! She
only knows that something she may have done--she has no idea what
it might have been--turned you against her years ago. She loves
you, Noah. Can't you imagine what it's like for her, knowing that
you hate her but not knowing why? She loves you almost as if--"

"If she knows how I feel about her, why would she want to come
back into the company?"

"Oh, Noah, don't you understand? Don't you understand anything!
It's not that she wants to come back into the company. She's
never asked for that. She's
never asked for anything, in fact. But whatever it was, whatever
it was that happened between the two of you, it was all so long
ago. Now you have the power, with one forgiving gesture, offering
her a job, to erase all that, all the hate, all the old
bitterness over--whatever it was. Don't you see? Don't you see
that I want to see all the old wounds that have divided this
family healed before I die?"

He looked at her, and she briefly averted her eyes; and for a
moment he wondered whether his mother did, in fact, know exactly
why he felt the way he did about her baby sister. Was it possible
she had always known? In some ways, he'd never known her.

She dabbed her eyes now. "I don't want to die with my boots on,"
she said. "I want to die knowing that you're running the company,
and that Bathy has been taken care of. I want to get out of my
girdle and relax, and travel, and go to my quiet grave from some
glamorous place--climbing the Spanish Steps in Rome, or in the
lighthouse overlooking the harbor at St. Jean de Luz ... St.
Mark's in Venice ... on the Charles Bridge in Prague. I'd like to
die in the Juderia in Seville, or in the mosque at Cordoba, or at
the Ritz in Paris, where I spent my honeymoon with your father. I
want to die knowing that everything is in place, Noah. Is this
too much for a mother to ask?"

"Now, don't start pulling your sympathy act, Mom. I know that act
only too well. You're not dying. You're as healthy as a horse."

She lowered her eyes. "There are some things I haven't told you
about, Noah," she said. "The doctor says I have an irregular
heartbeat. He talks about fibrillations --"

"Come off it, Mom! Don't pull that crap on me!"

"It's not crap! But do you know what I think? I think you really
don't want the top job. I think you're scared of it. I think
you're like the Duke of Windsor. Wallis told me that once at
Grandmont. She said, 'David wasn't in love with me. He just
didn't want to be king. He used me as an excuse to get out of
doing a job he didn't want.' I think that's the way you're using
my poor sister."

"That's more crap! Would I have been standing
around on tiptoes all these years if I wasn't waiting to be
kissed? It's just that I don't like the quid pro quo You've
always operated that way, haven't you--IT scratch your back if
you'll scratch mine."

Her voice rose. "It's just a favor I'm asking of you,' she said.
"That's what business is all about, isn't it? Favors? Doing
favors in return for other favors? That's how business deals are
made, young man! By calling ir your markers. I owe you one, but
first you owe me one Your father made a fortune simply by
collecting frorr all the people who owed him one!"

"And meanwhile, in the business community, I've be come a joke,"
he said angrily. "A fucking joke, Mom thanks to you. The mama's
boy who can't get himsel untied from Mama's apron strings.
Because every time the little boy asks for a cookie, Mama says,
'No cookie; until the little boy does what Mama tells him to.'
Thank! to you, people laugh at me behind my back. Worse thai
that, people feel sorry for me--they pity me! 'Pooi Noah, who's
his mama's little puppet.' Even my wife pities me. How do you
think that makes me feel? The only source of pride I've got left
is that I haven't let you shove your sister down my throat."

"She's family, Noah. She belongs here. That's why I'm asking you
this--tiny, tiny favor."

"Your sister is a lying, conniving, troublemaking double-crossing
little bitch! So, you know what you can do with your tiny, tiny
favors, Mom? You can take then and shove them up that big fat ass
of yours--one by one!"

Her eyes grew hard then. Just imagine her eyes, am the quick
downward curl of her lip, something very clos< to a sneer. Now he
was seeing the executive Hannah the boardroom Hannah, the Hannah
Liebling who sen $250,000-a-year executives trembling back to
their draw ing boards and, from there, still trembling, into the
Bill more Bar for many stiff drinks. She reached into the
reticule for her spectacles, and placed them over th< bridge of
her nose, the way she often did at meeting when she had a final
point to make.

Through her glasses she glared at her son. "You'll b< getting a
ten percent annual salary increase," she said "I've already put
that through. And there are some people who would consider that a
not inconsiderable--even a very generous--raise. There are even
some people who manage to make do on that amount of money a year.
And I don't need to tell you that if you were CEO, your present
salary could more than triple. You could pay yourself whatever
you wanted, for that matter. And there would be other perks. The
company plane. A fat wad of Ingraham stock. Bonuses and other
benefits too numerous to mention, but of which I'm sure you are
well aware. Your problem, Noah, is that you are stubborn. You
were always a stubborn child, and stubbornness is a childish
trait. A good executive is not a stubborn executive. A good
executive must be flexible, be willing to go to the bargaining
table, be willing to hammer out a deal. In addition to being
stubborn, you have a terrible temper and a foul mouth. These are
not attractive executive qualities. Your father could get away
with that sort of thing because he was a roughneck to begin with.
The role of roughneck doesn't suit you, Noah. You still look too
preppy for the part. As a roughneck you just look silly. So
perhaps you're not quite ready to be CEO, after all. But I want
you to think about all this, Noah. Perhaps you should talk it
over with Carol. See what she thinks. Let me know your decision
within a week."

"I'm not going to talk it over with Carol, or with anyone else.
I've made my decision. You talk about going to your grave from
some glamorous place. I've got a better plan. I'm going to my
grave with a headstone that says, 'He died without caving in to
his mother. He died without kissing his mother's ass.' "

"Suit yourself," she said with a wave of her hand, her usual
gesture of dismissal. "Someone's got to be boss. It'll still be
me."

He got up and walked out of the room, leaving her there. But he
still did not feel ready to join the others in the living room.

And that was when he heard the sounds of a young girl's sobs from
behind the guest room door.

 In her town house on Sutton Square, Ruth Liebling di Pascanelli
is sitting on a long white sofa with Ector, watching the
flickering image of the black-and-white film
on the huge television screen that occupies one wall. "Here's
where I make my first entrance," she whispers.

"Hey, that's not you!" he says.

"Of course it is!"

"I can't believe that's you!"

"Ssh! Listen to the dialogue."

From the screen, the actress named Ruth Radcliffe says:

 Did you really mean you'd kill for her, Paul?

I swear it, Roseline!

Then the person you must kill is--

Don't say it, Roseline. I know.

 "C'mon! That ain't you! That don't look a bit like you." "Ssh!"

 We'll be conspirators, Paul. You and I. You and I. Together.

"They used the wrong take on that line," she says. "That was
supposed to be my reaction shot. That was supposed to be my
closeup. Instead, they gave it to him, and all you see is the
back of my head."

On the screen, the scene has changed to calendar pages fluttering
in the wind. One by one the calendar pages blow off the frame . .
. December . . . January . . . February . . .

"If that was really you, you really used to be pretty," he says.
"How old was you then? When was this movie made, anyway?"

"Don't you know it's rude to ask a woman her age?"

Now, on the screen, is a busy Arab street scene, mosques in the
distance. The street bustles with women in face veils and men in
burnooses, and the legend appears: "Marrakesh--1936."

"So that's when it was made. Nineteen thirty-six. Shit, man, I
wasn't even born then." He yawns.

"That's when the story takes place," she says. "Look, do you want
to watch this film or not?"

"Well, it's getting kinda late."
She presses the Off button on the remote, and the screen goes
blank.

"So you're a movie star and a countess. And Jewish, even. Say,
you're hell on wheels, aintcha?" He reaches out and squeezes her
arm.

"Please don't," she says, moving away from him on the white sofa.

He looks at his watch. "Look, we got a little business to
discuss," he says. "You know the rates. Hundred an hour, or a
thousand for all night. I been with you--let's see, five hours.
You want another hour or all night? I gotta phone the agency and
let 'em know. What'll it be?"

"All night," she whispers.

"Okay. Where's the phone?"

She points.

He rises and goes to the telephone. Ruth's living room is all
white, including the telephone. He talks quietly on the phone for
a minute or two. "Say, this is quite a penthouse you got here,"
he says, returning to the sofa.

"It's not a penthouse. It's called a town house. What's it like
being a male escort?"

"Not bad. I'm lucky. Got a good agency."

"A different woman every night."

"Oh, not every night. And I do Johns, too. You know, businessmen.
Conventions, that sort of thing. Makes for variety."

She shudders.

"Reason I'm successful is I always try to show a little
affection. That's the secret."

She says nothing.

"Well, how about it?" he says. "Ready for a little roll in the
hay? Satisfaction guaranteed."

She shakes her head.

"Not worried about AIDS, are you? Don't worry. I brought along
plenty of protection. Choice of colors and flavors, ma'am."

She shakes her head again.

"You're funny," he says. "Most women I take out, older women like
you, all they want is a little roll in the hay."

"No," she says. "No, thank you."

"You're not a dike, are you?"
"No."

"Don't get me wrong. I got nothing against dikes. I know a lot of
nice dikes, some of 'em you'd never guess was dikes, no kidding.
But if you'd wanted a girl for tonight, the agency would've sent
one. Same charge."

"No."

"Speaking of which, if you want me for all night, the agency says
payment in advance."

"In your ad ... in the Yellow Pages ... it said you accept the
Visa card."

"Sure do! Got my little machine right in my ditty bag," and he
pats the black zippered toilet kit on the sofa beside him, "But
if you want me for all night, and you don't want a roll in the
hay, what do you want?"

She turns her face away from him, facing the white white wall.
"Just someone to talk to," she says. And though he cannot see her
face, a single tear slides slowly downward across her cheek.
"Just someone common and ignorant to talk to. Common and ignorant
like me."
Tables for Two

 Jacques, the captain, has given Georgette Van Degan the best
table at Le Cirque, as he always tries to do. This is the corner
banquette on the right-hand side of the room, facing the door,
where Georgette can see everyone who enters the restaurant and
where, so much more important, everyone who enters the restaurant
can see Georgette. To those faces she recognizes, she blows air
kisses. Upon those she doesn't, she affixes a brief, icy stare.

Today she has been a few minutes late for her luncheon date,
deliberately, but her guest, it seems, is going to be even later,
and this has already put Georgette in a thoroughly sour mood.
There is absolutely nothing in the world more infuriating to a
woman than to be sitting alone at a table in a fashionable
restaurant waiting for her luncheon partner, and to have people
she knows walk in and see her sitting there, looking as though
she has been stood up, and seeing on her friends' faces that look
of gloating sympathy. Georgette has ordered a Lil let, and when
not sizing up the room, she pretends to be studying the menu
through a small gold lorgnette she wears around her neck, like a
lavalliere. Actually, it is not a lorgnette at all. It is a
mirror, which Georgette uses to check her makeup as well as to
see what is going on behind her back without turning around. Now
she sees Carol Liebling, escorted by Jacques, moving toward her
table, looking like something the cat dragged in. But no, that's
not fair. Carol has made what Georgette would call a nice try,
though she must have had a bad hair day. She is also lugging a
briefcase.

Carol is wearing a new navy faille silk suit by Versace that she
bought just for this occasion. The navy silk has tiny flecks of
gold thread woven into it, and the suit was
expensive. "Sorry to be late," Carol murmurs as she slides into
the banquette beside Georgette. "My hairdresser kept me waiting."
The two women do not kiss, as women often do at luncheon tables.
They are not such good friends as that, though Georgette and
Jacques always kiss when she comes into his restaurant, and they
are not friends at all. Georgette does not even know Jacques's
last name. Nobody does.

"Well, it was certainly worth the wait," Georgette says. "Your
hair looks lovely, darling. You're doing something different with
it, aren't you?"

"Do you like it? I let Michel try something new today. A little
shorter."

"Most becoming, darling. So youthful-looking."

 Actually, the waiting-for-the hairdresser story is a lie--a
white lie but still a lie. In fact, Carol has spent the morning
trying to get through to Mr. Corydon McCurdy, chairman of the
Acquisitions Committee for the Metropolitan Museum. When he
finally returned her calls, it was less than twenty minutes ago.

"Cory, the most extraordinary thing has happened," she said to
him. "Georgette Van Degan has invited me to lunch today, and I
think it might be because she wants to talk about giving their
Chinese porcelains to the museum."

"Whatever makes you think that?" he asked her.

"Why else would she call me? I hardly know the woman. I really
only met her once--at a Brearley parent-teachers meeting. But
when I mentioned her collection --"

"Carol," he said, and there was a note of impatience in his
voice, "the museum has been sending out feelers to the Van Degans
about that collection for years. Mr Van Degan expressed some
interest for a while, particularly after the tax benefits had
been explained to him But Mrs. Van Degan has always been the
stumbling block."

"That's what I mean," she said. "This luncheon invitation came
from her, not him. And when I mentioned her collection to her a
couple of years ago, I said something about how nice it would be
to have her collectior at the Met, right across the street from
where they live--
and there was a definite reaction on her part. I think she may be
about to come around, Cory."

"I doubt it," he said. "Everybody's approached the Van Degans.
All the trustees, including Brooke Astor. And Brooke Astor's
husband was some sort of cousin of Truxton Van Degan's."

"But I think I may have planted some sort of little seed in her
mind. I mean, I really can't think of what else she'd want to
talk to me about."

"Well, if you think taking her out to lunch will do it, go ahead.
But I think you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Cory, she invited me to lunch. I didn't invite her."

"But if the Van Degans have already turned down Brooke Astor, why
in the world would they approach the museum through someone like
you?"

Carol had always known she disliked Mr. Corydon McCurdy, and now
she decided the feeling was mutual. "Cory," she said carefully,
"I merely called to ask you for your permission to begin
negotiations on the terms of the gift--if she should bring it
up."

"Sure," he said. "Sure, go ahead. But I can guarantee you won't
get anywhere with her. If Brooke Astor can't do it, nobody can. .
. ."

 Now Jacques appears at their table. "Can I get you something
from the bar, Mrs. Liebling?" Though Carol Liebling is not one of
his regulars at Le Cirque, Jacques always makes it a point to
know the names of Mrs. Van Degan's luncheon guests. Mrs. Van
Degan likes to see her name mentioned regularly in the columns,
and so does he. He will telephone this item to Roxy, Liz, Cindy
Adams, and Billy Norwich this afternoon, and one of them is bound
to use it. That's what makes a restaurant, the column mentions.

"Ingraham's V.S.O.P. and water, please."

Georgette fingers the stem of her wineglass and tries not to
register any expression. But whiskey seems to her a rather heavy
drink for lunchtime, and ordering the family brand seems--well,
just a trifle crass. What if she were to order her wine served in
a glass made by the Van Degan Corporation?

As though reading her thoughts, Carol smiles and says, "Sorry,
but it's an old family rule laid down by
Noah's father. Whenever anyone remotely connected with the
company orders a drink in public, it must be one of Ingraham's
premium labels. Noah's father used to say, 'And say it loud--so
the whole room can hear you.' I don't go quite as far as that,
though."

"How amusing."

Looking at Carol, Georgette decides that Carol is actually a
pretty little thing, though she will always have that problem
with the Kansas face. The face is a little too scrubbed-looking
for New York, a little too open and trusting. New York women did
better who went for the bored look, or the suspicious look, or an
artful combination of the two. The tiny freckles on Carol's nose
and cheekbones don't help. Dermabrasion could get rid of those,
of course, but nothing could be done with the wheat-colored eyes,
except perhaps contacts. And Carol would look better as a blonde,
she thinks, not with that reddish-chestnut hair, which must be a
rinse. Certainly Georgette knows that she looks better as a
blonde. Both women are at that age when all women look better as
blondes. But would blond hair change that outdoorsy, milkmaid's
heart-shaped face? Probably not. All Kansas women had that, and
quite a few Texans, and there was nothing they could do about it.
It was a face that had no corners to it, that simply looked too
healthy for Le Cirque, though it might do all right for football
games. Georgette guesses that, in high school, Carol Liebling was
probably a cheerleader, and was voted Most Popular. And that navy
silk faille suit. It is a Versace, but it was bought off the
rack, and Georgette knows exactly where Carol bought it and how
much she paid for it. It was a Kansas suit. "Love your suit,
darling," Georgette says.

Eying her companion, Carol is thinking that Georgette merely
looks costly. She looks costly in that special way that only very
rich city women manage to look. Her hair looks expensive, her
skin looks expensive, she smells expensive. Georgette Van Degan
would look expensive in blue jeans and a faded Brooks pink shirt.
She dresses simply but expensively, and today she is wearing a
champagne-colored cashmere sweater dress with the sleeves
casually pushed up above her expensive elbows, and along her
slenderly expensive arms many
chunky gold bracelets cascade down. A champagne-colored Chanel
bag, in alligator, with a long gold chain lies beside her on the
banquette seat, open, with many little Vuitton objects poking out
at artless angles--a glasses case, a billfold, a notebook, a
checkbook, a compact, a key case. Georgette Van Degan is by no
means a beauty--handsome, yes, even striking, with a thin,
strong-jawboned face that is composed of many flat, highly
polished planes. It is a face, Carol thinks, that mostly has the
look of money.

But it isn't just money, Carol thinks, that has bought that
attitude that Georgette wears so comfortably--that air of brittle
poise and utter self-assurance. If that could be bought, Carol
might try buying a little of it for herself. Georgette looks as
though she was born to sweep through the doorways of Bergdorf s,
Harry Winston, and David Webb. Carol has learned to manage
Bergdorf s now, but just barely. For years the haughty-looking
saleswomen in that store intimidated her. If she paused to look
at something on a counter there, and was approached by one of
these sleek creatures, she would blush, mutter an apology, and
hurry on. She has managed to overcome some of these country-girl
feelings of inadequacy, at least where Bergdorfs is concerned.
But places like Winston's and David Webb are still beyond her.
She knows it is foolish, but stores like these are just too
daunting. And then there is the little matter of Georgette Van
Degan's Chanel bag, casually unclasped. Georgette Van Degan,
Carol thinks, could walk down Fifth Avenue with an open handbag
slung over her shoulder, the little Vuitton cases peeking out,
and even the most intrepid thief would think twice before
attempting to mug her. Carol, from years of habit, still clutches
her handbag to her side when on the street. Seated at one of the
best tables at Le Cirque with Georgette Van Degan, Carol does her
best not to let Georgette suspect that women like this make her
feel vulnerable and out of place. Even though they do. She smiles
brightly.

After all, she reminds herself, Noah once told her that one of
the things he loved about her was that she didn't look or act
like a city girl. He meant that as a compliment. "I miss our
Brearley parent-teacher meetings," she says to break the little
silence.

"Yes, and how is dear Anne?" Georgette asks her now. "Let's see,
she goes to--"

"She's at Bennington."

"And doing well?

"Oh, yes. Very."

"Such a pretty girl, I remember. Linda is at Vassar, and also
doing well, I'm happy to say. Those two were such good friends
back in the Brearley days."

"Yes." In fact, Carol can't remember that Anne and Linda Van
Degan were friends at all. Classmates, yes. But perhaps they were
friends. Anne was then at that age when daughters don't tell
their mothers much of anything, at least not as much as they
begin to tell them later on. Carol also has trouble remembering
what Linda Van Degan looks like. She has a picture of a rather
chubby little dark-haired girl, who unfortunately inherited her
father's no-nonsense nose. But perhaps over the past three years
Linda has grown taller and lost some of that baby fat. That can
often happen to girls between the ages of fifteen and eighteen.
Ugly ducklings can turn into swans.

Carol's drink arrives. "Tell me," Georgette says, "do you still
have all those projects you were working on? I remember you
always had lots of exciting projects going on. You were very
active with the Met, if I recall."

"Still am. That's my main thrust, the Met. In fact, I was just
talking this morning with Ivana Trump--"

"Ivana Trump? Forget her, darling. She can't do anything for you.
She's on everybody's B list now. She's dead in the water. She's
really become one of yesterday's people, I'm afraid."

There is a brief silence, and Carol sips her drink.

"But how I envy you all your projects," Georgette says. "I wish I
could find time for things like that. But Truck and I always seem
to be so busy, with travel, with keeping up three houses, and all
the social life, which I absolutely loathe, but which I feel I
simply must do for Truck's business."

"Yes, of course . . ."

"Do you and Noah find yourselves doing much too
much entertaining--much more than you really want to do?"

"Well, not too much, perhaps," Carol says, and then, lest
Georgette think that she and Noah are a pair of boring
stay-at-homes, she says, "I did have a small dinner party on New
Year's Eve. Mostly family, but William Luckman came."

Georgette's eyes widen. "William Luckman?" she says. "The
author?"

"Yes."

"You had him for dinner?"

"As a matter of fact, he was sitting at my dinner table when you
called."

"Well, well]" Georgette says, looking at her guest with new
appreciation. "How did you ever succeed in snapping him up?"

"He's a friend of a friend of Anne's."

"Reallyl Every hostess in town is after him right now. He's on
everybody's most-wanted list, but he's terribly hard to get,
always dashing off here and there, promoting his book. They say
he's terribly attractive."

"Oh, he is."

"And I hear his book is fascinating."

"So is he. Very--articulate."

"And you had him for dinner. Did you phone it in to Roxy?"

"Roxy?"

"Roxy Rhinelander. I'm surprised she didn't have an item in her
column."

"It was mostly a family dinner," Carol says modestly. "I didn't
want any publicity."

"Carol, I think you are an absolutely fascinating woman!"
Georgette says, meaning it, and calling Carol by her first name
for the first time. "You have a dinner for the hottest new man in
town, and nobody even knows about it! I call that classl"

"Just a little family dinner," Carol says for what must be the
third time, but very much aware that she has made a strong
impression on the famous Georgette Van Degan, and pleased with
that.

"And you say he's a friend of Anne's."

"A friend of a friend of hers. Melody Richards." "Is she Loyce
Richards' daughter?"
"A different family. Her father's a diplomat, stationed in the
Far East. But I know Loyce Richards. She's on our museum board."

"Loyce and Peter spread themselves too thin, if you ask me.
They're on every board, and when you're on every board it stops
meaning anything. People forget which board you're on, and pretty
soon they stop caring and you're dead in the water. You become
one of yesterday's people."

"I suppose you're right, yes."

"But what you do is so much cleverer, darling. You concentrate on
just one thing, the Met Museum. That's your main thrust, as you
put it. As a result, when I think of the museum, I think of you,
and when I think of you I think of the museum."

"And I envy you, living right across the street from the museum,"
Carol says, feeling sure now that the conversation is leading to
what this lunch date is all about.

"It's absolutely the best place to live, I think."

"Being able to step across the street and be among all those
treasures . . ."

"Well, there's that, of course," Georgette says. "But the best
thing is the security. The museum has fabulous security, around
the clock, and we get all the benefits of that. The blocks
between Eighty-second and Eighty fourth have got to be the safest
blocks in town."

"Of course. I hadn't thought of that," Carol says.

"Anyway, that brings me to what I wanted to chat with you about."

"Yes," Carol says, leaning forward and giving Georgette her best
smile, but trying not to appear too eager, though she is now
quite certain what is coming next.

"I was thinking," she says, "about the way some things are
fashionable. Then they go out of fashion. Then they come back
into fashion again. Then they go out again. But then they can
come back again."

"But some things, like great art--"

"Yes, but the point is always to be one jump ahead of the
fashion. To spot the trends before they become too trendy. That's
always been my motto, to be a jump ahead of the pack. Timing is
everything, particularly in this town, if you don't want to
become one of yesterday's people. And that's why I think the
timing is just right for this idea I have for you and me."

"I absolutely agree," Carol says.

"You do? But I haven't told you what my idea is yet."

"Let's say a little bird told me."

"Who told you? Have you been talking to Patsy Col lingwood? She's
the only one I've told. Besides Truck. And Truck doesn't talk to
anybody."

"Let's say I guessed it. From conversations you and I had, back
when our girls were at Brearley."

"Oh. Well, if you know what it is, what do you think of the
idea?"

"I think it's absolutely wonderful," Carol says. "And I'm honored
that you'd let me have a part in it."

"You'd have a big part in it. We'd share it. It would be
wonderful publicity for both of us."

Carol covers Georgette's hand with hers. "No, the publicity
should be all for you. You and your husband. After all--"

"No, you and I should share it, fifty-fifty."

"I don't care that much about publicity, Georgette."

"Nonsense. It could help you with the museum. They might put you
on the board."

"I don't really care about getting on the board, Georgette. All I
care about is what's good for the museum. Why, those two Lang Yao
vases alone--"

"As centerpieces, you mean?"

"Perfect centerpieces for the whole thing!"

Georgette looks dubious. "We're not supposed to put water in
them. Perhaps dried arrangements, but I think dried arrangements
are tacky. I'll ask Truck. Anyway, I was thinking of about a
thousand people."

"To announce it, you mean? Well, perhaps we could get two of the
Annenberg galleries."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to have it at the museum would youl Too
stuffy. I was thinking of the Piping Rock Club, under a tent. And
I don't think we want boomp-chink-boomp-chink Whatsisname, do
you? Les ter Lanin. Wouldn't you rather have Peter Duchin? And I
assume your husband's company could provide the liquor, which
would save us both a lot of money."

All at once Carol is lost. "I'm sorry, Georgette," she
says. "I don't think I quite understand. You're talking about a
party?"

"Of course. A coming-out party for Linda and Anne. In June. A
drop-dead party to end all coming-out parties, and we've only got
six months to get it all together." "For Linda," Carol repeats
numbly. "And Anne." She feels her cheeks grow red.

"Coming-out parties were all the rage in the fifties. Then they
went out of fashion in the sixties. Then they started to come
back in the seventies and eighties, and then they went out again.
Now we're going to bring them back again for the nineties--you
and I. That's what I meant about fashions, how they swing back
and forth, back and forth. But we're going to set the trend for
the nineties. We're going to be right out there on the cutting
edge."

"A coming-out party," Carol says. "Won't it be fun?"

Their waiter appears. "Your usual lunch, Mrs. Van Degan?" "Yes,
Felix. Two four-minute eggs and half a slice of dry whole wheat
toast."

Carol stares blankly at the menu, which she has not even studied,
and where she sees no mention of four minute eggs. So that's how
she stays so thin, she thinks. Her eyes alight on the Maryland
crabs, though somehow she has lost her appetite. "I guess I'll
have the crabs," she says, putting the menu down.

"The first thing we've got to do is pick a date," Georgette
continues without missing a beat. "Somewhere between when school
gets out and the Fourth, when everyone goes away. It's got to be
a night when nobody else is doing anything, when there'll be no
competition, and when we can get Peter Duchin, because we want
Peter himself, of course, not just one of his orchestras. Then
we've got to think of a theme and get the invitations ordered.
For engraving Cartier wants at least a month. Each girl would
invite her own list of friends, and as for the boys, there's a
formula. You want at least two and a half boys for each girl, so
there'll be lots of competition for the girls and no wallflowers.
There's an agency that will supply lists of suitable boys from
the various schools and colleges. What do you think of making it
white tie instead of plain old black tie? That would make it so
much more of an occasion, don't you think-- a really grand ball?
The point is to do the really surprising thing. You have to keep
surprising people if you want to stay on top--in this town, at
least. If you don't, you're dead in the water. We want to get
lots and lots of press, of course, because we want this to be the
most important debutante party ever, for Linda and Sally."

"Anne," Carol says.

"And I'm so thrilled you're as excited about this as I am, and I
can't believe you guessed that this was what I had in mind.
You're obviously a woman of many facets, darling--getting William
Luckman to your house for dinner ahead of everyone else. What a
coup! And what is it they say about great minds?" She throws
Carol a quick look. "You are excited about this, aren't you,
darling?"

"Well," Carol says, "to be honest with you, I'm a little
disappointed, Georgette."

"Disappointed? Why?"

"Frankly, I thought you'd asked me to lunch to discuss giving
your collection to the museum. I mean, I couldn't think of any
other reason."

"Collection? What collection?"

"Your Chinese porcelains."

"Oh, that," Georgette says with a wave of her hand. "You'd have
to talk to Truck about that. It's really his collection. His
grandfather started it. But frankly, darling, I can assure you
that Truck has no interest in donating any of that."

"But could we talk about that for a minute?" Carol says. "You
see, under the new tax laws there are certain advantages in
making such an important gift now. In fact, I've put together a
few facts and figures for you, and listed various ways in which
the gift could be made. You might want to take this home and
discuss it with your--" She starts to reach for the envelope in
her briefcase.

"Forget it," Georgette says. "No way, darling."

"--husband."

"If you want to talk taxes, I don't see why our party couldn't be
deductible," Georgette continues. "After all, it would get lots
of publicity for Van Degan Glass, and
for the Ingraham Corporation. Truck and I have the most marvelous
accountant. He's just a little bit crooked, and his motto is,
'When in doubt, deduct it.' They can't put you in jail for
deductions. But we don't have a minute to lose, darling--June is
only six months away. And as for the costs, you and I will split
them right down the middle--for the catering, the flowers, the
orchestra. I'm thinking of perhaps two orchestras--one for
regular dancing and then a rock group, perhaps in a separate
tent. And it's wonderful that your husband's company will supply
the liquor. That will save us--oh, at least ten thousand dollars.
Maybe more."

"I'll have to discuss all this with Noah," Carol says. "And with
Anne, of course. But frankly I'm not sure--"

"They'll be thrilled. And I'll call the Duchin office the minute
I get home, to make sure we get Peter himself. My dear, we're
going to have the party of the decadel Of the century!" Suddenly
she lifts her mirrored lorgnette. "Don't turn around," she
whispers. "But look who the cat dragged in. Dina Merrill. Oh,
good. Jacques has given her a really lousy table. One of
yesterday's people. You have to be so careful in this town, don't
you? If you're not, everybody will simply forget who you are, and
you're dead in the water. Since your daughter Sally knows him so
well--"

"Anne. My daughter's name is Anne."

"That's what I said. Since she knows him so well, we should
invite William Luckman to our party. That would draw the press,
too. Unless he's turned into one of yesterday's people by June,
which could easily happen. Celebrities have such a short shelf
life these days, don't they? Tell me, do you get back to Kansas
often, darling?"

"Kansas?"

"Isn't that where you're originally from, darling?"

"I was born and raised in New Hampshire," Carol says.

Their lunches arrive, Georgette's soft-boiled eggs in a silver
bowl with two points of toast perched on the rim like the wings
of a bird.

"Oh, yum-yum-yum," Georgette says to the eggs.

 In another part of town, two other women are also having lunch.
They are Hannah Liebling and Bathsheba
Sachs. They lunch at least once a month, and Hannah has chosen
the Cafe des Artistes out of consideration for Bathy. The
restaurant serves excellent food at reasonable prices; the two
women split the check, and Ba thy's budget is limited. Both have
ordered, as always, martinis on the stem with Ingraham's gin.

"I just realized what day this is," Hannah says. "It's Jules's
birthday."

"My goodness, you're right."

"If he were alive, he wouldn't let us forget it, would he? Let's
see," she says, counting on her fingers. "If he were alive, he'd
be a hundred and one!" She raises her glass. "Well, here's to the
old s.o.b.," she says with a wink.

"Yes," Bathy says, smiling and lowering her eyes. They touch
glasses.

Bathy, Hannah thinks, has somehow managed to keep both her looks
and her figure, though Hannah, by her own admission, has
thickened somewhat in the hips and middle. Bathy still has that
slender blond loveliness, though she has let the blond hair go to
gray--pulled back, behind her neck, in a trim chignon that shows
off her wide, pale, smooth forehead, her best feature, because
set in that forehead are the same merry blue eyes, the Sachs
eyes. All Sachses have them.

Hannah says, "Do you remember that time in Harry's bar in Venice
when he kicked up such a godawful fuss because the bartender
didn't have any Ingraham brands in stock? Oh, there was going to
be hell to pay for that poor Italian bartender. I thought that
bartender was going to burst into tears--didn't you?"

"He just couldn't understand why any bar in the world wouldn't
stock his labels. And then if they did, he always made the
bartenders rearrange their shelves so that the Ingraham brands
would be displayed front and center, with their front labels
facing the customer. Do you remember who that Italian bartender
turned out to be?"

"Harry Cipriani himself!"

"Right, and he raised such hell about the stock being displayed
that most bartenders were afraid to change it back again. He
might come back and raise even more hell."
"Of course, I usually slipped the bartender fifty dollars when
Jules wasn't looking," Hannah says.

"Of course! So would I."

"Under-the-counter payoffs. It still goes on, except nobody talks
about it."

"Except you and I."

"Except you and I." The two women exchange smiles.

"If your husband could have had his way, Ingraham bottles would
have been one solid label. He hated that government regulation
that no more than thirty percent of a bottle's surface can be
covered with labels."

"Hated it. He said it was worse than Communist Russia."

"Oh, my. What you and I went through with that man."

"But what fun we had. Sometimes."

"Remember the time he threw the telephone out the window?"

"Someone had phoned him with bad news. Thank goodness it landed
on the street and not on someone's head."

"I can't remember what the bad news was, can you?"

"Neither can I. Something from the state liquor commissioner, I
imagine. That was usually what it was."

"Incidentally," Bathy says, "I was touched to see that you ran my
Christmas ad again this year."

"We'll always run it, as long as I have anything to say about it.
It was one of the best ideas you ever had, Bathy dear."

Were you aware that Bathsheba Sachs was for many years the
advertising director for Ingraham? She started with Hannah's
husband's company after graduating from the Fieldston/Ethical
Culture School and after what was then the mandatory year's grand
tour of Europe. At first she was little more than a messenger,
delivering mail and memos to the various offices in the building,
but soon the company was letting her try her hand at writing
advertising copy. She turned out to be a clever writer, and in
1960 Jules Liebling named her as his director of advertising. She
was only thirty-two and, at the time, she was the youngest
person, and the only woman, in the distilling industry to occupy
such a position. With her unusual name and her even more unusual
beauty, she
soon became something of a legend in the business. In 1965
Advertising Age named her its Woman of the Year, and devoted its
cover story to her. Alas, this is a business that forgets its
legends very quickly.

The so-called Christmas ad has appeared in mid December every
year since 1960. Those years--the 1960s--were not good ones for
the liquor business. Public tastes seemed to be changing. Up to
then vodkas seemed to dominate distillers' sales charts, the
theory being that consumers believed that vodka left no telltale
breath. This was not really true, but the industry had been
delighted to encourage the notion that by drinking vodka, a man
or woman could be a secret drinker. Ingra ham's had capitalized
on this misconception, too, with ads for Ingraham's Vodka that
employed the slogan, "It Has the Secret!" And a competitive brand
claimed, "It Leaves You Breathless!" But in the 1960s vodka sales
began to go soft. Younger people, it seemed, preferred to get
their highs from other chemical substances, while the more
traditional market seemed to be turning from distilled spirits to
wines, wine spritzers, light beers, soft drinks, and bottled
spring or mineral waters. Distillers panicked.

Ingraham had tried to get into the bottled-water business by
buying a brand called Yukon Spring Water, but despite heavy
advertising Yukon Spring failed to take off. The "designer
waters," Evian and Perrier, continued to dominate. Bathy's idea,
then, for the 1962 Christmas ad had been an unusually subtle
means of appealing to the changing public attitudes toward
drinking. It was an all-type ad, and appeared as a full page in
national newsmagazines, as well as in major newspapers across the
country, headlined: a holiday message from the h & w ingraham
company. "The holidays are a time for joy and high spirits
everywhere," the copy began. But the copy then went on to warn
drinkers not to take the term "high spirits" literally. "As
distillers, we know only too well the tragic results of
overindulgence in spirits at this time of year," the copy said,
and it cautioned drinkers to approach liquor with respect,
especially when they intended to be behind the wheels of motor
vehicles or any other piece of machinery. There were other
commonsense tips and suggestions about alcohol, its effects
on the brain and central nervous system, and readers were urged
to refuse to have "one for the road." "As distillers," the copy
concluded, "we have always believed that spirits should be
approached with moderation and respect, and that the safest place
to drink is in the home."

At first Jules Liebling had been almost violently opposed to the
Christmas ad. "What?" he screamed. "In our biggest selling season
you want us to run an ad telling people not to drinkl This is
crazy!"

"Not not to drink, Jules," Bathy said. "Just telling people not
to drink too much, to be careful how and where they drink. Not to
drink if they're going to be handling a car, in particular."

"You're telling them to drink at home! My bar business is seventy
percent of sales! How do they get to the bars if they don't drive
there in a car?"

"I'm just urging them not to drink too much."

"You are crazy, Bathy! What will my competition think? They'll
laugh at me. They'll think I've gone meshugge!"

"Just try it, Jules," Bathy persisted. "In terms of public
relations, I think this could pay off in the millions."

"Public relations, public shmelations," he said. "This is a
meshuggener idea your sister has."

But Hannah had agreed with Bathy. "Just try it," they both urged
him.

"People nowadays are turning away from hard liquor because
they're afraid of what it will do to them," Bathy said. "This ad
will tell them there's a way to enjoy drinking without getting
into trouble. This is very reassuring copy."

"There's a difference between drinking and getting in toxicated,"
Hannah said.

He agreed initially to run the copy, or an abbreviated version of
it, in small print at the bottom of Ingraham's regular schedule
of holiday ads, much the way the government-mandated warnings now
appear on labels. But Bathy insisted that for the ad to have any
impact at all, it must run in full pages in newspapers and
magazines, and make a big splash. And finally he gave in to "this
crazy experiment of your sister's."

The effect of that first Christmas ad was immediate
and overwhelming. Newspapers across the country editorialized on
it, praising "this sober and responsible distiller" who "cares
more for humanity than profits" (New York Times), and citing
Jules for his altruism, honesty, civic spirit, and concern for
the public welfare. The ad was even quoted, verbatim, on radio
and national television newscasts, publicity that could never
have been bought since liquor advertising is not accepted by the
non-print media. Women's magazines, many of which also refused
liquor advertising, published laudatory articles about Jules
Liebling, his company, and his praiseworthy stance, and Fortune
put him on its cover. Reporters who had never referred to Jules
with epithets much kinder than "the billionaire booze baron" now
called him "this caring, public-spirited citizen."

Jules was invited to appear on radio and television talk shows,
where he cheerfully took full credit for the ad, and even managed
to get across the dubious point that Ingraham products were "more
purely distilled," and "contained fewer harmful esters," making
them less likely to cause hangovers, thereby reducing absenteeism
in the workplace. One TV talk show host went so far as to call
Ingraham "the Tiffany of distillers," but the adjective most
commonly used to describe Jules was "responsible," and wasn't
responsibility the closest thing to respectability, the commodity
Jules longed most to attain? Jules Liebling was not used to
hearing himself called civic-minded, and he found he thoroughly
enjoyed the experience.

Passing him in the corridor a few weeks after the Christmas ad's
appearance, Bathy Sachs greeted him with a wink and an "I told
you so."

The competition was more than envious. It was furious at the way
Ingraham's and Jules were being extolled. But since Jules had
effectively preempted the anti-drunk platform, there was nothing
they could do about it. ("Fucker's walking around like he's Jesus
Christ," muttered one rival.) The competition could do no more
than wince as, guided by the knowing hand of Bathsheba Sachs, the
words responsible and trustworthy began appearing with increasing
frequency in Ingraham's advertising copy, and the slogan for
Ingraham's V.S.O.P. became "The Only Scotch You Can Always
Trust," and
other labels became touted as "A Trusted Brand from the Trusted
House of Ingraham."

Jules began receiving letters from teachers, saying that they
were incorporating the text of the Christmas ad into their
lectures to young people on substance abuse. One letter from a
fourth-grader said, "My teacher says that when I'm old enough,
and want a drink of whiskey, I should always ask for Ingraham's
because they want to save people's lives and not make people
drunk." "Let's offer this kid fifty thousand dollars if he'll let
us use this as a testimonial," Jules suggested, only to be
reminded that federal laws prohibited the use of minor children
in liquor advertising. Instead, he had settled for having the
letter framed and hung prominently on his office wall.

A woman from Montana wrote to Jules to say that she had stitched
the words from the Christmas ad into a sampler, and sent him a
Polaroid photograph of the result, asking Jules if he would be
interested in buying it. Another wrote asking for permission to
set the words from the Christmas ad to music. Indeed, the public
response to the ad was so resoundingly positive that Jules began
wistfully to suppose that he might be considered for the Nobel
prize.

Nor was the Christmas ad the only important or innovative touch
that Bathsheba Sachs managed to apply to Ingraham's advertising.
From repeal through the 1950s, an unwritten rule of the liquor
industry was that no woman could be shown drinking in a liquor
ad. Women could appear in illustrations, but only as background
figures, and never with glasses in their hands, and most
certainly never to their lips. No federal regulation dictated
this. It was simply a gentlemen's agreement within the industry
itself, and as a result, all liquor advertising was aggressively
masculine in tone. Again, over Jules's objections--what he and
others in the business feared most were changes that might bring
about further government controls--Bathy succeeded in producing a
series of Ingraham's ads that actually depicted women enjoying
the cocktail hour. The general public scarcely noticed this
revolutionary step. But the reverberations from the "women's
campaign," as it became known, were profound within the industry
itself.

Typically, of course, Jules Liebling never thanked his
wife's sister for any of her contributions to his company and its
prestige--not even when, in the quarter following the publication
of the famous Christmas ad, Ingraham's sales figures rose
fourteen percent above the corresponding quarter the year before,
and Ingraham became the industry's acknowledged leader. To Jules
they were always "my advertising campaigns."

 "How are the children?" Bathy asks Hannah now, sipping her
martini.

"Oh, much the same," Hannah says with a sigh. "Ru thie came by
Carol's on New Year's Eve with a most inappropriate young man. I
just hope she's not planning to embark on another of her marital
adventures. And Cyril is--just the same. Slouches to annoy me."

"And Noah?"

She frowns. "Noah is a good boy," she says. "He's always been a
good boy. Noah works hard, and does a good job for the company.
It's just that he's so--stubborn. He's always been stubborn. I'm
trying to work on that stubborn streak of his."

"You don't suppose he could have inherited that from his mother,
do you?" Bathy says with a wink.

"He's so headstrong and determined."

Bathy laughs softly. "We certainly don't need any more headstrong
and determined people in this family, do we?" she says.

"I gave him a nice raise this year. That should satisfy him."

"But not the job he's been promised."

Hannah lowers her eyes. "No. Not yet," she says.

"Not experienced enough? Is that it?"

"No, it's not that. Not exactly. It's just that--"

"What is it, Hannah?"

"It's just that I don't know what the boy would do with that much
power."

"The boy will be forty-nine years old this year. Isn't he getting
to be a little old to be called a boy, Hannah?"

"I can't help it. I think of him that way. If he were given all
that power--all that stock, all that money-- what if he were to
blow it all on some harebrained scheme?"
"Aesop," Bathy says. "Does he still talk about Aesop?"

"No. He hasn't talked about that for a long time. That's what
worries me."

"Why should it worry you? Maybe he's forgotten all about that."

"I worry more about the things he doesn't tell me than the things
he tells me. Or maybe it's some other harebrained scheme. Save
the world! I've lived long enough to know that nobody's going to
save the world. Jesus Christ tried it, and look what happened."

"In other words, you still don't trust him."

"I just don't know what he'd do with all that independence. Go
off on some crazy tangent, like the Aesop business. Save the
world."

Bathy twirls the stem of her glass. "So," she says carefully,
"because you can't be sure what he'd do with his independence,
you keep him--dependent."

"It's because I just can't bear the thought of him getting all
that money and all that power, and then-- poof!--seeing
everything I've worked so hard for go down the drain."

"And everything Jules worked for. And everything that I worked
for. Don't forget Jules and me."

"That's what I meant."

"And Carol, too. She's done her share. I'm sure Carol wouldn't
want to see that happen, either."

"You bet your socks she wouldn't!"

"What do you think Carol wants?"

"For him to run the company, of course."

"And that's what Jules wanted, too."

"Yes. Eventually."

"Well, you haven't asked for my advice," Bathy says, "but I think
eventually is now. Of course there's a risk. This is a high-risk
business. But I think the longer you wait, the greater the risk
that he'll--"

"Fly the coop?"

Bathy nods. "Give him the company now. I think you'd feel a lot
happier with yourself if you did this now."

"Happy? Are you saying I'm not happy?" She puts down her glass
abruptly. "You're right," she says. "I'm not happy."
"I know. I can always tell. Give him the company now. And with no
strings attached."

"Strings? He's the one who keeps attaching strings!"

"Are you quite sure, Hannah?"

Hannah looks away. "Well, maybe one little string," she mutters.

"Detach that string. It isn't getting anybody anywhere."

"Oh, I just wish you could be back in the family again, Bathy,"
she says a little distractedly. "All of us, the way it used to
be. We could discuss things, argue about things, even fight about
things. Didn't we used to have the best doggone fights? The
fights were the best times of all, looking back! We were all a
family. Maybe we weren't exactly happy. But we were us. But
now--"

"Don't, dear," Bathy says, lightly touching the back of Hannah's
hand. "I know how Noah feels about me. I'm used to it. It used to
upset me, but it doesn't anymore."

"But it hurts me, knowing how you--how much you gave up."

"Hush," she says. "It was just that Noah idolized his father so
as a little boy. Worshiped the ground he walked on."

"That was my fault. I raised him to think his father was a kind
of god, that his father could do no wrong, that his father was an
absolutely perfect father in every way!"

"That's a good way to raise a son, if you ask me."

"It was wrong! No mortal being is a god. There's no such thing as
a flawless human being, and Jules Liebling was hardly a flawless
human being. I was wrong to lie to him like that."

Bathy hesitates. "Hannah," she says at last, "do you think it's
time we told Noah the truth?"

"We promised never to do that, Bathy."

"I'll tell him my part of the truth, Hannah, if you'll tell him
yours. But your part, I think, has to come first."

The two women's eyes meet.

Hannah's eyes withdraw first. "Are you ready for another
cocktail?" she says. "I think I am. Waiter--" she calls out
loudly. "Two more martinis, with Ingraham's gin!"
"Don't change the subject, Hannah," Bathy says. "Let's tell him
the truth--but you first. Then give him the job, but with no
strings. I have my own life now. Don't try to use my life to
control Noah's."

Now Hannah blurts it out. "But if you were back in the company,
you could keep an eye on him. You could help keep him under
control. After I'm gone, that is."

"That is not going to work, Hannah," she says. "I can never
control Noah. For that matter, neither can you. You have got to
let Noah become his own man. But if you want someone who might
help control Noah, there's only one person who can do that--and
you know who that is."

"No. .Who?"

"Carol."

"Carol! But she's only his wife. I'm his mother!"

"Yes, dear," Bathy says with a smile. "That's always been your
problem."

Once more their eyes meet, then withdraw.

Their drinks arrive.

"Now might be an especially good time for you to start being
especially nice to your daughter-in-law," Bathy says.

From Roxy Rhinelander's column the following day:

 Glimpsed at Le Cirque yesterday, with their heads together like
a couple of li'l ole magpies, were Georgette Van Degan and Carol
Liebling, the wife of Noah, who's the son of Julcs Liebling, the
late billionaire booze baron. What was on the ladies' minds?
Well, Topic A was the lavish coming-out bash the two will be
tossing for their deb daughters, Linda Van Degan and Anne
Liebling, who've been best of chums since grade-school days. An
early June date is planned. And who'll supply the bubbly and the
Barleycorn for the 1000-plus-guest dinner dance? Aw, you guessed
it. And Topic B? Could it be the ultra-exclusive dinner party
Carol Liebling gave on New Year's Eve, honoring best-selling
author William Luckman, who's so-o-o tall, so-o-o dark, so-o-o
handsome, so-o-o successful and so-o-o sexy that every deb's
mother's got her eye on him? Has peppy Carol Liebling got the
lead position? Watch this space, kiddies.
The morning newspapers, including the one containing this item,
are delivered to Hannah Liebling on her breakfast tray.

Carol Liebling reads it while sipping her coffee in her dining
room at River House. She jumps up from her chair, spilling her
coffee all over the newspaper in the process. Her reaction is one
of frustration and rage. She hasn't even discussed Georgette's
plan with Noah--or even with Anne--and already Georgette has made
it official!

 "I have an interesting proposition for you, Hannah," her mother
said to her that morning in their house in Park Slope.

"Oh? What's that?"

"I met an interesting man at the Joint Distribution Committee
reception last night. He was the only gentleman not wearing a
dinner jacket, but I suppose that's understandable. It takes
these Russians a while to get accustomed to our American ways.
His name is Jules Liebling."

"Oh?"

"He knows who you are, and of course he knows who we are. He'd
like to marry you. Isn't that nice?"

"Mamal I'm not going to marry anyone!"

"Now, wait a minute, young lady," her mother said sharply. "This
is a very serious matter we're discussing-- a matter of life and
death, as it were. You don't want to go to your grave a spinster,
do you? That would be a shame and disgrace, and it seems to me
you've brought enough shame and disgrace on us already."

"It isn't a shame and a disgrace if no one knows, is it?"

"I'm talking about the shame and disgrace you've brought upon
yourself, and upon me, even though your father, God rest his
soul, never knew." Her father had died the year before.

"But I'm not going to marry a man I don't even know!" "I'll tell
you everything you need to know about him. To begin with, he's
very rich, and that's important. He's in the liquor business,
unfortunately, but he's made a lot of money."
"You mean he's a bootlegger?"

"No. He made his money in Canada, where liquor is perfectly
legal. In fact, he doesn't like to be called a bootlegger. He
calls himself a distiller. He told me repeal is right around the
corner, and he's come to New York to establish his business here,
so he can be ready as soon as repeal goes through. They can be
smart, those Russians."

"Liebling doesn't sound like a Russian name to me."

"They all do that. They change their names from something like
Liebowitz to something that sounds more German. It's easier for
them to get credit that way, you see. Oh, they're very clever,
there's no gainsaying that. Last night he pledged one hundred
thousand dollars for the Joirit."

"But that doesn't mean I'd want to marry him, Mama."

Hannah had already begun to suspect that her mother was not being
entirely truthful in her account of this startling proposal. It
seemed quite unlikely that two virtual strangers would casually
encounter each other at a large, formal Joint Distribution
Committee reception, and that the gentleman in question would
proceed to ask for the woman's daughter's hand in marriage. There
was more to it than that, Hannah was certain. But she knew it
would be fruitless to ask. Her mother was much too skillful a
liar.

"But you've got to marry somebody," her mother said airily. "I
admit he's not one of our sort, and not one of our class. But
he's a decent Jewish man, and at least he's not a Bolshevik, as
so many of them are. And remember, Hannah, beggars can't be
choosers."

"What do you mean by that, Mama?"

"There are certain facts you've got to face, Hannah. If you were
to marry one of the nice Jewish boys from the families we know,
he would discover right away, on your wedding night, that you had
been--well, that you had been tampered with. That would never do,
would it? It would be all over town in no time, and he'd throw
you out into the street, and that scandal would follow you for
the rest of your life. But being a Russian, this Mr. Liebling
probably wouldn't even notice anything
that was--well, a little off. I mean, they're used to that sort
of thing, the Russians."

"But why does he want to marry me?"

"They all want to do that. As soon as they make some money, they
want to marry up, into one of the fine old Jewish families like
ours. It helps them in their businesses. And I'll tell you
something else, Hannah. When a man marries up, his wife almost
always manages to elevate him to her level. But when a man
marries down, his wife drags him down to hers. Don't ask me why
this is, but it always works out that way. It's a rule of thumb.
It's another reason why you should accept Mr. Lie bling's
proposal."

"But I don't want to get married!"

"My dear, you must. Think of your future. Think of little Bathy's
future." Bathy was a toddler then.

"What's Bathy got to do with it, Mama?"

"A great deal, I'm afraid. You see, Dr. Lowenstein has told me I
have cancer. I'm afraid I don't have much longer to live, Hannah.
You can't take care of Bathy on your own."

"I can take care of Bathy!"

"My dear, you cannot. Your father did not leave us a great deal
of money. Your father was a great man, and a great scholar and
educator, but scholars and educators do not make a great deal of
money. When I die, there will be very little left for you. You
will need a husband, a husband with money, like Mr. Liebling. I
explained this situation to Mr. Liebling."

"Explained what situation, Mama?"

"That there is very little money on your side. That I am ill, and
that after I am gone Bathy will be in your charge, and he has
promised me that after I die, he will take care of Bathy."

And so that was it. It was to be one of those Old World arranged
marriages, between two people who scarcely knew each other. And
in such an arrangement there was always a quid pro quo. Hannah
would provide Jules Liebling with the luster and cachet of her
Sachs name. In return Jules Liebling would provide her and Bathy
with a comfortable life. Weeks, even months, of delicate
negotiations had doubtless taken place before a deal had been
struck. And it wasn't hard for Hannah to
guess who the principal negotiator in this transaction had been.
Sadie Sachs had performed the same role as a matchmaker in a
European shtetl.

"It was very gentlemanly of him, I must say," her mother said,
"for a Russian."

Hannah was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Why do you keep
saying, 'for a Russian'?"

"Well, there's a matter of class, for one thing, no matter what
you say. Class and background. We Germans came to America of our
own volition, and at our own expense. They came because the czar
threw them out. He couldn't tolerate their socialist ways. For
another thing, in Germany we were a highly cultivated and
respected people. Mendelssohn was my distant cousin! In Russia
those people were riffraff. Most of them couldn't read or write.
They spoke a language--Yiddish--that nobody could understand."

"Yiddish is Judeo-German, Mama!"

"We never spoke Yiddish. They did. Still, all things considered,
I think Mr. Liebling is the best choice you're going to have, and
I told him so."

"You mean you've already promised me to him?"

"Yes, more or less. I told him I thought he was an excellent
choice for you. I didn't tell him that he might be your only
choice."

"But I don't love him, Mama!"

"That doesn't matter. To be honest with you, I didn't love your
papa when I married him. In fact, I hardly knew him, Met him once
or twice. It was one of those marriages that were worked out
between our parents. That sort of thing may sound old-fashioned
to you but, believe me, those were the best marriages. They
lasted. As for love, that will come later. When you children
started to come, then love started to come, too. It will happen
to you also. You'll see. And remember, Mr. Liebling is very
rich."

"I know I'll never be in love again, Mama."

"You'll see," her mother said again. "He's not bad looking, Mr.
Jules Liebling. "He's a few years older than you, which is fine.
Your papa was a few years older than I was when we were married,
and ours was considered an ideal marriage in every respect."

"Was it, Mama?"
"Of course it was!"

"Oh, Mama--why couldn't you and Papa have let me marry the man I
was in love with?" "That was out of the question, and you know
it. What would the rest of the family have said? We'd have lost
all our friends." Her mother picked up her stitchery canvas --a
field of yellow poppies, as Hannah remembers it, against a pale
green background. It would become a sofa cushion in the upstairs
parlor, the sofa on which Sadie Sachs would die two years later.
"I've invited Mr. Lie bling to tea on Thursday, so you can meet,"
she said, pulling a stitch through the canvas. "I want you to put
on your prettiest dress--the blue, I think, with the ruffled
sleeves. And when he proposes marriage, I want you to say yes to
him. Remember, I was at your side during your time of desperate
need. Now you must come to my side at mine, when I need most of
all to know that your future, and Bathy's future, are settled and
secure before I'm gone. You owe that to me, Hannah. And
remember--Mr. Liebling may not be the husband I'd have chosen for
you if things had gone otherwise. But he's the bird in the hand,
and he's very rich."

 And so he had come to tea that Thursday, and she had worn her
best dress, the blue with the low waistline, belted at the hips,
and sleeves of pleated chiffon. The dress showed off her
shoulders, which she considered her best feature. She was a
little disappointed with his looks. He was not, as her mother had
said, bad-looking, but his head seemed disproportionately large,
and he was shorter than she might have wished, and he had small,
almost feminine hands. Her mother left them alone for a few
minutes in the parlor.

"Your mother is a remarkable woman," he said to her, studying her
over the rim of his teacup, his eyes grave.

"Yes. I quite agree."

"Widowhood must be difficult for her."

"Yes, it has been."

"A man doesn't really need a wife," he said. "But every woman
needs a husband. Don't you agree?"

"I suppose," she said carefully. "I hadn't really thought about
it."
"It's true," he said. He set down his teacup on the table beside
his chair. "Now let me meet this little sister of yours," and he
stood up.

Astonished, she realized that what he had just said had been his
marriage proposal to her.

 They were married in a large ceremony at Temple Emanu-El, with a
reception afterward at the Plaza. Her mother wanted a fancy
wedding, with all the families of the Uptown Jewish elite
invited--the Schiffs, the War burgs, the Lehmans, Loebs,
Seligmans, Strauses, and Sulzbergers. "It will show people that
we're not embarrassed, that we're still able to hold our heads up
high," Hannah's mother said. And of course Jules Lie bling paid
for everything.

And they all came, all the best people. Still, at the time there
was some whispering among the wedding guests that they had only
come out of curiosity.

 Years later, Bathy asked her, "How could you have married, and
stayed married to, a man you never loved?"

"Love is hunger. Marriage is three square meals a day," was
Hannah Liebling's reply. It was only partly true.

 In 1935, when Hannah's mother was dying of the cancer that had
been riddling her body for the past several years, though she
refused to let Dr. Lowenstein prescribe medicine for the pain she
was now almost constantly in, she summoned Hannah to her bedside,
and said, "Just promise me one thing, Hannie. Promise me you'll
stay with Jules no matter what happens. Do this for me, and also
for your own sake, and also for little Bathy. I did something
important for you once. Now you must do this for me. Bathy will
go to you and Jules now, where she belongs. So you must make this
marriage last and last and last. No matter what happens. Promise
me you'll do this."

"I promise, Mama."

"And here's something else you must keep," she said. "It's very
important." She reached into the drawer of her bedside table and
withdrew a slim leather case. She
handed it to Hannah. On the front of it was stamped, in gold
letters, bathsheba marcella sachs.

"What's in it, Mama?"

"Open it."

Hannah opened it and pulled out a slender green booklet.

"It's her passport," her mother said. "If she should ever need to
travel outside the United States, she will need a passport.
Notice that it lists her place of birth as New York City.
Ordinarily to obtain a passport, you need to produce a birth
certificate, but a birth certificate lists both parents' names. A
passport does not. Bathy's birth certificate has been removed
from the records at the American Embassy in Berlin. There is no
longer an official record of her birth. But now that you and
Bathy have this passport, you will always have proof that she is
a United States citizen in good standing, and no one will ever
ask any questions. So it's important that you must keep her
passport valid. It must be renewed every five years. You must not
let her passport expire, Hannie. Do you understand? You must keep
this in the safest possible place for her--I suggest in a safe
deposit box. It's the only document she will ever need. You see,
Bathy must never know the truth. It would hurt her so."

"I understand, Mama. But how were you able to do this?"

"Mr. Baruch. Mr. Baruch is very close to President Roosevelt. Mr.
Baruch was able to do this for me, with the help of the White
House. Mr. Baruch was always grateful for the fine education he
received at your papa's school."

"I see," Hannah said, studying Bathy's picture in the passport.
It all seemed so long ago, those months in Europe, when her
mother had taken charge of everything, inventing what would
become their story as they went along. Hannah herself had been
too frightened of the situation in which she found herself to do
anything but exactly what her mother told her to. And there had
seemed to be no one else, no one in the world to whom she could
turn, besides her mother. "You're young," her mother had said.
"When this is all over, you'll simply forget that any of this
happened. It will be easy, wait and see." But it hadn't been
easy, and she couldn't for
get. How could she? It had stayed with her, every living day of
her life since then, it seemed: that memory. And the terror and
confusion of those days.

Now her mother said, "Always remember that you are a Sachs. We
Sachses take care of our own." Then her mother said sharply,
"Don't do that, Hannah!"

She had just pressed the passport picture to her lips.

Anyway, that was how Bathy came to live with Jules and Hannah
when she was not quite seven years old.

 And now Patsy Collingwood and Pookie Satterthwaite have just
been seated at one of the skinny tables at Mortimer's. The skinny
tables are the ones at the front of the restaurant, by the
windows, where fashionable diners are displayed for viewing by
the passersby on Lexington Avenue, and they are called the skinny
tables because no woman larger than a size eight is permitted to
sit there. Larger women are relegated to the back of the room.
This is said to be the arrangement preferred by Glenn Bernbaum,
the ethnically laundered proprietor who, looking like an English
country squire in his Tatter sail tweed hacking jacket and
doeskin slacks, moves about greeting, with studied indifference,
his socially prominent clientele.

"I'm sure you asked me here to discuss Topic A," Pookie says,
perching forward in her chair and resting her elbows on the
table.

"Exactly," says Patsy. "I'd like to know what you think Georgette
Van Degan is trying to pull."

"A coming-out party, of all the un-chic things. And for that fat
daughter of hers, of all people. Perrier with lime," she says to
the waiter.

"The same," Patsy says. "Exactly. It's all so fifties sounding.
The Times hasn't covered coming-out parties for years."

"And Roxy wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole. I'm surprised
she even mentioned that this one was being planned."

"Exactly."

"The Times doesn't even report weddings anymore."

"Well, not exactly. I've heard that you can pay the Times to do a
wedding."

"But this isn't even a wedding. It's a debutante party,
of all things. Can you pay the Times to write up a debutante
party?"

"Perhaps. But Georgette wouldn't do that. That's not her style at
all."

"No. She's definitely up to something."

"Exactly." "I smell a rat."

"And with Carol Liebling, of all the B-list people."

"C-list."

"D-list."

"They live in our building," Pookie says. "In fact, he's
president of the board. He only got the job because nobody else
would take it. Nobody can stand him. He's always trying to slap
new assessments on us. Actually, he's kind of cute."

"Speaking of cute," Patsy says, "did you notice our waiter? I
haven't seen him here before."

"Hmm," Pookie says, giving the distant waiter a long, appraising
look. "Adorable."

"Probably gay."

"Shall we try to find out?" Pookie giggles.

"Now, darling, we've got to learn to keep our hands off
children," Patsy says. "Let's get back to Topic A. What's
Georgette up to?"

"Georgette never does anything unless she's got a plan. She's
definitely got a plan with this latest bit. The point is, what is
it?"

"Exactly. That's what we've got to find out."

"And how did Carol Liebling get William Luckman to her dinner
party? How'd she pull that one off?"

"Exactly. I was supposed to have him at my house last Thursday
night. Then Georgette pulled out. Then he pulled out. I had to
call the whole thing off."

"Oh? And you didn't ask Darius and me?"

"Darling, I just told you. I had to call the whole thing off."

"Hmm."

"You know, Pookie," Patsy says. "Sometimes I wonder about those
Lieblings. Are they on everybody's B list because they're too
rich? I mean, I'm rich, and you're rich, but they're richer than
everybody else combined. Are people jealous of them? Is that why
they're on the B-list--and don't even seem to care?"

A
"No, darling, that has nothing to do with it. It's because his
father was a bootlegger, and even had people killed, or so I've
heard. And because his mother is a foul-mouthed old battle-ax.
And because they're"--she silently mouths the word--"Jewish."

"You think that's it? I'm not so sure."

"Well, the only thing I'm sure of, darling, is that we've got to
draw our wagons into a circle until we find out what Georgette is
up to."

"Exactly. Of course, I have one theory."

"What's that?"

"I wonder if Georgette is trying to humiliate Carol Liebling in
some way by dragging her into doing this un chic thing. I mean, I
adore Georgette, but you know how she likes to humiliate people,
how she likes to drag people down so she gets the upper hand.
There's nothing Georgette loves more than dragging people down,
humiliating them."

"But why would she want to humiliate Carol Liebling?"

"Jealousy? Because they have too much money?"

"But she's doing this debutante thing with Carol. If she
humiliates Carol, she's going to humiliate herself, too, isn't
she?"

"Darling, nobody has ever succeeded in humiliating Georgette,
though all of us have tried."

"Nobody has succeeded except--"

"Except."

"Truck Van Degan."

"Exactly."

 At first the newlyweds, Jules and Hannah Liebling, lived at
Hampshire House. In those days most of the best apartment
buildings on Manhattan's Upper East Side were quite flagrant in
their refusal to accept Jewish tenants, stopping just short of
placing signs in their lobbies to that effect. And so the answer,
for affluent Jewish families, became the Upper West Side or, for
some, apartment hotels like Hampshire House, which was neither
really East Side nor West Side, but sort of in the middle, on
Central Park South. Hampshire House was already known as "the
Hollywood hotel." It was where all the movie moguls stayed when
they were in town.
The figure 2600 sticks in Hannah Liebling's mind, though she is
not sure now whether that was their apartment number or the rent.

Oh, and Hannah has to admit that though she might not have been
in love with him, it was exciting being married to Jules
Liebling. Those were exciting years, those last years of American
Prohibition, with the money simply rolling in. They were exciting
years, but they were also terrifying, dangerous years. People
were killed--particularly people on the periphery of the liquor
trade. But then there were people who had to be killed, traitors
who deserved to be killed, or who did things they knew they might
be killed for. There were people who tried to work both sides of
the Prohibition laws, for example. There were U.S. Government
Treasury agents who collected their government salaries and then
tried to sell the liquor they had confiscated, proving the
unwisdom of trying to serve two masters. In fact, Jules pointed
out, by 1929 most of the men who were called bootleggers were on
the payroll of the U.S. Government. In a chaotic situation like
this, how could mayhem be avoided?

Of course, Jules's principal distilling operations were still
located in the province of Quebec, where everything was perfectly
legal and things remained relatively calm. One American exception
was a distillery he owned in Kentucky, which was licensed to
produce alcohol for medicinal purposes, and was supposed to be
dispensed only with a doctor's prescription. But if doctors chose
to bend the law and prescribe liquor for people who didn't need
it, Jules Liebling had no control over this.

The real trouble, Jules explained to her, was on what was called
"the South Shore"--that is, the southern, or American, side of
Lake Erie. The South Shore had become a war zone, a killing
field. Some liquor shipments were confiscated by revenuers, but
most were simply stolen at gunpoint. Boats and trucks were
hijacked, their drivers murdered and their corpses tossed by the
side of the road. Jules usually tried not to get involved with
what was going on on the South Shore, but by February 1929 things
had reached such a state--with so many of his shipments being
stolen before they reached their rightful purchasers in the
United States--that Jules decided to step in and do something
about it. He summoned his Midwest distributor, Mr. Alphonse
Capone, to New York for a meeting. In fact, Mr. Capone was one of
Hannah's very first dinner guests in her new home at Hampshire
House.

The newspapers, of course, had branded Mr. Capone a bootlegger.
But the use of this term was forbidden in the Liebling household,
and to Hannah he was simply one of her husband's many American
distributors, the one who had the exclusive contract to
distribute Ingra ham products in the Chicago area. Mr. Capone's
arrival in New York was well chronicled in the press, and there
was no doubt that he enjoyed the publicity, and that his was
becoming a household name throughout the world. He arrived at
Grand Central in his own private railway car, known as a Palace
Car, with his own retinue of servants and bodyguards. A special
red carpet was rolled out along the station platform to greet
him. At Hampshire House, four of his bodyguards stationed
themselves about the hotel lobby. Two more were posted outside
the front entrance to the apartment, and another two guarded the
rear service door.

Though she knew that Mr. Capone had other business interests in
Chicago besides her husband's products, it was hard for Hannah to
think of Mr. Capone as a gangster. In fact, in those days nobody
really thought of him that way. He was simply a fabulously rich
man. In the year 1927 alone, when he was only twenty-seven, he
had an income of $105,000,000, the highest gross income received
by a private U.S. citizen in all of history-- $35,000,000 more
than Henry Ford would ever earn in his best year. Now, still
under thirty and looking even younger, Mr. Capone seemed to
Hannah simply a sweet, plump, baby-faced little man, with
impeccable manners, who was one of her husband's best customers.
He bought his liquor on consignment, and paid Ingraham a royalty
of thirty percent on every case he sold. And he always paid his
bills on time, and always in cash. Hannah knew this because she
often helped Jules with the books.

Mr. Capone, she discovered, was also a deeply religious man. He
bowed his head and crossed himself before picking up his fork,
and did the same thing, she learned, whenever he passed a church
or a cemetery. He
told her that as a youth he had served as an altar boy at St.
Francis of Assisi Church, and had been so trusted for his honesty
that he had been given the job of counting the money in the
collection baskets.

Because she knew Mr. Capone was of Italian extraction, she had
asked her cook to prepare an Italian dinner for him, and he had
declared her lasagne the best he had ever eaten. For dessert, she
remembers, he ate a full dozen of her cook's famous brownies, and
after dinner insisted on going into the kitchen to give the Negro
cook a kiss. The poor woman nearly fainted dead away. She was
that thrilled. The richest man in the world had kissed her!

Hannah also remembers the after-dinner conversation.

"Our overhead was particularly high last month, Al phonse," Jules
said.

"Yes. Three of your shipments failed to reach their destination."

"Do you think they might still be in the Chicago area?"

"Jules, I simply have no idea."

Jules puffed on his cigar. "There's a garage in North Clark
Street," he said at last. "Number three-oh-five, I believe. Are
you familiar with the building?"

"I am. It belongs to Georgie Moran."

"After hours, I gather, he uses it as a distribution center."

"So I'm told," Mr. Capone said.

"I'm also told that cases of my labels have been turning up
there," Jules said.

Mr. Capone looked pained. "Georgie's a good Irish Catholic boy,"
he said. "He's a good friend of mine. We're competitors, yes, but
friendly competitors. Georgie wouldn't do a thing like that to
me."

"But what about some of the people working for him? Can they be
trusted?"

Mr. Capone ran his finger under the collar of his shirt. "I've
never had any trouble with Georgie," he said. "I wouldn't want
any trouble with Georgie."

Jules's face grew thoughtful. "Perhaps," he said, "it would be
useful if I had a little talk with George Moran, Alphonse."
Mr. Capone looked enormously relieved. "Yes, that would be a big
help, Jules," he said.

Then the conversation turned to other matters. "More coffee, Mr.
Capone?" Hannah asked him.

Mr. Capone returned to Chicago, where he was welcomed with much
fanfare, the next morning.

But then, a week later, the newspapers blazed with lurid
headlines. Seven men had been machine-gunned down in a North
Clark Street garage in Chicago. All of them, it seemed, worked
for Mr. George Moran. Immediately the press and the police as
well were claiming that the murders were the work of Al Capone,
though there wasn't a shred of evidence to support this thesis.
The press gave Alphonse Capone the nickname "Scarface," though
Hannah hadn't noticed any scars, and George Moran was nicknamed
"Bugs"--all of which made the principals sound more sinister and
romantic. And because the shootings occurred on February 14, the
press christened the event the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre."

"Do you really think Mr. Capone could have had anything to do
with it?" Hannah asked Jules.

"Nonsense. You heard Alphonse say he and George Moran were good
friends."

"What about Mr. Moran? Could he have done it if his men were
cheating him?"

Jules sighed. "I suppose it's possible," he said. "I guess
anything is possible in these troubled times."

And then, at the end of the month, working on the books, Hannah
noticed some invoices made out to George Moran. Was this some
mistake? "I pointed out some inefficiencies in his operation,"
Jules said. "He's repaying the favor by giving me some of his
business."

"But I thought Mr. Capone had exclusive distribution rights for
Chicago," she said.

"I persuaded Alphonse to share distribution rights with Mr.
Moran," he said. "At least for the time being, until things
settle down a bit."

The perpetrators of the St. Valentine's Day massacre were never
apprehended. In fact, the government was never able to get any of
its charges against Mr. Capone to stick. Finally, in 1931, they
got him for a white-collar
crime, income-tax evasion, which could have happened to anybody,
and which Mr. Capone regarded as an insult. He was given a light
prison sentence and a fine of $50,000. Which he promptly paid, in
cash. Hannah used to have a box of her cook's brownies sent to
him once a month in his prison cell, and he always wrote her a
charming thank-you note. To Hannah, no matter what terrible
things they said and wrote about him, Mr. Al phonse Capone was
always a true gentleman of the old school.

By 1933, of course, Prohibition was a thing of the past. That
wonderful Age of Innocence was over.
"Uncovered Treasures"

 When Carol Liebling first began to fall in love with the work
she was doing at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, she was already
a little bit sick of it. The year was 1988, one of the most
uneventful years in the history of the American republic. After
taking a scary 500-point tumble the year before, the Dow Jones
Industrial Average had begun gliding comfortably upward
again--past 3,000, then 3,500, and finally flirting with the
seemingly impossible 4,000 mark, while Carol could remember a day
when the magic goal to overtake had been a mere 1,000. The
twinkly smile and ruddy complexion of Ronald Reagan seemed to
reassure the country that all was well, or at least that nothing
was really amiss, as the rich got richer and the poor went
elsewhere, where they were probably better off. The president's
way of dismissing unwelcome news was comforting. He would simply
cock his head, grin, shrug, and say, "W-e-e-11. . ." And Carol
was restless.

Working at the Met could be a lot of fun. It certainly had its
rewarding moments. And, a not unimportant consideration, it was
the kind of work that pleased her mother-in-law to see her do,
and that pleased Noah. "It's just the kind of community service
work you should be doing as Noah's wife," Hannah often said to
her approvingly, even though it had sometimes seemed to Carol
like the kind of community work that used to be endorsed by her
mother's Ladies' Home Journal.

She had started her museum work not long after Anne was born, as
a lowly volunteer, selling art books, gifts, and postcards in the
museum's shop two afternoons a week. But having minored in art
history at college, she soon found herself being given tasks with
greater responsibilities. By 1986 Anne had successfully weathered
the
transition to Brearley's Middle School, and didn't seem to
require that much mothering anymore. Noah was still expecting his
mother to turn over the reins to the company at any moment, and
was working very hard with that in mind, and Carol had been given
the official title of the Met's head of volunteers. She had also
been given the unofficial title of museum archivist.

Being head of volunteers for the museum was not without its
moments of frustration. A good deal of paperwork was entailed,
arranging and rearranging schedules for her volunteer staff, most
of whom were well-to-do women who really didn't want to work very
hard. She began to see herself as a kind of glorified dispatcher
for a radio cab company. And Carol--feeling young, impatient,
overqualified, and underused--had already begun mentally casting
about for something else to do. She had no idea what. But she
decided before quitting her job at the Met, and moving on to
whatever it was that might lie ahead for her, she was going to
make some sort of contribution to the museum that would be
significant enough for Carol Dugan Liebling to be remembered for
it. When she quit, it was going to be on a note of triumph, not
defeat. And it was in her secondary capacity as archivist that
she felt she had found what she was looking for.

For two years prior to that forgettable year of 1988, she had
been spending most of her time on a project she had named
"Uncovered Treasures."

It had all started when, poking around in the museum's basement
storage rooms, and in various warehouses around the city where
the Met stored items from its collections, Carol turned over a
canvas which she immediately recognized as an early Velazquez
painting of St. John in the Wilderness. Looking through
catalogues of early exhibitions, she could find no evidence that
this painting had ever been shown. This Velazquez did not appear
anywhere in the museum's inventories. Her only conclusion was
that this was an important piece that the museum did not even
know it owned.

Wondering whether "her" Velazquez was simply an isolated
oversight, she rummaged hi the museum's vaults some more. She
soon discovered that it was not. Within months she had compiled a
list of twenty-six works that
had never been catalogued, inventoried, or exhibited, including a
Delacroix, an El Greco, two Matisses, a Picasso mother and child,
and a second Velazquez. With help from her volunteer staff, she
was certain that she would discover even more. That was when she
took her idea for "Uncovered Treasures" to the museum's director.

"Think of it," she said. "A special exhibit of pieces from the
museum's treasury that the museum didn't even know were there!"

He responded with his usual quick enthusiasm. "Go for it!" he
told her.

Soon her list grew to sixty works of art, then to seventy three,
then eighty. In all, Carol spent eighteen months working on her
presentation for "Uncovered Treasures --Secrets from Our Lost
Archives," as she subtitled it. When it was finished, it ran to
more than two hundred pages. It included a complete index of the
works themselves, a chronology of their discovery, and a
bibliography of textbook sources. Carol drew up a detailed
blueprint of how the exhibition could be arranged and hung and
lighted. She compiled a budget of the show's probable costs, and
appended a list of possible corporate sponsors who might be
expected to underwrite the show, at least in part. Needless to
say, she did not include the Ingraham Corporation on this list.
She even composed an outline and a table of contents for the
show's catalogue, and wrote a proposed introduction for it. When
she was finished, she sent all her material to a printer and had
it bound in blue leather with gold lettering. Then she presented
this to the director, who promised to submit copies of her
proposal to the board of trustees for consideration at their next
meeting.

But when, a week or so later, the director summoned her into his
office, his face was long. "Everyone agreed that you'd put a lot
of hard work into this," he said, tapping a copy of "Treasures"
with his fingertip. "But I'm afraid there wasn't much enthusiasm
for the idea among the members of the board, Carol."

"I wonder why not," she said, trying to conceal her profound
disappointment.

"There was a general feeling that the timing isn't quite right
for this sort of thing," he said.
"Who are the architects, Nana?"

"Frankel and Steiner--tops in the business. They deliver the
lowest cost per square foot in town."

"And you want--pressed aluminum?"

"It turns out to be the cheapest way to sheathe a building this
size," Hannah said.

"And it's extremely durable," Noah added helpfully. "Keeps the
heat in winter and reflects the sun in summer, making it more
economical to air-condition."

Hannah Liebling tapped the plans approvingly with her forefinger.
"I like the sign best," she said. She turned to Carol. "Well,
what do you think?" she said.

"What do / think?" Carol said.

"Yes. What do you think? Pretty impressive, isn't it?
Particularly with that sign up there on the roof. The architect
says you'll be able to see that sign from the George Washington
Bridge."

"You really want to know what I think?" Carol asked her.

"Of course!"

"If you really want to know what I think, Nana, I think it's the
ugliest design for a building I've ever seen in my life," Carol
said. "And I think that sign is--absolutely vulgar." She looked
quickly at Noah, who was merely smiling. His smile said, I've
been trying to tell her that all along.

"Well!" Hannah said, tossing aside the plans. "Who asked you your
opinion about it, anyway?"

"You did," Carol said. "You asked me what I thought of it, Nana.
And I just told you."

"Well, maybe I did," she conceded. "But--ugly? What's so ugly
about it? It seems like a perfectly nice building to me."

"I'm not sure you really want my opinion, Nana," Carol said.

"Of course I do. I just asked you, didn't I?"

"Well, then let's start at the top. That sign--"

Noah cleared his throat. "That sign was Mother's idea," he said.
"It was an afterthought. Actually, the architect wasn't entirely
sure--"

"They'll be able to see it from New Jersey!"

"Let me just say one thing, Nana," Carol said. "If you're going
to build your own building and attach your
corporate name to it, I think you have to be terribly careful
about what sort of a statement this building makes, because
whatever it is, it's going to be a statement about your company.
And it's going to be a statement that will be there for a good
long time. I wouldn't worry about New Jersey. It's going to be a
building that will be seen by hundreds of thousands of people who
pass by it every year, people from all over the world. We're
going to have to assume that people will see that building on the
New York City skyline long after all of us are in our graves.
That means that it should be an important building, a building
that will register in people's minds, not just a building that's
energy-efficient and was cheap to put up."

"Huh!" Hannah said. "You're saying that a building should be a
work of art?"

"Yes, but in a rather special sense, Nana. It isn't like a book
that you don't have to read if the subject doesn't interest you.
It's not like a painting that can be passed by, or a piece of
music that you don't have to listen to if you don't like it. A
building--particularly a corporate building, and a building of
the size you have in mind-- imposes itself on people. If you have
business to do there, you have to find the building on the
street, enter it, and find your way around inside. Buildings
envelop us, wrap themselves around us, so they should be both
pleasing to the eye and pleasing to the spirit."

"Huh!" she said again. "And you don't think this one is?"

"I really don't, Nana. It seems to me that when a business
organization decides to build a building, it takes a moral
position. And it's up to the architect to try to express that
moral position."

"And you don't think Frankel and Steiner have done this?"

"Frankly, in this case, Nana, no."

"Well," Hannah said, "I don't suppose you have anybody better in
mind, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Carol said.

"Who?"

"His name is Jean-Pierre Selancy. He's a Frenchman --quite young,
only twenty-eight. He's won prizes for a theater complex he
designed in Paris and an office
tower in Marseille. His work has never before been represented in
the United States. He's quite wonderful."

"Hmm," Hannah said. "If he's never worked in this country before,
then he might be willing to work for less--for the opportunity to
design an important New York building."

"That's a good point, Nana," Carol said. "He just might."

"Make a note of that name, Noah," his mother said.

 The subject of the new Ingraham Building did not come up again
for several months. Carol made a point of not mentioning it to
Noah. She knew the situation was a tricky one, and she knew that
Noah was on her side. She had heard that invitations to submit
designs had gone out to four more architects. But she didn't know
whether Jean-Pierre Selancy was one of these, and she was a
little too afraid to ask. She did know that, in the end, the
decision would be Nana Hannah's. Though Hannah always made a
great point of insisting that she bowed to Noah's judgment on
many matters, Carol knew that it was still Hannah who had the
final word.

Then, one evening, Noah came home beaming. "I've got great news,"
he said. "She's chosen your French architect. Congratulations,
darling."

Carol clapped her hands. "Wonderful," she said. "We've won!"

He hesitated. "But then, the bad news is--" "Wait," she said.
"Let me guess what the bad news is. The bad news is that she's
taking all the credit for having found Monsieur Selancy. Am I
right?"

He gave her a rueful look. "Well, yes," he said.

"That doesn't surprise me in the slightest," she said with a
shrug.

The next morning she picked up the New York Times and saw, on the
front page, the headline:

 Design for New Ingraham Building Is Unveiled

The illustration showed the architect's rendering of a slender,
graceful tower to be built of bronze and glass, facing a plaza
landscaped with trees, pools, and fountains. Paul Goldberger, the
Times's architecture critic, went on to praise the design's
"splendid simplicity," its "fluidity of upward motion," and its
"timeless grandeur and glowing elegance." And toward the end of
the article, Carol read:

 The building's prize-winning architect, Jean-Pierre Selancy of
Paris, has never before been represented in America. His design
was chosen, over many other candidates, by Mrs. Hannah S.
Liebling, the farsighted CEO of Ingraham's. . . .

 "You're not upset, I hope," Noah said to her that night.

"Heavens, no. I'm used to the way she operates. I'm just happy
that you're going to have a beautiful new building, and not that
upended egg crate she wanted in the beginning."

A few days later, Hannah mentioned it to Carol. "What did you
think of the Times story?" she asked her.

"I thought it was absolutely wonderful," Carol said.

"They called me farsighted," Hannah said.

"It was exactly what you wanted, wasn't it? Of course, I noticed
the misprint. It should have said the architect was chosen by
Mrs. Noah Liebling, not Mrs. Hannah Liebling. But that's
understandable. The names--Noah and Hannah--are so similar."

Her mother-in-law gave her one of her narrow looks. Then she
said, "I think you ought to be spending more time on your museum
work, Carol. And try not to get too involved with the distilled
spirits industry."

 And that, in fact, was precisely what Carol planned to do. Just
that morning, in Art & Antiques magazine, she had read:

 Perhaps the most extensive, and valuable, collection of antique
Chinese and Japanese porcelains is in private hands, and has
never been seen by the public. This is the collection begun by
the late Truxton Van Degan, the glass manufacturer, in the late
1800s, and greatly added to by his son, Truxton Van Degan, Jr.,
in the 1920s. The bulk of the Van Degan collection remains
in the vaults of several New York banks because of the enormous
insurance costs that would be entailed if it were to be removed.

 Carol decided that this would be her next project. She had met
Mrs. Truxton Van Degan several times at Brearley parent-teacher
meetings. At that point she and Georgette Van Degan were little
more than nodding acquaintances. But that would be a good place
to start.

 In the darkness of their bedroom, Noah said to her, "I'm sorry
your 'Uncovered Treasures' wasn't a go."

"I think I made a mistake," she said. "I thought all I needed was
the director's approval. I think I should have spent more time
lobbying among the trustees--taking them to lunch. That sort of
thing. That might have made a difference."

"Kissing asses," he said.

"Yes."

"But you want to know what I think?"

"What?"

"I don't think your director ever showed your presentation to the
board of trustees."

"Really, Noah? What makes you say that?"

"I think he decided it didn't make him look good. I think he
decided it would look like sloppy housekeeping on his part. All
that valuable art lying around in warehouses, and he didn't even
know it existed. He killed your idea to cover his ass."

She hesitated. Then she said, "You know something, Noah? I think
you may be right."

"I'm sure I'm right. Think about it for a minute. He's the chief
honcho of the Met Museum. And suddenly all this important stuff
he's supposed to be in charge of gets turned up by a
mere--woman."

"And a mere volunteer," she said. "Of course."

"Kissing asses. Covering asses. That's what business is all
about."

She lay in silence, thinking about this. Then she heard him rise
from the bed next to hers. She felt him pull back the sheet and
coverlet from her bed, and kiss the hollow between her bare
breasts. "Uncovered treasures," he said.
A Delicate Matter

 You may have got the impression, from the story thus far, that
Cyril is something of a cipher in the Liebling family. He is in
some ways, but in some ways he most definitely is not. Certainly
Cyril himself does not think of himself as a cipher. In fact,
Cyril often reminds himself, if it were not for Cyril, his
younger brother would never have attained the position he did.
One could go even further and point out that if it were not for
Cyril (and Cyril's misdeeds in his father's eyes), there might
never have been a Noah Liebling at all. Without Noah there would
have been no Carol. Without Noah and Carol there would have been
no Anne; without Anne there would have been no Melody Richards;
without Melody, William Luckman would never have come into any of
their lives, and none of these people would have come together so
explosively as to create a homicide case, as became clear at the
trial.

Looked at this way, Cyril becomes the pivotal figure in the
ennead. And so, though it involves a matter of some delicacy,
Cyril's story deserves to be told fully and honestly.

Cyril's engraved business letterhead reads:

 CYRIL DE R. LIEBLING

Public Relations

1000 Park Avenue

New York, NY 10028

 The "de R" is something of an affectation. Cyril's actual middle
name is David. But Cyril does not object too strenuously if some
of his clients suppose that "de R" stands for de Rothschild, and
that Cyril is somehow connected to the European banking family.
Cyril is not
above inventing relatives. He might say, "My cousin, Baron Guy de
Rothschild . . ." Just as often he will say, "My sister, the
Princess di Pascanelli . . ." This is all right. This is all part
of what is called public relations.

Which brings us to the matter of clients. If you ask his mother,
she would no doubt snort and say that Cyril doesn't have any
clients. Where his mother is concerned, Cyril encourages this
view. Living, as he does, on the upper floor of what used to be
her duplex apartment, Cyril does his best to keep his mother's
nose out of his business. He will often speak mysteriously of
having to leave for "an important client lunch" or "an important
client dinner."

"Who's the client?" Hannah will demand to know.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Huh!"

Actually, he has several clients. One is a young dress designer
whom Cyril is trying to establish as a fashion force. Another is
a hair stylist from France who calls himself simply "Philippe,"
and whom such powerful and important New York women as Patsy
Collingwood and Pookie Satterthwaite and, more recently,
Georgette Van Degan have begun to use. Cyril's plan for Philippe
is to help him launch his own line of hair products. That's where
the money is in the hair business, not in doing comb-outs. Cyril
has promised to make Philippe the next Vidal Sassoon. Or at least
to try.

In 1956, however, Cyril was involved in a much graver matter. It
was a summer Sunday evening in Tarrytown, at Grandmont, and
Hannah, Jules, and Bathy were gathered in what was called the
music room--watching The Ed Sullivan Show. Just a month earlier,
Ruth Liebling had run off and married the Brazilian copper heir
Antonio Fernandez-Just, much to her father's displeasure. There
had been much publicity about this, mostly centered on the fact
that Ruth was only eighteen, while Sr. Fernandez-Just, who had
had four previous wives, was fifty-seven. Jules had been spending
quite a lot of time on the telephone to Sao Paulo, trying to
persuade Ruth of the unwisdom of this union, but without success,
and so this was not the most relaxed of times in the Liebling
household. Still, The Ed Sullivan Show was one of Jules's
favorites, and the three of them had planned to spend a quiet
evening at home.

Cyril, who was twenty-two, had taken his car to join a friend and
drive to Manhattan to see a performance of My Fair Lady. Little
Noah was in his room being read to by his governess. The other
servants had been given the afternoon and evening off, as they
always were every other Sunday. One of Ed Sullivan's guests was a
trained chimpanzee, and Jules was laughing at its antics. Hannah
was passing a bowl of fresh popcorn that her cook had made
earlier in the day. And hi the middle of this almost tranquil
scene, the telephone rang. Jules, thinking that it might be Ruth
ready to capitulate, picked it up on the first ring, and Bathy
reached out and lowered the volume on the TV set.

"Pop!" he heard Cyril's voice shout. "Pop! I've been kidnapped!"

"Kidnapped? What do you mean? Where are you, Cyril?"

At the word "kidnapped," the others in the room froze. Hannah
dropped the bowl of popcorn, and it scattered across the carpet.
Bathy jumped to her feet and turned off the television. It had
been one of their worst fears, not so much for Cyril, their grown
son, as for little Noah.

"Tell me what happened, Cyril."

"Two men. I was coming down the drive, headed for New York to
pick up my friend and go to the show. When I got to the gate,
there was a car parked across the drive. . . ."

"What kind of a car?"

"I don't remember. I think it was black. I got out of my car to
see what the matter was. ... It was dark, I couldn't see . . ."

Bathy stepped quickly to the phone and whispered to Jules: "Keep
him on the phone as long as possible. I'll call from the other
line and see if they can trace this call." Jules nodded, and
Bathy ran to the next room.

"And then what happened?"

"Two men came out of the bushes. They were wearing ski masks.
They had guns. They grabbed me. I tried to fight them off, but
they knocked me down in the gravel. I struggled, but one of them
put his gun at my head and
told me not to move. Then they tied me up, put a blindfold on me,
and put a gag on my mouth. Then they carried me, and threw me in
the backseat of their car. . . ."

"Where did they take you, Cyril?"

"I don't know. They drove a long time--maybe a half hour. We
crossed two bridges. At least it sounded like we crossed two
bridges. So I don't think I'm in West chester County anymore."

"You don't know where you are?"

"I'm in this room, Pop! I don't know where it is. There're no
windows. I can't see out. They carried me up two nights of stairs
to get me here, I know that. . . ."

"Can you describe the room, son?"

"Pop, they're right here! They're here in this room with me.
They're both sitting right here with me. Pointing guns at me.
Wearing ski masks. They've got me tied to a chair. One of them is
holding the phone so I can talk to you. ..."

"Does either of these men wish to speak to me?"

He heard his son's voice say, "My father wants to know if you
want to talk to him."

Then a man's voice came on the line. "Mr. Liebling?" the voice
said. "We have your son. He is quite safe, for now," and Jules
thought he detected a foreign accent.

"What do you want?"

"For your son's release, we want two-point-five million dollars.
The terms of his release, and how the money is to be delivered,
will come to you by mail. Until the money is paid, your son will
be unharmed. We will give him food and water."

"And if I can't pay? Don't pay?"

"Your son will be--dispatched."

"What do you mean, 'dispatched'?"

"Exactly what I say. No more questions now, Mr. Liebling. Wait
for your instructions in the mail. Everything will be made quite
clear in our instructions, Mr. Liebling. Do you wish a final word
with your son?"

"Yes, please," Jules said.

Then Cyril came on the line again. "Please, Pop," he said.
"Please pay them what they want, Pop. I'm scared, Pop! I'm scared
they're going to kill me, Pop! Help me, Pop!" Then Cyril began to
cry, and the line went dead.
Bathy stood at the music room door. "Any luck with tracing the
call?" he asked.

She shook her head. "The phone company needs at least an hour to
set up tracing equipment."

"Have them set up tracing equipment on every line coming into
this house. Also the New York apartment. Also my office lines."

"Already done," Bathy said.

"Also I want tape recorders set up on all these lines, so we can
tape all incoming calls."

"Already ordered," Bathy said. "They'll be installed in a half
hour."

Jules reached for the phone again.

"Who are you calling?"

"The FBI."

"Don't," she said, reaching out and pressing the receiver buttons
down. "If you call the FBI, that'll mean the police, and the
police will mean the press. The press will make a circus out of
this, particularly after the business with Ruth. I think we
should try to deal with the kidnappers on our own."

"She's right, Jules," Hannah said. "If the press gets wind of
this, it could frighten them. They might try to--"

"They might decide to kill Cyril," Bathy said evenly. "It's
happened before. I have a friend, Kevin Shaughnessy, who's a
private investigator."

"Call him."

"I already have," she said, demonstrating the quick efficiency
that was already making her such a valued member of Jules
Liebling's business team. "He's on his way to Tarrytown right
now."

Jules stood by the telephone muttering, "Trouble . . . trouble.
Nothing but trouble. First the St. Anselm's thing. Now this."

"Oh, Jules!" Hannah cried. "You can't blame Cyril for this!" Then
she burst into tears.

"Surely you have the money, Jules," Bathy said, almost
contemptuously. "Surely two and a half million dollars isn't too
much to pay for your son's life!"

"Cyril's car must still be at the foot of the drive," he said.
"Somebody should get that and put it back in the garage."

"I'll do that," Bathy said. She hurried out of the house
and down the long drive. At the turning, she saw the headlights
of Cyril's yellow Mustang facing her. Its convertible top was
down. Both doors hung wide open. Its engine was running. Just
beyond, the heavy iron gates to Grandmont, with their scrollwork
of reversed L's, were closed. She jumped into the car, closed
both doors, taking care not to touch any areas that might contain
fingerprints, threw the Mustang into gear, drove it back up the
hill to the house, and parked it in its regular space in the
garage. Then she removed the keys and locked the garage doors.

In the music room, still weeping, Hannah knelt on the carpet,
picking up the spilled popcorn, piece by piece. Suddenly, to her
surprise, her husband was kneeling on the floor beside her and
took her into his arms.

 Kevin Shaughnessy, age thirty-eight, a former Pinker ton man,
turned out to be a heavyset redheaded Irishman who exuded an air
of solid authority. He had driven immediately to Grandmont from
his home in Yonkers, and had spent a half hour scouring the
grounds of the estate with a powerful flashlight. It was nearly
ten o'clock when he sat down opposite Bathy and the Lie blings in
the music room. A bulge under his jacket indicated where he
carried his service revolver in a shoulder holster, and as he
hitched up his trouser legs, a second bulge in his left sock
revealed where he carried a second weapon.

"There's really nothing more we can do until we hear from the
kidnappers again," he said. "But there are a couple of aspects of
this case that puzzle me a little. Mind if I smoke?"

"Certainly not," Hannah said.

He lighted a cigarette, igniting a wooden kitchen match with his
fingernail. "So let's talk about those aspects. To begin with,
there's the position of the Mustang. Your son told you that he
was driving down the drive, toward the gate, when he saw another
vehicle, just beyond the gate, blocking him. And yet when Miss
Sachs found the vehicle, with its motor running, it was headed
back up the drive, away from the gate, toward the house. Any
explanation for that?"

"Perhaps they turned the car around."
"Perhaps. But why?"

"To throw us off?"

He inhaled deeply and blew out a sharp stream of smoke.
"Perhaps," he said again. "But again--why?"

No one said anything.

"And then there's the position of the car doors. Both doors were
open, on the passenger's and on the driver's side. Your son told
you he got out of his car to see what was the matter. Assuming he
got out on the driver's side and left that door open, why were
both doors opened when Miss Sachs found the car?"

There was another silence.

"Now, your son indicated that he was attacked outside the gates.
That would mean the gates were open. And yet when Miss Sachs
found the vehicle, the gates were closed."

"They could have closed the gates behind them when they left."

"Yes, but most kidnappers are in a big hurry, Mrs. Liebling. They
don't take the time to close gates behind them, or to reverse the
direction of the victim's car. And here's another thing. Your son
says he struggled with his assailants on the drive. I assume this
would have happened just outside the gates. Your drive is
composed of fine, loose gravel. Long Island grit, I believe it's
called. I found no signs of a struggle in the gravel outside the
gate--or inside it, for that matter. Or in the grassy areas
alongside the drive, on either side. Odd, don't you think? What's
more, a car passing along on a gravel drive like yours leaves
tread marks. And yet when I examined your drive just now, the
only tread marks on it were the ones made by Miss Sachs when she
drove the car back up to the garage. There were no tread marks
from any second vehicle, either inside or outside the gate."

"This isn't rescuing my son!" Hannah said angrily. "Talking about
tread marks!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Liebling," he said. "But we don't know where
your son is yet, or who's got him, or how we're going to get him
back. Right now I'd like to get to the bottom of some of the
puzzling aspects of the case."

"He's right, Hannah. Let him talk," Bathy said.

"Now, let's talk about the time of day," he said. "You
said you were watching The Ed Sullivan Show. That comes on at
eight, and the trained chimp was in the first segment. That means
that your son's call came through at about seven or eight minutes
past eight--correct?"

"Correct," Jules said. "In fact, I looked at my watch."

"Your son said he had been driven by his assailants in their car
for about a half hour. That means the kidnapping must have
occurred at around seven-thirty, or a little after. Today is July
twenty-ninth. Your son said that he couldn't identify his
assailants' car because it was too dark. But the sun doesn't set
as early as seven-thirty this time of year. There would have been
at least another hour of sunshine this afternoon. The kidnapping
must have occurred in broad daylight."

"He was probably terrified. He could have easily been confused."

"Of course. And yet when Miss Sachs found the car, its headlights
were on. Odd, don't you think?" He pronounced the word "odd" with
a Down East vowel sound: Awed.

"Yes," Jules said. "Very odd." His face was grim.

"Now, let's turn for a minute to the conversation you had with
the kidnappers," Shaughnessy said. "Admittedly, this was very
brief, but a couple of things interest me. To begin with, you
said the man had what sounded like a foreign accent."

"Yes."

"Any clue as to what kind of foreign accent?"

"French perhaps. Or Italian. I can't be sure."

"And when he mentioned the ransom figure to you, he used the
expression 'two-point-five million.' Correct?"

"Correct."

"Doesn't that strike you as a little odd, Mr. Liebling?"

"No. What's odd about it?"

"Two-point-five million. Not two and a half million, or two
million five hundred thousand. Two-point-five million sounds like
the way an accountant would talk. Or a real estate man."

"What the hell difference does it make?"

"You see, what I'm trying to do, Mr. Liebling, is to draw up a
psychological profile of the perpetrators, from what little
evidence we have. And when you told him that you might be unable
to pay, or be unwilling to pay,
such a sum, he responded that in that case it might be necessary
to have your son 'dispatched.' He used that word. You're sure of
that."

"Absolutely. I remember it distinctly. I asked him what he
meant."

"Odd word. Dispatched. Such a--such an almost dainty word. He
didn't use the word killed, almost as though he was afraid to use
it. You see, Mr. Liebling, if it's any comfort to you, I'm
beginning to get the impression that our abductors here are not
men who are essentially dangerous. I feel that these people are
amateurs, not professionals, which could be to our advantage.
They want to extract money from you, of course. But I get the
strong feeling that they definitely don't want to harm your son,
and won't, unless--"

"Unless we do something that causes them to panic," Bathy said.

"Correct."

"That's why we wanted someone like yourself to handle the initial
negotiations," Bathy said. "Without notifying the police, or
alerting the media."

"Of course. Now, you said that your son's plans for this evening
were to pick up a friend, drive to Manhattan, and then attend a
performance of My Fair Lady."

"I think he said he was going to drive to Manhattan first, and
pick up the friend there, and then go to the theater. I'm not
sure."

"It doesn't matter. He and the friend were to meet somewhere
between here and the theater. Was dinner mentioned?"

"I don't think so, no."

"What time did he leave the house?"

"I didn't make a note of it. Around six, I think."

"Six would get him to Manhattan at around six-thirty. That would
give them time for dinner before an eight o'clock curtain. That's
the usual thing. Now, do you have any idea who this friend of his
was?"

"No. He didn't say."

"And you didn't ask him?"

"No. It didn't seem important."

"It's become important now. Does your son have any special
girlfriend?"

"No."
"Any male friend that he'd be likely to go to the theater with?"

"Not that I know of."

"So the friend could have been male or female."

"Yes."

"But you see, Mr. Liebling, the odd thing is, if he left the
house around six, and the alleged kidnapping took place in the
vicinity of the front gates at around seven thirty, what was he
doing in the intervening hour and a half?"

"Don't use the word 'alleged'!" Hannah said. "Perhaps he forgot
the tickets, drove back to the house to get them. That would
explain the way the car was headed, and--"

"And the two opened front doors. If the friend was with him when
it happened. But that's not the way he said it happened, Mrs.
Liebling. He said he was on his way to New York. He said he was
alone."

"When he called, he was obviously frightened and confused."

"Mr. and Mrs. Liebling, there is another small problem here."

"What's that?"

"My Fair Lady is playing at the Mark Hellinger Theater. Today is
Sunday. On Sunday nights there are no performances at the Mark
Hellinger. On Sundays the theater is dark. So are nearly all New
York theaters."

There was a long silence, and then Hannah said, "Perhaps he
didn't realize this. Perhaps he was just hoping to pick up two
tickets at the box office."

"For the hottest new show on Broadway? For a show that has people
lined up around the block for tickets that have to be bought
weeks--even months--in advance? Is your son that naive? I
shouldn't think so."

When there was no immediate reply, he added, "Mr. and Mrs.
Liebling, I can only conclude that your son was not being
entirely truthful when he told you about his plans for this
evening."

It was nearly midnight. Hannah leaned forward in,her chair. "Mr.
Shaughnessy, will you spend the night with us tonight?" she said.
"There are plenty of spare bedrooms."

"Yes, please do!" Bathy said.
"I'd very much like to do so," he said. "In fact, it would be
helpful if I could use your son's bedroom. I'd like to go through
his things, if you don't mind. And I may ask to spend several
nights with you while we try to get to the bottom of this. These
things take time, I'm sorry to say."

 The ransom note arrived in the next morning's mail, bearing the
postmark of a Manhattan substation. It was carefully printed, hi
pencil, on lined yellow paper. It read:

 Mr. Liebling:

We have your son. He is safe with us, and will remain safe until
such time as our demands are met, at which point in time he will
be safely returned to you. It is not our desire to have to
dispatch your son, but we are fully prepared to do so if our
demands are not met. Our demands are unconditional We demand $2.5
million, which must be paid in bills of small denominations, no
bill to be larger than $20. Their serial numbers must not be
sequential. We realize that it may take you some time to
aggrandize this much cash, so we suggest you begin doing this
immediately. We will telephone you tonight at 6 p.m. for a report
on your progress in this direction, and to deliver you the
issuance of further instructions.

 "The postmark tells us nothing," Kevin Shaughnessy said. "The
letter could have been dropped in any one of over a hundred
different mailboxes in lower Manhattan. But, again, notice the
odd formality of the language. The word 'dispatch' again.
'Aggrandize,' and 'issuance of further instructions.' I get the
impression that we're dealing with someone who's learned English
rather recently, and who's trying to use it very carefully and
precisely. At least tonight's call, if it comes, will be
traceable."

"Please don't say 'if it comes,'" Hannah said. "It's bound to
come."

"Did you find anything in my son's room?" Jules asked.

"Nothing I wouldn't expect to find. I found a small
black address book, with names and telephone numbers. Every young
man keeps a little black book. The names meant nothing to me, but
I'm running a check on all of them to see if anything turns up.
Until the phone call comes, there's nothing much more we can do
except wait."

Throughout the day, on Mr. Shaughnessy's instructions, Jules and
Hannah and Bathy did their best to act as though nothing at all
had happened. To the household servants, who asked where Mr.
Cyril was, the answer was that he was out of town for a few days.
Kevin Shaughnessy's presence in the house was explained by saying
that he was "an old family friend," nothing more.

Then, at precisely six o'clock, the telephone rang. Jules
immediately picked it up, and Mr. Shaughnessy moved into the next
room to pick up an extension.

"Mr. Liebling, did you receive our letter?"

"I did," Jules said.

"Are our demands quite clear?" This was, Jules thought, a
different man's voice from the one he had spoken to the night
before--younger-sounding somehow, but with the same trace of an
accent.

"Your demands are very clear," he said. "Raising that amount of
money will be no problem. But I don't think you fellows have
thought this through very carefully. Two and a half million
dollars, in small bills, is quite a lot of paper. I've figured
that it will take at least eighteen large suitcases to hold that
much cash. We'll need a truck to deliver that much cash to you,
and you'll need another truck to pick it up."

"Excuse me? How many suitcases?"

"Eighteen," he said, and then, on a sudden inspiration, he said,
"Diez-y-ocho. Diez-y-ocho maletas muy grandes."

"Claro." Then, in the background, Jules thought he heard the
sounds of a whispered conversation.

"How do you expect me to handle that?" he asked.

"A few moments, please. I will call you back."

"May I speak to my son, please?"

"He is not with me at this moment."

"Where is he? I thought you were guarding him."

"There are two of us, as I believe you know. We take
turns doing the guarding duty. I will call you back shortly."

"Spanish," Jules said when Shaughnessy returned to the music
room. "Probably Puerto Rican."

"Yes. That was clever of you, Mr. Liebling. The call was placed
from a pay telephone in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. I have
the exact location of the booth, but you weren't on the phone
long enough for me to get one of my operatives over there. But I
think it's safe to say he's being held somewhere in Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn! The largest borough in the city!"

"Yes, but the scope of our search is narrowed considerably. He
said he felt their car crossing two bridges-- that would be one
into Manhattan and the second into Brooklyn. Let's wait for their
next call."

But then there was no next call. Monday evening passed, then
Tuesday, and then Wednesday, and there was no further word from
the kidnappers.

"If we don't hear something soon, I'm afraid we may have to turn
this over to the FBI," Kevin Shaughnessy said.

"Oh, please--let's wait as long as we can," Hannah said. "If the
media get hold of this, it could frighten them, and--"

"I know what you mean," he said. "Meanwhile, I've run a check on
all the names in your son's address book. They all seem to be
legitimate. Most of them are young males, incidentally. And none
of them were planning to see My Fair Lady with your son."

Then, on Thursday morning, there was a call. This time it was the
older of the two men's voices on the other end of the line. "Mr.
Liebling, we have modified our demands somewhat," he said. "The
figure remains the same--two-point-five million dollars. But the
money can be in hundred-dollar notes, wrapped in packets of one
thousand dollars each. The serial numbers, however, must not be
in sequence. We appreciate that it will take some time to prepare
the money in this fashion. We are giving you twenty-four hours to
do so. We estimate that this amount of money will fill two, or at
the most three, large plastic garbage bags. This is how we want
the money delivered, in large green plastic garbage bags. In
exactly twenty-four hours you will receive a final telephone call
with full instructions as to how and where
these bags are to be delivered. Is all this clear to you, Mr.
Liebling?"

"Quite clear," Jules said, and the line went dead.

"Another pay phone in Brooklyn," Kevin Shaughnessy said. "But
we're narrowing down the neighborhood --Flatbush and Brooklyn
Heights."

The next few hours were something of a mystery to the household
staff at Grandmont. Why had a large bale of what appeared to be
old newspapers been delivered to the house, along with an
industrial-size paper-cutting machine? Why were Mr. and Mrs.
Liebling, Miss Bathy, and their house guest Mr. Shaughnessy
locked in the music room with all this material? Well, it had
always been a strange household, and it was not the servants'
duty to ask questions. The answer was that the four of them were
busily cutting, stacking, and banding twenty- five hundred little
piles of paper and stuffing them into large green plastic garbage
bags.

"I wonder if our perpetrators know that any deposit larger than
ten thousand dollars must be reported to the IRS," Kevin
Shaughnessy said at one point. "The IRS and the FBI are all
T-men. These guys are taking a big risk. Or else they're damn
fools." Later he said, "When their call comes tomorrow morning, I
want you to tell them one thing. I want you to tell them that you
absolutely cannot deliver the money until you have talked to your
son, and have been given his assurance that he's alive and well."

Jules nodded.

"In return, promise them that the police will not be called."

"No police. No publicity."

"Unless--"

"Unless what?"

"Unless it's publicity they actually want," Kevin Shaughnessy
said. "I'm beginning to wonder."

"Why would they want publicity?"

"Why did Booth murder Lincoln?"

"Oh, please don't talk about murder!" Hannah cried.

 Nevertheless, they were all up at dawn the following morning and
waiting in the music room, which had become their operations
center.
At eight o'clock the telephone rang.

"Mr. Liebling?"

"Yes."

"You have the money ready?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then follow these instructions carefully. Cyril tells us
you own a dark green Chrysler station wagon, New York license
plate LZT-897."

"That's correct."

"Very well. You will be driving that tonight. You will be alone."

"Now, wait a minute," Jules said. "I've never driven a car. I
don't know how to drive. My son will confirm that. I'll need a
driver."

A pause. Then, "Very well. You may be accompanied by your driver.
But no one else."

"Fine," Jules said.

"There is a restaurant called Billy's Grill at one-two four
Fulton Street in Brooklyn. The proprietor closes his restaurant
promptly at midnight, and just before locking up, he places his
garbage, in big green bags, on the sidewalk outside the front
door. At exactly ten minutes past twelve, you will drive your
station wagon past this restaurant. The street must be empty.
There must be no pedestrians on the street. There must be no
other vehicles moving on the street. If there are, you will go
around the block until the street is empty. Someone will be
watching to make sure that this is the case. If there is any
possibility of a witness to your delivery, it will be necessary
to dispatch your son. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"If the street is clear, you will deposit your garbage bags on
the sidewalk alongside the restaurant's garbage. Then you will
drive away as quickly as possible and not attempt to return. Once
the money has been satisfactorily delivered to us, your son will
be released, and you will hear from him."

"There's just one thing," Jules said.

"Yes?"

"Before I deliver this money, I must talk to my son. I need to
hear him say he's alive and well."

"I'm sorry, but your son is not with me now."
"I didn't figure he was. But I'm not leaving this house with your
money until I've talked to Cyril."

There was another, longer pause. Then, "What time do you plan to
leave your house, Mr. Liebling?"

"To be in Brooklyn by ten after twelve--no later than
eleven-fifteen."

"Very well. You will hear from your son shortly in advance of
your departure." And once again the line went dead.

"Another pay phone in Brooklyn," Kevin Shaughnessy said when he
returned to the room. "Different number, but within the same
fifteen-block radius as the others. I think we're close to
getting your son back, Mr. Liebling."

But the rest of the hours of the day dragged on with painful
slowness.

Then, shortly before eleven, the phone rang again. "Pop!" Cyril's
voice cried. "Pop--are you going to pay them their money? Are you
going to get me out of here?"

"Are you all right, son?"

"All right! I've been sitting tied to a kitchen chair for almost
a week, Pop! With one or the other of them sitting here pointing
a gun at me! I've hardly slept for nearly a week, Pop! They only
untie me to go to the bathroom! They--"

"Have they treated you well?"

"Well? Well, they feed me, if that's what you mean. Not that
their food's that great. Oh, Pop, please--please do what they
say, Pop! Just pay them their money and get me out of here! It's
been just hell, Pop! It's been like living in hell! I want to go
home, Pop, pleasel" Then he heard his son's voice, suddenly calm
again, as though turning to speak to someone else in the room,
ask, "How'm I doing?" Then Cyril said, "Oh, please, Pop, help me.
Just do what they say!"

"Tell them I'm on my way with the money," Jules said. "Tell them
I have their instructions, and I'm on my way now."

"Be careful, Pop! They're dangerous! Be sure to do exactly what
they told you, Pop, or they'll kill me!"

"Be patient, son. Just stay where you are, and be patient."
"Stay where I ami How can I go anywhere, tied to a chair?"
"You'll be home soon, son," his father said.

 "Wahoo!" shouted Kevin Shaughnessy, bursting into the room. "We
know where he is! Thirty-four Joralemon Street, Brooklyn Heights,
apartment 3-C. Let's go!"

Quickly they loaded the three heavy garbage bags into the back of
the station wagon. Kevin Shaughnessy took the wheel, and Jules
slid into the passenger seat beside him. "Two brothers named
Fernandez," Kevin said as they headed down the gravel drive
toward the gate. "Both bachelors. Older brother, Miguel, is
twenty-five. Younger one, Jose, is fifteen. Older one works as a
security guard on Seventh Avenue. Younger one is still in high
school. No P.C.R. for either one--prior criminal record. Moved
into this apartment six weeks ago. It's a one-bedroom efficiency,
third floor walk-up. Your son said he'd been carried up two
flights of stairs, so this must be where they've got him. Don't
know much about them yet. Quick check of neighbors reveals zip.
Neighbors say they keep to themselves. No suspicious noises from
the apartment, no suspicious comings or goings. Very quiet.
Typical perps. Homebodies. Still, it's a little odd. . . ."

"What's a little odd?"

"The name. Fernandez. Didn't your daughter just elope with a man
named Fernandez?"

"Antonio Fernandez-Just. A Brazilian."

"Yeah. Would any of his relatives have wanted to kidnap your
son?"

"Antonio Fernandez-Just is supposed to be very rich. Why would he
want to extort money from me?"

"I dunno. That's why I asked you."

Jules shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense," he said.

"Maybe it's just a coincidence. Fernandez is a pretty common
Hispanic name. Like Smith or Jones. New York phone books have
dozens of pages of Fernandezes. Still, it's kind of funny. All
the people causing your family trouble seem to be named
Fernandez."

Jules said nothing.

"I wonder what your son meant when he suddenly
turned away from the phone, and said, 'How'm I doing?'"

"Perhaps they told him to sound desperate. After all, they're
desperate for my money."

"Yeah, maybe that's it," he said.

 They were nearly a half hour early when they located Billy's
Grill in Fulton Street and drove quickly past it. They spent the
rest of the time figuring the shortest distance to the building
at 34 Joralemon Street, some ten blocks away. At ten minutes past
twelve they returned to the restaurant, which was now dark and
shuttered, with garbage bags stacked outside it. The street was
quiet and empty. Quickly, Jules and Kevin tossed their bags from
the car against the others and sped on. They did not wait to see
a slight figure emerge from the shadows between two buildings and
load the big bags, one by one, onto a Safeway Stores shopping
cart. After all, except for a few hundred-dollar bills placed on
the outside of the wrapped packets as decoys, the rest of the
"cash" consisted of cut-up newspaper.

"We don't have much time," Kevin said as they pulled up in front
of the apartment building on Joralemon Street and got out,
leaving the engine running. Kevin pressed the doorbell for 3-C.
"I'm counting on him thinking it's his brother returning with the
cash," he said.

"Wouldn't he use his own key?"

"He's loaded down with three big bags--remember?" And, in
response, the buzzer sounded, and Kevin pushed the door open.

He bounded up the two flights of stairs and ran on tiptoes down
the narrow corridor toward the apartment marked 3-C, with Jules
close behind him. Kevin whipped his service revolver from its
shoulder holster, and stepping back a short distance, he aimed
his shoulder at the door and, charging at the door, crashed it
open. "Everybody freeze!" he shouted.

They were in a kitchen, and a television set was going. Steve
Alien was hosting The Tonight Show. An open window let in the
warm summer night's breeze, stirring cretonne curtains, and
across the street a neon sign advertising Budweiser beer flashed
on and off.

A tall dark-haired young man, who would have been
Miguel, the older Fernandez brother, immediately jumped to his
feet. "Hands against the wall!" Kevin ordered, and the young man
quickly obeyed. In a kitchen chair sat Cyril, with his upper body
bound in what appeared to be clothesline, though his hands were
free. He appeared to have been drinking a beer. "Hey--Pop! What
the hellT Cyril cried.

A revolver lay on the kitchen table, and Kevin quickly pocketed
this. "Untie your son," he said, and rapidly began to frisk the
other man, who leaned, hands upward, face forward, against the
kitchen wall.

But when Jules started to undo the knots, which seemed rather
loosely tied, the clothesline, which looked seriously frayed in
several places, immediately broke apart into pieces and fell to
the floor, and Cyril was instantly freed.

Then Kevin Shaughnessy yanked the telephone from the wall, and
hurled it out the open window. "Now let's get out of here," he
said, and herded Jules and Cyril out of the apartment, down the
stairs, and out into the waiting station wagon. Putting the car
into gear, Kevin and his two passengers headed for the Brooklyn
Bridge. The plan was for Kevin to drive them to the greater
security of the apartment at 1000 Park Avenue. Hannah and Bathy
were driving from the country to meet them there.

"Did you pay them the money, Pop?" Cyril asked as they headed for
the bridge.

"You weren't very well tied up," his father said drily. "The rope
they tied you with broke the minute I touched it."

"If I'd tried to break loose, they'd have shot me, Pop! You saw
he had a gun!"

"You told me the room you were in didn't have any windows."

"I told you what they said to tell you, Pop!" He turned to Kevin.
"Who've you?"

"An old friend of the family," Kevin said.

"Did you pay them the money, Pop?"

"What difference does it make?" his father said. "You're free
now."

"Do you know that's the biggest ransom demand in history, Pop?
The biggest in history! I wasn't sure you'd
pay it. But why wasn't there anything in the papers, Pop? Why
wasn't it on TV?"

"I took care of that."

"Every day they'd buy all the papers, looking for something.
Every day they'd watch the TV news. But there was--nothing. The
biggest ransom in history--but it didn't even make the news. We
thought it would make big headlines."

" 'We' thought?"

"They thought. Why didn't it make big headlines? You did pay them
the money, didn't you, Pop?"

"No, I did not."

Cyril looked crushed. "But, Pop," he said. "I don't understand.
Then how did you--?"

"We'll discuss all this when we get home, Cyril," his father
said.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, while Kevin Shaughnessy
chain-smoked cigarettes.

 At the apartment, Hannah Liebling greeted her son with open
arms. "Oh, my poor baby!" she sobbed. "What a terrible thing
you've been through! Oh, look at you, my poor baby! Look at the
circles under your eyes. How tired you must be, my poor baby.
Just get some rest now, darling. It's so late. You must get some
rest. . . ."

In the library of the apartment, Kevin Shaughnessy had fixed
himself a stiff drink. When Jules and Hannah joined him there, it
was nearly two in the morning. "Well, Mr. and Mrs. Liebling," he
said, "this has been an unusual case. But I think my job for you
is finished."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Shaughnessy," Hannah said. "We couldn't
have done any of this without you. And everything worked out just
the way you said it would. You were brilliant . . . brilliant."

"There's just one more thing," he said, and he reached into his
pocket. "When I was searching Fernandez, I found these. Three
ticket stubs. They're for My Fair Lady, Wednesday night's
performance. The night before last. The tickets were purchased
with your son's American Express card." He handed the stubs to
Jules.

"Obviously they stole his credit card," Hannah said.

"If so, they were very nice and returned it to him. I
checked his billfold, and everything was in order, including
three hundred dollars in cash."

Jules stared at the ticket stubs.

"Mr. and Mrs. Liebling, I am left with the strong impression that
while your son was claiming to be tied in a chair at gunpoint, he
and the Fernandez brothers were off enjoying a Broadway musical."

Jules tore up the stubs and tossed them in a wastebasket. "I see
your point, Mr. Shaughnessy," he said at last. "I presume you'll
have your bill prepared for me in the morning."

 And that should have been the end of the episode. But it was
not, not quite.

The next morning a policeman stood at the door of the apartment.
"Mr. Liebling, we have a warrant for the arrest of your son,
Cyril Liebling."

"On what charge?"

"Contributing to the delinquency of a minor."

"Who is bringing this charge?"

"Mr. Miguel Fernandez, who is the legal guardian of his younger
brother, Jose Fernandez, a minor. The senior Mr. Fernandez
charges that while your son was a guest in his house, he caught
your son in the act of sexually molesting his younger brother."

And so Cyril was led away from 1000 Park Avenue in handcuffs.

This event generated enough headlines to have satisfied anyone,
particularly in the New York tabloids, the Post, the News, and
the Daily Mirror:

 HEIR SEIZED ON SEX CHARGE!

--Post

 BOOZE BARON'S SON CALLED PEDERAST!

--News

 billionaire molested h.s. honor student, victim claims! --Daily
Mirror
Meanwhile, Ingraham lawyers tried to arrange for Cyril's release
on bond. The New York County Prosecutor's Office had set bail at
$5,000,000.

Then, two days later, the telephone rang in the apartment. "This
is Joey Fernandez," the boy's voice said. "My brother Mike says
to tell you that we'll drop all charges if you'll pay us
one-point-two-five million dollars."

"Let me handle this one," Hannah said, seizing the phone from her
husband. "Mr. Fernandez," she said, "I don't know who you are, or
what you are, or what you represent. But I know this. I know that
molesting a minor may be a felony, but kidnapping is a high
federal crime, carrying a sentence of up to life imprisonment. I
have your ransom note, written in your or your brother's hand.
All your telephone calls to our homes in West chester and New
York have been recorded, including this one, and I have the
tapes. We also have a witness who will testify that he found my
son in your apartment, tied to a chair, and guarded by your
brother with a gun in full view. If you do not drop all charges
against my son within fifteen minutes, I will turn all this
material over to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Goodbye."
She dropped the receiver in its cradle.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. It was the New York City
chief of detectives. "Mrs. Liebling, the Fernandez brothers have
dropped all charges against Cyril," he said. "They have admitted
that this was all a hoax."

"I see," she said.

"Would you like us to press charges, Mrs. Liebling? Hoax or not,
it was still an extortion attempt."

"I think not," she said. "There has been too much about this case
in the press already."

"I'm making arrangements for your son's immediate release."

"Thank you. May I ask what was the purpose of this hoax?"

"Publicity. It seems the younger Fernandez wants to be a rock 'n'
roll star. Believe it or not, it seems that, as a result of this,
young Fernandez has already got himself an agent. It's a strange
world we live in, Mrs. Liebling."
"It certainly is," she said.

 "You know," his father said to Cyril that night, "the trouble
with you is that you've never been able to do anything right. If
you'd been able to conceive of a really clever extortion plot,
and been able to carry it out, I'd have been impressed. I'd have
actually admired you for it. I'd have thought: This young man has
brains! This young man has moxie! He's really going places. But
your little plot was stupid from the beginning. You lied about
where you were going that evening. You said you were going to see
a show that wasn't even playing. You had the car headed the wrong
way. And on, and on, and on--one stupid blunder after another!
Your plot was so stupid and transparent that it wasn't even
laughable. It was just pathetic. Because you'll never be able to
do anything right, nothing will ever work for you. You have no
future. You are completely hopeless. Now let me show you a young
man on whom the future of this family rests."

He had ordered Noah's governess to wake him up and bring him
downstairs to the music room. Noah stood there sleepily in his
pajamas, rubbing his eyes, unaware of what any of this was about.
He was eight years old.

"This is the young man on whom the future of this family hangs!"
his father declared. "This is my hope! This is my promise! This
is the future of my company, my family, and all my dreams! This
is the real man in the family, Cyril--not you. Do you know what
my first impulse was when you called last Sunday night? It was to
let them dispatch you--you stupid, worthless piece of scum!"

"Oh, Jules," Hannah sobbed. "Jules . . . Jules . . ." As Noah's
governess, equally mystified, led him back upstairs to bed.

To this day, Noah Liebling has never been able to forget that
scene.

 It wasn't a very happy funeral. That may sound like an odd thing
to say, but there are such things as happy funerals, when family
members and old friends stand up and offer happy reminiscences,
and tell funny stories about the deceased; they joke a little,
and no word is
unkind. And everyone leaves feeling a little better, somehow
believing that death isn't such a bad thing to have happen to
you, after all. But Jules Liebling's funeral in the winter of
1974 wasn't one of those.

It wasn't happy because it was obvious, from the stony expression
on her face, that Hannah Liebling was mad as hell about
something. What she was mad about was that there were so few
people there. But what did she expect? Thousands of mourners?
There'd been no public announcement of this funeral. The death
notices of the Billionaire Booze Baron had all concluded with the
sentence, "Funeral plans are as yet incomplete," which was what
Hannah had requested. There'd been no further publicity. Perhaps
Hannah was angry because, although she insisted she wanted her
husband's funeral to be small and private, she'd really been
hoping that the funeral home would somehow miraculously fill to
overflowing with mourners. But since so few people knew about it,
that hadn't happened, and so Hannah was sore.

The services were held in one of the smaller rooms at Frank E.
Campbell's on Madison Avenue. The only flowers were an
arrangement of Hannah's giant white dahlias, from the gardens at
Grandmont, at the head of the coffin. An organist played a few
riffs and variations on "Happy Days Are Here Again" because,
believe it or not, Jules had been a lifelong Democrat and an
ardent supporter of the New Deal. After all, FDR supported
repeal. A rabbi said the Kaddish, first in English, then in
Hebrew, though Jules had never been a pious Jew. The visitors'
book contained no more than two dozen signatures.

A few of Jules's more important distributors had been notified,
and they were there with their wives. They had come to provide a
show of loyalty to the new boss. Noah and Hannah had come in
together, and were seated in the front row. Ruth Liebling Hower,
who had not yet reverted to being a countess, flew in from
California and joined them there. Noah saw Bathsheba Sachs come
in and quietly take a seat in the back row, but he did not look
back in her direction again, and when it was time for them all to
get up and go, she had already left. There were a few other close
associates of Jules's from the office. The only person visibly
weeping was Jules's longtime secretary, Edith Ackerman, who had
brought her niece, who was severely retarded, but who
nevertheless behaved herself very well. Noah, seated between her
and his mother, noticed that Ruth was drunk, and she tripped and
nearly fell when leaving the pew, but no one else appeared to
notice anything. There were a few other people whom Noah didn't
recognize.

After the service, there was no trip to the cemetery because
there was to be no burial. The hearse departed with the coffin to
the crematorium, and there was no cortege. When it was over,
Hannah went directly home without speaking to anyone.

Noah went outside to the front steps of Campbell's to have a
cigarette. In those days everybody smoked. Later, it became so
dangerous to light a cigarette within shouting distance of
another human being that Noah had finally said the hell with it
and quit. As he stood there, patting his jacket pockets in search
of a book of matches, he became aware of a tall, older, slightly
stooped man standing on the steps with him. The man seemed oddly
dressed for a funeral, in a full-length lynx coat that nearly
touched the tops of blue suede Gucci loafers. And something about
the older man looked familiar, but Noah couldn't place him.

"Need a light?" the man said. The man's voice sounded familiar,
too, but still Noah couldn't attach a name to that middle-aged
face.

"Oh, thanks," Noah said, and the older man lighted Noah's
cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter. That little gesture--the
way he flipped the lighter open--also rang a bell, and Noah
thought: This is someone I've met before, but who?

"And so now, I suppose, the mantle will fall upon your
shoulders," the man said.

"I beg your pardon?" Noah said.

"You don't recognize me, do you."

"I feel I should, but no, I'm afraid--"

"It's Cyril."

"Cyril!" The afternoon was chilly, and now a cloud passed across
the sun, and a wind swept up Madison Avenue. "Cyril," he said
again. A gesture was called for, and Noah extended his hand, and
the two shook hands.

"It's been a long tune."
"Yes, it has."

They stood there awkwardly a moment, suddenly shy in each other's
presence, their eyes averted. Though it embarrassed Noah not to
recognize his brother, it was understandable. He had not seen
Cyril in over ten years. Cyril had let his hair grow longer,
nearly shoulder length, and now it was silvery, the color of his
long lynx coat. He had also taken to wearing a single gold
earring in his left earlobe, long before this sort of thing would
become a fashion commonplace, and an affectation that Cyril would
later abandon. There had been another episode --not as serious as
the kidnapping one--and Cyril had finally been banished from the
Liebling household by their father. Noah knew about this episode,
of course, but no one in the family ever spoke of it. Cyril had
been treated as a non-person: out of sight, out of mind.

Cyril had been banished to the West Side because, in those
days--the early 1960s--it was felt that people who lived on the
West Side could live exactly as they wished. If one wished to
live differently from the way normal people lived, one could do
it on the West Side. The West Side was like a foreign country,
and West Siders never ventured East. Cyril had been provided with
a generous living allowance. His father would not have thrown his
son out on the street. Still, he had been banished from Grandmont
and from 1000 Park Avenue, and that banishment would not end
until some time after his father's death, when Hannah came up
with the idea of dividing the apartment horizontally and giving
Cyril the upper floor.

Because of the difference in their ages--Noah was now twenty-five
and Cyril was forty--Noah and his brother had never been close.
Still, this meeting with Cyril on the steps of Frank E.
Campbell's Funeral Chapel was difficult for Noah, and he stood
there mutely, trying to think of something to say. But it was
difficult because too much time had passed, there was too much
ground to cover, and besides, all that ground had slipped away.
He stood there, rocking on the balls of his feet, while the wind
whipped up the canyon of the street, carrying with it the smell
of coming snow. He felt he should deliver to his brother some
sign of affection-- a hug, a slap on the back, a soft punch to
the shoulder--
but the moment for that seemed to have passed. He felt he should
say, "Gee, you're looking great!" But in fact, Cyril did not look
great. He merely looked strange, and foreign. And he could not
simply say, "Well, goodbye!" So he found himself shaking Cyril's
hand again and saying, "Cyril. Well!"

"Yes. Well. Well. Indeed."

"Well."

"And so now I assume the mantle of the Ingraham Corporation is
about to fall upon your shoulders," Cyril said.

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"It was supposed to fall on mine, you know. The mantle. But that
was years ago."

"Yes, I know. Would you have wanted it?"

"Oh, yes, I think so, though that's a forlorn hope now. This is
supposed to be a disreputable business. And, as you know, I've
become quite a disreputable person. I think I'd have been
admirably suited to it. I think I'd have done quite well with
it." There was a sudden twinkle in his eye, and the ice seemed
finally to be beginning to break. "And what about you, baby
brother? Are you ready to assume it? This golden, disreputable
mantle?" "Yes, I think so," Noah said.

"Only think so? Don't you know so? Don't you want it?"

"I guess so," Noah said. "But I used to think of doing something
else."

"What sort of something else?"

"I used to think about a career in the social sciences," Noah
said. "But bow--" "My dear fellow, I don't have any idea what the
social sciences are," Cyril said. "And please don't tell me. I
don't want to know. But don't worry. You'll do fine wearing the
goldea mantle. You'll get married to some nice girl. You'll have
children. You'll live at a fine address. And I? Well, let me just
say that I bear you no ill. You were always a good boy."

"Thanks, Cyril."

"It's too late for me to try to turn back the clock. But, you
know, I'll always miss him."

"Who?"
He nodded toward the chapel door. "The old bastard," he said.
"Our father."

"Look," Noah said quickly, "let's get together soon, Cyril. For
lunch, or dinner. Or just for a drink. Let's get to know each
other better, Cyril. We really need to."

"I'd like that," Cyril said with a little smile, and their eyes
made contact again, and in that little smile Noah suddenly saw
again the Cyril he remembered as a boy.

"In fact--want to go somewhere for a drink right now?"

"Not now," Cyril said, glancing at his gold Cartier tank watch.
"I must be on my way."

"But let's get together soon, Cyril. Call me."

"I will," Cyril said.

They shook hands again and parted, Noah walking east and Cyril
turning toward the west.

 But, as it turned out, they did not get together soon again. It
was not, in fact, until Carol, in an attempt to draw this
fractured family together, began having her little family dinners
on New Year's Eve at River House.
Choices

 Why is it that our lives can become polarized about some small,
seemingly insignificant event? A call from a stranger, a knock on
the door, entering a familiar room unannounced and hearing
unfamiliar sounds, a scene of a father vilifying his older son in
front of the rest of the family. Or a decision as to whether or
not to pack a pair of swimming trunks for a business trip.

At River House now, Noah Liebling, at a crossroads in his life,
is faced with this decision.

Noah has always been a careful packer. He is as meticulous about
packing as he once was reckless on the wheels of his bike. He
considers the swimming trunks he holds in his hand. Ingraham's
sales conference, which begins with a kickoff cocktail party
tonight, is being held this year in Atlantic City. Atlantic City
would not have been Noah's choice as the venue for this annual
event. But by tradition, the salesmen are given a choice of a
half dozen possible locations, ballots are passed out, and
Atlantic City received the majority vote this year. Why? A lot of
the salesman, it seems, like to gamble. This should come as a
surprise to no one. The distilling industry is a business
designed for gamblers. Everything about it is high-risk. This is
why, they say, it has become a predominantly Jewish industry.

Back to the swimming trunks--green, with a white stripe down the
side and a Polo logo. On the one hand, he thinks with his logical
mind, in January it will obviously be too cold for the beach. On
the other hand, the hotel where they will all be staying may have
a heated indoor pool. A lot of hotels have those things nowadays
--the pool, the spa, the health club. A swim would be pleasant at
the end of a busy day. Or it may not have a pool. Noah can't
remember from the brochure, and
the brochure is at the office. Tentatively, he places the trunks
on the top of the open suitcase. Swim trunks always go on the top
of the suitcase, just as shoes always go on the bottom, followed
by socks, underwear, shirts, ties, etc., etc., because that is
the order in which everything is unpacked when you get to the
hotel. The trunks take up very little room, and they weigh next
to nothing, so what the hell?

But then, he thinks, indoor pools are unappetizing places,
caustic with the smell of chlorine, and noisy with the screams of
splashing children and their endless water games. And there will
be no time for swimming or other relaxation, either. He will have
too much to do, too many hands to shake, too many faces to try to
remember. Thank God for name tags! He removes the trunks and
replaces them in his dresser drawer.

But then, Atlantic City is not the sort of place one visits with
small children--not anymore. Atlantic City's din is from the
grownups at the tables and the slots. The pool, if there is a
pool, will be peacefully empty, and he can swim a few laps before
bedtime. He puts the trunks back on the top of his suitcase. And
yet, if he packs the trunks and ends up never using them, he will
feel the same impatience with himself that his mother feels when
she has to lef the space in front of her go "wasted" when
entering a revolving door. Decisions, decisions! He removes the
trunks again.

In another open suitcase is the carousel of color transparencies
that Noah will be using when he makes his major presentation to
the entire conference on Friday afternoon, just before the
wrap-up cocktail party of the week of meetings, along with his
notes for the script he is still working on. So far these color
slides and the content of the accompanying script are still Top
Secret. Only a handful of others in the company knows about them.
On the program for the day, the only clue as to the importance of
this event is in the words: "Friday, 12:30 p.m., Luncheon in the
Grand Ballroom to be followed by a Major Presentation by Mr. Noah
Liebling."

And, seeing his notes for the script, Noah suddenly realizes that
he has almost forgotten to pack another Very Important Thing.
This is the President's Message that he is to deliver at the
kickoff party tonight. The
President's Message, triple-space-typed by Jonesy, Hannah
Liebling's secretary, is still on the top of his dresser. He
quickly retrieves this and places it on the top of his suitcase,
where the swimming trunks were, glancing at the opening words:
"In our more than two-hundred-year history . . ." This is a lie,
of course, and Hannah damn well knows it. Their history is not
even a hundred years old, but does it really matter? He looks at
his watch. It is two-fifteen.

"I've got a car ordered for us both at two-thirty," Frank Stokes
said to him that morning. "If you finish packing in time, drop
down to my place for a drink before we head off to the wilds of
Atlantic City."

"Fine," Noah said.

Frank Stokes is Ingraham's vice president for sales. Frank and
Beryl Stokes have the apartment on the floor below the
Lieblings', on the same elevator stem. In fact, it was Noah who
helped them get into River House, over the objections of some
board members who said, "Don't we have enough liquor people in
the building? Are you trying to turn River House into the
Ingraham Building?" Anyway, there will not be time for that drink
now, and Noah is about to snap both cases closed when he realizes
he is not alone in the room. He turns and sees her standing in
the doorway.

"Going out of town?" she asks him.

"Oh, hi, Mellie," he says. "Was I talking to myself?" He did not
realize that he and Melody were alone in the apartment together.

 We should pause here to insert a word or two about the
Bennington Plan. Those of you who know about the Bennington Plan
can skip this section, but the Bennington Plan accounts for
Melody's somewhat awkward position.

When Bennington College for Women was founded in the 1920s, it
was something of an anomaly. To begin with, it was never really a
college for women. There have always been men at Bennington--not
many, but a few--and Bennington was established primarily for
young people interested in careers in the arts: drama, dance,
music, literature, film- and television-making, and so on.
Part of the Bennington Plan is what is called the Winter Work
Period. Every year the school closes for the months of January
and February, and during these months students are expected to
find work off the campus in their chosen fields. Cynics have
pointed out that one of the world's most costly colleges,
situated on a hilltop in the mountains of southern Vermont,
manages to save a great deal of money in heating bills by closing
during the coldest winter months, but that is neither here nor
there. In its woodsy setting, laid out to suggest a sprawling New
England farm--with dormitories posing as farmhouses and studios
disguised as barns--the campus atmosphere is intended to be
conducive to artistic endeavor, and in many ways it is.
Bennington students take their studies, and the winter work
program, very seriously. Otherwise, rules are very few, and
loosely enforced, if at all.

Of course, not all Bennington students go to work during the
winter work period. Some simply travel, visiting European museums
and architectural wonders, taking notes on what they have
observed, and this "work" will count for academic credit when
they return to the school with the crocuses and daffodils. Some
actually find jobs. Anne Liebling, as an art history major and
using her mother's museum connections, has found a winter job as
a file clerk in the Catalogue Room of the Met. She started work
there the first of the year. The pay isn't much, of course, but
at least she is working in her field.

Melody, as a drama major, has been less fortunate, as anyone who
has tried to work in the theater well knows. To her credit, she
has been looking for something--answering casting calls,
following the course of Broadway rehearsals, offering to do
everything from painting flats for scenery to running out for
coffee and doughnuts for the stagehands.

"What I'd like," Melody has said to Carol, "is to find something
in the theater that would pay me enough so I could afford to
share an efficiency, or a loft in SoHo."

"Nonsense," Carol said. "You can always stay here. We love having
you, and there's plenty of room. Don't worry about finding some
other place to stay."

Still, though Melody has stayed with the Lieblings for
shorter periods in the past, a two-month house guest is something
else again. Melody realizes this, and so does Carol. Still, both
the guest and the hosts are trying to make the best of the
situation, at least for the time being.

Meanwhile, the fact that Anne has been able to find employment
while Melody has not has created a not imperceptible rift between
the two best friends. We have not progressed very far into
January, and Anne Liebling has already learned, at the end of a
working day, not to ask her friend, "Well, how did job hunting go
today?" She knows what the discouraged reply will be.

And is Melody the slightest bit resentful of Anne for having
found a job, however boring, so easily? If so, Melody has given
no indication. (Anne does not know that Melody, writing home to
her mother in Tokyo, said, "It's funny, but it's much easier to
find a job when you don't need one--if you're rich already, that
is.")

 "Sales conference," he says now. "We do this every year in
January. This year it's Atlantic City."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Just a week. Back Friday night."

She moves to the open suitcase and lifts the sheets of
typewritten paper. "What's this?" she asks him.

"President's Message," he says. "I have to deliver it tonight at
the kickoff party."

She reads, " 'In our more than two-hundred-year history . . .'
Not a very exciting opening line, is it?"

"My mother's words," he says. "They're carved in stone, I'm
afraid." He's glad to see there's no black eye, no swollen lip.

She makes a face. "I could do better than that," she says. "How
about, 'As we plunge fearlessly into our third century--' "

"Okay, okay," he says. "I'll let you argue that one with Hannah
Liebling."

She looks at him. "Is it hard working for your mother, Noah?" she
asks him.

He decides to give her an honest answer. "Yes, it is, as a matter
of fact. But I consider it one of the challenges of my job."
Now she lifts the handwritten notes from the case containing the
carousel of color slides. "And this?"

"A script I'm working on."

"A script?"

"To go with a slide show. I'm pitching a new Ingra ham brand at
the end of the week. Script still needs a lot of work."

"Want me to help you?"

He glances at his watch. "No time, I'm afraid. I've got to be out
of here in ten minutes."

"Take me with you," she says.

He tries to affect an easy laugh. "Sorry," he says, "this trip is
strictly business." But this is not strictly true. To a lot of
the salesmen this week in Atlantic City will be an outing, a
holiday, a company-paid vacation.

"I'm serious," she says. "Take me with you, Noah. I'll help you
write your script. I've taken playwriting courses. I can type
sixty words a minute. I won't be in your way. I'll make this part
of my winter work program. What do you think of that?"

"No, no . . ."

"Please, Noah. It will give me something to do. I'll write a
report on it when I get back to school. 'The Business Sales
Conference as Theater.' My adviser would like that! Because it is
a form of theater, isn't it? Meetings to get the sales staff
excited about what's coming up in the year ahead? Whipping them
up--"

"I think of it more as employee relations," he says. "Making the
people who work for you feel they're appreciated."

"But that's show business, too! So much of business is really
show business. A girl in our class is working for some trial
lawyers. She's going to analyze trials as theater pieces. How
many people will be at this conference?"

"All together, about a thousand."

"Would one extra girl, sitting in the back of the room, taking
notes, be even noticed?"

"They'd think you were a spy from the competition, Melody."

"That's just like the theater! In the theater everybody's always
spying on what everybody else is doing.
And in between the meetings I'll help you with your script. Oh,
please, let me come, Noah."

"No, that sort of thing is strictly against the rules," he says,
and yet he knows that this is not strictly true. A lot of the
salesmen, and in this business they are mostly men, use sales
conference to leave their wives and families behind, and connect
with girlfriends. And in the bars of Atlantic City, the girls
will be lined up, waiting. . . . "Besides," he says, "how would
we explain this sort of arrangement to Carol--and Anne?"

She looks at him. "Very simple," she says. "We wouldn't tell
them. It would be our secret, like our secret from the other
night. I'll make up something. I'll say I've found a week's work
in another city. You see, I've thought this through very
carefully, Noah. You see how serious I am."

He feels his cheeks redden. "No, it wouldn't work, Melody," he
says. "I'm sorry." And yet why is he thinking that it could work?
If only ... If I were only still that boy on the Harley.

She turns away from him. "It doesn't have to be sex," she says.
"I didn't say it had to be sex. I know that's what you're
thinking. You've probably been thinking that all along. It's true
I like you--very much--but it doesn't have to be that. Mostly, I
want something to do--something exciting. I can't just sit around
this big apartment, day after day, doing nothing!"

"Something will come along for you, Melody," he says. "I'm sure
of that." Her mention of sex startles him. Had he been thinking
of that, too?

"Fat chance. I hang around the theaters, trying to sneak through
stage doors, trying to interview performers, the production crew.
. . . I'm treated like a trespasser, a nuisance . . . trying to
watch rehearsals from backstage ... being kicked out... it's so
humiliating .., and meanwhile that asshole keeps telephoning all
the time!"

He is a also little surprised to hear her use the word asshole.
"What asshole?" he says.

"That asshole I brought here on New Year's Eve. Bill Luckman!"

"What's he been doing?"

"Calling me up. Three, four, five times a day. Some times he
disguises his voice so I'll think it's a job offer. But then he
calls me a tease. Tells me to stop holding out on him, to stop
stringing him along. Sometimes, when I'm alone here and hear the
phone ring, I feel like I want to scream!" She stares at him
defiantly now.

"What do you say to him when he says things like that?"

"Sometimes he says worse things! I just hang up on him."

"Good girl. That's the only thing to do. He'll get the message
after a while."

"Will he? Sometimes, when I'm alone in this apartment, I think,
what if he should come to the door?"

"There's no way he could get up here, Mellie. You're in the most
secure building in New York. But if anything should happen, just
dial eight on the house phone for the security office."

"That's another reason why I wanted to go with you."

"Look, if this--this asshole gives you any more trouble, I'll be
staying at Resorts International in Atlantic City. Just give me a
call, okay? If I'm in a meeting, say it's an emergency, and
they'll bring me out. Okay?" He starts to reach out to touch her
arm, but then he checks himself.

Just then the telephone rings, and both of them look quickly at
the phone on the bedside table. "I'll get it," Noah says.

"Hey, Noah." It is Frank Stokes's voice. "You about ready? The
car's waiting downstairs."

"I'll be right down," Noah says, and hangs up the phone. "I've
got to go," he says, and snaps his two suitcases closed.

Grabbing the suitcases, he turns toward the bedroom door, then
turns back to look at her. She is standing there, her arms
crossed across her bosom, hugging her shoulders. Her chin is up,
but there are tears in her eyes. "Don't worry about me," she
says. "I can take care of myself. I always have. And I didn't say
there had to be sex. Remember that."

"I'm sorry, Mellie," he says, and turns and heads out the door.

Alone in the apartment, she walks down the long corridor to the
living room, and parts the curtains to look
down on the entrance courtyard below. She watches as Noah and
Frank Stokes emerge from the building and walk to a waiting
limousine. She watches as the driver loads their luggage into the
open trunk. She watches as the driver opens the rear door of the
car, as the two men climb inside, and as the door closes,
concealing the passengers behind tinted glass. She watches as the
car pulls out into the street and drives away.

Then, directly across the street, she sees the figure of a young
man. He is wearing tight black spandex running shorts, and he is
standing on one leg, braced with one hand against the trunk of a
tree. His other hand grasps his ankle, and he is flexing his knee
up and down, as though to relieve a cramp in a peroneus muscle.

Recognizing him, Melody bangs on the windowpane for his
attention, but he is too far below her on the street to hear her.

She flings open the window and leans out. "Hey, Luckman!" she
calls down to him. "Hey, Luckman!"

He puts his other foot down and, shielding his eyes with a
bandaged left hand, looks upward, into the sun.

"Hey, Luckman!" she calls again. "How's your hand, asshole?"

Then she raises her fist and gives him the finger. She slams the
window shut, and then, laughing, runs down the hall to the yellow
guest bedroom, knowing exactly what she is going to do.

 As the limousine enters the Lincoln Tunnel, heading for the New
Jersey Turnpike, Frank Stokes turns to Noah and says, "You're
kind of quiet this afternoon. Something on your mind?"

"Thinking about Friday's presentation," he says.

"B-Day, huh?" Frank is one of the few people in the organization
who know about the new label, and B-Day is what they have
christened the day when it will be unveiled.

"That's right."

"Don't worry. Something tells me we're going to have a hit on our
hands."

But of course Noah is not thinking about Friday's presentation,
or B-Day, or about anything remotely connected with that, though
perhaps he should be. He is thinking about Melody.

He has been aware for some time that Melody has developed some
sort of schoolgirl crush on him, and he is ambivalent about what
to do about it. There is something about the way she looks at
him, and then, of course, there was this afternoon. It is not an
unflattering situation. What man Noah's age would not be
flattered to have a beautiful eighteen-year-old--no, not even
eighteen, because Melody's eighteenth birthday is still five
months away--form a schoolgirl crush on him? The very phrase
"schoolgirl crush" probably dates him, he thinks. Do college-age
girls have crushes anymore? They certainly don't call them that.
They have affairs--light, casual, uncommitted affairs, with no
consequences expected or even considered. Has Anne had affairs?
He hopes not, but he cannot be sure, and if she has, it would be
hard for him to condemn her for this, in today's atmosphere, with
condoms being freely dispensed in boarding school infirmaries.
Today a teenager's parents are expected to roll with the punches,
or else go back to the dinosaur age.

Anne must have been eight or nine when Carol decided to explain
the facts of life to her, and Carol had told him about it later.
"I was trying to tell her as honestly as possible about what
happens when a man and a woman make love," she said. "And I was
trying to describe it in a way that was--well, you know, both
scientific and poetic. And she suddenly turned to me, and said,
'Mother, are you talking about fucking?'"

"And zen what did you say?" he asked her with a grin.

"I couldn't believe my ears. I think I turned red as a beet, and
I know I fought a terrible impulse to slap her across the face.
But then I laughed and said, 'Yes, I'm talking about fucking.'"

And so here he was now, in this situation, or Situation, capital
S, as in Seduction. He had seen it beginning to happen--oh,
perhaps eight months ago, when both girls were home from Ethel
Walker on spring break. There had been a bowl of peanuts on the
coffee table, peanuts in their shells in a silver bowl. Odd, the
way details stand out. He had noticed Melody shelling peanuts,
cracking
the papery husks between her fingertips, dropping the husks in an
ashtray, then carefully removing the brown skin from each nut,
taking care not to let the two halves of each nut fall apart.
Then, when she had a handful of perfectly shelled, perfectly
skinned nuts in her hand, she extended her cupped palm and
offered them to him. That gesture, the outstretched hand, the
offering of the nuts, and the faint smile on her lips when she
offered the nuts to him, told him everything. There were no words
needed, and his heart opened like a door. "Thank you" was all he
had been able to say.

In the days of his bike, there had been plenty of easy sex. Girls
loved his bike. They loved the speed, and they loved the noise
and the wind in their faces as they clung to his waist from the
buddy seat behind. These were the town girls, of course, the
townies upon whom his brothers at Delta Chi Epsilon looked with
undisguised disdain. The "nice" girls from Wellesley, Smith, or
Holyoke were either too prim or too timid to accept bike dates.
Or perhaps they knew what bike dates usually led up to.
Bennington girls, of course, were always a little different. They
enjoyed their reputation of being a little wild, a little
Bohemian. They even called their campus The Left Bank--the Left
Bank of Pownal Creek. But even Bennington girls would not accept
bike dates. Why had they sent Anne to Bennington? Because that
was where she wanted to go, naturally, and one reason she wanted
to go there was because that was where Melody, her best friend,
wanted to go.

There was one town girl he remembers in particular-- Loretta, or
Lorena, or Louella, or something like that. If he ever knew her
last name, he has forgotten it now, but she worked as a telephone
operator for New England Bell, and he had made her acquaintance
while placing a long-distance call. Sight unseen, she had agreed
to a date on his bike.

As they sped through the soft spring night, she gripped his waist
from behind, clutching the waistband of his jeans, her thumbs
hooked under his belt. Then one hand moved below his belt, and
then with the other hand she was unbuckling it. And then came the
point when there was nothing else to do but to slow down the
bike, pull off into a dark country lane, cut the engine,
turn off the headlights, and dismount. And that was that. No
words were spoken. Loretta, Lorena, Louella, Louisa, whoever you
were, where are you now?

And why is he suddenly also thinking now of his brother? Cyril,
who caused so much trouble for the family over the years, is
rewarded by being free to do whatever he chooses, by being free
to fuck whomever he wants. Cyril has been handed a totally
carefree life. While Noah, who always tried to be the dutiful
son-- who tried to do his father's wishes and to fulfill his
father's dynastic dream, even long after he lost the respect he
once had for his father, because that was what he saw as his
duty--now finds himself lashed--no, chained--to that duty for the
rest of his life.

The limousine enters the toll plaza.

"Do you have brothers or sisters, Frank?" he asks him now.

"No, I was an only child. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondered."

"You're sure in a damned funny mood," Frank says.

The limousine speeds south on the turnpike. no hitchhikers, no
motorcycles, a sign warns. That is the story of Noah's life.

And, he thinks, if I hadn't spent all that time dithering,
waffling, trying to decide whether or not to pack the goddamned
swimming trunks, I'd have been out of the room and out of the
house long before she even came to the door, and what took place
this afternoon would never have taken place at all.

And now he can't even remember whether he ended up packing the
goddamned swimming trunks or not.

Shit, he thinks.

 It is nearly four o'clock when Carol Liebling gets home from a
meeting across town, a Friends of the Museum meeting at which
very little seemed to get accomplished, and the apartment seems
strangely quiet. Noah, of course, has left for Atlantic City, and
Anne is still at work. "Melody?" she calls, dropping her gloves
and bag on the bench in the front hall. "Melody?"

Mary appears. "She left here in a real hurry, Miz Liebling," Mary
says. "About an hour ago. Packed a bag
and everything. She left this for you." She hands Carol an
envelope. Carol opens the envelope and reads:

 Dearest Carol. . . and Anne . . .

Guess what! I got a call from the stage manager of a play that's
trying out at the Shubert in New Haven, and he offered me a job!
It's not much of a job-- assistant to the prop manager--and,
frankly, it doesn't sound like much of a play, but they're hoping
to bring it to Broadway, and at least it'll mean working in the
theater. So that's where I'm off to. Will call in a couple of
days to let you know how things are going.

Yours, in haste,

With love, Melody

 Carol slips out of her mink jacket and hands it to Mary.

"Miz Stokes called three, four times while you was out," Mary
says. "She says it's real important."

"Okay," Carol says. "Thanks, Mary." She steps into the library
and dials Beryl's number.

"Well, hello . . . stranger," Beryl says, and Carol detects a
note of resentment in Beryl's voice.

"Hi, Beryl," Carol says brightly. "How're you?"

"Funny you should ask," Beryl says in the same voice. "Funny you
should ask, because I'm feeling--well, I'm pretty well ticked off
at you, if you want to know the honest truth."

"Really, Beryl? Why?"

"Frank said I shouldn't call you about this," Beryl says. "Frank
said, 'They can have anyone they want for dinner. They don't
always have to invite us.' But now Frank's gone to Atlantic City,
and I just can't be in denial about this any longer. I've just
got to let you know what my true feelings are about this, Carol.
And my true feelings are that I'm terribly, terribly hurt. And I
thought you were my best friend."

"Now, wait a minute," Carol says. "I don't have any idea what
you're talking about."

"No, I don't suppose you do," Beryl says in a distant voice. "No,
that would be just like you. Not even knowing how deeply you can
hurt another person. Not even caring. Well, maybe someday you
will care about your friends. Maybe someday you'll try getting in
touch with your friends' feelings and not just your own."

"Please, Beryl," she says, beginning to be annoyed. "Please tell
me what it is you think I've done."

"You had a dinner party for William Luckman. I know, because I
read it in Roxy. . . . And you didn't invite Frank and me."

She sighs. "Now, Beryl," she says. "It wasn't a party for Bill
Luckman."

"Roxy's column said it was. Roxy Rhinelander said honoring
William Luckman."

"She got it wrong. She gets a lot of things wrong. It was our
annual family New Year's Eve dinner--Noah's mother, his brother
and sister. Anne's friend Melody, who's--or was--staying with us,
brought Bill Luckman along. It was a last-minute thing. That's
all it was." "And Frank and I were home alone, right on the floor
below you, and you never even asked us up. Me, of all people."

"Why you of all people, Beryl?"

"William Luckman was my star pupil."

"What do you mean--your star pupil?"

"I taught him English in the eighth and ninth grades. He was my
star pupil. I've told you that."

"Honestly, Beryl, I don't think you told me that."

"Well, I did. I know I did. But obviously you've forgotten. That
would be typical of you, I guess, to just forget how much William
Luckman meant to me. Oh, well. Frank told me not to make this
call, but I just couldn't stay in denial about this all my life."

"Beryl, I swear to you I didn't know you had any connection with
that young man. If I'd known, I would've--"

"Oh, well. It probably doesn't matter. Now that he's so
successful, and so famous, and all over the TV talk shows, he
probably doesn't even remember little old me, who was his eighth
and ninth grade English teacher. But I like to think that some of
that success, just a little bit of it, may have been due to
little old me."

"Oh, I'm sure he'd remember you, Beryl."

"Well, I just thought I should let you know how you
hurt me, Carol," she says. "How you hurt your best friend."

Sometimes Carol wonders who appointed Beryl Stokes as her best
friend. Personally, Carol finds Beryl a terrible whiner. But Noah
has great respect for Frank Stokes, the two men work closely at
the company, and so Carol always tries to be nice to Frank's
wife. "Look," she says quickly, "what are you doing Wednesday
night?"

"Wednesday? Day after tomorrow? Frank's out of town, of course.
But--nothing. Why?"

"Come up and have a drink. I'll invite Bill Luckman. I know he's
finished touring for his book."

"Really?" Beryl squeals. "Really? Oh, that would be
super-super-super, Carol!"

"Good. And I'll ask Georgette Van Degan, too. She wants to meet
Bill Luckman, and he wants to meet her, and you want to see him
again, so it works out perfectly. Come around six."

"Three women and only one man? Will he like that?"

"And Anne will be here, too, of course. But I have the impression
that Mr. Luckman doesn't mind being surrounded by admiring women.
On the contrary."

Beryl giggles. "While the boys are away, the girls will play,
huh? And he's grown up to be so handsome!"

"He's a good-looking fellow, yes."

"And he was always so bright! Are you going to tell him I'm
coming? Because he just might not remember --"

"Suppose I just tell him I'm having a mystery guest-- a woman
from his past?"

Beryl squeals again. "Oh, that would just be super super-super.
Can I bring anything? Want me to stuff some mushroom caps?"

"No, no. Just bring yourself."

"And I'm going to get to meet Georgette Van Degan, tool Oh, this
is so exciting. What shall I wear? My pink Adolfo, I think, with
the lace. Oh, this is the sweetest thing you're doing, Carol. I
forgive you now. I forgive you for everything."

"Thanks," Carol says a little drily. "Do the pink Adolfo."

"When I first knew Bill Luckman, I was just a frumpy
little old schoolteacher. That was before I landed Frank. He'll
hardly recognize me now, will he? Oh, I'm so excited I can't
stand it! I can hardly wait. Thank goodness Frank is out of town.
Oh, and by the way, that's exciting about the coming-out party
you're giving with Georgette Van Degan for the two girls. Of
course, don't feel you have to invite Frank and little old me to
that."

"Roxy jumped the gun on that, too," Carol says. "Nothing's been
decided. I haven't even discussed it with Noah, or with Anne. And
Noah's mother will have something to say on that, too, if I know
her. It was Georgette's idea, and it's still very pie-in-the-sky
for now."

"Well, don't feel you have to invite Frank and me to that," she
says. "We'll understand."

"Oh, you'll be invited, Beryl. // we have it."

"Goodness, now that you're moving up on the social ladder like
this--with people like Georgette Van Degan, Patsy Collingworth,
and Pookie Satterthwaite and all that crowd--you probably won't
have time for little old best friends like me. Don't worry. I'll
understand."

"Now, Beryl," Carol says carefully, "I'll always have time for
you. . . ."

 Now Anne is home from her job, her cheeks pink from the January
cold outside, wearing jeans, fleece lined boots, a down-filled
parka, a stocking cap, and carrying a backpack. Girls don't dress
for the office the way they used to, Carol thinks, as Anne
unslings the backpack from her shoulders. Right at the moment
Anne certainly doesn't look like a debutante.

"What would you think of having a coming-out party in the
summer?" her mother asks her.

"A coming-out party?"

"Yes. Being a debutante."

"Do girls still do that, Mom?"

"They're coming back. Or so I'm told."

"Gee, Mom, I don't know. But it might be--well, really neat. I
guess."

"It would be with Linda Van Degan."

"Linda Van Degan? Who's she?"

"Don't you remember her from Brearley?"
Anne frowns, wrinkling her nose. "Was she--kind of fat, with big
boobs?"

"She's slimmed down a lot lately," Carol says, hoping this is
true.

"Gee, Mom--like I say, it could be--well, really neat, I
suppose."

"We'll have to see what your father thinks about it. This was
Mrs. Van Degan's idea. It strikes me as a little silly."

"I'd rather it could be with Melody. Where's Melody?"

Her mother hands her Melody's note.

 "I must say Carol Liebling didn't turn handstands at my idea for
us giving a party together," Georgette Van Degan is saying to her
husband that evening as she sits at her dressing table, preparing
her face for the night ahead--another benefit.

"Party? What sort of party?"

"Oh, just a little party," she says vaguely. "Co-hosting a party
with me, you'd think she'd be thrilled."

"Yeah. Nothing too expensive, I hope."

"Just a few friends. But she didn't exactly turn handstands when
I offered to go halvesies on it with her, which you'd think she'd
be thrilled. The bitch. And I picked up the lunch check, too."

"Maybe you oughta suggest something else."

"What! You mean and cancel this? I can't cancel this now! Roxy's
already had it in her column. If I tried to back out now, I'd be
publicly humiliated. It was you got me into this, remember."

"Maybe you oughta suggest something that's more down her aUey
than a party. Some people, parties aren't everything. Think of
something else, Georgette."

"Like what? What could be more glamorous than co hosting a party
with me?"

"Yeah, you're the bee's knees, Georgette. But didn't you say
she's big with the Met? Like on the board or something?"

"The board of trustees! Her? Never! Though she'd probably like to
be, the little climber. She's just some sort of volunteer."

He gestures around him. "Like tell her we're ready to
give this Chinese stuff to the Met. They want it, you know, and I
could use the tax break right now."

"Never! That collection stays with me!"

He looks at her narrowly. "Georgette," he says, "do I need to
remind you that the collection belongs to me?"

"But it was to be for my--"

"You want to get into it with me again, Georgette? Is that what
you want? If you want to get into it with me again, Georgette,
I'm ready."

She bites her lip. "Well, maybe we could offer them part of the
collection," she says.

"Okay. Call her and tell her that."

"What if I told her we're just thinking of making a gift?"

"That's okay, too. String 'em along. Get 'em excited. The more
excited they get, the higher the appraisal they'll put on
whatever I decide to give 'em. Remember, it's whatever / decide.
So call Carol Liebling and tell her I'll be discussing the terms
of the gift with my lawyers in the morning."

"Of the possible gift."

"Okay. Call her."

"Now?"

"Now."

 "Carol, darling, it's Georgette."

"Yes, Georgette . . ."

"I just wanted to let you know, darling, that Truck and I are
thinking of perhaps giving some of our porcelain collection to
the Met. Truck wants to talk to his lawyers about it."

"Georgette, how wonderful!"

"Just thinking of perhaps giving some of it, you understand."

"Of course."

"But meanwhile, Truck is absolutely wild about the idea of us
giving a coming-out party for Linda, and whatsername, your
daughter."

"Anne."

"Right. I've never seen him so mad for an idea as he is about
this one, darling. When I mentioned it, he went absolutely ape\
So we've got to move ahead with our
plans as fast as we can, darling. If there's the slightest glitch
in our plans, Truck will be furious. . . ."

 "Cory?" Carol says. "It's Carol. Guess what? The Van Degans are
now considering giving at least part of their Oriental collection
to the museum. Mr. Van Degan and his lawyers are going to meet to
work out terms for a gift proposal. I should have those terms to
present at our next meeting. What do you think of that?" "Well,
I'll be damned. I'll be Goddamned." "Yes--me, of all people. Did
I get further than Mrs. Astor?"

 Carol never knew Noah's father, who died not long after Carol
and Noah met, but she will never forget the afternoon Noah took
her to meet his mother. The year was 1975, and they had been
secretly married, that morning, at City Hall. That was how much
in love they'd been. That was how young they were. Holding hands,
they ran out into Chambers Street in the rain, shouting, "We did
it! We did it! Hallelujah, and praise the Lord!"

But now, less than an hour later, they were both very nervous.

Carol had been overwhelmed by the vast apartment at 1000 Park
Avenue, two full floors at the top of the building--the black and
white marble entrance foyer, the double staircase curving upward
with its banisters upholstered in red damask (this was before the
apartment was divided horizontally in half to accommodate Cyril),
the pleated rosewood paneling, the portrait, by John Singer
Sargent, of Noah's grandfather, Dr. Marcus Sachs, gazing
austerely from the library wall above the fireplace. On the
entrance floor there was a ballroom, seldom used nowadays, Noah
explained, that was two stories high with a stained glass ceiling
that depicted Orion in pursuit of the Pleiades, with its
chandelier in a dust bag and little gilt chairs lining the walls.
The entrance to the ballroom was flanked by a ladies' cloakroom
and a gentlemen's cloakroom and a smoking room. In the room
called the Music Room, two Steinway concert grand pianos stood
back to back in a bay window with a view of Central Park, while a
golden harp stood in one corner. The lighted picture frames in
this room, Noah told her,
contained original Mozart manuscript scores in the composer's own
hand. In illuminated glass cases were a quartet of stringed
instruments--two violins, a viola, and a cello--signed by
Stradivarius, and the cello was the last one the master had made,
in 1725, known as La Belle Blonde. There was even a room called
the Telephone Room, with nothing in it but a chair, a table, a
pink pad of crested paper for making notes, and a silver bowl
filled with freshly sharpened pencils. And, of course, a
telephone.

And then there was the major domo in his swallowtail coat trimmed
with gold braid--the initial L embroidered at the cuffs--who
addressed Carol's new husband as "Master Noah," and backed out of
the room, saying, "I will notify Madame that you are here." He
was not to be called a butler, Noah whispered, because he
supervised two footmen, along with the housekeeping and kitchen
staff. And there were the little uniformed maids, in white lace
caps and lace-trimmed aprons, who appeared across long vistas of
open doorways, scurrying about unnecessarily wielding feather
dusters against nonexistent cobwebs, and needlessly plumping up
fat cushions in chairs that looked as though no one ever sat in
them. To Carol, the whole apartment looked like a Donald
Oenslager film set. And then, suddenly, Noah's mother appeared in
one of the doorways--an immense woman, or so she seemed to Carol,
dressed in black, with three strands of large Oriental pearls
across her bosom.

"Mom, I want you to meet my wife," Noah said.

"Well!" she said, standing there, looking Carol up and down.

Carol waited for Hannah Liebling to say more, but when she
didn't, Carol stepped toward her and held out her hand. "I'm so
happy to meet you, Mrs. Liebling," Carol said.

Noah's mother's hand brushed against hers. "So," she said,
turning to Noah, "I am being presented with a fait accompli. What
happened--did you get her pregnant?"

Noah's face flushed. "Mom," he said, "when you get to know Carol,
when you see how bright and sweet she is, you're going to love
her every bit as much as I do."

"That," she said, "would be patently impossible, since
you are a man and I am a woman. Unless you take me for a lesbian.
I dislike surprises." "Mom, we're just so very much in love.
We--" She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. She turned to
Carol and, speaking to her for the first time, said, "My son is a
very stubborn young man. He was stubborn as a child, and he
continues to have a very stubborn nature. He is also impetuous,
headstrong, impulsive. If you stay married to him, you will learn
all these things about him. I hope it works out, for your sake,
and if it does, perhaps you can do something to curb this
stubborn, willful nature of his. Do you think you can make him
grow up, young woman? I wish you luck. Dine with me tonight at
eight o'clock. Just the two of us. You and I have matters to
discuss." Then she was gone.

"She likes you," he whispered to her as they left the apartment.

"She does! I got the impression she hated me." "She wants you for
dinner," he said. "That's an important sign."

 Later, Carol would joke that she'd spent her wedding night with
her new husband's mother. Hannah Liebling's dining room walls
were covered with pale blue watered silk, and the long table was
lighted with as many as forty candles. At one end of the room
hung a portrait of Hannah Liebling as a younger woman, much
slenderer and looking almost pretty with wide blue eyes, and at
the other end hung Jules's portrait, older, with a down drooping
mustache, with one hand inserted partway into the pocket of a
double-breasted vest. The two footmen served them, removing
service plates between each course and placing each new course in
front of both women simultaneously while, standing just to the
left of the kitchen door, the majordomo, whose name was Albert,
announced the courses in French. "Ris de veau a la mode de
Calais," he said as the footmen, each carrying a single plate,
made their entrance from the pantry. With each course, Carol
noted, the china pattern changed. "Peche flambee au rhum."

Hannah Liebling did most of the talking, seemingly
heedless of the servants who padded about the room on slippered
feet.

"Did you marry my son for his money?" she asked Carol.

"No," Carol said.

"Good, because he hasn't any," Hannah said. "Someday he will, of
course. Someday he will control this whole company, but that day
will not necessarily come soon. At the moment he is just one of
our salaried employees. He owns no stock in us at all. The two of
you will be living on a fixed income."

"I understand all that," Carol said. "Noah has explained his
situation to me."

"If you didn't marry him for his money, what did you marry him
for?"

"Because we happen to be very much in love!"

"Love," Hannah said. "I was in love once, or thought I was. I
found love to be not a very useful experience, even though the
young man was--very attractive, and even rather famous at the
time. Fortunately for me, there were wiser heads around me who
were able to explain to me the unwisdom of my ways. Why did you
choose to get married in this fashion? By running off and getting
married without telling anyone?"

"Frankly, it was because my mother disapproves of Noah--on
religious grounds."

"I can understand that."

"My mother is a very devout Catholic. In some ways, almost too
devout."

"And your father?"

"My father--disappeared when I was a little girl. I don't really
remember him at all. I was an only child, brought up by my mother
with the help of a parish priest. My mother has always worked."

"I work, too, you know."

"I know that, Mrs. Liebling."

"And I suppose you thought--I suppose you both thought--that /
might disapprove of you."

"That thought crossed our minds," Carol said.

"Of course it did. It was right to cross your minds. So that's
why you ran off and got married like this."

"We decided to get married first. And to face any
disapproval on our parents' part later, when it was too late for
anybody to try to stop us."

"Of course. You decided to present me with a fait accompli. I can
understand that. Years ago, I considered that possibility, too,
though, as I say, wiser heads prevailed. Let me say that I don't
disapprove of you personally. But I do disapprove of mixed
marriages. I have seen too many of them that did not work out. My
own was to have been a mixed marriage. I know now that it would
have not worked out. Of course, I was much younger than you at
the time."

"Noah and I discussed all this. We decided from the beginning
that things like this would never matter to us."

"Because you were so much . . . in love. Tell me, do you think
that with great wealth comes great social position?"

"Frankly, I never thought that much about it," Carol said.

"Then let me tell you that it does not. We are very rich. We have
been called the richest Jewish family in America, and perhaps we
even are. And yet, socially, the Lieblings are riffraff. That is
a fact of life you will have to face now that you are married to
my son. My husband made a fortune, but he made it in booze. Don't
give me that skeptical look--I'm telling you the truthl The
polite term is 'the distilled spirits industry.' My husband
disliked polite terms. He called an undertaker an undertaker, not
a funeral director. He called a garbage man a garbage man, not a
sanitation engineer. His money was made in booze. This is not a
glamorous business, or even a respectable one. It is not like
banking, insurance, or the law. My husband was called, first, a
bootlegger, and then he was called an ex-bootlegger, even though
he never was either of those things. It's been said that my
husband had people killed. Well, plenty of people were killed in
this business, but my husband never killed anyone. It's been
said, too, that my husband had connections with the Mob. Well,
while my husband was manufacturing booze in Canada, Meyer Lansky
and Al Capone were the people you had to deal with if you were
going to supply the American demand for booze on the other side
of Lake Erie, and I personally found both Mr. Lansky and Mr.
Capone to be perfect gentlemen. Mr. Lansky, in particular, is a
gentleman of the old school. He still sends me cards at Christmas
and on my birthday. But all those things are held against the Lie
blings here in New York. As far as New York society is concerned,
the Lieblings don't rank much higher than the garbage man. I hope
you realize all this, and don't think that because you're married
to Noah Liebling you're going to be asked to Mrs. Astor's house
to tea. Because you won't be."

"Noah has explained all this to me," Carol said.

"Money can buy a lot of things, but it can't buy you social
acceptance--not in a city like New York, or anywhere else, for
that matter. In New York, you'll discover that you've married
into a disreputable family, and that's that. And then there's the
fact that we're Jewish. We're secular Jews, as it happens, but in
the outside world nobody knows what that means. We're still Jews.
You'll hear it said that there's no anti-Semitism in this city.
Baloney. It's there, all right. It's just not polite to talk
about it. It's not just all the clubs that won't take in Jews.
There are law firms that don't want Jewish partners. There are
banks that don't want Jewish officers. There are insurance
companies that won't promote Jews to anything higher than a
clerk. There are schools that only want a certain number of
Jewish children. There are apartment houses that don't want
Jewish tenants. This building used to be one of them. When my
husband and I bought this apartment, there was at least one
Christian family here that was particularly unhappy about it.
They made a point of moving out the same day we moved in. Their
moving vans pulled up to the curb just when ours did. It was not
very considerate of them, of course, because it caused a traffic
jam for blocks in all directions, but considerateness was not on
their minds. They had a point to make, and the point was that
they would not tolerate a Jewish family living, even for a
minute, under the same leaky roof. Later, I overheard someone
saying that this building had 'gone Jewish.'

"You'll hear that there's no anti-Semitism here because this city
needs its Jews too much. They say that without the Jews there'd
be no culture in New York because the Jews support the theater,
the opera, the symphony, the ballet, and the museums and so
forth.
This may be true, but it's not necessarily a good sign for the
Jews, and I'll tell you why. You see, the Christian community
regards us as a kind of service class. They'll go to a Jewish
doctor, use a Jewish stockbroker, shop from a Jewish merchant,
hire a Jewish lawyer--particularly if it's for something that
could be ugly and expensive, like a messy divorce. My husband
used to say that the Christians used the Jews to clean up their
messes for them, and he had a point.

"You'll hear it said that Hitler was a fluke, and there could
never be another Holocaust. I don't believe it. Have people
forgotten about the czarist pogroms, the Spanish Inquisition, the
destruction of the First Temple? Throughout history the Jews have
tended to become too important, to become too needed by the
Christian community, too necessary. They've seemed to get too big
for their britches. When that happens, there's resentment,
there's anger, there's jealousy. A reaction sets in, and Jews are
accused of poisoning the wells. Then all you need is someone who
can organize that reaction, and you have another Adolf Hitler.
Sometimes when I hear people say how much New York needs its big
Jewish population, I think--thank God they don't need us even
more! Don't laugh! I am not being funny!

"And what do they need the Lieblings for? They need us for booze.
Christians have a lot of guilt about booze, though Lord knows
they knock back enough of the stuff. They don't like to admit
that they need us to get them plastered at the country club. And
so they blame us for drunk drivers, for the Bowery burns, and for
all the winos on skid row. My husband had a theory. He used to
say that Christians secretly believed that booze ought to be
free, that it was part of their birthright, and that if drink and
drugs were free there'd be no more crime, and poor people would
stay home where they belonged and not go out causing trouble for
the rest of us. Lord knows, at least once a week I get a call
from some Christian charity asking if we'll give them free booze
for some party. When I say no, they accuse us of being greedy.
Then they ask if we'll give them liquor at cost. When I say no to
that, they think it's because we don't want them to find out how
little the real cost is, and how
enormous our markup is. In this business, there's no way to win.

"A few years ago, our company ran an ad at Christmastime, urging
drinkers not to overindulge in booze during the holiday season.
That ad created a big stir, and we've repeated it every year
since. The ad wasn't even my husband's idea, but he got all the
credit for it, and for a while it even began to seem as though
the Lieblings might be beginning to be accepted as respectable
members of the New York business community. For a while. It
didn't last. The stigma of the booze business was too great.
There's just no way to overcome it, and my husband and I gave up
trying.

"Meanwhile, there's a group of fine old GermanJewish families in
this city. At least they think they're a group of fine old
families. But the Lieblings will never be accepted by that crowd.
My family, the Sachses, were a part of that. I'm sure Noah has
told you about my father. He was Dr. Marcus Sachs, a famous
educator part of the service class, of course. He had his own
school, the Sachs Collegiate Institute, and he turned out boys
who were ready for Harvard by age fourteen. Discipline was his
secret. That's Father's portrait over the mantel in the library.
He was widely admired and respected, and he and Mama had dinner
at the White House. But I lost all that status when I married
Jules Liebling. Even my Sachs relatives look down their noses at
me now, because I was forced to marry so far below my station in
life."

"Forced to marry, Mrs. Liebling?"

"Chose to marry, then. Or, let's say that at the time I had no
other choices. I'm sure you've heard it said that the Jews have
always had to live in two communities. But with the Lieblings it
is a little different. Outside, we have the Christian community.
Then we have the Jewish community. Then we have just ourselves,
this small family, isolated from both communities, not a part of
either one. Just us. That's why I care so much about who marries
into this family. As Lieblings, people come to us for money but
nothing else. When Noah takes over the company, as he will
someday, people will come to you for money, but for absolutely
nothing else. You will probably find it a rather lonely feeling,
being Mrs. Noah
Liebling. But if you are going to stay married to Noah Liebling,
you will have to get used to it. I am telling you all this
because these are what I call the Liebling facts of life. I
understand you are from a small town in New Hampshire, where you
certainly cannot have experienced anything like what you will
experience as Mrs. Noah Liebling. In a way I feel sorry for you.
I hope you're up to it. There are other small problems that go
with it. Noah's brother is a pansy. His sister tried to work in
films, and then began marrying unsuitable men. No, being Mrs.
Noah Liebling will be no bed of roses for you. It won't be easy.
That's why I feel it's necessary to warn you of all the problems
you will have to face. I hope you understand."

"Yes," Carol said, her eyes flashing. "But as Mrs. Noah Liebling,
I intend to change all that!"

Hannah Liebling smiled at her for the first time. "Dream on," she
said. "But I must say I admire your spirit, my dear. Shall we
have our coffee in the library? We can talk to Papa's portrait
there."

As they were leaving the dining room, Carol paused in front of
one of the two Boule sideboards. "This is a lovely Ming Yellow
jar," she said, touching it. "Chinese Export porcelain is
something of a hobby of mine."

"My husband's ashes," Hannah said.

But, remembering all this, Carol sometimes asks herself: Have I
really kept my promise? Have I really succeeded in changing
anything? Nearly twenty years later, Georgette Van Degan wants me
to give a party with her. Is that the kind of change I was
talking about? Will that change anything at all?

 When she got home that night, Noah took her in his arms. "I
suppose she gave you her standard Liebling Facts of Life
lecture," he said.

"Yes, but she smiled at me, and she called me 'my dear.' "

"It doesn't matter. We have each other," he said.

 A few months later, they were celebrating Noah's thirty-first
birthday, and were opening his birthday cards, which were mostly
from other people in the company. There were a great many cards.
The company, Carol had
discovered, operated rather like a large college fraternity, with
Hannah Liebling as its fond but firm house mother, a role similar
to the one she had played when Noah's father was alive. There was
a strong feeling of family in the company. People kept track of
one another's birthdays and other special days, and a certain
number of people in the company were actually Noah's relatives.
Jules Liebling had had an older brother, Nathan, who had been
severely crippled by polio as a child. Still, a position had been
found for Nathan, and now Nathan's three sons all worked for
Ingraham in various capacities. And there were other cousins,
some of them so distant their relationship was barely
traceable--young men who had arrived from the old country,
looking for work in "Uncle" Jules's business--and jobs had been
created for most of these people and, in time, for their sons and
in laws. Jules Liebling had been a benevolent despot. He rarely
fired anybody, unless it was for some gross malfeasance, such as
stealing. When it was felt that an employee had reached his
fullest potential, he was not let go. He was just kept on in
whatever capacity he had ended up in and was promoted no further.
Thus the old gentleman who supervised Ingraham's mail room was
some sort of Liebling "cousin." For social life most In graham
employees entertained one another. Thus, Frank and Beryl Stokes
would become Noah and Carol's closest company friends. It was a
comfortable, if somewhat closed and insular society, as Carol's
mother-in-law had warned her. On formal occasions, such as at
meetings with one of the company's worldwide network of
advertising agencies, the company was usually referred to as "the
house" or, even more formally, as "the House of Ingraham." But
among those who worked for Ingraham, the company was nearly
always called--almost lovingly_"the mill."

They sat in the living room of their first apartment, at 25 West
Seventy-second Street, and Carol slit open the envelopes, read
off the salutations on the cards, and then handed them to Noah,
who identified the senders.

"George and Barbara," Carol said.

"That would be George Billings. Shipping Department. Toronto."

Then Carol opened a card and paused, reading the
inscription a second time. "This one's signed, 'All my love,
Bathy.' Who is Bathy? And what a strange name!"

He quickly snatched the card from her and tore it up, tossing the
pieces in a wastebasket. "Never mind," he said.

"Darling--who is Bathy?"

"None of your business," he snapped.

"Who is she? Some old girlfriend of yours, I suppose?"

"I said it's none of your business!"

"I thought we weren't going to have any secrets from each other,"
she said. // you stay married to him, her mother-in-law had said.
"I want to know who Bathy is, Noah."

He still looked very angry. "Her name is Bathsheba Sachs," he
said at last. "She's my mother's younger sister."

"You mean she's--your aunt?"

"She has no business writing to me."

"Why on earth not? Your own aunt?"

"It's a long story," he said. Then he told her about the trouble
with Bathsheba Sachs.
Rumney Depot

 Having grown up in the little town of Rumney Depot, New
Hampshire, the only rich people Carol Liebling-- who was Carol
Dugan then--had known were her friends the C. R. McClarens, who
lived in a big white colonial house on Cobble Hill Road. C. R.
McClaren ran a prosperous dairy business, and owned a prize herd
of Golden Guernsey cattle. The milk cartons on the Du gans'
breakfast table always bore the label of McClaren Farms and
featured a picture of one of Mr. McClaren's most famous cows
which, reportedly, commanded a breeding fee of thirty thousand
dollars. At the Laconia First National Bank, where Carol's mother
worked, and where C. R. McClaren did his banking, Mr. McClaren
always tipped his favorite teller fifty dollars at Christmastime.
Unfortunately, Carol's mother was not that teller.

C. R. McClaren was even nationally famous, or almost, since he
was president of the American Guernsey Cattle Association and, it
was said, United States presidents occasionally asked his advice
on agricultural matters.

Carol remembers one Halloween, when she was in the fifth or sixth
grade, when the rumor circulated to the effect that the McClarens
were handing out twenty-dollar bills to trick-or-treaters. She
and three friends, in their costumes, trekked up to Cobble Hill,
under the big porte cochere, and nervously rang the front
doorbell. A maid appeared and asked them to go around to the back
of the house, to the kitchen door. There the children were handed
hot chocolate in paper cups. Through the kitchen they were able
to glimpse Mr. and Mrs. McClaren at their dinner table.

Because of their prominence, the McClarens' doings
were heavily chronicled in the weekly Laconia News Leader and to
Carol, growing up, these reports made heady reading. When Mr. and
Mrs. McClaren left for Europe for the summer, the newspaper
printed the story, and the McClarens' stately progress from one
European capital to another was also dutifully reported. When
they returned, there was always a headline, welcome home, cynthia
and C. R. mcclaren! When the McClarens and other business leaders
in the state were entertained at the governor's mansion in
Concord, this news made the front page of the News-Leader.

The McClarens had three daughters, Beth, Monique, and Stacy--all
several years older than Carol. Of the three, Monique McClaren
was Carol's favorite. It was something about her name,
alliterative, with all those smart, clicking consonants. Her
second favorite was Stacy, who, though she didn't have Monique's
glamour, sounded peppy and lots of fun. Beth McClaren sounded a
little dull. When, one by one, the McClaren girls went off to
boarding school and college, or became engaged, or were married,
these events were also reported, with weddings again making the
front page, and Carol read about them avidly.

Carol Dugan had never actually met any of the McClaren girls,
though she had occasionally seen them speeding by in their snappy
little sports cars, and her mother had once waited on C. R.
McClaren at the bank, when his regular teller was on vacation.
Still, having read so much about them while she was growing up,
in a little town where not much happened that wasn't McClaren
oriented, she began to feel she knew them well, that they were
her special friends, the beautiful Monique, especially. This
feeling was so strong that, years later in New York, meeting a
man from Laconia at a party, Carol found herself asking him,"And
how is Monique McClaren? Is she still married to Tim Tyler? Are
they still living in Boston?" It was not that she was envious of
the McClarens, exactly. It was just that their lives seemed so
much more interesting than hers.

Her own Roman Catholic upbringing was strict and, as she looks
back at it, also downright strange. Her mother, Anna Dugan, was
proud of her position at the bank because tellers were required
to be well mannered,
well spoken, well dressed, and ladylike. Gum chewing was grounds
for dismissal. Also, no teller was permitted to leave the bank at
night until every penny in her cash drawer, from that day's
transactions, had been accounted for. "My drawer has always
balanced out," her mother used to boast.

Carol's father, she was told, had simply disappeared. Her mother
would tell her nothing more, and Carol has only a vague, blurry
memory of a man in the house, who she supposes must have been
this disappeared father, though she is not even sure whether this
is a true memory or a dream. Once, on television, she had watched
an old movie called The Invisible Man and this is still the way
she imagines her father's disappearance--simply being made
invisible through some mad scientist's alchemy, yet still able to
make his presence felt through an ability to make objects move
mysteriously about the house. A pair of pinking shears left on
her dresser would reappear on the kitchen table. The Invisible
Man had moved them.

At the all-girls' convent school that Carol attended, the nuns
told their charges that if they touched themselves there all
their fingers would fall off. Today, though she knows better,
that thought still manages to frighten her. Carol once asked her
mother where babies came from, and her mother replied, "From the
river." Sometimes, after school, Carol would wander along the
banks of the Pemigewasset River, hoping to find a baby ready to
be scooped out. Finding a baby would certainly relieve the
boredom of her days. She also asked her mother if boys were any
different from girls, and her mother told her, "All children are
alike and identical in the eyes of God."

Anna Dugan spoke of God often, and also of something she called
the Eternal Verities. In the paintings she did in her spare
time--watercolors of towns and landscapes recalled from memory,
wistful renditions of Christ's suffering on the cross, or of the
Blessed Virgin holding the Infant Jesus--she was always trying to
express the Verities: Truth, glittering like a sword in the
shadows; Virtue so unchallenged as to defy the lightest touch of
humanity; Honor, like a flower bursting forth from the rubble of
the world. Anna Dugan rarely spoke
of her own past, though when she did she implied that her family
origins were genteel. Looking back, it sometimes seems to Carol
that her mother existed not only in another century but on
another planet--a planet surrounded by angels. "I am sure the
angels heard that," she said every night as she and her daughter
knelt by the sofa in the living room of the little house that
Anna Dugan owned outright--"free and clear," without a mortgage
(mortgages, even though she worked for a bank, Anna considered an
invention of the devil)--to say their prayers.

Aside from her daughter, her no-gum-chewing job, and her paid-for
house, the only other comfort in Carol's mother's life was Father
Timmons, who called nearly every evening after work. Father
Timmons and Anna Dugan sat on the sofa, evening after evening,
sipping perhaps a little cream sherry that Father Timmons often
brought with him. Cream sherry was not drink, Father Timmons
explained. It was no different from sacramental wine, which was
Our Lord's blood, and therefore holy. And so the two of them
sipped their holy wine, and sometimes got a little giggly while
they discussed the affairs of the human mind and soul. Discussing
the Immaculate Conception, Anna Dugan sometimes became a little
shrill. "I'm having a vision!" she would suddenly cry out.

Anna Dugan always had an urge to do a particular religious
watercolor--her interpretation of the Ecstasy of St. Teresa, she
had had a vision of it--and the two of them often discussed that
project. "I'm still not quite ready for it, Father," she would
say, "though I feel I'm getting closer to it." And closer to it
she always got, though never, finally, close enough. It was her
conscience that bothered her most. After all, who was she to
think she could express on paper what poets and mystics and
princes of the Church had been trying to get straight in their
minds for centuries? And Father Timmons, wisely, did not
encourage her to begin, but always advised her to wait until she
was sure, absolutely sure, that she had her vision as clear as
crystal in her mind's eye before attempting anything. And so,
instead, they would perhaps discuss one of Anna's completed
watercolors, and Father Timmons would comment on the use of color
and
chiaroscuro, or the effect of sunlight she had managed to achieve
across the waves or on a barn roof. "I just dabbed a little
yellow right there--and there it was, just like that!" she would
explain. "A complete accident."

But nothing was ever an accident, no, Father Timmons would
insist, for everything was part of a plan, and the plan Anna's
picture had was merely an expression, on a smaller scale, of a
larger one. And sometimes their talk would turn to Carol, and how
well she was doing at St. Catherine's School, and how much the
sisters liked her, and how bright she was (which was true),
"though a bit too independent-minded for her own good" (also
true, Carol supposes). And perhaps Carol would be brought into
the room then, and the three of them might sit, quietly talking,
and then perhaps Father Timmons would put some of his old 78
r.p.m. records on the old windup Victrola that Anna had bought at
a yard sale, and they would listen to old songs. If cream sherry
had been served, Carol's mother and Father Timmons might dance
the fox-trot. During these times Carol would be able to see, and
believe clearly, that there was indeed, somewhere, a shady nook
by a babbling brook.

And then, at the end of these musical interludes, unless Father
Timmons had brought along his multiband shortwave radio (in which
case they would listen to music playing from such far-off places
as Chicago, Minneapolis, or Atlanta, depending on the reception,
which depended on the weather), they would kneel and thank the
angels and all the saints and the Blessed Virgin for all the
bounties that life bestowed, and for all the heartaches, too,
that teach us lessons. And Anna Dugan would rise to her feet
first with tears glistening in her eyes and, with a wide gesture
of her arms that took in both her loved ones, say to Carol, "You
know that God the Father and Father Timmons are the only real
fathers you'll ever have."

And this was true enough. And as an adult Carol has occasionally
wondered whether Father Timmons might actually have been more of
a father to her than that, more than a foolish and doting old
family friend in a reversed collar who also happened to be the
parish priest. It is a notion, she has decided, that does not
bear much thinking about. In the little town of Rumney
Depot, she heard it said that her mother was "peculiar." She set
her jaw and said nothing when she overheard comments like that.

One incident stands out particularly in Carol's mind from those
growing-up years. It was a summer Saturday, when she was nine or
ten, and her mother had planned a picnic at Stinson Lake. Father
Timmons was to go with them, of course, but at the last minute he
had been called to say Mass at a funeral, and so her mother
announced that the picnic would be called off, even though the
picnic lunch was already packed. In her bitter disappointment
Carol had staged a regular temper tantrum. Though Stinson Lake
was only a dozen miles north of town, it seemed to Carol as
though they never went anywhere, while, from the News-Leader it
was clear that the McClarens were always on the go. She screamed
and sobbed and stamped her feet and pounded her fists on the
kitchen table, and in the end her mother relented, and they drove
off for the lake in her mother's blue Plymouth coupe, though her
mother was not in the best of moods.

Anna Dugan brought her paints and brushes and easel, and set up
her easel on the strip of beach, and began painting the mountains
on the far side of the lake. Carol sprawled on a beach towel in
the sand. Out on the water, a speedboat pulled a girl on water
skis, her blond hair streaming behind her, and Carol imagined
that this might be Monique McClaren. On the beach, some teenage
boys in swimsuits were engaged in a game of volleyball.

At noon her mother opened the picnic basket, and began laying out
their lunch on a blanket on the beach-- tuna salad sandwiches,
deviled eggs, pickles, olives, potato chips, and a chocolate
cake. Carol had been watching the volleyball game. "Mom," she
asked almost idly, "what's that funny bunched-up business boys
have between their legs?" Her mother seized her by the armpits
and jerked her to her feet. "Impure thoughts!" she cried. "You've
been having impure thoughts!" Then she struck her across the face
with a slap so hard it sent Carol flying backward into the picnic
lunch, into the sandwiches, into the deviled eggs and chocolate
cake. "You are an evil, evil little girl!" her mother screamed at
her. "You will
rot in hell for your impure thoughts, and your eyes and tongue
will be eaten by the devil!" The volleyball players paused in
their game to watch this scene, and from nearby on the beach,
other heads turned, though of course no one said or did anything.

Anna Dugan gathered up their ruined lunch, which was now little
more than garbage, into the folds of the blanket. "You'll get no
lunch," she said. "And you'll get no dinner, either. And you'll
never, ever come to this beach again!" Then she marched Carol,
sobbing, back to the car.

Her mother kept those promises.

A year or so later, an older schoolmate explained and described
to Carol what the funny bunched-up business was, and its
function--in perhaps more vivid detail, and in somewhat more
colorful language--than was actually required. And somehow, after
those basic anatomical facts, and their implications, had been
revealed to her, Carol became even more unforgiving of her mother
than before.

 She met Noah Liebling on a blind date when she was twenty and a
senior at the University of New Hampshire. "A nice young
businessman up here on business from New York," her friend had
described him. At first she hadn't been particularly impressed
with him, though she was pleased with his dark good looks and
amused by his habit, when ordering drinks, of always asking for
an Ingraham brand, and in rather too loud a voice. "I work for
Ingraham," he said with a shrug. "Company policy," and he let it
go at that. He did not mention that his family owned the company.
This was in the winter of 1972. The name Liebling meant nothing
to her.

They began exchanging letters, nothing particularly personal,
certainly nothing passionate. Presently, though, he was flying up
to Portsmouth on weekends to see her. He would rent a car, and
they would drive to one of the nearby ski mountains. There he
would rent skis and poles and boots for them both, and give her
skiing lessons. "A New Hampshire girl ought to know how to ski,"
he said.

This was true. The McClaren girls, she remembered from the days
when she had followed their activities so
closely in the News-Leader--though they were all off and married
now, with children of their own--had often been pictured on one
ski slope or another. She mentioned the socially prominent
McClarens. He had never heard of them. She decided they had
nothing in common.

He liked to ski fast. As a beginner she was more cautious. Still,
he slowed down to keep pace with her own slowness, and that was
nice of him.

Meanwhile, she was working for her M.A. in psychology at the
university. She decided that he must have a very good job indeed
to be able to afford all this flying back between Portsmouth and
New York, all these rentals of cars and ski equipment and lift
tickets. But he wasn't show-offy about his money, and that was
nice of him, too.

She noticed he didn't talk much about his job, beyond saying he
was "in sales." And he talked even less about his family. He
hardly ever mentioned his father, and she gathered he was
somewhat intimidated by his mother. "My family is peculiar," he
said once.

"My family is even more peculiar," she said. "I'm sure, when it
comes to peculiar, my family has your family beat."

"We have a lot in common, then," he said with a smile. This
struck her as the opposite of the truth.

Long before meeting him, Carol had decided it was time she lost
her virginity, though she hadn't decided how, or when, or where,
or with whom she was going to do it. All her friends, if they
were to be believed, had already lost theirs. All the lurid
admonitions of the sisters at St. Catherine's School--fingers
falling off if you touched yourself, tongues falling out if you
kissed a boy too deeply--she now knew were nonsense. She had even
encountered two of the sisters--Sister Margaret Mary and Sister
Barnabas--in an embrace that was far from sisterly. But she
decided that if she was going to lose hers, it was not going to
be with Noah Liebling. Their relationship was more of an outdoor,
not an indoor, thing. After kissing him good night outside her
dormitory door, she would step quickly inside, and that would be
that.

It was not until she saw his father's obituary in the
New York Times in 1974 that she realized who Noah Liebling was,
that his sister was the one she'd read about, several years
before, when she eloped with a Brazilian copper heir nearly three
times her age and, later, when she became involved in a messy
marriage to an Italian count. At first Carol couldn't believe
that this could be the same family. And yet there it was, in
black and white, in the nation's newspaper of record. Jules
Liebling was Ingraham's. He'd started it from scratch, a Horatio
Alger success story. Rags to riches. There was Noah's name,
listed as one of Jules Liebling's two sons. She decided not to
telephone him. Let him call her.

But then, a couple of days later, she did call him. She's not
sure why she did, but she did. He'd just come, it seemed, from
his father's funeral, and he told her about encountering his
older brother, whom he hadn't seen in years, outside the funeral
home, and not recognizing him. She'd also read that this banished
brother had been left, in trust, a sizable inheritance, while
Noah, who had worked for the company, had been left nothing at
all. All this sounded to Carol too strange and sad, and she
decided immediately that she'd never see him again, that she
wanted nothing to do with this strange, sad family.

But then he said, "Look, I could use a little company right now.
Why don't you hop on a plane? Fly down here. We'll have dinner."

"All right," she said.

"I'll meet your plane," he said.

And so he took her out to dinner. To this day, she can't really
remember where they went, but during dinner he said to her,
"Carol, I don't quite know how to say this, but I like you very
much."

"And I you," she said.

"And I you," he repeated with a faint smile on his lips. "And I
you," and their eyes met, and locked, and suddenly the air
between them was charged, electric, and Carol felt a sudden
ringing in her ears, a tightness in her throat, a yawning feeling
in the pit of her stomach, and she knew that what was going to
happen was going to happen, and that he knew it, too, and that
there was nothing either of them could do to stop it from
happening, try as they might. For the rest of the meal, toying
with their food, they said little and ate almost nothing,
preparing for the inevitable. The time had come, the time was
right, the time was then. The taxi ride from the restaurant to
his handsome bachelor apartment on Seventy-second Street seemed
to take an eternity.

Later, when it was over--and it was sweeter, gentler, and far
less violent and painful than anything her friends had ever
described to her--he lifted himself on one elbow in the bed and
studied her face. "I love the way you look," he said. "Your looks
don't match."

"Don't match?"

"Your hair--what color do you call it?"

"Sort of a chestnut color, I guess."

"And your eyes?"

"Hazel. I've always hated the color of my eyes."

"More like amber. But you see? Chestnut and amber--that's an
unusual combination. They don't match." He touched the tip of her
nose. "And look--a freckle. And here's another."

"I've had those since I was a kid and got sunburned at the lake."
She giggled. "You've kissed all my makeup off."

"Dark-haired girls don't usually freckle. That's what I love
about your looks. Nothing really matches, but it all comes
together beautifully,"

"Oh, I'm not beautiful--not beautiful like my friend Monique
McClaren."

"That's another thing I like about your looks. You don't know
you're beautiful, do you?"

"No!"

"You know who you look a little like? A little like Audrey
Hepburn before she started playing princesses."

"Thank goodness it's dark in here!"

"Audrey Hepburn, when she still had a little baby fat." He
touched her again. "Here. And here. Don't ever change your looks,
Carol."

"I'm afraid it's too late to try."

"Most of the girls I've known have been city girls. You're not
like one of them. My mother would probably like me to marry some
blond debutante type. Or one of our own skinny, lacquered Jewish
princesses, with no hips and no rear ends. But you--you
look--well, just natural. Just like yourself. Just like Carol
Dugan ought to look."
"Thank you, Noah . . ."

"I've known some bike girls, too. Thank God you're not like one
of them, either. Not tough."

"Not tough enough, maybe."

"Maybe, maybe not. I think a man could hurt you, Carol. But I
promise I'll never hurt you. But look--I've made you cry." He
touched her eyelids with the tip of his tongue. "I love the taste
of your tears," he said.

She sobbed and flung her arms around him again. "Oh, I really am
your girl now, aren't I, Noah?" she said. "I really am your girl.
Oh, Noah, I love you so!"

He looked deep into her eyes in the half-darkened room, and said,
"And I you."

 Later, she wondered if it was callous of them to have made love
so soon--and so often--after his father's death. And yet, in some
way, his father's death seemed to have released him, and in
releasing him, it had managed to release her as well. She decided
she'd been in love with him all along.

She decided she was going to make him marry her. As it turned
out, that wasn't necessary.

 "Do you find solace in the Catholic Church?" he asked her as
they walked west on Fifty-ninth Street the next afternoon after
seeing The Godfather, with Mar Ion Brando.

"Solace? Funny word. But no."

"Did you ever?"

"No, I don't think so. That's why I'm a lapsed Catholic. I
haven't been to mass in nearly ten years."

"I'm not a very good Jew, either. But you still are a Catholic,
aren't you? I mean technically. Officially. Baptised, and all
that."

"Well, I guess so," she said with a shrug. "But it doesn't mean
anything to me anymore. My mother, of course, is another story.
One reason I'm studying psychology is to try to understand my
mother."

"That's the only thing," he said.

"What only thing?"

"The only thing to stop us from getting married."

"It wouldn't stop me!" Carol said.
They had reached the park. "Sit down a minute," he said,
gesturing to a bench.

They sat, and he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a
small blue box from Tiffany. "Open it," he said.

She opened it, and inside was a square-cut diamond solitaire, two
and a half carats in weight.

"I'm putting my money where my mouth is," he said. "I'm asking
you to marry me."

"Oh, Noah!" she gasped. He slipped it on her finger. "How did you
know my ring size?"

"Last night, when you were asleep, I looped a piece of string
around your finger."

She burst into tears. "Oh, Noah," she said, "it's just the most
beautiful ring! It's just the most beautiful ring I've ever
seen!"

"Better not wear it in front of your mother until you've
explained a few things to her," he said.

But she decided to ignore that piece of advice. The next day she
flew back to Portsmouth and drove directly to Rumney Depot, with
his ring on her finger.

Her mother noticed it immediately. "Where did you get that?" she
demanded.

"It's my engagement ring," she said. "I'm engaged to be married."

Her mother looked at her narrowly. "To whomT'

"His name is Noah Liebling."

"Liebling? What kind of a name is that--Liebling?"

"It's a Jewish name, Mama."

Of course, Father Timmons was immediately summoned. "You cannot
marry a Jew in my parish church," he told her. "I cannot say a
nuptial mass for you. I flatly refuse to solemnize this union."

"I haven't asked you to, Father," she said. "I don't want you."

"But Father Timmons is our family priest," her mother wailed. "If
my daughter marries, Father Timmons must perform the mass!"

"Don't worry. We'll find someone. Someone with some sense."

"I have great influence with the bishop. This union will not be
recognized in the eyes of God. In the eyes of God you will be
living in mortal sin. In the eyes of
God you will have renounced your faith. As an apostate you will
be excommunicated. You will never be able to go to Confession.
You will not be permitted to receive Holy Communion. You will be
denied the Blessed Sacraments. When you die, your soul will be
doomed to wander in eternal purgatory, Sheol, Gehenna, Tophet,
the abode of the damned. Are you prepared to face all this, my
child, in order to marry some--Jew?" As he spoke, he fingered his
beads. "Have you had impure thoughts about this Jew?" he asked
her. "Have you--sinned with the Jew? If you wish, I will hear
your confession now."

"I have nothing to confess," she said. "Your threats mean
nothing."

"Abaddon, Naraka, jahannan, avichi," he intoned, reciting the
circles of damnation.

"All my life I've slaved for you," her mother sobbed. "Slaved,
night and day, slaved like a dog to raise you in a Christian
home, to teach you the eternal verities, to guide you in the
paths of righteousness in His name's sake . . . slaved, and
this--this is the thanks I get!"

"Amen," said Father Timmons.

"A dirty Jew!"

"Don't use that expression, Mother!"

"Never to be reunited with my only child at the gates of Heaven!"

"Let us pray," Father Timmons said. "Let us pray for the immortal
soul of this lost child. Heavenly Father ..."

"A Jew--who killed our Christ!"

"That's not true! Nowhere in the Bible does it say that the Jews
killed Christ. Christ was killed by the Roman soldiers."

"My child, you are speaking of Canon Law. Canon Law!"

"In their secret rituals they slaughter little children and drink
their blood!"

"That's another stupid lie. Nothing you've said is true!"

"In the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion it says--"

"That's a proven fake. Noah and I have discussed all this.
Judaism is a religion just like ours, except the Jews don't
accept the divinity of Christ, who was a Jew himself. The Jews
simply believe that the true Messiah is still to come."

"You see? What did I just tell you? The Jew has poisoned her
soul!"

"Noah also says that when someone has more than ten million
dollars, he's no longer considered Jewish. He's merely rich."

Her mother looked up from her sodden handkerchief. "He has ten
million dollars?" she said.

"Not him perhaps, but his family does. Maybe even more. Someday
Noah is going to be very rich."

There was a short silence.

"Is that a real diamond?" her mother asked.

"Of course it is. From Tiffany."

"He could always convert, Anna," Father Timmons suggested
helpfully. "I could give him his instructions. We'd be bringing
another soul into our Mother Church."

"He isn't going to convert," Carol said. "He's proud of what he
is."

"And if Carol were to agree to raise any children in the Roman
faith, then perhaps the bishop might--"

"I won't agree to that, either," Carol said.

"Of course they're all rich," her mother said. "All the Jews are
rich. They have an international conspiracy to control--"

Carol rose to her feet. "I'm not going to listen to any more of
this garbage," she said. "I'm going to marry Noah Liebling."

"She has forsaken God for Mammon," Father Timmons said.

"Ten million dollars," her mother said. "How did they get all
this money? What kind of business is his family in, anyway?"

"They own distilleries," Carol said.

"Liquor! The devil's brew! I might have known it. Typical,
typical. The Jews are always in the liquor business. They do it
to try to befuddle the minds of honest Christians, so they can
take over the world--"

"Has he tried to urge liquor on you, child?" Father Timmons asked
her. "Has he tried to instill in you a taste for spirits?"

"Slaved ... all my life . . . like a dog . . . slaved . . . for a
Christ killer . . ."
Carol reached for her car keys. "I'm going now," she said. "Good
night."

"My child, you are flying in the face of Holy Writ!"

"To hell with Holy Writ," she said.

"Carol!" her mother cried. "You know the Blessed Virgin weeps
when she hears you talk like that!"

"Screw the Blessed Virgin," Carol said, and turned on her heel
and walked out of the room, and out of the house. Behind her she
heard Father Timmons chanting in Latin some arcane ritual of
exorcism, and her mother sobbing, "It's no use, no use. . . . The
Jewish devil has got her soul. . . ."

She half expected a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder to
halt her as she ran down the drive to her car, but there was
none. She drove back to New York that night. It was nearly
midnight when she got to Noah's apartment. There were blood tests
to be taken, and there was a license to obtain. They were married
on a Friday morning in City Hall, and then went uptown to meet
Noah's mother in the scene you already know about.

Somehow the Laconia News-Leader got word of the marriage. rumney
depot deb weds liquor heir, the front-page headline read.

Remembering this, Carol often smiles, wondering what the McClaren
girls, if they still got the paper, made of that one: "Rumney
Depot Deb."
The Mill

 Now, in his hotel suite in Atlantic City, Noah Liebling has
unpacked his suitcase--discovering in the process that he must
have left the swimming trunks behind, after passing, as he came
through the lobby, the hotel's indoor pool looking sparkling,
inviting, and mercifully free of small children--and now he has
set up the carousel of color slides and is going over, once
again, his notes for Friday afternoon's presentation. Why, as he
does this, does he experience a sudden sinking feeling, a feeling
of dread and apprehension? It is just that so much time and money
have already gone into this, and so much is at stake? What if the
product fails to take off, as they say in the business? What if
it fails to fly?

It all began--and has been proceeding with some secrecy ever
since--nearly two years ago, when Noah was in London. A
distributor told him of a private distiller in the tiny Scottish
village of Ballachulish who was producing a single-malt whiskey
of remarkable lightness and color and "nose," and Noah had made
the trip north to Ballachulish to investigate.

He had found the owner of the distillery, Mr. Angus Kelso, to be
a jolly, rosy-cheeked, redheaded Scot who insisted that the best
use of his whiskey was to pour it over pancakes for breakfast. It
was equally delicious, he added, over mashed potatoes and haggis
at dinnertime, and over ice cream for dessert. Indeed, his
whiskey was the pale amber color of the finest maple syrup, and
its flavor was equally light and buoyant, with just a touch of
sweetness and none of the heavy, peaty taste of many single
malts. "The ladies love it," Mr. Kelso said with a wink. "It
doesn't have the mannish airs of a lot of the scotches around
here." Though American tastes preferred an 86-proof scotch, Mr.
Kelso bottled some of his
stock at a heady 105 proof. "That makes the ladies sit up and
take notice!" he said.

His whiskey, he explained, was aged a full fifteen years in
charcoal-charred oak barrels, but the secret of his whiskey was
neither in the aging nor in the malt. "The secret is me water,"
he said. His hillside farm was situated above deep limestone
caverns filled with springwa ter, but the limestone was only part
of it. He pointed at the tall stands of Scotch pine that lined
his hillsides and descended into the valley below. Rainwater
entering the limestone caves was filtered through a thick layer
of pine needles that covered the valley floor. That unusual
combination, the limestone caves and the filtering blanket of
needles above them, gave his water its extraordinary quality.
"Sweetest water you'll ever taste on God's green earth," he said,
and offered Noah a glass. Noah had to agree.

Mr. Kelso's caverns contained, he estimated, roughly two million
cubic feet of this water, constantly replenished by natural
springs and Scottish rainfall. "And in this part of the country
it rains every day but Sunday," he said, "which is so I can play
the golf to the sounds of church bells ringin'."

And suddenly Noah had an idea. What if he could arrange to market
both Mr. Kelso's whiskey and his water? A lot of American
drinkers called for "Seven and Seven." Could the marketplace be
persuaded, instead of Scotch and water, to call for "Kelso and
Kelso"--or whatever name might finally be given to the kindred
labels? It was an exceedingly long shot. But with the proper
marketing and promotion, it might be possible to pull it
off--giving Ingraham's a new prestige whiskey as well as a new
designer-label bottled water.

Mr. Kelso made a number of extravagant claims about the
restorative powers of his whiskey--claims which could never be
made in advertising, to be sure, but which were interesting
nonetheless. He had mixed small quantities of his whiskey into
the feed for his herd of Guernsey cattle, and the butterfat
content of his dairy's milk had increased thirty percent. He had
added whiskey, mixed with clover honey, to the mash he fed his
chickens, and his hens had doubled their laying capacity. Women
who had been barren for years would, under a
regimen of Kelso's whiskey, soon find themselves pregnant, no
matter what their age. Men who suffered from impotence became as
randy as young stallions. A neighbor who had been bedridden with
terminal cancer was prescribed a tot of Kelso's whiskey once an
hour, and now the man was up and about, doing his chores and
feeling fine. Mr. Kelso introduced Noah to this fellow, who did
indeed seem to be the picture of health, and Noah listened to the
man's stirring testimony. But it was the taste and color of
Kelso's whiskey--and the tingle of his water--that excited Noah
the most.

It was a gamble on two fronts, of course. But Noah worked out a
licensing arrangement with Angus Kelso whereby Ingraham would be
given exclusive distribution rights to his whiskey in the United
States, Canada, and Japan, the three largest scotch-drinking
markets outside the British Isles. Why the Japanese were so fond
of scotch was always something of a mystery. The Japanese even
produced a "scotch" of their own, though it could not be labeled
or sold as such outside their own country, except as
"scotch-type" whiskey. Noah obtained rights to Kelso's water for
the United States and Canada only since, for reasons equally
mysterious, the Japanese had never been interested in bottled
water.

Angus Kelso's terms were on the stiff side--ten percent of
wholesale--but Noah agreed to them. And he accomplished all this
in the face of considerable skepticism from his mother. Hannah
worried that Kelso's whiskey, or whatever they ended up calling
it, would undermine sales of their flagship label, Ingraham's
V.S.O.P. But Noah argued that Ballachulish-15, the working name
he had given to the whiskey, was aged for a full fifteen years,
whereas V.S.O.P. was aged for only twelve. The new brand would be
higher priced and positioned in a more upscale market. Also,
V.S.O.P. sales had been flat for the past several years.
Demographic studies showed that the public conception of V.S.O.P.
was of an "old fashioned" scotch; it was not appealing to the
yuppie crowd of baby boomers.

Noah also pointed out the recent trend toward "lite" beers and
wines and soft drinks, and "light" and "ultralight" cigarettes.
Whatever advertising program was worked out for Ballachulish-15,
Noah felt strongly that
this scotch's special lightness should be its theme. Finally, he
reminded his mother that his father had always encouraged
competition between various Ingraham brands. Competition made the
brand managers, division heads, and even the salesmen work harder
to keep their labels performing strongly in the marketplace. It
was even possible that Ballachulish-15 could spur the market
performance of V.S.O.P., and wouldn't that be a welcome
development?

His mother was also dubious about the Ballachulish bottled-water
tie-in. "The seven-and-seven thing was just a fluke," she said.
"Just a lucky coincidence. The makers of Seven Crown and Seven-Up
had no connection with each other, and nothing in common except
the number seven."

"Let's think of this as a planned coincidence," he said. And so,
reluctantly, Hannah Liebling gave Noah the go ahead on his
two-pronged project. And now B-Day, as they had begun to call it,
was at hand, and Noah had begun to feel that his future in the
company depended on the success of this presentation and how the
men responded to it. After all, other successes of the company
had been brought about largely by his father. This one was his
own. His mother even said so. "This will be your baby, Noah," she
said, and it was impossible not to detect a note of warning in
her voice.

 "Doesn't your mother ever appear at sales conferences?" Frank
Stokes asked him once.

"She tried it once," Noah said. "But you may have noticed that my
mother doesn't exactly have a slap-youonthe-back, hail-fellow
personality. I think all the salesmen's figures went down the
following year. She's a bit pigheaded, but I guess she figured
there might be some connection."

 And of course, after the presentation, a great deal more would
remain to be done. A final name, a perfect name, would have to be
chosen for the brand, and Noah had decided that there would be a
contest for the name among all Ingraham employees and their
agencies--a contest with a fat cash prize. That meant that
thousands of names would be submitted for consideration. Then
labels had to be designed, along with distinctive bottle shapes,
and advertising and marketing plans, and a special media
strategy, all had to be devised. Ballachulish water could be
advertised in media--television, radio, the women's
magazines--that would not accept liquor advertising, and that
meant that, with luck, the two prongs of the project would
promote each other. It would be at least a year, and millions of
dollars would have been spent, before Angus Kelso's whiskey
appeared on the shelves of liquor stores, or before his water
found its way to supermarkets.

 Noah's presentation to the sales force, he decided, would begin
almost like a travelogue, with colored slides showing Angus
Kelso's farm, his fat cattle and plump hens, then his distillery,
then the entrance to the limestone caves, then the pine-clad
hills with their blanket of pine needles, then the endearing Mr.
Kelso himself, and--for a touch of humor--some of his wilder
claims, that it restored fecundity in women and virility in men,
and was the cure for everything from the common cold to cancer.
He had considered putting all this onto a video, but decided
against it. A slide show was more old-fashioned, more intimate,
more in keeping with the rustic subject matter. And Noah felt
that he could sell his ideas more effectively standing on his
feet in front of them than as a disembodied offscreen voice.

Then there would be a question period. During this Noah would
explain how the promotions for Mr. Kelso's two products could
ride piggyback on each other.

The program would conclude with a blind taste test of the new
products in comparison to other labels in a similar class. This,
he hoped, would turn into a celebration party designed to send
the salesmen home in a happy, enthusiastic selling mood, and
pleasantly drunk. Once you had the salesmen on your side, that
was half the battle.

 Now, in his hotel suite, the telephone rings, and Noah reaches
for it. "Mr. Liebling? I have Mrs. Hannah Lie bling for you," her
secretary says.

"Thank you, Jonesy."
"Noah," his mother's voice says, "what's all this nonsense about
a party?"

"The cocktail party doesn't start till six," he says. "And I've
got your President's Message to read. And while I've got you on
the phone, do you think we could punch up the opening line a
little? 'In our more than two-hundred-year history' sounds a
little flat. What about, 'As we plunge fearlessly into our third
century'? Or 'As we face the challenges of our third century'? Or
something like that?"

"What in blazes are you talking about?"

"Your President's Message, Mom."

"No, no, no, no. That's fine. I'm not talking about that party.
I'm talking about this party--this party you and Carol are
planning to give for Anne."

"A party for Anne? You mean my daughter, Anne?"

"Of course! Is there any other Anne? It was in this morning's
paper. Some sort of coming-out party, in June."

"I don't know anything about that, Mom."

"We've never had coming-out parties in this family. And the paper
says Carol is giving it with that Van Degan woman, of all
people!"

"Georgette Van Degan? What's wrong with her?"

"Wrong1? Don't you remember? When your father and I bought One
thousand Park, the Van Degans made it a point to move out the
same day we moved in. They had their moving vans pull up at the
same time ours did. Everybody in New York was talking about it."

"Mom, I wasn't even born when you bought the apartment. And I
think it was the present Truck Van Degan's father who did that.
He's been dead for a number of years."

"It doesn't matter. It's the same family of Jew baiters. People
will think I've lost my marbles to have my family involved in
anything that has to do with those Van Degans. They're in the
glass business. Your father refused to buy bottles from Van Degan
Glass as a result of the way they treated us."

"But, Mom, I really don't know anything about this," he says.
"Why don't you call Carol and ask her?"

"No. I want you to ask Carol what's going on. After all, you're
her husband."
"All right. As soon as this thing in Atlantic City is over,
I'll--"

"No! I want you to find out now. I've had several calls about it
already. Several people think it's pretty funny, us and the Van
Degans. They're laughing at us, Noah. I want to know what's going
on before I read anything more about this party in the papers."

"Okay, Mom, okay."

"And this story also says that we've agreed to supply all the
liquor for this--this coming-out party for Anne and the Van Degan
girl. Who agreed? Did you agree?"

"No. I told you, Mom, this is the first I've heard about it.
Carol hasn't mentioned any party to me."

"You know we've always had a policy never to supply free liquor
to parties. Every week I get asked to supply free liquor for some
benefit or other. The Heart Ball, the Public Library dinners,
the--"

"Well, a party for Anne isn't quite the same as a charity
benefit, is it? But never mind, I'll--"

"Bathy even called me about it. She thinks it's a perfectly
terrible idea in terms of our public relations. Not only will it
bring back all that old Van Degan business from years ago. But in
today's economy she thinks it'll look terrible for us to be
throwing a big, expensive dinner dance for a couple of teenage
girls."

"Please don't quote Bathy's opinions to me, Mother," he says.

"Well, Bathy happens to be smart, and if that's what Bathy
thinks, other people will think the same."

"Okay, okay," he says. "I'll see what I can find out from Carol."

"Good. Call me back as soon as you've found out. I want to see
this thing nipped in the bud, whatever it is."

"Meanwhile, you might wish me luck with Friday's presentation."

"Friday? What's that?"

"Friday is BDay--remember?"

"Oh, that. Well, it's a little too late for luck on that one,
isn't it? You're already in so deep. It's too late to turn back
on that one. You're either going to sink or swim on that one.
Fish or cut bait."

"Thanks, Mom," he says. "Thanks for those fine, stirring words of
encouragement."
"Now, don't be sarcastic. But this is your baby, after all," she
says.

He replaces the phone in its cradle. Now it is time to change for
the kickoff cocktail party, and go downstairs to the ballroom,
and smile, and shake hands, and hug, and slap backs, and make
nice to all the hundreds of people he is supposed to know on a
first-name basis. Oh, thank God, thank God for name tags, he
thinks. He would like to leave the guy who invented name tags
something in his will. Noah has long ago mastered the art of
looking straight into a man's eyes and at his name tag at the
same time.

 "Good speech," Frank Stokes is saying to him now as they leave
the ballroom and the cocktail party, and walk across the lobby
toward the elevators. Frank is a little tight, but that, after
all, is the point of a kickoff cocktail party, before everyone
settles down to the more serious business of the rest of the
week. "I really liked that part about facing the challenges of
our third century . . . and the country approaching its third
millennium. That was really neat. I didn't know your mother
was--you know, that articulate."

Noah gives him a wink. "Sometimes I give her a bit of editing,"
he says.

"And at the end, when you said something like, 'We need every one
of you who work here at the mill.' That was really neat. Calling
it the mill. That's what got the big hand. I mean, you know, like
everybody calls it the mill. But some people--I mean a lot of
people--would be a little nervous about calling it the mill in
front of your face, and nobody would dare call it the mill in
front of her. But to hear you call it that--or I mean to hear her
call it that--that was a really neat touch, Noah. They loved
that!"

"Editing again," he says.

"The mill. As in treadmill. Or gin mill. Is it tough working for
your mother, Noah? No, I shouldn't have asked that. That's none
of my business. Forget I asked that."

"It has its ups and downs," he said. "I'm used to it. I know how
to handle her."

"Shouldn't have asked that. None of my business."
"It's a question a lot of people ask."

"So. Why don't we change into some more comfortable clothes, meet
for a drink at the bar, and then try our luck at the tables?"

"Sounds good to me," Noah says.

They step into the elevator, and Frank punches the buttons for
their respective floors.

"Hey!" Frank says suddenly as the elevator door begins to close.
"Isn't that--?"

"Isn't that what!" Noah asks sharply. For he, too, has seen the
girl.

"That girl sitting in the lobby. With a suitcase. Isn't she that
friend of Anne's from school? That Melody?"

"Nonsense*. Don't be ridiculous. What would she be doing here?"

"But, golly, I could have sworn--"

"Well, it wasn't her. Looked a little like her maybe. But it
wasn't her."

There is a little silence as the elevator rises.

At the sixth floor the elevator stops, the door opens, and a
whole flock of giggling young women push into the elevator,
perhaps a dozen of them, most of them in fanny-hugging
mini-skirts, lacy semi-see-through tops, and high-heeled platform
shoes. They are clearly party girls, lured here by the word of
Ingraham's sales conference. They push the button for the
twenty-first floor, where the company's hospitality suite is
located. They press their backsides a little too closely against
the two men; Noah and Frank are pressed against the rear of the
car, and the elevator is overwhelmed by the complicated
commingling of musky perfumes and chewing gum.

"So," Frank says to Noah. "Meet you in the bar in half an hour?"

"Who--me?" squeals one of the girls.

"No, I don't think so, Frank," Noah says. "I've got to work on
Friday's presentation."

"All work and no play--"

"All work and no play!" squeals the same girl, and the others all
laugh noisily.

"And I've also got a headache, Frank. I've changed my mind."

"I've got a friend who can take care of head!" says another girl,
and there is more shrill and noisy laughter.
"Okay . . . okay," Frank says. "Don't bite my head off, buddy."

"Oooh . . . oooh," say the girls. "Somebody's just bit his head
off!" And there are great shrieks of laughter at this.

Noah says nothing, merely stares at the elevator door over the
heads of the laughing girls, a smooth mirror of brushed chrome.
In the door the reflection of his face is pale, opaque, moonlike.

"Whatever it is, something's sure got you in a grouchy mood,"
Frank mutters. "That's for sure."

"I've got a goddamned important presentation to make on Friday,
in case you don't remember!"

"Okay . . . okay," says Frank.

"I've got a goddamned important presentation to make on Friday,
in case you don't remember!" mimics the girl standing just in
front of Noah in a piping voice, wiggling her butt against him.
There is more loud laughter.

"Jesus!" Noah says as the elevator comes to a stop on seventeen.
"Ladies, this is my floor. Will you let me get off, please?"

"Oooh . . . oooh ... He needs to get it offl"

 "You have a roommate," she says. "I'm sorry. I tried to get a
room, but your convention has taken over the entire hotel."

"For Christ's sake, what the hell are you doing here, Melody?"

"I can sleep there--on your sofa."

"You're goddamned the hell not sleeping here anywhere! What the
hell do you think you're doing here, anyway? How the hell did you
get here?"

"On--a bus."

"Well, you're damn well getting on the next bus back to New York.
You're not staying here with me."

"Please don't be angry with me, Noah," she says.

"Angryl This is just the goddamned most inconsiderate thing--"

"I know it is." Her chin trembles, but she is not crying. She
reaches for her suitcase. "Well, I'm sure I can find a place to
stay. I had at least six propositions made to me in the lobby
while I was waiting for you to come
out. Somebody in this hotel will take me in for a few nights,
don't worry about that."

"Now, wait a minute," he says. "Tell me what happened. Tell me
what made you do this."

"If I had a home I could go to, I'd have gone there," she says.
"But I can't go to Japan! He's started stalking me, Noah--Bill
Luckman. After you left, I looked out the window. He was standing
there, in the street. He's got the building staked out, Noah. He
looked up at me, and said--I could read his lips--'I'm watching
you.' And then he--then he gave me the finger, and he looked up
at me with--with a look of purest hatred. I can't describe it. He
frightens me, Noah."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"You told me not to."

"Or the building's security?"

"They can't do anything about someone who's outside on the
street, can they? Anyway, I was too shocked-- too terrified. I
felt trapped. I just had to get out of there. I decided to sneak
out of the building through the service entrance in the basement,
so he wouldn't see me leave. I thought--I thought if I could just
stay here with you, just for a day or two, then maybe he'd
realize I'd gone away. Then I could come back and be able to go
out on the street again, to look for a job, without thinking that
he's following me everywhere I go. I guess it was a crazy thing
to do, to come here, but I just couldn't think of any other place
to go. I was desperate, Noah."

"What did you tell Carol?"

"I left her a note. I said I'd gotten a job with a theater
company in New Haven. I hated to lie, but I just couldn't think
of anything else to say!"

"Sit down, Mellie," he says, and she sits down in one of the pair
of armchairs that flank the sofa.

"If you let me stay here, Noah, just for a day or so, no one will
ever know."

"That's not the point," he says. "The point is that this is a
five-day business conference. I've got meetings to go to every
day. And when I'm not in meetings, I'm expected to be going
around here socializing. Right now, right this very God-given
moment, Mellie, I should be down at the bar, or in the casino, or
upstairs in the hospitality suite, shaking hands, talking it up
with these
people who work for me, telling them what a great job they're
doing, smiling, being nice to all these--these stupid sons of
bitches who are in the bar down there getting drunk and trying to
pick up girls in the lobby! I just don't have time to look after
you, Mellie, or entertain you. I just can't do that while I'm
here."

"I don't need to be looked after! I don't need to be entertained!
I'll stay out of your way, I promise you!"

"But I'll need to do some entertaining in this suite. I'll need
to have people in. I'll--"

"If you have people in, I'll go somewhere else. I'll go to the
pool. There's a movie theater. I'll go to the movies."

"But--"

"You think I'll leave traces of myself around? My shoes under the
chair? My panty hose drying in the bathroom? I was brought up in
Japan, Noah. I'm a very tidy girl. If I'm not here, there'll be
no signs of me, I promise you--not even lipstick on your
facecloths. I'd never embarrass you, Noah."

"Well," he says, hesitating. "Well, perhaps. Perhaps just for
tonight. You can have the bedroom. I'll take the sofa--"

"No! I want it to be the other way around. I'm the uninvited
guest."

"But just for tonight. Tomorrow we'll work out something else."

"Oh, thank you, Noah!" She jumps from her chair and kisses him on
the lips, and there it is again, that scent of her. "Thank you,
dear Noah." Just then the telephone rings, and Noah goes to the
desk to answer it.

"Hello, darling," Carol says. "I just called to see how things
were going. Is Atlantic City pretty awful?"

"Pretty bad. This hotel is full of call girls."

"Well, you just keep your hands off them," she says.

"Oh, I will. You can count on that."

"Are you alone, darling? Or is someone with you? Somehow you
sound as though someone's with you."

"Frank Stokes just dropped by for a drink."

"Oh, then I won't keep you. Beryl's coming by for cocktails
Wednesday night. Some people she wants to meet. Oh, and Melody's
found a job, with a play that's trying out in New Haven."
"I know."

"You know? How did you know that?"

"No, I mean--yes, she told me about that before I left this
afternoon. She was pretty excited about it."

"Yes. Well, darling, I just want to wish you all kinds of success
on Friday. Notice I didn't say luck. I said success. Ballachulish
is going to be a big hit, I know it is."

"Keep your fingers crossed."

"I will, darling. I love you, darling."

"Love you, too."

"Bye."

He replaces the receiver in its cradle, realizing that he has
forgotten to ask her about the party for Anne and the Van Degan
girl.

"You lied for me," Melody says. "You told two lies for me. They
were white lies, but they were nice lies. Thank you for lying for
me, Noah."

He looks at her face, upturned in the lamplight. He clears his
throat. "Have you had any dinner?"

"No."

"Hungry? Want me to have something sent up?"

"Nothing much. Something simple."

"Chicken sandwiches?"

"Perfect."

"There's some champagne in the fridge. Would you like a glass of
champagne?"

"Yes," she says.

 But later, in the dark bedroom of the suite, Noah cannot sleep,
and his thoughts race uncontrollably. The drapes at the windows
do not close properly, and from some invisible neon advertisement
outside, lights flash white, then yellow, then blue, then white
again. The red lighted numerals of the digital clock at his
bedside mark the tune, and all the primary colors assail him in
this mysterious, pulsating room where nothing will come to rest.
For the better part of an hour he lies there, trying to keep his
body still, trying to force his thoughts to separate themselves
from himself. And just as he feels he is finally succeeding, and
drifting off to a place where he feels his thoughts will float
away from him, no longer be a part of him, but be rejoined with
some vaster universe beyond this room, he is roused to
consciousness by the sound of a door opening, and he raises
himself on one elbow. There is a noiseless whisper of fabric
moving, and the door closes again. Again there is a whisper of
fabric, as though dropping to the floor, his bed sighs softly as
it gives to the weight of a second person, and there is that
fresh, clean scent of her hair.

"Hush," he hears her say. "Don't turn on the light. Don't say a
word. I just want to lie down beside you for a while. I just want
to make sure of something. I want to try something."

"Melody," he says. "We mustn't." But he is well past caring.

"But," she says, "we already are, my dear Noah."

 Much later, he hears her say, "Have you ever been unfaithful to
your wife before?"

"No," he says into the pillow.

"Then you have no reason to feel guilty. It was I who seduced
you."

"It's not that. It's just that I'm--that I'm not--"

"Not free?"

"Yes."

"But, my dear Noah, that's the thing I love about you
most--that's what's best about us--that you're not free. I know
you love Carol, and I know Carol loves you, and I also love
Carol, and I love Anne, and I never want anything to come between
you and all those people you love, and who love you so much. You
see, it's because you're not free that we can make love. Not
being free, you are safe, and therefore so am I."

He takes her in his arms again.
Brief Encounters

"Thank you for showing me your script, Noah!" she says.

She is sipping coffee from their breakfast tray.

"A travelogue," she says. "Yes, I see what you mean. I like that
idea. Now, go back to that third or fourth shot, the one of the
ferry dock in the little Scottish village. Try starting with that
one. That's how you'd enter the village, right? If you were just
stepping off the ferry . . ."

"Right," he says, finding the slide she wants and placing it at
the head of the conveyor of transparencies. "This one?" he says
as the image appears on the screen: the ferry dock, the little
village, the houses of the picturesque town rising from the
grassy banks of the loch.

"That's it." She sits, in her stocking feet, her legs tucked
beneath her, on the sofa beside him, while he, in his
shirtsleeves, operates the carousel. She begins to talk, in a
low, calm voice that is also rich with excitement, and he
immediately sees that she is writing his presentation for him:
"For me it all began in the tiny Scottish village of
Ballachulish, population three hundred and sixteen, not far from
the entrance to the Firth of Lome. It was in the early summer of
1992, and the air was crisp and fresh and new. What was I doing
in this little town, so small and remote that it doesn't appear
on most maps, a town that reminded me of Brigadoon, that magical
town that reappears only every hundred years, and only for a day?
It was because I'd heard that here lived a man named Angus Kelso,
who distilled a single-malt whiskey that was like no other in the
world. . . ."

"Hey, this is great!" he says eagerly. "One of us should be
writing this down!" He rises and begins pacing the floor.
"Don't worry, I'll remember it. I'm a quick study when it comes
to lines. But I'm thinking, Noah--what about a little music? Not
all through the show, of course, but just right here, at the
beginning? A tape playing, very softly, one of the songs from
Brigadoon. And then maybe, at the very end, a reprise of the same
song? What do you think of that?"

"I think that would be--just great!"

"A tape shouldn't be hard to find. I'll pick one up today. Now
let's cut straight to that close shot of Mr. Kelso."

He rearranges the slides again, and the image of the redheaded,
smiling Scotsman appears on the screen, and she continues her
narration: "'Meet Mr. Angus Kelso. What would you guess his age
to be? Forty? Forty-five? Mr. Kelso is actually sixty-nine, and
the secret of his eternal youth may just be his whiskey, which he
tells me he pours on his breakfast pancakes every morning. Pause
for a laugh. He also assures me that his whiskey cures barrenness
in women and impotence in men. Pause for laughter. Incidentally,
his whiskey also cures the common cold. Oh, and I almost
forgot--it also cures cancer. I hope all you advertising people
are taking notes, because these are pretty impressive
claims--claims no other distiller has ever dared to make. Pause
for more laughter. And we'd cut the music right here, I think."

"Melody, this is just wonderful. Wonderful!"

"Now I think we could move to the picture of the caves. Can you
find that one?" He finds it, inserts it next, and the dripping
white limestone caverns appear, their pools receding mysteriously
into the dark interior of the earth, and Melody continues: "But
Mr. Kelso also told me that the secret of his whiskey's
extraordinary flavor and lightness, as it is in the case of every
single-malt, lies in his water, which is drawn by hand from these
deep limestone caves. He calls his water 'the sweetest water
you'll ever taste on God's green earth.' I tasted some, and I had
to agree.... And now the shot of the hillsides...." He finds the
shot, inserts it: pine-clad hills. "But there's more to this
water of Ballachulish than just the deep limestone caves," she
says. "The rainwater that has been gathering in these caverns for
centuries is first filtered through a thick blanket of pine
needles. In some places
on these hills the blanket of pine needles is more than three
feet thick . . . Now the close-up of those pine needles. . . ."

He finds that, pine needles adrift like golden snow.

". . . And very slippery. I know, because 1 tried to climb those
hills. . . . And now the shot of you landing on your fanny in the
pine needles. ..."

He finds it, and she laughs and claps her hands. "Pause for
laughter. I like it, don't you?"

"I love it!" he says.

"And now a close-up of Mr. Kelso's whiskey in the glass. But it
was when I tasted Mr. Kelso's whiskey . . ."

"Melody, we've got to get all this down on paper."

"All I need is a typewriter."

"I'll have one sent up."

"And paper, of course. Or do you want it on cue cards?"

"Cue cards maybe?"

"That could be risky. You'll be standing at a lectern. If you
drop one, or get one out of place, then you'll be all fouled up.
I think a triple-spaced script would be better."

"You're right. Melody, you're certainly going to be earning your
credit for your winter work period." He studies her. She is
wearing a slim blue skirt, to the knee, a matching cashmere
sweater, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a gold circle pin,
and her dark hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail. "You know,
it's funny," he says.

"What's funny?"

"You don't look like a Bennington girl."

She laughs. "What's a Bennington girl look like?"

"From the ones I've seen on campus, it's jeans, battle jackets,
knapsacks, boots and Reeboks. It's either grunge or long, flowing
Mother Hubbards. And little felt hats."

She laughs again. "Those're for the heavier girls," she says.
"It's the heavier girls who go in for muumuus. Remember, I'm an
actress. You dress for the part. You dress for the casting call.
If the part calls for a slut, I dress like one of those girls
hanging around your hospitality suite. But for this assignment I
decided I'd dress like someone's executive secretary. Anyway,
I'll have
your script typed up for you by the time you get back from this
morning's meeting."

He frowns. "Following this meeting there's a lunch."

"After the lunch, then. Whatever."

"And after the lunch I've got two more meetings, back to back. I
told you I wouldn't have much time to spend with you this week,
Mellie."

"That's all right. Whenever you get back here, I'll have a draft
of the script ready for you to look over."

"And, at six o'clock, I've invited some people up here for
drinks."

"Don't worry. By six o'clock you won't find hide nor hair of me.
Not even the typewriter. Unless--"

"Unless what?"

"Unless when I finish, you'd rather I just hopped on a bus back
to New York," she says. "The way you said last night."

He hesitates, looking at the square of carpet between his feet.
"No, I don't want you to do that," he says. "By about nine
o'clock I should be free."

"All right. I'll phone the room at nine o'clock."

"And then we--"

"Can have a bite to eat."

"Chicken sandwiches." He sits down again.

"Our chicken sandwiches. Have you ever seen the movie Brief
Encounter, Noah?"

"No."

"Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard. David Lean directed. It's about
two people, neither of them free, who meet and have a--well,
that's the title of the film."

"Brief encounter. Mellie, I--"

She holds up her hand. "Don't say it. I think I know what you're
going to say, but I don't want to hear you say it." She glances
at her watch. "You'd better hurry and finish dressing, Noah, or
you'll be late for your meeting."

He rises and looks down at her as she sits, very still, on the
sofa, her legs tucked beneath her slim blue skirt.

Without returning his look, she carefully picks up her coffee cup
again and takes a small sip. "And do something about that," she
says. "You can't go to your meeting in that condition."
Now she is saying to him in the darkened bedroom:

Me? You mean you want to hear about my childhood, and all that?
It really wasn't all that interesting, at least it wasn't up to a
point. At one point it did get interesting, but by then I wasn't
exactly a child anymore. As you know, my father works for the
State Department. I used to think my father was some kind of god.
After all, he worked for the United States government, and in
Japan anybody who works for the government is considered very
important. A businessman may make more money, but to work for the
government is supposed to be this great honor. As a kid it seemed
to me we had all sorts of special privileges. The government gave
us a car, for instance. We didn't even have to pay for gas. We
could park our car in places that said "No Parking" because our
car had diplomatic plates. We could shop at the military post
exchange and get lower prices. If my father had to travel for his
job, he could fly for free on a navy plane, at least if the navy
plane happened to be going where he had to go. If not, the
government paid for the travel. There were other little things,
discounts and so on, that you get if you work for the U.S.
government. It was also considered good that my father was paid
in U.S. dollars, not in yen, though for the past few years that
hasn't meant so much. Anyway, I grew up thinking that my parents
were the greatest thing since sliced bread. All my Japanese
friends were envious of me, and I liked that. I must have been a
horrid little snot.

Later, I found out that my father wasn't any kind of god at all,
and wasn't even very important. My Japanese school friends were
so impressed because we had an autographed photograph of the
president of the United States in our living room. Later, I found
out that everybody at my father's level got one of those.

But the trouble is, my father looks like a god--tall, and blond,
and handsome, with the body of a Greek warrior. He has those
long, smooth swimmer's muscles, and he always has a golden
year-round tan. The Japanese think he looks like Errol Flynn, and
that's what they call him--Ellor Frynn. My father knows he's good
looking. He's very vain.
What my father is is a translator and interpreter. Well, it's a
little better than that. He's assistant to the head of that
department at the embassy in Tokyo. He spends his days
translating documents back and forth between English and
Japanese, which sounds kind of boring, translating all those
boring, official documents. My father taught himself to speak and
write fluent Japanese at the Fort Ord language school in
Monterrey, and when I was growing up, I was led to believe that
this was a great accomplishment. Maybe it was. Japanese is a
difficult language, with all sorts of different vowel sounds that
can completely change the meaning of a word. The word for wander,
for instance, is very close to the word for shit. If you wanted
to say, "I think I'll go out and wander in the garden," it could
come out as "I think I'll go out and shit in the garden" if you
use the wrong vowel sound. I speak some Japanese. But I've never
learned to read or write it.

It was my father's mastery of the Japanese language, I was always
told, that led to his being posted to Tokyo. But later I became
not so sure whether this was the whole reason. My mother is a
very bitter woman. She was always very bitter about the State
Department, and when she and my father quarreled, which they
often did--though not so much anymore--she used to imply that my
father had been sent to the other side of the world as a
punishment for something. Punishment for what? I really don't
know, but sometimes I think I can guess. My mother has always
hated Japan. She hates Tokyo. She hates the Japanese and has
never learned to speak a word of the language, not even hello on
the telephone. She absolutely loathes Japanese women, and she has
no Japanese friends. Her only friends are the other American
wives, who are just as boring and bitter as Mother is about how
they hate living in Japan. Tokyo is an important post, but not to
hear my mother talk about it. She'd much rather be in one of the
more glamorous cities--London, Paris, Rome, or even Vienna or
Budapest. If there's one thing Tokyo isn't, it's glamorous. But
the place she'd most like to be is Washington, D.C., right at the
heart of things. She's from Virginia, and has family there. She's
bitter because it doesn't look as though my father will ever be
assigned to Washington,
and she blames my father for the fact that she's stuck for the
rest of her life on the other side of the world. It's not a very
happy household, my parents'.

When I was thirteen or fourteen, I wanted to start to date. All
the other girls my age were dating boys by then--at least all the
American girls. But my father was very opposed to this. He said
he preferred the Japanese system, where girls--girls of good
family, that is--are very much sheltered and protected until
they're ready to get married, and by that time most of the
marriages have been arranged for them. In Japan teenage girls are
expected to stay home and help their mothers, and learn the tea
ceremony and all that, and to do their fathers' wishes. It's
still very much a male-dominated society in Japan, and it's
terribly strict and confining for women, particularly young
women. As Japan gets more Westernized, it's beginning to change,
and women are starting to rebel, but my father was in favor of
the old-fashioned ways. He wanted me--literally--to fetch him his
pipe and slippers when he came home from the office at the end of
the day, and to fix him a drink. Then he liked to have me sit on
a footstool beside his chair, while he smoked, and sipped his
drink, and stroked my hair while he read the evening papers. And
I--well, I liked these quiet evenings with my father, up to a
point, because I still thought my father was some sort of god.
But I wanted more out of my life than that.

There was one boy I began seeing secretly. His name was David, he
was a few years older than me, and we-- well, we were convinced
that we were very much in love. He was my first sexual
experience, and I--well, I liked it very much! He was very sweet,
very gentle, a lot like you in many ways. My mother had told me
nothing about the facts of life--absolutely nothing at all. She
hadn't even warned me about getting the curse. But fortunately I
have an older sister, Cassie, who'd told me pretty much
everything I needed to know. Cassie's married now and lives in
Australia. There must have been some romance between my parents,
back in the days when Cassie and I were being born. They gave us
these romantic names. Cassandra. Melody.

David was the first person who ever told me I was pretty. He told
me I was beautiful. He told me I was beautiful enough to be a
movie star, and it was he who said I ought to study to be an
actress. But when my father found out I was seeing David--he saw
me getting out of David's car one Saturday afternoon--he was
furious. There was a terrible scene. He said David was too old
for me. He said David wasn't good enough for me. He said David's
family was trash. He said David's father was a war profiteer.
This was because David's father, who'd been too young to be in
the war, had come to Japan after the war and bought up a lot of
military equipment, and sold it, and made a fortune in what I
guess is called the scrap metal business. David was in business
with his father at the time.

My father told me I was never to see David again, but of course I
did. David and I began making plans to run away together. I guess
I've always been a runaway at heart. I ran away to be with you
here, didn't I? David's family owned a cabin in the mountains
north of Kyoto, which they never used, and that was where we
planned to run away to. I'm sure it wouldn't have worked. That
cabin would have been the first place our families would have
looked for us. Still, we made all these elaborate, secret plans.

Meanwhile, my father began taking me on outings on the weekends,
just the two of us, far outside the city. These outings were so
David and I would have no chance to meet. Because David worked
and I was in school, the weekends were the only times we were
able to get together. My father would get me into the car on a
Saturday morning, and we'd drive--I'd never know where we were
going till we got there. "Surprise," he'd say. "Surprise,
surprise." One afternoon that summer our destination turned out
to be a tiny island in Toyana Bay, on the west coast, where he'd
rented a speedboat and scuba-diving equipment for us both. My
father knew I loved scuba diving, and he did, too. He was in a
good mood. He'd had a meeting at the Imperial Palace the day
before.

Once or twice a year he'd have to attend a meeting at the
Imperial Palace, and after each of these meetings he'd bring home
a little souvenir. They were just trinkets, really--a whalebone
letter opener, a silver pen, a crystal paperweight, things like
that. He used to tell us
these were gifts from the emperor himself. I don't believe that.
I don't believe he ever met the emperor. The emperor and empress
of Japan lead very secluded lives, and hardly ever meet with
people outside their family and members of the imperial
household. They don't give audiences, like the pope, or hold
press conferences, or make speeches. I think his meetings at the
Palace were just with minor functionaries of the household. And
the trinkets? I believe he stole them--just picked these things
up when no one was looking and dropped them in his pocket.
Members of the imperial household don't give out little souvenir
gifts to visitors. No way.

The Japanese are funny about crime. They like to say that theirs
is a crime-free society. They talk of America as the land of the
criminals. There's plenty of crime in Japan, of course, but it's
not considered polite to talk about it. And so, if a member of
the Japanese imperial household noticed some small object missing
after one of my father's visits, it would be beneath his dignity
to mention it to anyone, much less the American embassy. This was
how my father was able to get away with pinching little things
from the palace. At least this was David's theory, and he
understood the Japanese mentality and customs much better than I
did. And I think David was right.

Anyway, it was a lovely day, and we were diving in clear water,
not very deep, no more than twenty feet, among the coral reefs,
and I noticed my father gesturing at me, pointing at something.
At first I thought he'd found an unusual shell, or coral piece,
and I swam closer. I saw what he had in his hand was what looked
like a child's bracelet, or perhaps a napkin ring, of pink onyx.
At first I wondered what a bracelet could be doing at the bottom
of Toyana Bay, and then I guessed he'd got it from the palace.
And then--and this is difficult for me to talk about--he unzipped
the front of his wet suit to show me his erection. He placed the
bracelet on it, smiling, gesturing to me, suggesting I could have
it if I would reach out and take it off.

I shot up to the surface of the water like a bullet, and climbed
back on board the boat. I think if I'd known how to manage the
boat, I'd have pulled up the anchor and driven off and left him
there--escaped! He came
to the surface a few minutes later. He'd pulled himself together,
the pink onyx piece was nowhere to be seen, and he was acting as
though nothing at all had happened. He was in a very jolly,
almost carefree mood, and I began to wonder if I'd imagined the
whole thing. But I knew I hadn't. Who could imagine a thing like
that? "Don't you want to dive some more?" he asked me. "I want to
go home now, Daddy," I said. "I have an earache." I couldn't look
at him. And so he got out of his diving gear, and we headed for
the shore and home. In the car, he talked a lot but about nothing
in particular. I couldn't think of what in the world to say to
him. At one point he reached out and touched my knee. I pulled
away from him. "I was only joking," he said. I didn't answer him.
He didn't frighten me. He disgusted me. I pitied him.

I couldn't bring myself to tell my mother what had happened. I
couldn't bear to look at my father. And I couldn't even bear the
thought of ever seeing David again. I was too ashamed. Ashamed of
my father, and ashamed of myself for having a part in it. I felt
as though I'd been a part of a terrible crime that he'd blame me
for, that he'd hold me accountable for in some way, and so I just
stopped seeing him. When he'd call, I'd hang up on him. He wrote
me letters. I tore them up. It wasn't that I hated him. I hated
myself, and felt I wasn't worthy of him anymore. I suppose he
must have wondered what had happened, but I didn't care. All I
knew was that whatever we'd had between us was over. Not long ago
I heard that he married a Japanese girl. I hope they're happy.

But I did tell Cassie about Toyana Bay. Somehow, I had to tell
somebody. She sat very still for a long time, looking worried and
scared, and then she said, "That was how he started with me,
too--exposing himself." Started? Started what? She Wouldn't say.
All she would say was that there had been other things. She'd
been younger than me, too young to really understand what was
going on. She hadn't known there was anything wrong with it, that
it wasn't normal to have these secret things go on between
fathers and their daughters. She thought all fathers and
daughters did these things, and she said she was glad to see that
I knew better. I asked
her, "Does Mama know?" She just bit her lip and said she didn't
think so. That was when she told me she was going to marry this
boy who had a cattle ranch in Australia, a boy she really didn't
love at all, just to get as far away from home as possible.

That was when I decided that I was going to leave home--run away,
if necessary. I began to make my second runaway plans. I told my
parents I wanted to go to boarding school in the States. My
father said he couldn't afford such a thing. I would have to
settle for the American School in Tokyo, where the children of
American government employees could go for free. So, on my own, I
wrote to Ethel Walker in Connecticut. I applied and got accepted
on a full academic scholarship.

"Look at this, Daddy," I said to him, showing him the letter.

"Where are you getting the money to travel to the States?" he
said. "Not from me."

And so, faced with that, I began scheming of ways to get enough
money for my ticket. It became a crazy time for me. I thought of
forging his name on a check. I thought of trying to steal one of
his credit cards. I thought of trying to blackmail him,
threatening to tell my mother what had happened that afternoon. I
knew he'd just deny it. "But what about Cassie?" I'd say to him.
"Is Cassie lying, too?" But I knew I couldn't drag Cassie back
into it. She was already making her escape. I even thought of
going back to David and his family, and asking to borrow the
money from them. But, as I say, I just never wanted to see
David's face again.

Then one day my mother came to me and handed me a check. It was
only enough for a one-way ticket to New York, but it was all the
money she'd been able to scrape together. "I know why you want to
go," she said. "And I know why Cassie wants to go." There were
tears in her eyes.

"Mama--you know?" I said to her.

She looked away from me and just nodded.

"Mama, how could you?" I cried. "How could you stay with a man
who would do things like that to Cassie and me?"

"Don't you dare blame me!" she screamed. "You two can both escape
from here. I can't."
her, "Does Mama know?" She just bit her lip and said she didn't
think so. That was when she told me she was going to marry this
boy who had a cattle ranch in Australia, a boy she really didn't
love at all, just to get as far away from home as possible.

That was when I decided that I was going to leave home--run away,
if necessary. I began to make my second runaway plans. I told my
parents I wanted to go to boarding school in the States. My
father said he couldn't afford such a thing. I would have to
settle for the American School in Tokyo, where the children of
American government employees could go for free. So, on my own, I
wrote to Ethel Walker in Connecticut. I applied and got accepted
on a full academic scholarship.

"Look at this, Daddy," I said to him, showing him the letter.

"Where are you getting the money to travel to the States?" he
said. "Not from me."

And so, faced with that, I began scheming of ways to get enough
money for my ticket. It became a crazy time for me. I thought of
forging his name on a check. I thought of trying to steal one of
his credit cards. I thought of trying to blackmail him,
threatening to tell my mother what had happened that afternoon. I
knew he'd just deny it. "But what about Cassie?" I'd say to him.
"Is Cassie lying, too?" But I knew I couldn't drag Cassie back
into it. She was already making her escape. I even thought of
going back to David and his family, and asking to borrow the
money from them. But, as I say, I just never wanted to see
David's face again.

Then one day my mother came to me and handed me a check. It was
only enough for a one-way ticket to New York, but it was all the
money she'd been able to scrape together. "I know why you want to
go," she said. "And I know why Cassie wants to go." There were
tears in her eyes.

"Mama--you know?" I said to her.

She looked away from me and just nodded.

"Mama, how could you?" I cried. "How could you stay with a man
who would do things like that to Cassie and me?"

"Don't you dare blame me!" she screamed. "You two can both escape
from here. I can't."
"Why not?" I asked her. "Why can't you?" "It's the only life I
have," she said. "It may not be perfect. It may not even be any
good at all. But this is the only life I have." Of course, that
was a crock, and I told her so.

And so that's how I got away from them. That's why I go back to
Japan only when I absolutely have to. That's why I mooch on
people like you and Carol. Once I graduate from college and I'm
on my own, I'm never going to go back at all. That's why I'm
never going to let myself fall in love again. Love only leads to
disillusion. But it's funny. You're the only other person I've
ever told about all of this, besides Cassie. I've never even told
Anne, my best friend.

 "Love doesn't have to lead to disillusion," he says into the
darkness.

"Oh, yes. It does. It always will. For me, at least. When I was
growing up, I thought my father was some kind of god."

"And here's another funny thing," he says. "My own father let me
down--betrayed me--in much the same way. And I was just about
your age. No, a little older."

"And it doesn't go away, does it?"

"No. Mellie, I--"

She covers his lips with her fingertips. "Hush," she says. "Don't
say another word. This is just a brief encounter --remember?
Remember we only have three more nights together."

"And then what's going to happen?"

She switches on the lamp beside the bed. "Now I want you to take
a look at the script I've written for you," she says.

 But much later, in the darkened bedroom, Noah Lie bling cannot
sleep. Through the narrow slit in the window curtains, neon
lights from the sign outside flash perpetually from white, to
yellow, to blue, to white again in a changeless rhythm, while the
red numerals on the digital clock mark the sleepless minutes as
they pass. For me, it all began in the tiny Scottish village of
Ballachulish, population something-or-other. No, for me it all
began in an overdecorated hotel suite in Atlantic City, with a
girl whose name was a tune, a girl who is even younger than my
own daughter, but who somehow seems much more worldly. Statutory
rape. That is the legal term for what has happened here, for she
is a minor, still a child, and there are laws, terrible laws,
designed to punish men like me for what I have done. Her father
is a child molester, but who can blame him? So am I. Curled here
on the pillow beside me, her dark hair--the scent of her
hair--across her face, breathing quietly and evenly, she looks,
in the dimly flashing colored lights, even younger than she is.

I should have sent her home right away. She would have been safe
from that asshole at River House, the most secure building in New
York. He would have not got beyond the broad shoulders of Peter,
the doorman, in his heavy greatcoat with epaulets of gold braid,
the uniform of a Ruritanian hussar. I should have sent her home,
but I didn't, and I didn't because I didn't want to. I wanted her
here, with me, like right now, and right now it is too late. The
deed is done. The crime has been committed. Like her own father.
He that is without sin, let him cast the first stone, or however
the hell it goes.

This will last only a week, that was her promise. But this will
be a week that will change my life forever, Noah thinks, and what
will happen when it is time for us both to go home again?
Nothing? How can it be nothing? How can she and I continue to
live in the same house with Carol and Anne after this? It cannot
happen. That simply will not work. No, but I could give her some
money, help her find her own place to stay, turn her into a kept
woman. Could I really do that to her, to Carol, and to Anne, or
have I already done it? What is wrong with me? For me, it all
began . . . and I'm offering a thousand dollars to any man or
woman in this organization who can give me the name of what is
wrong with me.

It is a feeling at the base of my skull and at the pit of my
stomach, an aching. Is there something the matter with me,
Doctor? Am I going crazy, or have I already slipped past that
thin barrier between sanity and lunacy? When I was a little boy,
I used to worship my older brother, Cyril. He seemed so elegant,
so wise, the man of the world. I used to follow him around, and
he hated
that, and his favorite word for me was crazy. "Are you crazy,
Noah? Stop acting crazy!" At night, before going to sleep, I used
to break into cold sweats with fears that I was losing my mind.
"That's where they ought to put you, Noah," Cyril said as they
drove past the place. "Bloomingdale's." Not the store, but the
hospital for the criminally insane outside White Plains.
Criminal, and crazy. The doctor will say, "Yes, Noah, you are
criminally insane." Should I see someone? Yeah.

Is this what being in love is like? It is certainly unlike any
feeling I ever had for Carol, and yet the strange thing is that
the feeling I have now seems to draw me to Carol more powerfully
than ever, and makes me appreciate how much I have, or had, in
Carol, and how lucky I am, or was, to have her. No, Carol is not
as young as she once was, but she is kind, and gentle, and
thoughtful, and giving, and loving, too. If love is sacrifice, as
Melody says it is, Carol has sacrificed a great deal. And yet, if
I love Carol so much, how can I have let myself do this terrible
thing to her and to the child we had together? There is no sane
answer.

"There is insanity in the family, you know." Where had he heard
this? There were supposed to be two crazy aunts, his father's
sisters, who were considered "strange." But what the nature of
their strangeness was he never knew. He had never met these
aunts. Both his brother and his sister had spent years seeing
psychiatrists. "Do you want to see what an erection looks like?"
his brother asked him when Noah was eight or nine, walking into
Noah's room to show him. "My psychiatrist taught me how to do
this." Crazy.

The carousel of color slides turns in his mind, along with the
white, yellow, and blue lights from the pulsating sign outside
the window. Come with me to Ballachulish, Melody, or somewhere,
anywhere that's been lost in time and isn't on any map, and we'll
make the population grow by two more people. We'll go to
Ballachulish, where no one knows us or anything about us, and
we'll start a whole new life together. We'll swim naked in the
limestone caves, and we'll make love on a thick mattress of
smooth, golden, silky, slippery pine needles. Because
Ballachulish is a magic place, and only appears out of the mists
for one day every hundred years, each day for
us will last a hundred years, and in a thousand years we'll be
the same age. Perhaps I'll work in Angus Kelso's distillery,
under a different name, of course, and we'll leave everything
else behind--my wife, my daughter, my family, my career. Does
that make any sense to you? Crazy. He is a man of forty-eight who
has been having sex with a child, but he is the one who is
thinking like a child. He is Errol Flynn. He is Roman Polanski.
The names of men like him fill the crime stories of the
newspapers day after day. . . .

It's no use. A memory as simple as the small, flat brown mole
just above her navel fills him with yearnings more huge and harsh
and overpowering than all the vastness of Carol's trust and love.
With tears in his eyes he reaches out and touches her soft, dark
hair with his fingertips. Lifts it. Smells it. Presses it against
his lips, and her dreaming arm falls across his chest, producing
almost an electric shock of feeling.

 "I still have this funny dream," he said to her before they came
to bed. "It's something I started thinking about in college. It
would be that whenever I get my inheritance--the money, the stock
in the company that I'm supposed to get--that I'd like to do
something really moral with it. Take the curse off it, as it
were.

"You see, from the tune I was a little kid I was aware that my
family's money wasn't made in a very moral way. People looked
down their noses at the way we'd made our money. It was
considered dirty money. I used to think: Why couldn't we have
made our money in some other way? Banking! Real estate!
Railroads! Publishing! Coming up with some medical discovery that
would cure some terrible disease. But no, our money was made in
booze. We made it from skid row winos and Bowery burns. We called
it the Distilled Spirits Industry. But we were nothing but a
bunch of tummlers-- that's all we were."

"What's a tummler?"

"Someone who's paid to make a lot of noise to keep the party
going--a guy who runs around the room with a lamp shade on his
head, trying to make people think they're having a good time. A
professional buffoon. My old man used to say that the liquor
business was a part
of show business, part of the entertainment industry. What do you
do when you entertain? You bring out the booze and pour it down
people's throats until everybody's laughing and feeling better.
My old man said that drinking was like going to a Broadway show,
only the ticket was cheaper, and the sensation lasts a little
longer. Okay, I'll buy that. But how do you feel when people from
an organization like MADD march up and down in front of your
building with pickets calling you a murderer?"

"So tell me about your dream."

"It's that when I get my inheritance, I'd like to use it--or a
lot of it--to establish a foundation to support something I
decided to call the American Experimental School of Parenting.
You see, there's a lot of talk in the press these days about the
deteriorating quality of education in this country--crowded
classrooms, poor teachers, lack of funds, guns and knives in the
school yard, drugs, gangs, sex, and violence. My theory is that
by the time a kid reaches school age, it's too late to do much of
anything to change him. Any behavior patterns --good or bad--are
pretty much set by then, and any attempts to change them should
have begun long before that--at birth, or even before. Minority
groups may cry 'racist' at this, but I really think men and women
should be licensed before becoming parents, After all, it's a lot
harder to learn to be a parent than to learn to drive a car, and
you need a license to do that. At least some sort of training in
parenting should be required. But no adult education programs in
this country have really addressed this. Instead, parenting has
gone out the window. Parenting is becoming a lost art. Instead,
kids are dumped in malls or stores while their parents do
something else, or they're placed with grannies and sitters or in
day-care centers, or dumped in front of TV sets where we fret
that they're seeing too much sex and violence. 'Get after the
networks,' we say, but that's not the answer. The answer is 'Get
after the parents.' My foundation would look into ways that
parents could be coerced--or shamed--into education, to show them
that parenting just doesn't work without some sort of
preparation. Of course, none of this is going to be easy. It's a
lot harder to educate an adult than it
is a child. But I think that's the only solution to the mess our
society is in right now--to try to teach parents how to raise
better children. If we could only do this--train mothers to be
better mothers, and fathers to be better fathers--I think a lot
of the questions we argue about, including abortion and race
relations, would become moot. Sound like pie in the sky to you?
Maybe it is, but I think we've got to start somewhere, and my
foundation could offer some kind of start. I even like the
acronym I've given it--AESOP, because every Aesop's fable had a
moral at the end. Anyway, that's my little speech."

She looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, "Do you hate
your job, Noah?" "Sometimes," he said. "Not right now, but
sometimes." "Did you ever discuss this dream of yours with
Carol?" "Hell, no." "Why not?"

"I mentioned it to my mother once. Needless to say, she was
horrified. She thought it was sheer craziness." "Do you still
want to do this?" He laughed. "Maybe. If the day comes when I
finally get the company stock I'm supposed to get. But that day
seems to be getting further and further and further away--along
with the dream. My magnificent obsession." She said nothing.

"So what do you think of the idea, Melody?" he asked her.

She thought a long time before answering him. "Well, it's a
lovely idea," she said at last. "It really is a lovely dream. But
it still seems to me like throwing away everything you've done
with your life so far."

"I don't see it as throwing it away," he said. "I see it as
redeeming it. Salvaging it somehow."

There was more he could have told her. He could have told her
about the considerable number of books he had collected on the
subject--that shelf full of books "by authors with
Jewish-sounding names, all with Ph.D.'s after them." He did not
tell her that two years ago he had hired an outside researcher,
an associate professor from the University of Pennsylvania's
Department of Human Resources--yes, a professor with a Jewish-
sounding name and a Ph.D. tacked onto it--who regularly provided
him with new statistics, new materials, new studies on the
subject. Or that his literature on the subject now filled five
fat filing-cabinet drawers in his office at the Ingraham
Building--files under such headings as "Self-Improvement and
Psychotherapy," "Anxiety," "Theories of Change," "Education and
Religion: Paths Toward Excellence," and "Why We Fear Our
Children." Or that the more his future with the company seemed to
recede before him, the more time he spent annotating, updating,
and cross-referencing these files.

"Of course, it's always something you could do as a hobby," she
said.

"As a hobby," he said. "Like collecting stamps? Building model
airplanes?"

"It just doesn't seem very practical. I mean, if parents are
going to need licenses to have children, who's going to give out
the licenses? The federal government?"

"I was just using that as a metaphor," he said. "I just meant
they could be offered some sort of job training. Look--your own
parents are something of a case in point, don't you think?"

She looked at him steadily. "If my parents had needed a license
to have me, I wouldn't be here," she said. "And if your parents
had needed a license to have you, you wouldn't be here, either.
But here we are. Two illegals. Do you consider yourself a good
parent, Noah?"

"Listen," he said, "I didn't ask you to follow me down here. I
didn't ask you to crawl into bed with me."

"Crawl?" she said. "Is that what you think of me? As some kind of
crawly creature? Like a worm?"

He threw up his hands. "This conversation isn't getting us
anywhere," he said.

She had been sitting tailor-fashion on the bed in her short
nightie. Now she uncrossed her legs, stood up, and stretched her
arms high into the air toward the ceiling. "Nothing is getting us
anywhere," she said. "Nothing is going to get us anywhere. I
don't like the way this whole scene is going. Let's run through
this whole scene again. Take it from the top."

"I don't think you feel anything for me at all, Melody."

"Tell me what a tummler is."

"A tummler is--"
"Tell me something else. Were you ever in love with Carol?"

"What?"

"Were you? Ever? Really in love with her?"

"I think--I don't know."

"I think--I know you never were, Noah. Why have you just told me
things you were never able to tell her-- important things?"

"I don't know."

"I know. Because you're in love with me. And don't ever say I
don't feel anything for you, because I do feel--deeply. I'm in
love with you, Noah. I think I have been since the day I met you.
It can't be a brief encounter anymore, can it? It's gone too far.
It's too late now, and we can't turn back the clock. We're in
love with each other. It's as simple as that. There's nothing
more to say. Admit it, Noah--that it's true."

"What are we going to do?"

"Marry me, Noah. I want you to marry me, Noah."

 It has been another long and busy day, and Frank Stokes sits by
himself at the bar, nursing an Ingraham's and soda. A blonde in a
tight black mini-dress that appears to have been made of
Naugahyde hops onto the stool beside him. "Hi," she says. "What's
your name?"

"Puddin' Tane," Frank says.

"Mine's Estelle," she says. "Care for some conversation?"

"I guess I don't mind," he says.

"Where's your friend?"

"What friend?"

"We seen you both in the elevator Monday night. Me and my
girlfriends. Remember?"

"Oh, yes," he says.

"He's in suite seventeen-fourteen, your friend."

He looks at her. "How did you happen to know that?" he asks her.

She giggles. "Days, I work here at the hotel. In housekeeping.
I'm not supposed to be here. They don't like us hanging around
here after hours, socializing with the guests. But I say what
they don't know won't hurt 'em--right? I thought he was kinda
cute, your friend. What's his name?"
"Puddin' Tane."

"Same as yours? Aw, come on, You're kiddin' me."

"Yeah."

"Suite seventeen-fourteen is one of our deluxe suites.
Five-ninety a night. He must be pretty rich, your friend. What's
he do?"

He hesitates. "Executive v.p. of the company," he says.

She whistles. "Gee whiz," she says. "That sounds pretty
important. What about you? What're you?"

"Janitor," he says.

"You kidding? You look, like, too well dressed to be no more than
a janitor. Aw, I'll bet you're kiddin' me again. I bet you're
pretty high up, too."

"Well, maybe I am," he says.

"Who's his girlfriend?"

"Whose girlfriend?"

"Your friend's."

"He hasn't got a girlfriend."

"He's with his wife, then."

"We don't bring our wives to things like this," he says.

"Well, then it's gotta be a girlfriend. She's staying in
seventeen-fourteen with him, that's for sure. And she's a lot
younger than he is, I can tell you that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says.

"I seen her. When I came in to do the room yesterday morning, she
was there. Brunette. Long, dark hair. She was working at a
typewriter, typing something."

"Probably some kind of secretary," he says.

"Oh, yeah? She asked me to come back later. I did, and she was
gone, and so was the typewriter. But there was a woman's things
in a couple of the bureau drawers, a nightie and all that. And
there was woman's things hangin' in the closet."

He looks at her again. "Do you make it a point to rummage through
a guest's things when you do up a room?" he asks her.

She purses her lips. "It's my duty," she says primly. "We got to
see if a guest's checked out or not. Sometimes a guest will try
to check out without checking out, if you receive my meaning. I
got to check on things like that. Anyway, she was still there
again this morning. When I first come in, I heard her singing hi
the shower.
When I come back later, she was gone again, but her things was
still there."

"I think you've got the wrong room," he says.

"Huh! Not me. Think I don't know my deluxe suites? If your
friend's in seventeen-fourteen, he's got a girl there with him.
So what? I say. So what if she looks young enough to be his
daughter? It takes all types to make a world is what I say. So
what about it, Mr. Tane? Care for a little companionship? Nothing
wrong with a little companionship is what I say."

"No, I don't think so, Estelle," he says.

"Care to buy a girl a drink? But in your business I bet you get
all you want for free."

"As a matter of fact, we don't," he says. "Look, Estelle --why
don't you go up to the hospitality suite? I think you'll do
better business up there."

"Business*. Hey, just what the hell do you think I am?" she says,
"I'm a self-respecting girl is what I am! Besides, I was just up
there. The place is dead."

"Come back Friday night," he says. "There'll be plenty of action
then, when this conference is over. The hospitality suite should
be jumping for you then." He starts to rise.

"Hey, you givin' me the brush-off?" she says.

"That's right, Estelle," he says. He slides a ten-dollar bill
across the bar in the direction of the bartender. "Good night,
Estelle. Sweet dreams with whoever you wind up with." He steps
off the stool.

"Snob!" she says. "Stuck-up snob! Think you're better than the
next one. Think you're better than seventeen fourteen and his
teenage floozy. Or are you gay? Is that it?"

He leaves the bar without looking back at her.

"Gay! Gay!" she shouts after him. "Gay-faggot-gay!"

"Not having a good night, eh, Estelle?" the bartender says.

"Shuddup," she says. "Gimme a tequila sunrise."

 "I can't believe this, Billy," Beryl Stokes is saying. "I can't
believe that you actually remember me from the eighth and ninth
grades, when I was Beryl Price. You were only thirteen, fourteen
years old."

"I remember you vividly," he says. "You were considered one of
the finest teachers at Horace Mann. You were--inspirational,
actually."

"Really?" Beryl squeals. "And I was only a sub!"

"You've had a career, dear?" Georgette Van Degan says. "Oh, how I
envy you. When I was growing up, I so wanted a career. But Daddy
wouldn't hear of it. He said, 'No woman in this family has ever
worked,' and so, after my debut, there was nothing left for me
but Truck Van Degan." Mary passes hors d'oeuvres. "Oh,
yum-yum-yum," Georgette says. "I'm going to try one of these
yummy-looking little cheesy businesses."

"A sub?" he says.

"A substitute teacher. But you were my star pupil."

"That's why I remember you so vividly. We always used to hope
that one of the regular teachers would get sick, so we could have
you as a sub. Let's see, the regular teachers were--"

"Mrs. Espy and Miss McCracken."

"Of course." He beams proudly at her.

"Oh, Billy, you really do remember," Beryl says. "I can't believe
it. And now you're so rich and famous. But I always knew you
would be."

"And you haven't changed a bit," he says. "You're just as
beautiful as ever."

"Oh, Billy. I am a few years older now."

"It doesn't show."

"Is that an Adolfo, dear?" Georgette asks her.

"Yes."

"I had to give up on Adolfo," she says. "I felt he was spreading
himself too thin." She turns to Bill Luckman. "Mr. Luckman, I
want you to mark the date of June seventeenth on your calendar.
It's a Thursday. That's the night that Carol and I are having a
coming-out party for Anne and my daughter, Linda. At the Piping
Rock. We're going to insist that you be there." She turns to
Anne. "Aren't you excited, dear, about the party?"

"Yes, but--"

"Now, Georgette--" Carol starts to interrupt.

"But I'm not sure I remember Linda from school."

"Nonsense, dear. You were the best of friends. Inseparable."

Carol Liebling clears her throat. "Georgette, I think that all
this talk about a party is a little premature," she
says. "I haven't had a chance to talk to my husband about all
this. He's out of town this week, and--"

"Well, it's too late to back out now," Georgette says airily.
"I've already ordered the invitations from Cartier."

"And you've set a date?"

"It's the only date that Peter can do it! Duchin, that is. He
doesn't have another date available that month, and so we had to
grab it. I talked to him yesterday, and he's all signed up. He
wants twenty-five thousand for the evening, and that's a very
special price for me, of course. Fifty percent on signature, and
the balance on the evening of the performance. You can send me
your check for your half whenever you get around to it."

"Georgette, I never agreed--"

"And Carol's husband's company is supplying all the liquor for
the party," she says to Bill Luckman. "So you can see what an
absolutely marvelous evening it's going to be. The best
champagne, the best--"

"But, Georgette, I just said that possibly--"

"Are you trying to back out on that? Carol, you promised --"

"Perhaps he might be able to supply it at cost, but--"

Georgette Van Degan's eyes flash wide open. "At cost! You said it
would be freel"

"I said I needed to discuss it with Noah," Carol says. "And I
haven't had a chance to do that yet."

"Why? Why do you need to discuss it with him? Do you need to
discuss every little minor thing with your husband? I certainly
don't. In fact, I haven't really discussed it with Truck,
either." She turns to Beryl. "Do you have to discuss every little
minor thing with your husband, dear?" she asks her.

Looking flustered, Beryl says, "Well, perhaps not every--"

"Husbands should be kept out of things. Until all final plans are
made."

"To me this isn't such a little minor thing, Georgette," Carol
says. "You're talking about a very major party!"

"Well, this is a fine kettle of fish," Georgette says, tapping
the toe of her Delman pump crossly on the parquet floor. "Trying
to back out at this late stage of the game. After dates have been
set, invitations have been
ordered, and contracts have been signed. I'm at a loss for words,
Carol. Well, you just can't back out now."

"I'm not backing out of anything," Carol says evenly. "Because I
was never really in anything, you see." She rises. "Can I freshen
your drink, Bill?"

He smiles and hands her his glass. Then, lighting a cigarette and
letting out a thin stream of smoke with a soft hiss, he says, "By
the way, where is Melody?"

"She's taken a job with a theater company," Carol says from the
bar. "A new play that's trying out in New Haven."

"Really?" he says. "Well. How very odd."

"What's odd about it?" Anne asks him.

"Well," he says, "for one thing, there is no new play trying out
in New Haven."

"Perhaps she said it was in rehearsal there," Carol says.
"Anyway, that's where she is."

"That's even odder," he says. "Plays frequently try out in New
Haven. But the Shubert Theatre is never used for rehearsals." He
looks at Anne questioningly, but she merely lowers her eyes and
studies the backs of her hands.

"Odd," Bill Luckman says again.

"Well, I must be running along," Georgette Van Degan says,
gathering up the twin chains of her Chanel bag. "Just remember
it's too late to try to wriggle out of this, sweetie," she says
to Carol. "At least if you think you have a chance of getting my
porcelains for your museum. Meanwhile, Roxy's promised to run
another item about us in tomorrow's column."

"Just think, Billy," Beryl Stokes says, gazing at him adoringly.
"You were my star pupil. And look at you now. . . ."

Bill Luckman glances at Georgette and rolls his eyes.

 From Roxy Rhinelander's column:

 Flash! Update! Seems that years and years ago, when yours truly
wasn't even a twinkle in her daddy's eye (well, almost that long
ago), the late Mr. and Mrs. Truxton Van Degan III made a big
point out of moving out of their big spread at 1000 Park Avenue
at the very moment when Mr. and Mrs. Jules Liebling were
moving into the building. Seems that the Mayflower descended Van
Degans didn't think the Billionaire Booze Baron and his wife (the
former Hannah Sachs) were quite up to snuff for that posh
address. Too nouveau, maybe? Well, they did call Jules Liebling
an ex bootlegger, dontcha see, and he did have his picture
snapped making nice to Al Capone. Anyway, the hatchet's been
buried between the two Feuding Families at last with the
coming-out bash Georgette Van Degan (Mrs. Truxton IV) and Carol
Liebling (Mrs. Noah) are planning for their delectable deb
daughters on June 17. Moral: Time heals all wounds, by the time
the next generation rolls around, at least.

 "What in the world is going on?" Pookie Satterthwaite is saying
to Patsy Collingwood on the telephone. "How is Georgette managing
to get so much ink over this nonsense? Do you think she's paying
Roxy off?"

"Well, I ran into Roxy the other night, and it looked like she
was wearing a new mink coat," Patsy says.

"Those old skins? Blackglama gave her that at least ten years ago
for doing a 'What Becomes a Legend Most' ad."

"Weren't we nice enough to Roxy at Christmastime?"

"Well, / certainly was. I don't know about you, sweetie."

"I happen to have been especially nice to her at Christmas."

"Look at it this way, Patsy. Every bit of ink that's going to
Carol Liebling is ink that could be going to you and me."

"Exacfly. You, Georgette, and me--we're supposed to be the Big
Three, aren't we? This town isn't big enough to make it a Big
Four." "But I think I've figured out what Roxy's doing, Patsy."

"What?"

"Every now and then she likes to throw in a new name. It makes
her column more interesting, supposedly."

"Does that mean she's turning us into old names?"

"Not necessarily, sweetie."

"And Carol Liebling, of all people. She's nobody."
"Not as of this morning, sweetie. That's a good ten inches of
column space she's got."

"Infuriating. I've got half a mind to tell Roxy exactly what I
think."

"That's definitely not the way to do it, lovey. Don't antagonize
Roxy. Rpxy can be mean as pig shit. On the other hand, I think it
would be smart if we were both a whole lot nicer to Carol
Liebling."

"And drop Georgette?"

"Hmm." Pookie pauses. "Well, I've often said that if you gave
Georgette enough rope, she'd hang herself," she says. "Let's
lunch."

 In the town house on Sutton Square, Ruth Liebling di Pascanelli
is reading aloud to him. " 'And when Clarissa saw Jonas standing
in the doorway, her heart stopped.' " She puts down the
manuscript. "That's as far as I've gotten," she says.

"I don't know much about writing books," Ector says. "But I
really like what you've written. I mean I think it's really
good."

"Thank you, Ector."

"That Jonas character. I bet he's going to cause that Clarissa a
lot of trouble--right?"

"Right."

"I figured. And, you know, it's a funny thing."

"What's a funny thing?"

"I don't know just how to say this," he says. "But in my
business, I've taken out a lot of rich women. Rich men, too. And
a lot of them's been older than me, like you. But you're
different. I mean, most of them, all's they want is sex. But you
don't. You don't want me for that at all. I mean, like you're a
countess, you're rich, you're a movie star, you're an author, and
yet all you seem to want is to have me around. And, I mean, like
I always try to show the client a little affection. That's easy
enough for me to do. I can fake that stuff easy. But with you
it's like I don't have to fake that stuff. I mean, I--I mean the
longer I stay here with you, the more I really like you. I like
being with you."

"I'm glad you like being with me, Ector."

"You don't mind that I'm a hustler?"

"There are a lot worse things to be."
"I didn't always used to be, you know."

"I'm sure you weren't."

"It was a guy I met who got me into this. When I first came here
from Abilene, looking for a job. Guy said I'd be good at it. Said
there was money in it. Said I looked like I had talent. He took
me on. And one thing just sort of led to another."

"I can understand that."

"But maybe now I'd like to sort of settle down. So what if--I
guess what I'm trying to say is that I really like you a lot." He
sits forward in his chair and gazes at her intently. "What
if--what if you and me was to get married?" he says. "I'm
serious. I like you a lot. I really do. I mean, I've met a lot of
women. But I've never met a real lady, like you, before. Maybe
I'm not saying it right. But I've never felt this way about
anybody else before. I really never have."

 "This letter was hand-delivered, madam," Albert, Hannah
Liebling's majordomo, says to her, handing her the envelope.

"Thank you, Albert."

She carries the letter to her writing desk, fishes in a drawer
for her reading glasses, opens the letter, and reads:

 My dear Hannie,

I don't know whether or not my name will mean anything to you at
this point.

I'd heard you married a man named Liebling. But I didn't know who
he was until I happened to see the enclosed item in this
morning's paper, which mentioned your maiden name and also
included your address.

I have . . .

 There is something about the handwriting that is familiar, from
years and years ago. She turns the letter over, to the signature,
and her hand flies quickly to the strand of pearls at her throat.

She sits down hard in front of the little desk.
part Two



 Gmndmont, 1945
Denis

 Oh, if you could have seen Grandmont! It was not the big
turreted stone house itself that was so spectacular. It was the
setting Jules Liebling chose for it--high on a hill overlooking a
wide bend in the Hudson, with grassy terraces, separated by
parterres, cascading down toward the river's edge. It was at its
best by moonlight, with the light from the moon and stars
reflected and refracted from the water's surface. The river is
tidal at this point, and so its flow is forever shifting, first
running north, and then, with a perceptible rippling, reversing
its direction and flowing south--tidal and saline, so the smell
of the river is a constant reminder of its connection to the sea,
that the moon-driven Atlantic is ceaselessly directing the river
this way and that, that the moon and the ocean are in charge of
things here. An Atlantic storm is on the way if the seabirds fly
inland and settle on the river.

To the north, from the west-facing verandas and terraces of
Grandmont, the lights from the Tappan Zee Bridge glowed in a
snaky curve, a double strand of diamonds. Just to the south, on
the river's opposite shore, were the lights of the village of
Sneden's Landing, tucked into the first drop in the Palisades.
Before Hannah Liebling went to bed at night, she liked to lie in
her chaise longue and look out at these lights, and the lights
from the river traffic, from her bedroom windows. Around eleven
o'clock the night excursion boat to Albany came twinkling into
view, with the sounds of laughter and swing music pouring from
its decks. And, periodically, there would be distant rattles and
whistles from the trains of the New York Central's Albany
Division as they made their way up and down the valley.
Hannah found all these night sounds and sights restful and
reassuring.

He had not built Grandmont for her, however. He had made that
quite clear from the beginning. He had built it for his son
Cyril, after Cyril was born in 1934. Jules had ordered a huge
playground built at Grandmont for his little son, with
industrial-size slides and swings and seesaws and sandboxes, and
a great deal else. For Cyril's third birthday Jules bought him a
baby elephant, complete with a miniature howdah in which the
child could ride. The elephant, whose name was Baba, was trained
to kneel on command and accept a small passenger in the howdah,
but Hannah was too fearful of the boy's falling to let him ride
in it. The next year came a frisky zebra for a pet, and presently
Grandmont contained a small, private zoo, where a bush baby
became Cyril's favorite animal.

In 1939 their daughter, Ruth, was born, but Jules made it clear
that the playground equipment and the animals were for Cyril's
enjoyment only. But then, as we know, by 1945 Cyril had become a
severe disappointment to his father. Soon the playground
equipment was being allowed to go to rust and disrepair, and the
menagerie was being disposed of--either sold or given away. "I
want us to make another son," Jules said to Hannah.

And so they went through the ritual of trying. This wasn't a
particularly easy period for Hannah, since she had been told she
could bear no more children. "The uterus has become tipped," her
doctor explained to her. "It will be a miracle if you are ever
able to conceive again."

Still, she prayed for a miracle. And, lo and behold, the miracle
happened, though not in the way she had wanted it to happen, and
it happened in the moonlit garden at Grandmont.

 The bush baby was the first to go. "Oh, please," Hannah begged
him. "He loves that little creature so!"

"He must be punished," Jules said. "What better punishment than
to take away a favorite pet?"

"But he's still just a little boy," she said. "Don't all little
boys experiment with themselves that way? Didn't
you, when you were that age, experiment with other boys your
age--with sex--like that? I'm sure you did."

"Never!"

"That headmaster--that Mr. Litchfield--he overreacted to it, I
think. St. Anselm's is such an old-fashioned school."

"He disgraced us. The whole school knows about it now. They've
made that little nigger kid a hero. They've labeled my son a
pervert. From the report that Litchfield sent out, there isn't
another boarding school in New England that will take my son now.
He'll have to go to public school, the way I did."

"But not the bush baby, Jules. Not his precious little Potto."

"His precious little Potto is already on his way to the Bronx
Zoo."

"They've taken away Potto!" Cyril screamed, rushing into his aunt
Bathy's room. "They've taken away Potto, and they won't tell me
where he's gone!" Bathy Sachs took him, sobbing, into her arms.

"Now, that's not the way," she said, trying to comfort him. "You
want to show your papa what a little man you are, don't you? This
isn't the way to do that, is it? Dry your tears, keep a stiff
upper lip, and show your papa what a brave little man you are.
That's what he wants to see."

"I hate them!" he sobbed. "I hate them both!"

"There, there," she said. "Potto's in a nice new home, with lots
of nice new little friends. Don't let your papa see you crying
like this. Now just go downstairs and act grownup, and show your
papa what a big, brave little man you are. Do that for me,
Cyril."

"I want to kill him!"

"No, you don't. Your papa is angry at you now. But your papa is a
good, kind man at heart, Cyril. He really is."

 Oh, he was handsome enough, Hannah supposes, particularly when
he was younger, as he was then. Women found him attractive. The
Duchess of Windsor, when she came to visit Grandmont after the
war, pronounced him "charming," and he could be charming. From
the portrait in the dining room at 1000 Park, which was painted
later, he looks a little stern when she gazes up at it from
the table. A little stern and sad, and the down-drooping mustache
doesn't help; nor does the Napoleonic pose with his right hand
inserted in his vest. He looks, more than anything, disappointed.
That is the expression in his eyes. If Jules Liebling had a
tragic flaw, it was that he was too prone to disappointment.
Perhaps it was because he was so used to everything going his
way. He couldn't understand why everything could not always go
his way. But no one's life goes exactly the way one wants it to.
Life takes no one's orders. And so her husband died of
disappointment.

 "You really do remember me from Horace Mann," she says to him
for perhaps the dozenth time. "I just can't believe it, Billy."

"Of course I do." He is sprawled, naked, across her bed, smoking
a cigarette.

"I only subbed, maybe, ten or twelve days, at the most, during
the two years when you were there. And yet you remember little
old me."

"Little old you were a pretty memorable teacher. Plus being the
most beautiful teacher in the whole damn school."

"Really?" She giggles. "Well, that wouldn't have been hard to
be--when I think of some of the others."

"You still are." His lips curl into a smile. "Beautiful, that
is." He runs a fingertip along the curve of her spine.

"Of course, I didn't have the money then that I have now," she
says. "That was before I married Frank." She reaches over the
side of the bed and picks up the pink Adolfo that was dropped in
a heap on the floor, and arranges it, more tidily, across the
seat of the slipper chair beside the bed. "What was it we were
reading in that last English class I taught? Do you remember? Was
it--?"

"Silas Marner?"

"Yes! Yes, I actually think it was. I'm positive it was Silas
Marner. What a memory you have, Billy."

"You could even make a dud like Silas Marner interesting."

She giggles again. "And you were my star pupil. I could tell you
were going to have a brilliant future even then. But I shouldn't
have let you seduce me, Billy. I
think I had a little bit too much to drink at Carol's party
tonight."

"Aw, c'mon, teacher," he says. "We went out to the elevator
together. You mentioned that you lived right downstairs, and had
some old Horace Mann yearbooks I might like to look at. The old
come-upandsee-my etchings routine. You wanted it as bad as I did.
So don't give me the I-shouldn't-have-let-you-seduce-me bit,
Beryl baby."

"Well--perhaps I did. But--but I guess it's because you've become
such a celebrity. It seems like every time I turn on the
television, there you are. I guess I sort of got carried away."

"What the hell? You wanted it, I wanted it. We both wanted it. So
what the hell, teacher baby, what the hell?"

"But I'm just an ordinary little old New York housewife. And
you--"

"Me, I'm just an ordinary guy who likes to fuck," he says.

"It doesn't bother you, does it, that I'm--well, that I'm one or
two years older than you?"

"Hell, no! You're not about to get all guilty on me, are you,
teacher?"

She hesitates. "I guess not," she says at last. "But I'm the one
who should be calling you 'teacher,' Billy dear. You've taught me
things tonight that I never knew before, Billy."

He stubs out his cigarette. "Oh? What sort of things?"

"Feelings. Depths of feelings I never knew I was capable of
before."

"Say, that's quite a compliment," he says.

"I mean it, Billy."

"You cheat on your husband much?"

She looks away. "Not too much," she says.

"Just now and then, huh?"

"Yes. Especially when--"

"Especially when he's out of town. Right?"

"Now, Billy," she says. "Don't imply that I'm a--you see, the
thing is, Frank trusts me. I couldn't do this if he didn't trust
me."

"Yeah, that's important. That he trusts you."

"The trouble with Frank is, he's stupid."
"Look," he says, rolling over on his side and propping himself on
his left elbow. "Why don't you come right out and say so? You
like a guy's hot cock pumping into your tight little pussy. And
you don't get all that much from old Frank--right?"

"Well, after eleven--no, ten years . . ."

"You liked my cock, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes . . ."

"So why not come right out and say so?" He grabs her by the
shoulder and kisses her a little roughly. "I believe in being
honest, don't you? I believe in honesty."

"Oh, yes," she says. "Definitely. So do I. And you're one of the
most honest men I've ever known."

He swings his long legs over the side of the bed. "Let me ask you
something, while we're on the subject," he says.

"Okay. Ask me."

"Do you think Noah Liebling's getting it off with that Melody
Richards? His daughter's friend?"

"Oh, no!" she gasps. "That couldn't possibly be. What makes
you--?"

"She stays with them a lot, doesn't she?"

"Well, over school vacations, but--"

"Has for several years, right?"

"The last two, maybe three years. But--but what makes you think
that anything could possibly be going on between Noah and
Melody?"

"I dunno. Intuition, maybe. I'm a very intuitive sort of guy. I
sized you up right, didn't I?"

"Oh, yes . . ."

"The other night, New Year's Eve, when I had dinner with them.
There were little looks--little looks that passed between them,
across the table. Intimate little looks. I'm very sensitive to
that sort of thing, you know. As a writer I have to be."

"Well, I think you're being a little overly sensitive in this
case, Billy. Noah is such a--well, such a straight arrow, I guess
you'd call him. I know, because--"

"Because why?"

"Because--well, I guess I might as well tell you this, Billy. You
see, Noah is a terribly attractive man. And a couple of years
ago--I guess I'd had a little too much to drink--I made a little
kind of a pass at Noah. It wasn't a
serious pass. It was just a kidding sort of pass, I was just
joking with him, really, just teasing him to see how he'd react.
Anyway, he just sort of walked away from me and pretended nothing
happened. That's how I know that Noah would never cheat on
Carol."

"Any man who could resist you would have to have a lot of
willpower," he says.

"That's what I mean!" she says, a little too quickly.

"So, where is Miss Melody now?"

"Didn't Carol say she's in New Haven? With some play that's
trying out?"

"But there's no play doing tryouts in New Haven now. I know,
because I go to school in New Haven. At least I go to classes
when I feel like it."

"You're sure there's no play there?"

"Positive. The Shubert's down the street from where I live. It's
empty."

"That does seem strange. Why would she lie?"

"Exactly. And she left the same day Noah did. Funny coincidence,
don't you think?"

"No, not really. It just--"

"And why did she leave the building through the basement service
door, out through the back alley?"

"She did?"

"I run a lot in this neighborhood. Monday afternoon I happened to
be turning the corner from First Avenue into Fifty-third Street,
and I saw Miss Melody coming out of the alley, hurrying, carrying
a suitcase. She looked as though she was sneaking away. Escaping,
didn't want to be seen. I stepped into a doorway so she wouldn't
see me. But she practically ran to Fifty-second and flagged an
eastbound taxi."

"Well, I can't explain that unless--oh, my God!"

He lights another cigarette. "Unless what?" he says.

"I just remembered something! I was talking to Frank on the phone
Monday night, and he said he'd seen somebody who looked just like
Melody in the lobby of that hotel they're staying at, in Atlantic
City. But when he mentioned it to Noah, Noah got--well, got all
sort of squirrelly about it. Do you think--?"

"Of course. It's obvious they're shacking up there together."

"Oh, my God! I've got to tell Carol! Carol is my best
friend! I've got to tell Carol nowl" She reaches for the phone.

"Now, wait a minute," he says, holding out his hand. "Let's think
this thing through. Let's not go off halfcocked." "But, my God,
this is awfull The girl is--that girl is Anne's age--even
younger!"

"That's right. It's what's called contributing--"

"To the delinquency of a minor! Oh, God ... oh, God . . ."

"Male menopause. Male midlife crisis. It happens to a lot of men
Noah's age. They can't help it. But that little girl knows what
she's doing. I can tell that little tramp's been around the block
more than once."

"Oh, and Carol is always going on about what a sweet child Melody
is. And, all along, this has been going on. Poor Carol! I really
think one of us has got to tell Carol about this at once!"

"No, wait," he says. "I think we've got to be a little more
subtle about this. A little more--artistic."

"Before this goes any further?"

"Ideally, from an artistic standpoint, Carol should be the last
person to find out about it. And she should find out about it
from a totally unexpected source. Not from someone obvious, like
you or me. Georgette Van Degan?"

"Georgette Van Degan? Why her? Why should we tell her? I hardly
know her. I just met her for the first time this afternoon."

"This coming-out party she's planning for Anne and her daughter.
This might make her change her mind about that."

"And ruin little Anne's coming-out party? That doesn't sound very
nice, Billy."

He steeples his fingers. "I'm thinking of the big picture," he
says. "The artistic picture. It's my creative juices working. I'm
thinking of what will make the best story. Carol doesn't sound
too keen on the whole coming out party idea. If Georgette pulled
out, that would give Carol an excuse to pull out, too. In the
long run, you'd be doing Carol a big favor. I'm just thinking out
loud. I admit it's not perfect, but it might be worth a try."

"But I'm thinking of giving Carol a chance to slap a
separate-maintenance suit on Noah Liebling so fast he won't know
what hit him! That's the kind of favor I'd like to do for her.
There's a lot of money there, you know. Not just him, perhaps,
but his mother. Carol could come out of this a very rich woman."

He winks at her. "Think she'd split it with you?"

"Why, Billy, I never thought of that. Do you think I should ask
her?"

"Only kidding," he says. "You see, the one I'm trying to nail is
Melody. That little tramp needs to be knocked down a peg or two."

She giggles. "Or knocked upl That would teach Noah a lesson,
wouldn't it?"

"No, she's too clever to let that happen."

"But the one I'd like to nail is Noah. One little peck on the
cheek was all I gave him. And he pulled away from me as though
I'd made a major pass. I was--insulted, is what I was!"

"Of course you were, Beryl baby."

"Carol should never have married Noah in the first place. Her
mother told her so. She told me her mother had an absolute fit
when she married Noah!"

"Her mother . . ."

"An absolute fit!"

He snaps his fingers. "Her mother's the one!"

"The one for what?"

"To tell Carol what's going on. Mother would say, 'I told you
so.' Where is her mother?"

"I have no idea. Some nursing home. Carol doesn't like to talk
about it."

He strokes his chin thoughtfully. "I might have a way--I might be
able to engineer a way--of finding out. Yes. You see, it gives
this little scandal we've uncovered a certain symmetry. Years go
by, but in the end Mother has the last word. Mother knows best.
Thank you, Beryl baby!"

She stares at the ceiling. "The more I think about it-- one
little peck on the cheek was all it was. And he reacted as if--"

He rolls over on his side and drops his cigarette into a
half-filled wineglass, where it goes out with a quick sizzle.
"Speaking of little pecks," he says, "and little peckers, look
what's happened to my little pecker. It
suddenly got big again." He rolls onto his back, smiling at her
and stroking himself. "Take a look at this. You ready for another
little go-around, teacher?"

"Oh, Billy, do you really think we should! After what you've told
me, it seems sort of--"

"Look at it this way. Why should those two be the only ones who
are getting any?" He jumps to his feet and stands in front of
her, displaying himself. "You like a little S and M?"

"Well, I don't know. I've never really--"

"Nothing too kinky. But I've got a nice pair of police issue
handcuffs."

She is giggling again. "You mean like--Gerald's Game!"

He laughs. "I wouldn't cuff you to the bedposts," he says. "Just
hands behind your back. A lot of women really get off on
domination-submission. Anyway, I didn't bring my cuffs. But maybe
next time, okay? Meanwhile, I did bring this." His jacket lies
across a chair, and he fishes in a pocket and produces an
inhaler. "Ever try this, teacher?"

"What is it?"

"Just a li'l ole popper. Puts kind of a different spin on
things." He unscrews the cap and places the inhaler first in one
nostril, then the other. "Now you take a couple of good whiffs,"
he says, and hands her the inhaler.

She inhales, and falls quickly back across the bed.
"Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!" she cries. "My star pupil!"

"Your star pupil is now your star muff-diving instructor," he
says. "I'm going to do to you what Tarzan did to Jane--something
he learned from the apes." And he flings himself on top of her.

"Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh," Beryl says. "Oh, BillyBillyBilly. Oh, Billy,
I love you so!" "Grrrrr!" he says. "Your Billy has a big club.
Get ready to go Greek!"

 Now it is Thursday afternoon, and Hannah Liebling sits alone in
the library of her apartment at 1000 Park Avenue. Once more she
lifts his letter from her desk and reads it through again. What a
strange, mysterious city New York is, she thinks. It is a city of
hiding places.
Old lovers lie hidden from each other here for years, successful
stowaways in their secret lairs. Her old friend Molly Bernbach
once told her that she had spent ten years living in the same
building as her ex-husband without realizing it, and when they
finally met they didn't recognize each other. And here, all
along, on West Eighth Street, less than a mile and a half away,
has been living George Noville, Radioman First Class, when Hannah
knew him, but now, from his letterhead, "Captain, U.S.N., Ret."

Once again, as she has been doing regularly for the past several
hours, she picks up the receiver of the telephone to call him,
and then quickly replaces it in its cradle in a panic. Why? What
is she afraid of? It is not like Hannah Liebling to be terrified
of placing a telephone call. Is she afraid that a woman's voice
may answer? His letter does not say whether he ever married, or
whether he has a wife living now. He merely says, "I have thought
of you often, and fondly, over the years." That would not
indicate a wife at the moment. And if a woman's voice answers,
she could just hang up, though that seems even more cowardly. A
woman's voice could belong to a maid or housekeeper. The thing to
say is simply: "Is Captain Noville in?" So that is not what
frightens her.

She knows exactly what it is. She is terrified of calling him
because she is terrified of seeing him again. And she is
terrified of seeing him again because she is terrified of seeing
how he has changed, and of him seeing how she has changed. That
is the only thing that frightens her.

Through the open doorway, across the entrance foyer, she can see
the dining room, where her portrait hangs. When that was painted,
Hannah was young and slender and pretty, and soft, and innocent,
and poor. Now she is old, and heavy, and far from pretty, and
hard, and tough, and rich. She can see the look of disappointment
that will fall across his face. And her own look of
disappointment will surely match his, because he is older than
she is--eighty-eight now. No, eighty-nine. And she remembers too
vividly the young sailor who put the gardenia between his teeth
and danced a finger-snapping little jig on the sidewalk beneath
her window. She thinks she could not bear to see that sailor now.
She would probably burst into tears. And how many years has it
been since Hannah Liebling did that? More years than she would
care to count.

And, then, what would they have to say to each other?

"Hello, George."

"Hello, Hannah."

And then what after that? She picks up the receiver, then puts it
down again with a shaking hand.

She picks it up once more, but now it is Albert to the rescue!
Her majordomo has appeared at the door.

"Excuse me, madam," he says as she replaces the receiver. "Mrs.
Noah Liebling is here to see you."

"Carol?" She is somewhat surprised, since it is unlike Carol to
drop by without telephoning first.

"Yes, madam."

"Please show her in, Albert," she says.

 The two women exchange pecks on the cheek. "I tried to call you,
Nana," Carol says. "But your line's been busy-busy-busy."

"Yes," Hannah says. "I've been on the phone much of the
afternoon."

"Anyway, I was at a museum meeting, so I just decided to walk
over."

"Sit down, dear. Would you like a drink? A cup of tea?"

"Nothing, thanks." She sits down in Hannah's visitor's chair and
carefully removes her gloves, finger by finger. "Nana," she says,
"I've gotten myself in a bit of a pickle. I need your advice."

"I see," her mother-in-law says.

"That's not even quite true. I haven't gotten myself into this
pickle. Someone else has gotten me into it."

"I think I know," Hannah says. "I think I've been reading about
it in the newspapers. Something about a coming-out party for Anne
and this Van Degan girl."

Carol nods. "Nana, this Georgette Van Degan is like a bulldozer!
She came up with this idea, and suddenly she was off and running
with it! There doesn't seem to be any way to stop her, and now
things have gotten completely out of hand. She keeps feeding
these items to Roxy Rhinelander!"

"We've never given coming-out parties for anyone in
this family, Carol. We've just never gone in for that sort of
thing."

"I know that, Nana. And it certainly wasn't my idea. But my
question to you is--"

"Old man Van Degan and his wife moved out of this building the
same day my husband and I moved in. My husband spent the rest of
his life trying to live down that insult, and now here it is
again, all over the newspapers. Again."

"I remember you telling me about that, Nana, but I didn't realize
it was the same family. But Georgette obviously--"

"Tell me something," Hannah interrupts. "Does Anne want this?
This party?"

"Well, I think she thinks it would be a lot of fun. What girl
that age wouldn't? Though I don't think she and Linda Van Degan
were ever all that close. But--"

"It said in one of those stories that we had promised to supply
free booze. Who promised that? You? Noah? It was certainly not
I."

"Nobody promised that, Nana! That's Georgette Van Degan again. I
promised nothing of the sort. And Noah doesn't even--"

"We never supply free booze. Not even for the worthiest of worthy
causes. That's been company policy as long as we've been a
company, Carol."

"I may have suggested that perhaps the company could provide the
liquor at cost. But I promised her nothing."

"And we never supply liquor at cost, either. That's also a
company policy."

"Well, I didn't know that," Carol says. "That's why I said
'perhaps.' But she's taken my 'perhaps' to mean--"

"What does Noah think about all this? I telephoned him on Monday,
and couldn't get a straight answer out of him."

"You did! But Noah doesn't know a thing about any of this, Nana."

"He doesn't! You mean you and the Van Degan woman have been
planning this--this spectacle, and you haven't even discussed it
with your husband, who's going to be paying all the bills?"

Carol bites her lip. "Noah's been out of town all week,
as you know, while all this has been going on. And he's got so
many other, much more important things on his mind. I didn't want
to bother him with this. But now it's gotten completely out of
hand."

"What things? What important things has he got on his mind?"

"Ballachulish-Fifteen? Don't you remember? He's making the
presentation to the sales conference tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh, that," Hannah says.

Oh, that, Carol thinks. Noah has told her that it will cost the
company between twenty and thirty million to launch and
test-market a new label, and his mother is able to dismiss it
with "Oh, that," Noah has devoted most of his time and energy to
this for more than a year. He has agonized over it, spent
sleepless nights over it. But now it is just "Oh, that."

Slowly, Hannah Liebling rises from her desk and begins moving
about the room, fingering small objects as she goes--a crystal
paperweight, an onyx obelisk. "The thing is," she says, "that
this is all wrong from a public relations standpoint. I've
discussed this with my sister Bathy, and she agrees with me. For
years, you know, Bathy was our director of advertising and public
relations, and she was the best one we ever had. We both feel
that the publicity your proposed party has already generated has
been very bad for us. Any more publicity like this will only make
it worse. You see, we've always tried to project an image
of--what shall I call it? Probity. Responsibility.
Respectability. Trustworthiness. 'Ingraham--the label you can
trust.' That was one of our slogans. We showed a visual of the
Leaning Tower of Pisa. The subliminal message was, 'You can trust
the Leaning Tower of Pisa never to fall down,' The copy said,
'You can trust Ingraham never to let you down,' Bathy's famous
Christmas ad. It stressed sobriety--responsibility, consideration
for others. We've tried to avoid anything that would show us as
frivolous, or extravagant, or show offy. People think the
Lieblings have too much money, anyway. And they think of it as
dirty money, tainted money, money with the blood of bootleggers
all over it. Anything we do in any public way that seems the
least bit ostentatious, like the kind of party I've been reading
about, simply reinforces this view in the public's mind, and
that's not good for business. That's why we've tried to stay out
of the society columns and the gossip columns. An article in
Fortune or Forbes or Business Week we don't mind. But stories in
Roxy Rhinelander's column are something else again. Reading
things like that, the public, who are our customers, think,
'Well, what can you expect? Rich, vulgar Jews.' "

"I know exactly what you mean, Nana," Carol says. "That's why I
came to see you today. To ask you how we can contain, or control,
this situation."

"We? It seems to me that you've got yourself into this situation,
Carol. It's up to you to get yourself out of it. Why not just
tell this woman that you've changed your mind? Just tell the
woman no."

"I can do that," Carol says quickly. "But there's another aspect
to this that I'd like you to consider, Nana."

"Oh? And what is that, pray?"

"Truxton and Georgette Van Degan own an extremely important
collection of Chinese and Japanese export porcelains. The
collection was started by Mr. Van Degan's great-grandfather. His
grandfather added to it enormously, and his father added even
more. Right now it is one of the most important collections in
the world, probably worth at least a hundred million dollars, but
really priceless. The public has never seen any of it. Some of it
is displayed in vitrines in the Van Degans' Fifth Avenue
apartment, but most of it is in storage, gathering dust. It's
such a shame--a princely collection."

"They've always been in the glass business. It stands to reason
they'd collect porcelain. But what's that got to do with a
coming-out party for a couple of silly girfa?" She pronounces it
guhuhls.

"The museum would die to have the Van Degan collection. The
museum's been after it for years, and even Mrs. Astor couldn't
get them to part with it. Now, thanks to me, the Van Degans are
thinking of offering at least part of it. Their lawyers are
working on a gift proposal now. But there's a hitch. Mrs. Van
Degan told me last night that if I didn't go along with this
party, they might withdraw the gift."

"So she's blackmailing you into giving this party. No party, no
porcelains."
"Inn a sense, yes. But there's more to it than that. For one
thing, just think of how important this gift would be to the
people of the city of New York, and to the museum-going public in
general. And, for another, if I could be the person who got the
Van Degan collection for the museum, it's almost certain that I'd
be placed on the museum's board."

"You think so? That would feed your ego, I suppose."

Carol smiles. "I admit I'd be flattered to be put on the board,"
she says. "I've been working for the museum for nearly twenty
years, after all. But I also think that if I were on the board,
it would add a certain luster to the Liebling family image--the
image you say you've been trying to cultivate for all these
years."

Now Hannah Liebling is smiling, almost to herself, stroking the
facets of the crystal paperweight with the tip of her right index
finger. "Why, yes," she says softly. "Mrs. Noah Liebling, named
to the board of directors of the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

"One of the country's most important cultural institutions."

Hannah chuckles. "It's something my husband would never have
dared to dream of," she says. "If he could have lived to see that
. . ."

"Mrs. Noah Liebling, wife of the president of Ingraham's."

Hannah throws her a quick look. "I'm still president," she says.

"I know. But someday . . ."

"Well, yes. I suppose. We'll see how things work out with this
Bally-whatchamacallit business." "Ballachulish."

"I can never remember that name. They're going to have to get a
better name for it."

"They will," Carol says.

"But there's only one thing I can't figure out," Hannah says.
"Why did the Van Degan woman pick ms? Why did she pick you? Why
didn't she pick one of her fancy friends from Roxy Rhinelander's
column?"

"Probably because she and I have daughters the same age, who went
to Brearley together."

"No, there must be more to it than that. There always is. Oh, I
know what it is. Her husband's behind it."
"What do you mean?"

"The glass business. My husband would never buy from the Van
Degans after what they did to us. But now the son's probably
heard we're about to launch a new brand. There've been rumors in
the street--there always are. Van Degan wants our bottling
contract. It's as simple as that."

Carol feels her cheeks redden. "I suppose you have a point," she
says. "I hadn't thought of that, frankly."

"That's business. In business there's always a tit for a tat, as
my husband used to say."

"Then perhaps you should consider giving him that contract," she
says. "In light of him giving the museum his collection. And my
going on the board."

"It's worth thinking about, I admit," Hannah says. "Though Jules
would be spinning in his grave."

Carol decides to press this point no further. "There's just one
other thing," she says.

"What's that?"

"Noah."

"What about him?"

"When I tell him about this, as I'm going to have to when he gets
home tomorrow night--flushed with triumph, I hope, after his
presentation--he's not going to be very happy. I know exactly
what he's going to say. He's going to say we can't afford this
sort of thing."

"Why? Why would he say that?"

"The way Georgette is talking, Nana, this is going to be a very
expensive party."

"How expensive?"

"I have no idea, but perhaps as much as two hundred thousand
dollars. The orchestra alone is costing twenty five thousand, and
Georgette is talking about hiring a second band, a rock group in
a separate tent."

"Well, money shouldn't be a problem for you, should it? Speaking
of princely things, your husband gets paid what I'd consider a
rather princely salary!"

"But we have a lot of expenses, Nana--Anne's tuition, my mother's
care--"

"Ah, yes. Your mother."

"Noah worries about money a lot."

"Really? How very strange!"

"And so what I was thinking, Nana," Carol says, hurrying along,
"was that if you could tell him that you approve of this party,
that you're in favor of it--"

"But I do not approve of it! I am not in favor of it. I think I
should have made that quite clear by now."

"But if you could say you were, it would make Noah think about
this a little differently."

"What you're saying, Carol, if I understand you correctly, is
that what / say to your husband is more important than what you
say to him."

"Yes. That's what I'm saying, Nana."

"Which is not the way things should be in a family, is it?"

"Perhaps not. But that's the way things are in this family, Nana.
It's always been that way."

"I see," she says carefully. "And I also think, if I hear you
correctly, that you're not just asking me to endorse this idea
for an expensive party. You're also asking me to pay for it. Am I
correct?"

Carol sits forward in her chair. "Yes," she says simply. "If you
could do that, it would solve everything. Unless --"

"Unless what?"

"Unless you're ready to finally turn the company over to Noah."

"My dear young woman," her mother-in-law says, "I offered to turn
the company over to Noah less than ten days ago. On New Year's
Eve, at your house, in fact. I have offered to turn the company
over to him repeatedly in the past--on one small condition. But
he has repeatedly refused to accept that small condition."

"I know about that, Nana."

"Then perhaps if you could persuade him--"

"He'll never accept that condition, Nana."

"Why? Why not? His feelings about my sister are so irrational.
They make no sense at all. He refuses to explain --"

"He feels he was betrayed by his aunt Bathy."

"Betrayed? How betrayed? What did my sister ever do to betray
him?"

Carol bites her lip again. There is no point in pursuing this
line of conversation, either. At this point she does not want to
risk making her mother-in-law angry at her. She averts her eyes
and says, "Noah's feelings about
your sister are very personal ones. They're his feelings. Not
mine. They have nothing to do with me."

"But they do now, don't they? They've become the only stumbling
block. You see, my dear, there are a great many things about
Bathy that you do not understand, and that Noah doesn't
understand. There are things that only I know about, and they are
things that matter deeply to this entire family. I could tell you
things--but I won't, because I promised long ago that I would
never tell another living soul, and if there's one thing I am,
it's a woman of my word. Suffice to say that this family owes
Bathy a great deal. She was treated very shabbily by this family
years ago. She wasn't left a penny in my husband's will, and she
should have been amply provided for. The family has a great debt
to Bathy, and you will have to take my word for that. She has
suffered a great loss because of us."

"What kind of debt?"

"The debt exists. That's all I'm going to say. I know it, and
Bathy knows it, and she and I are the only ones who need to know.
And she's been very patient about never demanding the reward
she's due. Do you think you could convince your husband of that?"

"I doubt it," Carol says.

"Would you be willing to try?" She is smiling now. "After all,
any grudge my son bears against my sister is a very old grudge.
Surely it isn't a grudge worth bearing after all these years.
Could you convince him of that? Could you convince him that
any--injustice--which he may feel Bathy committed against him did
not occur at all in the way he supposes it did? Could you
convince him that he has nothing to forgive Bathy for--that, in
fact, he has a great deal to thank her for? Could you at least
convince him that it's time to let bygones be bygones? Could you
convince him that what he doesn't know won't hurt him, and that
what he thinks he knows is only a tiny fraction of the whole
truth? If you could convince him of that--well, that would shed
an entirely different light on things, wouldn't it? What do you
say? Will you try to convince him?"

"I will try," Carol says. "But--"

"If you could do that, a great many old wrongs from the past
would be set to rights."
"And, Nana, if you'll agree to go along with the party, I'll see
to it that Georgette stops sending column items to Roxy
Rhinelander."

"Roxy Rhinelander! I can remember when her name was Rose
Ruttenberg!"

"I promise that any publicity this party gets will be more
dignified, Nana. It will reflect more--what was your word? More
probity."

"Now, wait a minute. I haven't agreed to anything yet. I'll agree
to think about it. And you agree to try to get Noah to be kinder
to Bathy. So do we have a deal on that?" She extends her hand.
"As my husband used to say, doing business is just giving a tit
for a tat."

"I'll try," Carol says again. "But it won't be easy."

"Good," Hannah says, and takes Carol's hand in hers. "Let's shake
on it. My husband used to say that a man's handshake is worth
more than his signature. I agree to think, you agree to try. And
getting a Liebling--just think of it, the Booze Baron's
daughter-in-law, no less!-- on the Met's board of directors
should be worth the effort, don't you think? And remember I
warned you years ago that being a Liebling in this city was not
going to be easy, Carol dear. I may not have told you everything
I know about this family, but I've never lied to you."

 At Mortimer's, Patsy Collingwood and Pookie Sat terthwaite are
in a lunchtime huddle over Perrier with lime at one of the thin
tables. "Well, I've found out who Carol Liebling's supposedly
best friend is," Patsy is saying. "She's somebody called Beryl
Stokes, and she's supposed to be a real nitwit."

Pookie squeals, "Beryl Stokes! She lives at River House, too! And
she is a nitwit. She and her husband are always voting for extra
assessments. Everybody in the building hates her."

"Well, that doesn't mean you can't be nice to her. Why don't you
have a little cocktail party for some of your River House
neighbors? The Lieblings and this Stokes person. Including me, of
course. And Roxy."

"Well," Pookie says hesitantly, stirring her drink with a
red-lacquered fingertip, "my apartment isn't quite fin
ished yet, you know. My furniture, which is all being hand-made
in Morocco, hasn't arrived yet."

"I thought it was Majorca."

"No, Morocco."

"Well, have the party downstairs at the club."

"Well, actually," Pookie says, "Darius and I aren't members of
the club."

"Really? I thought everybody at River House belonged to the River
Club, lovey."

"They charge a little extra to belong. And, well, Darius and
I--since we have the biggest apartment in the building--we just
didn't feel we'd use the club that much."

"Well, do something, darling. After all, since you live at River
House, you've got the inside track. I don't. And it seems like
ages since you've done any entertaining, darling."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Pookie says, but she doesn't sound
convinced.

"Remember, every minute we waste is a minute that Carol Liebling
and that rat Georgette will be gaining on us with the
coming-out-party nonsense. The reason you and I haven't been
getting any column mentions is because we haven't done anything.
I wouldn't tell you this if you weren't my best friend."
Lightning

 Grandmont is gone now, as you know--gone to a wrecker's ball and
a developer's cupidity. A thousand little tract houses cover that
lovely hillside now as part of a development called, regrettably,
Morewealth Villas. Why is it that the grandest of American houses
seem to fall to ruin first? Answer that riddle.

"After a war," Jules used to say, "real estate values always
drop." Well, he was wrong about what happened after World War II.
Soldiers, home from the war, and rich from GI loans, each wanted
a little piece of suburbia, a square of lawn to mow, with a
split-level house at its center with foundation plantings and a
picture window and, framed in that window, the ultimate table
lamp. And yet Jules Liebling hung on to Grandmont, even as he saw
estates all around him being torn down and broken up into
half-acre lots. After the war Grandmont became an anachronism.
But then perhaps it always was.

On that particular early spring evening, it was unseasonably
warm, and there was a full moon, and it reflected palely on the
surface of the river below, and Hannah was out walking in the
garden. The gardens of Grandmont had become her particular
domain. She had supervised the design and planting of the
parterres, and the beds of perennials that they contained, and
now she oversaw their pruning and maintenance. As she usually did
when she walked in the garden, she carried a small pair of
pruning shears in one hand, and a basket over her arm to collect
the cuttings, as she snipped off the occasional browned leaf, or
blasted bud, or pulled the occasional weed the gardeners had
missed, always paying particular attention to her dahlias,
including the prizewinning white hybrid which she had developed
herself,
and which had been named the Hannah Sachs Liebling dahlia.
Turning a corner on one of the graveled walks, she was startled
to come upon a figure in dahlia white seated on a stone bench,
and she let out a little cry. "Oh, it's you!" she said.

"Just me," Bathy said.

She sat down beside her on the bench. "Lovely night, isn't it?"
she said.

"Yes." The night sky brightened briefly, then was dark again.
"Lightning," Bathy said. "Is there going to be a storm?"

"Just heat lightning, I expect," Hannah said. "See?-- there's no
thunder." There was another small flash, followed by dark and
silence.

"You were very quiet at dinner tonight," Hannah said.

"Was I? I'm sorry."

In fact, Hannah had noticed a change come over Bathy hi recent
weeks. She had become more quiet and withdrawn, not her usual
bright and cheerful self. Hannah already had an inkling of what
it might be, but she had waited for a moment to be alone with
Bathy, like right now, and for Bathy to tell her what it was. "Is
something on your mind, dear?" she asked her at last.

"Yes, there is," Bathy said. "Yes, I'm afraid there very much
is."

"Something's troubling you."

"Yes. Oh, yes." She turned away from her. "Oh, Hannah, the most
awful thing has happened!"

"Can you tell me what it is?"

"I don't even know how it happened. I don't think I wanted it to
happen. It just--happened! It happened in Toronto, last month,
when Jules and I went up to interview the new Canadian ad agency.
We were celebrating the new contract, and we--"

"I see," Hannah said quietly. "I see. You made love."

"Will you ever forgive me, Hannah? He made me swear I'd never
tell you, Hannah, but I had to tell you. I couldn't go on living
here like this, knowing what I'd done to my own big sister,
without--"

"Let's make one thing quite clear," Hannah said. "I'm never going
to tell him that you told me, and you're never going to tell him
that you told me, either. Let's make that solemn promise to each
other right here and now."
"But what am I going to do? I mean, I love working for Ingraham
and I--"

"What are you going to do? Nothing."

"But I can't stay here like this, Hannah, after what's happened.
If Settee were still alive, I'd go to her, but--"

"Nonsense. I promised Mama on her deathbed that I'd always take
care of you, and I always will. You belong right here with Jules
and me."

"You mean--"

"This is not the end of the world, Bathy. Things like this have
happened before in families. And they'll happen again, as long as
there are men and women. But I'm not going to let you throw your
life away, and your brilliant career, over what happened one
night in Toronto."

"But, you see--it was--it's--oh, it's such a mess!"

"I see," Hannah said again. "I think you're trying to tell me
you're in love with him."

"Yes. That's the worst part. I think I am."

"If you think you are, you are. Is he in love with you?"

She shook her head. "No," she said miserably. "I don't think
Jules is in love with anybody, except--"

"Except himself? Don't say that. Jules is a very complicated man,
with powerful needs. He needs love."

"I was going to say except his company. And you. If he didn't
care for you, why would he make me promise never to tell you
about this affair we've been having? If he didn't care for you,
he'd offer to divorce you and marry me. But he'll never do that!"

"No, I suppose not."

"Because he cares so God damn much about what the God damn public
thinks of the great Jules Liebling!"

"Now, Bathy, don't say that about him, either. I think it's more
likely that he loves us both, but in different ways. I think
that's possible, don't you? He needs us both."

"How? How does he need me?"

"I'll tell you how. He needs you because you're like the son he's
always wanted, the son who'd take an interest in the business,
ever since Cyril turned out to be a-- disappointment to him. He
needs you because you're
brilliant at what you do. And now I think he also needs you
for--the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"The physical side of marriage, as Mama used to call it. I'm
afraid I've never been very good at that, with Jules. He still
wants another son, and I've been trying to give him one. But it
hasn't worked, and I think it's because he knows my heart isn't
in it. But it's hard to pretend that one enjoys that sort of
thing when--well, when one just doesn't."

Bathy looked at her. "Did you ever enjoy sex with Jules, Hannah?"
she asked her.

"No, looking back, I suppose I really didn't."

"Ever? With any man?"

"Oh, yes. Long ago there was someone."

"What happened to him?"

"He was--inappropriate, or so Papa said. I don't want to talk
about him, Bathy. It was a very unhappy time for me."

"And so you married Jules."

"He was the bird in the hand, as Mama put it. He was attractive.
And very rich. And I didn't want to be a spinster. And he wanted
to marry Marcus Sachs's daughter."

"For his precious respectability, I suppose!"

"That's what the family said at the time. But don't be too hard
on him, Bathy. I think he also loved me. He's been a good
husband!"

"You can say that even after your sister has just told you she's
been sleeping with him?"

"Yes, I can say that. Jules is a good man, Bathy."

"But the sexual attraction was never there."

"Not really. I tried, though. I'm still trying, though it gets
harder as the years go by. Sometimes I think that sort of
attraction only happens once to a woman."

"Perhaps."

"And now it's happened to you."

She nodded. "I'd be lying if I said it hadn't," she said.

"And for the first time?"

"Oh, yes."

"A woman never forgets that first time, you know. It lives with
her for the rest of her life."

"That wouldn't surprise me, Hannah."
There was a flicker of heat lightning in the sky, and the words
floated into Hannah's mind: Bathy, perhaps there's something I
ought to tell you now. . . . But she kept the words buried there,
unspoken. Instead she said, "Bathy, this could be good for us
both. For your career and--"

Bathy turned to her almost angrily. "Are you trying to say that I
did this to try to build a fire under my career? Went to bed with
the boss to try to get a promotion? Like a Joan Crawford movie?
I'm not that stupid, Hannah. I know how to advance my career
without that! I didn't set out to seduce him. And he didn't set
out to seduce me. It just--happened."

"I know, I know," Hannah said soothingly. "I know how these
things happen. They happen. I just meant that this is another
reason why he needs you. You can satisfy him in that way. He
needs us both. Perhaps we should both consider ourselves lucky.
Perhaps this was inevitable."

"Lucky? Inevitable? Oh, Hannah, what strange words you use to
describe this mess we're both in!"

"Why not? Where's the mess? Show me a mess. I don't see a mess. I
see a solution to a lot of problems. Of course you're lucky.
Jules is still a very attractive man. He needs you. You're
seventeen years younger than I am. You're beautiful. You love
him. I'm--well, I'm not so young, not so beautiful anymore, and
child-bearing has certainly taken its toll on what was considered
my best point, my figure. You can make him happier, and if he's
happier, I'll be happier. We'll all be happier, as a family.
Perhaps this is the best thing that could have happened to us,
Bathy."

"You're saying we could--share him?"

"Why not? We've always been--well, closer than most sisters.
Somehow, to me, this makes you seem even closer."

Bathy shivered. "I'm not sure I'm going to be able to do this,
Hannah."

"Of course you can. You're a Sachs. Sachses take care of one
another. Sachses can do anything. Sachses are geniuses. Descended
from rabbis and scholars
since the sixteenth century. Royal blood. Sachses are tough.
We're not put together with flour-and-water paste."

"It won't be easy, Hannah."

"Mama used to say, 'Anything worth doing is worth working hard to
do,' and Mama was only a Sachs by marriage, but it rubbed off.
We'll both work, and we'll both work hard."

"How do we--begin?"

"Begin? We begin right now." She reached for her basket and her
pruning shears, and rose to her feet. "Let's go find him. He's
probably in the library now, having a brandy and a cigar, and
probably feeling miserable with guilt--as miserable as you were
when I found you sitting here. Let's make him happy, Bathy. I'll
play the piano, and you can sing. He loves to hear you sing.
Let's fuss over him the way he loves to be fussed over." She
reached out and took Bathy's hand, but Bathy held back.

"But won't we both be just becoming--more of Jules's
possessions?" she asked. "Like Mozart manuscripts?"

Hannah laughed. "We are already," she said. "And we're all in
safekeeping here at Grandmont." She pulled the reluctant Bathy to
her feet, and the two women started up the garden path together
toward the lighted house. "We'll say we've been out strolling in
the garden, looking at the heat lightning." She took Bathy's arm.
"We'll act as though nothing at all has changed," she said.

"Even though everything has," Bathy said. "Even though nothing
will ever be the same."

Suddenly Hannah stopped, gripping Bathy's arm. "I think perhaps
there's something that I ought to tell you now," she said.

"What is it, Hannah?"

"No. Never mind. It's nothing," she said. They continued toward
the house.

And later the sounds of singing and laughter could be heard from
the open windows across the warm spring night, while in the
moonlight the huge moon-white blooms of the Hannah Sachs Liebling
dahlias nodded in the breeze.
If it hadn't been for that arrangement with Bathy, Hannah thinks
now, where would I be today? Who knows? But certainly not in an
apartment at 1000 Park Avenue, with a voting majority of
Ingraham's stock. What wisdom I had then! she thinks. What
tolerance. What understanding. What forbearance. What
sophistication, to propose an arrangement that was so mature, so
intelligent, so practical, so--European! A menage a trois that
operated perfectly (well, almost perfectly) for the next thirty
years. How proud Mama would have been of me--Mama, who loved
intrigue, deceptions, secrets, plots. Of course, this is all
baloney, she knows that now. She acted to save her own skin, in
order to have her cake and eat it, too.

Why do you deceive yourself, lady? Why do you try to lay at the
feet of others the responsibility for what you yourself did?
Admit it now. You used Bathy, deliberately and heartlessly, to
suit your own selfish purposes. You simply went about setting up
Bathy as your surrogate, your stand-in to do the dirty work you
were too cowardly to admit you didn't want to do yourself. You
hired a stunt girl to do the scenes that would have been too
rough on the star. You assigned Bathy to take your falls for you.
When you began to be afraid that your husband would sense your
indifference to his needs, and would take a mistress anyway, you
decided that Bathy was the best choice for the job. She was the
in-house choice, the choice you could control because she was
already on the payroll. Pretty nasty thing to do, wasn't it,
grooming Bathy to be your husband's lover? But that's what you
did, old girl, old girl. And you did it step by calculated step.
Inevitable? That was not exactly the precise word. Orchestrated
would be a better one. And the word for you? Procuress.

You were the one who planned the sleeping arrangements at
Grandmont: your bedroom, sitting room, dressing room, and bath at
one end of the long carpeted upstairs hallway, Jules's at the
other, and Bathy's quarters in between these two master suites.
The nursery, the children's rooms, and the servants' quarters
were all in a separate wing, approached by a separate staircase.
The three adults in the house were to be free to come
and go as they wished, in uninterrupted privacy, in that house
and elsewhere:

"I have a business dinner in Washington next week, Hannah. Can
you come with me?"

"Oh, Jules, you know how I dislike those things."

"But I need to entertain some congressmen, Hannah. I need a
hostess."

"Then why not take Bathy? She's so amusing and decorative, and
she knows so much more about the business than I do. And the
experience would be wonderful for her, meeting all those
senators. She'd be much better than I'd be at persuading them not
to vote for more of their damned federal excise taxes. . . ."

"I have to be in San Francisco in October. Would you like to
come?"

"October? No, no, Jules dear. In October I have to supervise the
planting of the spring bulbs. If I'm not around, they'll get the
colors of the tulips all wrong. But take Bathy with you. You know
how much she gets out of these business trips of yours."

Et cetera, et cetera.

And soon it was, "I've asked Bathy to come along on the Canada
trip with me. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not, darling. It's an advertising meeting. Bathy
belongs there."

At hotels they always registered separately, in separate
bedrooms, often on different floors. On trains they traveled in
separate compartments. On planes Jules flew first-class, and
Bathy flew economy, all in the guise of probity, respectability.
You could always count on Jules to be discreet, for the slightest
whiff of scandal was what he dreaded most. Still, after that
evening in the garden, Hannah knew the scandal was finally there,
in place and running, and only Hannah held the key to that
Pandora's box. Let Jules make one misstep, and Hannah would
threaten to release all the ills of his world.

Piously, she had tried to tell herself, tried to convince
herself, that she was really doing all this out of her
consideration for Jules. This was all for Jules's happiness. He
wanted, needed--so she tried to make herself believe --a younger
woman's warm and passionate body, and so--out of the boundless
generosity of her heart--
she had led Bathy to be sacrificed before the altar of the great
Jules Liebling.

This was all a lie, of course. It is interesting to see how far
human beings can go to deceive themselves about their true
motives. The truth was a little more stark. Jules's happiness had
nothing to do with it. The fact was that she would stop at
nothing to keep her husband and his money, for Jules and his
money provided the only toehold left in life for her. Without
Jules and his money, where would she go? Without Jules and his
money, who would she be? Cast adrift from Jules and his money,
where would she land? She had grown far too accustomed to the
things Jules and his money could buy. She had grown far too
accustomed to being a rich man's wife. As she approached middle
years, that rich man's money had become the anchor to which the
ship of her life was secured. Hannah might have tried to deny
that to herself then, but she admits it now. As her marriage
entered its second decade, she had grown increasingly fearful of
losing that golden anchor.

Try to get rid of me, she would tell him, and I will take Bathy
with me, and then where will you be? She is part of the package,
part of the deal you made when you bought me.

Try to marry Bathy, and I will spill the beans about what has
been going on, and you, Mr. Respectability, will discover what a
real Liebling family scandal is all about. Try to mess with me,
Mr. High-and-Mighty, Mr. Probity, and the first person I'll go to
will be someone like Roxy Rhinelander, and smear your precious
name all over town.

And so, that moonlit night in the garden, Bathy's news seemed to
Hannah almost like a blessing, the answer to a prayer. Now, if
she could just produce another son for Jules, the blessing would
be complete. Her final obligation to her husband would be paid.
The anchor of her life would be set even more securely. She could
never become unmoored. With a son Jules would remain tethered to
her for the rest of his life, and she would be free at last.

That night in her dressing room, as she sat before her mirror
creaming her face, preparing for bed, there was a tap on her
door. "Come in!" she called out airily. It
was Jules in his dressing gown, and as she looked up at his
reflection in the mirror, his expression was serious, almost
solemn, as though embarrassed by his mission. "Shall we try again
tonight?" he said a little hoarsely. "To make another son?" "Of
course, darling," she said with a bright laugh. "Why not?"
Outside, the heat lightning flickered palely through the drawn
window hangings. Why not, indeed? With the way her luck was
running, this might be one of the last times she'd have to do it.

And yet when she remembers that night now, she recalls
approaching the chore in a different spirit. This was what her
mother had described as a woman's wifely duty to her husband, her
cross to bear. But that night it didn't seem like that at all.
Knowing that she now knew his and Bathy's secret gave her a
certain sense of power. She no longer felt submissive. She was in
control and, wonder of wonders, she'd even felt herself beginning
to enjoy it a little. Is it possible that, in the middle of it,
she actually cried out, "I love you, Jules"? It is possible. Life
is filled with such conundrums.

And when Noah was born nine months later, she thought of this
baby as a special gift from Bathy. Bathy owed this to her.

Owed? Yes, owed. Bathy owed everything to her, her whole life.
But did she owe Bathy nothing in return? No, nothing, except,
perhaps, the truth. . . .

"You must simply forget that Bathy is your daughter," her mother
had said to her. "You must simply drive it from your mind. She is
your sister. It has been made official"

"But couldn't I tell her--someday?"

"Never!"

"Why not, Mama?"

"Because if she ever knew, she would never be able to find a
decent husband. No decent man would have her. She would die a
spinster, the worst thing that can happen to a woman."

And so she had kept her promise, and now Bathy would die a
spinster anyway.

"Just forget she's your daughter. Drive it from your mind. It
will be the easiest thing in the world to do."

But of course it was not the easiest thing in the world
to do. It was impossible to do. There was no way she could ever
drive it from her mind, no way she could simply forget it. It was
there, in Hannah's mind, indelibly imprinted, every waking moment
of her days, and often in her dreams at night. At times in the
past she has thought of telling Bathy in her will: "To my beloved
daughter Bathsheba Sachs, I bequeath . . ." But that seemed too
cowardly, to tell Bathy the truth from her grave. Which was
worse, clinging to a painful secret or breaking a promise? It is
another conundrum, all the more difficult when the secret and the
promise are the same thing. And now, perhaps, it no longer
matters. Too much time has gone by. Top many opportunities have
been missed. It is too late. Still, Hannah reminds herself,
everything you did to Bathy years ago, every way you used her,
every lie you told her, she was--and is, and always will be--at
the bottom of things, your daughter. Forget that. Drive that from
your mind. But it's useless even to try. Even helping Bathy and
Jules become lovers didn't help. It was supposed to help, but it
didn't.

 Hannah is thinking all these thoughts as she wanders through the
empty rooms of the vast apartment--empty now, for her servants
have the half day off. There is Orion on the ceiling, chasing the
Pleiades endlessly across the heavens. There are the twin
Steinways, the golden harp, the Stradivarius quartet, the Mozart
manuscripts. But of all the treasures money can buy, the greatest
is power, and power comes from need. "The secret of a successful
business is making a product people need," Jules used to say.
"People need booze, and so I sell it to 'em." She is in the
entrance hallway now, where the curving staircase used to lead up
to the floor above, where Cyril lives now, and where God only
knows what goes on. Next door, in the library, hangs the Sargent
portrait of her father. "Would you be proud of me, Papa, for what
I did?" she asks him now. "Or would you be ashamed?" The answer
is merely Papa's steady gaze.

What I did, she thinks, was to create a perfect circle of
dependency and need, with myself at the center of it. Bathy
needed me to keep her secret for her, and to keep Jules, and to
keep her job. Jules may have needed Bathy, but I made sure he
needed me more. Noah needs
me, and I've made sure he goes on needing me. Now Noah's wife
needs me, and so does their daughter. Ruth needs me to protect
her from herself, and Cyril needed me to protect him from his
father, and he still needs me because he wants to inherit this
apartment. The need for me goes on and on, I've made sure of
that. Oh, how we all need you, Nana Hannah! their angry faces
seem to scream at her. Is there anything more rewarding to a
woman than seeing she is needed by every life she touches?
Nothing. And is there anything more shameful than knowing the
heavy prices she has made them all pay for needing her so?

Jules's portrait in the dining room frowns down on her now. She
asks him, "Did you ever know how scheming I was? Did you ever
know I was ready to blackmail you to keep you? Will you ever
forgive me? At least I gave you Noah." Naturally, there is no
reply.

But I didn't give you Noah as a gift to anyone but myself, did I?
He was my insurance policy, my secret weapon, my hostage with a
heavy ransom on his head. And there were worse injustices than
that. As all these memories, trapped like hapless insects in the
cobwebs of Hannah Liebling's mind, struggle to free themselves,
she sees the inequities and contradictions. Hannah, who forsook
her marriage, still got to keep the husband she didn't love.
Bathy, who did love him, couldn't marry him, and never fell in
love again. By rights Noah should have been Bathy's child, but
Hannah got him. Hannah is rich, Bathy is poor. Bathy was told the
biggest lie, and yet Bathy is the only one who really doesn't
need Hannah anymore. Is that why she wants to bring Bathy back
into the company? To make Bathy need her again? Because right now
Bathy is the one who is free, while Hannah, who wanted freedom,
remains enslaved, chained to the lies of the past.

Nice going, old girl, she tells herself. You did it all. And what
have you got to show for it? Mozart manuscripts. And a heavy
heart.

The telephone rings, and Hannah answers it.

"Hannah," he says, "it's George."

"George . . ."

"Your message was on my answering tape. I'd really like to see
you again, Hannah. . . ."
In the apartment at River House, she lies sprawled across the
bed, but even in this decidedly compromised position she looks up
at him adoringly as he rebuttons himself into his shirt and
trousers. "You're so wonderful for me, Billy," she is saying to
him dreamily. "You've taught me so many different things."

"Oh?" he says, suddenly interested again. "What sort of things?"

"You've taught me to rethink my whole life," she says. "My needs,
my priorities. My desires. I've decided to pay more attention to
the me in me from now on. I'm not going to let other people walk
all over me anymore. I'm tired of living my life for other
people. I've decided to set out on a new course in life and
discover my true self. And it's all thanks to you, Billy
darling."

"Well, you're quite welcome, I'm sure," he says with a little
bow.

"You've helped to unmask the real woman in me, Billy, I'm a whole
woman now."

He grins down at her. "If a little bondage has done all that," he
says, "maybe I'll leave you like this. Maybe I won't unlock the
cuffs."

A brief look of fear crosses her face. "Now, Billy, don't tease
me," she says. "Please don't tease me, darling. Unlock me now.
I'm getting a cramp in my shoulder."

He has actually considered doing this, leaving her like that. It
is an amusing picture: Beryl Stokes left naked in her bedroom,
shackled, with her hands pinned behind her back in police-issue
handcuffs. Could she dial 911 with her nose or with her toes? And
how would she explain her unusual situation to the rescue squad
when it arrived? With her hands pinned behind her, would she even
be able to lift a telephone receiver from its cradle? With her
teeth perhaps? She would probably be able to operate a doorknob,
by backing into it. And he has the uproarious mental vision of
Beryl creeping, naked, in the handcuffs, out into the elevator
lobby, pushing a button and confronting one of River House's
notoriously haughty elevator men. Or making her way to a next
door apartment and kicking--or knocking with her
head--on a neighbor's door to be let in. And then trying to
explain what had been going on. She certainly wouldn't dare tell
the truth. And then a locksmith being called. The picture of all
this is so hilarious that he laughs out loud.

"Now, darling, no more teasing. Unlock me now."

"Get down on your knees and beg," he says.

She slides sideways off the bed and kneels in front of him.
"Please, darling," she says.

"Now give me a nice lick, and promise to be a good puppy dog."

She licks his trouser leg. "I promise to be a good puppy dog,"
she says.

He pats her head. "Nice doggie," he says. "Nice doggie. Say
bow-wow-wow."

"Bow-wow-wow," Beryl says.

He fishes for the key in his trouser pocket and unlocks the
handcuffs. After all, she could still be of some use to him.

She stands up, rubbing her wrists. "Oh, look," she says, "you've
hurt your hand. Did that happen when we were--fooling around just
now? I know we both got--a little rough."

"That happened several days ago. Slammed a car door on my hand."

"Ooh, poor baby. Look, it's still swollen." She reaches out and
touches his hand. "Does it still hurt?"

"Hey, cut it out!" he says sharply, pulling his hand away from
her. "Now look what you've done! You've made it start bleeding
again, bitch!"

"Ooh, I'm so sorry, darling," she says.

He licks the blood from his palm. "I've gotta go," he says.

"Will you--will you be back, my darling?"

"I dunno."

"Oh, please, Billy."

"Well, maybe. When's your husband get home?"

"Tomorrow night. But not till quite late. Nine, ten o'clock, at
the earliest."

"Well, we'll see."

"I'll be here alone all day, Billy."

"I said we'll see."

"Where do you stay in New York?"
"Yale Club."

"You could--spend the night here," she says hesitantly.

"Can't do that. Things to do."

"I'll call you in the morning, then," she says.

"No, don't call me. I'll call you. Or write me a letter."

She reaches for her robe. "I'll see you to the door," she says.

"No, I'll let myself out," he says, and he is gone.

 But when he reaches the elevator lobby, he does not push the
elevator call button. Instead he heads quickly down the hallway
toward a lighted exit sign and the service stairway. He is
counting on two things. It is Thursday afternoon, and Thursday
afternoons in Manhattan are usually the maids' afternoons off.
Also, he knows that Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are when
Carol Liebling works as a volunteer for the museum. So the first
thing he is counting on is that the apartment will be empty. He
is also counting on the good possibility that the service
entrance, which opens into the kitchen-- the Lieblings' apartment
has the same floor plan as the Stokeses'--will be unlocked. He
leaps up the metal staircase two steps at a tune. With luck, good
use will also be found for his bleeding hand!

He tries the door. Unlocked. He opens it, and steps quickly
inside, and pauses, listening. Silence. There is a penciled note
to Carol on the kitchen table, a good sign. The maid is out. The
first room he checks is the maid's room, just off the kitchen. He
opens the door cautiously. Empty. Then, moving fast and on
tiptoe, he checks all the other rooms, and is satisfied that he
is alone in the apartment. Now, still moving swiftly, he goes
about his other work.

He finds the thing he wants, in Carol's desk in the library,
almost immediately, but there is still much more to do. He goes
through the apartment, room by room, starting from the back of
the apartment and moving toward the front, doing his work
thoroughly, systematically. Order is of the essence here. Ah,
Melody's room!

It takes him no more than fifteen minutes to complete what he has
to do. He then takes one last look around to assure himself that
his work is complete. Suddenly
the telephone rings, and he stops dead in his tracks. The phone
rings twice, a third time, and a fourth. Then he hears a click as
the answering machine picks up, and he listens as a woman's voice
says, "Carol, darling, it's Georgette. Give me a tinkle, sweetie,
as soon as you can. It's desperately important. Bye-eeee."

The sound of another human voice in the apartment has managed to
Spock him, and he rushes back through the rooms to the kitchen,
lets himself out, remembering to push the button on the spring
lock so the door will lock behind him, and runs down the stairs
again to Beryl's floor. He presses the elevator call button, and
is still out of breath when the car arrives.

"Taxi, sir?" the elevator man asks him.

He has regained his composure. "Yes, please," he says.

 Riding back to River House in her own taxi, Carol is thinking:
Is it really such a far-fetched idea--me, Carol Dugan Liebling,
being invited to serve on the board of trustees of the
Metropolitan Museum of Art? Me, Carol Dugan Liebling of Rumney
Depot, New Hampshire, who always wanted to know, but never
actually did meet, the glamorous McClaren sisters? Yes, it is
farfetched. It is utterly outrageous. And yet it is not
impossible. Nothing is really impossible if you have a plan. And
energy.

To serve on the board of trustees of the Met. There are only
thirty-five members, and of course Carol knows who all of them
are. Two have announced their plans to retire in June. They will
need to be replaced. A third member, Brooke Astor, though still
going strong, is already well past her ninetieth birthday.

To serve on the Met's board of trustees is nothing short of
gaining the absolute apex of social, intellectual, and artistic
position in the United States of America. Talk about cachet!
There is absolutely nothing to equal it. To serve on the Met's
board is to help preside over a combination of the Vatican,
Versailles, the Sultan's Court, and the Cave of All Baba. It is
to follow in the footsteps of people like Frederick W.
Rhinelander, Henry Gordon Marquand, J. P. Morgan, Horace Have
meyer, and any number of Rockefellers. The public impression of
the Met trustee is of a person of high and privileged rank,
moving in a serene and elegant world of impeccable manners, one
devoted to the encouragement of beauty and taste and the public
weal. What would having a Liebling on the board do for the
public's perception of Ingraham brands? Hannah had been quick to
see it.

But it is an impossible notion. Carol had known this when she
threw it out to Hannah, almost in desperation, as a bargaining
chip. But now, as her taxi waits for a light on the street of
dreams, Park Avenue, she thinks: Is it?

Being on the Met's board has always been about money, but it has
been about Old Money, about money that has been aged and refined
by time, like good whiskey, with all the rough, raw edges worn
off the fortunes that were made by those early robber barons, who
were never accused--what is Hannah's word?--of probity. The
Lieblings' money is barely one generation old. Still, it is
money, and there is quite a lot of it.

The taxi moves forward, and Carol asks herself: Do I want the
cachet of trusteeship for myself? Oh, yes, she thinks. I'd be a
liar if I tried to deny it. But I want it also for other reasons.
I want it for Noah, and for Noah's family. And I want it because
I want to see the Van Degan porcelains at the Met.

Georgette Van Degan has been trying to manipulate me, and I am
not a woman who enjoys feeling herself being manipulated,
particularly by another woman. She has come up with this notion
of a party for the girls, which nobody else particularly wants,
because her husband wants the contract to manufacture the bottles
for Ingraham's new label. How much would that contract be worth
to Truxton Van Degan? She has no idea, but she supposes it would
be worth quite a bit--particularly if the label is a hit, since
Ingraham purchases its bottles on a royalty based on sales--the
greater the sales, the higher the royalty percentage. And what if
Ingraham were to offer to purchase bottles for all its labels
from Van Degan Glass? How much would that be worth to Mr. Truxton
Van Degan? She will have to discuss all this with Hannah, of
course.

I can be a manipulator, too, she thinks with a smile,
as her taxi turns left into Fifty-second Street and her plan
forms in her mind. After all, as old Jules Liebling used to say,
doing business is just a tit for a tat. I'll tit if you'll tat,
Georgette, she thinks.
Piss-a-ssed Drunk

 ". . . And so now," he is saying, "before we all adjourn to the
social room next door, to sample Mr. Angus Kelso's whiskey--and
his fresh springwater--I just have one more announcement to make.
Our company will award a prize of ten thousand dollars to the
individual who can come up with the perfect name for this whiskey
and this water. Obviously, we can't call it Ballachulish-- nobody
would know how to spell it, much less pronounce it. So we need
the perfect name. This contest, incidentally, is open to anyone
connected with our company, from the boys in the mail room on up,
and husbands, wives, and even children over the age of eighteen
can submit entries. All entries should be submitted by the first
of March. Then, to keep on schedule, we'll need three months to
work up an advertising and promotion campaign. Three more months
to test-market, and then the plan is to introduce the label
nationally right after Labor Day, in time for the holiday season.
Thank you all ... and now let's go next door and try some
Ballachulish. I think you're going to like it."

Seated cross-legged on the sofa with the script in her lap,
Melody claps her hands. "Perfect!" she cries. "Absolutely word
perfect. You won't need the script. It'll go over so much better
if it seems extemporaneous."

He winks at her. "I don't have your theatrical training," he
says. "What if I get stage fright? Forget my lines?"

"You won't," she says. "But let's go through it one more time,
from the top. Remember--look straight out at the audience."

"Okay. 'For me, it all began in the tiny Scottish He presses the
remote control for the slide projector, but just then there is a
knock on the door. The two
exchange quick looks, and Noah looks at his watch. It is nearly
ten o'clock. "Who is it?" he calls out. "It's me. Frank. Can I
come in a minute?"

Melody whispers, "I'll hide in the bedroom. If he needs to use
the bathroom, have him use the one off the kitchen."

"Hold on a sec," Noah calls back, and Melody tiptoes out of the
room and silently closes the bedroom door behind her.

Noah goes to the door, which is on the chain, and opens it.

"I know you had your sign up, Do Not Disturb," Frank says. "But I
gotta talk to you, Noah. Jeez, I gotta talk to somebody, Noah.
Can I come in?"

"Sure, Frank." He turns off the slide projector. "Just going
through my Ballachulish pitch for tomorrow afternoon."

"I need a drink," Frank says.

Noah studies his friend, who looks a little windblown. "My old
man used to say that there's a difference between a man who says,
'I'd like a drink,' and a guy who says, 'I need a drink.' It
looks like you might have had a few already, Frank."

"Okay, cut the sermons, buddy. I still need a drink."

"Ballachulish okay? I've got quite a lot on hand, as it happens."

"Whatever you got," Frank says.

"I'll join you," Noah says. He steps into the kitchen and fixes
drinks for them both. When he returns to the sitting room, a
glass in each hand, Frank is slumped on the sofa, staring at the
opposite wall.

Noah hands him his drink. "Well, what's up, Frank?" he says. "You
look a little--well, not quite in the pink."

"Lousy," he says. "Fuckin' lousy." He takes a deep swallow of his
drink. "Yeah, this is good stuff. This is really good stuff. Be a
hit, I can guarantee, buddy."

Noah sits hi one of the club chairs across from him. "So? What's
wrong, Frank?"

Frank Stokes stares at his shoes. "Jeez," he says, "you're not
gonna believe this. I can hardly believe it myself. It's Beryl."

"Beryl? What's the matter with Beryl?"

"She called a coupla hours ago. She wants a divorce."
"Well!" Noah says, and for a moment that is all he can think of
to say. Then he says, "That's a hell of a note. I mean, I thought
you two were--well, pretty happy."

"That's what I thought, too," Frank says miserably. "I thought
so, too. That's why this has hit me like--like a ton of bricks.
Ton of bricks. But that's what she says she wants. A divorce."

"Any idea why, Frank?"

Frank looks up at him. "That's the thing," he says. "I don't. She
says things like--like I just don't do it for her anymore. She
says I've failed to recognize her needs. She says she needs to
rediscover the child within her. Jeez, I thought she was trying
to tell me she was pregnant, for God's sake, when she told me
that! She says it means she needs to get back in touch with her
real self. She says she needs to remake contact with her center,
whatever the hell that means. She says she needs more personal
space. How can she need more personal space than in an apartment
at River House? She says she needs to vent."

"Sounds like she might be seeing some sort of shrink. Has she
been?"

"Not that I know of! Wouldn't I know it if she were? Wouldn't I
have been paying the bills for it?"

"Well, I just don't know, Frank," he says, sipping his drink.

"Anyway, she wants me to move out of River House. Wants me to be
out by tomorrow night. She's gonna pack my things. Wants me out.
Move to University Club. Someplace like that."

Noah takes another swallow of his drink. "Now, I'd be a little
careful about that," he says. "At least until you've talked to a
lawyer. Somewhere I read that in a divorce, if one party moves
out on the other, it can be considered abandonment. She could
claim ownership of the apartment, and that apartment is worth a
hell of a lot of money, as I'm sure you know."

"Yeah. I know."

"So don't give in to het on that one, Frank. You and Beryl own
that apartment jointly. You've got as much right to be there as
she does, at the moment. So don't
move out. Move to the guest room. At least until you've talked to
a lawyer."

"But the thing is--why? Why does she want this? All of a sudden,
like this. Why?"

"You still love her, Frank?"

"Hell--yes! Sure! Of course I still love her!" He rattles the ice
cubes in his empty glass. "Mind if I have another?"

Noah stares at his own glass. "This stuff we're drinking is
one-oh-five proof," he says. "So I'd take it a little easy,
Frank. This is old Angus's private stock."

"Skip the lectures, Noah. Tonight I feel like getting good and
drunk. Okay?"

"Okay." He rises to refill their glasses.

"You ask me, do I still love her," Frank says when he returns.
"Christ, you never knew her, Noah. When I first met her, I mean.
When I first met her, she was so sweet. So pretty. So innocent. A
virgin, too. She taught school, you know. Grammar school kids.
She was like a little grammar school kid herself. Naive." He
wipes a tear from his eye. "You see, that's the thing, Noah. She
thought I was big stuff. I mean, I had this great job. Making
lots of money She was real--I mean, she was like real impressed
with me. Maybe that's the thing. You think so, Noah?"

"I'm not quite sure I follow you," he says.

"I mean, maybe she wasn't cut out for this kind of life. People
like you. Your family. Rich people. River House. I mean, maybe
she should have stayed a little spinster grammar school teacher.
She'd have been happier maybe. You think that's it?"

"Maybe." Noah nods absently. "Maybe."

"Or you think maybe there's maybe another guy?"

"I dunno," Noah says. "What do you think?"

"I dunno, either. But the thing is, Noah--did she ever mention
anything to Carol? About some other guy. I mean, sometimes women
tell each other these things. Carol ever mention anything to
you?"

"No. But it's been a couple of days since I talked to Carol."

"I mean, I know that sometimes Beryl can be--well, a little bit
flirtatious. With other guys."

"Yeah."
"You noticed that?"

"Yeah, I've noticed it."

"She ever try to come on to you?"

Noah says nothing, merely stares at the drink in his hand.

"You mean she did?"

"Yeah. Once. I didn't take it seriously. She'd had a few drinks."

"That's what I mean. There was never anything serious about it.
It was just Beryl being flirtatious. Just Beryl being Beryl. So
what do you think?"

"I think--" he begins, and breaks off. "A beryl is a semiprecious
stone," he says.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Hell, I don't know what I meant by that. It just popped out."

"You mean you don't like Beryl?"

"I sure as hell don't like what she's doing to you right now," he
says.

"But, Noah, this is serious business. She's packing my things.
She's moving me out!"

"But I thought you weren't going to do that, Frank. At least
until you've talked to a lawyer. She can't force you out of your
house. There's no way she can--"

"Shit," he says. "I guess it doesn't matter. It's still a hell of
a way for me to have to go home tomorrow night. All my things
packed."

"I think you ought to call your lawyer first thing in the
morning, Frank."

"Yeah." He wipes another tear from his eye. "Like a ton of
bricks," he says.

The two men sit in silence for a while, nursing their drinks.

"Use your John," Frank says, rising a little unsteadily.

"Use the one off the kitchen," Noah says quickly.

He uses Frank's absence to fill his drink, a little darker this
time. Somehow he feels things are spinning out of control. Bring
it back, he tells himself. Bring it back under control.

"You ever cheat on her, Frank?" he asks as Frank comes back into
the room.

"Never. I swear to God I've never cheated on her, Noah, not once
in twelve years of marriage. Oh, I've
thought about it, of course. I wouldn't be normal if I hadn't
thought about it, I mean. And I've had opportunities. I wouldn't
lie to you and say I haven't had opportunities, when it would've
been a pretty easy thing to do. But I've never done it, Noah. I
swear to God." "Maybe it would be better if you had."

"What d'you mean by that?"

"Hell, I don't know what I mean by that. Maybe you'd feel better
about what's happening now is what I mean. The present
circumstances is what I mean."

The two sit down again and sip their drinks, and another silence
falls.

"And no kids," Noah says at last.

"Never wanted any. She said she'd had enough of kids when she was
a schoolteacher. Seen how tough they were to raise. In today's
world. Kids get promiscuous real young these days."

"They do?"

"Oh, yeah."

Then Noah says, "So how does it make you feel, Frank? Knowing
that you've never cheated on your wife. Does it make you
feel--proud?"

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I guess it makes me feel proud of myself
for having resisted the temptation."

"Lead us not into temptation. That's what the Christian prayer
says."

"Right! So what about you, Noah? You ever cheated on Carol?"

"Let's have another drink," Noah says, rising to collect their
glasses.

"Damned good scotch. You got a winner here, buddy. So answer me.
You ever cheated on Carol? You've been married longer than I
have."

"Yes," he says, pouring the whiskey, splashing a little on the
countertop as he does so.

"You make it sound like it was kind of recent."

"Do I? I didn't mean to make it sound that way."

Frank smiles slightly. "Was it that Jackie from the Louisville
office? She looked like she was trying to put the make on you at
the kickoff cocktail party the other night."

Noah laughs softly. "No, it wasn't Jackie from Louisville," he
says.
"But seriously, Noah. That's the thing about you, you see. I
mean, you're a really nice-looking guy. Me? Well, hell, I know
I'm no Robert Redford. Losing my hair. Gut's not as flat as it
used to be. But you, you've kept yourself in great shape. So
you've probably had a lot more opportunities than I have--not
that I haven't had quite a few opportunities. Just last night, in
fact. Hooker at the bar. And your family owns this company. That
makes a difference, too, in the way women look at you."

"You think it does, Frank?"

"Hell, yes! That sort of thing turns women on. I've heard a lot
of women say you turn them on. Why, I bet there's not a woman
works for this company who wouldn't hop into the sack with you if
you asked them to--including Edith, your secretary."

"Aw, Edith's an old maid."

"What's that got to do with it? I'm talking about the way women
are when it comes to wanting to hop into the sack with the
executive v.p., with the boss's mother. I mean son."

Noah studies his friend's worried, homely-handsome face. "Well,
maybe," he says at last. "You know you're very loyal, Frank.
That's a fine quality you have. You're a very loyal human being.
Someday you're going to be executive v.p., Frank--you know that?
Beryl is damned lucky to have you, if you ask me. And if she's
really serious about this divorce business, she's throwing over a
damned good thing. She's behaving like a goddamned fool, and you
can tell her I said so."

"Maybe, but you see, this is what's thrown such a curve at me.
Knowing I've never cheated on her and now finding out she's been
cheating on me."

"But you don't know that, Frank," he says, handing him his drink.
"You don't actually know that, do you?"

"What else could it be?"

"A lot of things. Sometimes women--women and men, too, I
guess--just get tired of a relationship. The old fire just
fizzles out. And when the flame dies--"

"Smoke gets in your eyes. That's from a song." He brushes his
fingertips along the skin under his eyes once more.

"Maybe it's time to try courting her again. Have you thought
about that?" But somehow his words sound
loose and hollow and without conviction. "Hell, don't listen to
me," he says. "I don't know what I'm talking about. Talk to a
lawyer."

Frank shakes his head slowly back and forth. "She says her mind's
made up," he says. "She says she wants no further discussion on
the subject. Those were her exact words. No further discussion.
I'm to move out of the apartment. That's it. Jeez!"

Noah sighs. "Well, it's a helluva note," he says. "It's a helluva
note, all right." He takes another swallow of his drink and
stares darkly into his glass again. The whiskey is not taking him
where he wanted to go tonight. It is not being his friend. In the
odd evening stillness of this anonymous hotel suite, with the
garish anonymity of this Atlantic City hotel furniture,
flocked-velvet wallpaper, swagged window valences trimmed with
hundreds of fluffy, puffy little cherry-sized red nylon balls,
with his old friend Frank sitting there, he is just not going
where he wanted to go. Where was that? The old days. The memory
of college conviviality, and what it was like to be young and
drunk in the places where they all used to go to be young and
drunk together--cobwebby places with dust and dun lights, with
initials carved in tabletops with Swiss army knives, or traced on
ceilings with candle smoke, places with beer labels pasted on
windowpanes, places noisy with talk and the clatter of glassware
and good times, and singing, places that smelled of beer and
piss, and then the long walks home afterward past the lighted
doorways of the dorms in winter, or the longer, wilder rides into
the night with his friends on their bikes. And the easy sex, with
your rolled-up pants to prop up her ass on the grass. Loretta,
Lorena, Louella, Louisa, whoever you were. But all those places
and people have eluded him tonight. Instead, he is filled now
with an infinite sadness for both Frank and himself.
LorettaLorenaLouellaLouisa was no more than seventeen years old
at the time. And there is another seventeen year-old girl waiting
for him now beyond that bedroom door in this piss-elegant
Atlantic City hotel suite. "Shit," he says. "They wanted the old
man to give them free booze. That's all they wanted."

"Who? What're you talking about?"

"Fraternity brothers. Dear old Delta Chi Epsilon."
"I bet it's a younger guy," Frank says. "It's gotta be, don't you
think? A guy with a full head of hair and a flat belly. Don't you
think? That's what Beryl used to like. My flat belly."

"Hell, I don't know what to think," he says angrily.

"Don't bite my head off, buddy!" Frank says.

"Sorry. I'm getting piss-assed drunk, and all you can talk about
is your flat belly."

"Ha-ha. I was piss-assed drunk when I got here, and now I'm more
piss-assed drunk."

"So fix yourself another drink. We're both gonna get piss-assed
drunk. To celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"Not the word I meant. I meant commiserate. With you for the loss
of your flat belly, and with me for my fall from grace."

Frank stands up carefully, goes to the bar, and splashes more
whiskey in his glass.

"There's more scotch in the cabinet under the sink. More hi a
storeroom downstairs. Lots and lots. Cases and cases. Plenty of
scotch."

From the kitchen, Frank says, "You know you've been acting kind
of funny these past few days. I guess you know you've been acting
kind of funny."

"Funny? Funny how?"

"Sticking to yourself. Do Not Disturb signs on your door."

"Presentation. Been working on this goddamned presentation. For
the goddamned meeting tomorrow afternoon."

"It's damned good stuff, I'll tell you that much."

"Yeah. Top me up while you're at it." He holds out his half-empty
glass. "More's under the sink."

"So how many times you cheated on Carol? Lots of times?"

He shakes his head. "Uh-uh," he says.

"So how many times?"

"Once."

"You only cheated on Carol once? Just one time?"

"Just one girl. Woman. Girl."

"Carol find out about it?"

"Uh-uh."

"You're lucky. They usually do. Wives."
"You think so?"

"They notice little things. That's one reason I never cheated on
Beryl. I knew she'd find out about it if I did. Beryl's smart."

"You saying Carol's not so smart?"

"Hell, no. I'm not bad-mouthing Carol. I'm crazy about Carol, you
know that. But, you know, Beryl was a schoolteacher and all
that."

"I thought she was just a teaching substitute."

"Yeah, but it takes a lot of higher education even to be a
substitute." He hands Noah his glass. "Beryl's got an M.A."

"So does Carol!"

"Quit biting my head off! Boy, you're a bundle of nerves tonight,
aren't you? You're as jumpy as a hen with ticks. All I said was
you're lucky--"

"Forget it. It's the goddamned presentation tomorrow. And I'm
taking my nerve medicine." He takes a swallow of his drink. "You
ever been impotent, Frank?"

"No . . ."

"If you ever are, this stuff will cure it," he says.

"So how did you feel about cheating on Carol?"

"Feel?" he says. "Feel?" He is staring into his glass again.

"Yeah, besides feeling lucky she didn't find out about it."

"Frank," he says at last, "am I your best friend?"

"I think so."

"Are you my best friend, Frank?"

"I hope so." "Okay. Remember the first day we got here, the girl
who was sitting in the lobby you thought looked like--"

"Like that Melanie, your daughter's friend."

"Melody. Her name is Melody. Her mother heard a song. That was
her."

"You mean--oh, Jesusl" He sinks back into the armchair. "Jeez,
Noah--she's just a little girl!"

"That's right." I have betrayed myself, he thinks, and I have
betrayed Carol, and now I have betrayed Melody. And why am I
hoping that, behind that closed door, she is listening to all
this? But I am. Listen to me, Melody. I'm speaking the truth.
"You brought her here to sales conference? But you know the
rules--no wives, no--"

"Don't tell me about rules, Frank. J wrote the rules."

"Jeez. Then that Estelle was right!"

"Estelle? Who's Estelle?"

"That hooker I told you about. In the bar. She works here at the
hotel as a maid. She said you had a young girl in your room. She
said she walked in and saw a girl typing. She said she found a
woman's things in the dresser drawers. She said the next day when
she came in there was a girl singing in the shower. She said
Jesus, Noah, she's not still here, is she?"

Noah says nothing, merely stares at his glass.

"Jeez, Noah! Jeez! How did you get involved with her?"

"It doesn't matter how, does it? What matters is I did."

"Oh, Jeez, Noah!"

"That's why we're sitting here getting drunk. That's why I am,
anyway."

"What you just told me has sobered me up. Jeez, Noah, what if the
girl blabs? If the girl blabs, you could be in--"

"She won't blab."

"How can you be sure? If she does, her parents could--"

"She won't blab. But that makes me a real bastard, doesn't it? So
let's drink to me being a real bastard."

"Jeez, Noah. What are you going to do1?"

"Do? What is there to do? Except sit here and be a bastard and
get drunk. The worst bastard is a drunk bastard, and so I guess
you could say I'm the worst kind of bastard there is."

"Jeez, Noah. I don't know what to say. What if Carol finds out?"

Again he says nothing.

"Don't ever tell Carol, Noah. Carol would kill you! Don't ever
tell anybody else about this, Noah."

"Still, I'm kind of glad I told you," he says.

"I'll never tell another living soul, Noah, I swear to God. I
swear to God I'll never tell another living soul."

"I believe you, Frank. That's why I told you. I had to tell
somebody. Had to get it off my chest. I knew you'd
never tell another living soul. Because you're loyal. Loyalty is
your middle name. Frank Loyalty Stokes, who's never cheated on
his wife."

"Now, don't be sarcastic, Noah. I meant it. I am loyal."

"Sorry. Didn't mean it to sound that way. You are loyal. But me,
I'm a full-fledged, licensed, card-carrying bastard. Of the first
order. So let's drink to that."

"Listen, Noah, the first thing you've got to do is get yourself
out of this mess. I mean, I'm sure she's a nice little piece of
ass. She's a cute little trick. Nice tits, nice bod, but--"

"Please don't talk about her that way, Frank."

"But you gotta get yourself out of this mess, Noah. I mean, she's
a minor, and--"

"What if I don't want to get out of it?" he says.

Frank stares at him. "You mean--?"

"What if I'm in love with her, Frank? What do I do about that?
What if I'm thinking about chucking Carol, my job, my career with
this company, my whole life and family, and just--"

"Jesus H. Christ, Noah. That's crazy talk! You don't mean that."

"Shit, I don't know what I mean," he says. "I don't know what I
think. I don't know what I feel. If I'm in love with her, that
means I'm also a crazy bastard on top of everything else, doesn't
it? The only thing I know is I'm piss-assed drunk."

"I'm really worried about this, Noah," Frank says earnestly. "I'm
really worried hearing you talk like this. It worries me seeing
you like this. In all the years I've known you, I've never seen
you like this before, letting something get to you like this. It
scares me, Noah."

"Scares you. It scares me, too. But I'm glad, Frank."

"Glad about what?"

"Glad I told you, Frank. I'm drunk, but I'm glad I told you,
anyway. I'm glad you're my best friend. It's good to have
somebody to talk it over with. Especially you, Frank. You don't
seem to be blaming me. Not particularly, anyway, and I'm glad of
that, Frank. I'm grateful for that. Your loyalty."

"No, I don't blame you, old buddy," Frank says.
"Thanks. Let's drink to that. One more." He rattles the ice cubes
in his empty glass.

But Frank does not stir from his chair. "She sure must be some
hot little piece of ass, this girl," he whispers.

"Don't--" he begins. Then he says wearily, "Don't let's talk
about this anymore. Let's just drink. Okay?"

But still Frank does not move. "And I thought I had problems," he
says at last. "But jeez, you're in even a worse mess than I am,
Noah. You're in a helluva worse mess." He strikes his forehead
with the heel of his palm. "Oh, jeez, jeez, why'd I mention
Estelle to Beryl?" His head inclines slightly to one side, and
the tears stream freely from his eyes.

 When he enters the bedroom, she is standing by the window,
looking out. The curtains are parted, and the throbbing lights
from the neon sign outside illuminate her profile in alternating
colors: white, yellow, blue. "I heard what you said," she says
without turning to look at him. "I didn't hear it all, but I
heard most of it, and I didn't stand with my ear to the keyhole,
either. It's true. A maid came into the room the other day while
I was typing your script, even though the Don't Disturb sign was
on the door. And I do sing in the shower."

He stares at her across the darkened room.

"You told him about us. You didn't have to. You promised not to.
You broke your promise. You promised not to tell another living
soul until you and I had figured out what we were going to do.
You said it was to be our secret. Well, it's not our secret
anymore." She sighs. "I'm disappointed with you, Noah."

"Jesus, Melody--I had to tell somebody. Frank's my--"

"Your best friend. Yes, I heard that. Then what am I? I heard you
say, 'What if I'm in love with her?' That's not quite the same as
saying you're in love with me, is it? It's just 'What if?' I know
what you're doing, Noah. You're looking for an escape hatch--a
way out of this. I heard what you called this. You called it a
mess."

"He said that, Melody!"

"But I didn't hear you disagree! I don't want a mess. I didn't
come here to make a mess."

"What do you want, Melody?"
"I want a man I can love and believe in and respect-- the kind of
man I thought you were, Noah."

"I'm sorry, Melody--"

"You're sorry? I'm much sorrier than you are, Noah. That's how
much you've let me down. I'm leaving tomorrow, Noah."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know. Somewhere. I'll find somewhere to go. I obviously
can't go back to River House."

"But Carol and I are supposed to be--"

"In charge of me?" She laughs harshly. "Nobody's in charge of me!
I'm in charge of myself and always have been."

"Let me give you some money."

She laughs again. "Buy me off? I don't want your money. I have
plenty of money--as much as I need."

"But you can't just--go. Not like this."

"Don't tell me what I can do and can't do. I want to stay and
hear your presentation tomorrow. After all, it's as much mine now
as it is yours. I'll sit somewhere in the lobby near the
ballroom, where I can hear it. After it's over, I'll go."

"Melody, please. I think--I think I am in love with you."

"That's not enough! If you love me, you're going to have to prove
it in some important way. Until you do, I'm leaving."

"I'll try ... I'll try . . ."

"Then try! Try now." Her tone now is imperious.

"Too drunk," he says. "Can't think. But just don't go, Mellie.
What if--"

"What if something awful happens to me? Then it will be your
fault, won't it? You'll have to bear the guilt for whatever
happens to me, won't you?" She shrugs. "It'll be your mess, not
mine."

"Jesus, Melody, don't talk like that. Melody, just tell me what
you want me to do!"

She turns and looks straight at him for the first time, the
colored lights alternating across her face. "Do?" she says. "I'll
tell you exactly what I want you to do. I want you to go home
tomorrow night and tell Carol you don't love her. I want you to
tell her that you never loved her. I want you to tell her that
you love me, that I've
done things for you in four days that she's never done for you in
twenty years of marriage. I want you to tell her that you want a
divorce, and that you want to marry me!"

With a sob he flings himself across the king-size bed. "Oh,
Jesus, Mellie," he says. "I just can't... I just can't do that. .
. ."

"Then you're not the man I thought you were," she says.

"Jesus . . . Jesus . . . piss-assed drunk," he says.

"Come back to me when you've had time to grow up!" she says.

 In the apartment at River House, the telephone is ringing, and
Carol answers it somewhat distractedly. The telephone has been
ringing steadily all evening. Her mother-in-law, who in telephone
calls always dispenses with such formalities as salutations and
farewells, begins speaking immediately in her distinctive voice
with its double-syllable vowel sounds. It is a voice, Hannah Lie
bling assumes, that anyone who even remotely knows her will
instantly recognize, and so she never troubles to identify
herself. "I know it's late to be calling you, Carol," she says.
"But I've been thinking all evening about our conversation this
afternoon. About the Met. Do you really think that if you could
get the Van Degans to give them their collection, the Met would
really put you on their board? Would that really be enough to do
it? Because that would really be a wonderful honor for us, Carol,
for this family and this company. Nobody's ever honored me like
that. The biggest honor I ever got was having a hybrid white
dahlia named after me by the Garden Clubs of America, and my
husband never got any honors at all. When he introduced
Ingraham's Majestic Bourbon, he sent a case of the stuff to King
George the Sixth, but we never heard boo from Buckingham Palace.
The best thing we ever got was to get an ex-king and his snooty
duchess to come to dinner at Grandmont. Oh, he got that honorary
doctor of science degree from that college, but that was because
he gave them a new hockey rink. But from a p.r. standpoint,
Carol, this would do wonders for us--Mrs. Noah Liebling on the
board of trustees of the Metropolitan Museum. The prestige. The
publicity. That's the kind of image we've always been after, and
you just can't buy that sort of thing. But my question to you is,
can you really pull it off? Can you guarantee this, Carol? If you
can, it would be worth buying bottles from those anti Semites,
even if their bid is on the high side. After all, bottles are
bottles, and we have to buy them somewhere."

"Nana, I really can't talk now," Carol says. "Something terrible
has happened."

"What? What's happened?"

"The apartment's been burglarized."

There is a long silence. Then Hannah says, "The Sachs family
silver. It's gone, of course. It belonged to my
great-grandmother. By now it'll be all melted down."

"No, the silver wasn't taken. In fact--"

"Have you counted it?"

"Yes, yes. The fact is--"

"Have you called the police?"

"No, because the fact is that nothing really seems to be missing.
I've called the building's security, of course. But the last
thing this building wants to have is police cars lined up
outside. And since nothing was taken--"

"Have you called Noah?"

"No. I don't want to worry him with this, Nana. He's got that big
presentation tomorrow--remember?"

"Oh, that."

Oh, that. Again.

"And since nothing was really taken--that's the weird part. But
the mess, Nana! You won't believe the incredible mess they made.
Dresser drawers emptied out on the floor. Closets dumped. Beds
pulled apart. My jewelry scattered all over my dressing table,
but nothing missing, not even the ruby lavalliere you gave me.
Nobody can figure out what they were after. In fact, the only
thing that seems to be missing from my desk is my address book."

"How did they get in?"

"Nobody can figure that out, either. The front door was locked on
the chain. The service entrance was locked. Nobody came up to
this floor today who didn't belong here. There's no sign of a
break-in. That's what's
so weird about it. There's nothing except this awful,
unbelievable mess everywhere."

"It's obviously an inside job," Hannah says. "It's that maid of
yours. That Mary."

"But, Nana, Mary's been with me for seventeen years!"

"But they all have boyfriends, those people. The boyfriends are
all on cocaine. They'll do anything for their
boyfriends--anything their boyfriends ask them to."

"But Mary's happily married. Her husband works for the post
office."

"That doesn't mean she doesn't have a boyfriend. They all do, and
they're all on cocaine. This is New York City--remember? It was
definitely Mary."

"The building wants to question both Edna and Mary tomorrow, but
I'm not going to let them. After all, Mary's been with me for
seventeen years, and Edna for twelve."

"Oh, it wouldn't be Edna. She's white."

"But why would somebody like Mary ransack my apartment to steal
my address book? She knows where I keep it. If she wanted an
address, she'd either ask me for it or just copy it out of my
book."

"Well, I guess you have a point," Hannah says begrudgingly.

"Anyway, the security staff at River House isn't very happy with
me at this point. One of them even went so far as to suggest that
I'd made this godawful mess myself, as part of some sort of
insurance scam. Can you imagine that?"

"Dreadful! If nothing was taken, where's the scam?" "Anyway, I've
got to get this mess cleaned up before Noah comes home tomorrow
night. I don't even want Edna or Mary to walk in and see this
place looking like this tomorrow morning."

"Is Anne there to help you?"

"No, she left to spend the weekend with a friend thank God! She'd
be no help. I know where everything belongs, and she doesn't."

"Well, I guess you've got your work cut out for you, Carol."

"I'll call you about the other business tomorrow. I'm working on
a little plan. But meanwhile this burglary
thing has just been so strange--and scary. I suppose I can't
really call it a burglary, since nothing was taken. It's more
like some terrible invasion . . . like vandalism . . . like my
home has been raped. If you could just see this place, Nana . .
." She continues like this for a moment or two longer before she
realizes the line is dead. Hannah, as is her custom, has hung up.
The conversation is over.

 In the bedroom, she decides to tackle Noah's closet first. His
suits, shirts, neckties, and belts have all been thrown in a heap
on the closet floor. She picks up the articles one by one,
replacing them on their wooden hangers in the order in which her
tidy husband likes to keep them: business suits on one rack,
sports jackets and slacks on another, business shirts on a lower
shelf, sports shirts on the one above. Carefully, she tries to
smooth out any wrinkles. Perhaps, she thinks, I won't even
mention this awful invasion to Noah at all. It would only upset
him. She lines up his suits on their racks according to color:
dark blues, dark browns, lighter browns, grays. ... It is an
oddly satisfying work, creating order out of chaos. Performing
this wifely chore, restoring her husband's closet to its original
symmetry, is indeed a labor of love, and she finds herself
falling in love with him all over again. She lifts his familiar
things tenderly, one by one.

Now, toward the bottom of the pile, she comes upon a pale blue
lacy garment that at first seems totally unfamiliar, a piece of
lingerie. Lifting it, she sees it is a woman's nightie. She turns
the label: Victoria's Secret. Now she remembers seeing Melody
wearing this. As she lifts the nightie, out from its folds falls
a pair of women's panties. She kneels to pick these up. These are
neither hers nor Anne's, and once more she inspects the label:
Victoria's Secret again. Kneeling there on the floor and turning
these in her hands, she sees that they are stained with what
appears to be fresh blood.

The doorbell rings with such unexpected stridency that she
freezes with fear. The intruder has returned. She jumps to her
feet and nearly falls forward into Noah's closet. It is after
eleven o'clock, too late for any ordinary caller, and why wasn't
the visitor announced from the
lobby downstairs? For several moments she is too terrified to
move.

But then, she thinks, it is probably just the building's security
people again, with more questions, or more theories.

She drops the objects in her hands and goes to the door. Making
sure it is on the chain, she opens the door a crack and peers
out.

But she sees that it is just Mr. Nelson, Hannah Lie bling's
chauffeur, in his full daytime livery.

He tips his cap. "Mrs. Liebling thought you might be nervous,
staying alone in your apartment tonight, after what happened," he
says. "She thought you might like to borrow this."

Through the opening in the doorway, he passes her Hannah
Liebling's Smith & Wesson .38-caliber automatic pistol with its
bone handle. He offers it to her politely, with a little bow,
handle first.

"Please be very careful with this, Mrs. Liebling," he says as she
stares at the gun in her hand. "It's fully loaded. And if you
need to use it, it's safest to fire from a crouched position."
Morning

 William Luckman is enjoying a hearty breakfast at the Yale Club,
slathering butter on one of the club's famous blueberry muffins,
and rereading the letter that was in his box this morning. "My
precious darling," it begins. "You asked me to write you a letter
. . ."

 / miss you desperately, my darling. I miss everything about
you--your handsome face, your beautiful body, your rippling
pectorals, our hours of lovemaking. Never in my life have I felt
so completely dominated by a lover! So completely overcome and
overpowered by a man. I never thought it was possible to have
multiple orgasms, but you've opened up the true, basic woman in
me. It is so different from poor Frank, who has never really been
able to "turn me on." I'm still amazed that you remember me from
the eighth grade, when you were still a bright, sweet-faced,
rosy-cheeked kid, but already with such palpable promise. . . .

 Bullshit, he thinks. The fact is, I don't remember you at all.

 Since you left, I have been having the wildest thoughts about
you, darling. I have been thinking of what it would be like if
you and I were to run away together, to some secret place, where
the two of us could spend hours and hours, days and nights, just
making uninhibited love. I'm quite serious, my love. I feel
nothing for Frank anymore, and would gladly leave him and run off
with you, if you would just give me the tiniest of "green
lights."...

 Fat chance. Haggard old bitch.
After you left, I had a long talk with Frank in A.C., and I
finally "laid down the law" to him. Now I think he knows exactly
where I stand. But before that I found out a little more about
"the situation" down there. . . .

 Now she's getting to the good part, he thinks.

 It seems that Noah L. has been acting most peculiarly down
there! It seems that there's a "Do Not Disturb" sign hung on his
door most of the time, and he hasn't been "socializing" with the
other men the way he usually does. And then--this cinches it for
us, darling Frank said one of the hotel maids told him Noah had a
girl in there---young, with long dark hair. Frank says the maid
is just trying to be a troublemaker, but we know who that girl
is, don't we, darling? It's got to be Melody Richards, since we
know she's not in New Haven, where she said she was going to be.
Just to make sure, I phoned the Shubert Theatre, and you're
right. There's nothing playing there, and won't be until March.
Why would she lie unless she was going to A.C. to "shack up" with
Noah Liebling?

Darling, this whole thing worries me terribly, and I think one of
us should tell poor Carol what's going on. After all, Melody is a
minor. This is "contributing to the delinquency," or whatever
they call it. Carol could get Noah on the same "rap" that Mia
Farrow tried to pin on Woody. . . .

Oh, my darling, I miss you so achingly, so longingly, ^ from the
deep hunger for you in my groin to the roots of my . . .

 And blah, blah, blah. The letter is signed, "Your devoted
slave--B." Bill Luckman refolds the letter carefully and places
it in the breast pocket of his Morty Sills blazer. He takes a
last, thoughtful bite of his buttered blueberry muffin, places
his napkin on the table, stands up, and goes to one of the
telephones in the entrance lobby, snapping his fingers as he
goes. She has turned out to be a better slave than he had ever
dared to hope for!
And now he sits in Cyril Liebling's office at 1000 Park Avenue,
opposite Cyril at the big carved walnut partners desk that Cyril
bought from the auction of the William Randolph Hearst estate.

"I'm very flattered that you're interested in employing the
services of our agency, Mr. Luckman," Cyril is saying. "But the
fact is that I'm not sure there's very much more this agency can
do to promote or publicize your book. Your book has had so much
publicity already. You've done the eighteen-city tour. You've
appeared on all the national talk shows. You've been written up
in Newsweek, Time, Vogue, and Vanity Fair. There just aren't that
many publicity outlets left."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he says.

"We wouldn't want to lead you down the garden path," Cyril says.
"And promise to get you and your book more exposure than they've
already had. With a book there are only so many things you can
do, and it seems to me you've already done them all."

"You have a very good point, Mr. Liebling," he says. "I just
hadn't thought of that. It's just that I was so very impressed
with you the night I met you at Noah and Carol's house."

"Well, thank you," Cyril says, lowering his eyes modestly. His
tall frame is slouched in the big leather chair, and he picks up
a pencil and twirls it between the thumb and forefinger of his
left hand. "Now, with your next book, on the other hand--" he
says.

"Yes?" Bill Luckman sits forward eagerly in his chair.

"When that's finished and ready for publication, we might be able
to do something with that."

"Gosh, that would be wonderful, Mr. Liebling," he says.

"Something about the secret rich, I think you said? The secret
rich and their secret scandals?"

"That's right!"

"It sounds interesting. So, as soon as you have that book in
proof form, bring it around, and my staff and I will take a look
at it. We'll see what we might be able to do."

"That would be wonderful, Mr. Liebling. I can tell it's going to
be a wonderful experience working with you."

"Well, we'll see about that, won't we?" Cyril says with
a thin smile. "How long do you think that's going to be, Mr.
Luckman?"

"Sixteen months--eighteen, max, I work fast."

"Good. When that's ready, give me a call."

Bill Luckman looks around the office. "How large a staff do you
have, Mr. Liebling?" he asks.

"Oh, that varies," Cyril says with a wave of his hand.

"I understand your mother--Mrs. Jules Liebling, that is--lives in
the apartment just below."    j

He studies the younger man's face. "That's correct," j he says.  I

"Is she at home now?"    [

"No, I don't believe she is. I believe she's at her office j in
the Ingraham Building. Why do you ask?"

"It's just that--well, I know this is probably a very impertinent
request. But if we're going to be working i together, I'll ask it
anyway. I've heard it's an absolutely fabulous apartment."

"It is."

"I don't suppose you could show it to me, could you?"

Cyril's expression grows thoughtful. "Well, I have a key, of
course," he says. "But no, I think not. I don't , think Maman
would like that. Maman's and my relation- . ship is--somewhat
uneven at this point. Perhaps some [ other time, when she's at
home, I can arrange to have j her show you the apartment
herself." I

"I'd love that," Bill Luckman says. "I found her to be ' a
fascinating woman."

"Yes. Fascinating."

"Obviously a woman of many facets."

"Many facets. Yes." Cyril half rises from his chair. "Well, Mr.
Luckman," he says, glancing at his watch, "if you have no further
business with me, I do have some important client calls to make.
I'll hear from you again when your new book is ready."

"There's just one more thing, Mr. Liebling," he says.

"Oh? What's that?"

"Under some rather odd circumstances, I've come into possession
of a certain letter. It seems to pertain to members of your
family. I had doubts about whether to show it to you or not. But
since we're going to be working together, I think perhaps I
should." He withdraws
the letter from his jacket pocket and hands it across the
partners desk to Cyril.

Cyril places a pair of pince-nez across his nose to read, one of
several trademark affectations for which Cyril Liebling is
reasonably famous. The two men sit in silence as Cyril reads.

"To whom is this letter addressed?" Cyril asks at last.

"I have absolutely no idea."

"Was there no envelope?"

"Not when it was given to me, no."

"May I ask how you came to be in possession of it?"

"Now, that was really strange," he says. "I was standing in front
of Saks's window yesterday, on the Fiftieth Street side, looking
at some golf shoes I was thinking of buying, and a
woman--fortyish, I'd say, well dressed-- approached me on the
sidewalk, and said, 'Aren't you William Luckman?' I suppose she
was one of my fans, who recognized me from one of my television
appearances."

"Yes. I suppose so."

"And so I said I was, and she said, 'I read in Roxy Rhinelander's
column that Noah and Carol Liebling had a dinner party for you.
Here's something that sheds a little light on what your friends
are up to,' and she handed me this letter. Then she disappeared."

"Curious. Very curious," Cyril says.

"I thought so. When I read it, I saw that it did contain
references to members of your family. But I have no idea who the
other people are. The letter is signed 'B.' But who would 'B' be?
And who is Frank? And what does A.C. stand for?"

"Frank could be Frank Stokes, a business associate of my
brother's. B could be Beryl, his wife. And A.C. could refer to
Atlantic City, where my brother and Mr. Stokes are attending a
sales meeting."

"Well, I've never heard of any of those people. And who is the
other woman mentioned--Melody somebody?"

"Melody Richards. She is a college friend of my niece Anne's. You
met her the other night at my brother's house, if you recall."

"Oh--the other young girl? I'm afraid I didn't pay that much
attention to her, Mr. Liebling."
"Why was it my impression that Melody had invited you to the
party?"

"Oh, no," he says, shaking his head. "I'd never met her before."

"Hmm," Cyril says. "Tell me, was the woman who gave you this
letter shortish, on the plump side, with frosted hair?"

"No, she was a tall, quite attractive blonde."

"Then it wouldn't have been Beryl Stokes herself," Cyril says. "I
would describe her as quite unattractive."

"But why would Beryl Stokes have given me a letter she'd written
to some lover? That wouldn't make much sense."

"No, you're quite right. It wouldn't."

"My theory is that some man's wife, the wife of the man this
letter was written to, discovered this letter in her husband's
pocket when she was sending his suits to the cleaner's, or
something like that. She passed the letter on to me, knowing I
was a writer who's written on the subject of marital infidelity,
hoping I'd publicize the letter to embarrass her husband. Of
course, that's just a theory. That's just the writer in me,
always trying to figure out motivations."

"Your theory is possible," Cyril says. "If a bit farfetched." He
taps the letter with a manicured fingertip. "We must consider the
effect that this letter could have on my brother's marriage," he
says, "as well as on the Stokes menage. There are two families
involved here, both of which could be irreparably damaged by the
contents of this letter. The contents of this letter must be
handled with kid gjoves."

"That's why I decided to turn it over to you," Bill says. "I
certainly don't want to get involved in this. I knew you'd know
what to do."

"Yes. Well, thank you. May I keep this, then?"

"Absolutely. I have no use for it."

"This is the original? Not a photocopy?"

"As far as I know, sir."

"With the quality of photocopies these days, it's often
impossible to tell. You've made no copies?"

"Of course not. Why would I do that, sir?"

"Of course, there's no reason in the world why I should believe
you," Cyril says.
"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind," Cyril says. "Tell me, Mr. Luckman, do your
pectorals ripple?" He balances the letter between his fingertips.

"I beg your--"

"Never mind. Just being facetious." He rises to his full height
behind the desk and removes the pincenez. "Now I really must roll
my calls," he says, "as they say on the Coast. It's been an
interesting meeting." He extends his hand. "Good day, Mr.
Luckman."

 And now, since he really has nothing else to do, and since it is
a fine mid-winter morning with the temperature in the forties,
Cyril decides to take a walk. He selects a full-length lynx coat
and a walking stick with a silver handle in the shape of a wolf's
head. The walking stick is another of his famous trademark
affectations. If he stays on Park Avenue, he thinks, a street
with very little pedestrian traffic, he will be safe from animal
rights activists with cans of spray paint and hatpins to jab into
his elbows.

He strides downtown, swinging his stick, the lynx coat billowing
behind him, a conspicuous figure on the New York scene.

At Saks, he spends some time studying the windows on the Fiftieth
Street side of the store. Then, for good measure, he inspects the
windows that address Fifth Avenue, as well as those on the
Forty-ninth Street side. Then he steps inside the store. The
men's shoe department is on the street floor.

"Yes, my good chap," he says to the clerk who steps forward to
help him. "Yesterday I happened to see a good-looking pair of
golf shoes in one of your Fiftieth Street windows. But I don't
see them there today. Have you changed your window displays?"

"No, sir. Our window displays change once a week, usually on
Wednesday or Thursday afternoons."

"Funny, but I distinctly remember those golf shoes."

"Actually, Saks doesn't carry a golf shoe, sir."

"Ah. Well, perhaps it was Lord and Taylor."

"Perhaps, sir," the clerk says.

Whistling and swinging his stick, Cyril heads uptown again. At a
corner trash basket, he pauses, removes the
letter from his pocket, tears it into shreds, and drops the
pieces into the basket. Cyril Liebling may be guilty of certain
unspeakable vices, but being a litterbug is not among them. He
continues homeward, a spring in his step and a song in his heart.
Bathy is coming to lunch!

 And now, not many blocks away, Carol Liebling is meeting with
the five-member Acquisitions Committee of the Metropolitan Museum
of Art. The meeting is being held in Room 704 of the Yale Club,
of which Mr. Corydon McCurdy is a member, the room the club calls
its "Board Room." The committee members are poised with pencils
and yellow pads.

"I've had a long conversation with Mrs. Truxton Van Degan," Carol
is saying. "And I'm pleased to say that the Van Degans have
agreed to turn over their collection of Chinese Export porcelains
to the museum."

There are smiles around the room.

"The Van Degans' gift, however, is being made subject to certain
restrictions and conditions," she continues.

The smiles become more guarded, and Cory McCurdy says, "Can you
outline those for us, Carol?"

"To begin with, the Van Degans are ready to turn over
approximately half their collection now. The other half is to be
kept for Mrs. Van Degan's discretionary use until her death, at
which time Mrs. Van Degan agrees to leave the museum the balance
of the collection in her will."

Corydon McCurdy clears his throat. "That sounds very generous on
the surface of it, Carol," he says. "But tell me, what do the Van
Degans mean by 'Mrs. Van Degan's discretionary use'?"

"I think we have to bear in mind, Cory," Carol says, "that Mrs.
Van Degan is quite a few years younger than her husband. In the
normal course of things, Mr. Van Degan can be expected to die
first. I think the Van Degans want to set it up this way so that
if, after her husband's death, Mrs. Van Degan decides to sell any
pieces from the remaining collection, she can be at liberty to do
so."

"I see," he says.

"But," Carol says, "I did get her to agree that before
she sells anything, she will first offer it to the museum to see
whether the museum wants to purchase it."

"Fair enough, I guess," he says. "Of course, another purchaser
might be able to offer her more than we could."

"True. But at least the museum would be in on the ground floor in
any bidding. We'd get first crack at whatever it is. And it might
not even be anything we'd want."

"From the Van Degan collection? From what I know of it, I'd like
to get my hands on it all." There is light laughter around the
room. "Which brings me to my next question. You say they're
willing to turn over half of the collection to the museum. Which
half? Who decides?"

"Here I think the Van Degans are being very generous," Carol
says. "They'd like us to go through the entire collection, and
tag fifty percent of the items that we particularly want. In any
dispute--that is, if there's a piece we particularly want and
that the Van Degans particularly want to keep--they suggest that
the matter be decided by cutting cards."

"Cutting cards?"

"Yes. Cutting a deck of cards. High card wins."

"Carol, this is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This is not Las
Vegas."

Carol feels her cheeks redden. "That was merely their
suggestion," she says. "Any other form of lottery would do, I'm
sure. Drawing straws. Whatever. I'm sure I don't need to remind
you, Cory, that with even half of the Van Degans' collection,
plus what we already own, we would have the most important
collection of Chinese Export in the world."

"Hm," he says. "Drawing straws. Like children on a playground."

"Now, the next part gets a little tricky," she says, looking down
at her notes and deciding to ignore his last remark. "This
involves the porcelains the museum already owns. Mr. Van Degan
would like to purchase the museum's entire collection in return
for his gift."

"What?" he cries.

She looks across at him. "May I finish, Cory, please? I told you
this is rather complicated. I told you there were certain
conditions."
"He wants to purchase our porcelains? In exchange for his?"

"When you're finished, I'll go on," she says carefully. "Yes, he
wants to purchase the museum's porcelains, at the price the
museum paid for them when they were first acquired, which was
back in the nineteen twenties. He will then give these pieces
back to us, along with his pieces. All the pieces are then to be
designated 'Gifts of Mr. and Mrs. Truxton Van Degan.' "

"Outrageous! I never heard of such a thing!"

"His reason is taxes. If he gives our pieces back to us along
with his own pieces, appraised at today's current, real market
values, he can take a tax deduction far in excess of the value of
his gift. It's all perfectly legal. He's consulted his tax
attorneys. In fact, as I understand it, this is their idea."
"Outrageous!" he says again.

"Finally, he wants the entire collection--those pieces that are
currently ours, plus those that are currently his--to be
exhibited together in a room to be designated Van Degan Hall."

"Outrageous. I'm sure the director will never stand for this."

"It's unusual, I'll admit," she says. "But considering the
importance of the gift, isn't it worth exploring? As I say, it's
perfectly legal."

"It may be legal," he says, "but it's certainly--shifty, to put
it mildly. Tell me something, Carol. Is this a Van Degan deal? Or
is it actually a Liebling deal?"

She gazes at him coolly. "What do you mean by that?" she asks
him.

"I mean exactly what I say. This sounds like a Lie bling-type
deal to me."

"And what exactly is a Liebling-type deal, Cory?"

Corydon McCurdy's prominent jaw juts out even farther. "My father
was Richard McCurdy," he says. "Does that name mean anything to
you?"

"No. Should it?"

"Your father-in-law, Jules Liebling, stiffed my father on the
price of an apartment he was selling at One thousand Park Avenue.
That's what I call a Liebling-type deal. This deal smacks of
that. Also, I find it hard to believe that a fine old New York
family like the Van
Degans would ever come up with a deal like this one. It sounds
more like one of those shifty, under-the counter deals that I
understand are so common in the liquor business. That's what I
mean."

A sudden chill falls over the room. Mr. Corydon McCurdy has just
made a comment that, in New York City, is considered both
politically incorrect and politically unwise. But no one in the
room says anything. Carol decides to steer her course directly
into the iceberg. "Mr. McCurdy," she says, "you obviously bear
some old grudge against my late father-in-law, whom I never knew,
and who has been dead for more than twenty years. I don't think
that grudge has any bearing on what we've been discussing, nor do
I think it's appropriate to bring it up at this meeting."

There is a silence after this. Then Bernice Walton, one of the
committee members, breaks it to say brightly, "Anyway, I think
Carol deserves to be congratulated on having carried the
negotiations with the Van Degans this far."

There is a polite round of applause.

Corydon McCurdy scowls. "Well, perhaps," he says. "I'll have to
discuss all this with the director, of course. And with our own
legal counsel."

And Carol leaves the meeting trying to conceal her fury.

 "Well, I've found out this much about that Beryl Stokes," Pookie
Satterthwaite says to Patsy Collingwood as they sit having coffee
at the E.A.T. Cafe on Madison Avenue. "One of our doormen told me
that William Luckman, who wrote that duty book, has paid quite a
few visits to Mrs. Stokes this week while her husband's been out
of town. What do you make of that, sweetie?"

Patsy covers her mouth with her fingertips to conceal a yawn. "So
what?" she says. "So she's having an affair. Everybody has
affairs. I thought you were going to do something to get us
included in the Lieblings' circle."

Pookie looks briefly crestfallen. Then she says, "The Lieblings'
apartment was burglarized last night."

"Everybody gets burglarized. Did they get away with a lot of good
stuff?"
"That's the funny thing about it. The burglars apparently didn't
take a thing."

"How humiliating--to have a burglar who can't find anything worth
taking. I suppose Roxy will do an item on it. More ink for Carol
Liebling."

"Now, Patsy. That's the last thing River House needs--an item
about a burglary. It was apparently an inside job. Everybody says
it was her black maid. I know what's going to happen, though."

"What?" "Noah Liebling's the president of our board. He's going
to use this thing to try to slap another assessment on us for
more security. But we're not going to let him."

"Well," Patsy says, "I've got to run. Consciousness raising
class." She signals the waiter for their check. "By the way, I
got our last lunch at Mortimer's. Today's on you."

"Patsy, you did not get our last lunch. I did. I distinctly
remember, sweetie."

"Pookie, I got our last two lunches, actually. Today is
definitely on you."

"You did not, sweetie. I did. I can even show you the credit card
receipt." She fumbles in her Chanel bag. "I know I've got it in
here somewhere."

"Look, Pookie, you're getting off easy today. Two cups of
coffee."

"But at three dollars a cup! Oh, all right." She hands the waiter
a gold American Express card.

"Sorry, ma'am. We don't take credit cards for anything under
twenty-five dollars."

"But I didn't bring any cash. . . ."

"Oh, for heaven's sakel" Patsy says, and she tosses a ten-dollar
bill on the table. "Keep the change. Now I've really got to run.
. . ."

 On the thirtieth floor of the Ingraham Building, Miss Edith
Ackerman is seated at her desk. But it is not her regular desk,
and this is not her regular office, and that is part of the
trouble.

Edith is Noah Liebling's secretary, and has been for the past
nineteen years. This week, with her boss out of town, she was
looking forward to catching up on her reading--she is three
issues behind with her McCall's--
without much else to do besides fielding his telephone calls,
taking his messages, forwarding the important calls, and faxing
the important mail, to his numbers in Atlantic City. The earlier
part of the week was just like that, routine.

But this morning, seated at her usual desk outside her boss's
office, after finishing transcribing some letters for him and
signing them for him "Dictated, but not signed," she had just
reached into her shopping bag for the November McCall's, which
announced a new and absolutely foolproof diet, when all hell
broke loose.

It was Jonesy, Miss Hannah's private secretary, on the phone.
"She's herd" Jonesy said with great urgency. "We need you here to
help out!" And so Edith has been commandeered by the old lady.
"Since you won't have much else to do today," was the way Jonesy
put it.

"Commandeered" is the right word. This has happened before when
her boss has been out of town, and Edith always resents it when
it does. Miss Hannah does not come to the office on any regular
basis. Sometimes weeks go by without her putting in an
appearance, and some people might say this is a blessing. But to
Edith this is the worst part about it. Miss Hannah's appearances
are always sudden and unannounced, and when they occur the entire
building is galvanized into looking busy and all hell breaks
loose.

Edith loves working for Mr. Noah, as everyone calls him. Everyone
in the company loves Mr. Noah. Edith herself, though she would
never admit it to a soul, is secretly in love with Mr. Noah.
Sometimes at night, alone in her bed with Kitty, her Siamese, on
the pillow beside her, Edith has dreamt that she was being
passionately embraced by Mr. Noah, and awakes from the dream
feeling ashamed of herself. After all, Mr. Noah is really some
sort of cousin of hers, though Edith is not certain how the
cousinship works out. Her father, when he came from Poland as a
boy in 1910, was told to look up "rich Cousin Jules in America."
Work was found for him in the New Jersey bottling plant, and
after she graduated from high school, work was found for his
daughter Edith as well. And here she still is.

Like everyone else, Edith Ackerman feels sorry for Mr. Noah,
always under Miss Hannah's thumb yet never complaining, always
cheerful. Mr. Noah is a saint, always so nice to everyone.

Miss Hannah is something else again. Miss Hannah, of course, is
no relative of Edith's at all. Miss Hannah is what Edith's father
used to call "one of those high and-mighty Deitsch." Everyone
hates Miss Hannah. No, "hates" is not the right word. The word is
terror. Everyone is terrified of Miss Hannah. She is called Miss
Hannah, and whenever she decides to loom on the scene, it is
"Miss Hannah wants this!" "Miss Hannah wants that!" As underlings
scuttle about the building, carrying out her orders. She is Miss
Hannah to her face, as in "Yes, Miss Hannah," "No, Miss Hannah,"
"Right away, Miss Hannah!" "Can do, Miss Hannah!" "I'll get those
figures for you, Miss Hannah!" Behind her back Miss Hannah is
"the old lady," or "the old bag," or "the old battle-ax," or the
old less polite word beginning with b,

When she makes one of her appearances in the building, she
arrives by private elevator and ascends nonstop to the thirtieth
floor, where she is escorted to her corner office, where she sits
in splendid isolation behind closed double doors, as she is
sitting now, presumably. This morning her actual physical
presence has not yet been revealed to Edith Ackerman. It is the
kind of isolation reserved for kings and village idiots. No one
would dare approach her directly unless summoned, and no one
would think of initiating a conversation. The job of her
executive secretary, Miss Jones--and, oh how Jonesy loves that
title--is primarily to shield Miss Hannah from lesser mortals. Of
course, as an executive secretary, Jonesy has her own secretary.
Lately, in fact, Edith has noticed that Jonesy has begun billing
herself on memos as "Executive Assistant to the President," an
even grander form of address.

What Miss Hannah actually does when she visits the big corner
office is something of a mystery to Edith. Because Miss Hannah's
office has its own bathroom, once Miss Hannah is in there, she
never needs to come out. That bathroom is a sacred place. Edith
wonders if even Jonesy has ever seen it, though the building's
cleaning crew places fresh soap and towels in that bathroom every
night, whether anything has been used or not. There is a story,
perhaps apocryphal, that a new girl was
once caught by Miss Hannah using her bathroom. The girl was
summarily fired, so the story goes. This is probably a fiction.

When Miss Hannah comes to the office, she hardly ever lunches
out. Her lunch is sent in by messenger, a "21" Club hamburger,
medium rare. If it is too rare or too well done, an alarm goes
off. No, it is merely a buzzer, but everyone reacts as though a
bomb had exploded in the basement, tearing about, rushing to
telephones, frantically ordering the replacement burger. "This is
Mrs. Hannah Liebling's office calling!"

But other than eat, what exactly does Miss Hannah do in there?
Sometimes Edith has glimpsed Miss Hannah at her big desk poring
over what appear to be long columns of figures. Proofs of
Ingraham's ads are always brought to her for final approval and
initialing. What else? Meanwhile, Edith Ackerman always knows
exactly what she will be expected to do when summoned to "help
out" in Miss Hannah's office. She will be asked to do all the
little things that Jonesy and Jonesy's assistant don't like to
do. When Miss Hannah's buzzer sounds, Edith will be expected to
leap to her feet, seize a steno pad and pencil, and rush into
Miss Hannah's room. Often the order will simply be "Open that
window," or "Turn up the thermostat." Obviously, a woman in Miss
Hannah's position cannot be expected to place her own telephone
calls--though Mr. Noah has no problem doing this--and so the
order could be "Get me Mr. So-and-so." And Edith will be expected
to have memorized all the frequently called numbers so she will
not have to take the time to look them up, or run them through
the telephone's electronic memory bank.

Then there is the important matter of Miss Hannah's Venetian
blinds. When she visits her office, Miss Hannah likes the morning
sunlight from the east, and so the blinds must be tilted to catch
that. But as the sun moves westward, it can shine in Miss
Hannah's eyes, and so the blinds must be tilted the other way. Of
course, since the sun moves north in spring and south in the
fall, the offending sunlight falls upon Miss Hannah's eyes at a
slightly different time each day. And so an elaborate chart has
been worked out, listing the precise dates and times for the
Tipping of the Blinds ceremony. This is
performed daily, whether Miss Hannah is there or not. After all,
who knows when she may suddenly appear? If the blinds are in the
wrong position, there is hell to pay.

No matter what time Miss Hannah arrives, she always leaves the
office at precisely five o'clock, and in a great hurry, as though
she had a train to catch, which she does not. Mr. Nelson, her
driver, is always waiting for her with the car outside the
building's entrance, in a space especially designated "No
Parking" just for her. As the hour for her departure approaches,
another ritual must be observed. At four-thirty Edith will tap on
her door and say, "Four-thirty, Miss Hannah." A nod. Then,
fifteen minutes later, she will announce, "Four forty-five, Miss
Hannah." After the second announcement, announcements are made at
five-minute intervals. "Four fifty, Miss Hannah . . . Four
fifty-five, Miss Hannah." Why these reminders are necessary,
Edith Ackerman hasn't the remotest idea. Miss Hannah wears a
wristwatch. There is an electric clock on her desk, and another
with chimes on the mantel over her fireplace. But the
announcements must be made, or heads will roll. Can't the old
battle-ax tell time?

With the five o'clock announcement, Miss Hannah will heave her
large frame out of her chair and make her way to the coat closet.
There Edith will stand waiting to help her into her coat, a heavy
mink at this time of year. If it is raining, or looks as though
it might, Edith will hand her an umbrella. Then she will hand her
her reticule and gloves. Miss Hannah usually wears a hat to work,
and because Miss Hannah's hands will now be full, Edith will help
her on with the mink hat, securing it to the silver-blue hair
with a hatpin. Edith has often thought of ramming that long
hatpin right through Miss Hannah's eardrums. Last of all, if Miss
Hannah was wearing them today, Edith will help her into her mink
trimmed boots, easing Miss Hannah's feet into them one at a tune,
while Miss Hannah leans on Edith's shoulder for support, then
zipping them up.

Then, without a word of thanks for any of this, Miss Hannah will
stride down the corridor toward her elevator, while employees
clear a path for her, murmuring, "Good night, Miss Hannah . . .
Good night, Miss Hannah. . . ."
Meanwhile, though very little seems to be happening inside Miss
Hannah's office when she is there, Jonesy and her assistant
always make it a point to be consumed with almost frantic
industry--Jonesy clicking bossily about in her spike heels,
issuing instructions in her reedy voice. When Miss Hannah is
closeted in her inner sanctum, an atmosphere of perpetual
harassment hangs over the outer office like a mushroom cloud.
They are always frowning, those two, too harried and preoccupied
to talk as, wearing earphones, they transcribe dictation tapes,
place and receive urgent telephone calls, initial important
documents and memoranda, and fling confidential pieces of paper
from their In boxes into their Out boxes, simultaneously pressing
buttons to summon bonded messengers. The urgency and energy of
these two ladies is exhausting just to be around on days like
this. So vital to the company is the work being done here today
that Edith knows she will have a headache by the time she leaves
for home tonight. On days like this, this office is run like a
crisis center, a war room with an emergency a minute. Working for
Mr. Noah is altogether different, sheer joy.

Edith Ackerman has been with Ingraham almost longer than anyone
else, though not always as Mr. Noah's secretary, of course.
Heavens, she can remember when Mr. Noah was just a little boy.
The standing joke is that Edith has lasted with the company as
long as she has because she knows where lots of corporate
skeletons are buried. Edith does nothing to discourage this
notion, but actually she knows of hardly any corporate skeletons
at all. She has made it a point not to know of skeletons. She
remembers old Mr. Jules, of course. Mr. Jules was something of a
tyrant, too, but somehow that was all right. Mr. Jules was a man.
In Edith's book, a male tyrant is acceptable, while a female
tyrant is just a pain in the kazoo. She knows there's a double
standard here, but that is what she believes. She has a right to
what she thinks.

She remembers some troubled times for the company. She remembers
a time, toward the end of the war, when there was almost a major
scandal involving price fixing. But Edith is not even sure what
price fixing means. She knows that liquor prices vary widely from
state to state,
and in some states from county to county, and in some towns from
store to store. What Ingraham did was to figure their pricing
backward from retail. The liquor store owner needed to make a
fair margin of profit, and so did the wholesaler, and what was
left over went to Ingraham. It seemed a fair enough arrangement
to Edith. But there was a Louisville retailer who took the
company to court, charging price fixing. She remembers how
skillfully Mr. Jules handled it in the end.

He called two of his vice-presidents into his office. "Eddie and
Charlie," he said, "somebody's going to have to sit for this. The
Kentucky attorney general isn't going to let us off unless
somebody sits. It's going to be one of you. Which one of you is
it going to be?"

The two men eyed each other uneasily. "Flip a coin?" one of them
said.

"Now, look at it this way," Mr. Jules said. "Charlie is
thirty-nine, married, with three kids. The oldest enters Penn
State in the fall. Eddie, you're twenty-seven, no wife, no kids."

"A fiancee," Eddie muttered, looking at his shoes.

"Which one of you do you think it should be?"

"I guess me," Eddie said at last.

Now that, Edith thinks, is the way to run a company. It was only,
she was assured, a white-collar crime, which was like no crime at
all. Eddie's sentence was only two years. His prison was more
like a country club, and every week Mr. Jules sent him a box of
homemade brownies. In nine months' time, with good behavior,
Eddie was out, and back at work at Ingraham's with an increase in
salary. There was no publicity. Would Miss Hannah ever be able to
solve a problem as neatly as that? Edith thinks not.

Edith also remembers Miss Bathy. Now, there was a woman who was a
delight to work for, as different from her older sister as night
from day. If Miss Hannah is the Wicked Witch of the West, Miss
Bathy was Glinda, the Good Witch. Everybody loved Miss Bathy. She
was as pretty to look at as she was fun to be with, always a
smile for everyone. Miss Bathy was considered to be the company's
advertising genius. To Edith, Ingraham's advertising no longer
has the special flair it had when Miss Bathy handled it.
Edith remembers the famous "Men of Eminence" campaign, for
instance. In that series famous scientists, educators, authors,
concert artists, doctors, captains of industry, and even a U.S.
senator and a Supreme Court judge were persuaded to pose for
photographs showing them enjoying a glass of V.S.O.P. The copy
stressed that these distinguished gentlemen were not being paid
for their endorsements. Instead, a contribution of one thousand
dollars was being paid by Ingraham to their favorite charities,
though Edith happens to know that, in the case of one college
president, his favorite charity had been his son-in-law's bank
account. Then there was Miss Bathy's "Gracious Living" series. In
that one the message was that, by serving V.S.O.P., a host or
hostess could greatly improve his or her social status. It was
this series that had been the first in history to show a woman
pouring, and even sipping, a cocktail. Everyone had quaked in
fear over those ads, sure that there would be a public outcry
over this, and that the government would step in and force them
to cancel the campaign. But, as Miss Bathy predicted, nothing of
the sort happened, though sales figures for the brand soared.
Those Gracious Living ads, it was said at the time, changed
American liquor advertising forevermore, as everyone in the
industry scrambled to copy Ingraham.

Edith has heard all the rumors about there being a "relationship"
between Miss Bathy and Mr. Jules. She doesn't believe a word of
any of it. Whenever she saw Mr. Jules and Miss Bathy together,
their relationship was all business, and nothing but. Miss Bathy
also supplied another important service to the company. There
were plenty of times when certain corporate skulls had to be
cracked together. Mr. Jules and Miss Hannah handled this
unpleasant work, and then Miss Bathy applied the bandages, the
soothing poultices, the healing compresses of cotton gauze, the
comforting words, the boxes of homemade brownies. After a dose of
Miss Bathy's tender, loving care, the violent dressing-down from
Mr. Jules--who often hurled heavy objects in the direction of
people who brought him unwelcome news--never seemed quite so bad.

Mr. Noah fulfills that function now. Miss Bathy retired after Mr.
Noah joined the company. Edith has heard it
said that Mr. Noah and his aunt do not get on. What may have
caused this, Edith does not know. It is none of her business, and
she has never asked.

In addition to her job and Kitty, her Siamese, there is only one
other light in the life of Edith Ackerman, and that is the woman
she calls the Little Girl. The Little Girl is fifty-three years
old now, but Edith has always called her that, though her given
name is Tillie. The Little Girl is her niece, and Edith has had
her since 1949, when she was eight, and Edith's brother was shot
down in Korea, and the Little Girl's mother didn't want to keep
her. The little girl is feebleminded. Oh, Edith knows this is not
a term one is supposed to use anymore. Today she would probably
be described as learning disabled, or intellectually challenged,
but whatever you call it, the Little Girl's mental age is that of
a five- or six year-old.

She must be watched very carefully. During the day the Little
Girl attends a special school for others like her, and at the end
of the day, Edith picks her up and takes her home to her
apartment in Kew Gardens, where the Little Girl has the spare
bedroom. For the most part, she is sweet and gentle-natured. She
plays endlessly with Kitty. But there are times when she wants to
be sexually active, and then she must be restrained.

The Little Girl is also diabetic. Edith gives her her insulin
injections, tests her urine, weighs her food, and supervises her
exercise on the stair-climbing machine. But this morning she had
some sort of seizure. Her bed was drenched with sweat, her neck
was twisted at an awkward angle, she was making incomprehensible
gurgling sounds in her throat, and she seemed in danger of
slipping into a coma. Her blood-sugar count had shot up for some
reason, and Edith quickly gave her a shot, After that she seemed
to improve, but Edith decided not to send her to her school
today. Instead, a neighbor had agreed to come in and take care of
her. For all the worry she is, Edith loves the Little Girl very
much, and frets about her night and day.

Now the buzzer sounds, and Edith Ackerman springs to her feet,
seizes her steno pad and pencil, and rushes to the double doors.

"Yes, Miss Hannah?"
Miss Hannah sits crouched behind her big desk, many pieces of
paper spread out in front of her. Without looking up, she says,
"What time is it?"

Edith consults the clock on the mantel. "Ten-eighteen, Miss
Hannah," she says.

"I want you to call my son in Atlantic City," she says. "He may
be in a meeting, and if he is, don't bring him out. Just leave a
message for him. Tell him I want to see him at my house tonight,
first thing, when he gets back to New York."

"That may be quite late, Miss Hannah."

"It doesn't matter. I'll be up."

"He'll have luggage, Miss Hannah. He may want to drop that off at
River House before--"

"No. I want to see him at One thousand Park before he goes home.
I want to see him first thing, the minute he gets back to the
city. My doorman can watch his luggage."

"Yes, Miss Hannah."

"Make sure he gets that message. It's very important."

"Yes, Miss Hannah."

Edith starts to withdraw.

"Oh, and one other thing," she says.

"Yes, Miss Hannah?"

"Phone my daughter-in-law and tell her I'd like her to join me
for lunch."

"Yes, Miss Hannah. Will you be eating here at the office, Miss
Hannah, or would you like me to call for a reservation?"

"We'll be lunching at my apartment. Twelve-thirty."

"Yes, Miss Hannah. By the way, Miss Hannah, that Mr. William
Luckman called again."

"Keep telling him what I told you to tell him. That I am not
available. I was not impressed with that young man. He spells
trouble, if you ask me. I don't wish to speak with him."

"I understand, Miss Hannah."

Miss Hannah pushes her chair back from her big desk. "I'm ready
to go home now," she says. "You can fetch my things."

"Yes, Miss Hannah."

While Miss Hannah leans heavily on Edith's shoulder, as Edith
helps her into her mink-trimmed boots, Edith
thinks: Praise the Lord. Miss Hannah is actually leaving the
office early. Now perhaps she, too, can leave for home early, and
check in on her Little Girl.

Miss Hannah straightens up. "Thank you, uh--uh--"

"It's Edith, Miss Hannah."

"Thank you, Edith."

That's another thing. For all the years Edith has worked for the
company, Miss Hannah has never been able to remember her name.
Noon

 "Mrs. Liebling? This is Joanne Satterthwaite calling. I live in
Twenty-nine A."

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Satterthwaite," Carol says. "How are you?"

"I'm well. May I speak to Mr. Liebling, please?"

There is something in Mrs. Satterthwaite's tone, a certain undue
formality, considering they are neighbors in the same building,
that alerts Carol to the possibility that this may not be a
friendly telephone call. "I'm sorry, but Noah's out of town
today," she says. "He'll be back around--"

"Well, I might as well tell you," Pookie Satterthwaite says, "and
you can relay it to your husband. There are a number of us--quite
a few of us, in fact, here at River House--who are not at all
happy with what's going on in this building."

"Oh?" Carol says. "What's the matter?"

"My husband, Darius, and I have decided to head up a protest
committee."

"Oh? To protest what?"

"Your burglary."

"Well, please put me on your committee, too," Carol says
smoothly. "I'm the one who's been most put out by it, even though
nothing was--"

"It was obviously an inside job," Pookie says. "It was obviously
one of your colored maids."

"I only have one maid," Carol says, "and Mary was visiting her
son and daughter-in-law in Islip yesterday afternoon when it
happened. So Mary had nothing to do with it."

"Well, as you know, most of us here at River House try not to
employ colored. They're unreliable. They have
relatives, and friends. They bring strangers into the building."

"Mary has been with me for seventeen years, Mrs. Satterthwaite,"
Carol says. "She is absolutely--"

"Obviously, we can't dictate who you want to hire and who you
don't. But this situation is getting out of control, and our
committee's purpose is to bring it under control. The main thing
is--and I want you to make this quite clear to your husband--we
are not going to let you use this inside-job burglary of yours as
an excuse to slap another assessment on us for stepped-up
security. And if that's what your husband's got on his mind to
do, we are simply not going to stand for it, Mrs. Liebling."

"Since Noah doesn't even know about the burglary, I'm sure he has
no such thing on his mind," Carol says.

"He will, though. We're all sure of that, because that would be
just like him. One of our committee's purposes is to try to stop
him before he tries to do it, I might as well tell you, Mrs.
Liebling. There are a number of us here in the building who are
not at all happy with the job your husband is doing as president
of our board."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Carol says.

"We have quite a number of other tenants on our side in this,"
Pookie says. "We've lined up the Taylors, the Vadricks, the
Gerridges, the Sturtevants, the LeMosneys. We've got Monica
McCluskey and Graham Gren fell. They're all behind us. And I
don't need to remind you, Mrs. Liebling, that Darius and I own
one of the largest apartments hi the building. That gives us more
voting shares than almost any other tenant. In fact, we think
we've got enough votes to call for a reelection and throw your
husband out as president."

"I think you ought to discuss this with my husband," Carol says.
"He'll be home late tonight. I suggest you call him at his office
Monday morning."

"And I suggest you tell him so he'll be prepared for what we're
prepared to do, if he tries to pull anything!"

"Very well. Now, I really must hang up, Mrs. Satterthwaite. I've
got--"

"And you can tell him we've got a plan."

"What sort of plan?"

"For security."
"Very well. I'll tell him."

"It's a three-part plan. First, every servant who works at River
House will be required to be photographed, full-face and in
profile, and to wear these on a photo ID badge while working in
the building. Second, each servant will be fingerprinted, and the
fingerprints will be kept on file in the front office. They'll
have all this done at their own expense, of course, so it won't
cost any of us a penny. And third, if any servant is given a key
to an apartment, these keys must be turned in to the front office
before the servant leaves the building, and picked up when he
comes back in again. This will prevent them from going out and
having their keys copied, and handing them out to all their
friends."

"I don't think you could get anybody to work in this building
under conditions like that," Carol says.

"Well, if they want the privilege of serving families who live at
River House, that's what they're going to have to do," she says.

"The privilege of serving people like you?"

"What do you mean by that crack? I've never understood how people
like you got into this building in the first place. I thought
there were supposed to be certain standards at River House."

"At least my apartment has furniture," Carol says.

There is a little pause. "Our furniture is all being hand-made in
Manila," she says. "That takes time."

"Since nineteen eighty-four?"

"Wait a minute. You've never set foot in my apartment. How did
you know we're still--waiting for a few pieces? Did your husband
tell you that? That's tenant confidentiality. Your husband has
violated tenant confidentiality! We can nail him with that one,
when I tell my committee that. He'll be off this building's board
so fast he won't know what hit him!"

"Oh, shut up!" Carol says.

"Kike!"

Carol slams the receiver down.

 "It sounds like you really blew it, sweetie," Patsy says.
"You'll never get anywhere with her now that you've picked a
fight with her. And you won't get anywhere
with that Stokes woman, either, if she's Carol's best friend."

"She started it! She made a crack about how my apartment is
decorated. I wasn't supposed to take that lying down, was I?
She's never been inside my apartment!"

"Hmm. Now that you mention it, neither has anybody else. It's
funny, Pookie. In all the years I've known you, you've never once
invited me over."

"It's not finished yet! As soon as it's finished, we're going to
have a big party and invite everybody."

"Hmm. Well, if I were you, I'd get after that decorator of yours,
whoever it is you're using."

"It's not his fault. It's Darius's. We can't seem to agree on a
color scheme."

"Hmm. Well, it sounds as though you really blew it this time,
sweetie. . . ."

 "Carol? It's Roxy Rhinelander at the News. How are you, my
darling?"

"Fine, Roxy. How are you?"

"Just wonderful, my darling. Say, a little bird tells me there's
a big feud brewing over at River House. Anything in that for my
column?"

"No, Roxy. There's no feud."

"You sure, my darling?"

"Absolutely."

"Something about security, I was told."

"Really? Who told you that, Roxy?"

"Confidential sources, my darling! Well, if anything breaks,
you'll make sure I'm the first to know, won't you? Don't forget,
I've given you and your daughter quite a lot of nice ink lately."

"There's no feud, Roxy."

Damn her, she thinks. She can see the column item now: "Carol
Liebling hotly denies rumors of a big feud brewing over security
at oh-so-exclusive River House. . . ." Could Pookie Satterthwaite
be behind this? Noah will be furious.

 "I'm quittin', Miss Liebling." Mary stands with her feet planted
squarely in the doorway, her hands on her hips. 
"Oh, weI" Carol cries. "What's the matter, Mary?"

"Girls downstairs in the laundry room. They be giving me fishy
looks. They be saying I robbed your apartment. I ain't been
robbing no apartments."

"Of course you haven't, Mary!"

"I'm quittin', Miss Liebling."

"Now, Mary, please. You've been with us so long. We get along so
well. We need you, Mary. Don't do this just because of what some
silly girls in the laundry room are saying!"

"They say we all got to have mug shots taken and wear badges to
get in and out. They say we all got to be fingerprinted, like
criminals, Miss Liebling! All account of me."

"Nonsense, Mary. You don't have to be fingerprinted because you
haven't done anything wrong. Nobody can make you be
fingerprinted."

"I'm quittin', Miss Liebling. I ain't workin' in this building no
more."

"Look, Mary. When something happens in a building like what
happened here yesterday afternoon, people get kind
of--hysterical. They get crazy, and they say crazy things. When
all this blows over--"

"Mr. Roger, in the front office. He even axed me if I done it."

"I spoke to Mr. Roger. I told him I knew you hadn't done it. I
told him you couldn't possibly have done it. I told him you were
out in Long Island yesterday, visiting your family."

"He axed me their name. Their address. Their telephone number. So
he could check up on me, see if I was lyin' to him."

"Mr. Roger was just trying to do his job, Mary."

"They don't like colored here."

"Now, Mary, that's just not true. There are quite a few black
people working here. There's Cecil, the porter. There's Hilton,
the building's engineer. There's--"

"That don't matter. They don't like colored here. I known that
all along."

"Listen, Mary. Mr. Liebling is coming home tonight, and I'm going
to talk to him. I think it's high time you got a nice raise, and
I'm sure he'll agree."

"No, ma'am. I'm quittin'."
"Oh, Mary, pleased Don't do this to us. Now look what you've made
me do. You've made me start to cry, damn it!"

"I'm sorry, Miss Liebling. I'm quittin'."

 "Oh, hello, Mrs. Van Degan," Anne says, looking up from a stack
of museum correspondence she is filing.

"You mentioned you were working here," Georgette says. "And I
just happened to be in the museum to see the Diana Vreeland show,
so I thought I'd just stop by and say hello. Is it a fascinating
job?"

Anne smiles. "Well, I wouldn't call it fascinating, exactly," she
says. "But every now and then an interesting letter comes
through--though if I stop to read it, it slows up my filing,
which is what I'm supposed to be doing. 1 call it a Catch-22
job."

"Catch-22?"

"If I'm going to get anything out of this job in terms of
Bennington, I've got to learn something about how an art museum
works. But if I try to learn how the museum works, I can't do the
job properly."

Georgette Van Degan looks at her watch. "It's twelve thirty," she
says. "Have you had lunch?"

"Not yet, Mrs. Van Degan." "Good. Let's have lunch. There are
some things we need to discuss about the party. If I can use your
phone, I'll call Le Cirque." Then she looks down at what Anne
Liebling is wearing: faded jeans, a sweatshirt with the words
gotcha covered emblazoned on the front, and a pair of bamboo
chandelier earrings. "Well, let's not bother with Le Cirque," she
says. "I live just across the street. I'll have my cook fix us
something. Soup and a salad okay?"

"That would be lovely, Mrs. Van Degan," and she reaches for her
down-filled parka, while Georgette Van Degan buttons herself into
her fisher jacket.

 "Aunt Carol, it's Becka Hower," the woman's voice says, and for
a moment Carol has no idea who this is. Then she remembers Ruth's
estranged daughter from California.

"Oh yes, Becka."
"Aunt Carol, I'm here at Mother's house, and things are in a
terrible state. I just don't know what to do."

"What's wrong, Becka?"

"It's Mother. I've got to get back to California, but she won't
let me go. She says she's been desperately lonely. She wants me
to stay and live with her. I can't do that, Aunt Carol. But she
says she'll kill herself if I leave! And she sounds as though she
means it!"

"Now, Becka. Tell me exactly what's been happening."

"I came here to see her because she asked me to. And because I
was curious. I never really knew her, and my father would never
talk about her. But ever since I got here, there's been nothing
but--craziness. Do you remember that young man, Ector, who she
brought to your house on New Year's Eve?"

"Of course."

"Well, he's still here, for one thing. I think she's paying him
to stay here. I don't know that for sure, but it doesn't seem
like Ector has anyplace else to go. I don't know what their
relationship is supposed to be. I don't think they're lovers,
because she's given Ector his own room. Actually, Ector turns out
to be rather sweet. He's done everything he possibly can to help.
He's even offered to marry Mother, if that will help."

"Oh, dear . . ."

"I don't think she'd do anything as crazy as that, but I don't
know. She reads to him. They watch old movies together. But
whenever I try to slip out of the house, she says she needs me.
She says she needs us both, for the companionship. She wants us
to stay with her for the rest of her life, Aunt Carol. She's
offered to pay me a lot of money if I'll spend the rest of my
life with her, but I can't do that. And if I say I've got to go,
she says she'll kill herself. And Ector--poor Ector--is caught in
the middle of it. And then, two days ago, that Mr. Luck man came
to call"

"Yes . . ."

"I think he must have said something to her that upset her. She
started drinking--"

"Oh, dear," Carol says. "And she's been sober now for--what?
Seven years?"

"You mean she's had a drinking problem before?"
"Oh, yes. But I thought--we all thought--"

"Well, she's been drinking steadily ever since. Oh, she'll pass
out for a few hours, but then she'll wake up and call for us--for
Ector and me--to join her. At all hours of the day and night."

"You don't drink with her, I hope."

"Oh, no. She just wants us to listen to her, and to listen to the
most awful--garbage, Aunt Carol. She blames her father for all
her troubles. She says her father destroyed her first marriage.
She says her father destroyed her second marriage, too, to the
only man she really loved--Giulio, who was the count. She says it
was her father's fault that Giulio committed suicide, because her
father wouldn't pay Giulio the alimony he wanted, and that she'd
promised him in a prenuptial agreement. Wouldn't pay because she
was underage when she signed it and lied about her age on the
marriage certificate." "I'm afraid I've heard all these stories
before, Becka," Carol says with a sigh.

"And Ector--poor Ector--Ector is some kind of saint, really--says
we should listen to her. He says I owe it to my mother to listen
to her stories. He says he wishes he'd listened to his mother
when she was alive. In a funny way, I think Ector is actually in
love with Mother. But I'm not sure how much more of this I can
take, Yesterday she came up with a really bizarre idea. She said
she'd decided to adopt Ector. She said she'd even called a lawyer
to draw up the necessary papers. Ector says he's willing to go
along with this, since he has no real family of his own. But,
nice as Ector is, I really don't think Mother ought to get
involved that way with a man like that--do you?"

"No, I don't," Carol says. "I think that's a really bad idea."

"But, you see, I'm such a stranger in this family such an
outsider, really--that I don't really feel I'm in a position to
say things like that to her. I mean, she's my mother, but she's
also a person I hardly know at all. But she says she always
wanted two children, a daughter and a son. She told us that after
she divorced Giulio, she discovered she was pregnant with his
child. The
pregnancy was aborted, but the fetus was male. She says that it's
as if Ector was sent to her by his escort service to replace her
baby boy. I mean--craziness! But how can I tell my mother she's
crazy?"

"It's the drinking," Carol says. "Whenever she drank, she used to
get very--grandiose."

"How rich is she, Aunt Carol?"

"She has a trust fund, from which she gets an income. I really
don't know how much that income is, but I imagine
it's--considerable."

"She has enough to be able to afford to fly off on these crazy
tangents, then. But this morning she had an even crazier
suggestion. She wants Ector and me to get married! She says we
should get married, and then we could live with her and take care
of her for the rest of her life. I honestly think Ector would go
along with this. Of course, I told him it was out of the
question. All I want to do is get out of here!"

"Where is she right now?"

"Passed out in her bedroom. That's why I took this opportunity to
call you."

"Maybe you should take this opportunity to get out of there,
Becka. Make your escape."

"But she says she'll kill herself if I leave. Ector thinks she's
serious. Do you think she is?"

Carol hesitates. "Well, yes," she says at last. "She might be."

"She's threatened suicide before?"

"Yes."

"Tried it?"

"Once. No, twice, that I know about."

"So you see, Ector is right! I can't leave my mother, Aunt Carol,
if she might try to hurt herself. Even though I hardly know her,
I can't leave if she might try something like that. After all,
she is my mother."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose you're right."

"But I have a life of my own on the West Coast. I can't just stay
here forever. Aunt Carol, do you suppose if you came over, you
could talk to her? I know she likes you."

"Not if she's been drinking, I can't. It wouldn't do any good.
You've got to catch her when she's sober. That's the only way."
"Perhaps--when she wakes up?"

"I have a twelve-thirty lunch. Then I have to drive to
Connecticut. I'm having some problems with my own mother, at her
nursing home. They telephoned this morning and asked me to come
up."

"What about my Grandmother Liebling? Would she be able to help?"

"That," Carol says firmly, "I would not recommend. Ruth's
relationship with her mother has always been very fragile, to say
the least. As you may have noticed at dinner at my house the
other night. Bringing Hannah in on this could only make matters
worse."

"Is there anyone elsel Does Mother have any friendsl Is there
anybody who--"

"Tell you what," Carol says. "My husband's been away all week,
but he'll be home tonight, though it probably won't be until
quite late. He's always been able to handle his sister better
than anyone else. In fact, he's always been able to handle
everybody in this family better than anyone else. I'll speak to
him about this when he gets home and see what he suggests."

"Well, perhaps," Becka says doubtfully. "But I think Mother's a
little angry at your husband right now."

"Angry at Noah? Why?"

"She didn't say. But the other night she called him a--well,
never mind what she called him."

"That was probably just the drink talking. Noah will know how to
handle it. If you can stick it out for a few more days, Becka,
I'm sure Noah will come up with something."

"Well ... all right," she says.

"And in the meantime, if you can catch your mother in a sober
moment, ask her to describe the twelve steps in her program. Ask
her to recite the little Serenity Prayer. And ask her for the
name of her sponsor in A.A., if she has one, and try to get her
to call that person."

 "You have a beautiful apartment, Mrs. Van Degan," Anne is
saying.

"Thank you, dear." Georgette Van Degan unbuttons her fisher
jacket. "Here, let me hang up your coat."

Anne steps to the stairwell that curves upward from
the entrance foyer, and looks up at two blood-red vases, each of
which stands in a recessed niche of its own in the stairwell,
lighted by hidden spots. "Oh, look!" she says. "Lang Yao
sang-de-boeuf. Late seventeenth century?"

"I see you know a thing or two about porcelains, dear," Georgette
says.

"My mother," Anne says. "It's something of a hobby of hers. She
has books and books on the subject."

"It's very rare to find a pair," Georgette says. "In fact, these
two are the only pair in existence, as far as we know. I had my
architect create those niches just for them."

"Beautiful," Anne says, and steps up the stairs for a closer
look.

"Don't touch them!" Georgette says a little sharply.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Mrs. Van Degan."

"I don't even let my maids dust them. I do that myself."

"They're signed, of course."

"Of course. And by the same potter, which makes them so rare.
Now, shall we see what friend cook has fixed for our lunch?" She
leads the way down the long gallery, where more porcelains are
displayed in vi trines and lighted cases, toward the dining room.
"The collection was started by my husband's grandfather," she
says.

"These pieces should be in a museum, Mrs. Van Degan. Look--that's
a Sung bowl, isn't it?"

"Yes. Tenth century. Nine-sixty A.D., actually. Some of this may
end up in a museum, if your mother plays her cards right."

"Nine-sixty! The very beginning of the Sung period. Just think,
that bowl is over a thousand years old. ..."

"Uh-huh. Sit down, dear. Oh, yum-yum. She's fixed her famous
watercress soup. Now, let's talk about our party, dear," she
says, picking up her spoon. "It's not going to be just the party
of the year, or even the party of the decade. I'm talking up this
party as the party of the century, since the twentieth century is
beginning to wind down. Roxy Rhinelander has agreed to give us a
double spread in the News, with lots of photographs, of course,
and so we've got to make sure we give a party
that won't let Roxy down. Now, I realize, dear, that you haven't
done as much entertaining as I have, and so there's one thing you
need to remember. It doesn't matter what you serve for food. It
doesn't matter who does the music. It doesn't matter what you do
with flowers, with the decor, with the waiters' uniforms, or
anything else. What matters is the guest list. Everything else
can be the best, the most expensive you can buy, but if you don't
have an important guest list, you're dead in the water. So that's
what we've got to make sure we have-- an absolutely drop-dead
guest list. People who are now. People who are on the cutting
edge. People who people are talking about--like your friend Bill
Luckman, for instance. People who are today. We can't afford to
have any of yesterday's people. To get a guest list like that,
one has to be absolutely ruthless. One has to slash, slash,
slash. To get a guest list like the one we want, friendships have
nothing to do with it. That's what I want to talk with you about
today."

"Sure," Anne says, lifting her spoon from the array of silver.

"Your friend Melody Roberts."

"Richards," Anne says. "She's my best friend."

"Yes. Well, she's our first casualty, I'm afraid. She winds up on
the cutting-room floor."

"But I couldn't have a party without Melody, Mrs. Van Degan!"

"Well, you're going to have to. As I said, friendships just can't
count in something as important as this."

"But Melody's my roommate, Mrs. Van Degan. She's my roommate and
my muse! She'd be terribly hurt if I didn't ask her."

"Then she'll just have to be hurt," Georgette says, reaching for
a thin round of Melba toast. "She just won't do, dear. I've done
a little research on her family. Her people are nobody. It's not
just that they don't have any money, and she probably couldn't
afford the right kind of dress to begin with. Her people have no
style. Her father has some sort of minor job with the State
Department. I looked him up in both Who's Who and the Social
Register, and he isn't in either, so you see they can't be
anybody. They have no social value, and no publicity!
value, and we want a drop-dead guest list. And then, of course,
there's the fact that your friend is having an affair with your
father. ..."

She drops her spoon in her saucer. "With my father!"

"Which makes her a rather--well, inappropriate guest at our
party, don't you think? I mean, people would giggle. People would
laugh at us, and that's the last thing we want, isn't it?"

"You're saying Melody is having an affair with my father!"

Georgette looks at her from across the table, her soup spoon
poised in midair. "You mean you didn't know?" she says. "Oh,
dear, I thought surely you knew. Everybody else does. She's with
him right now in Atlantic City, in fact. I gather it's been going
on for some time."

"My father would never--"

"Now, you mustn't blame your father, dear. All men do this when
they reach your father's age. It's called male midlife crisis, or
something like that. My husband went through it years ago. He
wanted a younger woman, and that was yours truly. But I held out
for this," and she taps and twirls the big diamond solitaire on
her ring finger, which has several more diamond guard rings
surrounding it. "Forty carats," she says. "And we're not talking
West Forty-seventh Street, honey. We're talking Van Cleef and
Arpels."

"Mrs. Van Degan, I just can't believe this." Tears are welling in
her eyes. "It just can't--it just can't be true."

"What can't be true? Oh, you mean about your father and your
friend? Well, it's the truth, so you can see why we simply cannot
invite her, can't you? Your darling friend Bill Luckman is the
one who told me, when I called him to make sure he saves the
party date, and thank God he did! He wanted to spare us the
embarrassment of including her on the list. He says she's just a
smart little cookie who knows the ropes, and who'd probably go to
bed with anything in pants, particularly if he was rich. Why,
Bill Luckman told me that she even tried to put the make on
him--can you imagine! So you can see what kind of a friend she is
of yours--a girl who's not only shacking up with your father, but
also
making a pass at your new best beau! So, if you want to blame
somebody, you mustn't blame your poor father. Blame her. Why,
honey, you've hardly touched your soup!" "I think--I think I'm
going to be sick," Anne says.
Hannah's Way

 The newly installed automatic elevators at 1000 Park Avenue have
turned out to be something of a mixed blessing to the tenants of
the co-op. Yes, they are faster. And, as the members of the
building's board pointed out at the meeting, by eliminating six
full-time and three part-time elevator men--a vanishing breed to
begin with--the building should have been able to trim its
payroll considerably.

But then the building's three full-time and two part time doormen
complained, and their union backed them up, that they deserved
higher wages, since now the major responsibility for the
building's security rested with them. Also, the doormen pointed
out, if a single on-duty doorman happened to be out in the
street, trying to flag a cab for a tenant, it would be possible
for anyone to walk into the building from the street
unchallenged, and then into the elevators and up into the
apartments. The doormen demanded backup men in the entrance
lobby. And so in the end, with this new personnel, and with the
cost of the new elevator cabs factored in, everybody's
maintenance charges went up anyway.

Now two women, one older, and one younger, enter the south
elevator car together, press the buttons for their respective
floors, and the elevator doors slide cl osed. The elevator starts
upward smoothly enough, but suddenly there is a little jerk, and
a little bump, and the car stops abruptly. Both women press their
buttons again, and when nothing happens they look at each other.

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere between nine and ten, I think."

"These are brand-new elevators."

"Yes, I know."
"There should be an alarm button."

The younger woman finds it and presses it. But no alarm sounds,
and the elevator remains at a standstill. Both women laugh
nervously.

"Is there a telephone in that little box on the panel there?"

The older woman opens it and lifts the receiver, jiggling the
hook up and down. "It doesn't seem to be working, does it?"

"Well!"

"Well!"

"Maybe there's been a power outage, do you think?"

"But the lights are still on."

"You're right."

"Well."

"Well."

"Here we are."

"I'm sure someone will notice this sooner or later, won't they?"

"Oh, I'm sure. And I'm sure there's plenty of oxygen hi here for
us. Isn't there?"

"Oh, I'm sure. These things are ventilated, aren't they?"

"I'm sure they are. I wonder where the ventilation comes from,
though."

They laugh nervously again. "The main thing is not to panic."

"Absolutely."

"Do you live in this building?"

"No."

"Neither do I."

"Should we try--screaming, or something?"

"I don't know. That might use up too much oxygen. Because,
frankly, I don't see where any ventilation could be coming from,
do you?"

"No."

"So. Let's just stay put until someone notices that this
elevator's out of order."

"Yes."

There are little benches in the corners of the car, and each
woman takes a seat on one of these daintily padded triangles.

Silence.
Then the younger woman says, "Since we may be here for a while,
we might as well introduce ourselves. I'm--"

"As it happens, I know who you are," the older woman says.
"You're Carol Liebling. My name is Baths heba Sachs."

"Oh," Carol says.

"I'm on my way up to have lunch with Cyril."

"And I'm on my way up to have lunch with Hannah."

"What an odd place for us to finally meet," Bathy says.

"There's not much we can do about it, is there?" Carol says.

"No."

There is a little silence, and then Carol says, "Of course, I've
heard a lot about you, Miss Sachs."

"I'm sure. And not all of it good, I'm also sure."

"Yes, I must admit that's true."

"And please call me Bathy. Everybody does. Or Aunt Bathy. We
don't have to be friends, but it wouldn't hurt us to be friendly,
would it?"

"No. I quite agree."

"I know how Noah resents me, and I know perfectly well why. And I
imagine you do, too."

"Yes, I do, Bathy. Noah told me all about it years ago. You sent
him a Christmas card. He tore it up."

"I was his father's mistress. For quite a few years. One morning
he arrived at Grandmont from college unexpectedly --he'd been
booted out, in fact, after that motorcycling escapade--and he
came into a room where he found his father and me in--well, let's
just say he found us in a situation that would have been
difficult to misinterpret. He never spoke to me again."

"I know. Noah told me all that."

"I'm sorry he feels that way. I was always very fond of Noah. But
there's nothing I can do about it now. One can't undo one's
past."

"No, but you see the thing is, Bathy, that Hannah has no idea why
he feels the way he does about you. He doesn't feel up to telling
her, and I certainly don't think it's my place to tell her."

Bathy's eyebrows go up. "Really?" she says. "Hannah told you
that? That she has no idea why Noah resents me?"
"None whatsoever. She'd give anything to know."

Bathy laughs. "My dear, I'm afraid my big sister has misled you.
She knows perfectly well why. I told her all about the incident
on the afternoon of the day it happened. We haven't discussed it
since, of course. There's been no need to. But she knows
perfectly well why Noah feels the way he does about me."

"But--then why does she keep insisting that Noah tell her what's
troubling him?"

"My dear, that's just Hannah's way. She insists that everyone she
deals with lay his cards flat out on the table, face up. Even
when she knows the answer, she wants to hear it from the horse's
mouth. Remember, I've known her a lot longer than you have. My
big sister knows everything. But she's the kind of woman who'll
demand an explanation even when she already knows perfectly well
what the explanation is. She's the kind of woman who'll buzz for
her secretary to ask what time it is even when there's a big
clock facing her on the opposite wall."

"How very interesting," Carol says.

"That's Hannah for you. She knew all about Jules and my affair
from the very beginning. She even encouraged it. In fact, I
sometimes think she actually helped initiate it, putting us
together all the time. She was certainly all for it."

"Really?"

"Oh, absolutely. Hannah and I had a deal."

"A deal . . ."

"And yet--and yet I really loved old Jules," she says. "That was
something I couldn't deal with. Can anyone deal with love?"

"She's told Noah that she won't turn over his stock to him unless
he agrees to take you back into the company."

Bathy laughs again and slaps her knee with her gloved hand. "Oh,
dear," she says. "Oh, dear, dear me! Is she still on that tired
old subject? She knows better than that. I wouldn't go back to
work for that company if everybody in the family got down on
their hands and knees and begged me!"

"You wouldn't?"

"Never!"
"But Hannah says--"

"It's just not the same company it was when I worked for it--when
Jules was still alive. It was fun then. There was a wonderful
raffishness about the liquor business in those days. We flew by
the seat of our pants. We were always looking over our shoulder
to see if the sheriff was coming around the corner. It was almost
as though what we were doing was still against the law, and some
of it probably was. We never knew when the government might
decide to crack down on us with more rules and regulations. That
made it exciting. But today Ingra ham is just another giant
corporation. The fun's gone out of it."

"But Hannah keeps insisting that Noah has to bring you back."

"Well, that's Hannah for you. She knows I won't come back. But
she's got the idea that I need more money. I may not be as rich
as the Lieblings, but I've got all the money I need, and all the
money I want. I had a wonderful career hi the company, but I'm
happy to be retired."

"I find this all very interesting," Carol says. "Because if you
refuse to come back to Ingraham, that could mean that Noah will
never get his stock."

"So it's a Mexican standoff, is it? Well, that's just like
Hannah, too--this kind of arm wrestling. To see who'll give in
first. She's good at that. Of course, you know the real reason
she wants me back, don't you?"

"No, I'm afraid I really don't."

"When she steps down, she wants someone she can trust to be there
to keep an eye on Noah--to make sure he doesn't jump ship."

"Jump ship? Why would he do that?"

"It's something he used to talk about. Not threaten, exactly, but
he used to talk about it. Hasn't he ever mentioned Aesop to you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact he did--just the other night. Something
about an alternative plan." "So, you see? That's what worries
Hannah--that once he gets his shares of stock, he'll go off and
establish the Aesop thing."

"But what exactly is the Aesop thing?"

"Then, you don't know?"

"No."
"Well, you'd better get Noah to explain that to you. It's a
little complicated and visionary and--to me, at least--a little
bit pie-in-the-sky. But I told Hannah that if she wants me to go
back to work at the mill just to make sure Noah stays on the
straight and narrow, she's got the wrong woman. But I suggested
that you might be useful to her in that capacity."

"I see," Carol says thoughtfully. "I wonder if that's why she
wanted to have lunch with me today."

"Could be," Bathy says. "When Hannah asks someone to lunch, you
can be sure she's got something on her mind."

"Interesting," Carol says again. "Because if I can be useful to
her, then she can be useful to me. A tit for a tat."

Bathy laughs heartily. "That was one of Jules's favorite
expressions. A tit for a tat. I haven't heard anyone say that in
years!"

"You know, I'm really awfully glad we had this meeting, Bathy,"
Carol says. "You've made a lot of things clear to me that weren't
clear before. And you've given me several good ideas."

"Good. I'm glad. And do you know something? I really think we
could be friends, don't you?" She extends her hand, and Carol
takes it.

"I think so, too," she says.

"I mean we might as well be, since we may both be about to die of
starvation in a stalled elevator."

"Or of suffocation. Have you noticed the air in here getting to
seem a little--close?"

Bathy touches her forehead. "Well, now that you mention it--yes."

"But we mustn't panic."

"No. But we might try prayer--"

And with that word, as though a deus ex machina has been
summoned, the elevator rattles to life. There is a downward
lurch, followed by an upward jolt, and both women clutch the
seats of their little corner benches and eye each other with
alarm. Then the elevator continues smoothly upward.

"Well!"

"Well!"
Carol gets off first, at Hannah's floor. "Goodbye, Bathy," she
says. "Let's get together again."

"I'd like that," Bathy says. "Good luck with Hannah," and she
gives her a little wave before the doors close, and she continues
on to the floor above.

 And now Carol sits in Hannah's dining room with its walls
covered hi pale blue watered silk. "I'm a little worried about
Noah," Hannah is saying. "Our meeting at your house the other
night did not go well. He even used vulgar language with me,
which isn't like him. Do you think launching this new label has
been putting too much of a strain on him?"

"Let's not talk about Noah for a minute, Nana," Carol says.
"Let's talk about the Van Degans and their museum gift."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I was going over the figures for Van
Began Glass at the office just this morning. My spies got them
for me. Carol, that company really is in terrible shape."

"Good," she says.

"Good? Why?"

"It's good for our side, Nana. It gives us more bargaining
power."

"Even if we gave them the contract to manufacture bottles for all
our labels, I don't know if that would get them out of the hole
they're hi."

"Could we do that, Nana?"

"Could we do what?"

"Offer them a contract to manufacture for all our labels?"

"Well, I suppose we could, but--" She glances nervously at the
portrait of Jules Liebling at the end of the room. "Goodness, I
hope he isn't listening to us talk like this. He'd be spinning in
his grave. Except he isn't in any grave. He's in that yellow jar
on the sideboard over there."

"Here's what I'm thinking, Nana," she says. "You liked the idea
of my becoming a trustee of the Met, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, of course. It would be wonderful. If you really think
you could pull it off."
"Let me tell you how it could be done, Nana," Carol says, and
Hannah puts down her salad fork, listening.

"Let's suppose," Carol begins, "that we were to tell Van Degan
Glass that we're considering offering them a contract to
manufacture bottles for all Ingraham products. That would be a
nice little piece of new business for Van Degan, wouldn't it?"

"Absolutely. We're the biggest distillers in the country."

"In the millions?"

"In the millions."

"The high millions?"

"I should think so, yes."

"Right now the Van Degans are willing to turn over roughly half
of their collection to the museum, with a few little bells and
whistles attached to the gift which their lawyers have tacked on
for their clients' tax benefits. But if we were to offer them a
contract like that, I think I could persuade the Van Degans to
donate even more--perhaps seventy-five percent of it, even ninety
percent. Don't you?"

"I see your line of thinking," Hannah says. "No collection, no
contract."

"That's right. Squeaky wheels get oiled. And from what you tell
me, the wheels at Mr. Van Degan's company are particularly
squeaky right at the moment."

"Indeed they are."

"And, as a nonnegotiable condition to their gift, I will have Mr.
Van Degan insist--"

"That you be placed on the Met's board."

"That's right. No trusteeship for me, no collection for the Met.
A tit for a tat."

"Will the Van Degans buy this?"

"I don't see why they wouldn't. It makes no difference to them
whether I go on the board or not. And they'll get wonderful
publicity from it--the great philanthropists and all that.
They'll get a big hunk of new business from us. And they'll get a
big tax deduction, which, if their lawyers are smart enough, they
can probably spread out across several years. And for us--"

"A Liebling on the Met's board!"

"It's a deal from which everyone will profit."
"What about the museum? Will they accept that condition?"

"We'll have to wait and see, won't we? But considering the
importance of the gift, I rather think they will."

Hannah studies her daughter-in-law appraisingly across the table,
her eyelids half closed. "You know," she says at last, "I'm
seeing a side of you today, Carol, that I've never seen before.
It's a side I never knew existed. You really like to hondel,
don't you."

Carol smiles. "I've enjoyed planning this one," she says. "And
I've even carried my thoughts a little further. If Ingraham can
get its toe as firmly into Van Degan's door as this deal would
do, is there any reason why, at some point, we wouldn't be in a
nice position to take over Van Degan Glass?"

"That was something my husband often talked about--owning his own
glassworks. Not having to rely on outside suppliers and gambling
on price fluctuations in the marketplace."

"It would seem to make good business sense, Nana."

Now it is Hannah who is smiling. "That would show those Van
Degans, wouldn't it?" she says. "If we took over their company.
Moving out the day we moved in!"

"Well, yes," Carol says. "I did think of that, too."

"And so," Hannah says, "what's the next step? Are you prepared to
follow through on all this?"

"Absolutely," Carol says. "All I need is your approval."

"I think it's better if you handle the Van Degans. You know them.
I've never met them. If I called them, they'd think I was trying
to pull some sort of fast one. They know I hate 'em. In fact,
don't mention my name at all. Tell them this is Noah's idea."

"All I need is a green light from you, Nana."

Hannah nods. "You just got it," she says.

Carol pushes aside her plate, realizing that in her excitement
she has hardly touched her cheese souffle. "If you'd like, I can
telephone Truck Van Degan at his office right now," she says.

"Go for it!" Hannah says.

Carol jumps from the table and walks quickly out through the hall
to the telephone room, leaving Hannah alone at the table, toying
absently with her food.
Carol is not gone long. "Well, the ball is now in play," she says
a little breathlessly. "I talked to Mr. Van Degan. He said, 'I
understand the terms of your proposal completely.' He's going to
call the chairman of the Acquisitions Committee."

"And that person is--?"

"A man named Corydon McCurdy. A man who, for personal reasons,
I'd very much like to see put in his place."

"We bought this apartment from some people named McCurdy."

"Yes, I know. This is their son."

"Snobs. Like the Van Degans."

"I think I know how to handle him. I've got a few cards up my
sleeve that I haven't told you about."

A footman appears at the door. "Peche flambee au Cognac," he
announces.

"Skip it," Hannah says with a wave of her hand. "We don't want
dessert. So," she says as the footman departs, "what happens
next?"

"Next?" Carol says. "Well, having just set in motion what I'm
trying to do for you and your company, I'm going to ask you to do
something for me, Nana."

"Oh?" she says suspiciously. "What's that?"

"Give Noah his stock. Turn over the company to him, and without
insisting that Bathy has to be part of the deal. Bathy doesn't
want to go back to work for Ingra ham anyway."

"Perhaps not. But there might be ways I'd have of forcing her
to."

"Somehow," Carol says, "Bathy doesn't strike me as the kind of
woman who can be forced to do anything she doesn't want to do."

"You've talked to Bathy?"

"Yes, I have."

"Well, I still have a little problem with Noah. I told you he
used vulgar language--"

"Your problem with Noah is that you've waited too long to give
him the top job. I can promise you something else, Nana, if you
give it to him now."

"What's that? What can you promise me?"

"I can promise you that if you give him the job, you'll never
hear another word about Aesop."    s
"Oh? Is he still talking about that?"

"Very much so. More than ever before. You see, Nana, Noah's Aesop
idea is an idea that was born out of frustration. Frustration has
nourished the idea in his mind. And his frustration is
frustration with you, Nana. He feels he's just spinning his
wheels with the company now. He feels as though he's treading
water, getting nowhere. And as each day goes by, he gets more and
more frustrated. And the more frustrated he gets, the more he
thinks about some sort of escape hatch--like Aesop. But if you
give him the job, Nana, I can promise you he'll never give
another serious thought to Aesop."

"You can promise me that?"

"Yes, I can. Another tit for another tat."

"He's told you that?"

"He's as much as told me," she says quickly.

"As much as told you isn't quite the same as told," she says.
"But it's always been such a totally impractical idea--Aesop."

"Yes, and in his heart of hearts I know he knows that. And yet,
as things stand now--"

"Well, let me think about this," Hannah says.

"Don't think about it too long, Nana. If you think about it too
long, I can promise you something else-- something neither of us
wants at all. You'll see him walk out of his office at the
Ingraham Building and never come back. He'll devote the rest of
his life to the Aesop project, and there won't be anything you or
I can do about it. You know how stubborn Noah is. I'm warning
you, Nana--things have reached that crucial a stage. He's about
to explode with frustration, and when that happens any usefulness
he might have for you or the company, now or in the future, will
come to a screeching hait. It will end with a loud and resounding
bang. You say he used vulgar language? That's just the beginning,
the tip of the iceberg!"

"Goodness, you almost make it sound as though he might--well,
never mind."

"I'm saying there's no telling what he might do. Remember --you
may be his mother, but I'm his wife. I hear the voice on the
pillow at night. I watch him tossing and turning in the next bed,
fighting to get some sleep--"
Hannah shivers. "Well, I told you I'd think about it. I promise
you I'll think hard. That's all I'll promise you for now."

"Thank you, Nana."

"Meanwhile, you haven't said boo about the party for Anne and the
Van Degan girl. Just where does that stand?"

Carol shrugs. "That's neither here nor there as far as I'm
concerned," she says. "You disapproved of the idea. I was never
really in favor of it. Noah and I haven't discussed it, and I'm
not even sure Mr. Van Degan knows about it. Georgette implied
that he didn't. I'm tabling any party plans for the time being.
Don't forget, we're calling the shots with the Van Degans now."

"Yes, but if my Little Bird really wants this party so badly,
then perhaps--"

"But I really think what we've just been talking about is more
important than any coming-out party. Don't you agree? More
important to you as well as to me?"

"Yes. Yes, I agree."

Carol glances at her watch. "I've really got to run," she says.
"I've got to drive up to Connecticut and see my mother. They're
having some sort of problem with her there."

"Just one more thing," Hannah says. "That Mr. Luck man has been
calling me at my office."

"Oh? What's he want?"

"I don't know. I've refused to take his calls. I didn't like that
young man. I didn't like all that talk about money and scandal at
your dinner table. Talk about controlling people. He may have
written a book about education, but he didn't seem to know much
about the subject. He'd never heard of my father, the famous Dr.
Marcus Sachs. That young man spells trouble, if you ask me."

"You think so, Nana?"

"It's a feeling in my bones. I'm not going to talk to him, and I
suggest that you not talk to him, either. We don't need any more
trouble in this family. Lord knows, we've had enough trouble. But
remember, if there's trouble, what my father used to say. He'd
say, 'If there's trouble, rise above it. Let it wash around your
ankles. Stand tall,
young woman. Stand tall.' That's what he used to say to Settee
and me."

"Good advice," Carol says. They both rise from the table.

"And you know something?" Hannah says. "I'm beginning to think
you could run this company as well as the next one."

Carol smiles. "The power behind the throne?" she says. "Isn't
that what you were for a long time, Nana?"

"Yes, I suppose I was. And think of it--if Ingraham could take
over Van Degan Glass! Wouldn't Jules be pleased? A tit for a tat,
he'd say. Moving out on the very day we moved in!" As she leaves
the blue dining room, she touches the Ming Yellow urn with the
tip of her index finger. Almost lovingly, Carol thinks.

 And now, back at River House to change quickly into a sweater
and jeans for her drive to the country, Carol finds a message on
her answering machine: "Mrs. Lie bling," a secretary's voice
says, "please call Mr. Corydon McCurdy at your earliest
convenience. It's quite urgent."

Still smiling, she places the call.

"Mrs. Liebling," he says, and she notices immediately that they
are no longer on a first-name basis.

"Yes, Mr. McCurdy."

"I've had a conversation with Mr. Van Degan."

"Yes, I thought you might have."

"And I've also spoken to the director of the museum. Quite
frankly, he prefers the Van Degans' first offer to the present
one, Mrs. Liebling."

"But the Van Degans are now offering to give the museum
everything in their collection with the exception of the pieces
they have displayed in their Fifth Avenue apartment. That's close
to ninety percent of the collection, and it seemed greedy to ask
them to denude their apartment."

"But this new proposal contains some unacceptable provisions."

"The trusteeship, you mean?"

"Frankly, Mrs. Liebling, that provision was so completely
outrageous--so totally out of the question, and so absurd--that I
didn't even mention it to the director. He would have laughed me
out of his office."
"But, Mr. McCurdy," she says carefully, "you seem to be
forgetting how the museum operates. It's not the director who
tells the board of trustees what to do. It's the other way
around. The director is just a hired employee, selected by the
board. The board selects its own membership."

"Mrs. Liebling, you're not suggesting--"

"That you go to the board of trustees? Of course I am. Who else
would you go to? The director has no say whatever about who goes
on the board. I would have thought you knew that."

"Mrs. Liebling, that is something I flatly refuse to do."

"But isn't that your job? I'd have thought so, with a gift the
size and importance of this one, and since it involves a
trusteeship."

"This is simply too outrageous!"

"Are you saying that you, a mere committee chairman, are taking
it upon yourself to turn down this gift?"

"I can't, but--"

"I should tell you," she says, "that it is quite within my power
to have Mr. Van Degan withdraw his gift offer altogether. In the
meantime, the Nelson Gallery in Kansas City is eager to have
those porcelains to add to their Oriental collection. The Kimball
in Fort Worth is also eager. It's a shame not to have the
collection stay in New York. But you heard Mr. Van Degan's offer.
It's this or nothing."

"You're trying to blackmail the museum!"

"So I suggest you go to the trustees. And I suggest you do so
rather quickly. It would be unwise, and also rude, to let the Van
Degan offer dangle in front of you for too long a time."

"So it's just another Liebling deal," he says. "Just another
shady, crooked Liebling deal. Like father, like daughter-in-law."

"Why, thank you, Mr. McCurdy!" she says. "Coming from someone
like you, I take that as quite a compliment."

"This is another Liebling swindle!"

And Carol Dugan Liebling hangs up the telephone without saying
goodbye.

And Carol has no sooner replaced the receiver in its cradle than
she hears a key turn in the front door, hears
the door open, then close. Anne walks rapidly past the library
door, in her blue parka, her-shoulders hunched under her
backpack. "Anne?" Carol calls out to her. "Annie?" But Anne does
not answer her, and continues down the hall toward her room
where, again, Carol hears the door open, then close. She stands
up and goes down the hall to Anne's room, and taps on the door.
"Annie? May I come in?"

When there is no immediate reply, Carol opens the door. Anne is
sprawled face forward on her bed, still in her parka. "Anne? Are
you all right?" she asks her.

Speaking into the bedclothes, Anne says, "I'm okay."

"I thought you were going to spend the weekend at Susie
Carpenter's."

"I changed my mind."

"You're home from work awfully early, aren't you?"

"I quit the job."

"Anne--you didn't! I got that job for you."

"I know."

"But what about your winter work program? What about Bennington?"

"I'm not going back to Bennington."

"Oh, Anne. Of course you are."

"Uh-uh."

She sits on the corner of Anne's bed and rubs her daughter's
shoulders. "Anne--what's the matter?"

Anne turns her face to the wall. "I told you, Mother. Nothing. I
just don't want to talk right now."

She strokes her daughter's fine blond hair. "Listen, darling,"
she says. "I've got to drive up to Connecticut and see Granny
Dugan. They're having some sort of problem with her, and I've got
to see if I can straighten it out. I've really got to leave right
now. But I'll be back by dinnertime, and we can talk then--okay?"

"Okay," Anne says to the wall.

"Good-bye, darling," she says.

In the front hall, she puts on her shearling driving coat,
collects her purse and gloves, checks to make sure she has her
keys, and starts toward the front door. Now the telephone rings
again, and Carol hesitates, thinking she will let the machine
pick it up.

The telephone rings three times. Then she hears a woman's voice
say, "Yes, this is Mr. Truxton Van Degan's office calling for
Mrs. Liebling. Will you please give Mr. Van Degan a call at your
earliest opportunity? The number is--"

Carol rushes for the phone and picks it up. "This is Mrs.
Liebling," she says.

"Please hold for Mr. Van Degan," the woman says.

"Carol? Truck Van Degan."

"Yes, Truck," she says easily, noticing how quickly they are
using first names, though they have never actually met.

"Have you heard from Cory McCurdy?"

"As a matter of fact, I have," she says. "And I think Mr. McCurdy
is going to be a bit of a problem."

"Cory McCurdy is an asshole. I've known him since he was a kid.
His old man, Dick McCurdy, was a faggot, and I think Cory's one,
too. Don't worry. I can handle Cory McCurdy."

"Well, that's good to know," Carol says.

"Barbara McCurdy was in the middle of divorcing Dick McCurdy when
Dick McCurdy died. Fishy death, Supposed to be suicide, but they
never found the weapon. Afterward, Barbara insisted on getting
the divorce anyway. Posthumously. Cory McCurdy's original name
was Richard McCurdy, Junior. After the old man died, his mother
had his name changed to Cory don, after her father. I could tell
you a few other things about the McCurdys, but I won't bore you."

"Well!" Carol says, unable to think of anything else to say.

"So leave little Dickie boy to me. That's what we used to call
him, Dickie boy. But anyway, that's not why I called you, Carol.
I was thinking about our conversation earlier this afternoon. And
I was thinking, Carol--if there's one thing that'd make me
happier than selling my bottles to Ingraham, it'd be selling
Ingraham my whole damn company."

"Really?"

"I mean it. The plastics bastards are killing us. Everything is
plastics nowadays. But you guys will always bottle your product
in glass--right?"

"Plastics have been tried," she says. "But spirits bottled in
plastic just can't retain the same flavor."

"That's what I hear. Like Coke in cans. Doesn't taste
the same. So what do you think? Do you think a deal like that
could be in the cards? It could be a sweetheart of a deal for
both of us, Carol."

"Yes," she says. "I think a deal like that could definitely be in
the cards."

"Hell, I'm thinking of retiring, anyway. The only thing is--what
about the old lady? Will old lady Liebling go along with it?"

"Yes," she says again. "I think the old lady will definitely go
along with it."

"When your husband gets back, we should all have a meeting. But
remember, Carol--not a word to the press about this. If the press
got word that my company's for sale, the whole deal could come
unstuck."

"Not a word. I promise."

"Good. And I suppose we should have some kind of earnest money up
front, just between you and me."

"Earnest money?"

"Yes, because I see you as pivotal to any deal we make, Carol. I
think we're going to need your help with any deal we make, in
terms of what you want--uh-- in terms of the museum, and all
that. You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I quite under--"

"I'm not thinking money, exactly. I'm thinking of just a little
something, just between you and me, that would just ensure that
you and I are on the same team, and after the same thing. I think
you receive my meaning, Carol. Now, I happen to have a couple of
old Chinese vases--"

"Vases?"

"Yeah, they're called Young Louie, or some damn thing."

"Lang Yao. Sang-deboeuf."

"Something like that. They're supposed to be pretty good. I'm
going to give them to you, just to clinch this part of the deal,
at this particular preliminary stage. It'll just be between you
and me."

"You'd give those to me?"

"Whaddya think? It'll help me know I've got your full support in
this, Carol. I need you. You need me."

A tit for a tat. "But what about--"

"What about what?"
"Georgette."

"Don't worry about Georgette. I can handle her. Don't worry your
pretty head about her. I'll get those red vases over to you. But
just remember that this is all totally, strictly between you and
me. . . ."

 And now--at lastl feeling light-headed from the crowded events
of the day--she is off, speeding up the Merritt Parkway into
Connecticut behind the wheel of her little bottle-green Mercedes
450 SEL sports coupe. She loves her little bottle-green car. She
loves its gleaming French walnut dashboard, with all its little
dials and buttons and knobs and switches, some of which she has
never fathomed the meaning of, nor does she care. They wink and
blink at her, registering miles per hour, oil pressure,
revolutions per minute. She loves her little car's sweet-smelling
beigey leather ulterior and bucket seats, her seat that cuddles
her fanny like a catcher's mitt. In her car she is completely
cushioned from the outside world, isolated, protected, and safe.
She is glad she resisted Noah's suggestion that she have a
telephone installed in it. If she had, it would probably be
ringing now. If she had, this would no longer be her little car
five years old, 40,000 miles, oil changed every 2,500, and not a
scratch or nick or even the tiniest pit mark on its shiny,
bottle-green finish. A telephone would mean she would have to
share her car with other people. In her car she is the Green
Hornet, the Masked Avenger.

She has always enjoyed exceeding the speed limit by a bit--five,
six, even ten miles faster than the posted signs decreed. And she
has always loved the Merritt Parkway, its gentle, hilly curves,
its wide, landscaped center strip, the sudden vistas, the
graceful bridges that arch across the highway, no two alike, the
side roads with their quaint, Revolutionary names. She presses
the Search button on her car's radio, hoping to find some pretty
Broadway show tunes, or something from the fifties, when she was
young. Something soothing and sweet.

"... Shelling today of thousands by Serbian nationalists ...
President Clinton insisted he had nothing to hide . . . The jury
in the trial of Lorena Bobbitt for severing her husband's . . .
The unidentified teenager who has accused Michael Jackson of...
''Bad, bad Leroy
Brown1... And when Jesus saw their faith, he said unto the sick
of the palsy ... 'Hey, Poppa, I'm a be-boppa'--" She switches off
the radio.

"Your mother's in a very bad way today, Mrs. Lie bling," Sister
Margaret Mary said to her on the telephone this morning. "We're
thinking it may be time to move her to another level of care."

"What's she been doing, Sister?"

"Talking constantly of sin and redemption."

"But isn't that what she always talks about?"

"Yes, but shouting, Mrs. Liebling. Screaming, really. Waving her
hands in the air."

"Oh, dear."

"And you know she doesn't sedate well, Mrs. Liebling. In the
dining room this morning she had to be restrained."

"But she's had these episodes before."

"Not quite with such force. There was a fax message for her this
morning."

"A fax?"

"Naturally, we didn't read it. But it's possible its contents may
have been what set her off."

"Who would be sending her a fax, Sister?"

"We have no idea, but we do think you should come up to see her.
Your visits always seem to have a calming effect on her."

"Well, they certainly don't have a calming effect on me," Carol
said.

Now there was a genuine note of reproach in Sister Margaret
Mary's voice. "We've noticed it's been a long time since you've
visited your mother, Mrs. Liebling," she said.

"Very well. I've got an important museum meeting this morning,
and then a lunch I can't get out of. But I'll drive up this
afternoon. Can you give me your address again, Sister? I seem to
have lost my address book. . . ."

And, right now, Noah would be finishing his lunch and getting
ready to make his presentation in Atlantic City. And tonight,
when he is home again and they are sitting in their cozy library
at River House, having perhaps a nightcap together before going
to bed, where they will perhaps make love, and perhaps with a
nice fire going
in the fireplace, he will tell her how it all went this
afternoon, and she is sure it will have gone well. And then he
will ask her, "And how was your week, darling?"

"Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. Mother had another violent
spell today. Mary quit. Joanne Satterthwaite in 29-A is
organizing a committee to have you thrown out as president of the
building. Anne's quit her job, and announced she isn't going back
to Bennington, even though her tuition's paid for the full year.
Cory McCurdy was insulting to me at a museum meeting because of
something your father did to his father years ago. Roxy
Rhinelander called, and she'll probably have an item in her
column in the News tomorrow morning about a feud that's
supposedly going on in our building, and that seems to have you
and me at the center of it. Your sister's drinking again and
threatening suicide. I got into a bit of a mano a mono with your
mother over lunch, and then into another mano a mano with Cory
McCurdy after that. Told a few lies, a few exaggerations, made up
some stuff, tried to throw my weight around. Got called kike and
swindler all in the same day. Met your notorious Aunt Bathy, who
actually seems rather nice. Nearly suffocated in a stalled
elevator. Oh, and I almost forgot--our apartment was broken into,
though nothing was taken except my address book. But when I was
cleaning up afterward, I found some pieces of what looked like
Melody's underwear in the bottom of your closet, which perhaps we
need to talk about? There was blood on it. I'm sure there's a
simple explanation! And, let's see, what else? Oh, yes. Edna says
the dishwasher's acting up again. She says we need a new one. And
the good news is? Well, there really isn't any, except for some
vague promises and a lot of things left up in the air. Welcome
home, my darling!"

She turns off the parkway at the exit marked Bullethole Road, and
for the next three miles the little bottle-green sports coupe is
forced to proceed more slowly, along winding country roads, and
Carol has a sudden, wild craving for a cigarette.

It has been nearly twenty years since she smoked her last
cigarette. She gave up cigarettes, on her doctor's advice, when
she discovered she was pregnant with Anne. Before that she smoked
rather a lot. She has experienced these nicotine cravings before.
They come at odd, irrational moments, without warning, and for no
apparent reason at all. In her dreams she will often discover
herself enjoying a Kent. It is an addiction, she supposes, that
will always be with her. This time the craving is almost
overpowering. Her heart pounds, and her vision blurs. She even
furiously slaps the pockets of her shearling coat to see whether,
by some crazy chance, a half-filled packet of Kents has been left
there from her smoking days, which is absurd, she knows, because
she did not even own this coat then.

Now the little car turns off the road into a gravel lane lined
high with rhododendrons, their dark leaves curled tightly in
cigar shapes against the winter cold. This lane continues for a
half a mile or so, until it reaches a high stone wall that can be
entered only through a pair of heavy, wrought-iron gates. Beside
the gates, a discreet bronze plaque reads: greenspring hills.
private.

She stops the car outside the gates, lowers her window, presses
the enunciator button, and announces herself.

Slowly the gates swing open, the way they used to do for her at
Grandmont.
Afternoon

 At first she didn't recognize him at all. It was a totally
unfamiliar face--an old man, slightly bent, rather formally
dressed in a dark suit, white shirt with a starched collar, and a
blue-and-white-striped necktie with a wide knot, a black pearl
stickpin in the knot, leaning on a cane. What pleased her most
was his full head of white hair. She thinks she would not have
been able to bear it if he had lost his hair.

"Come in, George," she said.

"I don't really need this," he said, holding up the cane. "I
carry it as insurance. The sidewalks outside are icy in places."

She led him into the drawing room of the apartment, the most
formal of her rooms, a room always reserved for special
occasions.

"You have a beautiful apartment, Hannah."

"Thank you. It--suffices."

And now, sitting opposite him in one of a pair of Louis XIV
chairs, the mirror of memory has cleared. The years have dropped
away, and his face has resumed its familiar contours, the same
slightly off-center smile. It is as though he hasn't changed or
aged at all, and she wonders if the same miracle of
transformation has taken place in his mind as well as he looks at
her.

As though echoing her thoughts, he says, "You haven't changed a
bit, Hannah."

"Oh, Lord love you for a liar," she says with a laugh. "Of course
I've changed. And so have you. Though not all that much, in fact.
No, you haven't changed a bit, either."

They sit in silence for a moment or two. "Would you like a
drink?" she asks at last. "Some tea perhaps?"
"No, thanks. Nothing," he says, and there is another silence.

"Well!" she says finally. "Here we are."

"This is going to be difficult for us, isn't it?" he says. "So
much time's gone by. There's so much to talk about, and yet--"

"And yet so little."

"Yes."

"Did you marry, George?"

"Yes. Twice, in fact. I've buried two wives. That's not an
expression I like much, but that's what they say. I've buried two
wives."

"Children?"

"No, never any children. Sometimes I've regretted that, now that
I live alone. You?"

"Three. No, four, actually."

"Ah."

"One of them was yours."

He smiles faintly. "I often wondered about that. That thought
often crossed my mind, particularly when your letters stopped
coming. But I was so far away, and there was nothing I could do."

"Of course there wasn't. She was a beautiful baby girl"

"And I'm sure you were a wonderful mother, Hannah."

"No, as a matter of fact, I wasn't. I wasn't at all. My mother
took me to Germany to have the baby. She was raised as my baby
sister. Nobody ever knew, not even my father. Especially not
him."

"I see," he says.

"Do you? You see, it was such a different era, George. That
German-Jewish crowd I grew up in. So proud. My father's
family--all those distinguished rabbis and scholars in his family
tree. And the women in those days. So strict and prim and proper.
They wore long, high-collared dresses, and pearls--pearls, even
for canoe trips and picnics in the Adirondacks! Everything had to
be just so. It would have destroyed my father if he'd known what
happened to me. I would have disgraced the whole family. I'd have
been an outcast. The whole family would've been outcasts. I'd
have disgraced the family name."
"I understand," he says.

"It's all so different today. Today nobody would bat an eyelash
at what you and I did, or what happened to me. Today it would
just be ho-hum. My granddaughter, Anne, who's eighteen--she says
she's never going to get married. She says she's just going to
have a long string of lovers! Of course, I think she says things
like that just to tease me, but she says them just the same."

"It just wasn't in the stars for you and me, was it, Hannah?"

"No, it wasn't. But your daughter grew up to be a very beautiful
woman, George. Very beautiful, and very bright, and very
talented. She worked for my husband's company for a number of
years. She even got to be rather famous. Advertising Age, which
is a trade paper, once voted her Advertising Woman of the Year!
You and I can be very proud of that, George. She--" She breaks
off suddenly. "Would you like to meet her, George? I could
arrange that."

"I don't know," he says. "What do you think?"

"It's up to you, George. I could--"

"But then you'd have to explain to her who I am, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but--"

"Which could be difficult."

"Yes. Perhaps."

"So I think--no. It's a little late for me to start becoming a
father at my age, Hannah."

"Let me at least show you some pictures of her." She rises and
fetches a leather-bound photo album from a small table, and hands
it to him.

He sits with the album unopened on his lap.

"Open it. It's full of--"

"No, I think I'd rather keep the picture I have of her in my
mind's eye," he says. "But let me show you something." He reaches
into his inside breast pocket and withdraws a small book. "I've
always kept a journal," he says. "This one is from the year you
and I met." He opens it to a page and shows her a small, dried,
brown, and papery flower that has been pressed between the pages.

"My gardenia," she says, and suddenly she is tremendously touched
and moved, and tears well in her eyes. "It was for my father, but
you stopped and picked it up."

"It's been around the world many times, that little flower."

"You picked it up, and put it between your teeth like a gypsy,
and danced a little jig."

"If you look closely, I think you'll find the teeth marks are
still there. But I think I might have a little trouble now,
dancing the jig."

"And then you left your cap."

"And you kept it for me."

"And you kept my flower." She stares down at it, and all at once
the dried petals become white and fresh again, and, yes, she can
see fresh teeth marks on the stem. She closes the little book
carefully and hands it back to him, and he replaces it in his
inside breast pocket. "George--do you remember--do you remember
the sound you said the snoring sailors made from the bunks below
you on your ship?"

He smiles at her. "Manush, manush. A lot of time's gone by,
Hannie, and a lot has happened to both of us. But I have
wonderful memories, my dear, wonderful pictures in my mind's
eye." He reaches for his cane and rises, a little stiffly, from
his chair to go.

She also rises. "George--will you come back again? Will you come
back often? So we can talk some more, and remember more things?"

"Of course," he says, and smiles at her again, but something in
the way he says this tells her that he will not come back again.
They stand there, in her formal French drawing room, full of
Louis XIV, a lifetime of collecting, and they are both suddenly a
little hesitant and awkward. It is as though they have taken
separate paths and met at the end of a peninsula, and all the
ground behind them has washed away. He lowers his head and kisses
her lightly on the forehead. "Goodbye, dear heart," he says.

 The introductory applause dies down as Noah approaches the
podium, and as he turns to face his audience of Ingraham people,
the house lights dim, though a small spot remains on Noah's face.
Behind him the big screen lights up. "For me," he begins, "it all
began in
the tiny Scottish village of Ballachulish." He presses a small
button on the podium, and, click, the first image fills the
screen. "Population three hundred and sixteen, not far from the
entrance to the Firth of Lome. It was in the early spring of
1992, and the air was crisp and fresh and new. What was I doing
in this little town, so small and remote that it doesn't appear
on most maps, a town that reminded me a little bit--"

Softly, at first, the overture from Brigadoon comes up from the
pair of speakers on the stage. The song is "The Heather on the
Hill." Look at your audience, he hears her say. Catch their eyes.

Noah looks out across the sea of upturned and politely expectant
faces that fills the darkened ballroom--faces he wishes he would
one day learn to attach to names without the help of name
tags--and, beyond the faces, to the pair of glass doors that
leads into the lobby, and sees a young girl with long dark hair
sitting in a club chair. A small blue suitcase sits beside her on
the floor. Her knees are pressed tightly together, and her eyes
are closed. Her lips are moving, and he realizes that she has
memorized the script, too, and is following it with him. Suddenly
he thinks he should forget the script and rush out to her,
telling her not to go without him, telling her they'll work
something out. Come with me, go with me, I don't care where.
Surely we are not the only man and woman in the world to whom
this sort of thing has happened. There are many more of us out
there. We are not alone. But of course he does not do this.

"--of Brigadoon."

As he speaks, the music rises briefly, then fades, then
disappears.

 "Your mother's in the east sitting room, Mrs. Lie bling," Sister
Margaret Mary says. "And she's alone, so you might want to have
your visit with her there? You can close the doors, if you like,
for privacy."

"Thank you, Sister." She starts down the long, wide corridor
toward the sitting room.

The rooms of Greenspring Hills have been decorated in the
exuberant style of the late Dorothy Draper when she was in her
cabbage-rose period. The colors used are all warm and vibrant,
yellows, hot pinks, oranges and
lime greens, citrus colors that, supposedly, are designed to
convey an atmosphere that is cheery and upbeat. Cabbage roses
appear in persimmon on the wallpaper, and in lemony yellow on the
polished chintz used to cover chairs and to create balloon-type
window hangings. All the floral prints are oversize, and all the
rooms are deeply carpeted in soft pastels, and all this use of
fabrics gives Greenspring Hills a hushed quality, in which all
sounds of distress are muted, if not silenced altogether. Here a
scream would not carry far. Actually, these echoes of Dorothy
Draper are not entirely accidental. Greenspring Hills was
decorated by Carleton Varney, who was Mrs. Draper's handpicked
successor.

Carol finds her mother seated in one corner of a plump pink and
green chintz-covered sofa, her rosary beads in her hands. She is
dressed, as usual, very simply, in brown slacks and a beige
blouse, though Carol notices that the blouse is food-stained in
the front. She reminds herself to speak to Sister about that
before she leaves. She likes her mother to look tidy. Her mother
was always a small woman, but today, sitting in that big sofa,
alone in that big happy-colored room, she looks even smaller, her
gray hair hanging to her shoulders straight, uncurled. Her mother
does not look up when she enters the room, but continues
fingering her beads.

"Hello, Mother," she says, sitting down beside her on the sofa.

"I'm making a very special novena," she says. "And I'm making it
for you."

"Oh, that's nice, Mother," Carol says.

"The Blessed Virgin is weeping for you today, and also for me."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mother."

"There have been sins committed, and for these there must be
atonement. There must be redemption."

"Of course. Are you happy here, Mother?"

"Happy? Oh, I'm as happy here as I'll be anywhere, until I'm
gathered into the arms of Our Lord Jesus."

"Sister Margaret Mary said there was a little problem in the
dining room this morning."

"Sister Margaret Mary is a liar!"

"Oh? I thought you liked Sister Margaret Mary, Mother."
"She's a liar! And don't call me Mother! There is only one
Mother, the Holy Mother of the Universe! She's with us now."

Carol reaches out and gently touches her mother's hand. "Mama,
then. When I was little, I called you Mama."

"Don't interrupt me. Let me finish my beads."

And so they sit in silence while her mother mutters the words
under her breath. "Hail, Mary, full of grace. . . . Our Father .
. ."

At last she finishes, and her hands fall to her lap, though she
still holds the beads. "Let us pray," she says. "Get down on your
knees, Carol, and we will pray for forgiveness."

"I don't want to pray just yet," she says. "First, I want to talk
about what happened in the dining room this morning."

"The angels spoke to me this morning."

"Yes--that's what I meant. What did the angels say to you, Mama?
Sister Margaret Mary said--"

"Don't believe what she says! She's not the messenger of the
Lord. I am!"

"Of course, Mama. So tell me what the angels said to you."

"That a sin has been committed. A mortal sin."

"Tell me what that was. Mama."

"The angels came into the dining room to tell me."

"And what did they say?"

"That there has been lechery, and there has been sin, and that
you and I are to be punished for it."

"I see," Carol says, feeling helpless. Like so many of her
conversations with her mother, this one is just spinning in
circles, going nowhere. "Well," she says, "you mustn't let these
messages upset you. Because when you get upset, it upsets
everybody else who lives here. Isn't there a little pill you're
supposed to take when you feel upset? A little yellow pill?"

"Pills are worldly things. This was Divine Word."

"But you see what I'm saying, Mama, is that when you inflict your
upset on other people--well, that's not very Christian, is it?
Remember, 'Do unto others--'"

"Don't talk to me about what's Christian! You married the
Christ-killer. You're the apostate."
"Now, Mama, you know I don't like it when you talk this way."

"It's true! You know what Father Timmons said when you married a
man of the people who crucified and killed Our Lord, the only
begotten son of God and our Holy Mother. He said no good would
come of it, and no good has. And now you're being punished for
it-- punished by your Christ-killer's lechery and unfaithfulness,
by his treachery and betrayal. But I--I sat back and let you do
it. I let you be delivered into the hands of Satan. You have your
punishment now. But the Blessed Virgin hasn't decided yet what my
punishment will be. That's why I'm making this novena."

Carol sighs. "Sister Margaret Mary said you received a fax this
morning. Who was that from, Mama?"

"Fax? I don't know what you're talking about."

"One of those letters that comes over the telephone lines."

"There was a letter, yes."

"Who was it from, Mama?"

"The Blessed Virgin."

"I know the Blessed Virgin often speaks to you, Mama. But I
didn't know she wrote you letters."

"Nonsense. She writes to me all the time."

"And I didn't know she had a fax machine."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"What did the letter say, Mama?"

"It is Holy Writ. It was signed B, for Blessed Virgin."

"But what did the letter say?"

"The truth. The truth about you and the Christ-killer you
married. And his young whore."

"Do you still have the letter, Mama?"

"Yes. I should probably burn it, since it's Holy Writ. I should
burn it, and let the smoke rise up to heaven and join our Holy
Mother and her heavenly angels who sent it to me."

"May I see the letter, Mama?"

"No! It is Holy Writ. It was not meant for the eyes of an
apostate."

"But if it concerns me, I'm sure the Blessed Virgin intended you
to share the letter with me."

Her mother eyes her narrowly. "You think so?" she says.
"Oh, I'm quite sure of it, Mama," Carol says. "That would be the
Christian thing, wouldn't it--to share?"

"To convince you of your sin, and your apostasy? Do you think
that's what she wants?"

"Of course that's what she wants, Mama. It's quite obvious that's
what she wants. How else would she convince me of my sin?"

"But she doesn't exactly say that in her letter."

"But remember Saint Augustine, Mama. He said, 'God always writes
straight, but sometimes in crooked lines.'"

"That's true. At least you remember some of the things Father
Timmons taught you."

"I remember everything he taught me. Is the letter upstairs in
your room, Mama?"

"No, I have it here." Slowly she reaches inside her soiled blouse
and withdraws the letter, and hands it to Carol.

 ". . . and now let's go next door and try some Ballachulish," he
says. "I think you're going to like it."

The lights in the room come up again, and the applause begins.

"Maybe you'd better hold your applause until after you've tasted
Mr. Kelso's brew," he says, and there is laughter. "And now,
before I leave the microphone, I have just one favor to ask of
all of you before we all start partying in earnest. I'd like to
conduct a blind taste test. As you enter the party room next
door, each of you will be given two ballots. On the table on your
left, in numbered plastic glasses, will be samples of Angus
Kelso's whiskey along with samples of fourteen other premium
single malts. I'd like you to taste each of these, and rank each
on a scale of one to ten--based on the usual three criteria:
taste, nose, and color. On the table on your right will be
samples of the water from Mr. Kelso's caves, along with nine
other premium bottled non-carbonated waters. I'd like you to do
the same with these. When the results are tallied, then maybe
we'll have something to celebrate."

There is more applause, and people begin rising from their seats.

Noah looks out across his audience to the double glass
doors that lead to the lobby. The girl and her suitca

are gone.

 And now the wrap-up cocktail party is in full swir The results
of the taste test were even better than No had dared hope for,
with Angus Kelso's scotch comi out the easy winner, and with
eighty percent of the v< ers voting it their favorite. The test
of the bottled wafc was almost as encouraging; sixty-five percent
chc Kelso's as their favorite. Now Noah moves around t room,
shaking hands, accepting backslaps and congral lations, using his
old trick of looking a man straight the eye and at his name tag
at the same time.

"Hey, Phil . . . Yo, Paul . . . How're you doii Harry? . . . Hey,
Dave--your wife have the baby yet

"Little boy."

"Congratulations, buddy."

"Great presentation, Noah. Really great . . ."

"I got a great name for it, Noah--Highland Fling!'

"Not bad. Write 'em all down, send 'em all in. T thousand to the
winner . . ."

"What about Heather Hill?"

"Too close to Heaven Hill? But send 'em all in. T thousand--"

"We're gonna knock the competition on its a Noah."

"That's my intention, buddy."

Someone named Peter corners him. "Listen, I've | a terrific
marketing idea for this, Noah," he says. "^ should market the
booze and the bottled water um the same name! We can't advertise
the booze on netwc TV, but we can advertise the water. So the
water p motes the booze--get it? Hell, we can even advert the
water in the Girl Scouts' magazine!"

"Believe it or not, that's exactly my thinking, Pe It's like what
they say, great minds--"

Peter looks crestfallen. "Anyway, it's a million-do] idea," he
says.

Noah finds Frank Stokes standing alone at the t nursing a drink.
"C'mon, Frank," he says. "It's not 1 it's the end of the world.
Nothing's like it's the end the world."
"That's what it's like for me," Frank says. "Like it's the end of
the world."

With tongues loosened by liquor, the noise level in the room
rises, and in certain sections the party becomes almost raucous,
as waiters circulate with trays of drinks and others with trays
of hors d'oeuvres.

"Anybody want to get laid tonight? There's this girl called
Estelle . . ."

"Didja hear the one about the rabbi who got stranded on a desert
island?"

"I won eight hundred bucks at roulette last night. Whaddaya think
of that?"

"And it was quite a few years before he was rescued, you see, and
by the time they rescued him he'd--"

"Roulette? Shit, that's a sissy game. I'm hitting the craps table
one more time before I head home."

". . . built a hospital, a yeshiva school, a community center,
and two synagogues."

"This Estelle gives great head, man."

"So they said to him, we can understand you building the
hospital, the yeshiva school, and the community center. But why
two synagogues?"

"Hell, you can't get AIDS from a girl giving you head!"

"And the rabbi said, 'The other one I wouldn't set foot in!'"

"You can?"

Noah moves, smiling, shaking hands, through all of this. Before
he is finished, before he can leave the party and go home, it is
essential that he greet every single person in this crowded,
noisy room. "Hey, Dex . . . Yo, Wally ... Hi, there, Eddie . . ."

"Telephone call for you, Mr. Liebling," a waiter says. "You can
take it in that little room over there. Quieter . . ."

It is Edith Ackerman. "Mr. Noah," she says, "I just wanted to
make sure you got my message--that Miss Hannah wants to see you
at her house before you go home tonight. As soon as you get to
New York, no matter how late it is. She says it's very
important."

"Yes, Edith, I did get that message. Thanks."

"Oh, Mr. Noah!" There is a sob in her voice.

"What's the matter, Edith?"
"Oh, Mr. Noah--the most awful thing has happened."

"What is it, Edith?"

"The Little Girl is dead!"

"Dead?" He carries the phone with him to a chair and sits down.
"Now tell me," he says. "Tell me exactly what happened, Edith."

"This morning she had some sort of seizure. Her blood sugar was
up. I gave her an injection, and she seemed better, but I didn't
think she should go to her school today, and so I had my neighbor
come in, and1--"

"Oh, you're talking about your niece," he says. "Oh, thank God .
. ."

"What?"

He bridges his left hand over his eyes, as though to shield them
from the light, though the light is behind him. "I just meant ...
it must seem like such a release for you, Edith. She's been such
a burden to you, Edith, such a care ... all these years, and ..."

"But still, Mr. Noah," she sobs. "But still. She was all I had. .
. ."

 You did this, Carol is thinking. You did this, yes, you did. And
I hurt. I hurt here, and here. And also here. Oh, you bastard.
You hurt me so much I no longer know where I'm going, or even
where I've been, you bastard whom I hate. And also love. Because
hating someone you love is the worst kind of hate there is. She
adjusts the sun visor on her little green car.

Did you think I never had opportunities to do to you what you've
done to me? Did you think Johnny Pearlstein never tried to put
his hand inside my dress that night after we all went to see Born
Free, and you were taking the sitter home, and I just pushed his
hand away? Or were you doing the same thing to the sitter? How
many chances to hurt you this way have I turned down? Dozens, you
bastard, and even more than that, if I were to count all the
times on my fingers. And just the other night, when Beryl and
Bill Luckman and Georgette came up for drinks, did Bill
Luckman--or did he not--whisper to me, "I find you very
attractive"? And did I not just smile and go on passing the
cheese and crackers? I could have hurt you like this dozens and
dozens and dozens of times. But did I?
And speaking of Beryl, she's obviously been getting her jollies
while Frank is out of town. In fact, she's probably been getting
them from Bill Luckman. She was all over him like a tent that
night. Yearbooks. I heard her tell him she had some old school
yearbooks. "Come up and see my yearbooks." Sure, that's what she
did. Took him up to her place after she left my place and screwed
him. I could have done the same, you bastard. At least he's an
adult. In fact, he's probably the one she wrote that letter to,
though how it got faxed to Mama at Greenspring Hills I'll never
know. Did you think I could be someone like Beryl, as dumb as she
is?

How long has this been going on, you bastard? How long has Melody
been spending her vacations with us? Three years? Four? As long
as that? And right under my nose, under my own roof. That's the
worst part. That's what hurts the most, because it makes me feel
so stupid, stupider than Beryl Stokes, and that's pretty stupid.
You think I'm stupid. No one ever called me stupid before. Four
years of college in three, and a Phi Beta Kappa key even so. "No
wives at sales conference, that's the rule," you told me. But
what about teenage girlfriends? That was the question I was too
stupid to ask, you bastard, my love I love to hate, my hate I
hate to love. The line between the two is so thin that it's
nothing but a tiny, blurry squiggle now. Oh, I could kill you for
what you've done to me, Noah, kill you for what you've killed in
me, I really could.

Where am I?

It is the sun, the sun in her eyes that is blinding her, altering
familiar landmarks on the highway ahead of her, making everything
she sees float strangely out of focus. In the sun's glare the
landscape along the parkway, instead of gathering alongside her
as she drives, seems to slide away from her on all sides and
disappear. She has forgotten how far south the sun moves in
midwinter, and now, driving back to New York, as the sun sinks
toward the horizon against a clear sky, it is directly in her
eyes. She tries adjusting the visor again, which does not help,
and she has left her sunglasses at home. She has always kept her
little green car spotlessly clean and polished, but perhaps she
has picked up some road dust on the trip, and this is helping the
direct sunlight to
shatter her vision so. Or perhaps her windshield is simply too
clean, and its very cleanness is refracting the sun's light in
her eyes too brilliantly.

Still, she drives the way she has always liked to drive, a little
over the speed limit. Perhaps, she thinks, she has always gone at
everything a little too fast. Perhaps that is the trouble.
Perhaps she had wanted to leave the little town of Rumney Depot,
New Hampshire, too fast, to leave the world of her
Christ-obsessed mother and the ever present Father Timmons, who,
her mother used to remind her, was the closest thing to a real
father she would ever have. Perhaps she had wanted to leave that
world so fast that she had left it before she ever understood it.
Then she had put herself through college too fast, accelerating,
squeezing four years' worth of study into three. Then she had
gotten her master's degree in psychology too fast, in one year
instead of two. Then she had speeded into marriage with Noah,
whom she had met--fast--on a blind date, and fallen in love with
too fast. Noah had told her he liked speed, too, speed and
danger. They had run off and been married at City Hall without
telling anyone, courting danger, courting disaster, and it was
this marriage, Father Timmons had insisted to this day, that
drove her mother over the edge, though there had been plenty of
alarming signals before that. "When she heard you'd done that,
she simply snapped," he said to her. "Snapped like a bough in the
wind. It was a terrible thing you did, Carol. Now your mother is
a broken reed." Then, with her accelerator pedal pressed to the
floor, she sped into motherhood. What was I trying to prove? And
to whom was I trying to prove whatever it was?

But I was in love.

One falls in love because one falls in love. That's all there is
to it. It's as simple as that. There's no other explanation. And
probably one really falls in love no more than once, and that is
probably a lucky thing. Once is enough, and more than once would
probably be unbearable. The rest of the time one is just waiting
to be in love, or wanting to be in love, or trying to be in love,
or thinking about being in love, or pretending to be in love,
which is always fruitless and pointless in the end. Oh, yes.
Sometimes at night, pretending to be asleep, I
will hear sounds--soft, secretive sounds--from the bed next to
mine, and I know that he is making love to himself. When it first
happened, long ago, I was bewildered. Then I was hurt, then I was
angry. Where were his thoughts when he did this? Were they with
some other lover, someone he found more fulfilling than me? Why
was I not invited, not even permitted, to share these secret
moments with him? I would lie very still in the other bed,
keeping my own breathing soft and slow and regular, pretending to
sleep, until he finished. Then I would hear him sleeping.

But then, long ago, I decided that these private, secret moments
of his were all a part of sharing my life with him, a part of
being in love with him and, of course, this discovery only made
me love him more. Loving is more than fucking. Fucking is more
like dancing, a pleasant way to pass some leisure time. Loving is
not a pleasant pastime, no holiday in Capri. Love is rugged and
thick with tangled underbrush and sudden, unexpected pitfalls and
barriers between lovers, barricades that announce

NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT, and this W3S the

worst part, the loneliest part of being in love, the whole
trouble with loving at all, why love is not for the foolhardy, or
even for the wise and brave. Love is for those willing to be left
out. They might tell you that love is sharing, but sharing means
sacrifice, as every child learns when he is being taught to
share. The bigger the sacrifice, the more it hurts. And so when
those times come when sharing is no longer endurable, men and
women in love fight back with secrets. That was the crux of it,
that was the real trouble with it. When one is in love, one is
always hi love alone.

And so--what to do now? Can I forgive him? That would be the
Christian way. The Christian prayer tells us to forgive those who
trespass against us. I wonder what Hannah would say. "Forget it,"
I can hear Hannah's Old New York vowels saying. "Don't be
absuhuhd. Get on with your life, woman. Shuh-uh-ly this isn't the
worst thing that's ever happened to any woman in the wuh-uhld.
This isn't the fuhst time this has ever happened to a woman, and
it cw/z-tainly won't be the last." But what kind of a life do I
have to get on with, Hannah? Tell me that. And yet... and yet.
After all, all I
did was fuck her. You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss,
a fuck is just a fuck. Fucking isn't loving. But I've already
said that. And yet he wouldn't have fucked her if he really loved
me, and so here I am again, right back where I started, talking
in circles, getting nowhere.

 And so now Carol is speeding blindly down the Henry Hudson
Parkway with the sun in her eyes, courting an accident, but
suddenly the thought of an accident is not without a certain
appeal, a certain almost piquancy. Aren't there moments in every
human life when the idea of self-destruction floats into the
racing mind, beckoning with sirenish allure, holding out its
gentle hand and offering a solution to everything? A temptingly
fast solution? That was the best thing about it: it would be so
fast.

Now her thoughts are measured and spaced out, and seem to be
coming to her in slow motion. She is passing through the
Riverdale section of the Bronx, and ahead of her is the Spuyten
Duyvil Bridge to Manhattan. On her left is Baker Field, where she
used to go to watch college football games. Below her, on her
left, winds the Harlem River. On her right is the Hudson, looking
deceptively wide and calm, and that narrow gap of water where the
angry tides from the Harlem River boil into the larger river
through a steep and narrow rock-strewn gap, some two hundred feet
below. The railings of the Spuyten Duyvil Bridge do not look
particularly substantial. One quick turn of her wheel, and her
car would go flying through those railings, and it would be over,
fast. She tries it, turns the wheel, and watches her car head for
the railing. But when she feels her right foot fly to the pedal
of the power brakes she knows she does not really want to die.

She sees the crash, everything, although she really cannot see it
from her driver's seat. She sees her right front fender crumple
against the railing, sees the right headlight shatter in a shower
of glass. But now the car is at a standstill, its right wheel up
on the concrete curb of the railing, the motor idling.

She puts the gearshift into park, and gets out to inspect the
damage. The fender is caved in, but well away from the wheel, so
the car will steer. The front bumper
is twisted, but secure. The right headlight is gone, but at least
a half an hour of daylight remains before she will need it. No
fluids are dripping from under the hood, so the radiator is not
cracked. The car will get her home. Perhaps there is something to
be said, after all, for driving an expensive car. This being New
York, of course, no one stops to help her, though motorists in
both directions slow down for a better look at the accident.

The impact threw her chest against the steering wheel, and she
struggles to get her breath back, feeling a little nauseated. But
she gets back into the car and backs it off the curb, into the
roadway, where it lands with a small bump and another scrape of
the fender. Only then does she see, in her rearview mirror, the
spinning orange light of a police car pulled up behind her, and a
lanky young officer walking toward her. She rolls down her
window.

"You all right, little lady?" he asks her.

"Yes, Officer. I'm fine, thanks."

"What happened?"

"The sun was in my eyes."

He looks up at the upper roadway of the bridge above them, which
throws where they are now into deep shadow. "No sun under here,"
he says.

"I'm afraid I just wasn't concentrating on the road," she says.

"That's not a good thing to be doing when you're driving a car,
little lady--not concentrating on the road."

"I guess my thoughts were--elsewhere, Officer."

"It's also not good to have your thoughts elsewhere when you're
behind the wheel of a vehicle, little lady."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Think you might have fallen asleep at the wheel, little lady?"

"No, and--look, that's the third time you've called me that,
Officer. I do have a name. Do you want to see my license and
registration?"

"That won't be necessary, ma'am."

"That's better," she says. She looks up at his face. He is surely
no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. She wonders: Is he going
to ask me to get out of my car and into his while he writes out a
ticket? She has heard lurid stories about policemen who stop
single women, rape
them at gunpoint, and then stuff them into the trunks of their
cars.

"Where're you coming from?" he asks her. "Maybe from a cocktail
party? Maybe had a couple of drinks?"

"No, but I wish I had."

He squints at her. "What do you mean by that?"

"Because that would have given me a good excuse for what I did.
Want me to get out of the car and try to walk a straight line?"

"No, that won't be necessary, ma'am."

"It's funny. My husband's in the liquor business, and when you're
in the liquor business you hardly ever think about drinking. Half
the time I forget to stock the bar in my own house. My maid has
to remind me."

"Oh, you've got a maid?" He smiles. "It figures, with a car like
this."

"I used to have a maid. She quit this morning." She studies his
uniform, which strikes her as an unusual combination of styles
and periods. His gray Stetson calls to mind the hats J.R. Ewing
wore hi Dallas. His blue double breasted jacket and wide belt
could have belonged to a Union cavalry officer in the Civil War,
while his gray jodhpurs and black boots seem to have been
borrowed from a polo player, though she doubts those long legs
have ever been astride a horse. His skin is smooth and
clean-shaven, though his beard is dark. He has a strong jawline
and kind, dark eyes with heavy lashes. If he turns out to be a
rapist, she thinks, I could do a lot worse. In fact, his face
reminds her of someone she knows. She knows who it is: Noah, when
he was younger.

"I've been following you for about the last five miles," he says.
"You were going a little fast--five, six miles over the speed
limit. But I don't like to ticket anybody for as small a
violation as that. You were driving just fine, but then suddenly
you swerved and hit the railing here."

"I know. My mind was on something else."

"Where did you say you're coming from?"

"I don't think I did say, Officer. It's a place in Connecticut
called Greenspring Hills. I don't know why they call it that.
It's not green, there isn't any spring, and there aren't any
hills to speak of."
"Oh, sure. I know that place. The funny farm. You an inmate
there?"

"No, but my mother is. Yes, I guess you could say my mother's
funny. She's funny that way. That's a song, isn't it? And
incidentally, they don't call them inmates. They call them
residents. Or guests. And it's not called the funny farm. It's
called an inn." Why is she chattering with him like this, as
though he were an old friend? "I got some bad news there this
afternoon," she says. "That's why I wasn't concentrating on my
driving the way I should have been."

"Bad news about your mom? I'm sorry to hear that. I lost my own
mom just a month ago, so I know how you feel."

"I'm so sorry, Officer."

"Only forty-two. Too young. Cancer." He walks around to the front
of her car, looks at the collapsed fender, and checks the bridge
railing. Then he returns to her window. "No damage done to the
railing," he says. "I'd have to ticket you if there'd been any
damage done to that. Just some of your green paint scraped off.
But it's going to cost you a few nickels to have that front end
of yours repaired."

"A few nickels . . ."

"It's a shame, too. Nice car like that. Tell me something --did
you have your seat belt fastened?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I didn't."

"I could ticket you for that, too." His face is very serious,
frowning. "But the fact is, I didn't actually see you driving
without your seat belt. The first time I saw you, you'd already
gotten out of the car. So I couldn't stand up in front of a judge
and swear I saw you driving without a seat belt, could I?"

"No, I guess you couldn't, Officer."

"You got far to go, ma'am?"

"East Side of Manhattan." Yes, she guesses that's where she's
going. At the moment, at least, there seems to be nowhere else to
go.

"Well, you'd better get on your way. You'd better get home before
dark. It's dangerous driving around at night with only one
headlight. Would you like me to escortj you home, ma'am?"
"Oh, no, thanks. That's very kind of you. But I'm fine now."

"Anything else I can do?"

"No, thanks--unless--"

"Unless what, ma'am?"

"You don't happen to have a cigarette, do you?" she asks him.

"Sure," he says, and reaches in the side pocket of his Union
cavalry jacket. "Marlboro okay?"

"Anything!" she says with a little laugh.

He shakes one loose from his pack, offers it to her, and lights
it for her with a match, and she sees the gold wedding band on
his ring finger. Somewhere, she thinks, there is a very lucky
woman.

"Thank you," she says. "And thank you for letting me off without
a ticket, Officer. You've really been very kind. I think, more
than anything, what I needed was just somebody to talk to. I
think that's why I had the accident. I need somebody to talk to."

"Don't mention it, ma'am. Now, you just drive carefully --hear?
And fasten that seat belt."

"I will. I promise."

He gives her a snappy little salute, touching the brim of his
cowboy hat with the tip of his index finger.

"Good-bye, Marlboro Man," she says with a smile as she rolls her
window back up again.

She watches him in her rearview mirror as he walks back to his
car. Then she buckles her seat belt, starts up her car again, and
continues on across the bridge, the lighted cigarette clenched
tightly between two fingers of her gloved hand.
Night

 A letter from Jules Liebling to his son Noah, dated June 12,
1974, about six months before Jules died:

 Dear Sonny,

 The trouble with the booze business is there's not a damn thing
to it. It's got no glamour. It's got no class. Any damn fool
could make a few million bucks doing what I've done for a living,
and don't let anybody tell you different. Now the wine business
is something else again. "Vintners," as they call themselves, are
very lahdidah. Those snobs out in the Napa and Sonoma valleys go
off riding to the hounds. If I tried riding to the hounds, they'd
laugh me off the horse. Don't ask me why the hell this is. Making
wine and making booze involves pretty much the same damn process.
Boil the water out of your wine, and you'll get brandy. The only
difference between selling wine and selling hooch is that the
hooch makes more money.

If you get a kick out of making money, as I've always done,
you'll get a kick out of this business. If you don't, better find
yourself some other line of work, like be a college professor.

You'll hear some people talk about the "distilled spirits
industry" as if it was some sacred thing that's been around for
centuries. That's bullshit. It hasn't. The motion picture
industry is older, and so, almost, is television. Both those
industries are complicated. Ours isn't. I can tell you everything
you need to know about booze in about two pages.

Until the present century there was no booze industry as such.
People made booze, of course, but it was strictly a home
operation. The guy with a still in his
cellar or backyard made his hooch and peddled it to his
neighbors. Then somebody got the idea that booze should be taxed.
Taxation created the industry because you needed volume
production and national distribution in order to fight the Feds.
Taxation also created two new booze-related professions:
moonshining and smuggling. The booze maker had a choice: either
go along with the revenuers, or hide from 'em. I chose the former
course because it seemed a hell of a lot easier.

But these new professions probably account for the fact that, in
the public mind, people in our business are still considered to
be crooks or lowlifes, or else ex-crooks and ex-lowlifes. Well, a
lot of 'em damn well are.

Years ago, your ma asked me, "When are the nice people in New
York going to accept us! When are even the nice Jewish people in
New York going to accept us?" (Her folks were supposed to be some
of those people.) My answer was: "When there's a cold day in
hell--though they'll always accept our money." She's more cynical
now. She's maybe even more cynical than I am, and I'm pretty damn
cynical.

Any kid with a chemistry set can make booze. Just put some water
in a boiler and bring it to a boil. Meanwhile, set out your
hogsheads. Add some corn meal and water to your boiling water,
and mix it with an iron paddle called a mashing oar. This is
called soaking the corn. Add more boiling water and keep on
stirring. This is called scalding the corn. Next, add rye and
stir some more. This is called mashing in the rye, and at this
point the whole mixture is called the mash. It looks like hell;
and stinks.

Next, cool the mash off by adding cold water. Then add yeast, and
the mixture is now ready to work, or ferment. At this point your
mixture is called stuff, or beer. When the fermentation is over,
the mixture is said to be ripe, or ready to be put into the
still. Your stuff gets poured into a trough leading to a
condenser, and the condenser is charged--meaning you light a fire
under it. Keep stirring, while the still is being pasted--its
joints stopped up with paste to keep steam from escaping. As soon
as the mixture boils, the liquor that runs off is called the
singlings, also called swill or pot ale.

Charge up another condenser, called the doubling
still, and repeat the process. Then repeat again, and keep
repeating until your booze has reached the proof you want. Aging
in barrels reduces bite. But a lot of people like their whiskey
raw.

So there you have it, sonny--all the secrets and mysteries of our
Industry.

My greatest achievement In this business was getting John F.
Kennedy elected president of the United States. 1 suppose you
wonder how I accomplished that.

Well, it started back in '24 or '25, when old Joe Kennedy was
just getting started in the business. He didn't have the
experience that some of my other customers had, and he was always
looking for shortcuts and trying to cut corners. Joe was a very
impatient man. I've never known a man so impatient to make money,
and that impatience of his made him a lot of enemies. He came to
me one day complaining that a lot of my shipments weren't making
It to his men who were stationed to receive them along the South
Shore.

I said to him, "Joe, I've got a suggestion for you. Ever hear of
a corduroy road?"

"No," he said. "What's that?"

I explained to him that a corduroy road is a road made out of a
bunch of logs lashed together with heavy rope or cable. It's a
device used by the military to provide the wheels of heavy
vehicles with traction when they need to get through muddy
terrain.

You see, there were only so many places along the South Shore
where you could back a truck down from the highway to the water's
edge, and load up the shipments of cases that came across the
lake by boat at night. What the revenuers and hijackers---and a
lot of the revenuers were hijackers as well--had learned to look
for was the marks of tire treads In the mud. They'd station
themselves In these places and He In wait at night, waiting for
the trucks and boats to come in and transfer the shipments.

I said to Joe, "Make yourself a few corduroy roads, but make 'em
reversible. Sod one side of your road with grass and weeds. By
day, your road will look just like a grassy stretch. Then, at
night, when a shipment's due in, flip your road over and back
your trucks down
from the highway. It'll make your transfers a lot faster, too,
and easier.

Well, old Joe took my suggestion, and he had no more problems.
The money started rolling in. So you see--if I hadn't helped old
Joe Kennedy make his fortune, he wouldn't have been able to buy
his son a seat in the House, then in the Senate, and finally the
presidency of the United States. But did old Joe ever thank me
for what I did for him and his family? Never! Your mother and I
weren't even invited to the White House for his son's
inauguration!

I'm only telling you all this because, if you decide to stay in
this business--and I hope you will, because I want it to be all
yours one day--I want you to do so with your eyes wide open,
under no illusions that what you do will get you the Nobel prize.
Just give Uncle Sam his share, and you'll stay out of jail. I
did. That's the only piece of advice I have for you, after more
than half a century in booze. Your loving old--

 Pop

 P.S. Better burn this letter. If it fell into the wrong hands, I
could be crucified. And I sometimes think I've been crucified in
this life enough already.

 But he didn't burn the letter. It was one of the few letters he
had ever received from his father.

And now he sits in the visitor's chair in his mother's library at
1000 Park Avenue, waiting for her. It is after eleven o'clock at
night, and the big apartment seems even bigger, and strangely
empty and silent, with all the servants either in bed or gone for
the night--too big for one old woman. He hears her slippered
footsteps approaching down the long gallery, and her footsteps
sound heavy and slow.

She comes into the room, wearing a pink wool dressing gown over a
white nightie, her hair in rollers, and the rollers secured in a
pink chiffon scarf tied in a big bow, the whole getup suggesting
a large pink rabbit. He stands up. "I hope I didn't get you out
of bed, Ma," he says.

"No, no. I was watching Jay Leno. He isn't very funny,
or maybe I'm missing something. I told your secretary to ask you
to come by no matter how late it was. Sit down, Noah."

He sits again in the visitor's chair, though she remains
standing. "He was so unfunny that I was able to write an entire
press release while he was doing his monologue."

"Press release?"

"I'll get to that in a minute. Meanwhile, my spies tell me you
did very well with your pitch for the Ballawhatchmacallit.''
"Spies? I didn't know you had spies, Ma."

She winks at him. "Of course I have spies," she says. "Did you
think your old ma could run a business this size without spies? I
have spies in every corner, spies at every meeting. Your father
always had spies. You'll need spies, too, when you take over. I
also heard you changed my president's message a little."

"I did a little editing, yes."

She waves her hand. "Doesn't matter. Nobody really listens to
those damn things, anyway. They're just a formality. But I hear
your Ballachulish pitch went really well. And it won the blind
taste test, too."

"You've finally got it right, Ma--Ballachulish. Yes, I think it
went well."

"Good. Get the salesmen excited. That's the first big step. Get
the salesmen excited, and they'll get the wholesalers excited.
Get the wholesalers excited, and they'll get the retailers
excited. All this is important to do before you buy a line of
advertising. But that's not what I really want to talk to you
about, Noah."

"Oh? And what's that?"

She sits down opposite him. "Bathy," she says.

He sits back in his chair and crosses his legs. "I see," he says.
"Bathy again. I think we've been down this road once or twice
before, Ma."

She holds up her hand. "Not this road we haven't, Noah," she
says. "Not this particular road. To begin with, I know why you've
always resented Bathy so."

"Oh?" he says.

"To put it bluntly, you once walked into a bedroom at Grandmont
unannounced, and found Bathy and your father in what is sometimes
called a compromising position. Correct?"
"Hell, yes! You're damn right I did."

She sighs. "You've always been so secretive, Noah," she says.
"You keep things to yourself too much. Why didn't you tell me
about this a long time ago? I've given you every opportunity. Why
didn't you share your feelings about this with me at the time? We
could have discussed it, like the two grown-ups we're supposed to
be."

"Discussed it? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean, you should have told me about it at the time. It wasn't
my place to bring it up with you. But if you'd just told me what
you saw, I could have given you a very simple explanation."

He stares at her in disbelief. "Ma--are you and I talking about
the same eventl I'm talking about walking into the old man's
bedroom and find him fucking your sister. That's what I'm talking
about! And later he lied to me. He told me I hadn't seen what I
thought I saw. But I know damn well what I saw. He was terrified
that I'd tell you about it."

"Was he? I doubt it. I'm sure he knew that I was well aware of
what was going on, after all those years, though your father and
I never discussed it. There was never really any need to. There
are too many things to discuss in a marriage that are necessary.
There just isn't time to discuss unnecessary things. But I
suppose it might have been a little upsetting to you, finding out
like that. I'll admit that."

"Upsetting! I was disgusted--disgusted with both of them. Just
totally disgusted. Sick to my stomach. I ran back down the hall
to my room and threw up."

"Poor Bathy was terribly embarrassed by the incident. What woman
wouldn't be? Barged in on like that!"

He shakes his head. "So you knew about this all along."

"Of course. But you should never barge into a person's bedroom
without knocking first. It's bad manners. A person who does that
gets to see what he deserves to see. Besides, you were supposed
to be away at college. I was in New York. Your father and Bathy
thought they had the house to themselves. I often arranged that
sort of thing for them. It was all part of the arrangement we had
together."
"An arrangement," he says dully. "I knew ours was a screwed-up
family, but I didn't know we were that screwed up. You tolerated
that? You're pitiful, Ma. You're really pitiful."

"Pitiful?" she says sharply. "I am not pitiful. Triumphant is
more the word. I won the battle. Bathy was your father's
mistress. I was fully aware of it. I approved of it. I endorsed
it. It had been going on for a long time--since before you were
born, in fact. It was an agreement we had, Bathy and I, and it
worked out to the benefit of all concerned. All. Including you."

"Endorsed it," he says.

"All but put my John Hancock on it! It started out as a simple
experiment at first. We didn't know whether it would work or not.
But your father needed me for certain things, and he needed Bathy
for certain other things. He needed us both, and we both needed
him, and Bathy and I also needed each other. She and I said, very
well, let's try it. Let's see if it works. And, as it turned out,
it worked very well."

"A menage a trois," he says.

"No, it wasn't that at all. A menage a trois, as I understand it,
is three people involved in a three-way sexual relationship. Ours
wasn't that at all. It was more like a blueprint for living and
working happily together. It was an arrangement that made your
father happy, and made me happy, and made Bathy happy. I won't go
so far as to say that Bathy saved my marriage. But she certainly
helped make my marriage happier than it had ever been before, and
happier than it ever could have been without her. If you'd
understood this, you could have spared yourself a lot of anger,
and tearing around the countryside on your motorcycle, mad at the
world."

He looks at her. "That wasn't why I tore around the countryside
on my motorcycle," he says. "It was because I enjoyed the feeling
of power."

"Well, anyway, now you know the story. And stop and think. If it
hadn't been for Bathy, none of you children would have any of the
things you have today. There would have been a divorce, and then
what would have become of me? I had no one else besides your
father-- and Bathy. I can even say that if it hadn't been for
Bathy, you probably wouldn't even be standing in this
room today. We owe everything to Bathy. So you've no right to
feel betrayed. Bathy is the one who was betrayed."

"Betrayed? How?"

"I got to keep my husband. She didn't. I got to have his
children. She didn't. I inherited this company. She got no
Ingraham stock at all."

"I guess the old man just got tired of her in the end," he says.

"No! That's not true. You made him make a choice. You gave him an
ultimatum. You said you'd never work for Ingraham as long as
Bathy worked here, too. You cost Bathy her job, so you owe Bathy
a lot, too. It was either you or her, you said, and he simply
loved you more, needed you more, wanted a son to carry on the
business more than he wanted anything else. When he explained
this to Bathy, she understood because she loved him, and because
she loved you, too. But even after she retired, and even after
she no longer lived with us, she remained a powerful part of your
father's life. In fact, a strange thing happened during those
last years of his life. The three of us became even closer. The
sexual attachment--well, that simmered down, of course, as those
things always do, as the years went by. But something even more
powerful appeared in its place--a love, an incredible sense of
closeness that's hard to describe, except that it seemed as
though the three of us had one soul. It was a wonderful free
feeling, now that sex was no longer a part of it, and yet at the
same time we seemed to have become almost unbearably dependent on
one another. We were bound together by an invisible cord of love,
and of memories, too, and of things there was no longer any need
to talk about. Just things we knew and had shared in the past.
Yes, I think he knew that I knew about him and Bathy. But there
was no longer any need for blame, or forgiveness, or anything
like that. It was peacefulness. It was understanding. It was
happiness. And happiness--I'm convinced of it--is the bird in the
hand." She touches her eyelids, first one, then the other, with
the sleeve of her pink dressing gown.

"And yet when he died, he left her without a penny."

"He was always so obsessed with--appearances. Probity.
Respectability. The things he was hoping to get, but didn't, by
marrying me. 'Ingraham--the label you can trust.' The Leaning
Tower of Pisa. 'You can trust the Leaning Tower of Pisa never to
fall down.' Bathy and I always tried to help him project that
image, for whatever it was worth, to try to make the public
forget what everybody knew--that he was an ex-bartender with no
education, who took over a Canadian gin mill when its owner
couldn't pay his own bar bill, a man who helped Al Capone get his
start and whom Mr. Capone wanted to reward by being Cyril's
godfather. There was so much in your father's life that he wanted
to hide, and Bathy was just part of it. To your father, leaving
Bathy money in his will would have been like admitting publicly
that he had another woman, and that the other woman was his own
wife's--baby sister. When he was dying, at Grandmont, Dr.
Arnstein was with him, and I was waiting in the music room, and
Dr. Arnstein came downstairs and said to me, 'I don't think he
has much longer, Hannah,' and so I went up to be with him. And
when I saw him, I said to the nurse, 'Please send for Miss
Sachs.'

"And when Bathy got there from the Tarrytown Inn, where she was
staying, we both gestured to the nurse that we'd like to be alone
with him for a little while. And we both sat, on either side of
his bed, Bathy holding his left hand and I holding his right. I
think we both felt that invisible cord of love I mentioned. And
then, suddenly, in one of those lucid moments that often occur to
a person just before he dies--and I know this because I've seen
more people die than you have, Noah--he opened his eyes, and
looked at me, and said, 'I want you to go out and buy something
pretty for yourself, Hannah. Something really pretty.' And then
he turned to Bathy and said the same thing. " 'We will,' we said.

"Then he said, 'It wasn't all that bad, was it?' "And we said,
'No, Jules, it wasn't all that bad at all.' "And then he turned
to me and said, 'Hannah, will you be sure to fix everything?'

"I wasn't sure what he meant, but I said, 'I will.' "And then he
closed his eyes, and the rales began, and then he died. We sat
with him for another half hour
or so, still holding his hands, feeling them grow cold, and then
I got up and went to fetch Dr. Arnstein and the nurse.

"And later, after we'd had the will read to us--which came as
something of a shock to us--I decided I knew what he meant by
'fixing everything.' He meant fixing everything with Bathy and
with you. Between the two of you."

She clears her throat. "Anyway, you asked about my press
release," she says. "I've got it all written, and I'll have
Jonesy type it up and fax it out to the financial media on Monday
morning. I've kept it quite short and sweet. It simply announces
that, effective immediately, I am resigning as president and CEO
of Ingraham and appointing you as my successor. I am also turning
over to you my voting shares of Ingraham stock, according to the
provisions of your father's will. You see why I wanted you to
stop by here no matter how late it was. I wanted you to have the
weekend to prepare to move into my old office. The company's all
yours now."

"Yes," he says quietly, not moving in his chair. But why, after
waiting for this to come about for all these years, does he
suddenly feel let down now that it has finally happened? Is it
that thing about answered prayers? Or is it because he sees his
vision of Aesop receding before his eyes? So much time has gone
by. That vision has already begun to seem flimsy and elusive.
Even when he explained it to Melody, he wondered if his heart was
really any longer in it. And even Melody-- with all the rosy
idealism that supposedly goes with youth--did not seem enormously
impressed with it. Perhaps it was always, as his mother said when
he first described it to her years ago, "just a cockamamie
notion, another harebrained save-the-world scheme." Perhaps he
said good-bye to it, saw it evaporate in smoke, in their hotel
room in Atlantic City. Now reality looms. Now he is wedded to
Ingraham forever. The future is at last secure. Carol will be
very happy. We will have to celebrate this. This, he thinks, is
the first day of the rest of my life. Still, there was once a
bright bird there. But it had flown away.

"I just have a couple of favors to ask you," his mother says.
"Ah. Conditions," he says, still sitting there in her visitor's
chair.

"Not conditions!" she says sharply. "Favors. Not even favors.
Suggestions. My press release will stay the same whether you
decide to follow my suggestions or not."

"Okay, shoot," he says. "What are they, Ma?"

"I'd like to suggest that you invite Bathy to be on Ingraham's
board. I'm not asking you to find her a position in the company.
She wouldn't go back to work for Ingraham if you had one for her.
But to be invited to join the board--I think she'd be touched,
Noah. It would show her--"

"That I forgive her?"

"No! Not that you forgive her! You have nothing to forgive her
for. If you want to forgive someone, forgive me. But it would let
Bathy know that at last you understand everything."

"Okay, Ma. What else?"

"When you're ready to market Ballachulish, give the contract for
producing the bottles to Van Degan Glass."

"What?" he says. "I thought there was a blood feud between us and
the Van Degans. I thought there was an ironclad rule that we
never did business with Van Degan."

She sighs. "It was all so long ago," she says. "And another
generation. Everyone connected with it is dead now--except for
me. And fifty years seems too long a time to bear a grudge."

"Well, now you're finally talking some sense," he says. "I never
had any quarrel with Van Degan Glass. As far as I'm concerned,
they're a fine old company."

"Then lift the boycott."

"With pleasure! The damn boycott never made any sense to me,
anyway."

"And," she says, "if we--or, I should say, you--lift the boycott
for Ballachulish, what would you think of giving Van Degan a
contract to manufacture all our labels?"

"All?"

"All."

"Wow," he says with a soft whistle. "What would Pop say to that
one?"
"Pop is deader than a mackerel. Pop is in that yellow jar in the
dining room. Pop isn't going to say boo."

"Well, I'd certainly have no objection to that," he says.

"You see," she says, "I've been thinking. It may have been just a
coincidence that the Van Degans moved out of the building the
same day we moved in. Perhaps your father was being too sensitive
to take it so personally."

"Could be. I wasn't even born when it happened."

"Their company's bottom line doesn't look at all good at the
moment. Our business will help them a lot, of course. And I
noticed at this afternoon's closing their stock hit a new low. So
I was also thinking, maybe before we ink in any deal with them,
it might be a good idea if we snapped up some of their stock--on
the q.t., naturally. What do you think?"

"Ah," he says with a smile, "I'm beginning to get the picture,
Ma."

"And if we had some Van Degan stock, it would give us a toe in
the door in case we decided to take over the company."

"So. You have a plan. A takeover."

"Actually, it's Carol's plan."

"Carol?"

"Carol's working on a plan which--if it works out-- would do
wonders for us, Noah."

"Tell me about Carol's plan."

"I'll let Carol tell you about it. But wouldn't it be nice if we
had our own glass-manufacturing division? It would save us a
bundle."

"Yes, it surely would."

"And there's another reason why I want us to make nice to the Van
Degans. Mrs. Van Degan wants to have a joint coming-out party for
her daughter and Anne. The girls were apparently good friends at
Brearley. At first, as you know, I was very much against the
idea. Carol thinks it's a little silly, too, and she's worried
that it's going to be terribly expensive. But I've changed my
mind. And I've also decided I'd like to pay for this
party--Anne's share of it, that is. I want to do this for two
reasons. First, I want to do it for Anne, since it's something
she wants. But I also want to do it for public relations reasons.
A party this size is bound to get a lot
of publicity. If the brand-new CEO of Ingraham were tossing this
sort of bash for his daughter, it might look well, a little bit
extravagant and show-offy. But if it were being given by her dear
old octogenarian granny--old granny who's retired from the
company and hasn't much else to do--it would look, well, rather
sweet, wouldn't it?" She gives him her sweetest smile.

"I see your point," he says. "And sweet thou ever wert, Ma."

"Don't get smart," she says. "I'm just trying to be practical. So
what do you think of the idea?"

He is smiling, too. "I think it's very--sweet," he says.

"Of course, I'm really doing it for Anne. But being nice to the
Van Degans wouldn't hurt when you and Mr. Van Degan sit down at
the bargaining table and start hammering out a contract, would
it?"

"Sweet," he says again. "You've thought of everything, haven't
you?"

"Yes. Including even offering to pay for a little more than half
of the party if that would sweeten the deal for them. Like
providing free liquor. In any deal, every little bargaining chip
helps, I find."

"Yes," he says.

"Carol doesn't like Mrs. Van Degan much. But I think I can deal
with her, don't you?"

"Yes, Ma," he says. "I think you can."

"I've even picked out the dress I'm going to wear. Amy Vanderbilt
says the grandmother of a debutante should wear blue."

"Sweet," he says again.

"But of course, if I'm going to be one of the hostesses of this
party, there are certain people I'm going to want to invite."

"Of course."

"One of them is Bathy."

"Bathy, Bathy, Bathy," he says, rubbing his eyes. "Whenever we
talk, Ma, we always somehow manage to circle back to Bathy."

"There's a reason," she says.

"What is it?"

She sits forward in her chair. "Noah, there's something important
you ought to know about Bathy."

"Oh?"
"Years ago there was a young man in my life who went on to become
briefly rather a celebrity. His name was Radioman First Class
George Noville. . . ."

 In the apartment at River House, the telephone rings, and Carol
picks it up. "Hello?"

"Mrs., uh, Liebling?" a woman's voice says, in what used to be
called a boarding-school stammer. "It's, uh, Brooke Astor. I
apologize for calling you so late in the evening, but I've just
come from a long trustees' meeting at the museum, and I have
some, uh, important news for you."

"Yes, Mrs. Astor," Carol says.

"To begin with, we're thrilled with the way you've negotiated
with Mr. and Mrs. Van Degan to persuade them to offer their
porcelain collection to the museum. This will be one of the most
important collections the museum has been offered in years--not
since the, uh, Lehman collection, in fact."

"I'm glad I was able to help," Carol says.

"Help? It seems to me you did it all. We've been sending out
polite feelers to the Van Degans since the nineteen eighties, and
you've pulled it off in a matter of days. You're quite an, uh,
amazing woman, Mrs. Liebling."

"Why, thank you."

"And we'd like to do something to--uh--express our tremendous
gratitude to you, Mrs. Liebling. There's a vacancy coming up on
our board of trustees in June, and we'd like to invite you to
fill it."

"Why, thank you, Mrs. Astor," she says quietly. "That's a very--a
very great honor."

Now the other woman's voice becomes more intimate and
conversational, "Of course we were all made aware of the terms
you laid out in order for us to receive this gift. And I'm sure
you won't be surprised to learn that there was a certain amount
of opposition to those terms."

"I'm not surprised, no," Carol says.

"Didn't think you would be. A certain amount of opposition
is--uh--putting it mildly. There was a hell of a lot of
opposition. That's why our meeting ran so late. I'm sure you can
understand."
"Yes, I can."

"There was actual shouting. For a while, I actually thought a
flstfight might break out in our lovely boardroom between two of
the--uh--so-called gentlemen on our little board. This is not
particularly unusual, I should add. Our meetings can get pretty
down and dirty, and I've learned to shout with the best of them.
But, in the end, the board was split down the middle on the
matter. And, as a member of the--uh--female minority, I'm happy
to say I had the swing vote. I had the last shout. I voted to
accept your terms. Do you want to know why?"

"Yes. I'd love to know why."

"There's a certain mystique about being a trustee of the
Metropolitan Museum. We're supposed to be these rarified human
beings, with these glittering social veneers. We cultivate that
image, of course. But we're just like anybody else--capable of
greed, jealousy, ambition, and rage when somebody else seems to
be stepping on our toes or trying to push us around. It can be
like a jungle, serving on our board--man on man, and man against
woman. You need the nerves of a gunslinger and the muscle of a
ward boss. You need the heart of a gambler, and the, uh, cojones
of a drug czar. You need to be tough, and you need to know how to
fight. Most of all, you need to be a wheeler-dealer. I've thought
of myself as a wheeler-dealer all my life, fighting my way in
what's still essentially a man's world. I admired the way you set
out your terms. My hat is off to you, Mrs. Liebling.
Congratulations on being an even tougher wheeler-dealer than I
am."

"Thank you, Mrs. Astor," Carol says.

"I like your style. Perhaps one day soon you and your husband can
come to my house for lunch. I'd like to meet you both."

"Thank you. I'd love that."

"And I should also tell you that at our next meeting, I'm going
to propose that we find someone a bit more, uh, uh, diplomatic to
head our Acquisitions Committee than Mr. Corydon McCurdy. . . ."

 Carol moves slowly to the bar and, after a moment's hesitation,
carefully fixes herself a tall drink. She thinks:
I am dreaming, and this is a dream. But I'm not dreaming. This is
no dream.

In the mirror above the bar, she studies her reflection. She
lifts her glass in a little toast.

Well, now what do you think of that? she asks him. Just what do
you think of that? Twenty years ago I sat in your mother's blue
silk dining room and listened to her tell me that the Lieblings
would always be pariahs in this town. And I told her that I was
going to change all that. And I just did it. So what do you think
of that, you bastard? What do you think of that?

 "So you've used Bathy very well, haven't you, Ma?" he is saying
to her now. "You've gotten a lot of mileage out of her over the
years."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she says.

"You knew all along why I felt the way I did about her. But you
pretended you had no idea."

Her lips are pressed together in a pout. "I wanted to hear it
from you," she says. "I wanted to hear your explanation. In your
own words."

"And because you knew I wouldn't--"

"I like things out in the open. No beating around the bush.
That's the way I like to do business."

"No, I don't think that's quite it, Ma. Because you knew I
wouldn't give you any explanation, in my own words, you kept me
feeling I owed you one. As long as I owed you one, you had an
excuse to keep trying to push Bathy down my throat--insisting
that I offer her a job that you knew all along she wouldn't take.
And because you knew I wouldn't have Bathy pushed down my throat,
you had an excuse to keep me where you wanted me. You could have
told me all this ten, fifteen years ago. But you preferred to
keep me standing on my tiptoes, waiting to be kissed--waiting
till you were damned good and ready to give me the old
smackeroo."

She looks briefly away from him. "Well, perhaps you're right,"
she says. "Nobody's perfect." Then she rises to her feet and
faces him, smiling brightly. "But now you've got your smackeroo,"
she says. "So it doesn't matter, does it? It was worth the wait.
All good things are worth waiting for."

"Are they?"
"It was worth it for me," she says. "For the pleasure it's been
for me to work with you for all these years. And now you may kiss
me good night. It's been a long time since you've kissed your
poor old mother good night, Noah. It's been years and years. Now
I'd like you to do it. Kiss me good night."

He rises from the visitor's chair and steps to her. He bends and
starts to kiss her on the cheek, but she offers him her lips
instead. "Ma, you are a bitch to end all bitches," Noah says.

 "Now run along home and tell Carol the good news," she says.

James, the night doorman at River House, steps to the taxi with
his big umbrella open--a light rain mixed with snow has begun to
fall--and opens the door for Noah. " 'Evening, Mr. Liebling," he
says, tipping his cap with his free hand.

"Good evening, James." They each take a suitcase.

James escorts Noah up the front walk past the crack in the
pavement where Caroline Taylor, on seventeen, claimed she caught
her heel and nearly broke an ankle, and into the black marble
entrance lobby. "Mr. Liebling, before you go up, could I have a
word with you?" James says.

"Sure," Noah says, putting down his suitcase.

"This is really none of my business, sir," James says. "And I
probably shouldn't be mentioning this at all. But then I thought
perhaps I should."

"What is it, James?"

"Mrs. Liebling had a little accident with her car this afternoon,
sir."

"Is she all right?"

"Oh, she's fine. It was just a fender bender, really. But I can
tell she's pretty upset about it, sir. And I thought--you coming
home from a long trip, and all she might not want to tell you
about it right away, for fear you'd be angry with her and all.
You know how women are."

"Yes," he says. "I know how women are."

"So, sir, if you find her in a kind of funny mood when you get
home, kind of edgy and upset, that'll be the reason, sir."
"I'll try to be understanding. I'm glad you told me, James."

"But please don't tell her I told you about this, sir. That would
seem like I'm telling tales on her and all, and that ain't my
way, Mr. Liebling."

"No. I won't mention we've had this conversation, James."

"Thanks, sir. It's just that, man to man, I ought to tell you
that if you find your wife in a funny mood, that's the reason.
You know, there's times when I come home and find my wife in a
funny mood, and it's days and days before I can get her to tell
me what's buggin' her. Women can get that way, 'specially if
they've done something they feel a little guilty for. Like
crashing a car."

"I know, James."

"And you know how much Mrs. Liebling loves that little car!"

"I know." "Well, good night, sir."

"Good night, James."

He steps into the waiting elevator.

"Getting to be a nasty night out there, Mr. Liebling," the
elevator man says.

"Sure is," he says. He has momentarily forgotten this night
operator's name.

 Somehow, at this late hour--it is well past midnight-- he
assumed that Carol would be in bed and asleep when he got home.
But when he lets himself into the apartment, he sees that there
is a light burning in the library. He calls out, "Hi, honey--I'm
home!" But there is no reply.

He removes his overcoat and scarf, and hangs them in the hall
closet. He places his two suitcases in the closet, to be unpacked
in the morning, and closes the closet door. Then he starts down
the hallway toward the library, and pauses at the door.

She is sitting, with her back to him, in one of the wing chairs.
Only the top of her head, and her hands, are visible, and on her
left wrist is her gold charm bracelet. He has added a gold charm
to this bracelet on their wedding anniversaries for each of the
twenty-one years
they have been married: first a gold monkey, with moving arms and
legs, and tiny emeralds for eyes; next a gold bell, with a
sapphire clapper. And so on. In this hand he sees she is holding
a drink.

This irritates him somehow. It has always irritated him when, on
rare occasions, he has come home from the office to find that
Carol has started their cocktail hour without him. His father,
though he never professed to take the liquor business seriously,
had some very old fashioned, even puritanical, theories about
drinking. "Watch out for the man who drinks alone," he used to
say. "The man who drinks alone has a problem, and is already
probably in serious trouble. Drinking is meant to be a social
pastime, and social means with other people, with one's friends
or one's own sort. The person who drinks alone is dangerous, to
himself and to other people."

Then he notices that in her right hand Carol is holding a lighted
cigarette. This surprises him. He can remember when Carol quit
smoking, cold turkey, when she discovered she was pregnant with
Anne. He remembers how proud of her he was for the ease with
which she seemed to handle it. "It's harder for a smoker to give
up tobacco than it is for an alcoholic to give up booze," his
father used to say. Noah quit smoking when Carol did. He decides
not to comment on either of these unusual circumstances. She has,
after all, smashed up her green Mercedes, the little car she was
proud to say had never received a scratch or a nick in the five
years she'd owned it. He steps into the room. "Hello, darling,"
he says, and kisses her on the top of her head.

"Hello, Mr. Aesop," she says. "Got any good fables to tell me?"

He moves to the bar, rattles some ice cubes in a glass, and pours
himself a drink. "The Ballachulish presentation went very well,
if I do say so myself," he says. "The salesmen seemed to like it.
That's always a good first sign."

"Good," she says.

He carries his drink across the room and sits down opposite her.
"Well, cheers!" he says, and lifts his glass.

"Cheers," she says, neither moving nor looking at him.
"Sorry to be so late," he says. "But the cocktail party went on a
little longer than I'd planned, and my mother wanted to see me
before I came home."

"I see," she says, and takes another sip of her drink, and
another drag on her cigarette.

"She had some rather remarkable things to tell me," he says.

"Did she." She says it as a statement, not a question.

"Want to hear what they were?"

"No," she says. "Not particularly. Not now, anyway."

"Okay," he says pleasantly. "So--how was your week?"

"Routine," she says.

"I see . . ." They sit in silence for a moment or two. Then,
still trying to be cheerful, he says, "Say, I've been thinking,
Carol. Now that sales conference is out of the way, maybe you and
I should take a little trip. To the Caribbean perhaps. Or maybe
Hawaii. Some place that's warm. Any place that's out of this
rotten January New York weather. What do you think?"

"Feeling guilty?" she says.

"Guilty?"

"That sounds like a guilty person talking."

"Why should I feel guilty?"

"For not paying enough attention to me?"

"Yes, perhaps that's it," he says. "I've spent so damn much time
on this Ballachulish business these last few months. So how about
it? Just a week, perhaps. Ten days. Maybe a cruise."

"Perhaps," she says. "Perhaps not. I don't care." She stubs out
her cigarette in the ashtray on the table beside her, and
immediately lights another. The ashtray, he sees, contains the
remnants, the filter tips, of many other cigarettes.

"Started to smoke again, I see," he says.

"Yes."

"Well!" There is another silence. Then he says, "I understand
Anne wants to have a coming-out party with the Van Degan girl.
That should be fun for her."

"I don't know," she says. "I don't think Anne wants to do that
anymore."

"I see," he says. "Well, that's too bad. It sounded like a fun
idea." He sets his drink on the coffee table. "Hey,"
he says, "what's this?" He touches the bone handle of the
automatic pistol lying on the table. "Where'd this come from?"

"It's your mother's. She sent it over. She thought I might be
nervous here alone."

"Alone? Where's Mary?"

"She quit this morning."

"Quit? Why?"

"For reasons too numerous to mention," she says. "For reasons I
don't wish to go into here."

"I see," he says. He stands up to refill his drink. "Can I touch
you up?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine." She stares into her half-filled glass.

From the bar he says, "I don't like the idea of guns lying around
the house."

"Don't you? I do," she says.

He returns with his fresh drink and sits down again. "Look," he
says, "you seem a little preoccupied tonight. A little
uncommunicative. Is something on your mind?"

"A lot of things are on my mind. I do have a mind, you know. And
if a person has a mind, there's usually something on it. I'm not
as stupid as you think I am."

"Now, Carol. I don't think you're stupid."

"You think I'm as stupid as Beryl Stokes?"

"Carol. What a thing to say."

"I'm not stupid."

"I've got some real good news to tell you, honey," he says. "If
you'd like to hear it."

"No," she says, and blows out a thin stream of smoke,

"Don't want to hear my good news?"

"No!" she says again. "I'd rather hear a fable. Mr. Aesop's
fables always had a moral at the end. What's yours?"

"That's the second time you've mentioned Aesop," he says, "What
are you talking about, Carol?"

"More of your lies maybe?"

He is growing impatient with her. "Listen," he says, "if this is
because you smashed up your car, forget about it. If it can be
fixed, we'll have it fixed. If it can't be fixed, I'll buy you a
new one. I know you love that car, but it's only a car, for
chrissakes, and--"
"Shut up!" she says. "It's not because I smashed up my car. It's
because you smashed up my life!"

"What are you talking about?" But, with a sense of dread, he
feels he is beginning to know what she is talking about.

"Carol--" he begins.

"Is your moral 'Don't screw teenage girls'? Or is it don't screw
teenage girls unless you're pretty sure you won't get caught?"

"Carol--"

"You see, I'm getting more and more like your mother. I want to
get everything out on the table. All the facts. From the horse's
mouth. So there's only one thing I want to hear from you! Have
you been having an affair with Melody?"

He takes a quick swallow of his drink, looks briefly at the
floor, then up at her. "Yes," he says. "I'm glad you found out
about it, Carol, because I would have had to tell you about it
sooner or later."

"Sooner or later!" She jumps to her feet.

"I don't know how it happened, Carol, but it did. I'm sorry,
Carol."

"Sorry!" she cries. "Is that all you can say--you're sorry? Are
you in love with her, Noah?"

"No, I don't think so!"

"You don't think so!"

"I love you, Carol!"

She turns away from him, tears in her eyes, and her voice is
bitter. "I don't* understand you, Noah," she says. "I don't
understand you at all. I won't even ask you how you could do such
a thing to me--to me, after all the things I've tried to do for
you and your family, you repay me with this! I won't even ask how
you could do such a thing to Anne. I want to know how you could
do such a thing to yourself'! Or are you just like your father--a
philandering bum who always had to have another woman on the
side?"

"Now, wait a minute, Carol--"

"How long has this been going on? Under my roof!"

"It just happened this week, Carol. She followed me to Atlantic
City, and--"

"And one thing just led to another? Liar! Then what was her
underwear doing in the bottom of your closet?"
"What! Carol, I swear to God--"

"With blood on it! What did you do--rape her first?"

"My God, Carol! I swear to you. It was she who--"

"The other night the toilet seat was up in my bathroom! You never
use my bathroom! Did you have to use my bathroom because she was
using yours?"

"Carol--" "My sleeping pills were stolen! Did she take them? Or
did you have to knock her out with pills in order to fuck her?"

"Carol, Carol--"

"I've heard you jacking off in the next bed! Was that who you've
been thinking about? HerT'

"Carol, Carol--please listen to me. I love you, Carol,"

"Love! And after everything I've been working on, everything I've
been trying to do for you this week. Everything I've done--and
it's come to this!" She flings herself into a chair with a sob.

"Listen, Carol. My mother told me you've been working on some
sort of plan. Tell me what it is--"

"It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now. I wish I'd driven
off the bridge this afternoon."

"Please listen to me, Carol. It's late. You're tired. We're both
tired. You've had a few drinks. Let's go to bed and talk this all
over in the morning, when we're--"

"No! I'm never going to sleep in the same room-- under the same
roof--with you again! Mother was right. Father Timmons was right.
I never should have married you, you bastard!"

"Carol, it was just this week. I swear I don't know how it
happened. I know it shouldn't have happened, but it did, and it's
over. I swear to you it's over." He reaches out for her.

"Don't touch me!" She recoils sharply from him in the chair.

"I love you, Carol!"

"Melodyl I think I could have accepted it if it had been any
other woman. Or even any other man! But Melody--whom we'd taken
into our house as our friend, our guest, a member of the family
almost--a girl we'd agreed to be surrogate parents for, people
her parents trusted, Anne's college roommate, for God's sake,
Noah! That I can never accept!"
"So it's true!" Both of them turn now, and Anne is standing in
the doorway in her nightgown, wakened by the sound of their angry
voices. "So it's all true," she says again. She takes one step
into the room. "You filth!" she says to Noah. "You filthy piece
of shit! You filthy asshole!"

Carol jumps to her feet and, doing so, overturns the pie-crust
table on its folding legs, the table holding her highball glass
and ashtray. What's left of her drink spills, and her glass rolls
across the carpet, spewing ice cubes, and many cigarette butts
scatter across the floor. The small pillow on her chair, with its
needlepoint legend, thank you for not smoking, also rolls to the
floor. "Get back to bed, Anne," Carol says. "This is between your
father and me."

Anne takes another step into the room. "No, it's not between you
and him. It's between me and him! Filthy piece of shit!"

"Shut up!" Carol says. "Don't you dare talk to your father that
way! Get back to bed. You're the one who brought that piece of
trash into this house to begin with! It's all your fault, you
know!"

"Filthy piece of shit!" Anne says again, her voice rising, and
raising her hand in a fist as though to strike him.

"I said shut up! Your father is the most wonderful man in the
world!"

From the chair where he sits, her father says, "Go ahead and hit
me, Annie, if it makes you feel any better."

She turns away from him and glares at her mother. "I think you're
both filthy, stinking pieces of shit!" she says. "You're both
filthy assholes!"

"Is everything all right?" A fourth voice is heard in the room,
and the three others turn and see Melody standing in the doorway,
still holding the keys with which she let herself into the
apartment.

"What Ore you doing here?" Carol screams at her.

"I had to pick up a few things. It's so late. I didn't think
anybody would still be up. But then I heard voices, and--"

"Get out of here!"

She turns to Noah with a look of utter calm on her face. "So you
told her," she says. "I hoped you would.
I'm glad you did." She turns to Carol. "So now you know," she
says. "Noah and I are in love. It's as simple as that. There's
nothing more to say."

"/ said get out of here!"

"I really think you'd better go, Mellie," Noah says.

"No, I belong here with you, Noah, to help you get through this."

"Please, Mellie--"

"I knew it wouldn't be easy, darling."

"Mellie, pleased

"Did you tell her everything, Noah? Did you tell her everything
you told me?" She turns to Carol again. "Noah loves me, Carol. He
never really loved you, Carol--ever."

"I never said that, Mellie. Now please--"

"Did you tell her that you want a divorce? That you want to marry
me?"

"No, because--because I love Carol, Melody."

"Did you tell her how I've been able to do things for you that
she could never do? Did you tell her what I did for you in
Atlantic City? Did you tell her how I rewrote your script? Tell
her now, Noah. I want to hear you tell her."

"Later, Mellie--not now. Now, please, just go!"

"Later?" Carol screams. "This is all news that I'm to be told
later?"

"We've got to stop telling them these lies, Noah," Melody says.
"We've got to tell them the whole truth now." And she steps
quickly toward him and kisses him full on the mouth.

He pulls away from her. "Stop this, Mellie," he whispers.

With a little cry Carol springs to the coffee table and picks up
the pistol, and now Noah is on his feet as well. "What the hell
do you think you're doing, Carol?" he shouts. "Put that damn
thing down!"

"I'm going to kill myself, that's what I'm going to do! I was
going to kill myself this afternoon, but a policeman stopped me.
I never want to see any of you again!"

Noah lunges for her and grabs her right arm. "Drop it!" he
shouts, trying to puU her arm down, and they wrestle briefly,
silently, for the gun. "Stop this, for God's sake!"
"Mother!" Anne screams.

"Let her do it, Noah," Melody says calmly. "It would solve
everything."

The first shot, a flat crack, hits the window, and there is a
noisy shatter of glass falling into the entrance courtyard below,
as the curtains billow outward into the night storm, and the
second shot--and it was the kick of the gun, the defense would
contend, that triggered the second shot--strikes Noah just below
the left ear.

Looking startled, he staggers backward, his hand clasped to his
throat. Then his knees buckle, and he falls to the floor.

On the rear wheel of his bike, hunched against the handlebars and
the wind, he is headed at full speed toward the fallen log, leaps
over it, and plunges forward into the darkness.

Carol drops the gun, and it lands on the carpet with a soft thud.
She flings herself to her knees on the floor beside him and
cradles his head in her arms. "Oh, Noah!" she sobs. "I love you,
Noah! Don't die!"

"You've killed him!" Melody cries, and she stoops to reach for
the gun.

But Anne is too quick for her, and she, too, drops to her knees
and picks up the small, bone-handled pistol. She points it
blindly at Melody. "You did all this!" she sobs, and a third shot
rings out, and the devastation is complete.

Already, through the broken window, the sounds of police sirens
can be heard shrilling upward from the street below.
part three

 Gmndwont, 1994
Some Final Words

 ". . . according to police, appeared to have occurred after a
long night of heavy drinking. It is the first time a violent
crime has taken place at exclusive River House, arguably New
York's most fashionable residential address,"

Georgette Van Degan switches off the television set from the
remote. "Well, we're off the hook, darling," she says to her
husband. "We won't have to give that silly coming-out party, and
we'll get to keep the porcelain collection."

The telephone rings, and she reaches for it. "Oh, yes, Roxy," she
says, "how are you, my precious love? . . . Oh, no, no, no, my
darling. There never was going to be any coming-out party,
certainly not with that lush Carol Liebling. . . . Frankly, I
didn't tell you because I know how upset you journalists get when
you print something that isn't accurate. . . . And it wasn't your
fault, my darling. I think you got that item from Jacques, the
captain at Le Cirque. ... I thought so. But he often gets things
wrong. It's the language barrier, you see. . . . Yes, we did have
lunch, but it was to discuss an entirely different matter. I
don't really remember what it was.... Well, you can print a
correction if you want to, darling. But at this point I'd really
rather not have my name associated with that murderess. . . .
Thanks, lovey, I appreciate that. Bye-ee-ee."

Her husband turns to her. "You know, you really are a god-damned
fool, Georgette," he says. "You really are a stupid god-damned
fool."

"Why? What's wrong? We're off the hook! Thank God!"

"Without Carol we'll never get the Ingraham business.
We'll never get shit from them as long as the old lady is running
things!"

"Well, don't look at me as though I had anything to do with
what's happened, Truck!"

"And the museum gift--that gift is designed to save me millions
in taxes! Well, the gift offer still stands."

"But you said yourself you weren't sure they'd accept your
terms."

"They will. They will, believe me, when they've had a chance to
think about it. The museum isn't being run by Mother Teresa. You
stupid fool. I was a fool to think I could take a slut like you
out of the bean fields of Indiana and turn you into a lady."

"And you're the gentleman? All I've got is your first three
wives' word on how you beat up on them. But I've had my bruises
photographed. In color! And those photographs are all in a safe
at my lawyer's office--so don't try to mess around with me!"

"Bitch!" And suddenly he pitches forward in his chair, clutching
his shirt.

"What's the matter?"

His fingers paw his chest, and the color has drained from his
face. "Heart," he whispers. "Pain . . . hurting . . . call
nine-one-one . . . call nine-one-one . .. please ..."

 In all his years in the restaurant business, Glenn Bernbaum of
Mortimer's has never put together a luncheon party the size of
this one in such a hurry--twenty-six women, meaning nine
four-tops have had to be pushed together, taking up more than
half the main dining room. And Patsy Collingwood has indicated
that she would have invited many more if her invitations hadn't
had to go out at the last minute, right after hearing this
morning's news. But her guests are all important women, all
important customers, and so, for Mr. Bernbaum, all this hasty
rearranging of the room has been worth the effort.

Patsy's guests are:

Marietta Spinola, Bitsy Walcock, Cinnamon La Farge, Bettina
Musgrove, the Countess Grazzi, the Ballinger twins, Hermine
McGovern, Pookie Satterthwaite, Corliss Thrue, Gloria Tunbridge,
old Mrs. Nion Farwell (with
the harelip), Cissie Warburton, Consuelo Custin, Lady Eve
Cotterford, Chubby Corscadden, Roxy Rhinelander, Gussie
Swinburne, Melissa Hart-Turnbull, Cherry de Rothschild, Ernestine
Kolowrat, Flossie Bunce, Edwina Lahniers, Babs Goulandris, and
Hyacinth Lafoon. Rarely have so many prominent New York society
women been gathered at the same table. The News has sent a
photographer to record the event.

And now Patsy and Mr. Bernbaum are setting out the place cards,
tackling the arduous chore of placement.

"I don't see a card here for Georgette," Mr. Bernbaum says.

"Georgette? Georgette who?"

"Van Degan."

"Oh, her. Her husband's business is going down the tubes, and
he's given away all their porcelains to save on taxes--and those
porcelains were supposed to be her insurance when he dies,
because he doesn't have any. She's become one of yesterday's
people, I'm afraid. Now, if I could only have gotten Carol
Liebling to come, that would have been the coup of all time! But
she's in jail."

They return to the place cards. "Do you think Cissie Warburton
can be trusted to behave herself next to Belinda Ballinger?" she
asks him.

And now, after the usual disputes about who has been seated
where, and after--as inevitably happens--the guests have
rearranged the seating to suit themselves, they are all seated.
Drink orders have been taken-- mostly for chablis or Perrier with
lime, with only old Mrs. Farwell insisting on her customary
double bull-shot--and Patsy Collingwood taps her water glass with
her teaspoon. "Girls!" she says. "Girls! It's Topif A, and I want
to hear everyone's favorite theory, one ijy one!"

"Pookie should go first. After all, it happened in her building."

"Well," Pookie begins, "all I know is what I heard from James,
the night doorman. ..."

 Two white-coated orderlies carry Truxton Van Degan on a
stretcher down the curving staircase of the Van Degans' Fifth
Avenue apartment. Right behind them is a paramedic holding a gold
plastic cup over Truxton Van
Degan's nose and mouth, and following him is a second paramedic
carrying a bottle of oxygen. Georgette Van Began supervises the
operation from the top of the stairs.

"Remember--no heroic life-sustaining measures," she calls down to
the men on the steps below. "My husband has a living will. He
requests no heroic life-sustaining measures." Then she suddenly
screams, "For Christ's sake, watch out!" One of the paramedics
has jogged one of the pair of red Chinese vases with his elbow,
and it rocks slightly on its carved ebony base in its lighted
niche in the stairwell. "That's Lang Yao sang-deboeuf\ Those
vases are priceless! I won't even let my maids touch them with a
feather duster!"

The four men from the life squad give her an odd look before
continuing slowly down the stairwell with their burden.

 There were times, when he was in a jokey mood, when Jules
Liebling referred to Bathsheba Sachs as "Miss Fix It" for her
ability to smooth over some of the rougher moments that
occasionally arose in the distilled spirits industry. She was
certainly Miss Fix-It during the trial.

The name Kaminsky, for example, is not uncommon in New York, but
when Bathy Sachs learned that the case had been assigned to Judge
Ida Kaminsky, she did a little research. She discovered that
Judge Kaminsky's father, who had also been a judge, was indeed
the same Judge Saul Kaminsky who, back in the free-for-all days
of Prohibition, had acquired a certain indebtedness to the
Liebling family. There was no need to remind Judge Ida Kaminsky
of this fact. She knew.

Given these circumstances, Bathy had no trouble persuading the
family that the defendant should waive her right to a jury trial,
and to allow the judge to reach a just and fair verdict on her
own.

A defendant who is clearly innocent, Bathy reminded them, should
never risk having her fate decided by a jury, who will always be
asked to wrestle with the knotty problem of "reasonable doubt."

 The New York County prosecutor, who was running for reelection
in November, seemed determined at first
to make this a major case, assuming that the amount of publicity
the case would receive would keep his name and face in the
newspapers and on television screens for some time. But when
Judge Kaminsky chose the smallest courtroom on Foley Square for
her hearing, with its limited space for press and spectators, and
with television and other cameras banned, the prosecutor began to
find himself frustrated at every turn. Still, he insisted that
Carol should stand trial for something called "depraved
indifference murder," a charge not often heard in courtrooms.
Judge Kaminsky, however, ruled that until she had reached her
verdict, the word homicide would be substituted for murder.

With his stern prosecutorial eyes glaring at the defendant, the
prosecutor kept repeating the obvious: Carol's fingerprints were
on the lethal weapon; there were powder burns on her right hand.
And since Carol had an alcohol level in her bloodstream of .10 at
the time of her arrest, he asserted that the shootings occurred
in "a wild, mad, drunken rage."

The lawyer Bathy had chosen for Carol's defense was a young man
named Justin Baar. Quiet, polite, soft-spoken, and almost
shy-seeming in Judge Kaminsky's presence, Mr. Baar had had little
previous courtroom experience, and this, Bathy decided, would
work to the defense's advantage. Because Mr. Baar refused to
respond to the prosecutor's thundering oratory with much more
than a raised eyebrow, the prosecutor's performance was robbed of
the drama he clearly wanted. The prosecutor obviously wanted a
courtroom battle, but there can be no battle when the opponent
refuses to fight back. Each verbal climax on the part of the
prosecution was followed by anticlimax on the part of the
defense. And this tactic--as Bathy had hoped--made the
proceedings in Judge Kaminsky's chambers seem decidedly
unnewsworthy to the media.

There was, of course, one tricky problem. Immediately following
her arrest, Carol had videotaped and signed a full confession.
She and only she, she swore, had held the gun. Naturally, she did
this to protect Anne, but this confession would be a major
stumbling block for her defense. Mr. Baar, meanwhile, was growing
tired of hearing his client described as "blind, stinking, out-of
her-mind drunk." A .10 alcohol level in the bloodstream, Mr. Baar
pointed out to Bathy, is actually minimal for intoxication; it
pained him to hear his client portrayed as no better than a
Bowery bum. But Bathy had an interesting suggestion. "If Carol
was blind, stinking, out of-her-mind drunk when she pulled the
trigger," Bathy said, "she must obviously have been blind,
stinking, out of-her-mind drunk ten minutes later when she taped
her confession. Why would anyone believe a confession from a
person in that condition?" Thus was the prosecutor's own rhetoric
thrown back at him.

Anne was the final witness called in her mother's defense. And it
was there that Bathy was able to execute her most brilliant move.
Mr. Baar had succeeded in persuading Judge Kaminsky that because
of Anne's age, she would testify as Jane Doe and not as Anne
Liebling. But then--in a most unusual move, and over the most
vociferous objections of the county prosecutor--he requested that
Anne's testimony be heard on a Saturday morning. In no one's
memory had a Manhattan courtroom been open on a Saturday; it was
unheard of, the prosecutor bellowed. But in his customary shy and
gentle way, Mr. Baar said, "We're only requesting this, sir, so
that the young woman's studies at college will be disrupted as
little as possible. Surely, this young woman's life has suffered
terrible disruptions already. This testimony is going to be
painful enough for her as it is. Surely you don't want her to
suffer more pain and distress by having to be conspicuously
absent on a school day--a day, incidentally, when she is
scheduled to take an important examination for which she has been
studying long and hard. We have struggled in this courtroom to
preserve this young girl's anonymity and privacy, and to keep her
out of the public spotlight. Please show a little human kindness,
sir, by not forcing her to interrupt her valuable education. As a
father yourself, wouldn't you ask the same consideration for your
own teenage daughter, sir?"

Judge Kaminsky agreed, and announced that her court would go into
special session on Saturday morning to hear Anne's testimony.

From her years in public relations Bathsheba Sachs knew that,
except for extraordinary, fast-breaking news
stories, men and women in the media never willingly go to work on
weekends. Neither, as a rule, do county prosecutors, and this one
was forced to cancel an important golf date.

And so, gently guided by Mr. Baar, Anne Liebling offered her
tearful, truthful testimony. The prosecutor, clearly in a foul
mood, declined to cross-examine her. Judge Kaminsky then declared
the proceedings closed, and announced that she would deliver her
verdict on Monday morning.

 That Saturday, in fact, was yesterday. Now it is Sunday morning,
and Bathsheba Sachs has just awakened from a vivid and disturbing
dream. In it she was back at Grandmont again, that great castle
Jules built of granite and French buhrstone high on a hill
overlooking the Hudson. In her dream she approached the house as
they all used to approach it in Jules's Fierce-Arrow, up the
long, curving drive with its rhododendron hedges until the house
itself appeared, its turrets and its battlements and crenels,
designed in no particular style except what one critic rather
waspishly described as Middle European Post Office. The house not
only dominated the landscape. It loomed over it. Every window in
the house was lighted in Bathy's dream, as though to welcome her
home.

The wide green lawns swept down to the riparian wall, which
obscured the New York Central's tracks from view. Mr,
Vanderbilt's railroad had tried to ruin the Hudson's eastern
shore, but it had not succeeded at Grandmont, where only the
river itself was visible. The river is nearly a mile wide at this
point and still tidal; the Indians called it the River That Flows
Two Ways. Across the river, on its west bank, twinkled the lights
of the village of Sneden's Landing, tucked against the shoreline
in the first drop in the Palisades, and to the north the mercury
lights of the Tappan Zee Bridge glowed like a chain of garnets.

Up the river steamed the night boat to Albany, and there was
laughter and music from her decks. Outside slept the animals in
the family's private zoo--a llama named Llewellyn, a tame zebra
called Honey, a baby
elephant named Baba au Rhum, and Cyril's beloved Potto, the bush
baby.

But suddenly into the peaceful dream came the voices--voices from
the village, and even from the corridors of the Ingrahatn
Building itself--whispering voices:

"Isn't it a scandal? His wife's own sister! How does his wife put
up with it, do you suppose? She must know. She must be some kind
of saint. It's been going on for years. How she must suffer . . .
and yet she never lets on ... but then, what can you expect from
people like that? . . . With Jules Liebling's background ... a
bootlegger ... He had people killed . . .."

Bathy had learned to ignore such talk, to shrug it off, to laugh
it off, because she knew that the truth was much different from
what people thought it was, and that if people had known what the
real truth was, the scandal would have been much greater. So why,
in her dream, had these voices still not lost their power to hurt
her?

Then, in the dream, a carousel of images appeared across her
sleeping consciousness like color slides projected on a screen.
Click. There was little Noah in a blue and white sailor suit and
white cap, dressed that way by Hannah perhaps because she was
remembering the young seaman who had been the one true love of
her life. Click. There was Hannah herself, looking strong and
purposeful in the garden with her pruning shears and a wicker
basket over her arm. Click. There was Cyril, trying to make his
father love him, holding out his arms to Bathy, asking for her to
comfort him for some punishment he'd been given for some misdeed
he'd committed in his father's eyes. Click. There was Cyril's
little sister, Ruth, lively and pretty in those days, dreaming of
becoming a movie star, much to her father's dismay. Click. There
was the children's aunt Settee Kahn, who was killed by a swan,
looking wan and stooped and bitter. Settee was always dropping by
Grandmont on some excuse or other, mostly to get away from her
husband, Bathy always supposed. After Settee died, Hannah
reinvented Settee as some ethereal and beautiful creature, "too
good to live," as Hannah used to say, one of Dr. Marcus Sachs's
Three Graces--Settie, Hannah, and Bathy. But to Bathy, Settee was
always a troublemaker who carried tales, some true, some false,
between members of the family. Settle was always jealous of
Hannah because Hannah had married a man much richer than Leo
Kahn, and because Hannah had had children while Settee was
barren. At the same time, Settee treated Jules in a haughty and
condescending way, often referring to him behind his back--though
she'd never have dared to do so to his face--as "the Polack."

Whenever Bathy thinks of Settee, she doesn't think of her stoop.
She thinks of her sneer. The sneer was in her dream.

Click. Then, at last, came a picture of Jules himself, looking
stern and disapproving and disappointed and disgusted, and other
words beginning with the letter d. And in her dream his mouth
suddenly flew wide open, as if he was about to roar, and she
strained to listen to what he was about to shout out to her. It
seemed to be some sort of accusation, that he was trying to say
she hadn't forgiven him enough, though the words didn't seem to
come. Then she knew that the letter d was important, that the
word began with the letter d, and that the word was do. "Didn't I
do enough for you?" she cried out to him. "Didn't any of us do
enough for you?" The cry woke her up, trembling, and frightened
and in a cold sweat. Because Bathy Sachs almost never has dreams
like that--dreams that begin in tranquility and light, and end in
terror and disorder. A word that begins with d.

And now she lies in her bed on this sunny Sunday morning, and her
thoughts are filled with him. Why?

He never told her that he loved her. She thought she knew why. It
was because to have done so would have been an act of betrayal to
Hannah. If that was the case, she admired that in him. For the
same reason she never told him that she loved him. It was as
though they had a silent pact, always to leave those words
unspoken. For Hannah's sake.

The most romantic thing he ever said to her was when he once
said, "You're one person I can always count on. Miss Fix-It." Not
the one person. Just one person. One thing he could always count
on her to do was to forgive him. She did, even though they never
made love again after that morning at Grandmont when Noah burst
in on them together.
His greatest disappointment, of course, was Cyril. He never
really got over that. A famous psychiatrist named Dr. Edmund
Bergler once told Cyril that his problems with homosexuality
stemmed from his hatred of his father. Dr. Bergler recommended
that Cyril buy a gymnastic punching bag, pin a picture of his
father to it, and "work out his rage" there. This always struck
Bathy as an absurd notion. Cyril didn't hate his father. To be
sure, he didn't always see eye to eye with him. Indeed, there was
a long and painful period when Cyril did not see his father at
all. Cyril didn't always see eye to eye with his mother, either,
for Hannah has always been a woman who wanted to have her cake
and eat it, too, and who has usually managed to do so. Hannah has
always been a woman whom it is difficult to feel close to. And
Hannah certainly did not handle the Cyril situation well. Though
Hannah would never admit it, there were a number of situations
that Hannah did not handle well. But Bathy thinks--playing
devil's advocate--when Jules was alive it was difficult for
anyone else to handle any situation! It wasn't until after
Jules's death that Hannah began to come into her own. She proved
herself to be a woman of many talents. But being a mother was
never one of them.

Dr. Bergler also suggested that Cyril hated Noah. Not so, Bathy
thinks. True, Cyril was often jealous of Noah, because he became
so clearly his father's favorite. But Noah was too kind and sweet
to hate. Cyril loved Noah. He loved his parents. He loved them
all unbearably, for isn't love that is not returned the most
powerful, cruel love there is? Bathy thinks so.

The kidnapping episode has always struck her as a case in point.
It was certainly a bungled enterprise from the outset. It was
originally the brainchild of Joey Fernandez, a youth with whom
Cyril made an unfortunate acquaintanceship. Ruth had recently
eloped with the Brazilian named Antonio Fernandez-Just, and there
was much published about this in the press, due to the wide
discrepancy in the couple's ages. The similarity of the
names--they were obviously not related--caught the eye of Pal
Joey. Also in the press was the notation that Sr. Fernandez-Just
was the heir to a copper fortune estimated at 2.5 million
dollars, but that this was "little
more than lunch money to Jules Liebling, the billionaire booze
baron." With Joey, Cyril had tried to conceal the fact that his
father was rich. But now the cat was out of the bag, so to speak.

Joey Fernandez's rationale was this: "If your sister can latch on
to two-point-five million dollars just by marrying some spic, why
don't you deserve the same amount? And my brother and I are two
spies who'll help you get it." And so the kidnapping plot was
hatched. Since Cyril's cooperation was essential to the endeavor,
the plan was for Cyril to receive half the ransom money, while
the other half was to be divided between the brothers. Cyril went
along with the scheme, as he explained to Bathy later, for two
reasons. For one, he had made the mistake of falling quite madly
in love with Joey Fernandez. But even more important, he was
curious to see whether his father, into whose disfavor he had
increasingly fallen, would actually pay that much money for his
life. Was Cyril's life worth that much to Jules? Cyril felt he
had to know. Was Cyril worth Jules's lunch money?

Of course, the answer to that question will never be known, since
the money, when it was delivered--with the exception of a few
hundred-dollar bills placed on the tops of the packets as
decoys--consisted of cutup newspaper stuffed into garbage bags by
Jules, Hannah, Kevin Shaughnessy, and Bathy.

Of course, the whole scheme was badly botched from the beginning.
But as Bathy once suggested to Jules, "I wonder whether Cyril
didn't really want it to be botched--perhaps unconsciously.
Unconsciously, he really wanted the plot to fail. He didn't
really want to extort money from you. He just wanted to see how
much you loved him."

"Bullshit" was Jules's reply.

Today, Cyril strikes most people as a very silly man. But, Bathy
thinks, what most people don't realize about Cyril is that his
silliness is calculated. Silliness is his defense, his only
remaining weapon against the world, his mask. Behind the mask
lurks a shy and sensitive and deeply hurt man whom Bathy has
always cared for very much.
Well, Bathy thinks, now at least the trial is over. Another
hurdle in their lives has been crossed, more or less
successfully. There were at least three bad moments in it, to be
sure. One occurred when a particularly dogged reporter for one of
the New York tabloids, who kept trying to inflate the case into
some sort of sensation, quoted the author William Luckman as
saying that Carol's mother was a patient at a sanitarium called
Greenspring Hills, and that Carol's family had "a long history of
mental illness." Luckman hinted that he might have more to say
about the Liebling family later on. This story prompted a
small-town parish priest in New Hampshire, claiming to be an old
friend of Carol's family, to call a press conference. In it he
declared that he had predicted that Noah's and Carol's marriage
would end disastrously, and added that Noah and Carol had never
really been married "in the eyes of God." These linked stories
made Bathy very apprehensive.

But this publicity was quickly deflected by, of all people, Yale
University. Weary of the bad press their institution was
receiving as a result of William Luckman's best-selling book,
Blighted Elms, the university reluctantly instituted lawsuits for
criminal libel against both Luckman and his publisher--fully
aware that such an action, if it came to a trial, could only
generate more publicity, and sales, for Luckman and his book.

But the gods were kind to Yale, as they often are. If Mr. Luckman
had consulted with Cyril at the time, he might have received
sounder advice. But, on his own, Luckman decided to act as his
own counsel in the case. He figured there would be a
public-relations advantage if he were depicted as a struggling
young writer being legally harassed by a big, cold university.
But in his initial deposition he was unprepared for the
plaintiff's five man legal team that faced him in the offices of
Cravath, Swain & Moore that day. "Where are your notes?" they
demanded. "Do you have copies of taped interviews? What is your
basis for these allegations?" After six hours of brutal grilling,
Mr. Luckman finally caved in and admitted that the assertions in
his book were unsupported by evidence, and were without basis in
fact. Thus satisfied, Yale gratefully dropped its suit and
settled for a public apology from the publisher.
The gods were less kind to William Luckman. Less than happy with
these various turns of events, his publishers promptly canceled
their contract for his next book. Discredited as a news source,
Mr. Luckman left town under something of a cloud.

What Bathy most feared was that Noah's and Melody's names might
be romantically linked in the press. This almost happened in a
"blind" item in Roxy Rhinelander's column, but as usual, Roxy got
things a little wrong:

 Cherchez la femme, as they say in France. Was a recent society
slaying the result of a love triangle? Could be. They say it
could entail a Certain Somebody's Best Friend. But isn't it
always? F'rinstance, two best friends were planning a joint
coming-out party. Then those plans went pffft. How come? Could it
entail a prominent glass manufacturer whose company is going
pffft?

 Bathy also worried that Beryl might turn out to be a loose
cannon in the case, and might come forward to say that she had
evidence to prove that Noah and Melody had been having an affair.
But as it turned out, Beryl Stokes had more pressing matters on
her mind, which had nothing to do with the disappearance of Bill
Luckman from her life.

At her insistence, Frank Stokes moved out of the River House
apartment and took a small room at the Athletic Club. But he also
took Noah's advice and hired a lawyer. As a result, it was
discovered that Noah had been wrong about one thing. Frank and
Beryl did not own the apartment jointly. All their co-op's shares
were in Frank's name only. A prenuptial separate-property
agreement also turned up. And so, at his lawyer's suggestion,
Frank Stokes put the apartment up for sale.

The first Beryl learned of this was when the building's agent
telephoned her to ask if that afternoon would be a convenient
time for him to show the unit to a prospective buyer. In a panic
Beryl called Frank and begged him to come home. After demurring
for a few weeks, Frank finally agreed.
And so the Stokeses' marriage continues on its uneven, unsteady
course.

 But now, Bathy thinks, all this is behind them, thank God. And
this morning, after that unsettling dream, Bathy had a sudden
urge to get out of the city for a few hours, to get in her car
and drive up to Tarrytown to see what had actually become of
Grandmont.

She expected to find a suburban sprawl of pretentious houses,
each priced to sell for more than Jules had paid for all of
Grandmont to begin with. But what she saw when she drove through
the old wrought-iron gates-- now emblazoned with a large sign
that read more wealth VILLAS--LUXURY HOMES AND ESTATES--MODELS

open--was something else. The sprawl was there, all right, but it
seemed to exist in pockets. Clusters of Tudor and Georgian houses
were set apart by wide and empty spaces, with lots for sale signs
decorating them, as though the developer of Morewealth Villas had
abandoned his grand scheme halfway through completion. Here and
there an empty lot triumphantly proclaimed itself sold!!! Still,
the vacant lots looked like the landscape of the moon.

Probably this was because all the trees were gone. The tall
rhododendron and privet hedges, the boxwood parterres, the clumps
of dogwood and the old live oaks and copper beeches that once
covered the hillside had all been cut down, though their stumps
had not been removed. The honeysuckle-covered riparian wall had
been taken down, perhaps to improve the view, but a spring rain
had left a mudslide at the foot of the hill that ran down to the
exposed railroad tracks. The only sight that remained unchanged
against this treeless terrain was the curve of the wide river
below, where the sight of a few sailboats on the river provided
the only suggestions of humanity.

Gazing at this barren, rocky scene as she drove along, she had
the unpleasant feeling that she was attending her own funeral.
The streets--some built up, others empty--were narrow and
winding, and she noticed that they had all been given the names
of French wines: Montrachet Place, Chardonnay Court, Sauterne
Crescent, Cabernet Lane, and so on. Had this been done
in tribute to the late Billionaire Booze Baron, Bathy wondered.
Probably not, she decided. More likely it was just a part of the
developer's fancy. But it might have amused Jules.

Then, turning a corner, she suddenly came upon a big Lincoln Town
Car parked alongside the road. At the wheel sat Hannah's driver,
Mr. Nelson, in his cap and uniform, but the passenger seats were
empty. She drove along a little farther, and then she saw her,
standing alone in the middle of an empty building lot, dressed in
black, looking--from that distance--small and frail and all at
once old. Bathy pulled her car over, stopped it, got out, and
walked across the weedy, gravelly stubble to where she stood.
"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked her.

She didn't seem particularly surprised to see her. "I thought I
could find where my dahlia beds used to be," she said. "But it's
no use. Everything's changed. Do you remember the big white
hybrid I developed and the Garden Clubs named after me?" "Of
course I do."

"I had a whole bed of them planted somewhere around here. But
everything's been bulldozed under."

There was a large, flat piece of stone projecting upward from the
ground where they were standing now. It looked familiar, and then
Bathy recognized it as a piece of one of the stone garden benches
that used to be scattered throughout the garden. There were a
great many of these benches, all alike, and so it couldn't
possibly have been the same stone these two sat on that night in
the heat lightning fifty years ago. But it might have been.
"Let's sit here for a minute," Bathy suggested.

Hannah lowered her frame carefully to the stone, one buttock
preceding the other as she sat. If she recognized the stone, she
said nothing.

"You didn't drive all the way up here just to find your dahlia
beds," Bathy said.

"I had some upsetting news this morning. Ruth called me. She's
going to marry that dreadful young man. That Ector."

"Let her, Hannah."

"I just smell more trouble brewing for the family. I just smell
it."
"Let her go, Hannah. Release her. Let them all go."

"Oh, I've made some mistakes in the past. I know that. Terrible
mistakes I'm not proud of."

"We've all done that."

"And I thought perhaps if I came back here--"

"That you might succeed in turning back the clock? That's what I
thought, too. But we can't do that, can we?"

"No."

"Each time we try turning back the clock, it just ticks a little
further forward. All we can do is keep putting one foot down
after the other, as Jules used to say."

"I made one decision this morning. I'm going to undi vide the
apartment and give the whole thing to Cyril. I don't need all
that room. I'll find a smaller place."

"That's a good decision, Hannah. That will make Cyril very
happy."

"Yes, I'm rather proud of that decision. Sometimes I make
decisions that I'm proud of. Have you ever been proud of me,
Bathy?"

"Oh, yes."

"When? When were you proudest of me?"

"Well, for the way you kept our secret, for one thing."

"But I don't think I kept it very well. I'm sure there were some
people who suspected you and Jules. I know there were."

"Oh, yes."

"But at least we both stood tall. We Sachses do that."

"Yes."

"We never bowed our heads in shame!"

"No."

"So perhaps there was no need to have it be a secret in the first
place. Perhaps it was a lousy secret."

"Perhaps all secrets are lousy secrets, Hannah."

"Yes. That may be true." She hesitated. Then she said, "There's
another secret perhaps I ought to tell you, Bathy. It's such an
old secret. I've kept it for so long."

She held up her hand. "Please don't," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to know any more secrets."

"Oh," she said, looking at first disappointed, and then almost
relieved. "All right," she said, and nodded.

She and Bathy had come to the edge of this precipice
once before. Bathy could have told her that she already knew what
this secret was, and that in some intuitive, almost primitive way
she felt she had always known it. As a little girl, there were
those searching, guilty looks she sometimes noticed passing
between Hannah and the woman they both called Mama, and the
sorrowful looks she sometimes caught in Hannah's eyes when Hannah
looked at her, and which she pretended not to notice. Bathy began
to wonder if somehow she was different and, if she was different,
whether there was something wrong with her. But when she looked
at herself in the mirror, she could see that there was nothing
wrong with her, and, if anything, that she looked a lot like
Hannah. So if there was something wrong with her, was there also
something wrong with Hannah? She used to puzzle about this. But
then she decided that if there was something wrong with both her
and Hannah, at least they had each other's company, and their
differentness, to share. They weren't alone.

And then there were the passport pictures. Every few years as she
was growing up, there were new passport pictures to be taken, and
when the date for the photo session approached, there was great
tension in the air. "Next Wednesday at three o'clock sharp, you
must be ready to have your new passport pictures taken," Hannah
would say to her, and the date would be circled in red on the
calendar page. She used to wonder about this. She wasn't going
anywhere, and none of her friends at school seemed to have this
worry about passport pictures and passport-renewal applications
needing to be submitted on time. Gradually, though, she began to
piece things together. The passport pictures were important to
both Hannah and her. They were in this conspiracy, whatever it
was, together. The passport pictures were to prove who she was,
or who she wasn't.

Then, when she was about fourteen, dear Aunt Settee Kahn blurted
it all out to her. She'd come to call at Grandmont, as she often
did, and her visits were always like Yom Kippur, the Day of
Atonement. Settee criticized Bathy, she criticized Hannah, she
criticized Jules and Cyril and Ruth and Noah, she criticized the
household servants and the gardening staff, who were all people
Bathy loved. Bathy hated Big Sister Settee, as she
was known to her, even more than the Liebling children hated her.

That morning, for some reason, Bathy put her hair up in pigtails.
And Settee suddenly turned to her and said, "You look stupid in
pigtails, Bathsheba. You look like a Polish peasant." "Polish"
was the worst word in her battery of insults. And Bathy, who must
have been feeling a little fresh that day, stuck out her tongue
at her and said, "I don't give a pig's rear end whether or not
you like my pigtails, SetteeI"

Her eyes got all narrow and squinty, and she said, "You're
illegitimate, you know. You're what's called a bastard baby.
Hannah's not your sister. She's your mother. Your father was a
radio repairman who came to the house to fix the radio. Nobody
knows what became of him. Hannah was a fornicator who brought
disgrace on the family. The disgrace was you. Before she died,
you know, our mama, God rest her soul, tried to foist you off on
me because I was the oldest and the most responsible. But I
wouldn't have you. I wouldn't have you in the same house with
decent, proper children."

Settee spewed out all the horrid things she could think of to say
to her and came to the end of her repertoire quite out of breath
and red in the face. Bathy knew that she expected Bathy to run
sobbing out of the room, but she wasn't going to give her that
satisfaction. Bathy simply looked at her and said, "You don't
have any children. Maybe it's because your fronts are so big no
man wants to stick his thing in you!" She raised her hand as if
to strike her, but Bathy ducked and ran off. She was so happy to
learn that she had not been foisted off on Settee that she wanted
to whoop for joy that she had wound up with Hannah, where she
belonged. Nothing really worried her after that. She knew who she
was, and was happy where she was.

And if she told Hannah now what Settee had said to her that day,
she knew what Hannah would say: "Settee said that! My beautiful
swan said that!" It was best to say nothing to Hannah.

"Your beautiful swan had a mean and nasty streak," she would have
to tell her. And what would be accomplished by that?
And after that it didn't take too much research to find out about
George Noville--there was a little packet of old letters that
Hannah sometimes took out to read. And she even found his name in
the Manhattan telephone book, and considered calling him up and
introducing herself. Wisely, she had resisted that brief impulse.
There was no need to open up old wounds.

And now, sitting on the remains of a stone bench in the ruins of
Grandmont, with their respective stories still untold, Bathy
suddenly felt incredibly close to Hannah, and somehow she felt
that a similar surge of feeling assailed Hannah just then. It was
a signal and, obeying it, Bathy quickly reached out and covered
Hannah's hand with hers. "We've always been close, Hannah. As
close as two women can ever be," she said.

There was a quick sob. "Oh, Bathy!" she said. "Look at us. Two
old women. What a waste it's been . . . what a waste ... all
those years . . . where was love . . . ?"

"It wasn't a waste," she said firmly. "Unless all of life is a
waste." She put her arm around her shoulders. "You are a Sachs,"
she said. "I'm a Sachs. That's enough. It's enough for me. Isn't
it enough for you?"

"No! Sometimes it just isn't."

"Stand tall, woman! Stand tall! Remember the Tower of Pisa. It
may lean a little. But it'll never fall down."

She quickly dried her eyes. "You're right," she said. "But
there's something I must tell you. I did a terrible thing--an
awful thing--a thing I'm still ashamed of. Right after the--the
accident, and after they arrested Carol and took her away and put
her in that awful place--Riker's Island--I went to see her there.
I was so angry with her. Things were going so well, you see--
everything was working out, everything was settled--for the
company, for everybody. And then she had to go and reach for that
gun--the gun I'd given her to protect herself! She told the
police she was going to shoot herself, and the others were all
struggling with her to get the gun away from her, and that was
when it--happened. And all our plans went down the drain. And I
was so angry with her that I thought to myself--Well, if she
wants to kill herself, I'll help her do it! I was in a rage! Dr.
Arnstein gave me the prescription, enough to do it, he assured
me. He didn't ask me any questions. He just
made me promise to take the druggist's label off the bottle
because it would have his name on it. But I did more than that. I
emptied the pills into a handkerchief, threw the bottle into the
incinerator, tied my hankie in a knot, and put the knotted hankie
in my reticule. My plan was to press the knotted hankie into her
palm when we shook hands good-bye, and say to her, 'If you really
want to kill yourself, Carol, here's a painless way to do it.
Under the circumstances, I think that would be best for all
concerned.' Can you understand my feelings, Bathy--right after it
happened? Can you understand why I'd plan to do a thing like
that?"

"Yes. I think I can."

"But then, when they led her out into that room where you can
talk, she took my hand, and practically the first words she said
to me were, 'Nana, I think you know I didn't mean to have that
bullet hit Noah. But I wouldn't be telling you the truth if I
didn't tell you that there was a moment--oh, just a tiny,
fleeting fragment of a moment while we were struggling for the
gun-- when I actually wanted to kill him for what he'd done.' I
thought that was very brave of her to say that to me. I thought
it was a very courageous thing for her to say-- don't you agree?"

"Yes, it was. Very courageous."

"She was standing tall when she said that. And I understood what
she meant. I think I'd feel the same way myself in a similar
circumstance. You see, she was trying to tell me that she really
loved Noah very much. You have to love a person very much to feel
such violent emotion when you discover he's betrayed you. If you
don't love a person--well, then you don't feel much of anything
at all, I guess, except relief, as I did when--but never mind."

"Yes," Bathy said.

"And so the pills and the hankie stayed in my reticule. And I
suddenly thought--this was all Melody's fault! If she hadn't come
back to the apartment that night, none of this would have
happened! Why did she come back?"

"Melody said she wanted to be an actress. Sometimes I think
actors aren't real people. They're chameleons-- always throwing
themselves into roles. Looking for scripts with parts in them to
play."
"I think she realized that Noah would never leave Carol and run
off with her. She knew she'd lost Noah. And so she wanted to make
the loss as unpleasant for Noah as possible. I'm sure that's it.
And she certainly succeeded, didn't she?"

"She wanted a confrontation scene for the second act. Actors
should learn never to try to write their own lines."

"And so now the company will be Noah's. But it's not the way I
wanted it to be. Not the way I planned it."

"Why not, Hannah?"

"I wanted Noah and Carol to run the company together --almost
like a team. Carol's got good business sense. And Noah's always
seemed to need--"

"A strong woman behind him?"

"Yes!"

"Like you, Hannah?"

"Yes! Or you. But now, without Carol, I can see Noah going flying
off, like a kite without a tail. His Aesop thing, and--"

"Why do you say he'll be without Carol, Hannah?"

"How could they possibly stay together after this? He hurt her
terribly. No woman would stay with a husband who's done that to
her--with another woman, and so much younger."

"You did," Bathy said quietly.

She looked momentarily flustered. "Yes, but--but that was
different. That was family, and--"

"Isn't this? You see, I think Noah and Carol still love each
other. You said it yourself. If she hadn't loved him so much, she
wouldn't have reached for the gun. You said yourself that Noah
would never have left Carol for Melody."

"You mean you really think that if Carol's acquitted-- and after
Anne's testimony yesterday, I'm certain she will be--you really
think the two of them can patch things up?"

"Look at it this way. Maybe it's not just a question of patching
things up. Right now Noah has an ugly scar across his left cheek
to show for this. Perhaps that will fade in time. Later, he can
claim it was a forceps scar. Or a dueling scar, if he wants to be
romantic. But remember, Carol also has a scar--a deeper scar
perhaps,
and perhaps one that won't go away so quickly. Maybe, in a way,
the score is even between them now. Maybe those scars will
complement each other, compensate for each other. Maybe those
scars will remind them both of how much they owe each other. A
tit for a tat."

Hannah still looked dubious. "Well, I hope you're right," she
said.

"All we can do is wait and see. But there's one thing I can tell
you. I'm not supposed to tell anyone because it's--well, maybe
it's a little bit unethical, but I can tell you. Ida Kaminsky
called me yesterday. She's reached her verdict."

"What is it?"

"That it was an accidental homicide. Carol will be released
tomorrow morning. It will be ruled a tragic accident."

"And my--my little buh-uhd?"

"One year's probation. Reckless endangerment. Reckless use of a
firearm. Something like that. It won't affect her at school.
Nobody up there will even need to know about it."

"Well, I suppose that's fair. Anne certainly was-- reckless."

"But she wasn't reckless on the stand, was she? I thought she was
very poised and clear about exactly what happened. When she said
that she snatched the gun from Melody because she was afraid
Melody might use it against her mother, that was all the judge
needed to hear."

Hannah hesitated. "Of course, I was terrified that something
might come up about Noah's--relationship-- with that girl."

"But that line of questioning was never pursued, was it?"

"I don't suppose you had anything to do with that, Bathy. Did
you?"

But Bathy's smile committed her to nothing. "Let's just say it's
over, Hannah," she said.

"But why didn't Ida hand down her verdict yesterday? Why is she
making Carol spend two more nights in that awful place?"

"It's part of our strategy to keep this out of the press as much
as possible. No one from the media was in the
courtroom when Anne testified yesterday, so no one in the media
knows there's a verdict to be announced tomorrow. With luck,
nobody from the media will be in court tomorrow, either. By
Wednesday it'll be old news. And in a few weeks the whole thing
will be forgotten. Or so we're hoping."

"I see. Miss Fix-It."

"I've tried to do my best," she said. "And Ida's turned out to be
a good friend."

"Those Kaminskys always were nice." Suddenly she slapped her
thigh. "Wait a minute!" she cried. "I've just had a great idea!
What if I made it a condition?"

"Made what a condition?"

"That I won't turn over the company to Noah unless he and Carol
promise me that they'll stay together! Promise--in writing!"

"Oh, Hannah," Bathy said. "Would you really do a thing like that?
And go back on the promise you've already made to him?"

Hannah's shoulders sagged. "Well, maybe you're right. Maybe that
isn't such a good idea."

Bathy said nothing. There were times, Bathy had learned over the
years, when it was best to let Hannah have the last word. Dealing
with Hannah, she'd often found, was a little like playing a game
of checkers with a small child, where the trick was learning how
to lose quickly.

Hannah stood up abruptly. "Well, I've had it with this place,"
she said. "Let's get out of here."

Bathy also rose, and the two women started walking slowly
together back toward Hannah's car. "Let Noah and Carol work their
way through this by themselves," Bathy said. "The way you and
Jules did."

"We did that with your help!"

"I'm glad it helped. That's why I decided to become Jules's
mistress, because I thought it might help." Bathy circled her
mother's waist with her right arm.

Hannah stopped short. In the middle of that barren, vacant,
lunar-seeming landscape of unsold building lots where they all
used to live, Hannah turned and stared at her. "Wait a minute,"
she said. "You say you decided? I thought / decided that!"

Bathy smiled. "Of course, that's what I hoped you'd
think. It made it easier at the time, if it seemed like your
decision."

"Your decision? You say it was your idea?"

"I knew your marriage was in trouble. The whole family was in
trouble. I thought if I became Jules's mistress, it might help
things. And it did, for quite a few years, didn't it?"

"You mean you weren't in love with Jules?"

"Oh, no. Never. And he was never in love with me. I respected him
and he respected me, and I think he needed me in a certain way.
But that was all. That was why, after Noah walked in on us that
morning, making our--well, making our loveless love--and it was
clear that the situation wasn't helping anything anymore--it was
so easy for us to stop."

Hannah continued to stare at her. "And all these years," she
said, "I thought Jules was the love of your life!"

"You are the love of my life," she said.

Hannah's eyes quickly withdrew, as though she had not heard that
last comment. Suddenly she raised a gloved fingertip and pointed
past an uneven row of tree stumps. "Look," she said. "I think
that's where they were. My dahlia beds."

Bathy's eyes followed in the direction of the pointed finger.
"You know something? I think you're absolutely right," she said.
"Look, I think I can still see outlines of the little path that
ran between the beds. We should have put up a sign along that
path and named it Hannah's Way."
1995

 From the New York Times:

 Gift of Rare Porcelains Comes to Met Museum

 An anonymous gift of a pair of rare Chinese porcelain vases has
been received by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and was unveiled
today.

"We are absolutely thrilled," said Marcia Winburn, the Met's
Curator of Decorative Arts, explaining that the vases are from
the early K'ang Hsi period (1662-1722), and are in a color known
as Lang Yao red, or sang-de-boeuf (oxblood). "I hesitate to use
the word unique," Ms. Winburn said. "But I am forced to when
describing these pieces."

Ms. Winburn was reluctant to put a dollar value on the gift
because, she said, no matched examples of pieces like these have
ever come on the market. Asked to guess their value, she would
only say, "In the high seven figures, if not even higher."

The vases were originally a part of the extensive porcelain
collection of the late Truxton Van Degan, a glass manufacturer.
And how the vases came to the Museum is as much a mystery as the
identity of their present donor.

Originally, Mr. Van Degan's widow reported to police that the
vases had been stolen from the couple's Fifth Avenue apartment.
Mrs. Van Degan accused members of the life squad who had
transferred her husband to St. Luke's hospital after the first of
a series of heart attacks which eventually proved fatal.

While assisting her husband, Mrs. Van Degan claimed, the Me squad
team "had reason to suspect
the worth" of the vases, and had managed to spirit the objects
into their ambulance while she herself was "totally distraught
with concern" over her husband's condition. An insurance
investigation was instituted to look into her claim, which was
vigorously denied by the life squad team.

But Mr. Van Degan's attorney, Stanley Kornblau, immediately
stepped forward and explained that he had personally removed the
pieces from the apartment, at the specific bidding of Mr. Van
Degan, who had summoned the lawyer to his hospital bedside.

Mr. Kornblau produced signed documents attesting to these
instructions, in which he was directed to turn the precious
objects over to an unnamed third party. It is this third party,
presumably, who is the anonymous donor of the two pieces to the
museum.

The reason why it is so rare--indeed, unheard of-- to find an
identical signed pair of vases such as these, Ms. Winburn pointed
out, is that, "According to the Taoist philosophy of the 16th and
17th centuries, the potters believed that one of each pair should
be destroyed in order to preserve the immortality of the original
design." Therefore, how this pair managed to survive at all is
still another mystery.

"Mr. Van Degan had a truly princely collection of Oriental
porcelains," Ms. Winburn told The Tunes. "But these two pieces
were definitely the collection's crown jewels."

 A Foretaste of More to Come?

 The late Mr. Van Degan was president and CEO of Van Degan Glass,
now a wholly owned subsidiary of the Ingraham Corporation. And
the current gift may prove to be just a foretaste of more that
may come to the museum.

In his final will and testament, also executed from his hospital
bed in the presence of Mr. Kornblau and other members of his
firm, Mr. Van Degan bequeathed his entire porcelain collection to
the museum. But this will is currently being contested by Mr. Van
Degan's heirs, who include his widow and two sons by former
marriages. These three have also instituted lawsuits against each
other. Mrs. Van Degan, a onetime Manhattan socialite, is said to
be living in seclusion somewhere in the Midwest, and could not be
reached for comment. Repeated telephone calls to the Van Degan
sons were not returned.

Mr. Van Degan died just hours after executing his will. But, Mr.
Kornblau told The Times, "Though he was obviously in considerable
pain, Truxton Van Degan was completely lucid when he dictated the
final terms of his will. He knew exactly what he was doing, and
was very specific about how he wished things left. With the
exception of the special designation of that one pair of vases,
everything else in the collection was to go to the Metropolitan."

"But," Ms. Winburn said, "with the will in litigation, and with
everybody suing everybody else, it may be years before the Van
Degan estate is settled--if ever. In the meantime, we don't even
dare keep our fingers crossed about the outcome. We are
definitely not counting our chickens now. We're just grateful to
have received as much as we have."

As for the anonymous donor of the vases, Ms. Winburn said, "We
have no idea who it might have been, and since this was clearly
the donor's desire, we have no intention of trying to find out.

"In fact, we rather enjoy not knowing the donor's identity. The
ceramicist who created these magnificent pieces believed that
longevity and even immortality, in both art and life, can be
attained through spiritual, and even magical means. In these
beautifully preserved objects, it would seem that this belief has
been sustained."

 "It's a lovely story," he says to her now, putting down the
newspaper. "You handled it beautifully."

"Thanks," Carol says. She consults her watch. "But we've really
got to be going, Noah. We mustn't keep these people waiting."

He sighs. "No, I suppose not." He stands up slowly. "I guess you
know how much I'm dreading this."

"I know. So let's just go and get it over with."

At first it was very hard for him to reconcile the appearance of
Melody's parents with her descriptions of
them. Paul Richards was a short, slightly built man in his early
fifties, with a receding hairline and graying at the temples, and
a small mustache. Where was the tall, well-muscled bronzed Adonis
that Melody had described? He looked more like what he was--a
scholar and translator or, as his letterhead proclaimed him, a
foreign affairs officer.

His wife, to Noah, seemed almost incredibly chic. Celeste
Richards, slightly taller than her husband, wore a navy Chanel
suit with paler blue piping at the collar and cuffs. Her long,
dark bangs were parted precisely at the center of her forehead to
reveal a perfect oval face and wide, dark eyes.

Noah had not wanted to have this meeting. But we must," Carol
said. "They're coming to New York to take her home. We've got to
see them after they've come all this way. After all, she was our
houseguest. We were supposed to be taking care of her. We were
supposed to be--"

"Her surrogate parents."

"Yes."

"At least that's the way we advertised ourselves," he said.

"Yes."

And so then the question became: Where would be the best place to
have this meeting? It did not seem quite right, Carol pointed
out, to invite Mr. and Mrs. Richards to River House, where it had
all happened, even though the apartment was now for sale. To meet
them at a restaurant, or hi a hotel lobby, or even at a private
club, seemed inappropriate as well. Finally Carol had a
suggestion. "They have these small, private rooms at Frank
Campbell's," she pointed out. "They're more like little sitting
rooms, for smaller services, or for families to wait in, before
going into the main chapel. Let's see if I can arrange to get us
one of those. They're really very pretty, very quiet, very
private. . . ."

 "I'll see that you have one of what we call our slumber rooms,"
the man at Campbell's told her.

"Just a small room. There'll only be the four of us. And we won't
need it for much more than an hour."

"I know exactly what you want, Mrs. Liebling."
* * *

And so that is where the four are sitting now. That morning Carol
thought to have two small arrangements of white summer flowers
sent over for this room. The people from Campbell's placed them
on two Chippendale side tables. In its hermetic stillness, the
room smells of lilies and tea roses and a single lighted Rigaud
candle.

The afternoon uniform of Campbell's staff--dark flannel trousers
and dark blue single-breasted blazers-- made them look more like
English university dons than mortuary attendants. And after
ushering them into this room, the Campbell's man excused himself
briefly, and then returned with a small walnut box with a bronze
plaque bearing Melody's name and dates. He placed this on a low
table in front of the sofa where her parents sat. "We wish her a
safe journey home," he said softly. Then he quietly withdrew,
closing the door behind him.

Now Melody's mother reaches out and touches the box. Her father
does the same, and their fingertips meet, then withdraw.

Carol is the first to speak. "We're both just so terribly sorry,"
she says. "There's really not much else either of us can say."
Without looking at Noah, she says, "We were both terribly fond of
Melody. Anne has always been--well, a little flighty and
impulsive and high-strung. We liked Melody so much because she
seemed to be such a stabilizing influence. We're going to miss
her very much. That's just about all I can say."

Celeste Richards says, "Perhaps the way to think of this is as
Kami no Michi, as the Japanese say. The way of the gods. And in
Japan we say, yaoyorodzunokami. There are eight hundred myriad
deities."

"You speak Japanese?"

"Oh, yes. I teach English three mornings a week at a Japanese
school. It's a fascinating culture. Having lived as long as I
have in the Far East, I don't think I could ever live anywhere
else. Even here, in New York, where I was born, everything seems
strange now. Neither Paul nor I can wait to get home."

Noah says, turning to Paul Richards, "I understand you have
regular meetings with the emperor at the imperial palace."

Paul Richards looks briefly confused. "No," he says.
"In fact, I don't think there's anybody on the embassy staff,
including the ambassador, who's actually met the emperor. Most
Japanese have never laid eyes on the emperor and empress. It's
not like England. The Japanese royal family almost never appears
in public. They're very cloistered. It's part of their mystique."

"I see," Noah says.

"Still, that's part of the excitement of living in that culture,"
Celeste Richards says. "Unfortunately, our daughter never felt
that way. She couldn't wait to come to America. You see, it's
been quite a few years since Paul and I have felt really close to
our daughter."

"We used to be close," her husband says. "But then, when she was
eleven or twelve--"

"She changed."

"It was as though she suddenly grew up too fast. Became an adult
too fast."

"She became--so ambitious."

"One minute she was a little girl. And the next minute she
was--this ambitious young woman. Almost a stranger to us."

"Or so it seemed," his wife says.

"She was determined to go to school in America."

"And you were opposed?" Noah says.

"Oh, no. We wanted her to choose her own life."

"She told me how she applied for the full scholarship at Ethel
Walker," Noah says.

"Scholarship? No, there was no scholarship," Celeste Richards
says. "She wanted to go to Ethel Walker because she'd heard it
was fashionable. The same thing with Bennington. She wanted to go
to school with rich people."

"So ambitious," her husband says again.

"I thought she mentioned--a scholarship," Noah says.

"Perhaps she meant that the State Department paid for her
transportation," Paul Richards says. "They often do that for
children who want to go to school in America."

"It was a toss-up between Walker and Farmington," his wife says.
"We'd applied to both for her. She chose Walker."

"So ambitious."

"To become a great actress, I suppose," Carol says.
"Well, perhaps that was part of it," Melody's mother says. "She
wanted success. Fame. Money. Power. All those things. She became
a stranger to us. We tried. She was never deprived."

There is a little silence, and the Rigaud candle on the table
between them flickers, sputters. Paul Richards sighs. "Still," he
says, "it's tough to lose your only child."

Noah studies his fingers. "I thought she mentioned an older
sister. Cassie?"

"No, there was only Missy."

"Missy?"

"We named her Melissa. But she complained that there were three
other Melissas at her school. So she started calling herself
Melody."

"Again, that was when she was eleven or twelve," Paul Richards
says.

"I guess she thought the name Melody sounded more--"

"More suitable to the stage?" Carol suggests.

"WeH. It was the name she chose for America," Celeste Richards
says. "More dramatic perhaps. More unusual. More memorable."

Noah says, "Was there ever a boy named--" But he leaves the
question unfinished.

"No, there was only Missy. And we were a very close knit little
family, until she suddenly became so--"

"Ambitious," her husband says. He presses the thumb and
forefinger of his left hand against his eyelids.

"Yes," his wife agrees. "She wanted the sun, the moon, the stars,
everything. Nothing was ever good enough for her."

Noah turns to Paul. Clearing his throat, he says, "She told me
about how you and she used to go scuba diving together."

Celeste Richards laughs softly. "She may have done some scuba
diving, but certainly never with Paul. Paul's terrified of the
water."

Paul Richards looks sheepish. "I've never learned to swim," he
says. "That can be a bit of an embarrassment when you live in a
small island nation. I get teased about it."

There is another silence, and then Celeste Richards
rises, smoothing the front of her skirt with the palm of her
hand. "I want to take home just one of these," she says. "May I?"
And she plucks one small white rosebud from one of the pair of
flower arrangements, and drops it into her Chanel bag.

Outside on the street again, Carol says, "Well, we got through
that. If we got through that, we can probably get through
anything."

"Do you think so?"

"I think so. I hope so. What do you think?"

"I hope so, too. I'm going to try."

"I'm going to try, too. I'm going to try very hard, Noah."

"Thank you, Madame Museum Trustee."

"And thank you, Mr. President and CEO." She tucks one hand into
the crook of his elbow. With the other she shades her eyes from
the sun. "It's such a pretty day," she says. "Shall we walk back
home? After all, sometimes it's just a question of putting one
foot after the other, as your father used to say. We can't
promise what's going to happen to us, can we? But in the meantime
--"

"In the meantime we can walk," he says.

And so the clock ticks on, and our story comes to no real end
here. Daylight fades into dusk, and night brightens into dawn, as
the days pass, and the years rise up swiftly and speed on, and
the earth spins on its axis and makes its endless circlings of
the sun. The past moves relentlessly forward with us at the same
speed and leaves us in its shadow, never moving away, but never
quite catching up, and men and women circle each other, reach
out, touch hands, draw apart, make love, and draw apart again.
And in these tireless circles, we wonder why we care. All we know
is that we do care.

Yes, that's enough.
STEPHEN BIRMINGHAM, acclaimed novelist

and esteemed social historian, has written more

than twenty-five works of fiction and nonfiction. He

has chronicled the lives of the wealthy and powerful in numerous
bestselling books, including

"Our Crowd," The Auerbach Will, and The Rothman Scandal. He lives
in Cincinnati, Ohio, where he is currently at work on his next
novel.