Establishment (18 page)

“How did it go?” Jean asked Dan.

Dan shrugged. “All right.”

“He was pleasant?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing.”

“You were pleasant, weren't you, Danny?”

“I was so damn glad to see him—”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Then Dan added, almost woefully, “He was a total stranger, Jeanie. I suppose I anticipated everything else, everything except that. But how could I expect anything else?”

***

The next day, when Barbara was already on her way to Washington, the story about her subpoena broke in the San Francisco press. The headline in the
Chronicle
read:
san francisco writer subpoenaed by house committee
. The
Examiner
's headline said:
barbara lavette cohen to be unfriendly witness at subversive hearing
. Jean, realizing that Dan would have the news sooner or later, told him about it before she showed him the newspapers, assuring him that neither Barbara nor Harvey Baxter was greatly concerned. “No doubt it's her experience in Germany that they wish to make the most of, but that's no secret. Barbara wrote about it, and thousands of people know about it. It's their wretched way of making headlines, and you are not to become angry, please, Dan.”

“Those filthy sons of bitches,” Dan said. “What in hell is happening, Jean? What's happening to this country? And why didn't Barbara tell me? When did all this begin?”

“About ten days ago. And it's perfectly obvious why she didn't tell you.”

“Did you know?”

“Yes, Barbara told me.”

“And you didn't tell me?”

“Danny, you can understand that.”

“She ought to have the best damn legal advice in the city.”

“She has Harvey Baxter with her.”

“Harvey Baxter is a damned old woman. You should have told me. I know people in Washington. I probably could have had this squashed.”

“You were in no condition to do anything, Dan. I spoke to Harvey, and he's not worried.”

“Where's the baby?”

“At Higate with Eloise and Adam. Don't worry, please.” It was easier to tell him that than to keep her own fears down.

***

John Whittier entered Tom's office and put the
Chronicle
on his desk. Whittier, a stout, red-faced man, looked sick.

“I've seen it,” Tom said. “Are you all right?”

“I don't know. It's either my stomach or a heart attack. This is terrible. This is absolutely terrible, Thomas.”

“Yes.”

“With the primaries three months away.”

“I can count, John.”

“Well, what do you intend to do about it? That damned sister of yours has been nothing but grief and aggravation since the day I met your mother.”

“I know. We don't pick our relatives.”

“Did you know about this?”

“No, not until today,” Tom replied. “I am as upset and angry and frustrated as you are.”

“Why on God's earth didn't she tell you? We might have done something about it.”

“You'd have to ask her that.”

“Has the press been in touch with you yet?”

“Not yet. But they will.”

“How the devil can you sit there like that? Have you called her? Spoken to her?”

“I imagine she's on her way to Washington. I called her home. There's no answer.”

“Well, what are they after? Is she a commie? I've always suspected she was.”

“John, don't be an ass.”

“Or is it that Jew husband of hers? I've heard all sorts of wild stories about him.”

“John, I don't know any more about this than you do. I've been on the phone with the county chairman and the state chairman, and there was nothing I could tell either of them. I told Janet to hold all my calls so that I could think about this. Now I suggest you go back to your office and do the same.”

After Whittier left, Janet Loper, Tom's secretary, buzzed him and said that Mrs. Carter was on the phone. Carter was Lucy Sommers' married name; after her husband's death, she had resumed her maiden name. Tom had to think for a moment before he made the connection.

“I'll talk to her,” he said. He tried to pull his thoughts together. “Since when are you Mrs. Carter?” he asked her.

“Did I say that? Well, that shows you where my mind is. Tom, have you given any statement to the press?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Don't. Get out of the office. I'll meet you at Casper's for lunch in half an hour. It's a quiet place, and probably no one we know will be there. We must talk before this goes any further.”

“I can't leave now. Everyone and his mother is trying to reach me.”

“Precisely why you should leave. Please trust me.”

At Casper's, a tiny French restaurant tucked away on Leavenworth Street, Lucy was waiting for him, well hidden in a booth at the rear. Tom dropped down on the bench facing her and stared wordlessly.

“Poor dear,” she said. “I ordered a Scotch for you. I had to get you out of there. I can imagine.” She appeared so competent, so cool and self-contained, that Tom found himself relaxing. “You know,” she went on, “I'm rather glad we can face this together. I don't think it's the end of the world by any means, but we must sort out things before this goes any further. First things first. Is Barbara a communist?”

“John asked me that. I told him not to be an ass.”

“But now you're not so certain?”

“How does one know? I talk to Barbara three or four times a year. We're not exactly loving siblings. She has done some damn strange things.”

“The
Examiner
calls her an unfriendly witness. What exactly does that mean?”

“I called my lawyer and asked him. Apparently they subpoenaed her, after which she made no gesture of cooperation.”

“Perhaps she has a clear conscience.”

“Lucy, Barbara has done some crazy things in her time, like giving away the fortune she inherited to set up the Lavette Foundation, but I've never had an inkling of her being a red.”

“And suppose the worst came out? How would the Republican party people feel about that? Would they still give you the designation?”

“They're shaky.”

“All right, Thomas. Until we hear what happens in Washington, we make no statements and speak to no one. I have a lovely little cottage at Nicasio up in Marin. Suppose we go there and hide out for two or three days. It will give us a chance to think and plan—and to know each other a little better.”

Tom stared at her. Her use of “we” unsettled him; on the other hand, no one had ever taken responsibility for him or his fate before; looking at this strong-featured, handsome woman who sat facing him, he experienced a sense of relief. For the first time that day, someone had proposed an affirmative action.

“I have my car outside. Shall I order lunch?”

Tom nodded.

***

“One of my larger regrets,” Harvey Baxter said to Barbara, “is that I never joined the Masonic order. Not that Sam Goldberg didn't urge me to. He was a Mason for forty years.” They were in the plane, flying east to Washington, when Baxter voiced his regret, apropos of nothing that Barbara could think of; she asked him why on earth he should think of that just then.

“It might help. I'm trying to think of anything that might help. There might just be a Mason on that committee, although it's not too likely. Anyway, I should have joined. My wife talked me out of it. Said I had enough things in my life that kept us apart. Never met my wife, did you, Barbara?”

“I'm sure she's lovely, Harvey.”

“But possessive, Barbara. Possessive. Women are possessive. With the exception of a few like you. If I had ever proposed going off as your husband did, my wife would have had a case of hysterics. Not that I see myself embarking upon anything as ill-advised. As your attorney,” he apologized, “I must state that I considered it ill-advised. You do understand?”

“Of course, Harvey.”

“Even a trip like this worries her. I suspect it's the thought of the two of us traveling alone.”

“Well, Harvey, you are an attractive man.”

“Do you think so? I assured her—”

“Of course you did. Now let's talk about what to expect. Will this be anything like the Hollywood writer hearings, with the publicity and the cameras and all the rest of it?”

“I don't think so. I spoke to Donald Jay. He's the counsel for the committee, and he'll do a good deal of the questioning. He indicated that the session will be held in chambers.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means no press and no publicity during the hearing. They'll meet in the committee room in the House Office Building, just you and the committee. You see, they're not too sure of themselves. I think they're fishing. I think they'd like to have a go at a whole slew of writers, and they chose you because they feel you're vulnerable.”

“But why? Why me?”

“The Nazi business, probably. But I am stating their position. I do not think you're vulnerable. Possibly they have something entirely different in mind. It doesn't matter. I feel quite secure about you.”

“Well, I'm glad you do. I don't. Tell me, Harvey, isn't this precisely what Boyd calls a Star Chamber hearing? If I remember correctly, historically, the Star Chamber was a place in England where the accused was tried without benefit of defense counsel or jury. Isn't this the same thing?”

“Oh, no, no. Not at all, Barbara. Congress functions through committees. Theoretically, this committee was formed to frame legislation to defend the United States against internal subversion. As such, they have the right to subpoena witnesses and take testimony that will aid them in framing such legislation. Not that they have ever offered any legislation. I have nothing but contempt for their methods. But their function is within the law. They are not a court, simply a committee of inquiry, and so long as you answer any pertinent questions forthrightly and honestly, there is absolutely nothing they can do to you. I do not share Boyd's qualms.”

“Will you be in the room with me?”

“They have the right to exclude me, but I don't think they will. Jay was very polite when we spoke on the telephone, very cooperative.”

“And just what is pertinent?”

“That's hard to anticipate. They operate under a very broad spectrum. We'll decide that on specifics. I know this is unpleasant and time-consuming, Barbara, but it's a fact of life in these times.”

“I suppose it is.”

Because of the three-hour time difference, it was almost dark when the plane landed in Washington. They took a cab to the Shoreham Hotel, where Baxter had booked rooms for them. Barbara pleaded tiredness and begged off dinner with Baxter, saying she would have a sandwich and coffee in her room. She felt that another hour of Harvey Baxter's observations on history and politics was more than she could tolerate.

In her room, she unpacked her things, then drew a very hot bath and soaked in it for almost an hour. She lay there, up to her neck in the deliciously warm water, now with her eyes closed, drifting off into fantasy, then with her eyes open, observing and measuring herself. The scar of her Caesarean, once so raw and ugly, had faded to a modest pink. Her body was still good, her breasts firm, her waistline only an inch more than it had been ten years before. Needing reassurance, she accepted the pleasure that came from observing herself. She was still a well-formed and attractive woman. She visualized a second scar on her body. She could still have another child, and Dr. Kellman had assured her that a second Caesarean section was no more dangerous than a normal birth. Very easy for him to say. He did not have to be sliced open. Still, she was rapidly approaching an age where the decision would have to be made, but not tonight. It would wait for when she could discuss it with Bernie—and from Bernie, her thoughts drifted to Marcel. More and more, as time passed, Barbara found it difficult to accept the fact of Marcel's death. It was so easy to drift into the fantasy that it was simply a separation and that one day she would see him again. Was it because France was a world away and Paris almost like a dream that had never happened? In her dreams, Paris was always soaked in sunlight, a dream city of wonderful romance. How would it be now, she wondered, after the war? Would she ever go back there? Did she want to? Marcel was buried in Toulouse. Strange that she had no desire to go back to Toulouse, to see his grave again. She was not the type who put flowers on graves and who wept on tombstones. The past lived in her mind. It was there whenever she wanted it.

After her bath, she called room service and ordered a sandwich, salad, and coffee, then read a copy of the
Washington Post
that she had bought at the airport. Her appearance before the House committee was front-page news, and the story described her as the “attractive San Francisco heiress-turned-novelist.” The story was noncommittal. Even the liberal newspapers were cautious about taking sides, and Barbara had the feeling that no one was totally exempt from the pall of fear that had cast its shadow over the country. Was it indeed like Germany in the time of Hitler? She cast back to her own memories of Berlin in 1939. No, she would not accept that. She could not.

It was not yet ten o'clock, and she was not ready for bed, for what would probably be a sleepless night. She sat down at the writing table and decided to write to Bernie. She had nowhere to send the letter, but it was pleasant to imagine that he might well be back in San Francisco when she returned, in which case she would simply hand the letter to him.
There it is; you can read what I felt the night before I faced the tiger in his den.

“My dear oversized husband,” she began; then she tore the sheet up impatiently. Why did she always dwell on his size? Was it because she saw him as a small, frightened boy who had spent his life attempting to overcome his fears? “Bernie, dear one,” was better, and she went on: “Here I am in a hotel in Washington, D.C., trying to understand why I deceived you. At first I thought it was very noble of me not to tell you about the subpoena, which arrived before you left on that nutty mission of yours, because if I had told you, then you might have decided not to leave me to face the House Committee on Un-American Activities all alone; but upon due reflection, I have come to the conclusion that I withheld the fact because I was afraid that you would never forgive me for aborting your adventure. Believe me, I know you and love you well enough to know how much you wanted to take that flight of planes over to Europe and save the brave Jews whom you felt you had deserted by marrying me and settling down to run a garage in San Francisco. But don't think I didn't have some very bad moments when days went by without a word from you. Happily, I received your cable yesterday, so I could come here with no more to worry about than two days of Harvey Baxter's legal advice. Why, why do lawyers talk the way they do? Ah well, you will not solve that one.