Redemption (5 page)

“He knocked them out, broke them. It was a single blow to the front of my face. He was very strong from all those years of training. For the next week or two, he was very repentant. He paid for the implants—a great deal of money, and they're as good as real teeth. He was sorry. He didn't know his own strength. The few times after that when he pushed me around, he never struck my face.”

“Was he drunk when he hit you?”

“No. That's the strange part of it, Ike. He never touched liquor. Bodybuilding was like a religion for him. He always said that alcohol was poison. He was crazy on the subject.”

“My God, why didn't you leave him?”

“Do you know what it is like to be educated in a convent school? Your husband is the master—and Ike, I was afraid of him. He told me he would have the marriage annulled. Until then, I was to keep my mouth shut. The nuns teach you to be obedient. I thought it would take a few weeks, but it wasn't until after he joined the Wall Street firm and we moved to New York that the annulment came through. He was a strange kind of Catholic, and our parish priest had known me all my life. He had to find another priest, and that took time—and it's a complicated thing. Meanwhile, he appeared to enjoy constantly humiliating me.”

“So he got the annulment, and you were divorced in the Islands?”

“Don't ask me to explain. Don't ask me how he could be a sort of demented Catholic and not believe in anything but his own rules—and his father's. His father's will said that any divorce must be locked into an annulment.”

I never pressed her for details of the journey that led her to the bridge. Each humiliation tore my heart open, and the less emotion, the matter-of-fact manner that she put into the telling, made it all the worse. When they moved to New York, he bought an apartment on Park Avenue, and she moved into the apartment on the West Side. She had neither friends nor family in New York, only a few acquaintances who worked in her department at Interdale's.

When we finished dinner, it was too late for a film, and we were both tired. We had walked a great deal. When I asked her whether I should take her home, she hesitated for a long time before answering. As her assent began, I interrupted it and suggested that she come to my place, where I would start a fire in the fireplace.

“But you live in an apartment.”

“An old one. And it has a fireplace. Many of the older buildings have them. I'll put you in a cab later. It's only nine-thirty.”

“And you're not bored with me, Ike? We've been together all day.”

“I'm not bored. Are you?”

“No, it's been a good day for me, the best. And you must call me Liz. Everyone does.”

We took a cab to my apartment, and I busied myself with building a fire, while Elizabeth fixed herself at the dining-room window, overlooking the river. “I can't get enough of it. It's a whole other thing at night.”

“Yes, it changes. It always changes.”

“If I lived here, I'd spend my life at this window.”

“Oh, Liz, I don't think so. You'd get used to it.”

“No—how could I?” She came into the living room now and stood in front of the fire. “I wouldn't get used to this either, Ike.” The big couch faced the fire, and she dropped onto it, stretching her legs.

“This looks like a dream,” she said, “sitting here in the center of New York, in front of a fireplace, with that wonderful river out there—when did you find me on the bridge? Was it a whole lifetime ago?”

“Friday night—an old Jew driving home from a coffee klatch.”

“Why do you keep referring to yourself as an old man?”

“Because I'm an old man. Seventy-nine come December, old enough to be your grandfather.”

“No, no, not my grandfather. You're filled with life and warmth and compassion—and you're very wise. When you told me at dinner that a man like Sedge Hopper is not born out of a bad seed but is shaped by a society that venerates greed and power above all else, I began to understand him for the first time.”

“Which does not make him any less wicked.”

“But God would understand and forgive him.”

I had no answer to that. I asked whether I might bring her something, some port perhaps?

“Nothing. I'm totally content—until I open my eyes and discover this is all a dream.”

“Not a dream, not at all, Liz.”

We sat on the couch, side by side, ten inches or so between us, talking a little but mostly staring at the fire and watching it burn down. At last, I said, “Time to go, Liz?” But the last thing in the world I wanted was for her to leave me. I felt that if she did, the past three days would disappear in a puff of smoke.

She didn't answer my question.

“It's almost eleven.”

“My shift begins at two
P.M.
and I work until nine.”

“Still, you have to go home!”

“Why?” Now she spoke like a little child, pleadingly. “Why do I have to go home, Ike? I don't want to go back to that dreadful apartment. Why can't I sleep in your son's room where I slept the first night?” Then the boldness of her request overcame her and she leaped to her feet, shaking her head. “No, I'm making a fool of myself! What an awful thing to ask you!” She strode out of the room to the entry, and when I followed her, she was struggling into her long sweater.

“Liz,” I said gently, grasping her by the arms, “let go of the sweater. Of course you can stay over. Please. Now come sit down again and we'll let the fire burn out.”

She allowed herself to be led back to the sofa. “I shouldn't have asked you. I wasn't making a pass, Ike, believe me, please. I don't want to use you or take advantage of your kindness. It would be better if you let me go home.”

“No, I'm afraid you're trapped, Liz. I'll sleep better if I know you're in the next room.”

“Because you still think I'll kill myself? No, Ike, that's over. Don't you understand? You came by on the bridge because it was not my time to die. You were sent. I know you don't believe that, but I do; and it's no excuse for me to act like a spoiled child. I'm a grown woman of forty-seven years, and I'll go home and I'll be all right.”

“Yes, of course. And I'm an old man of seventy-eight years, and I care for you whether I was sent there or not. I want you to stay over—let's say for my sake. I want to make breakfast for you in the morning. I want to know that you'll be here when I wake up. I'm very seriously asking you to stay.”

“Why, Ike?”

“Because you brought me a few days of happiness. Isn't that enough?”

“Thank you, Ike. I want to stay.”

I took the sweater and put it back in the closet.

Elizabeth went to the couch and stared at the glowing coals of the fire. I put Bach's
Air on the G String
on the stereo, then sat with her on the couch, again with a space between us, watching her. I must have dozed.

“Midnight, Ike,” she said. The fire was out.

I'm not a good night person. Elizabeth stood up and reached out a hand to help me to my feet. “Stiff and old,” I said. She shook her head.

“Do you need anything?” I asked. “Pajamas?”

“No, not a thing. You're very tall. I would be lost in your pajamas.” At the door to my son's room, she reached out a hand to me and kissed me on my cheek. “Good night, Ike. Bless you.”

Sometime that night, I suppose close to four o'clock in the morning, I awakened, and there was Elizabeth, in bed with me and sound asleep. She must have crawled in during the night, very quietly and without waking me. I didn't wake her, and when I awoke again, past nine, she was up and dressed, and the aroma of fresh coffee drifted out of the kitchen.

She greeted me again with a soft kiss, on my lips this time, informing me that she must get home, change her clothes, and be off to work.

“I have a cook in twice a week, and this is her night. Will you come for a nice, civilized dinner, just the two of us?”

“Ike, you will be so tired of me.”

“But you'll come?”

“Of course I will. What time?”

“Around six-thirty or so.”

There was no artifice to her. What was there, you saw—no hint of coyness or pretense. She kissed me again as she departed, leaving me to wonder who was who in this curious relationship that I had stepped into so casually—whether she was groping for a father or shelter or simply someone who treated her as a decent and desirable human being. That she might have fallen in love with an old teacher crossed my mind, but I dropped it immediately, examining myself in the entryway mirror and critically observing the tall, skinny, elderly professorial type—a long lean face, which I had always considered less than attractive, and a decent head of hair that was mostly white. As for my falling in love—well, romantic love was something I had always considered to be an illusion that poured money into the entertainment industry, only a small step above virtual reality.

THREE

T
HE
P
RICE

T
HE TELEPHONE RANG
. It was Charlie Brown. “Believe it or not,” he said, “Harvey Goldberg is delighted. He has secret aspirations for writing a book, with you as coauthor, on the subject of greed as a social force in America. He is free for lunch today, if you choose, or he'll make himself free on any other day you select. I think you should take him up on it.”

“Today will be fine,” I agreed.

“Twelve-thirty? Same place?”

“I'll be there.”

Harvey Goldberg was a fat, jovial man, who wore pince-nez glasses and combed his thin hair across the top of his balding head. When he appeared as a business or market expert on television programs, he wore a hairpiece, but in his day-to-day lecturing, he was content with his natural hair. He chewed nicotine gum to break himself of his cigarette habit, and while he admitted his continuing addiction, he felt that it got him through the day at Columbia. I had never met him before, but then Columbia is a very large university.

Goldberg ordered a steak and fried potatoes, voicing his contempt for all dietary discoveries, and then asked me whether Charlie had told me about his idea for the book on greed, and what did I think about it?

“It's a fascinating notion,” I said.

“Good. We'll talk about it another time. Charlie tells me you're squiring William Sedgwick Hopper's divorced wife.”

I looked daggers at Charlie, who shrugged and said, “Harvey won't spread it.”

“My lips are locked,” Goldberg concurred. “I'm sixty, Ike—you don't mind if I call you Ike? Charlie says you prefer it—and I've been divorced seven years. I have a young lady of forty who's talking marriage. I understand you're a widower, Ike. How old are you, if I may ask? Sixty-eight, sixty-nine?”

“Seventy-nine, come December.”

“Statistically, marriage adds eight years to your life.”

Charlie tried to remedy things by reminding Goldberg that we were there to talk about Hopper.

“He was once the ‘Golden Boy' of American athletics, two Olympic gold medals, but now he's a first-class, unredeemable prick. His wife had him arrested once—if you can believe the
Post
—the third time he beat her up, but she wouldn't press charges. Garson, Weeds and Anderson took him in as a portfolio manager based on his reputation. They wanted the name. He's smart the way a crook is smart. He was trading for a number of accounts, one of which was his own, and he was good. Where there were profits, he shifted them into his own account. Where there were losses, he transferred them elsewhere. I'm simplifying it; it's far more complex than this. It took three years for him to be caught, and he's into the firm for fifteen million—but the money sits in the house. He's rich enough not to need it, and they don't know how to proceed or whether they have enough evidence to put him down. In some ways, it's a classic scam. They suspended his trading, but he still keeps his office there; and they're very careful about what they give out to the press. If you read the stories in the
Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
, you'd still have a hard time figuring out what, if anything, he did that was illegal. If the money's missing, it's one thing, but the money's still there—in the firm. I had a talk with Jim Weeds about it. Weeds is worried about the face of the firm. It's not the biggest outfit on Wall Street, and fifteen mil is still a lot of money.”

“But they'll get him in the end, won't they?” Charlie asked.

“Maybe. Ike,” Goldberg said, “this is a violent, poisonous man. If you want to help this woman he divorced, watch your step.”

“I'm no avenging angel,” I said. “I don't intend to ever see Hopper or speak to him. Elizabeth Hopper is a gentle, decent woman of forty-seven years. I'm thirty years older, and I'm neither young enough nor foolish enough to fall in love.”

The food came, and Goldberg turned to his steak and potatoes. “No one,” Charlie observed, “is too old or too foolish to fall in love. It starts with the ductless glands in teenagers, who have no reason for denial. At your age, the libido has shrunk a bit and dignity demands denial.”

“When I want instruction in half-baked psych, I'll enroll in one of your classes.”

“Gentlemen,” Goldberg said, “gentlemen.”

“Without malice, Ike,” Charlie said. “Forgive me. A small worm in my gut envies you.”

After lunch, I went shopping. I do my own food shopping, partly because I enjoy doing it and partly because it breaks up the day. Sarah Morton, my sometime cook, is a black woman, a former student of mine—and a brilliant one—who has a job as a public defender. She is a tall, handsome woman, who went through an unhappy marriage and who cooks my dinner twice a week out of the goodness of her heart and a need for the few dollars I pay her. She cooks enough for me to eat the leftovers when she is not here, and I accepted her offer, after much urging on her part, because I know what public defenders are paid. Still, I don't put the onus of shopping on her. Today, I bought a pound of shrimp, fresh Boston lettuce and endive for the salad, and broccoli as a vegetable. At Zabar's, I bought French bread, and raspberry tarts for dessert. I'm not very good with menus, but I did my best with this one, hoping that I would not find a message on my machine at home that Sarah was involved in a case. There was no message, and at five o'clock, she turned up—giving me enough time to explain something of Elizabeth's presence tonight. I spelled out the incident on the bridge, using it as sort of an apology.