Rudolph stared at the door. How long can hatred last? In a family, forever, he supposed. Tragedy in the House of Jordache, now a supermarket. He went over to the bed and gathered up the bills and put them carefully into an envelope and sealed it. It was too late in the afternoon to put the money in the bank. He’d have to lock it in the hotel safe overnight.
One thing was certain. He was not going to use it for himself. Tomorrow he’d invest it in Dee Cee stock in his brother’s name. The time would come, he was sure, when Thomas could use it. And it would be a lot more than five thousand dollars by then. Money did not negotiate forgiveness, but it could be depended upon, finally, to salve old wounds.
He was bone tired, but sleep was out of the question. He got out the architect’s drawings again, grandiose imaginings, paper dreams, the hopes of years, imperfectly realized. He stared at the pencil lines that would be transformed within six months into the neon of the name of Calderwood, against the northern night. He grimaced unhappily.
The phone rang. It was Willie, buoyant but sober. “Merchant Prince,” Willie said, “how would you like to come down here and have dinner with the old lady and me? We’ll go to a joint in the neighborhood.”
“I’m sorry, Willie,” Rudolph said. “I’m busy tonight. I have a date.”
“Put it in once for me, Prince,” Willie said lightly. “See you soon.”
Rudolph hung up slowly. He would not see Willie soon, at least not for dinner.
Look behind you, Willie, as you pass through doors.
Chapter 7
I
“My dear son,” he read, in the round schoolgirlish handwriting, “your brother Rudolph was good enough to provide me with your address in New York City and I am taking the opportunity to get in touch with my lost boy after all these years.”
Oh, Christ, he thought, another county heard from. He had just come in and had found the letter waiting for him on the table in the hallway. He heard Teresa clanging pots in the kitchen and the kid making gobbling sounds.
“I’m home,” he called and went into the living room and sat down on the couch, pushing a toy fire engine out of the way. He sat there, on the orange-satin couch Teresa had insisted upon buying, holding the letter dangling from his hand, trying to decide whether or not to throw it away then and there.
Teresa came in, in an apron, a little sweat glistening on her make-up, the kid crawling after her.
“You got a letter,” she said. She was not very friendly these days, ever since she had heard about his going to England and leaving her behind.
“Yeah.”
“It’s a woman’s handwriting.”
“It’s from my mother, for Christ’s sake.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Look.” He shoved the letter under her nose.
She squinted to read. She was very nearsighted but refused to wear glasses. “It’s awful young handwriting for a mother,” she said, retreating reluctantly. “A mother, now. Your family is growing in leaps and bounds.”
She went back to the kitchen, picking up the kid, who was squalling that he wanted to stay where he was.
To spite Teresa, Thomas decided to read the letter and see what the old bitch had to say.
“Rudolph described the circumstances of your meeting”—he read—“and I must say I was more than a little shocked at your choice of a profession. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, considering your father’s nature and the example he set you with that dreadful punching bag hanging out in the back yard all the time. Still, it’s an honest living, I suppose, and your brother says you seem to have settled down with a wife and a child and I hope you are happy.
“Rudolph did not describe your wife to me, but I hope that your family life is happier than your father’s and mine. I don’t know whether Rudolph mentioned it to you but your father just vanished one fine night, with the cat.
“I am not well and I have the feeling my days are numbered. I would like to come to New York City and see my son and my new grandson, but traveling is very difficult for me. If Rudolph saw fit to buy an automobile instead of the motorcycle he charges around town on perhaps I could manage the trip. He might even be able to drive me to church one Sunday, so I could begin to make up for the years of paganism your father forced me to endure. But I guess I shouldn’t complain. Rudolph has been very kind and takes good care of me and has got me a television set which makes the long days bearable. He seems to be so busy on his own projects that he barely comes home to sleep. From what I can tell, especially from the way he dresses, he is doing quite well. But he was always a good dresser and always managed to have money in his pocket.
“I cannot honestly say that I would like to see the entire family reunited, as I have crossed your sister from my heart, for good and sufficient reason, but seeing my two sons together again would bring tears of joy to my eyes.
“I was always too tired and overworked and struggling to meet your father’s drunken demands to show the love I felt for you, but maybe now, in my last days, we can have peace between us.
“I gathered from Rudolph’s tone that you were not very friendly with him. Perhaps you have your reasons. He has turned into a cold man although a thoughtful one. If you do not wish to see him, I could let you know when he is out of the house, which happens more and more often, for days on end, and you and I could visit with each other undisturbed. Kiss my grandson for me. Your loving Mother.”
Holy God, he thought, voices from the tomb.
He sat there, holding the letter, staring into space, not hearing his wife scolding the kid in the kitchen, thinking of the years over the bakery, years when he had been more thoroughly exiled although he lived in the same house than when he had been sent away and told never to show his face again. Maybe he would go to visit the old lady, listen to the complaints, so late in coming, about her beloved Rudolph, her fair-haired boy.
He would borrow a car from Schultzy and ride her over to church, that’s what he would do. Let the whole goddamn family see how wrong they were about him.
II
Mr. McKenna went out of the hotel room, aldermanic, benign, ex-cop on pension now pursuing private crime, having taken the report from a neat, black-seal briefcase and laid it on Rudolph’s desk. “I am quite certain this will provide all the information you need about the individual in question,” Mr. McKenna had said, kindly, plump, rubbing his bald head, his sober, gray-felt hat, neatly rimmed, on the desk beside him. “Actually, the investigation was comparatively simple, and unusually short for such complete results.” There had been a note of regret in Mr. McKenna’s voice at Willie’s artless simplicity, which had required so little time, so little professional guile to investigate. “I think the wife will find that any competent lawyer can get her a divorce with no difficulty under the laws of the State of New York dealing with adultery. She is very clearly the injured party, very clearly indeed.”
Rudolph looked at the neatly typed report with distaste. Tapping telephone wires, it seemed, was as easy as buying a loaf of bread. For five dollars, hotel clerks would allow you to attach a microphone to a wall. Secretaries would fish out torn love letters from waste baskets and piece them together carefully for the price of a dinner. Old girls, now rejected, would quote chapter and verse. Police files were open, secret testimony before committees was available, nothing was unpleasant enough to be disbelieved. Communication, despite what poets were saying at the moment, was rife.