Buffalo Bill, to be fair, deserved some of the credit. Given careful supervision, he’d proven to be a gifted business manager and a virtuosic salesman — not that too much virtuosity was called for. For the first time in U.S. history, teenagers had money to spend on whatever flashy baubles caught their fancy, and wristwatches were a safe but potent sign of independence. Business had expanded quietly over the past decade — so quietly, in fact, that Kaspar’s children hadn’t paid it much attention. On a certain Saturday morning of that pivotal autumn, however — on one of the rare occasions when all of his offspring were in sight at the same time — he assembled them in the front hall. He let out a slow breath, as though resigning himself to something beyond his control, then sat down on the fourth step of the stairs.
“Kinder, I have news. We’re millionaires.”
None of the children said a word. Orson leaned against the door with his coat halfway buttoned, and Gentian and Enzian stood watching their father intently, apparently gauging the likelihood of his tumbling downstairs. It was enough to make him wonder whether anyone had heard him.
“Last time I checked,” said Orson guardedly, “I had less than fifteen dollars in the bank.”
“Check again, son.”
“But Papa, what’s the meaning of this?” Gentian got out eventually.
“Don’t look so angefressen, Genny. You’d think I’d just told you we were millions in debt.”
“Why are you telling us this, Papa?” said Enzian. “Why now?”
“When ought I to have told you, Enzie? Before we had the money?”
This was not the tableau Kaspar had envisioned. He looked on, feeling inexplicably sheepish, as Orson’s eyes met Enzie’s for the first time in months. Under any other set of circumstances he’d have been overjoyed; as it was, he was simply confused, a sensation he’d long since come to feel at home in. Enzian took a half step toward the staircase, apparently to get a closer look at him. She didn’t seem impressed by what she saw.
“You’ve deposited money into each of our savings accounts? Am I understanding you correctly?”
“I’ve set up three trusts,” Kaspar answered, glad to have something concrete to discuss. “The money has been invested for you. Partly in the company, partly in government bonds.”
“How much is in my trust?”
Kaspar hesitated, but only for an instant. “Half a million dollars.”
“What about mine?” said Orson.
“I put the same amount in each.”
He watched the fact of it sink in. His children’s perplexity — more than that: their efforts to hide it from him, and from one another — brought him a certain private satisfaction. Orson was particularly interesting: he stared furiously at a wrinkle in the entryway runner, as if trying to straighten it using the power of his mind. I’ve known this boy for his entire life, Kaspar said to himself. But he couldn’t seem to make himself believe it.
“When can we use the money?” said Orson.
“When you come of age, of course,” Enzian answered. But Orson kept his eyes fixed on his father.
Kaspar shrugged. “I have nothing to say about that. The trusts are in your names, children, not mine. You can draw from them whenever you choose.”
Orson nodded for a time. He might have been nodding at what he’d just heard, but it was obvious to his father that he wasn’t. He was nodding to give himself courage.
“I have an announcement.”
Kaspar had no gift of clairvoyance, but on that day — for what reason, he couldn’t have said — he finally beheld his son and understood him. Orson was about to say something that he’d been rehearsing for weeks, perhaps even longer.
“I’m going to New York City.”
No one spoke for a moment.
“Orson,” Gentian got out finally, ignoring her sister’s look, “I know that you and Enzie have been on the outs—”
“Ewa has a cousin who lives on Lexington and Forty-Second, the same block as the Chrysler Building,” he went on, ignoring her. “I’m going to write for Preposterous! Stories and Omniverse and Tales of Stupefaction, and all those other pulps that you and Enzie hate.” He paused for effect. “Preposterous! just accepted a story of mine.”
“But you can do all that here,” Gentian whimpered. “You’re still in your teens. I don’t see why—”
“They’ve finally accepted ‘The Yesternauts,’ have they?” Enzian said coolly. “Then you must have made the changes that they asked for.”
Orson stared past them all and said nothing.
“Changes?” Gentian said, if only to say something. “What changes?”
“Tits,” said Enzian.
Kaspar began to pay closer attention.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Orson answered. “There’s nothing wrong with tits. Except in this house.”
Kaspar cleared his throat to speak, then stopped himself.
“They didn’t like the title, either,” Enzian continued, in the same bloodless voice as before. “What’s it called now?”
Orson shut his eyes. “Enzie, it’s my first published story.”
“And we’re happy for you!” said Gentian. “What’s it called?”
“‘In the Naked Form of the Human Jelly.’”
“In the Naked which?” said Kaspar.
“It’s a quote. From Saul Bellow.”
“Saul Bellow,” said Enzian, “never wrote for the pulps.”
Orson brought a finger to his temple, as if considering her point. Then he buttoned up his coat and left the house.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Enzie,” Gentian said. She looked careworn and tired. Kaspar found that he barely recognized either of his daughters: they seemed to have changed their clothes and shape before his eyes. Through the Looking-Glass came to mind — Orson’s favorite book, as a child — and he wondered if some final dream were now commencing. Enzian stood as straight-backed and ferocious as the red queen herself, and plump, frowsy Gentian was the white queen personified, down to the slightest detail. How had he not noticed this before?
“I didn’t do anything,” Enzian muttered, opening and closing her fists. “He did it. All of it. And now it’s done.”
Genny appeared to be weeping, something her father had only the faintest memory of her having done before. She’d almost never raised her voice, either — at least not in anger — but she was raising it now. “Tell her,” she was shouting — shouting at him, of all people. “Tell her to let Orson write for the pulps!”
“He’s writing for them already,” said Enzian. “Titties and all.”
Kaspar dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, thought hard for a moment, then blew his nose resoundingly into his sleeve. “What’s a pulp?” he inquired.
Monday, 09:05 EST
Can I confess something to you, Mrs. Haven? I’m not sure anymore who “Mrs. Haven” is.
The closer I get to the crux of our story, the less clearly I’m able to see. Even during our most intimate moments, your name — the name you took from your husband and asked me, perversely, to use — seemed to function as a kind of screen, a cover for your true, pre-Haven self. I wonder if I ever saw behind it.