A Student of History, page 18
“Oh, please,” she said disdainfully. “It’s not like I forced you. You were eager to help. Besides, what are you complaining about? You got what you wanted.”
This was a kick in the gut, and I looked at her incredulously. But the face of the woman before me was so different from the smiling and encouraging face I’d known over the last several months that I might have been confronting a stranger. I wanted to say, You took advantage of me, you played on my emotions. But she was right—I wasn’t some innocent boy; I’d gone along with her happily, willingly.
And now her face darkened even more. “Besides, you did something useful, Richard. That man is a monster. He throws his money and his cars around and smashes everything in his path. Steven destroyed me, and then he destroyed Charlie Larson and his son, and he always seems to weasel out of it. But there’s no getting out of this one—I’m going to make sure that people know what he did. I’m going to make sure that he’s ruined!”
“Why the hell would you do that? I understand that he hurt you. I get it. But why would you want to do that to Mrs. W—?”
“Oh, please,” she said again. “She’s as bad as he is.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. And I didn’t. I just then realized I didn’t.
Something shifted in Fiona’s eyes; it was like the crust of the earth had opened and I could see the roiling inferno beneath. “You say he hurt me. Yes, he hurt me, all right. He abused and humiliated me and laughed when I cried. You don’t think he learned that from somewhere? You think he was just born evil? That Marion didn’t have any effect on shaping who he became?” She paused and her expression grew more bitter and cold. “I hate that man,” she spat out. “You have no idea, Richard. You have no idea how much I’ve suffered.”
I heard the depth of the anger in her voice; I saw the twisted look of vindication. I understood that this rage was more entrenched and real than the facts of her present life.
“I feel bad for you, Fiona,” I said. And I didn’t mean about Steven. She must have realized that, because she drew herself up to her full height now, into the comfort of her wealth and history.
“You feel bad for me?”
She was right, of course. She was going to be fine. She always would be, no matter how much she claimed to suffer. But then I thought of Charles Larson and his son, of his wife and grieving parents. I thought of Jimmy Castillo and his family, his unbendable sister, and of how Fiona hadn’t even mentioned them in her account of lives destroyed. I shook my head, disgusted with both of us, and turned and walked away from the house.
CHAPTER TEN
The USC Founders’ Luncheon where Mrs. W— was being honored took place on the second Tuesday in May, Mrs. W—’s actual birthday. Because it was a milestone birthday—seventy-five—and because Mrs. W—, for once, was giving a gift that bore her name, it was a particularly illustrious affair. Mrs. W— pretended not to care about it, but it was clear that she did; she’d brought it up often as the day approached, wondering who would come, and what outfit she should wear.
I’d spent the last two weeks waiting anxiously for something to happen—a piece in the paper maybe, or an unexpected call to Mrs. W—. I couldn’t anticipate what Fiona would do, though I saw her clearly enough now to know she’d do something. She’d carried her grudge for far too long to be satisfied by keeping her hard-won information to herself.
During this period I went up to Mrs. W—’s house a half a dozen times. She’d come back from the hospital the day after I met Bart, and waved off any attempt to discuss her health or offer sympathy. My transcription of her journals was almost complete, ending with her story of Langley W—: his early years in New Hampshire, his move to the West, the triumphs and travails of his business. Some of it was consistent with the remembrances of the Colonial Club; much of it was totally different. Reading this account, I knew I’d been given a view into history that no one else outside the family would ever see. But whatever pleasure I might have had in this privilege, or in being in that storied house, was gone; it was tainted now, and I had done the tainting. Even the knowledge that she’d let an innocent man take the blame for his own death—the awareness of her manipulation and dishonesty—could not overcome my sense of guilt. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mrs. W— about what had happened, yet I couldn’t make myself leave her, either. I moved through the great front entryway and high-ceilinged rooms with the sense I was already a ghost.
On the day of the luncheon, as was our custom, I drove up to her place so that Dalton could take us down together. When I arrived, I slipped off to the room where I’d worked the last few months, came back, and presented Mrs. W— with a wrapped package. I placed it on the dining room table, which was decorated with bouquets of flowers and baskets of goodies from Jessica, Bart, and several entities with whom she did business. I felt a twinge of sadness that her children weren’t there—Jessica would never participate in such events, I’d come to learn; Bart sent what seemed to be honest regrets.
“What is this?” she asked, almost suspiciously.
“Open it.”
She sat down and pulled the paper apart, confused even when she saw the brown ring binder inside, until she opened it and looked at the pages.
“It’s all there,” I explained. “Your entire journal. Eight hundred and twenty-seven typed pages.”
Her mouth opened slightly as she flipped through the pages—she looked like she was in disbelief.
“I know you’ll want a fancier binding,” I said. “But I thought you’d enjoy seeing it all printed out.” It was not an elaborate presentation, to be sure—I’d bought the nicest binder I could find in an art supply store, used the printer in the office, and snuck a hole puncher in to punch and bind the pages. But from Mrs. W—’s expression, you’d have thought I’d presented her with a rare first edition, some treasure that had long been thought lost.
“Thank you, Richard.” She smiled and stood up, and then gave a polite, formal bow. “Thank you very much.”
Dalton drove us down to the Ludlow Hotel, where the luncheon was taking place. It was relatively small for this type of affair, about two hundred people—but that seemed appropriate for what was essentially a public birthday party. All of Mrs. W—’s friends and acquaintances were there—Betty Baker, the Delaneys, the Westbrooks, the Bestharts—representatives from LA’s most important families. Caroline Randall, whose house I’d gone to in Beverly Park, came over and gave Mrs. W— a genuine, smiling embrace. I saw Fiona’s mother out of the corner of my eye, and I knew Fiona would be arriving soon too.
Mrs. W— looked amazing, of course; she wore an emerald-gray long jacket with some kind of peach-colored sash, over smooth gray dress pants. Her hair was perfectly arranged in curls that framed her face. There were journalists from all the major fashion and society magazines—Town & Country, Vanity Fair, W, Angelino, Vogue—and everyone wanted to photograph her, so she spent almost twenty minutes at the step-and-repeat. Town & Country was doing an entire spread on her, for what was apparently the third time.
We made our way to the head table, where everyone was polite enough not to mention the absence of her children. We were seated with several of Mrs. W—’s oldest friends—Betty Baker, Lydia Fehringer, Margaret Delaney—as well as the head of the USC Medical Center—the recipient of her gift—and the president of the university. It was a little heady for me to be seated with him, especially when Mrs. W— began to tell him what an exceptional talent I was and how the school would be lucky to have me in its law or business school. “If you like having my donation,” she said to him, “you will make sure that this young man is accepted.” I picked nervously at the preset salad, and a plate of miso-glazed salmon with quinoa was served in quick order. Chef François DeLorme had catered, and he came out himself to present Mrs. W— with a chocolate birthday cake, ceremonious and smiling. If he remembered me from the luncheon in Beverly Park, he didn’t show it.
The formal program began as soon as dessert was served—the president of the Founders’ Club welcomed the crowd and talked about the hospital, and about what Mrs. W—’s gift would mean for its research and treatment efforts. Then Mrs. W—’s longtime acquaintance Hattie Clark took the stage and introduced a slide show of Mrs. W—’s life. There were photographs of Mrs. W— as a young girl, with her grandfather; in one, they sat happily on a staircase surrounded by three Brittany spaniels. There was a picture of her on a horse, carrying a shotgun. There were photos of her in her twenties and thirties, wearing elaborate gowns; and other pictures from later, where she was in more reserved suits, at openings and groundbreakings. There was a picture of her in perhaps her late twenties, dancing with a dark-haired tuxedoed man whose image I hadn’t seen before. She leaned over and whispered, “That’s Baron, right after we were married. He was my dreamboat.” There was a shot of her maybe a decade later, on a clay court in tennis whites; and another in which she wore an old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit with a skirt and posed at Santa Monica Beach. And then an image of her in her thirties with her three small children, who ranged, it looked, between two and eight. Bart already had a frank, practical expression, and Jessica looked like any normal four- or five-year-old girl with ribbons and curls. But Steven, who was just a baby, was staring off camera almost spacily, as if his attention had already wandered.
Except for the photograph of her children, during which she tensed, Mrs. W— seemed to enjoy the display immensely. She kept commenting on where this or that picture was taken, which was fun for me too, since I knew so many of the places and players from her journal. The audience laughed at some of the more amusing shots—like one of her and her girlfriends dressed up as lady vampires for Halloween—and there were sounds of recognition and remembrance. It was a wonderful tribute, and when the lights went back up, I helped Mrs. W— to the front, where a bulky, suited Ludlow staffer offered his arm and escorted her up to the stage.
She did not approach the microphone—she disliked public speaking—but stood beside the podium as the head of the Founders’ Club handed her a crystal award. The audience clapped politely, and there was even a single “Yes!” shouted enthusiastically by a young male designer, perhaps a previous walker. Mrs. W— nodded to acknowledge the applause, and smiled for a photograph, then quickly made her way off the stage. I went to retrieve her again, and as she reengaged my arm, I felt the joy in her grasp.
But I couldn’t shake the sense that something was off, and I’d felt it as soon as we arrived. People were somehow reserved—not the usual politeness because of Mrs. W—’s standing, but something else, a holding back, an assessment. The women who usually clamored to be photographed with her seemed to hesitate this time; I saw several people notice us and turn away. Her tablemates were less effusive than usual, and as the slide show played, I’d felt a kind of questioning, of judgment. And there was no mistaking the titter that had gone through the crowd when the picture of her children was shown.
When Mrs. W— was seated again, I excused myself and found my way to the restroom. Since the men’s room was past the women’s, and the women’s inevitably had a line, I overheard the women standing outside the door and even—when the door opened—some conversation from within.
“Can you believe,” I heard someone say, “that they’d actually show a picture of that man?”
“She always did clean up after him,” said someone else. “I guess it’s no different this time.”
“But poor Marjory,” came a third voice as the door was swinging closed. “To think that for two years Marion let her believe it was Charles . . .”
I froze. Were they talking about what I thought they were talking about? It couldn’t be. But then the door swung open again and somebody said, “. . . to think it was Steven who survived.” And I knew that it was.
I felt my face flush. My heart began to pound, and I had the sensation that my anger and incredulity were making my hair stand on end. Of course this was what Fiona would do. She would never, as I’d feared, give a tip to the papers; she didn’t care about conventional publicity. And she would never confront Mrs. W— directly; that was not her style, and besides, what could Mrs. W— do for her? No, what mattered to Fiona was what their own friends thought—their reputations in society. And that mattered to Mrs. W— too. The worst thing Fiona could do, I understood, was reveal what Steven—and his mother—had done, to the people within their own circle. And so she’d engaged in a whisper campaign, planting a seed of gossip here, a tidbit there. She probably told a few key friends—demanding their secrecy, of course—and then waited for human nature to work.
I managed to get in and out of the restroom, checking the mirror to make sure I was presentable. By the time I got back to the ballroom, it was already half-empty—and the weird pall over the crowd, their hurry to leave, just confirmed what I already suspected.
I made my way through the current of departing women like a salmon fighting its way upstream. And at the end of it, waiting for the crowd to dissipate, I found Fiona, sitting alone at a table and calmly reapplying her lipstick.
“You had to tell people, didn’t you?” I accused. “And you couldn’t have waited, at least until after today?”
Fiona looked up at me impassively. This made my pulse jump: despite everything, she was still beautiful to me, and the exorcising of her rage only made her more so. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Oh bullshit,” I responded, my voice a bit too loud. “I know what you’ve done. I heard people talking about it.”
Fiona stood up and faced me directly. She looked half-bored, half-amused. “If you’re referring to the accident, well then, yes, I may have mentioned to Marjory Larson that her son had been unfairly blamed for the accident. I may have mentioned it to Charles’s wife too. I thought they deserved to know.”
I was breathing hard, as if I’d just run up a flight of stairs. She was right—they did have a right to know. But so much else about this was wrong, and in my jumble of confusion, all I could do for a moment was shake my head and glare. “That’s not all you told them, though, is it? You told them about Mrs. W—.”
She smiled. “Well, that is a rather integral part of the story.”
“And they’re not the only ones you told, either. Other people seem to know.”
Fiona laughed, a sound without mirth. “I may have mentioned it to one or two of my closest friends. But what happened after that, Richard, is out of my control.”
I just stared at her, finally taking a couple of steps back to try to control my anger. “You’re disgusting,” I said. “And to think that I ever . . .”
“Wanted me? Jumped at the chance to fuck me? Thought that I gave a shit about you? Well, that was your mistake, darling. You believed what you chose to believe.”
“What’s going on here?”
Both Fiona and I turned to find Mrs. W— standing ten feet away. Almost all of the guests had filtered out, and only the hotel staff, clearing plates away, remained. She had made her way over to us, leaning on her cane; now she stood looking at us, concerned.
I felt like a kid caught in a school-yard fight, yet I was so angry that I couldn’t think or speak coherently. She did wrong, I wanted to say, and that’s essentially what I did say: “Why don’t you tell her, Fiona? Why don’t you tell her what you’ve done?”
Fiona’s expression changed from that of a caught child to something more complex and self-satisfied. She had no reason to fear Mrs. W— anymore, and she knew it; she held the upper hand. “I’ve just happened to get some interesting information, Marion. Information about your son.”
Mrs. W— looked at her, impatient, annoyed.
“I know it was Steven who caused the accident at Cliffhaven. And I know you paid off the other survivor.”
Mrs. W—’s expression didn’t change, and Fiona flushed and went on: “You and Steven have let everyone believe that Charles Larson was driving. But now I know the truth, Marion. I know what you and Steven have done!”
Her voice wavered at the end, sounding triumphant, a bit hysterical. But if Fiona expected Mrs. W— to react with shame or fear, she must have been sorely disappointed. Mrs. W— just continued to look at her—calm, unmovable. “Yes,” she said. “What of it?”
Fiona stared at her, incredulous. “What of it? Your son killed people, Marion. He killed one of us! And you used your money to get him out of it, and to silence the only other witness.”
Mrs. W— looked at her with the same measured expression. “I tried to compensate a family who was hurt by his actions,” she said calmly. “And as for the money to Steven, that wasn’t to help him. That was to make sure he stayed away. To make sure he had enough that there would never be a reason to ask anything of me again.”
“What about the Larsons? What about compensating them for how they were hurt by his actions?”
“They don’t need money,” Mrs. W— said. “Besides, there’s nothing that can bring Charles and his son back.”
“Oh, you’re unbelievable.” Fiona leaned forward and clenched her fists; for a moment I thought she would attack Mrs. W—. “You’re just as arrogant as Steven. Well, I’m not just going to sit with this, Marion. I’m going to make sure that everyone knows!”
And now Mrs. W— did something unexpected. She laughed. It was not a bitter laugh, or even an unhappy one. It was a laugh of some belief or suspicion being confirmed; a laugh of someone who was untouchable. “Go ahead, foolish girl. Tell everyone. What do you think you’ll accomplish? That you’ll reveal that my son is worthless? Well, everybody already knows that. That I gave money to the family of a poor crippled man? They are grateful for the help. All I should have done differently is apologize to the Larsons—you’re right—and I will do so today, as soon as I get home. So yes, go ahead, Fiona. Tell whomever you want. All you’ll reveal is your own desperation.”
