A Student of History, page 7
I worked to keep my voice steady. “I’m an historian. This is an untold story. And I’d enjoy seeing your family’s contributions get the recognition they deserve.”
I realized my mistake when Mrs. W— boomed, “Recognition! All the people who matter in this city know who the W—s are!” But the storm passed quickly and she resumed her normal voice. “I don’t trust anyone, Richard, to have our best interest at heart. That’s why I no longer have events at the house, or even many visitors. People don’t come to see me, you know, unless they want something.”
I didn’t know what to say to this; right then, it hit a bit too close to home. Finally Mrs. W— said, “I’ll think about it.” Then she sighed and looked as weary as I’d ever seen her. “At least you show some interest. That’s more than I can say for my children.”
Her children. Through all of our conversations over iced tea and lunch, she rarely mentioned them. Nor did they appear much in her journals. Looking ahead, I’d seen that her writings slowed dramatically after her third child was born and were sparse for the next two decades. Even when she started writing regularly again, there were few passing references to them. I bought the beach house the year Bart turned twelve, she wrote at one point. And: Jessica married a complete nitwit and gave me idiotic grandchildren. But she didn’t, either in conversation or in the pages of her journal, speak of their personalities or what they were doing; I didn’t even know where they lived.
I asked Lourdes about this one rainy afternoon when Mrs. W— was out. I had brought back an empty juice glass into one of the kitchens and found her unloading groceries, still wearing her yellow slicker. Lourdes was cordial but always a bit reserved with me—she’d probably seen her share of overeager young men, walkers spending time with Mrs. W— for their own entertainment, not giving much in return. But I was determined to keep working on her. After we’d exchanged casual references about our plans for the President’s Day weekend—she, her husband, and their young daughter were going to Griffith Park after Sunday Mass—I asked, “Do Mrs. W—’s children ever come to visit?”
Lourdes gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. She looked toward the window, where water was running in rivulets down the glass. Lourdes was a consummate household staffer and never aired her own opinions. But maybe the bad weather had gotten to her. “Mrs. Jessica and Mr. Steven, they only contact Mrs. W— when they need money,” she said.
I let that sink in for a moment. “Where do they live?”
“Mr. Steven—he’s the youngest—lives up in Carmel. Mrs. Jessica and her husband live in Santa Barbara with their children, in Mrs. W—’s other house. Mr. Bart, the oldest, he lives on a ranch outside of Bakersfield. He’s different—he comes to visit sometimes.”
“Do they call?”
Lourdes allowed herself what sounded like a disapproving grunt. “Well, maybe for Mother’s Day. But not Mr. Steven anymore. He and his mother haven’t spoken since the accident.”
“The accident?”
Now something shut down in Lourdes’s face and she turned toward the food she was unpacking. She brushed raindrops off a milk carton, a package of spinach. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” she said. “But it was bad, very bad. Mr. Steven was hurt. Others too.”
“What happened?”
She was silent for a moment. Then: “I don’t want to say any more. You shouldn’t ask Mrs. W— about it. She’ll talk about the children if she wants to, I suppose.”
I stood staring at her, waiting for her to say something else, but she was finished; she placed the last of the groceries into the refrigerator, took her raincoat off, and left the room without another word. Finally I turned and went back to the office.
What rifts had occurred between Mrs. W— and her children? What was the accident? And why would Mrs. W— not want to speak to her son now? Certainly I could see that Mrs. W— could be difficult, but not visiting at all? That seemed a bit extreme to me.
Yet who was I to judge? It had been months since I’d seen my own parents, and they were just a few miles away, in Westchester. I’d avoided them out of simple embarrassment—there was no progress to report in terms of my schoolwork, and the paralysis was inexplicable. Why see them if all I could tell them was no, the dissertation isn’t finished, not even close; no, I’m not teaching or doing anything else that might be filling my time; no, this certainly does not bode well for my future prospects in academia or anywhere else for that matter. Even when my brother called, saying my father needed cheering up because the business was struggling, I’d said no, I was busy, I couldn’t. There was absolutely nothing I could do to help anyway, and I didn’t need to make that more plain.
Maybe Mrs. W—’s children were similarly embarrassed—I’d seen no reference to any of them accomplishing anything of note. The only things I’d found were the daughter’s wedding notice and the article about the youngest son being caught with the questionable woman. It had to be hard to be the offspring of the rich and successful. The second and third generations paling in comparison to the first, whose grit and mettle were diluted through the years. That is something that the children of the wealthy and the children of immigrants actually had in common, I suppose.
I finished up a bit of work—an account of a dinner party with then–Governor Reagan in Santa Ynez—and closed down the laptop for the day. By the time I went out to my car, the rain had stopped. The air still felt unsettled, though, and as I drove off the grounds and wound my way through the hills, huge, dramatic clouds lingered over the city, their bottoms lit pink from the setting sun. Out over the ocean, concentrated rays of light shot through the clouds and hit the water, illuminating bits of blue in the churning black. The sun lit up parts of the city too, highlighting neighborhoods and trees that looked washed clean. Toward Palos Verdes gray streams trailed from the billowing clouds; there, they were still getting rain. I pulled over to the side of the road to gaze out at the show. A stormy sky is so much lovelier than a clear one.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next week, I accompanied Mrs. W— to a lunch at the Polo Lounge. I’d never been inside the Beverly Hills Hotel, had only driven by on Sunset, but I’d always been amused by its pink-layered extravagance, which made me think of a birthday cake. Dalton pulled the car into the driveway and up to the front entrance, where a dozen blond bellhops in pink polo shirts and white pants all jumped to action like a flock of busy birds. One of them held the door open for Mrs. W— and guided her to the walkway, where she exchanged his elbow for mine and the two of us went into the lobby. It was marvelously overdone—green and pink everywhere, with stuffed chairs and love seats circling a planter that sprouted birds of paradise. Men strolled by in white hats and floral-print shirts. We passed a woman with teased-out curls and huge dark glasses, wearing a cream-colored coat with a fur collar. She was carrying a tiny dog of the same hue; I looked twice to make sure the dog wasn’t part of the collar. I had on the second of the outfits from my shopping excursion—the trousers, jacket, and tie—and Mrs. W— was dressed in a cashmere turtleneck sweater and pants of gray material so fine it looked like it had been woven from clouds.
We made our way across the lobby, around the corner, and into the dark-green space of the Polo Lounge, passing a black-and-white photo of the hotel from 1912, when it was the only structure in the area. There was garden seating, but Mrs. W— preferred to stay out of the sun, and so we took a booth in the corner that gave us a view of the rest of the room. Across from us, in the opposite corner, was the wood-paneled bar, where even now, at eleven thirty a.m., men in jackets and ties drank martinis and sidecars. We were meeting the head fundraiser for a children’s hospital, a place where Mrs. W—’s father had contributed significantly. She herself, she said, had made the mistake of giving a gift a decade before. We sat there for ten minutes, and then fifteen, and I took the time to look around, noticing the tall mirrors spaced every few feet apart—built, I suppose, so the famous clientele could surreptitiously examine themselves without having to leave their seats. With the velvet-backed booths, the decor, the piano, I felt like I’d wandered into a scene from 1952. All that was missing were the cigars. Finally, a nervous-looking, paunchy, middle-aged man with an alarming shock of dark hair approached the table, hand extended.
“Mrs. W—!” he said too enthusiastically.
She took his hand, not standing, and shrank back from his aborted attempt to kiss her cheek. “You’re late,” she said.
He looked so comically hangdog that I feared he might cry. “I’m, I’m sorry, Mrs. W—. I apologize. Traffic on Sunset was awful.”
“It’s always awful. You should have allowed for it. We did, didn’t we, Richard?” I was caught off guard and didn’t reply, but she kept talking: “Please seat yourself, Mr. Hathaway.”
After an awkward bit of shuffling, he slid in next to Mrs. W— in the semicircular booth. “I’m Tim Hathaway.” He reached out to shake my hand.
“This is Richard,” said Mrs. W— before I could speak. “He’s here to make sure you don’t try to pull anything funny on me.”
He looked confused for a moment, and then laughed. “Ah, yes! I’d forgotten about your wonderful sense of humor!”
Hathaway took a deep breath, visibly trying to settle himself down. He was dressed in a blue suit that was slightly too large, and I wondered if my own clothes looked incongruous on me; if my common background was evident despite the new expensive threads. When Hathaway talked, which he did nervously, earnestly, he’d pause dramatically for effect; twice, Mrs. W— turned and gave me an obvious look.
A black-suited waiter came over to take our order, and Hathaway resumed talking. He was filling her in on the happenings at the hospital—the new wing they’d completed, some research that was being done in conjunction with USC. He mentioned that the president, Dr. Cheryl Clarkson, had been at a press conference with the county supervisor that day. Mrs. W— interrupted.
“Is that why Dr. Clarkson isn’t here?”
Hathaway was out of sync now; it was like a needle had been picked up from a record player and he didn’t know where to put it down again. “She . . . excuse me. She had to meet with the county supervisors.”
“Usually, when an organization wants something from me, the director comes to meet with me personally,” said Mrs. W—. “She must not really want my support if she sent the second string.”
A bit of color came up in Hathaway’s cheeks and he seemed to shrink three inches. “It’s no measure of how much the hospital values your support,” he explained, “that you’re seeing me today and not Dr. Clarkson. If we were making a solicitation, then of course she’d be the one here to meet with you.” He paused, recovering. “But we’re not asking you for anything today, Mrs. W—. This is strictly an informative lunch. To let you know, as we let all of our major donors know, about the latest happenings at the hospital.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” she said, “you could have just sent me a newsletter.”
Just then our lunches arrived—three McCarthy salads, served in amphitheater-shaped bowls. We turned our attention to the food—the bacon, chicken, cheese, and beets tossed with greens right there at the table. Mrs. W— must have gotten her point across, or perhaps she was just bored; whatever the reason, she let Hathaway chatter on about all the wonderful things at the hospital. I watched him—talking, gesturing, flashing an odd smile midsentence before his thought was complete; doing everything, in fact, besides performing backflips—and knew that there must have been dozens of him, hundreds, people and organizations who wanted something from Mrs. W—; who did everything they could to make her notice. For a moment I actually felt bad for Mrs. W—. How could you trust what anyone said when they were all trying to get you to give money? No wonder she didn’t tell people when she did something good.
I ate about half the salad, barely tracking the conversation, sneaking glances at the other tables. The woman with the cream-colored coat and elaborate hair sat in one corner; I suddenly realized she was a vaguely familiar starlet. She still held her dog, which was more discernable now that she’d taken off her coat, and fed it little scraps from the table. The starlet was as thin and lanky as a baby giraffe; her dark glasses, with their coaster-like lenses, had the effect of drawing the attention she was pretending to avoid. Everyone worked studiously not to notice her; I think the only one who really didn’t was Mrs. W—.
After our plates were collected and coffee was on its way, I excused myself to go to the restroom. The hallway was lined with photographs, old black-and-white pictures of young couples at the hotel pool, men in their tennis whites, all taken in the twenties and thirties. There were the predictable photos of Clark Gable, Bette Davis, Lana Turner, and others. I pushed my way into the men’s room and found the nicest facilities I’d ever seen, wooden doors on the stalls all the way up to the ceiling, framed paintings illuminated with display lights above the urinals, and marble counters with cloth hand towels embroidered with BHH. There was also hair gel, razors, little bars of deodorant, even tiny samples of cologne. I pressed the dispenser on a ceramic bottle that I thought held soap, but it appeared to be mouthwash instead. After rinsing off the minty substance and finding the real soap—a small fresh bar for every person—I used one of the towels and deposited it in a wicker basket next to the counter. For a moment I thought about taking one to keep as a souvenir, but I suppressed the urge and went back out into the hallway.
As I made my way through the lobby and toward the Polo Lounge, a voice called, “Richard? Richard Nagano?”
I turned and saw Fiona Morgan, flanked by two other women. My heart jumped at the sight of her. I’d been thinking about her ever since the night at the museum, and it took me a moment to realize that she was really here—that I hadn’t imagined her. She wore a blue sheath dress that clung to her figure, and carried a silvery purse that sparkled with jewels. The women on either side of her were dull in the face of her radiance. I took a step in their direction, and Fiona came toward me, gliding, as if her feet did not tread on the ground. Her carriage was perfect, and I remembered what Mrs. W— had said, that Fiona had been a dancer. Everything else in the room seemed muted, leaden, mere backdrop to her elegance.
“Hello,” I said. I tried to control my face but felt it break into a grin.
“Hello! I was wondering when I’d see you again!” She leaned close and I wasn’t sure of the proper protocol. A hug? A kiss on the cheek? She placed a hand on my shoulder and, holding her body away, turned her face toward my cheek for a sideways kiss. I don’t think her lips actually touched my skin; it was more like a mutual cheek rub.
“Are you here with Mrs. W—?” she asked.
“Yes, she has a lunch meeting with some fundraiser from the children’s hospital.”
“Is it a middle-aged guy with too much hair? Tim Hathaway?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, poor man. We deal with him too, for my family foundation. He means well but he’s no match for her. I’m sure she makes his testicles shrivel.”
“Yes, I think I actually heard them,” I said. A passing hotel staffer gave us a disapproving look, which Fiona ignored.
“Did you drive with her? Because if not, I’d ask you to join us for lunch. Or at least a drink. I’m with a couple of girls who are planning a fundraiser for a children’s charity. Foster care,” she whispered, as if it were a dirty term. She turned toward her friends and they waved at us, offering pinched, uncomfortable smiles. Now she leaned in close. “They’re a bore, to tell you the truth, but I’ve got to do it, you know? They’d be totally lost without me.”
“I’m sure you must be very helpful.”
“Well, helpful or bossy. But in this case bossy may be helpful. These particular girls can’t cross the street without asking their husbands.”
In the daylight, she looked different, her skin paler, light freckles visible on her arms and shoulders. Her eyes were pale blue, I saw, and her hair a more complex blond, shot through with a bit of honey that might have been caused by the sun. Her features looked thin and almost severe, except for the full red lips; her bare shoulders were bony and I wanted to cover them, cup my hands over her skin. I still couldn’t tell if she was pretty or just put together nicely. But I could not get enough of looking at her.
“It’s nice running into you,” I said, “but I need to get back to Mrs. W—. No telling what Hathaway has done to her while I’ve been gone.”
“Or what she’s done to him,” Fiona said. Then: “You always get pulled away just as we’re starting to talk. How will I ever get to know you?”
I shrugged. “I’m a busy man.”
“I know. You’re working for Marion, plus you have your dissertation. I’ve been thinking about that ever since we met.”
“Really?”
“Really. I told you, I think it’s fascinating. What I didn’t have a chance to mention, before we were interrupted by that awful Bryson Rutherford, is that my family foundation has been leading an effort to support alternative-financing mechanisms for minority-owned businesses. We’re especially interested in the areas of East LA and South LA. We’ve looked at creating incentives for more favorable bank loans, but banks aren’t biting, so we’re trying to figure out what else might work. Your example of the Japanese prefectural association was really intriguing, and I’d love to hear more about it.” Now she rested her hand on my arm, just above the wrist; her movements were controlled and graceful. “Would you like to have lunch with me sometime?”
Her touch sent a jolt through my body and paralyzed my tongue. “I’d love to,” I said finally, trying to sound casual. “When?”
“How about a week from next Monday? At the Colonial Club? Twelve thirty?”
“Sounds good.” I had no idea what the Colonial Club was, though I remembered Mrs. W— had mentioned it.
“Perfect! I look forward to it! It’ll be great to spend some time together, just the two of us.” She squeezed my arm and leaned in close again. “I want to know everything about you.”
