A Student of History, page 8
* * *
After Mrs. W— had sent Hathaway off with his tail between his legs, Dalton drove us back to the house. I hadn’t done any work on the manuscript that day, so I went into the study while she retired for her afternoon rest. I noticed a book on the desktop that hadn’t been there before, bound in fine brown leather. Memories of Langley W— was embossed on the spine and front cover. Pulse quickening, I opened the cover. The same words were repeated on the title page, followed by, Recollections of his friends. The book was published by the Colonial Club—where I was set to meet Fiona—in 1948. On the bottom, written in ink: Copy 1 of 20.
I closed the book and placed it back on the desk. My heart was beating madly. Mrs. W— must have left it here for me to read. She was trusting me with the only known personal accounts of her grandfather. What would I find here? Would some key to the family’s wealth, to the history of the city, be hidden within? And most pressingly and selfishly, was there anything here that I could use to show Professor Rose that I had access to the W—’s papers?
A quick perusal convinced me that this volume—despite its obvious intrigue—would not work for my immediate purposes. My head spun at the identities of the contributors—two other city fathers who’d made their fortunes in oil, the then-president of USC, the head of the US Geological Survey, three mayors of Los Angeles, and several men whose names I didn’t recognize, who appeared to be fellow club members.
I started to read a few of the contributions, but they were mostly second- or thirdhand accounts, and it was hard to believe the stories were true. There was a tale, related by the head of the USGS, of Langley camping out in the field during a survey in Colorado and encountering a bison. Langley faced down the big beast, staring him right in the eye from no more than twenty paces: and lo and behold, the animal grunted, turned, and wandered away. He knew he was no match for old Langley! There were accounts of his fishing expeditions at Yosemite and Shasta, with descriptions of hard-fighting rainbow trout that made them sound roughly the size of dolphins. There was a story of Langley single-handedly dragging a two hundred–pound drill bit from a truck to a drill site—and then dragging the old, broken, three hundred–pound drill bit out. There were descriptions of his generosity—from the founding of a school for orphaned boys, to his work with the Red Cross for soldiers returning from the World Wars, to his buying cords of wood for every family in his New Hampshire hometown during a particularly cold winter, to his assistance to an old friend from the early oil days, a man who’d helped him engineer a pipeline, who was destitute and blind in his later years. It occurred to me that I didn’t sufficiently compensate you for your work at the time, he was quoted as saying. And so I have decided now to provide you with back pay. There were several accounts of his funeral, which was held at the First Congregational Church. Amongst the tributes and decorations had been a ten-foot replica of an oil derrick made entirely of flowers. So many mourners turned out for the service that the church had to close its gates.
These all seemed like affectionate but overblown portrayals, fellow men of influence who nostalgically inflated the memory of one of their own. There was nothing here I could easily lift, no convincing event; it would be far too risky to commandeer the whole book, and I was afraid even to take a picture with my phone in that too-dark room, as if the book’s fine paper—and even its leather cover—would disintegrate if exposed to a flash. So I placed it on the top left corner of the desk and tried to think of something else.
I pulled the most recent volume I’d been working from off the bookcase, but glancing through it, I knew it wouldn’t give me what I needed. It was nearing desperation time—I was due to meet Professor Rose on Tuesday, and this was Thursday. What could I possibly find? Then something occurred to me. The volumes I’d been working on chronicled Mrs. W—’s early adulthood; she was already nearly twenty when they started. But Janet had typed up the pages from the earlier volumes, the ones I hadn’t looked at. When Mrs. W— was younger, when she was a girl, her grandfather still alive.
I picked up one of the two earlier volumes that lay on a lower shelf. The notebook was leather-bound like the rest, but smaller, to fit a child’s hand. I carefully opened the front cover and found the words Marion W—: Her Life and Times written in ornate childish cursive on the front page. On the next page, her account began: I was born in Los Angeles in 1936, into the happy home of Robert and Helen W—. Robert is the only son of Langley Stuart W—, one of the most important men in California.
My heart jumped. Even though this was nothing earth-shattering, just the mention of Langley made me hopeful that I’d find something good. Yet the first few pages were again disappointing. There was a lengthy description of their house in Hancock Park and of the meals prepared by their cook. She referred to her parents as Father and Mother. It appeared that Father was often away, and even when he was home, he was usually offstage. Father was in his study while her big brother Langley opened presents on his tenth birthday. Father took a telephone call while the family sat at dinner. If he was there, it was as a looming or slightly threatening presence: Father was cross at Mother for taking us to the beach without his permission. He did not want us playing in the sand like common urchins.
About thirty pages in, the story took a turn, when young Marion, her big brother, and her parents moved in with her grandparents while the new estate in Bel Air was being built for her family. They were staying at the family home off Sunset, the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion on four secluded acres that I’d read about in my earlier research. This sounded like a happier time. The narrative described Easter egg hunts and games of hide-and-seek as well as a two-room treehouse. There were three dogs—two Brittany spaniels and a German shorthaired pointer—four cats, a pair of peacocks. There was a stocked fishing pond where Marion would sit for hours, listening to the songs of birds. And central to all of these stories was the figure of Grandpa Langley, the self-proclaimed Captain of Mischief. He took Marion fishing, he taught her how to climb a tree, he would jump out from behind corners during hide-and-seek and hold Marion tight and tickle her. He’d appear in the bedroom where she and little Langley had been confined for misbehaving, and smuggle in bowls of ice cream. In all of these accounts, her grandparents, and especially Langley, were described as boisterous and happy. Her father was a void of silence.
Things changed when Marion’s grandfather departed sometime in late summer, for an extended trip to Mexico for business. Since her parents’ new house was still under construction, they stayed on at her grandparents’ home. Without Langley in the narrative, the pages grew dull again. There were accounts of a visit to a new school for her brother, of a long and silent family dinner. I leaned back in my chair and tilted the book up so I could read it from this inclined position.
Then I turned another page and something slid out and hit the desk. It was a postcard. From the blank space on the page and the dark marks on the corners, it was clear that it had been glued to the paper. But time had loosened the adhesive and released the card, which I picked up cautiously and read.
Baby girl bear, it started. And as I read on, the card seemed to come alive in my hand:
I’m so sorry to miss Thanksgiving with you. Business isn’t half as fun as fishing with you and Langley, but I do it for you, do you know that? I hope you eat double your usual amount of turkey, cranberries, and stuffing. Grandma loves to see you both eat. Where I am, the little boys and girls are so skinny and sad. Not rosy and round-cheeked like my babies. I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day. And if Papa Bear is grumpy again, tell him to go sleep in his den. I’ll be home in two more weeks, by Christmas for sure, and then we will play and play.
With love and a big warm furry embrace,
Grandpa Grizzly (aka Langley the Furriest Bear)
I turned the card over and looked at the front: a faded color drawing of the Zócalo in Mexico City. Then I turned it back over to the written side. It had been addressed to Ms. Marion J. W—, at the address I recognized from my reading. The date was November 2, 1946. Mrs. W— had been ten years old.
I slowly lowered the postcard back onto the book and pressed my hands to my head. My heart was pounding wildly; I couldn’t believe my luck. This was a postcard in Langley W—’s hand. Dated, stamped, and sent to Marion W—, and at his own address. And it was loose, separated from the notebook. I leaned to my right, pulled my own hardbound notebook out of my shoulder bag, and placed it on the desk. I looked out the window again, swung around in my chair to make sure the door was closed. Then I picked the postcard up and slipped it into my notebook.
* * *
Three days later, in Professor Rose’s office, I sat on the Throne of Pain and cut right to the chase. I placed the hardbound notebook on her desk, opened it, and pulled out the postcard, which I had since put into a protective plastic sleeve. Then I turned the postcard around so that the writing was facing Professor Rose and slowly pushed it across the desk.
Professor Rose leaned over and looked at it—silent, curious, intent. Her red hair, which wasn’t tied back today, hung loose on either side of her face. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed again; her lips opened slightly. Then she carefully picked the card up within its plastic sleeve and turned it over to peer at the front. Finally she placed it back down and looked up at me. Her eyes were animated, though I couldn’t read her expression.
“This is . . .” she began. “This is extraordinary.”
I almost collapsed with relief. For the last three days I had hardly slept, afraid that a fire or earthquake or theft would divest me of my quarry. Afraid that Mrs. W— would realize the card was missing, or that Professor Rose would not believe it was real. “It is something, isn’t it?” I said.
“Up to now, I figured that nothing written by Langley W— survived. It was thought that his widow burned his papers.”
“Not all of them.”
“Well, maybe not any of them. Who knows? The family’s always been so private, it would be just like them to say that things are gone when they aren’t.” She smiled now, and her cheeks were flushed. I had never seen her quite this worked up. Maybe it was the nerdy glee that all historians feel over previously undiscovered material. Or maybe she was thinking of her own ambitions.
“There’s more where that came from,” I said.
She pushed the card back toward me, as if afraid to be responsible for it—or as if she didn’t trust herself not to take it. “What’s your theory about him?” she asked.
I was caught off guard. “What?”
“What’s your theory about Langley W—? What will your thesis be? I’m wondering what the key to his success was—how he found the oil. Did he bribe the government? Turn a geologist to his side? Take advantage of Native lands?” She leaned forward so far I thought she might grab me by the collar. “And where are the bodies buried?”
“I—” I wasn’t sure how to address this. “I’m not quite at that point yet, to tell you the truth. I’ve just now gotten access to these other materials. I’m sorry, Professor Rose, it’s just early. For today, I was only trying to establish that I do have access to primary sources.”
She leaned back and put her hands up. “Of course, of course. I don’t want you to rush to conclusions when you haven’t had a chance to review the materials. Urgency is no excuse for sloppy scholarship. But yes, this is more than enough to prove to me that you have access. Thank you, Rick. I’m very excited about your project!”
“Me too,” I said, trying to sound more enthused than I felt. My immediate concern was different. “So, would this be enough to make you feel comfortable writing the letter for the fellowship renewal?”
Professor Rose looked at me as if she’d forgotten all about the fellowship and its relevance to my immediate life. “Of course, of course, I’m sorry. I’ll definitely write the letter. I do want you to continue being supported. This possibility, this project . . . it could really be something remarkable.”
After agreeing on next steps—I’d have to write a summary of the materials I found within a month, and formulate a thesis by May—I slid the postcard back into my notebook, put the notebook in my bag, and got out of there. I was giddy as I drove back home. I’d have funding for another year; I wouldn’t be out on the street. And Professor Rose was on my side again. This was all cause for celebration—as long as I didn’t think too hard about what I’d just done—and so as soon as I got home, I decided to go get a drink. It was just after five, when people were leaving their offices and school, released into the rest of their lives. But whom could I call? Janet, the most logical choice, was gone; she’d texted several pictures of herself, looking happy, in front of San Francisco landmarks. There were a couple of other students from my dissertation support group, but they weren’t really friends—and besides, I couldn’t tell any of them what had saved my ass with Professor Rose. I could go next door and grab a beer with Kevin, but he wouldn’t understand the reason for my joy; he was a practical, in-the-world guy, a cowboy paramedic with a physician’s-assistant girlfriend, and the study of history was esoteric and irrelevant to him, removed from the everyday work of helping other people, not to mention the task of making a living.
With a pang I thought of Chloe, the evenings we’d spend having drinks and nachos during happy hour at the closest Mexican restaurant. She would have been happy for me, or at least relieved. Suddenly I missed her with an intensity that cut through the general malaise and loneliness I’d felt since her departure. What an ass I’d been. When we first started dating, I’d condescendingly treated her studies at a teacher credentialing program as somehow less important than mine. She was preparing to be a third-grade teacher; I was engaged in serious scholarship. But somehow she’d gone from that program to actually teaching third grade, to continuing on to an administrative credential, to now serving as a vice principal for an elementary school in Crenshaw. The next principal position that opened up would probably be hers. And here I was, still in graduate school, still playing around with history. No wonder she’d lost patience with me.
I didn’t really feel like staying home. So I put on another outfit Mrs. W— had bought me—a Tom Ford jacket-and-pants combo from my second appointment with Rafael—and went back out to my car. There was a place on Beverly that I’d driven past a couple of weeks earlier—one of those high-end gastropubs that had sprung up all over the city. I didn’t go to these kinds of spots very often—the twelve-dollar burgers and eight-dollar beers had put me off—but now, with a wallet full of cash and fancy new threads, it seemed as good a time as any to do so.
I parked in a spot around the block, forgoing valet, since the Honda would negate the effect of the clothes. Through the windows, the place looked lively, crowded, bright, and for a second I felt a surge of doubt. But I pushed my way in, and was hit by a wall of sound. Everyone was talking, laughing, all in loud voices. Something metallic and alternative was playing over the sound system, and the flat-screens over the bar had the Lakers game on. “Welcome to Beer Lab!” chimed the two identical-looking blondes behind the front desk. Then they seemed to say in unison: “Would you like to sit at one of the group tables, or wait for a more intimate one?”
There were large, rectangular communal tables that held ten or twelve people, surrounded by smaller two- and four-person tables. All were filled with loud-talking people in their twenties and thirties, with plates full of huge burgers and fries, and pints of blond or amber or earth-colored beer.
“Can I just sit at the bar?” I asked.
“Sure!” the blondes said, and then one of them led me to the only empty seat. The barkeep was a nondescript middle-aged, block-headed guy with a beard maybe a centimeter long; I thought I recognized him from a recent commercial for something embarrassing, laxatives or erectile dysfunction.
He handed me a single-sheet menu printed on light cardboard and said, “Let me know when you’re ready.”
I looked at the selection of beers—all Beer Lab varieties—and the food items, the salads and nachos and fried calamari. The house burger here was fourteen dollars. Still, I was hungry, so I ordered a burger and an IPA.
I glanced around, trying to be subtle. To the right of me was a couple in their thirties, talking about the commercial real estate market. To the left were three young women who seemed to work together at a talent agency; they complained about a bad-tempered boss and a particularly difficult client. The brunette of this threesome made eye contact with me and I smiled. Looking at them, in their blouses and simple skirts, I felt a bit overdressed. Most of the guys were in button-down shirts, with just a few wearing jackets. But better overdressed than underdressed, I thought, as I took a swig from the beer the barkeep had placed before me. And I was proven right when the brunette from the talent agency said, “Is anyone joining you? Or are you here by yourself?”
I turned toward her, trying to give her a knowing, sophisticated smile. “I’m all on my own,” I said.
“Well, that’s a shame,” the girl replied. “Or maybe not. Not for me, anyway.”
She wasn’t unattractive, not at all, and now she slipped past her friend, who moved over a seat, and placed herself right next to me. When she stood, I saw that she had a nice figure, more curvy than the usual self-starving Westside girl.
“Well, what brings you here all by yourself?” she asked, looking directly in my eyes, making her intentions clear. For a moment the image of Fiona Morgan flashed before me, her elegance and height, the skin of her shoulder. But I shook it off—tonight I was in this bar, with this woman, whose bare knee now pressed against my thigh.
“I just finished a business meeting and needed a drink,” I said. “I’m a lawyer in Century City.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The next Monday, I met Fiona Morgan for lunch at the Colonial Club. I’d learned, from the Internet, that it was one of the original private clubs in Los Angeles, a bastion of the city’s elite. Langley W— was a member in the early 1900s, and it had been exclusively male for more than a hundred years. It had only admitted women for the last two decades, and Mrs. W—, not surprisingly, had been one of the first. Rumor was it still wasn’t welcoming to Jews or people of color—there were references to lawsuits and protests, as well as conflicts with the state, which at one point had prohibited public officials from holding business meetings there. Reading all of this, I wondered how I would be received.
