“Not looking for a man,” said Dave (Dave Courtland, it was; Frank had heard of him, though he wasn’t sure where).
“Are you looking for a woman?” said Frank.
“Not looking,” said Dave Courtland.
And Jim Upjohn said, “Well, you better be; otherwise, your kids are going to ease you out of there before you know it.”
Frank pretended this was not interesting. The Oak Bar had a self-conscious quality, Frank thought, as if it knew it was in a hotel and really wanted to be off on its own, not so accessible to out-of-towners. Jim ordered drinks for all of them—a martini for himself, a whiskey and soda for Dave Courtland, and a beer for Frank. If Frank was thirty-nine now, then Jim Upjohn was forty-four or -five, on a kind of plateau of self-assurance that came not only from wealth and not only from his war experiences, but also from considering himself a free thinker and a charitable man (who still sent money to the Daily Worker—try and stop him). Oh, and there was the fact that his fortunes, always prosperous, had risen on the postwar economy like a cork on a flood. He frequently made “wealthiest in America” lists, and only Frances Upjohn knew what the exact amount was. Probably because of Jim, Frank had had a very good year, promoted to VP in charge of development at Grumman, making a nice sum, and, thanks to Jim’s tips, though he and Andy were not on any “ten most” lists, Uncle Jens was spinning in his grave. Every time Andy opened a brokerage statement, she said, “Do you think this is real money?”
Jim said, “Dave and I were just talking. I serve on the board of Dave’s company, that’s Fremont Oil—you know them, Frank—and I told him he needs to talk to you. He needs to talk to someone entirely outside of that world.”
“So you say,” said Dave.
Jim said, “This is what makes Dave such a great oilman. He is stubborn as a doorpost. It’s a medical condition brought on by petroleum fumes.”
Frank said, “I know you recently discovered a big field in Venezuela.”
“How’d you know that?” Dave looked as though he might punch him.
Jim said, “I told you, Frank Langdon is a scout. He’s got his eyes open twenty-four hours a day. Even when he’s asleep. He was an army sniper in Italy during the war.”
“I thought the marines in the Pacific did that.”
“There were a few of us in Europe.”
“How many kills you get?”
“Twenty-six,” said Frank, “but one was a Jerry who asked me to do it.”
Now Dave actually looked at him, and Jim did, too—Frank had never told him this story. He said, “It was in Sicily. A German officer was being driven up the mountain, and they went over the edge. The driver was impaled on the steering wheel. The officer got himself out, and when we came up to him, he was just lying there. He tried to shoot himself and failed. When he saw us, he asked us to do it for him. He was the only one I ever saw up close. Seemed more like a murder in a way.” Frank spoke coolly.
“Missed both wars,” said Dave Courtland. “Too young for the first one and too old for the second one.” That would make him fifty or so, but he looked twenty years older than that. Frank said, “You start out in Texas?”
“Nah, Oklahoma first, then Texas. But the war effort drained those fields. Mexico looked good for about a minute, but I knew that Red, Cárdenas, was trouble before the big boys did. I had a feeling about Venezuela from the beginning. No roads, no nothing. We used to explore on foot, donkey if we were lucky. When that fellow who worked for Jersey was killed by an arrow while eating his eggs and bacon one morning, I just thought it was exciting.”
Frank nodded, then said, “And these days?”
“ ’Bout ten percent more civilized, but better than butting up against the Russkies.”
“That seems to be the problem,” said Jim Upjohn. “Dave’s sons want to make a big investment in Saudi. Dave says better the devil you know.”
“Your sons are Hal Courtland and Friskie Courtland?”
“Friskie, yeah. Christened William Flinders.” Dave made a low, rough, loud sound in his throat that Frank decided was a cough, then said, “You know anything about the oil business?”
“Only what I read in the papers,” said Frank.
“See,” said Jim, “this is where you’re making your mistake, Dave. You think that the oil business is different from any other business, and it’s not. Real estate, airplanes, bombs, cookies, rutabagas—all the same. You identify the customers, you identify the product, and you bring the two together.”
Dave looked Frank up and down, then said, “The thing I’m not good at is getting along with people. I just seem to blow my top. You good at getting along with people?”
Jim said, “Frank gets along with everyone.”
Frank thought, Or with no one. And that was a pleasant thought.
The conversation ambled forward, Dave Courtland taking an intermittent interest in it, but also looking around the bar, staring at this customer and that one, and not always the females. Frank saw why Jim was after him to run Fremont: Dave was a kind of farmer, with oil as his crop. Proud that he hadn’t gone to school after the age of twelve, proud that he’d taught himself everything he knew, but now confused at how often he felt adrift. Hal and Friskie (Harvard and Yale? Princeton and Dartmouth?) would have perfected their slightly condescending manner, and of course they wanted to invest in Saudi—they could hobnob with Europeans and Rockefellers and art collectors. Frank agreed with Dave Courtland that it was better to drill on your own side of the Atlantic.
Jim sat on any number of boards of directors, including Pan Am and Douglas Aircraft—he had taken Frank on the maiden run of the DC-8 a year ago May, and Frank had been impressed. He knew that Jim loved the DC-8, and suspected that he was behind Pan Am’s big order of those planes when everyone else assumed they were going to go with Boeing. Now he was up to something, but when had Frank ever not gone along with Jim Upjohn? It was like that first time he had taken Frank for a ride in his—what was that?—a Fairchild something—an Argus. You could see through the roof of the plane. It had been a revelation.
All of a sudden, Dave Courtland balked. He bucked, he reared, he backed away. He said, “I’ve had it for today. I’m going up to my room and having supper, then turning in for the night.”
Jim Upjohn was as smooth as could be. He said, “Good idea, Dave. They serve quite a good filet here; you should try it.”
Dave Courtland was already gone, leaving Jim to pay for the drinks. All Jim said was “That man’s got forty million bucks, and those boys are siphoning it out of his pocket.”
Frank said, “You ever siphon gas?”
Jim Upjohn shook his head.
Frank said, “Well, it tastes like hell, and it gives you a hell of a headache.”
“Something Hal and Risky Friskie truly deserve.”
Frank said, “I don’t understand what you want from me, though.”
“We’ll see. My idea at this point, though, is: Dave hires you to replace himself as COO. You walk around beside him, you sit down next to him, you stand a little off to the side, and you say not a single word, and those little boys will be shitting their pants.”
“I have a job,” said Frank.
“Oil pays very well,” said Jim.
They parted at the door, and Frank headed into the park.
—
FIRST, ROSANNA SAID what she always said: “How’s the weather?”
Lillian had long since learned that her mother wanted to know in detail and could not be put off, so she said, “Not bad. Warmish—maybe in the high forties. Sunny.”
Rosanna said, “Well, that cold snap here is over, but it’s still below zero every night. You know it got down to fifteen below. In November. I am not looking forward to actual winter.”
“Brr,” said Lillian.
Rosanna said, “How did those boys behave themselves?”
“They were fine,” said Lillian. Frank, Andy, and their three kids had flown down Wednesday for Thanksgiving and le
ft that morning. Rosanna waited. Lillian said, “Really, they had one fight with each other. They were fine with Tina. She had some toy—oh, the Mr. Potato Head—and Michael asked her for it very nicely. That doesn’t mean that he’s as nice with his brother, Richie….”
“I never saw anyone for taking what the other child had just to get it like Frankie was. Whatever Joe had, Frankie swiped it, and then, as soon as Joe was out of the room, he lost interest and dropped it. Didn’t matter what it was. It could be a piece of lint.”
“They argued over pieces of lint?” Lillian was always amazed at what Rosanna said they had played with during the Depression.
“You know what I mean,” said Rosanna.
“Janny stuck to Timmy like glue, so they went bike riding, and the twins couldn’t get enough of Dean. There was one hair-pulling incident, and then Dean got them to run around the yard with him, trying to keep the paddleball going. They were laughing.” Lillian waited for Rosanna to ask about Andy’s drinking. She had her reply all ready—“Hardly anything, Arthur was the one who…”—but Rosanna said, “Well, good for Dean. Those little boys always strike me as deadly serious.”
Now it was Lillian’s turn to cluck. “Well, Janny is serious, too. It’s just their temperament. I mean…” Lillian hesitated, then went on: “When have you seen Andy laugh out loud? She smiles, and she chuckles once in a blue moon, but I’ve never seen even Arthur get a real laugh out of her.”
Rosanna said, “Dear me.”
Lillian decided to change the subject. “Did you have anyone besides Claire?” They both knew what that meant.
“He’s a doctor. Ears, noses.” Rosanna said this rather dismissively.
Lillian smiled, but said, “Was she wearing a ring?”
“No ring,” said Rosanna.
“How did they act?”
“Like good friends.”
“No hand holding?”
“In front of me?”
“You can tell if there has been hand holding in the last minute or two.”
“Didn’t see any of that. He talked mostly to Joe and Lois, as a matter of fact.”
“What about?”
“Crop prices with Joe, and ear infections with Lois.”
“How is Henry?”
Rosanna clucked again. Lillian waited. Rosanna said, “I thought Henry was going to bring home this girl, what was her name, Sandra. But he said that was all over.”
“Really?” said Lillian. “He seemed to like her.”
“Did he bring her there?”
“He was going to, but she got the flu or something. She sent along a tin of cookies with him. In the spring sometime. I did think they were serious. She has her Ph.D. from the University of Manchester.” Then she said, helpfully, “In England. I thought she was kind of his dream girl. Her last name is Boulstridge. He said it was very rare.”
“He would know,” said Rosanna. “But you never saw her.”
“I saw a picture of them. She was cute. He had a picture when he visited.”
Rosanna clucked, then said, “Same thing happened with that other girl, the Canadian girl. He talked all about her for months and months, said she couldn’t wait to come visit, and then she was gone with the wind.”
“He’s picky,” said Lillian.
“Where does that get you?” said Rosanna. “He’s too good-looking. He’s smart, he’s got himself a good job at Northwestern, teaching crazy old languages; he goes to Europe every summer and has a ball digging up old junk, if you can believe that.” Lillian could almost see her mother’s eyes rolling. Then, “How is Arthur?” Rosanna spoke suddenly and sharply, in order, Lillian thought, to take her by surprise and trap her into saying some revealing word. But all words were revealing—“fine,” “better,” “okay,” “not bad,” “the same,” “eating well,” “sleeping sometimes,” “roaming the house and the yard,” “sitting in the car without doing anything.” Losing his mind. When they were having just one drink before dinner (beer for Lillian and Frank, martini for Andy and Arthur), Arthur had asked Andy what she thought of psychoanalysis, and when she answered that she enjoyed it, that, yes, it was worth the money (she and her analyst, Dr. Grossman, were learning a lot of things), he had stared at her almost, Lillian thought, in pain. She said, “Arthur is working hard.”
“I never met anyone like Arthur,” said Rosanna.
“There is no one like Arthur,” said Lillian.
There was a pause; then Lillian said, “Did you make the gravy?”
“Always do,” said Rosanna.
“I made mine just like you make yours,” said Lillian. “When dinner was over and we were all just so full, Arthur took the gravy boat and poured the last few tablespoons right into his mouth. Then he licked his lips and rubbed his stomach. I thought Debbie was going to disinherit herself, but the other kids were laughing.”
“Oh yes, your Arthur is one of a kind,” said Rosanna.
—
DR. GROSSMAN’S OFFICE was farther up Riverside Drive, at Seventy-eighth Street. It was easy to get to, there was plenty of parking, and Andy could imagine herself and Dr. Grossman as friends rather than doctor and patient. It wasn’t just that Dr. Grossman was a woman, it was that she seemed to have a naturally sunny disposition, and also that she was nicely dressed—not only expensively, but with thought as well as taste. It was sort of a perverse victory, Andy thought, that Dr. Katz had fired her, or, rather, kicked her up the ladder to someone more expensive, and less accommodating. Dr. Grossman didn’t let her get away with telling stories as dreams, or lying silently on the couch for more than a minute or two. Sometimes Dr. Grossman even argued with her. Now Andy felt that she was truly brave, forging ahead as Dr. Grossman uttered one skeptical noise after another.
“Considering what has happened to Eunice since, I don’t feel terribly bitter, and I know she was, we were, very young.” Dr. Grossman did not rise to this bait, so Andy went on. “She set out to seduce Frank—I knew that at the time, because she told me she wanted to. You know how girls are. Some of them, like me, just go around a bit underwater, and everything comes so slowly. So, oh, I guess it was the summer, six months after our friend Lawrence died, that Eunice just came out with it in a letter. She was going to lose her virginity anyway—it was as inevitable as the war—she didn’t believe for a moment that Roosevelt would leave the English in the lurch—so why not lose it to someone like Frank Langdon, the best-looking guy you’d ever seen? It was such a small thing compared to, say, the collapse of France. I mean, she wrote that.” Andy fell silent; Dr. Grossman cleared her throat. Andy added, “Small compared to other things, too.” It was true that seeing Dr. Katz and then Dr. Grossman every day, the only Jewish people she had ever known, really, made her think of the concentration camps, then atom bombs—she could hardly remember the war itself through the smokescreen of hydrogen and atom bombs. And there was no remembering with Frank. He never said a word about what he had done or not done. “Of course, at that time, I didn’t know that she had already lost her virginity years before, and not in a very nice way, to an uncle, I believe, though he was fairly close in age—I think she was fourteen and he was seventeen.” Dr. Grossman made a low noise, maybe disbelieving, maybe disapproving, but, as far as Andy knew, this tale of Eunice’s was as true as any other. “Of course, I didn’t tell Frank what she wrote. I never talked about sex to Frank, and to be honest, he seemed a little shy about that sort of thing.” She paused for a long time and waited for Dr. Grossman to prompt her, but Dr. Grossman said nothing, just uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
“When school started up again and Eunice returned from vacation, I saw that she meant it. Her eyes were all over Frank. The three of us weren’t together very often, because why would we be? The person that linked us was gone.”
“Please tell me again how he died?” said Dr. Grossman.
“Infected tooth,” said Andy. “Utterly needless.” She cleared her throat. The sun poured in the window, and Andy could easily sens
e the Hudson River below in the quality of the light. “However, in the Union or walking across campus, if I was with either of them and the other one appeared, no one had to tell me a thing. It was like magnets. It hurt my feelings at first, but then it didn’t. Whatever was going on between them just squeezed some other things out of him that I actually preferred—‘I love you,’ stuff about his family, his brother Joe. Joe is a wonderful person. The sense of sin did it. You know, that is the one time in my life with Frank that I ever saw him be sorry for anything, anything at all. His usual attitude is very fatalistic. If Michael hits Richie and blackens his eye, or Janny gets bullied at school, then it was just what was meant to be. I mean, when I showed him that article in the Times that said that the Russians have a hundred missile bases, and said what would we do if…, well, he said, ‘Just sit right here.’ ”
“So—go on with your story.”
“Frank thought it was a dead secret, but Eunice gave me the blow-by-blow. How he kissed her, where he touched her, which item of clothing he took off first, how one time he ripped her stocking. Believe me, I was not envious. Sometimes I thought she was crazy, and she was doing it not with Frank but with someone she thought was Frank or she was telling me was Frank, but wasn’t really. I mean, Frank was nicer to me every single day, and rougher with Eunice, apparently. It was like I had to choose—there were two of him, or there were two of her, or it just wasn’t my business. Like I say, I was so young.”
“Have you seen this kind of split personality since in him?”
Of course the answer was yes. Or no. Andy thought about Frank, the Frank she had sat with at dinner the night before, silent for a while, then irritable with Janny, then laughing at the boys, then seeming to enjoy his au-gratin potatoes (Nedra’s were indeed delicious), then telling her a joke, then asking her what a dress she bought for one of Jim Upjohn’s cocktail parties had cost ($230), scowling only for a moment, then laughing. She said, “I would say that my sense of what is in a personality has gotten larger since then. His or anyone else’s.”