After Lisa, the complete novel

 

 

AFTER LISA

CHAPTER 1

Each year with the coming of autumn, on the third Friday of October, the Journalist’s Guild announces the winner of the George W. Hitchcock Prize for Investigative Journalism at its annual ceremonial dinner.  For the last 30 years it has been held in the Clarkson Ballroom of the Vanderbilt Hotel in Boston, once an integral part of Boston Society.  For several years  the Viennese waltz was first called the Boston.  It was introduced to America  in this very room.   The Clarkson is an elegant  reminder  that Boston,  the capital of  New England, most resembled old England.  The silk curtains, now slightly thread bare in places, have grown more beautiful with age, as have the well worn Persian rugs at the entrance. The parquet floor, polished for well over a century, has acquired a dark, soft,  glowing patina.

Michael and Deborah Russell stand  near their table with Michael’s Boston Sentinel colleagues and their spouses. A huge striking oil portrait of ArianaVan Doren, manager of the Vanderbilt Hotel until 1934, hangs on a wall directly above them. To the left of her portrait is what looks like a Rembrandt. People assume that Rembrandts are only to be seen in museums or private collections, not in a hotel, but there it is, or seems to be.  Then again this is Cornelius Vanderbilt’s Clarkson.  Shunned as a parvenu in his home town, New York,  in Boston his Clarkson overshadowed the opera house, and certainly any ball room in New York.  Vanderbilt had gone all out, which explains a lot.  When he built the Clarkson, Vanderbilt was the richest man in the world.  Its priceless tapestries alone,  featured again and again in architectural  magazines, are more valuable than many of the buildings in downtown Boston.  He had more money than the United States Treasury.  The exquisite taste found  throughout the room are sometimes thought of as the feminine counterpart to the other monument Vanderbilt left for posterity, New York’s Grand Central Station, with its vast open spaces.  In his will, Vanderbilt put aside a tidy sum for the Clarkson’s upkeep in perpetuity.  Quite like him, he also stipulated that it bring in income.  Hence its use for occasions such as tonight.

Michael is having difficulty paying attention to the small talk surrounding him.   He has never liked standing around, chit chatting during the cocktail hour.  Gossip has never interested  him, and lately, cleverness of any kind falls flat in his ears.   Losing  his sense of humor was the earliest casualty of the misfortunes that the Russells have endured during the last few years.  For appearance sake, he is nevertheless making the effort, wearing what appears to be a relaxed smile.  But, that takes all of his energy.  At best, he hears every other word.  He is worried about Deborah.

So far, she is fine.  Esther Pollard, fashion editor at the Boston Sentinel, is by her side.  They used to pair up at these functions having a grand time with escalating snipes at everyone else at the meeting.   No longer.  Too much has changed. Here and there one of them scores with a telling observation, but for the most part they are going through the motions, repeating old habits.  This suits Deborah perfectly. Routine is comforting.  Routine is boring.  Boring is good.

Michael and Deborah have not made an appearance at the annual Guild dinner for years.  They have also stopped going to the Sentinel’s Christmas party.  No one expects it of them.  And they are only too happy to be let off the hook.  The movies, here and there, a concert, eating out, a very occasional dinner with Charley and Amy; that’s the extent of  their social life.  They would have been a no show tonight, but rumor has it that Michael has a good chance of winning the Hitchcock.  Michael could have gone alone, but Deborah felt she had no more excuses.  It’s been five years since she put on a gown, had her nails manicured, and faced the night. Esther is running interference for her and Michael keeps an eye on her as well, just in case.

She seems to be doing nicely.  Michael had forgotten how pretty Deborah can be when the occasion calls for it. A cluster of silk cobalt blue forget-me-nots winds through her hair bringing out the sparkle in her  blue eyes.  Where does she find these things? He knows where she got her earrings; he spent long hours looking for them ten years ago.  They had to be perfect for her 35^th birthday.  He still recalls her expression as she opened the box , and especially afterwards, sitting at her dressing table putting them on, the calm look on her face as she studied herself in the mirror.  In those days they were on a roll. Everything was effortless.

“You look nice,” Michael tells her.

It’s not what he says.  It’s what’s in his eyes. She extends her lips forward imitating a sexy kiss, one of her never fail mannerisms.    She used to  follow with a raised eyebrow and a sly grin delivered in perfect rhythm, kind of like Meg Ryan.  It’s gone.  Her timing is off.  She is edgy.

“My mother’s great grandmother used to come to the Clarkson.” She points at the portrait above them.  “Your girlfriend,  Ariana Van Doren.   She was my great grandmother’s aunt.”

A flicker of pride from her old New England family.  It’s a good sign, but Michael  can barely hear Deborah’s voice above the din.  He had noticed Ariana’s stately portrait when he first came in.  She was then in her 70’s.  He knew Ariana well from the novel he attempted to write about Cornelius Vanderbilt.  Actually, it was Ariana that had started the process years ago, after Deborah first mentioned her great grandmother’s connection to her.  Something about a duel.  It turned out there wasn’t one.  But once he was hooked, it no longer mattered.

He knew this particular portrait from an old biography of Vanderbilt he had found at the Strand Book Store when they lived in New York .  He had been drawn to Ariana after seeing a portrait of her at 18, purportedly painted by Whistler.  God.    Michael could imagine a duel over that kind of beauty.  Deborah once teased him about his crush on her.  She wasn’t wrong.  If he had ever met someone who looked like that he would have been smitten.  He gives the painting another quick glance.

“Mom and her family stories…,” Deborah continues  “It’s strange.  When she heard I was coming  to the Clarkson she asked me to make sure I got a look at the portrait.  And here it is.  Right over our table.”

There are many unconfirmed rumors that Ariana Van Doren, daughter of Belize Van Doren,  was Vanderbilt’s love child. Michael couldn’t find evidence either way.  But since it was a novel he decided that these details didn’t really matter.

Michael’s managing editor, Joe Dyer, returns from the bar.  He hands Deborah her club soda and Michael his white wine. Deborah smiles a thank you to him and flaps a wave to Michael as she turns back to Esther. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael continues to watch her for any indication that she is faltering.  She’s okay.    He raises his drink to meet Joe’s, tapping glasses lightly.  Joe offers a toast.

“Here’s to getting ‘em good.”

“Not good enough.”

“He’s in jail. That’s plenty good”

“He’s still breathing.”

“That’s what it will take to even things up?”

“Yes.”

Michael is serious. Seeking justice can destroy a man, but not  fantasies about it.  Until now they have kept him sane.  He used to joke that what he wanted most for Christmas was a hit man.  Lately his emotions are escalating; his fantasies are becoming increasingly graphic.  They  may be getting out of hand.  But he can’t stop himself. Nor is he sure he wants to.

Aggressive laughter, shrill, slightly too loud jokes, keep cutting through the chatter in the room. TV baritones push to be heard.  The producers  of 60 Minutes and 20/20 and a dozen more spin offs usually own the profession on the night of the Hitchcock.  Tonight  every one is  particularly pumped up.    An outsider might grab the ring.

The master of ceremonies taps his knife against a glass.   Seven hundred guests, gathered together to pay tribute, begin their tribute.  It gets  quieter.  The Russells, along with everyone else at their table, take their seat.  Harry Wallace, celebrity gadfly, stands at the microphone.  He waves to a buddy in the audience, flashes his always ready smile, now improved by professionally bleached teeth.

Wallace is a master of timing.  Only a few people are still involved in private conversations. He clears his throat.   The last standing groups find their places at their tables.  The alcoholics, even those made hyper and fearless by stimulants, wind down.  The hush travels through the room like a vapor, moving from table to table, sucking sounds into silence. Finally the last conversation ends.

But then Ricky Meyer from The El Paso Tribune lets out a cat whistle.  It is matched by someone in the back of the room.  Laughter.  Chatter returns.   Wallace waits.   He again clears his throat, subtly, patiently, like he has all night before he will begin.  He learned long ago that a too commanding gesture can backfire when coyotes are vying for control.  Ignored they will disappear.  As expected quietness returns.  It appears to be  holding.  He waits, watches the waiters who have started to bring the salad.

Deborah is completely and nervously attuned to Wallace.  The event is being broadcast on C Span.  There will be close-ups.  In her mind’s eye she again pictures the gracious smile she will need if Michael loses.  Except, she isn’t sure she will be able to pull it off.  Ten years ago she would have practiced that smile, nailed it and would most likely have come across as cool and collected as anyone else in the room. No longer.  Her reactions to her surroundings have been simplified by the events that have befallen them.  There is less choice,  she is at the mercy of her emotions.  Michael to the rescue; he gives her a “Come play with me” look.  She feels his warmth-she married him for it.  He is like her father, trying, trying, trying.

When Ritchie and Lisa were very young he could break into a routine, not exactly vaudevillian, but a routine nonetheless.  It made them laugh. When they fell and were crying, he’d hold them and singing, he’d scold the ground that scraped their knee:

“Oh what did you do to my Lisa?

My Lisa did nothing to you.

The next time you hurt my Lisa

I’ll call the policeman on you.

Bum-bum”

He would hit the ground twice as he called out bum-bum.  That was the part that worked, the bum-bum.  Fair is fair.  Getting even, hitting back soothed Lisa’s excoriated flesh, slowed her crying to a whimper.  And when Ritchie was little and he got hurt, he also loved that part of the ditty.  He would smile as he wiped his eyes with his mittens. Sometimes he slapped at the ground singing bum-bum along with his daddy.

So if Michael needs to play Deborah will play along, grateful he can fill in her empty spaces. He still hasn’t stopped looking at her with his bedroom eyes, kidding but not kidding.

”Stop it.” she teases back

He continues.

She makes her “get out of here” face.

“It’s the truth,” he says.

He uses that word a lot.  Truth.  Michael is addicted to the truth.  It’s his best quality and also his most obnoxious characteristic.  He’s the kid likely to shout out “the emperor’s wearing no clothes” and be proud of it, not noticing and not caring that others think he is an idiot socially. It’s what makes him a good reporter and a lousy guest.

He continues to look her over, teasingly.  Her eyes narrow.   She raises her voice in a stagy emphatic manner.  “Enough!”

It is enough.  Wallace is very close to again having his silence.  Everyone in the room is  now waiting. The moment of truth is fast approaching.

Like any good performer Wallace’s read of his audience is pitch perfect.  He can sway with their ever changing moods, yet when the time comes, take control.    Wallace didn’t write the music. He won’t produce the sound, but like a conductor of a great orchestra, he can heighten the flavor, modulate the intensity, give it any shape that strikes his fancy. He hesitates one, two, and extending the tension, a split second beyond that. He has the goods. He owns the moment. Everyone waits for him to share his secret, the name of the winner of the Hitchcock.   He loves it. Fifty-five years ago, before going into journalism, he thought about acting, but his mother wanted him to do something meaningful with his life. He listened to her because he didn’t think he was good looking enough.

He’s pushing the edge tonight.  He is in that kind of mood. Wallace remains quiet for yet another moment. People are getting a bit irritated by the delay, but this is his patented trick.  It rarely fails him, his ability to bring very serious focus to  the importance of now, this very second. Slowly and clearly he speaks as if what he is about to say will be a great moment in history.  He discovered that  intonation during a 6^th grade school play, when he read the Declaration of Independence to the colonists for the first time.  For a moment, at least in his mind, they actually became the colonists.  He can now recreate that moment at will.

He begins, “ For two years this reporter hammered away.  For two years we ignored him…  Until he finally got our attention… Something had to be done and he did it. Our winner joins Katherine Graham…” The applause begins.   “H. L. Mencken , Samuel Clemens,  Ernie Pyle, Edward R. Murrow,  Bernstein and Woodward,  … Sending a clear message, cutting through the noise which forever threatens to engulf us.  The keyboard is mightier than the sword.”  Wild, wild applause.   “The George W. Hitchcock Award for investigative journalism goes to Michael Russell of The Boston Sentinel.”

Deborah  freezes.  Her heart is racing wildly.  She lightly pushes the knuckles of her clenched fist into her lips.  She stares in front of her, seeing only a blur.  Her mother’s fierce efforts, years and years of battles with her and too many tears from her, all to teach Deborah how to put on a mask, the right hair, the right make-up, how to feel nothing, or appear to feel nothing you don’t want others to know about.  Everything she thought she hated most about her mother, she now treasures.   Her insides are on fire, yet she looks radiant, even beautiful. The applause swells and grows and grows until it surrounds Deborah and Michael, and like a wave, lifts them from their chairs into a congratulatory embrace. Esther Pollard is delirious.  She is crying.  So are others. Deborah leans into him, molds into his surrounding arms, finds her spot in his neck.  Victory tears run down her cheeks.  Then, too soon, fear repossesses her.

It is not a surprise.  In recent years fear has been more of a companion than composure.    Deborah has always been strong and energetic, but for a while it took everything and more for her to merely stay afloat. It was not a small accomplishment. Not everyone could have survived their misfortunes.   She’s better now. Yet she still can’t be certain the spells won’t return uninvited.   During the last two weeks she’s been an instant away from tears.   The tears come out of the blue.  Sad thought or happy thought or no thought, her eyes simply began to water.  Most of the time her tears have occurred while she was alone.  That wasn’t too bad.  She had even learned to savor them.  Last night she was crying lightly, satisfyingly.  She needed a cry.  Only it built into deep wrenching sobs, which took hold of her before she could stop them.  She hadn’t had that happen for a very long time.   She holds Michael more tightly as the applause continues.

Michael hit a nerve with his articles so right now he is a sentimental favorite.   Deborah is not enjoying the attention.   She is not wrong.  Many people with the scoop about the Russells have whispered their story to their neighbors at their table.   Yes many clap and smile as they would in support of any good cause, or with a warm place in their hearts for the Russells, but others watch them out of morbid curiosity. She is beginning to question her decision to be here tonight.

Michael whispers a nothing, and pulls away.  Deborah watches him as he makes his way towards the stage, relieved that he seems okay, that he seems happy with his victory.  She dabs at her eyes.

Michael, standing on the dais, brings a new burst of enthusiasm to the clapping.  Ever so slightly he rocks, the hint of an ancient doven still in his limbs.    Not knowing what to do next he imitates something he has seen on TV.  He quietly studies the inscription on his glass statue.  And still the applause continues.  His eyes meet Deborah’s.  Her sadness threatens to overwhelm him. He looks away, looks around the room.

He didn’t know he had so many friends.  Faces that have always ignored him, or scorned him, even scared him, are beaming “good job, good job.” Sally Field accepting her Oscar flashes into his mind, “They really love me.  They really love me.” He tries to laugh at that.  Thinking it will be funny, he parodies something else he has seen on TV.  He bends over the microphone and says “Thank you”  and then he waves the statue in the air like an athlete securing victory at the Olympics.  Only it isn’t really funny.  He is into it. He never became the Met’s shortstop.  He gave up in high school.  But here it is, the major leagues, a home run in the bottom of the ninth, long after he thought he learned how to stop wanting it. And he likes it. He points the statue at Deborah. He holds it tightly, savors the feeling of his hand gripping the glass.  It is his.  No one can take it back.

She can’t register where he is, what he is doing.  At this point she is on automatic pilot, keeping to carefully chosen, well-rehearsed behavior, doing her best to render a  version of a gallant New England lady.  She looks back at him with hints of a strong resilient smile, the closest she can come to that.  It doesn’t matter.  He is in his own orbit.

Handshakes on his return to the table, hugs, salutes, winks, a kiss on the cheek from Esther Pollard, thumbs up from Joe Dyer, a glance Deborah’s way.

She’s gone. Esther points Michael in Deborah’s direction.  She’s hurrying to an exit from the ballroom leading to the outside. She turns around.  They look at each other.  Mascara has run down under her eyes.  She mouths the words to him, “I’ll be back”.  She looks as if she is angry with him. He isn’t sure why.

She had to get away. She  She has gone outside to a veranda, and from there into the welcoming darkness, down a path through a garden at the back of the hotel and then further away, down into the night.  As far as she can go, to a gazebo by a  pond, Deborah sits inside the gazebo on a bench far, far away.   She takes her shoes off, brings her knees close to her. She leans against the wall almost in a fetal position.  Still struggling to keep in control, she wills herself to breathe very slowly.  After a while a hint of calm returns and then it grows.  She drifts wherever the currents of her mind take her.   In the distance the ceremonies can be heard… A bullfrog croaks.  She closes her eyes. Memories from 12 years earlier occupy her.

 

Deborah and Michael have pitched two tents at a clearing high in the Berkshires overlooking fields and farmland below. It is a day to worship the fall foliage-a symphony of color, bright sunshine, the air has a bite to it, crisp, clear, newly cold.

Michael is eight feet up in a tree. He’s taped his brand new Nikon on a limb above him from which he can look through the eyepiece while remaining seated on a lower limb. He screws a cable in to the camera, which he specially purchased for this very picture.  The cable will run to the spot he has designated for himself in his soon to be family portrait, so he can snap it from there. This shot has been in Michael’s plans for a year. He told Deborah about it before they arrived.  It was hatched while they were making their first visit here and Michael sat on this exact tree trunk, saw this great view as he looked down at Ritchie, and wished he had a camera.  This time he is prepared. She watches him play with the shutter speed.

 Twelve years younger Michael is a devil with light green, deep set eyes. Deborah’s striking blonde, almost hippie curls are the first thing that catch people’s attention.  She is petite. She moves like a cat. The children are adorable; six-year-old Ritchie is quiet and observant, seven-year-old Lisa feisty to the full measure children are blessed.  Each of the Russells  have great hair, great eyes,  great teeth, great skin, and a grace of movement that makes effort silent.

Lisa has done enough posing,

“Dad, how long do we have to stand here?”

In complete agreement, Deborah gives Michael an “enough already” look.

“One more second,” he shouts back.

He looks through the lens.  It is a weird shot, the family, as seen from above.  The valley, thousands of feet below, acts as a backdrop.

“I love it.”  He shouts to no one in particular.

“ Okay, everyone stay where you are and look up.”

Ritchie breaks ranks.

Lisa grabs her brother, “Ritchie get back here.”

He obeys his sister. She looks up at her father. Michael winks his appreciation.  Still sitting on the limb, he positions Ritchie first to the right, then Lisa to the left. Then he moves Ritchie back left again.  He reminds everyone  that they have to look up.

Lisa is getting more exasperated.

“Daddy take the picture already.”

 They are very close to perfection.  Lisa’s arms are thrown around Harry, their mutt. They are just about there.  Ritchie could be up a little higher. But Deborah’s look of frustration has finally registered.  Michael will have to settle for the picture he has now or get nothing at all.  He hurriedly fiddles with the cable one last time, then swings down and hangs by the branch.

“Careful,” Deborah shouts.

He drops to the ground almost bouncing up as he lands. Score one for him against the nay- sayers.  Extending the cable he joins them. 

“Okay everyone, Look up… Cheese”.”

They shout, “Carrot juice.”  “Carrot juice” has become a tradition since it made them laugh the first time. This time is no exception. He clicks.

“Okay, one more”

It is the signal the kids have been waiting for.  They are outta there.

“Wait!” he yells

Lisa yells back ,“No way.”

Ritchie imitates Lisa.

“Yeah. No way.”

Happy noise: laughter, barking, Ritchie emits a wssssss, the airplane sound he makes when he flies his model plane. Chin level he wsssses past Lisa.  She drops her coat to the ground, spreads her arms wide so that they resemble air plane wings, and takes off.  She shouts to Ritchie.

“Catch me.”

 He reverses course and runs with his airplane after her as she circles the campfire. Then Lisa turns around and with arms still held wide, she makes Ritchie’s wsssss sound and chases Ritchie.  As soon as Harry comes into the picture they join forces.  Now it is two wssssers united chasing Harry. He gallops far away. Lisa shouts for him to return. He barks at her from a distance.  She once again runs around the fire.  Harry returns to chase her.  Ritchie simply stands and watches them with a big fat grin

 

In the gazebo Deborah continues to comfort herself with privacy.  The microphoned sound of the award ceremonies can be heard in the distance.  She drifts back to her memories…

 

The campfire is dying down, the sun is low in the sky. The children are still going, but exhaustion will follow soon … Deborah yells for them to come to her which they do without a protest. Putting a dab of toothpaste on each toothbrush, she hands the yellow tipped one to Lisa and the green tipped to Ritchie. Lisa inspects hers to be sure she’s been given the right toothbrush.  She holds it up.  From a canteen Deborah pours water on her brush then does the same for Ritchie.  They get to work. Ritchie hums as he goes.   Lisa is a more competent brusher. 

“Okay enough.” Deborah orders them.

  She hands Lisa the canteen for a swig of water.  Lisa gargles noisily then spits it out, aiming for the longest distance.  She enjoys the idea of spitting on the ground.

It’s Ritchie’s turn.  He gargles and spits not nearly as far as Lisa.  As compensation Ritchie sticks his toe on Lisa’s wet spot for good measure.

Deborah’s voice breaks through their procrastination. They know perfectly well what comes after brushing their teeth.  They deliver their toothbrushes to Deborah.    They love the absoluteness of the rules in this routine.  Like a game of Monopoly, “Go to Jail, Go directly to Jail. Do not pass Go.  Do not collect two hundred dollars.” The excitement is only possible if you don’t ask why, why do I have to go to jail.  Why can’t I collect $200 dollars.  Why?  No why’s are allowed.  No why’s are needed.  The fun comes from totally living within Monopoly.

“Okay.  March to the tent.”

They march.  When they get to the entrance she calls to them.

“About face.” 

They do so with military precision.

“Wow. Do that again.  No wait.  Let me call Daddy.”

She shouts from some distance away, “Michael”

He shouts back, “What?”

“Watch this.”

Happy marionettes. They repeat their about-face.

“That is cool.”

She yells to him,  “I’ll be there soon.”

She turns to the kids, “Okay.  In your tent.  I’ll come in to kiss you good night in a minute.” 

No protest.  They like sleeping in a tent.  Off they go.

Deborah washes their toothbrushes, listens to the crackling timbers in the fire.

She shouts to Michael.  He waves from the distance.  She inches her skirt little by little up her long legs.

“They’re amazing,” he calls out.

 He loves her legs. He’s told her many times that he married her for them.  She swims miles at the YMCA pool every other day to keep them exactly that way.

She enters the children’s tent, picks their clothes up and folds them. They are excited. This is a treat.  Normally they sleep alone in their rooms at home.

They sit side by side, their legs in their sleeping bags.

 Lisa is wearing a ring that Deborah had found in her mother’s attic and sized to fit Lisa.  She was told that it belonged to her grandmother’s great aunt who had never married. The ring had been given to her by a young man who died before he could marry her and she remained true. Deborah repeated the story to Lisa when she gave it to her.  After that she wouldn’t take it off even when she took her bath.  She loved that story.

Lisa hands her ring to Ritchie, “Put it on tonight. It means we are married.”

Ritchie counters, “I can’t marry my sister.  Right Mommy?”

“Make believe,” Lisa argues.

The boss interrupts.

“Come on guys.”

Their arms disappear inside their bags. Deborah zips them in and gives each a kiss.  As soon as she turns away they give each other a look of complicity.

As she leaves they giggle excitedly. From outside the tent Deborah warns them.

“Shh…”

They giggle again.  She smiles, walks away.  She listens carefully.  Every once in a while she thinks she hears an animal stepping on a twig.   Momentarily a bear jumps out of the darkness until she reassures herself that it is her imagination. She feels a chill. She puts on a sweatshirt and gets closer to the fire.  She sits on the ground, lights a joint, unwinds, stares into space, calming herself with the quiet.  After 10 minutes she reenters the children’s tent. They are asleep. Her eyes embrace them.  She  listens to their gentle breathing.  Lisa coughs. Deborah continues to listen. Lisa’s breathing is clear.  As she parts the door flap of the tent she can make out Michael 100 yards away`.

He is literally seated on the edge of the cliff, where they took the picture thousands of feet above the valley. The ledge is tilted slightly downward. Deborah approaches carefully, gripping the rock with her strong fingernails for extra traction as she slides next to him.  She almost slips a bit but recovers.

“Wo.  That was close,” he says with concern.

“I’m all right.’  She examines her finger.  “I broke a nail.” 

She settles in, looks straight out.

“How is your book going? How’s Cornelius?”

“The Commodore  is amazing- as always.  What a guy.”

‘I still don’t get  what’s so interesting about Vanderbilt?”

“I guess because he came from nothing.”

“But two years on this guy.  It’s like he’s part of our family. Truthfully I think he’s a macho schmuck.”

“ You don’t know anything about him.”

“Is that what you really wanted to be, a macho guy who wins all the time?  You know that means  everyone else loses?”

“Debby” he utters in a warning tone.  Then stops.

They both stop.  Time out.  They have learned to be quiet when tension arises. She bites her lip a bit.  He looks straight ahead seeing nothing.  But within 20 seconds both of them regain their connection.  Silently, they  look out straight ahead at the just beginning sunset,  to the clouds now painted with color, to the distant line where the sky touches the ground. They are soothed by the soft whistling wind, occasionally punctuated by  ospreys calling out their dominance over the valley beneath. The minutes pass intensely.   They feel every moment in their fingers, in the air going in and out of their lungs, in the sky becoming saturated with color, which fills their vision.

 ” How did you find this place? Remind me.” Deborah asks.

“Joe told me about it.”

“Right…It’s something.”

Again they are silent until Deborah laughs to herself.

“What?”

“Something Amy said.”

“What?”

“She said in a past life you must have been Japanese. Always trying to take perfection to the next level.”

“Do you think so?”

They both know it is true. Neither understands it.  He forever reaches for the ultimate, the ultimate truth, the ultimate lie, the ultimate orgasm, the ultimate rose, the ultimate truffle flavored anything, the ultimate barbecued beef, cranberry soda, the ultimate view. Whatever it is that he likes, he wants to bring it to the next level.  And when he gets there he wants something better. “ Why not?” he asks.  “If you are alive why not want the best there is, just so that you know what that is like?”  Greed she calls it. Deprivation, he explains, but understanding will not change it.  It is simply a given. 

And as she could have predicted, the sunset is a perfect one, the sun huge, the sky now yellow with hints of red. Below, at the corner of one of the fields, orange pumpkins are piled high. Very, very far away workers can be discerned, tiny dots, purposefully doing the necessary. Behind them the autumn leaves catch the fading yellow light as it slowly relents to a vivid  reddish hue.  A sliver of red sun shimmers at the edge of the horizon.  Then it disappears. They both exhale in appreciation.  He hands her a plastic cup of wine.  He is excited.

“I can see why they used to worship the sun.”

“Who are they?” She loves to tweak him.

“Ancient people. People who lived outside. Not knowing how things work, not knowing things through books, just the sun right in front of you, warm and there and huge. You have to admit God’s done a pretty good job here.”

She nods. He lifts his cup.  “To the big guy in the sky.”

Deborah holds her cup up.

“To the Sun God.”

They sip. The wind howls. Leaves fly everywhere. Then stillness. She looks skyward straight above, and is captured by a sliver of the moon, which  is already visible.

She whispers to it, “To the god who owns the night with a whisper.”

“Only one god allowed.”

“Not in my religion.”

“You smoked didn’t you?”

She opens her arms.

“Come here Mr. Vanderbilt.”

 

Seated at the table in the ballroom Michael keeps glancing at the exit waiting for   Deborah‘s return. The award ceremony continues. He fingers his napkin under the table.  It is rough, which he likes. He can’t get rid of that last look from Deborah.  Was she angry? Like Deborah, the excitement of the award has stirred up his emotions, bombarded him with memories. He also drifts in and out of the past.  His thoughts go to seven years earlier.

 

Two hands slap at an overturned card, a jack. Lisa and Ritchie try to out shout each other.  Michael watches quietly.

“Slapjack!”

Ritchie, now eleven, is sitting on twelve-year-old Lisa’s hospital bed.   Both want to win badly. Happy rock n’ roll plays in the background.  Lisa has mastered her bubble gum, cracking it emphatically, rhythmically, repeatedly blowing small bubbles then sucking them in. With one hand behind her back, she draws the next card.

Ritchie fakes slapping the pack.  Lisa, just in time, freezes her hand.  He points at it.

“You moved your hand.”

She shakes her head, “No!”

“You did!”

They prepare for the next draw. Lisa sneaks a look at the covered card. Another jack! Keeping a poker face she uncovers it. She beats Ritchie’s slap, smiles triumphantly.

Ritchie is not happy.

“You cheated.  You snuck a look.”

“I did not.”

“You did. I saw you.”

“Daddy!

“Leave me out of it.”

She brings the back of her hand to her chest, swallows hard with a little too much theatre. Ritchie watches this and suspects she is playing it up but he isn’t sure.  The discomfort, real or feigned, passes as quickly as it came. Mischievously she smiles as she prepares to turn over the next card.

She imitates the sound of a drum roll. Ritchie is not amused.

“Stop,” he orders.

Deborah noisily enters the room.  Lisa doesn’t look up. For a crucial moment she tries to stay with her game.  Finally she gives in.

As Deborah’s mother once did to her, Deborah moves the back of her hand across Lisa’s forehead, then puts her cheek against it,  checking her temperature. “How’s the patient?” she asks cheerfully, as she deposits some bags of snacks on a chair.

“Is the food any better in the cafeteria?  What they bring me here sucks.”

Deborah glares at Lisa. She doesn’t like that kind of talk.  Lisa’s eyes drop.  Michael  tosses a bag of potato chips to her.  Deborah tries to intercept it.

“Doctor said only hospital food.”

Lisa throws it back to her father, “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

Ritchie moves off to the corner of the room. He pretends to be busy shuffling his deck of cards, but he is watching everything.

Deborah again touches Lisa’s brow with the back of her hand.

“She definitely has a fever.”

“Again?”

“I’m pretty sure.  Here, feel her brow.”

Michael ignores her and plops into a chair by the bedside.  He takes the TV remote and puts on the New England Patriots.

Deborah strokes Lisa forehead.

“Are you okay?”

“No different.”

“Does anything hurt?”

“It’s the same Mom, the same.  Stop asking me. That’s the hundredth time you’ve asked today.”

“When did they bring your medicine?  Michael, check with the nurse.”

He reluctantly starts to get out of his chair. Lisa intervenes.

“Mom.  This is a big game.  Ritchie you go.”

Ritchie goes forward with his task.  He leaves the room and heads towards the nursing station.  The once grand hospital is showing its age. The corridors have been scrubbed and scrubbed Harvard style, but the marble trim around passageways has passed the point of a pleasant ivory toned patina to simply looking brown and dingy.  The high ceilings seem to amplify the cold creepy institutional feeling.  Ritchie shuffles down the hall. He shoots a look in the first room he encounters.  A doctor and two assistants are busy preparing for a procedure.  He catches the eye of seven-year-old Billy sitting up on his bed.

“Hey Billy.”

Billy, pale and clearly ill, points his index finger at him, pretending to shoot a gun.  Ritchie returns the gesture. The door closes.  Ritchie moves on down the hall when suddenly Billy’s scream rips through the quiet.

“OWWWWW”

“It won’t hurt…It won’t hurt. I promise you. Stay still.”

Then another scream is heard all over the ward, this one for real. In her room  Lisa looks at her father.  She squeezes her mother’s hand.

Billy screams again,. “You said it wouldn’t hurt. You said it wouldn’t hurt.  You promised.”

“Hold him still. I can’t do this if he keeps moving.”

CHAPTER  2

 

As soon as they return from the hospital  to their fifth floor Boston apartment, Ritchie goes to his room.  Michael turns on the Patriot game.  Deborah settles by the window that  looks out on the asphalt playground. It is late afternoon but the children’s energy has not let up. From five stories above their  screams are actually soothing, like birds chirping in the countryside, each with a different call, talking back and forth to each other through the airwaves.  Laughter, anger, silliness, pleading, a little boy’s voice over and over in Spanish, “Mira! Mira!”, but then another and another, “Higher…” “Get away….”  “Stop that Joey…” Then a mother, “Get Over Here.  Now!”

When she was playground age  Lisa used to call Deborah over to this window.  Within a few minutes their coats were on and they were on the way to the park.  They both loved that about the apartment.

Trying to clear her head she looks for a particular mother and daughter that she has watched many times before on the swings.  They often sooth her.   Only, they are not there.  She tries watching a different mother.    No use.  Billy’s cries keep pushing into her mind.    She gets up  and places herself in front of the TV, blocking Michael’s view.  “Shut it off,” she demands

“It’s the fourth quarter.“

“Shut it off…Please”

He mutes the TV sound with his remote. She waits for his attention

“How can you watch TV?”

“ I like it.”

“ So you can tune me  out?”

“It relaxes me.”

“Not everyone has that choice.”

“Debby, just tell me what you want.”

She hesitates.  She has started badly.  He’s already pissed, closed.  She used to be able to wait for the right moment.  In the very earliest years when the current of their love was powerful, there was no wrong moment. His attention was total.  That relationship had been gone long even before Lisa’s illness.  Now she become impatient.  She usually plunges ahead, regardless of where he is at.

“I want to take Lisa out of the hospital.”

He waits for what is coming next.  Seeing that look on his face stops her. She returns to the  window. This time she spots the mother she was looking for before.  She’s  watched this woman  push her daughter on that swing for several years.  She never grows tired of them.  When the girl’s fears of the swing dissipated  Deborah  smiled triumphantly along with the girl’s mother.  “Higher, higher,”  she’d shout.  But eventually the mother became the frightened one as her daughter became  a bit of a dare devil.   .

Deborah’s voice is calm.   “Amy told me about her cousin who also has a lymphoma.  Everyone said nothing could be done… She took shark cartilage.  They’ve used it in China for thousands of years.”

Michael’s voice is cold. “Yin and yang is just not going to cut it.  Lisa’s not going to be treated with health foods.”

“Oh! Daddy has spoken.” Her voice moves beyond sarcasm to contempt.   “Father knows best.”   Then fury.  “Times are changing Mr. Man.”

“Not tonight Debby.  You want to fight, keep it on the main subject.  We are talking about Lisa.”

That  quiets her.  She’s goes back to the window, again watches the girl on the swing.  She was a pip squeak when she was 3.  It’s amazing how she’s grown.  But still that mouth. She’s giving her mother a run for her money.  Like Lisa. Like Deborah did to her own mother.   She regroups.  Again, she addresses Michael.  Her determination is unmistakable.

“I’m not going to let them torture her.”

“ Torture? Come on, Debby.  This isn’t a movie”

“They’re not going to torture Lisa.” She repeats.

“No one’s torturing her.”  He’s getting more irritated. Her eyes move to the floor. Seizing the moment his eyes dart over to the TV, trying to steal the Patriot score.  But, his glance is too quick to get that done.

“God only knows what they were doing to Billy today.  I swear.  They get off on it…They stick needles in her.  They  jab and cut into her. They make Lisa swallow disgusting stuff. Yesterday it was a tube. How would you like to swallow a plastic tube?  She has trouble with pills. Where do they come up with their procedures? Tell me.  What stupid person dreams them up?”

“These stupid doctors are Harvard trained.”

“Oh Harvard.  Mr. Harvard.  There are fewer sadists at Harvard.  Right?  People are really nicer there.” She takes a breath then continues.  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe all that smartness makes for  better ways to torture children?”

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“You think being smart makes people nicer.”  She looks him straight in the eye.  “It just makes for better bullshit.”

She’s said all of this before. Many times.  It used to get to him.  Now it’s old.  He waits for what is coming next.

“I know you think Billy’s a cry baby …”

“I was wrong about Billy okay.  I admit it. Last week  I saw him.   They barely touched him and he was screaming.”

“You called him a wus.  Do you know what he has been through?”

“I was pissed, okay.? I took it out on him. I’m not allowed to get pissed?”

“You said it loud enough so that his mother heard you.”

“You really think she could hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t know she was there.”

Deborah knows it was not intentional and that he truly is sorry, but she can’t bring herself to forgive him. He waits.  Her face has not softened. He continues.  “I was wrong, he repeats.”   Okay?”

It is not okay.  She talks about Billy all the time.  The other patients on the ward and their families have become family.  They are the only ones that understand. Two weeks ago  Michael just let it fly.  He couldn’t  stand the whimpering.   He looks morosely at her.

“What do you want me to say?  I was wrong. I know Billy’s been through hell.”

She continues to stare at him coldly.

He answers weakly. “We’re talking about a lymphoma. Dr. Clark knows what he is doing.”

“Lisa’s not going to end up like Billy.   They’re not going to break her.”

“No one is trying to break her.”

“Some of what they do is probably necessary.  But some of it is total bullshit.  I’m sure of that.  One day they are going to do one thing,  which they tell me is important.  Then they change their mind and don’t do it.  Or they do something else instead.”

“To me that’s good.  It means they are thinking things over, not just following a cookbook.  I hated it when they were following those protocols. Would you like it better if a doctor decided to do something and went ahead with it  even if he knew he had made a mistake?”

“Michael, the protocols were when they felt on top of the situation.  Now, they don’t  know what they are doing.   I swear.  Half of it is just to do something.  Anything.  I’m sure of that.”

“It is better than doing nothing.”

“Not when the main thing you are trying to do is prove  that you are a great doctor.”

“That’s not it.  Well maybe Dr. Fabian.  But not Clark.  He usually talks to me about it.  He reads somewhere that a procedure worked.  So he figures why not.  Maybe it will help Lisa.”

“Maybe it’s something else.  Did you see those bills?  Every time they do a procedure they get paid a fortune, what you earn in a month.”

“Deborah, the money goes to the school not them.  They are doing their best.”

He glances at the TV hoping nothing has gone wrong for New England.

She shuts off the TV manually.

He clicks it on.

“I hate that TV.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine.  You want to watch it. But what about me?”

“Deborah  it’s not to hurt you.  I need to unwind.”

“Okay.  But less… okay?  Less.”

“Okay.”

For this moment she has him back.  She softens.  She sits down next to him, her fingers  soon knead  the taut muscles at the back of his neck. He stops her, moves his neck away.  Her fingers follow.

“You  are not at the hospital during the week.”

“I have to work.  You remember.  Paying bills?”

“Still.”

He pulls his neck totally free.  “I’m not going to apologize for that.”

“ Fine, but you miss half of what is going on.”

“Like what?”

“Everything.”   She stops for a moment,  “Okay, not everything.  But a lot. Coming home I kept thinking about  Lisa’s spinal tap Tuesday.”

She hasn’t told him about it, mainly because usually he tunes her out, but he is listening now…  “She was a trooper… She had that little scared smile.” Deborah is also half smiling,  proudly.

“Remember…at her birthday party…She was three?  The clown broke a balloon? That loud pop…  That smile.  She was scared but it was her “princess” party.   That’s what she called the party. She was dressed like a princess.  So she had to act like a princess.  Princesses don’t look scared.”

Michael does remember.  It is on video.  Her hands on her hips like she is about to sing out a verse from Oklahoma. Trying not to look scared, she was very cute.

Deborah continues, “ She did whatever the neurologist told her to do. She was in control of herself. It was like Lisa had invented  a game.  She always did that. Pictured herself in a story.   I don’t  know who she was playing, what story.  Maybe it wasn’t a story, but whatever he told her to do she did it. No resistance…” Deborah smiles fondly, “She’s a trooper…”  She whispers to herself, her eyes water  “She’s  sweet,”

Michael is with her.  “The neurologist asked her to lie down on her stomach.  She listened closely.  Waited for each direction.  You could see  her fear but she was in control, overcoming it.   She was trying to completely trust the doctor.  They told her to roll on her side. She did.   Only as she did it her hospital gown pulled up.  She didn’t want people to see her underpants. So she tried to pull her gown down. But, suddenly they were in a hurry. Like the neurologist had had enough pussy footing around. He was on go and she was on stop.   They had her pinned down and they weren’t going to let go.  Her fingers kept moving, trying to catch her gown.  A nurse saw that.  So she held her wrist tighter. I was whispering into her ear, kissing her.  But I could see what was going on.”

Deborah hesitates.  She is fighting her tears.

“I said nothing.  Nothing…They could have waited two seconds so she could cover up her underpants…She’s twelve.  She’s a girl.  Twelve year olds want to cover their underpants.  I thought nurses are supposed to know things like that.”

“They do.”

“Not any more. I don’t get it. Half the nurses want to be doctors. They are not tuned in to their patients.”   She bites her lip.    “I wanted to scream: ”Let go of her hand…I don’t understand why I said nothing.”

“You didn’t want to get them upset.  You wanted them to have a cool head. They were going to stick something in Lisa’s spine.”

Deborah’s face hardens.  “No.  It’s not that.  It’s that they’re in charge.  What time we come, what time we go, what they feed her.  They are just automatically  in charge.”

“It’s their hospital.”

“It’s our daughter.  Lisa’s ours. Michael she’s ours.”

“Debbie, Amy’s health food stories are wacko. Remember that line?  “The more you need the truth the more you must lie.””

“Yeah John Lennon. So?”  She is getting irritated.  She doesn’t want to hear theories.

“You can’t trust true believers. Their cures get more miraculous every time the story gets repeated.”

“I don’t want to hear your bullshit right now.  Okay?”

“Deborah please! You’re not completely wrong but don’t fight them. Okay?   Don’t.   It makes it more difficult. Dr. Clark studied for years, studied hard. He’s not stupid!”

“Fine.  He’s not stupid. But you know what? It doesn’t matter… Sometimes the cancer calls the shots.  All I ask is that Clark admit it if nothing is working… Because I have to take her home….”

“You really don’t get it.  They are trying to save her.  She may have to put up with pain because maybe it will save her life.”

“Don’t give me that “It’s for Lisa bullshit. She’s staying there for us… For us; because we want her to be there…Shut off the football game occasionally and take a good look at her.  She’s waiting for me to say it “Get dressed we’re out of here.” She’s already figured it out. The hospital is useless.  She’s waiting for me to say it, for me to get this situation under control.”

“Debby.  Taking her home will make everything worse.”

She stops.  She knows that particular pitch and volume. Michael is about to blow.  She is suddenly very quiet, like she has heard thunder in the distance.  They’ve been  here before.  Too many times lately  She listens carefully.  They both calm a bit.

” Remember the time I had that flat tire with them in the car?  Lisa was about six.”

“No.”

“AAA? I had a fight with you that night?.”

“Right.”

“I never told you the whole story…” She has his attention.  “I was screaming at Ritchie and Lisa to stop fighting, I got out.  Opened the trunk.  I couldn’t find the’ jack.  Meanwhile the back door opens. The traffic is buzzing by.  I screamed.  “Close the door.  Close the door.”  Lisa steps out anyway.   ”Get back in the car.  Get back in the car”  She just looked at me and understood everything. I didn’t have to fake that I knew what I was doing.  I couldn’t fake it.   She knew that I didn’t  But she also knew it was going to all turn out ok.  I wasn’t going to let anything bad happen.  Lisa and Ritchie used to get that from me.”

She smiles

“Lisa pushed her body against the car and slipped over near me at the back.  When she was close enough she stood next to me,  “Mom.  Call AAA.”  She knew I didn’t  know what the hell to do.  But that was okay because she did.  She knew I was going to make sure it was okay, or she was going to make sure, or someone would.”

“Sorry about  AAA.”

“It’s okay.  We didn’t have much money back then.”

“Yeah but you were pissed about it and you were right.”

“Well you said no.  I wasn’t going to let you get away with that.”

She refocuses.  Her voice changes. “I understood.  We had to economize.”

“ So okay  we agree?”

“Yes.”

“ One more time like this morning and we are out of there.”

“ No we are not agreed.  We are going to do whatever Dr. Clark says.  We have to”

She  screams at him  “Clark doesn’t give a shit.  It’s just a job to him.”

“He takes his job seriously.  That’s enough.”

“Maybe.” She answers with a trace of resignation in her voice.

They are both tiring.

“He better admit it if we’re not going anywhere.”  She trails off,  “Fuckin’ doctors’ egos.”

She pours scotch into a large glass, straight.  She sips a little, then downs it.  She stares down Michael’s disapproval.

“You think your praying is any different?  You think you’re gonna get a miracle here?”

She downs another, then continues.

“You think God listens to your mumbling? He’s old Michael. He needs a hearing aid.  Because if he hears okay he’s definitely a sadist.”

“Shut up. Debby”

In his room Ritchie is playing an intense video game which  fills the room with noise, laser gun screeches, grunts from splattered  monsters as they are gunned down.  Every once in a while he can hear his parents, especially the  “shut ups”.  He turns up the volume of his game, obliterates the sound of their fighting  The action gets more furious.  Deborah shouts from the foyer,

“Ritchie do your homework.”

Ritchie shoots a mutant alien. A groan.

Michael goes to his computer.  He checks the football score.  New England

lost.  He gets back to work on his novel about Cornelius Vanderbilt.  As usual he is blessedly absorbed within  minutes.

 

 

 

Chapter 3

  From the day it opened, the Vanderbilt Hotel in Boston was unlike any other hotel Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt owned. It was built in 1846, the same year as the Vanderbilt in Philadelphia and one year before the Vanderbilt Hotel in Baltimore.  It began life exactly like them, plush, profitable enough, and of no particular distinction. Then, some time in the 1850’s it became Vanderbilt’s obsession.  The Boston Vanderbilt  became the  jewel in his crown.

It began with an ordinary conversation at a family gathering honoring Vanderbilt’s nephew, the soon to be married Ernst VanDoren.  They had been called together to meet Ernest’s bride to be, Belize Moreau.  Her entrance into the family was already stirring up controversy.  She was to be the first member of the family who wasn’t Dutch.  Worse still, she was French.

Belize’s position as family outcast was a familiar one for her.    In Lyon there were questions about her parentage.  Her father not infrequently voiced his doubts when he had too much wine,  and that was not infrequently.  Belize eventually came to the same conclusion.  She had spied her mother once out in the fields with another.  A week later she asked her mother who her father was.  She was told her father was her father, but she knew it wasn’t true  from the way her mother answered.   Also the way her father treated her.   Whatever the facts, by the age of 14 the tension between Belize and her father became so unbearable that she had to live elsewhere.    Belize’s mother had a sister in Paris.  She gave her twenty francs and Belize left for Paris.

She stayed seven years.  Paris astounded her.  She was at an impressionable age, and Paris makes quite an impression.  She took to it like a fish to water    Belize became more Parisian than those born and bred there.  They took for granted what Belize had to learn for herself, so she learned it well.    She was ambitious from day one,  an unstinting competitor.  If she saw a quality in Parisians that she liked, she made it her own, then improved upon it.  She knew she was very pretty.  She liked style.  There is no better teacher than Paris.  There is no better competitor than Belize.

Then she hit a wall.  The owner’s son at the store where she worked was trying to seduce her.   She soon dreaded going to her job.  Not long after she turned  twenty-one, she found a way to get to Montreal as a French tutor for the children of a wealthy Canadian.  She spent a year with them, long enough to put legs under her, some money in the bank, and acquire a better understanding of Montreal.    She was soon working at two jobs saving for a shop she intended to open, a fabric store carrying materials from Paris.   She was surprised how few stores in Montreal carried the very latest styles.   Not even last year’s fabrics.  Montreal was  usually three years behind Paris, even Lyon.  She was excited by the possibilities.  At least that’s how her dreams went until she met ErnstVan Doren and decided that plan was finished.  It had served its purpose.  Montreal had given her life a fresh new kick.  She now expected Boston to do the same.   She recognized in Ernst what she needed most, a person of parallel ambition, dissatisfied and looking up rather than down for answers. Paris, Montreal, Boston- it doesn’t matter where you are. She had learned that from her travels.

Sophia Vanderbilt, the Commodore’s wife of thirty years, disapproved of Belize’s  restlessness.  She had not met her, just heard the gossip, but she usually ran her opinions through Cornelius, especially before they turned out the oil lamp at night.

“Restlessness is a dangerous quality in a woman,” she intoned.

“Not always,” he answered.

“A woman who gets married and wants a family?”

“How do you know she wants a family?”

“Then why is she getting married?”

Case closed. Sophia turned out the light on her side of the bed and was soon sleeping soundly.  Cornelius, on the other hand, had a head full of questions about Belize.   It takes one to like one.  He was attracted to wandering spirits.  His businesses had brought him to three continents, far, far beyond his family’s horizons.  Family functions had become tiresome.  He made his appearance out of respect for his mother.  But the  rumors  about Belize had made this gathering intriguing.  He fell asleep shortly after deciding he would get a hair cut.

On the day of the get together, Ernst’s father coached him about how to best approach Vanderbilt.  The strategy was to wait until his uncle was weary of conversation and had disposed of everyone else.  At that point Cornelius would welcome him.  They had always had a special relationship.  Ernst was the first born in his generation, so as a baby, he had been a big hit with his uncles and aunts.  An uncle at the age of 16, Cornelius, had been won over by his nephew, really until Ernst became a teenager, after which Cornelius found him a bit irritating  But by then Cornelius was finding most of his family irritating.  Nevertheless, after a period of indifference whenever Ernst and Cornelius crossed paths their original relationship was capable of resurrecting previous feelings.

When Ernst was very young.  Vanderbilt was his hero.  Particularly when he was young Vanderbilt enjoyed playing that role.  He could still remember himself at Ernst’s age.  Vanderbilt  knew he was the pride of the family, the one among them who had made something of himself.  He also knew that a number of his siblings had very complicated emotions towards him, even Daniel, once his pal among the nine of them.  Daniel’s envy grew the wealthier Cornelius became.  Many of his siblings thought he should be sharing his good fortune with them.  He didn’t.  His wealth was earmarked for further investment.   Among his cousins he was  an object of fascination, and debate.  His faults were frequently picked over bringing whatever comfort that might bring. Perhaps it was partly  that he smiled so infrequently when they spoke to him.  Some of them felt Vanderbilt judged them.  This was true early on, as he struggled to shed his old assumptions  But later, after his new identity was more securely formed, he was indifferent, which came across as coldness.  Certainly, he did not go out of his way to be warm to them or anyone else.  He distrusted charm as a sign of dishonesty.  He’d preferred being blunt and honest.  Whatever the explanation, he was not a person any of them could  join for relaxed conversation at a family gathering.

It is so much easier for children to be accepting, especially Ernst who saw his uncle in heroic terms.  Ernst recognized wealth as a good quality from the time he was four, especially after he asked Santa Claus for an outrageous gift, a rocking horse that he had seen in a store window in Manhattan, far beyond his parents capabilities.   He got the rocking horse. Since his parents could not afford it the conclusion was that it must have come from  Santa Claus.  Somehow, in his mind, Santa Claus and Uncle Cornelius were related.  Perhaps Uncle Cornelius had written Santa Claus a letter.  He didn’t figure it out until he was older and put two and two together.  After that, when he needed it, he assumed Cornelius would help him out.    The job he now had at the Astoria Hotel was most likely given to him initially because he was Vanderbilt’s nephew.

But Ernst also made his own way.  It had taken him eight years but so far so good.  He was working in Boston, in charge of the Astoria Hotel during the midnight shift, a position that usually implied he would one day be the manager of the hotel.  His uncle was resting by the fire.  It was a good time to approach him.

“ Uncle Cornelius…   Don’t get up” Ernst sat down next to him, rubbing his hands. “Nice fire.”

“How is the Astoria Hotel doing?” Cornelius inquired

“A little slow.  Not much going on in Boston right now.”

“Is it that nothing is going on in Boston? Or is there something wrong at the Astoria?  Last time we talked you also told me the Astoria wasn’t very busy? ”

“Yes.”

“So.  What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, but my theory is the Astoria would do much better if it stood for something.  Right now they know people come there because the sheets will be clean, the beds will be comfortable and it is quiet.”

“That is enough for me when I need a hotel.”

“I know, but there are dozens of hotels like that.  What I would really like to see is a hotel that generated a little excitement, like the hotels in New York.”

“You mean clubs and restaurants?  I don’t know about Boston?  The Puritans still have a pretty tight grip.   Except for the Irish, people go to bed by 10.   They have no interest in a downtown hotel.”

“Maybe, but I think even Boston could use a little more excitement.”

Figuring out what to do with his money, how to make it work for him, was constantly on Vanderbilt mind.   He had always been full of questions, always doubted half the things he was told.  It wasn’t that he liked being a doubting Thomas, though later he counted it as a virtue.  It was that he truly didn’t feel that he knew and understood something whereas others were completely confident of their knowledge when informed of what was said to be the facts.  As a boy many people found his doubting irritating.  His mind was too lively.  He’d keep wanting to talk about issues when everyone assumed a  subject had already been settled.  It was a bit of  a joke among several of the uncles.  This young kid didn’t know when to stop.

But, as annoying as his stubbornness was, his persistence was admired. One uncle had complained about all of the liquor bottles littering the shore of Port Richmond.  Cornelius, at the ripe age of eight  said he would clean them up for a penny a bottle.  The uncle agreed but after 2 weeks  the agreement was off.  Cornelius had collected so many bottles that his uncle told him he couldn’t afford to continue the project.

Vanderbilt liked Ernest’s idea about a hotel with  personality.  Before he even thought it over, the words were out of his mouth  On the spot he offered Ernst the job of running the Boston Vanderbilt.

“Really?”

“Yes.  I need someone with fresh ideas.”

“I’m flabbergasted.  This is going beyond generosity.”

”It has nothing to do with that.  This is a business decision.”

“Still…”

“If you don’t think you are up to it I can reconsider.”

“When do I start?”

“That’s more like it…Take your time.  After your wedding.  Then we will announce your new job.”

“Thank you Uncle Cornelius.  This is a wonderful wedding gift.”

“If you are going to work for me no more Uncle Cornelius.  It’s Corneel”

“ Corneel.” Ernst repeated.

“Good.  One other thing.  Don’t mention this to anyone.  I’ll announce it when the time is right.”

“If that is the way you want it.”

Vanderbilt’s offer to his nephew was completely out of character.  No one could remember when the Commodore had done anything remotely like it before.  He was rarely impulsive and hardly ever generous to his extended family.  Hard experience had taught him that if he said yes to one, they would all line up outside his door.

But it wasn’t just family consequences.  Once they heard about it, Ernst’s hiring pissed off several of his men.  For one thing he hadn’t yet fired the current head of the hotel.  No one even knew he had been dissatisfied.  Frank Porter in particular, who had worked for Vanderbilt for a decade, was very unhappy.  For close to two years he had assumed that he was next in line to be made  manager of one of the hotels.  More than that, not just Frank Porter, but all of his lieutenants found Vanderbilt’s interest in Ernst incomprehensible.  Ernst was a stuffed shirt.  People like him were the butt of half of the Commodore’s jokes, Americans with an English accent.  He called them future butlers.  They couldn’t fathom what Cornelius saw in this man, nephew or not.

As it turned out, they were wrong and Vanderbilt right.  For forty years,  until he retired, Ernst ran the Vanderbilt Hotel competently.  He was so honest that after fifteen years, Vanderbilt did away with his usual spy planted in management. More to the point, the Boston hotel was more profitable than any of the other hotels.

Yet, the truth is, Cornelius could not have predicted this kind of success when he made his offer.  His instincts weren’t that good. His pattern was to stick to his usual cast of co-conspirators, men whom he knew well enough to trust, or, at least, knew their weaknesses so he understood which areas he would have to keep an eye on.  It took at least 5 to 10 years for him to reach that level of confidence, but once he got there, the people he put in important positions got the job done. Yes he had hunches, and some times made decisions on the basis of them, but not when it came to hiring people.

Frank Porter’s surprise at Vanderbilt’s sudden decision was nothing compared to Sophia Vanderbilt’s suspicions.  She knew something had to be up. Indeed, Vanderbilt had his wife in mind when he asked Ernst not to mention his offer to anyone at the gathering.  The problem was Belize hadn’t been warned and she profusely thanked Mrs. Vanderbilt for the offer.  Instantaneously Sophia understood the mystery of Ernst’s appointment.  Earlier in the evening she had seen the way Cornelius’s eyes locked on Belize when she entered the room.  It was a momentary glimpse, and when they formally met he was proper, but she knew her husband well, sometimes, he admitted, better than he knew himself.

Later that night, as they were getting ready for bed, Sophia double-checked her suspicions, casually remarking that Belize was beautiful.  He answered with his lying voice, the relaxed innocent tone that worked with other people but had the opposite effect on her. A single syllable spoken in that tone and she knew.  He said he hadn’t really noticed her.  No further evidence needed.  The explanation for the job offer was obviously Belize.  Sophia had never liked the idea of a French woman being brought into the family.  Everyone knew about their loose morals and deviousness, none better than Sophia Vanderbilt.  Her distrust of hedonism had been finely tuned by generations of Dutch practicality.

Within a year after the Van Dorens took over the Boston Vanderbilt the gossip began.  More and more things were not adding up.  Vanderbilt was a hard headed, cussin’, tobacco chewing man with a fondness for spittoons.   He quit school when he was 11 because he had learned what he needed to know.  Later, after huge successes, he explained his decision.  “If I had learned education I would not have had time to learn anything else.”   He was a cut to the bone, no nonsense man.  Yet, the Boston Vanderbilt had become nothing if not nonsense.  It was no longer really a businessman’s hotel, nor a resting place for travelers.  There were too many personal touches, surprises residing in every nook and cranny.  The word that comes to mind is exquisite, which is the same quality that describes Belize after she had thrown herself  into creating the décor at the Vanderbilt.  Each year both she, and the hotel, grew lovelier and lovelier.

In the spring and summer, Belize’s flower arrangements were other worldly,  sharp dramatically defined angles, subtle color contrasts, grounding a gorgeous flower.  No one in Boston had seen anything quite like it, especially the Japanese influence.  Like other Parisians, she had been caught up in Japonisme.  Admiral Perry and the Americans had forced Japan to open up to the West.  The French were Japan’s prisoners.  Parisians were totally enslaved.   She succumbed to the graceful lines, the simplicity.  Her long fingers moved like a pianist, quickly,  deftly, with lightening decisions made by her practiced eye.   She had learned this from a Japanese Master that she watched with an open mouth one evening in Paris. She asked if she could watch him prepare for the following day when his arrangements would be sold.  He agreed to her request.

She did not understand a word of Japanese.  It was the rhythm she absorbed, the intense concentration, the speed of his decisions, but also the speed with which he scrapped an arrangement and began again.  The flowers were either arranged perfectly or discarded.  This became her way.  It was true of her in the earliest years of her flower arranging, when her knowledge was minimal.  It continued years and years later when thousands of arrangements heightened  her skills to a fine edge.   The rule remained the same, perfect in every detail or worthless.

Small things defined her universe.  Her graceful wrists, her dancing fingers suddenly stopped when she arrived at the end of an arrangement, accompanied by a tiny silent gasp, and there it was.

It was not only flowers.  Morning to night Belize walked through the hotel perfecting the placement of things, moving furniture, statues, vases, bringing items from one part of the hotel to the other, adoring something here, moving it there, looking from every vantage point.  She was like an artist working on the composition of a painting, or more to the point, in the spirit of generations of Japanese gardeners, who over the centuries working in the great gardens of Kyoto, deliberated on every angle, every inch of the soil.

That same critical vision was first developed years before, and further refined every morning, as she studied herself in the mirror at the start of her day.  One might assume that, given her beauty, hardly any effort was necessary, but, on the contrary, her natural beauty was her leap off point.  How she constructed  herself was at least as important as what had been given to her at birth. She knew what every young Parisian woman knows.  A new look is the only way to command continuing interest, including her own.   Style is everything, an  automatic reflex among the young.  Her hairstyle, her lipstick, her eye makeup, were always inspired by the latest Parisian fashions.  She would then improve on them, perpetually recreating herself.  But, she was Parisian and then some. She was not a slave to fashion.  It stood as her base, the ground under her, solid, but she liked to venture to the edge, defying good taste with her own flirtations with the unallowable.    Like the hotel, her appearance was a never ending work in progress.  Endpoints were a trap, permanence the kiss of death.  Good hair days, if they tempted you to stay there too long, could do you in.  Same for the hotel- while her eyes often widened with recognition that, at last, everything was stunning, the next day she was bored by it and at it again.

On Saturday nights, when her work was done for the week, her visit to the Chez Girard, the restaurant off the grand lobby, was her piece de resistance.  Her walk across the lobby, from the Van Doren family suite to the restaurant was like a coronation. Not the pomp and circumstance, but the electricity in the air, the anticipation.    Arriving at the restaurant she was greeted by Chef Girard at the door as if she were entering his home.  He was originally from Lyon, one of the reasons Belize hired him. She understood his flavors.  Every week he promised her an unforgettable meal, a promise which he, in fact, kept fulfilling, even if he harbored doubts earlier in the day.

Diners could hear the food crackling, almost leaping into the air as he sautéed it.  They could smell the spicy aromas.  Chef Girard would personally bring Belize her dinner.  He would watch her as she took her first bite, almost moving his mouth together with hers.  He was not satisfied by a polite thank you.  He needed to see the delight in her eyes, the discovery on her lips.  And when he succeeded it was as if nothing else mattered. She had that effect on people.  His most magnificent creations seemed invariably to be born when he cooked for her.

And then there was Belize’s garden, down a pathway behind the hotel.   She loved all flowers.  She had a passion for roses.  There was the variety, yellows and whites, pinks, crimson, orange-red, wine-red, red-red, tight petals, fluffy, frilly, loose edges, syrupy fragrances at one end of the spectrum, at  the other, light and sharply defined whiffs of a smell, like fresh powder.   Far and wide Belize traveled in New England searching for a rose bush still more beautiful than the last one that she had planted.   In June she couldn’t wait for the first flower to arrive.  In September she tore out one bush after another that didn’t perform.  Some of the discarded were quite nice,  but not extraordinary.

She nurtured the specimens like they were her children.  Her youngest  daughter Ariana, loved roses as much as her mother and, beginning as a little girl, often worked with her in the garden. Some of these very bushes are now a hundred and fifty years old.  Belize would go wild if she could see them today, especially  Glorious Belize, a dark pinkish climber, that grew on an archway above a stone bench.  It was named in honor of her glorious beauty by a Sudbury, Massachusetts grower, Julius Casanavius, as a 65^th birthday present for her.  He was one of many merchants half in love with her.  Julius told her that the color of this rose matched her flushed cheeks as she warmed by the fire.    This was after Ernst had passed away.

Belize’s flower arrangements were breathtaking not only because of a gift she possessed.  Her passion was  completely out of her control .  She was  enthralled by flowers that demanded her worship.   When she came upon one, she  literally glowed, the flower’s radiance entering her bloodstream, saturating  every pore.  Her lips would form a certain smile, mouth half open,  already with  a hint of sadness, which intensified  the poignancy of its beauty. Like Romeo and Juliet perfection depends on transience  The flower’s life was to be measured in hours. Sometimes when she finished an arrangement her eyes would water, overcome.  Sometimes it would happen in the middle of her work and she could not continue.  The extraordinary thing was that this happened several times each season.

They all shared it.  When her gardener Julien came upon a  rose that he thought might arouse  her, it would stir him.   For when she was transported by a flower, she took along anyone who was near her.  Some say that her daughter’s Ariana’s beatific smile was the result of  being around her mother so often  when she visited the celestial;  the Vanderbilt Hotel would have made perfect sense in Paris.  Or heaven.  It was the last thing you might expect from a hotel in downtown Boston.

Commodore Vanderbilt visited the hotel repeatedly, presumably as its overseer, but it was obvious to any one who knew Vanderbilt, that his behavior had nothing to do with supervision.  He, like everyone else, was completely won over by the place.  He had never been associated with the smart crowd, never went to their hotspots and certainly never owned a place where they liked to congregate.  He was not a parlor gentleman.  In his hometown, New York society found him vulgar, even comical.  “Commodore?”  He sometimes wore a blue naval uniform.  His origins were accentuated the harder he tried to impress them.   His background might have certainly disqualified him from serious respect in Boston also, but with the exception of a few of Belize’s enemies, the hotel was seen as charming, the  place to be.  Cornelius Vanderbilt was incidental.

The Commodore was most at home on the high seas.  Even late in life,  he sometimes captained one of his ships whenever he crossed the Atlantic. His attraction to the sea began when he was a child.  He was born to a poor farming family in 1794. The Vanderbilts were like everyone else.  They shared the same heritage.   Generation after generation barely got by.  His great grandfather, like half of all immigrants at the time, came as an indentured servant, literally a  slave for a specified period of time.  Sometimes peasants in the Netherlands, and elsewhere in Europe, became so desperate that they sold their children into servitude or they sold themselves for more than the usual number of years.  It was to pay for passage across the sea.

For his book, Michael found a  description of a trip in 1754 from Rotterdam to the New World by an indentured servant Gottlieb Mitterlberger .

“Both in Rotterdam and in Amsterdam the people are packed densely, like herrings so to say, in the large sea-vessels. One person receives a place of scarcely 2 feet width and 6 feet length in the bedstead, while many a ship carries four to six hundred souls; not to mention the innumerable implements, tools, provisions, water-barrels and other things which likewise occupy much space. … on board these ships is terrible misery, stench, fumes, horror, vomiting, many kinds of sea-sickness, fever, dysentery, headache, heat, constipation, boils, scurvy, cancer, mouth-rot, and the like, all of which come from old and sharply salted food and meat, also from very bad and foul water, so that many die miserably…”

 

The usual deal was four to seven years of servitude.  But if a spouse died on the voyage, the husband or wife who survived could be liable for eight to fourteen years.  When a woman became pregnant her owner could whip her.  He usually demanded an extra year.  Any indentured servant could be whipped as their owner saw fit.  Or, if their owner felt they hadn’t worked hard enough, they could be credited with only a half -day’s work in fulfillment of their debt. They were invariably caught if they escaped.  It was the law of the land.  Rewards were posted, escapees were hunted down by sheriffs and brought before a judge.  The verdict often was not only lashings but punitive extensions of their contracts and permanently being chained at night using an iron collar.

So compared to his forefathers, and people still coming from the Netherlands, at the time he was born, Cornelius Vanderbilt’s family had already moved above the most important rung on the ladder.  They were free.  On the other hand, from a more modern vantage point, despite generations of effort they had hardly gotten anywhere.  They didn’t  own the land they worked.   They were average.  Today we think of that as middle class.  In 1794 average meant they had not gained much distance from desperation.  When their crops failed the Vanderbilts could be in serious trouble. Occasionally they suffered through extremely bad years.  Starvation remained a distinct possibility.  One year their only cow died so there was no milk.  They had never seen their way clear to afford very many pigs and chickens.  One winter Cornelius and his siblings ate nothing but potatoes, and not enough of them to completely quiet their hunger. As was true of most families, rich or poor, several of his siblings were lost from disease, often strep infections which raged out of control.  Herbs and other natural remedies were helpless against bacteria.

But providence smiled at young Vanderbilt.  He grew up on Staten Island not far from Port Richmond.  The island was mostly farms but within striking distance of Manhattan.  He was the fourth of originally nine children.  The others were closer to his mother, the real power in his family.  His father was a bit of hustler and a dreamer.  He too had been raised on a farm and continued to farm but often he went out on his boat, doing some lightering around the New York harbor. The fact that Cornelius had been given his father’s name, Cornelius, probably accounts for their early bond.  This was to change but for many years it was as if his mother had said to his father “Here, this one is yours.”

By four or five years old, whenever his father needed to get out of the house, he took Cornelius along.  Often they’d take a short walk to the edge of the New York Bay and stare out over the water, gently lured into silence by the sound of the small waves greeting the shore.  They’d wait and wait hoping they might spot a schooner slowly making its way up the New York Bay to a docking in Manhattan. Often their patience paid off.  When they sighted a boat Cornelius Sr. became expansive.  For two years he had been a crewman on an ocean going schooner.  He’d point out the names of each part of the boat to his son and explain its function. Then he’d quiz Cornelius to make sure he’d gotten it.   Lastly he identified the flag of each ship.  They came from far away lands, Spain, France, Portugal, England, Holland.  His father would tell him about each of the countries, what they ate, what they wore.  He reminded him repeatedly that they were Dutch, and that the English had stolen New York from the Dutch.

Eventually Cornelius started going down to the water without his father.  After a long day working in the fields he would stare out looking for the ships.   In the summer, he was up at 5 AM doing his morning chores, milking the cow, every third day, feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs.  During the afternoon he battled the earth with a hoe, a rake, and a shovel, tearing at it, trying to overcome its resistance and squeeze from it lettuce, wheat, corn, carrots and potatoes.

His tiredness left him as soon as he got to the water.  There he would enter the future. His imagination lived on the big ships, floating free, cajoled by the gods of the sea, leaving behind the farm’s mud.  It wasn’t just flags and glory, or where the ships had been, or where they were headed.  It was also the water itself. On stormy nights the waves grew and beat powerfully against the shore.  One night he saw lightening zap across the sky, hitting the water.  He made it a point to return on stormy nights to see it happen again and again.

Every third day his father guided his little sailboat, a periauger,  five miles north to Manhattan in order to bring his produce to the market. Cornelius was unusually big and strong and by the time he was nine his father brought him along to help out.  It was here that his  true education began.  First there was his father’s mood when he was out in the world.  It was distinctly better then when he was sweating and cursing the never ending weeds that flourished in their farm’s soil.  Especially when he was trading with customers. He preferred brain to brawn, wheeling and dealing rather than swinging a pick at a large embedded rock in the ground.     He had a certain wink that he gave to his son whenever  he negotiated a good deal.  That was frequent.  However, his father explained, the trick was for the customer to also leave feeling he had done well.  And the best way to do that is to actually give him a good deal.

“Don’t sneak in a rotten tomato along with the others.  He won’t be back.  If you can, establish a reputation that you are likely to undersell your competitors.  They will come looking for you.”

But in his young years their best time together was out on the water.  The moment they stepped on the boat they both felt it, the gentle rocking motion,  floating free.  The sea.  The sea.   His father’s kingdom was the sea.  His father taught him how to sail.

“Ready about” came the order from Cornelius .. Then “hard alee.”   The rhythm between them improved week after week, month after month.

“Corneel, push the tiller leeward (away from the wind.) This will cause the bow to go in the opposite direction-into the wind. Keep your boat turning until the wind is on the other side. The sail will then swing across the boat, and the wind will fill the sail again. When the wind is blowing over your starboard (right) side you are on the starboard tack. When the breeze is blowing over your port (left) side, you are on the port tack.”

Having Corneel along for the ride turned Cornelius Sr. into a commentator, a guide, but most importantly a partner in adventure.  Even at nine years old,  Corneel was well aware that his father was not a hero.  He took his lumps as much as any other person.  Still, at least during the early years, something happened to both of them when they got out on the bay.  There, anything seemed possible.

Mid- October one afternoon they had kept trading long after most of the other farmers had called it a day.  His father was determined to sell everything.  Accepting less was better than throwing his lettuce and cucumbers away. As always he needed money for supplies.  As usual they were short.  It might be a long winter.  If their food supply ran out, money he earned now could make the difference between starving and being able to buy supplies.

He told Cornelius they would sail back in the evening.  They would have a full moon, enough light to get them home.  But, after darkness, all didn’t go according to plan.  It got cloudier and cloudier.  The air was heavy with a mist.  It was pitch black.   Halfway between Staten Island and Manhattan a squall snuck up behind them.  The wind whipped up something fierce.  The rain was cold and chilling.  Wave after wave came crashing over the top of the boat.  His father was holding on to the rudder with all his strength but it would not take much for him to lose his grip.

Above the wind and the crashing waves Cornelius Sr. screamed orders.   Very soon the icy water was above their ankles.  If they took on much more water, they would most certainly sink.

“Come on Corneel,  faster,  bail it out faster.  Come on.  You can do it.  That’s it.”

His arms and back were already sore but somehow he did bail faster.

“That’s it.  Keep going.  Faster…Faster”

“I can’t,” he screamed

“You can.” His father raged at him.

And he could, until he couldn’t.

“Okay.” His father shouted nastily.  “You take the rudder. Give me the pail.”

But, as he watched his father bailing, he saw that he could do better than his father.  Old Cornelius was doing more cursing and screaming than actual bailing.

Corneel screamed at his father angrily “You take the rudder.”

And so he bailed again. Until he couldn’t. But he kept going.

They continued that way for twenty minutes until  the storm ended as quickly as it began.  The water remained choppy but a nice steady southeast  wind brought them back to the island, shook up but grateful to be alive. As they walked home from the dock, once, just once, for a moment, their eyes caught each other.  That was the closest they came to celebrating their survival.  It was the closest they had ever felt to each other.  But it also planted a seed.  He was stronger than his father.  He had saved him, not the other way around.

 

Chapter 4

Vanderbilt’s decision to quit school at eleven was not due to a lack of ambition.  Leaving school at a young age was common in 1806.  Cultures of necessity view schooling as a frill.  It takes away valuable time from the central reality, putting bread on the family table.  Many felt as young Cornelius did, that after reading, writing, and arithmetic, further education was mainly to show off, or else to become a clergyman.  While being better educated gave clergymen the right to preach to others, it could get in the way of normal people, fill their heads with fancy ideas, especially those attached to moralizing.  You could become one of those people with ideas about how to save the world, which then, as now, derived from years and years of education.  He recognized that in the end,  big ideas could cripple his wits and thus his ability to make his way.

That particular year, there was no economic need for Cornelius to end his formal education.  Both of his parents expected him to continue for a few more years.  But neither was surprised by his decision.  His older brother had died the previous year, making him his parents’ lieutenant. He would soon have to help out.  The decision was also helped along by an incident after he  had borrowed (without asking) his father’s boat and took a passenger to Manhattan from Staten Island. He was given a dollar, far more than he should have been paid, but his passenger, a gentleman, got a kick out of this young boy with such high spirits.

By 13 or 14 years old, he was hustling here and there, wherever, and however, a dollar could be made.  As often happens with boys when they reach that age, his relationship with his father deteriorated badly. Judged by the realities facing him he saw his father as a failure.   His  father gave up far too easily, which made him drift from project to project  whenever he met up with frustration.  He never put his heart and soul and particularly his body into any of his jobs.  Corneel  knew he could do better. He made sure he could do better. Not just better.  Best.

He always had to be the strongest, the cleverest, the fastest, the opposite of his father who regularly looked for the easy way.    He worked harder than any competitor.  Once when his sailboat was becalmed in Buttermilk channel, between Governor’s Island and Brooklyn, a rival boatman started to pull ahead.  He was sailing across 12 passengers.  Cornelius thrust his pole, helping to get his clumsy craft going in shallow water.  He put every ounce of strength he possessed into it.  Jake Van Duesen, the other boatman, was older and heavier, but Vanderbilt reached the shore first.  The passengers, who laughed and applauded him as they scrambled onto the wharf, never knew that he accepted their congratulations so grimly because the butt of the pole had pierced his chest to the bone.  The scar was on him when he died.

His mother scolded Cornelius, but both of them knew how proud she was of him.  It was a measure of how far things had deteriorated with his father, however, that his father’s reaction was the opposite.  Instead of pride he felt upended by Cornelius’ victory, as if it were a rebuke to him.  It was, in fact, just that. Corneel’s competitiveness was as much to prove to himself how different he was from his father, as to prove it to anyone else. It was also to show his father how short he fell of his son’s standards.

At this point their opposition to each other manifested itself whenever they were in the same room.  There was constant sarcasm between them.  Day after day, one insult at a time, their contempt  damaged  their relationship until apologies afterwards no longer fully undid the damage.  Their difficulties multiplied until there came a point where there was no turning back.

When Corneel was thirteen his father lucked upon a far bigger lightering job than he had ever had. A vessel was stranded near Sandy Hook. He was given a contract to empty the boat and get the cargo to New York.  This would require a small fleet of men, three wagons with teams and drivers. While he had often spoken about being given a chance, supervising a number of teams of men was not something that Cornelius felt comfortable doing.

“Unfortunately” Cornelius explained to his wife Phebe,  “I am busy with another job.”

“Corneel will do it.” she piped in.

“That is a joke is it not? He’s 13!”

“He’s 13 going on 25.  Besides if you don’t use Corneel you will have to split the profits with an outsider.”

So the decision was made.  If his father had misgivings, Corneel had none.  He craved responsibility, and difficulties did not become obstacles when he challenged them.  Corneel swaggered about his task with a brawny efficiency that produced admiration from the workmen his father had hired.  “The little devil,” they exclaimed to each other.  “Listen to him curse, and the milk ain’t dry on his lips!”  But they could also see how hard he worked.  The men were so delighted by him that they put their backs into the work as they never would have done for his father.

He was tired, but very happy when he started for home, appreciative too, of the help the men had given him, and at the first wayside tavern in Jersey he stopped to buy the best dinner the house afforded for his men and grain for the horses.  He used all the money his father had given him for that purpose.  Not until he reached Perth Amboy, did he realize that he had insufficient money to pay the ferry tolls over the Kill.  He wasn’t at a loss.  Striding confidently up to the ferrymen he began to negotiate.

“I want to get to Staten Island with my teams.  How much is it”

He looked over Corneel’s group. “Be, six dollars, Bub”

“I’ll tell you what, if you’ll get us across I’ll leave one of my horses with you, And if I don’t send you the money in 2 days you can sell him.”

The ferryman was more than happy with the terms and Corneel returned home even more self satisfied. Part of this was overhearing his workers talking to each other.

“Never seen such a lad!  He could lift the hide off a bull without it knowing it.  He could talk money out of the ground.”

But his father sang a different tune.

“You fool.  Suppose something happens to that horse?  What if I can’t find the money.  Suppose…You are such a fool, pawning a horse for grub.  Get six dollars from your mom and fetch home that horse before it’s stolen.”

“The men had to eat” growled Corneel.  “We was tuckered out and the horses were dead beat too.”

“That was ferry money not eating money.”

“I’m going to get you the damn horse.” snarled Corneel.  Besides it wasn’t my fuckin’ fault.  You should have given me enough money for eating and ferrying.  I  can’t think of everything.”

At that point his mother intervened.

“Both of you hush up.”  Corneel you are not too old for a bar of soap.  And Pa there’s no blame for the boy. Those men would never work for us again if we didn’t take care of them.  And you Corneel, show a little respect for your Pa.  It would make any man crazy thinking of losing a horse in the circumstances we are in.  Not a word out of each of you.  And morning is soon enough to traipse back to Amboy.  There’s no sense going tonight. Corneel’s worn to the bone.”

On this and a number of other occasions Phebe’s peacemaking quieted their mouths but not their hearts. By the time Corneel was 15 he was planning to run away.  It was the only answer.  But for over a year he said nothing.  He felt loyal to his mother.  Truth is the family  had grown dependent on his extra income to help feed and clothe his younger siblings.  Finally, he bared his soul to her.

“I’m going to sea Ma.”

“Corneel, you ain’t nothing but a child.”

“I’ll be 16 in two months.”

“What will your father say?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

She weighed the bitterness in his glance and sighed.  It was not easy to breed an eagle in a bovine family.

“But it’s a terrible life at sea.  I know you are not having an easy time, but at sea you will get knocked around.  They do whatever they feel like doing on a boat.”

“ I like that.  I can handle myself.”

“You don’t get proper food, and it’s cold and wet.”

“I don’t care.  I’m tired of working for Pa.  He’s holding me back. I don’t know if he knows he’s alive.  He’s that slow.”

“We need your help right now.”

“What’s the use of my staying here.  Pa won’t give me a free hand.  And he never knows from one month to the next what he wants to do.”

Over in the corner the youngest baby started whimpering hungrily.  Phebe picked it up gently and offered her breast.

“Corneel,  I just can’t have you go, not with my blessing.  Right now that’s all I am asking son.”

“I’ll never get anywhere with Pa.  He never gets anywhere and he”ll fix me the same way.”

“What would you like to do if you don’t go to sea?”

He was taken back for a moment but his answer was prompt.

“If I had a boat of my own I could make more than Pa right now.  There is good money in the harbor and I can find it.”

“Honest money?”

“Yes.  Honest money.  I just know I could make me a heap of money as soon as folks know I am dependable.  That’s what counts.  You got to make folks believe they can depend on you.  Then they’ll deal with you”

“But you ain’t got money for a boat.”

“No, but if someone lent it to me I’d pay it back.  And I could help out here even more with what I earned.”

“How much would it cost?”

“I know about a terrific periauger for sale for a hundred dollars.  It would hold twenty passengers”

“A hundred dollars is a lot of money for a 16 year old.”

The eagerness was all over his face.

“I’ve got to speak to your Pa first.”

“If you loan me the money I’ll make you a thousand dollars a year”

“I’ll speak to your dad.”

But that was a formality.  Her opinion was what counted and her thought was that you cannot clip an eaglet’s wings.  If he would fly, fly he must-or perish, broken hearted by constraint.

So his mother made him an offer. When Cornelius turned 16 she would loan him one hundred dollars to buy his  boat in exchange for clearing 8 acres.  Her sister had promised her the money for the job. Her sister’s husband owned the adjacent farm.

It took a summer of chopping down trees and digging and plowing, but then he was on his way.   The boat was his and there was no looking back.  He became known as “Corneel the Boatman.”  He undertook any job – even in stormy weather, especially in stormy weather.  He was consistently busy.  He knew the secret to accomplish that. He charged 18 cents for a trip across the bay, far lower than his competitors.  Within a year he returned the one hundred dollars plus the  thousand dollars he predicted.  Within a lifetime he turned his parents’ one hundred dollars into one hundred million.  He died the richest man in the world, practically all of his money made on the sea. How he accomplished that makes an interesting story.

Or so Michael wrote. Only not enough was known about Vanderbilt to capture the issues that preoccupied him.  He had already decided on a novel rather than a biography to combine what he knew about Vanderbilt with where his imagination led him, to Ariana.

 

Chapter 5

Blood sprays all over the video screen.  The alien dies.   Ritchie Russell is still playing his favorite video game Alien Returns, five years later, the souped up version they have in Pizza Palace.  He likes to go there for the game, but also, Marlene Schneider comes in every day after school, and orders a slice.  Marlene Schneider is unbelievable.

He decimates another mutant on the screen. Ritchie moves to the next screen.  Alien Return’s  screeching is very loud at Pizza Palace.  He likes that.  It brings him there every afternoon.   Ritchie has developed into a big, strong, sixteen year-old.  He is on fire. He bangs at the controls

“Hey Ritchie!”

Dora and Elisa are after Ritchie. It’s predatory instinct.

In unison they cackle. “Ritchie!”.  They both laugh, surprised by their perfect synchronization.

He shoots wildly, accurately, knocking out the aliens, one by one.  A new alien always replaces the one he just killed.  He can count on it. That’s what he likes about the game.  Normally,  once he beats a game he is bored by it. Not Alien’s Return.  Five years and the aliens have never stopped coming.  He plays and plays.  The aliens keep coming and  Ritchie keeps killing them.  He likes that.  Kill or be killed.  Stay alive by killing.  He would never say that in words, even to himself.  But he needs to do that.

“Hey Dickhead.  Don’t you like girls?”

The two are now three.  Betty has joined them.

It distracts Ritchie long enough so that an alien mutant gets him.   YOU’RE DEAD flashes on the screen.

Dan, his buddy since the third grade,  moves alongside him.

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

Ritchie and Dan leave the shop without looking back.  As Ritchie leaves the girls stick out their chests triumphantly. He looks away.

Outside  Dan and Ritchie walk the sidewalks.  Dan struts as he passes Marlene Schneider. Ritchie’s eyes are locked on the ground

“You’re bringing that shit on yourself.  Ritchie. They’re giving it back to you.”

“I’m just playing my game and suddenly they’re all over me…”

“But you look angry. People think you hate them. When was the last time you actually smiled at some one?”

“I don’t want to hear this bullshit.”

“Well maybe you have to hear it.”

“What, that I hate everyone?

“You don’t hate everyone.  You hate a lot of people, but not everyone.”

“Thanks.”

“Well it’s true.”

“You are a pain in the ass.  Look most people don’t like me.”

“They would if you smiled.”

“I don’t want to fucking walk around with a smile.”

“Try it.”

“Fuck you.  I am not going to smile.”

“You’re an ass hole.”

“All I want is to be left alone.”

“Everyone already leaves you alone.  I don’t see you exactly having a great time.”

“Fuck you man.”

Dan grabs Ritchie’s arm and turns him towards him.

“After your sister died we all wanted to help you.  Lisa was rough.  But it’s five years man. Five years” His voice goes up a notch.  “Get over it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Poor Ritchie. Poor Ritchie.”    His voice raises, “It’s enough! Keep your misery to yourself.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I’m just telling you.  That’s what everyone says about you.  Like move on.  Get on with it.”

Ritchie pulls his arm free.

“You can all fuck yourselves”

“Me too?”

“Especially you.”

Ritchie puts his hands in his pocket and walks away. Without  turning around he calls back:

“Just stay out of my business.”

 

Chapter 6

1813,   Lower Bay of New York.

Boooom….Boooom… Booom …Booom.  The air is sucked away, swallowed up by the force of each cannon fired at Vanderbilt’s newly built schooner, the Dread.  Following each explosion  an eerie sizzling sound,  32 pound iron cannon balls cutting through the sky at 50 yards a second.  Booom, Booom, Booom, Booom, Booom twenty one fired in rapid succession- a machine gun of cannon fire from the HMS Bristol, forty two long cannons in all, twenty one on each side of the ship.  Vanderbilt’s crew  fear  the second round of cannon fire.  After adjustments are made to the original trajectories, the second round will be far more dangerous.  Designed by the Royal Institute of Naval Architects, the world’s finest war architects, the HMS Bristol is a monstrous killing machine, especially when sailed  by the supremely well trained officers of the British Royal Navy.

The ramrod straight  posture, the  self satisfaction of English naval officers, their carriage, their beautifully tailored uniforms,  the royal manners of the British admiralty at high tea,  do not coincide with contemporary images of relentless killers.  The smug manner of English gentlemen became a rallying point for American patriotism.  After the Boston Tea Party, Americans gave up tea and replaced it with coffee. They would like to have served the officers with spit.

Pirates are more frightening as individuals.  But as a fighting force English naval efficiency gives their officers a right to their hated smugness.  They always prevail.  Napoleon might have the lands to the East.  Americans might have taken control of  the lands to the west, but the English navy is supreme on the seas. Wherever they go they do as they please.

It is tempting to imagine the history of the still young 19^th century as the culmination of the Age of Reason.  Words and debate had begun to gain a foothold in legislatures and men’s thoughts about governance.  They made many references to a moral order that would later appeal to teachers and historians.  Lovers of language and rationality think of these times as a golden age.  Men like Thomas Jefferson were poets, melancholics of fine sensibility, political theoreticians, architects- as individuals, they could aspire to lay claim to all of the knowledge then known to man. But during this very same time, the 19^th century went forward in identical fashion to all the centuries  preceding it.  Whoever was judged weak was attacked by the strong. The British Navy implemented dominance with absolute seriousness.  Every necessary detail for success was carried through carefully. Consider their recruitment policies:

“Founded long before the Napoleonic wars, the Royal Navy’s Impress service came into high profile during the wars with Revolutionary France.  The word impress was derived from the old French word ‘prest’, modern ‘prêt’ or loan/advance, in other words, each man ‘impressed’ received the loan of a ‘shilling’ (that is he paid the ‘King’s shilling’ to enlist) and became a ‘(im)prest man’. The service was present in every major port in the kingdom.  The service’s offices were called ‘Rendezvous’ with a Regulating Officer in charge.  He hired local thugs as ‘gangers’. The thugs would roam the countryside attempting to ‘encourage’ men aged between 18 and 55 to join the navy.  No person  was safe from the gang, and often the only escape route when captured was to bribe the gang or to join it. Merchant ships were a preferred target for the pressgang, so not infrequently special hiding places were built into  merchant vessels, so they could hide men who were vulnerable to being taken by them.

The return of English prisoners of war from France was seen as the perfect moment to impress crewmen.  Very often returning English POWs were turned round and pressganged even before they set foot once more on their home soil.  The captains of merchant vessels frequently took pity on those they were repatriating and tried to let them land in places far from the ports and the pressgangs…

 

In 1795, Prime Minister William Pitt passed two bills through parliament, called the Quota acts. In conformity with these acts, every county in Great Britain was required to supply to the navy a quota of men, in proportion to the county population and the number of ports .  For example, London was asked to provide 5,700 men, whilst Yorkshire, the largest county, was obliged to offer 1,081.  Despite promises of rewards, very few county men came forward.  As a result, small time criminals were given the choice of a prison sentence or service in the Navy. Given the exceedingly rough justice prevalent in 18th-century prisons, many preferred the call of the sea.  One unfortunate result, however, of this policy was that the criminals brought with them typhus, also known as Gaol fever, onto previously healthy ships.”

 

 

Acts of war didn’t stop after  the war with England.  America had  won independence, but the ability to defend itself was still unproven. Not just the English;   the United States took on the French in a predominantly naval war, the Quasi War from 1798-1800.  This was followed by the first Barbary War against the pirates.  Fortunately, the United States sank enough ships for the pirates to no longer view American ships as easy pickings.  But Great Britain?  Neither American shippers nor its small navy were itching to have it out with them.

More specifically Vanderbilt wasn’t happy that he was within  500 yards  of the HMS Bristol.  The Bristol, had lined up sideways  and was providing its crew with target practice on the Dread.    Twenty one cannons could usually get the job done and doing Vanderbilt’s boat was what the HMS Bristol had in mind.  They were intent on providing Vanderbilt and his crew with the final taste of their life, choking on salt water instead of air as they drowned.   One cannonball had left a hole clear through the Dread’s forecastle.  A crewman had been killed, and two others were seriously wounded.   There wasn’t time to stop and think.

“Everyone to their station”.

“Mr. Layman, come up on the wind.”

Through the bedlam,  whistles could be heard sending out coded orders- two short,  one long, then one short  two long.  Officers were screaming their orders.   The cannon balls kept coming.  Every once in a while, there was the sound of cheers.  There were also  screams of individuals being  torn asunder, backs broken, limbs ripped apart.  One of the cannons had successfully delivered a grape shot, twelve small cannon balls specifically designed to kill men on the deck .  Captain Vanderbilt had to get them the hell out of there.

Vanderbilt  had one thing going for him.  He had sailed  these waters since he was a child.   He could sail the New York Bays blindfolded.   It was  animal  instinct. He knew where and when he could grab hold of the wind he needed, when he could, or could not, operate at full sail.  Vanderbilt, like other sailors on the bay had names for them, Mercury Sam for the 4PM puff that got him home in the summer, Charley Express for the 6 AM breeze  that they counted on to get the morning going good. That was one of the reasons the crew remained calm, rather than frantic, when the cannon fire began.  They knew Vanderbilt knew what he was doing.

Sure enough, within minutes, the crew collectively let out a sigh of relief.  Vanderbilt had caught  Mercury Sam at full sail.  Cheers went up.  They would very soon be out of danger. The Bristol could deliver a shot from over a mile, but with the ship moving swiftly the odds were small of hitting the Dread   And there was no way a frigate like the Bristol, weighed down with guns could chase them.  The Bristol was usually brought into position for the kill with the help of another ship or two whose job was to trap the American boats they wanted to destroy.  This was the very reason that, as they pulled out of range of the Bristol’s cannons, unlike his crew, Vanderbilt was not confident that they were out of danger.  The frigate wouldn’t be traveling alone if it was out on an assignment.  Of course it might have come upon Vanderbilt’s ship by sheer coincidence and thought why not?  All they had to lose was a few cannon balls.  The likelihood, however, was that Vanderbilt had become enough of a nuisance to the English that he had become a designated target, not an honor anyone welcomed.

Sure enough, “Two points on the starboard bough. There the Guardian,”   shouted the coxswain.

Boom… Boom… Boom. Boom Four shots..  Not as bad.  The Guardian only had four cannons. The HMS Guardian was, specifically built for speed and maneuverability.  Vanderbilt decided to backtrack and make a run home, Port Richmond on Staten Island.  If they made it there, they’d be safe.  There were huge American cannons that would keep the British far from shore. The only  problem was that  to do so he would have to pass within range of the first frigate.

The Guardian  trailed him at a respectful distance.  Then after 20 minutes,  given the fact that it was getting increasingly dark and foggy,  and they had the Dread where they wanted it, the Guardian lowered its sails and dropped anchor.  The reason was soon clear.  The English had a third ship blocking his way to Port Richmond.  The three ships  had been part of a coordinated attack.  They had the Dread surrounded.  The third ship  was preparing to anchor as well.  Poor visibility  demanded caution, especially at low tide.  A ship could run a ground, tear a gash in its hull.  Indeed,  as Vanderbilt’s schooner moved out of range, the Bristol also had put down anchor.  The fog was getting worse and worse.  The good news was poor visibility meant the Dread did not have to keep in motion to reduce the chance of being hit.  The fog made the ship practically invisible, especially after Vanderbilt ordered all lanterns put out.

“A problem for tomorrow.” Vanderbilt told his mate as he also put down anchor.

Vanderbilt’s situation was far more serious than last year, in 1812 at the beginning of the war with England, when a man of war targeted 18 year old Vanderbilt, alone in his small sail boat, and had every intention of riding right over him.  Cornelius  easily maneuvered to safety, but it was a warning, a warning that Vanderbilt happily ignored.

.  Taking on dangerous work paid extremely well. The English admiralty were determined to stop supplies from being brought to the American forts on the bay. They would happily kill anyone who dared to defy them.  So not a lot of shippers signed up for the job.  Vanderbilt was neither a greater nor lesser patriot then his fellow countryman.  Nor was he stupidly brave, but he didn’t hesitate for a moment.  “I have been insane on the subject of moneymaking all my life.” – Vanderbilt was later quoted in the New York Daily Tribune, March 23, 1878.   For him, the risks were trivial compared to the gain.  By his calculations, he had a chance to be a wealthy man if the war lasted long enough.  Already, with the money he made with his sail boat, he had been able to build The Dread. He could have stopped there. The English had seized over 170 ships and once they had them they would never be seen again.  But, on the other hand, operating a schooner brought far greater reward.  He was damned if he was going to allow himself to be  trapped.  The bastards were not going to get this ship away from him.  He almost preferred that it be sunk.

The fact, however, was that their trap had been well planned. If he had taken a vote, his crew would  probably abandon his ship during the night and row to shore.  It is what the English would expect. But Vanderbilt lived during a time when there were no polls.  Second guessing the captain was not an option unless mutiny was under consideration.   He paid his crew good money, 18 dollars a month, which was more than the usual 12 to 15.  And truth was, most of his crew were loyal.  Despite his age, nineteen, they had  faith that any of his decisions would get the ship where it needed to go.

Even considering the risks, most of them felt lucky to be employed by Vanderbilt. And Vanderbilt  knew it.  He would  not hesitate to punish a ornery crewman with keel hauling, an extreme Dutch punishment but he had never had to use it and didn’t expect he would.  So abandon ship was not in the crew’s vocabulary unless ordered by Captain Vanderbilt and he was not about to do that.  He had borrowed beyond his means to build the Dread. Vanderbilt would be back to square one, a place he did not want to revisit.

Still he didn’t silence his mate, Mr. Riggens who was twice his age and like a father to him.

“Sir Give up the fuckin’ ship.  You’ll get another one.”

“Yes, but the damn’ question is when.  Could take me another year or two and by then the war could be over.  We are doing fantastic.  We just have to figure out a way to get out of here.”

“You got  95 men on board.  I don’t know if it is worth getting us all killed.”

“They’ll be big bonuses at the end of the year.  When they signed up with me, the men knew what was in store.  I told them we would take chances”

Vanderbilt  figured that midnight to 2 AM would be the darkest part of the night.  If he was going to do anything it was then.  He had until midnight to think it over.

Perhaps a little  background about the War of 1812 is in order.  The English and French were incessantly at war.  France ruled the continent. England the oceans, meaning

wherever English ships went they did as they pleased.  For instance, the British claimed the right to reclaim any British sailors who were serving on American merchant ships.  They did so at will.   If necessary they fired a warning shot. But it was rarely necessary.  They simply pulled along side, and entered any ship they chose.

The sea had its own rules.  For example, ships often carried flags from many nations on board in order to elude or deceive the enemy.   The rules of civilized warfare called for all ships to hoist their true national ensigns before firing a shot.  Someone who finally “shows his true colors” (the origin of the term)  is acting like a man-of-war which might have hailed another ship while flying one flag, but then hoisted their own when they got within firing range. England played as dirty as any one else but they did not think of this as dishonorable, simply the rules of the ocean.

For several years before the war, when English ships boarded  American ships they not only took all British sailors (who they considered deserters) back to sail on English ships. They also took American crewman if they needed them.  And they often needed them.  During the 10 years before the war there were hundreds, perhaps thousand of Americans kidnapped in this way.

Americans, who wanted a war with England, argued it had become a question of national honor.  You can’t do nothing when you are being mistreated.  Additionally, as always, military strategists, long before had worked out detailed plans to invade Canada.  Adding lower Canada was not a radical idea.   The boundaries of the United States were not fixed by God, but were the result of a deal worked out ending the Revolutionary War, when American were relieved to end the war.  Many felt the colonies had been shortchanged.  At the end of the war the United States was too weak to do anything about it.  Arguments  such as these are not an issue for strategists in the military.  Right or wrong it is their job to create feasible plans if and when they will be needed,  the assumption being that peace resulting from a truce, is merely time between wars.  The question wasn’t should we (fight England to secure our neighbor’s freedom) but could we and when?  With the British still tied up fighting the French, and patriotic passions being stirred up by impressment  “could we?” eventually became “we can.”

We couldn’t.  For one thing, no one bothered to inform President Madison that our army was in a sorry state. Or else his people had stopped listening to voices of caution.  Those demanding war also ignored those being directly effected by the kidnappings.   New England shippers had a stable partnership with the British.  They could not be shippers and have an unstable partnership with the British.  England was their best customer.  They were not thrilled  that American crew members were being taken from their ships but impressment had a long tradition.  It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.  The sea is the sea with its own laws.   They were realists, businessmen.   Their success depended on their ability to assess reality accurately and use that as a starting point.  At no time soon would England stop being the dominant naval power.  They had lived with it all along and could continue to do so

But they couldn’t ignore that a war would be disastrous for business.  Even though it was their own crewmen who were being kidnapped,  New England politicians were not among those who talked about honor and war.  New Englanders thought about how to get around it, how to get done what needed to get done.  It was precisely the states who were not dependent on shipping that complained the most that American honor was being compromised.  The difference in perspective came to head in 1814 when representatives from most of the New England states met in Hartford, Connecticut to seriously consider seceding from the United States if we continued with the war.  They didn’t want to be part of a nation that was bad for business?

Our land invasion of Canada failed miserably.  And soon, after they took control of Chesapeeke Bay,  the British Navy sailed up the Potomac and provided cover for their soldiers to march straight into Washington DC.  They burned every public building to the ground.  President  Madison fled to the countryside.  It demonstrated what  New Englanders said all along.  Don’t mess with the British.  Not on the sea.  The British  admiralty was only too happy having an excuse to stretch their muscles.  They had been itching to subdue the rascals, put things back in order.  This war was a perfect time to restore proper respect for the crown.

Every escape strategy Vanderbilt and his officers considered had major flaws.  Following dinner they grew tired and irritable from the ale, and the difficulty of their situation.  Several publicly questioned whether Vanderbilt would risk their lives for the almighty dollar.    Vanderbilt said he would let them know what his plan was in the morning, but  moving during the night also was a possibility.  After they departed Vanderbilt slept fitfully in his cabin.

When Cornelius was seven,  his much larger nine year-old cousin, Luke, picked a fight with him over a toy horse that Luke’s mother had given to him. Luke hadn’t played with it for years.  But as soon as he saw his cousin playing happily with his horse he wanted it back. Cornelius refused to hand it over. After very brief negotiations Luke slammed his fist into Cornelius’ nose.  The blood began to gush. For most seven year-olds that might have been the end of it, but Vanderbilt ignored his nose and charged at his cousin. Luke grabbed Cornelius and twisted his arm behind his back.  Even with his arm twisted Cornelius did not loosen his grip on the horse.

“Drop it.”

He screamed in pain but he held it tighter, the higher up his cousin moved his arm.

Luke screamed even louder than him. “Give me the horse.  It’s mine.”  Luke tried to rip it away.  He might as well have tried to pull a mature pricker bush out of the soil.  With his other hand Cornelius scratched at his cousin’s face again and again whenever he could position his hand to take a swipe.

Luke’s forehead was bleeding.   “I’m going to break your arm.” He meant it.

“It’s mine,” Cornelius answered with the high-pitched voice of a seven-year-old. The thought of crying didn’t occur to him. His main focus was trying  to shout louder than Luke.

“I’ll kill you,” Luke shouted as he pulled Cornelius’ arm still further up his back.

Luke was exactly right.  The pain was killing him and tears began to flow but it didn’t matter to Cornelius. He still had the toy.  His uncle, Luke’s father, eventually broke up the fight, but had he not, there was nothing his cousin could have done to get the horse.  Cornelius would have never let go. That was the opinion of Luke’s seven-year-old sister Sophia who was watching. She was excited by the battle.  It aroused something in her that she never forgot. This was the same Sophia who was to be Cornelius’s bride 12 years later.

He woke from his sleep with a start.  Violence had been playing in his head, but the actual content of his dream was gone.  He was left with the adrenaline.  He looked at the clock.  11:30.  In the stupor of sleep one minute, the next he was standing straight up.  He was now sure he could do it.   The darkness and fog offered  an opportunity.  If blind he would have to be, so be it. The English would be even more blind.  Hundreds of times he had maneuvered his sail boat in complete darkness.  He thought he could do the same thing with the Dread.  There was only one spot where the water might be too shallow for his schooner, but it was worth risking.  He had 2 cannons if they were discovered. But they were not going to be discovered.  The men were ordered to be completely silent.  The young boys on board would have to run back and forth between crewman to whisper Vanderbilt’s orders.

They  sounded the foghorn repeatedly to camouflage sound of the anchor being slowly raised to minimize the noise.  Miraculously the huge sails did not flap as they were pulled into position.  They simply caught the wind and silently, they moved through the fog.  Two hundred yards, then one hundred and fifty yard to the anchored British frigate on the starboard side, then one hundred.  Given the danger and their own quiet in the darkness, the sounds were eerie.  They could hear the Englishmen, off from their hard day’s labor, celebrating their nightly freedom, not a sober voice among them.  The cursing and laughter of the drunks on board, the waves slapping between the ships, had an other worldly quality.  Closer and closer they came, so close that they could have easily joined in the revelry without raising their voices.  Finally, they were sighted by the English mid watch when they were 25 yards from the frigate, but he remained silent.  Superstition has it that any mariner who sees the ghost ship called the Flying Dutchman will die within the day.  Perhaps this is what went through his mind upon seeing the Dread emerge from the fog.  Was this to be his final day?   For a minute or so, as they sailed alongside,  Vanderbilt could actually make out the face of  the English mid watch.  Then the amazing. He smiled with relief  that he was not seeing the Flying Dutchman.  He waved to Vanderbilt as the ship  sailed by.  Vanderbilt knew him.  Six months earlier he offered this very person  a job on the Dread, but he didn’t show up the next morning.  He heard he was hired by another American shipper  and apparently now belonged to the British.

Then they were free.  They made it into Port Richmond at 2 AM.  The town was asleep but the inn was still open.  They celebrated with stout that night, compliments of their young skipper.

“Three cheers for Captain Vanderbilt!”

“Hip-hip hooray”

“Hip-hip hooray”

“Hip-hip-hooray”

“Drink up men”  Vanderbilt shouted.  “I have a mighty thirst.  Here’s to the Dread.”

“To the Dread” they shouted in unison.

“Here’s to piss in the mugs of the English,” shouted an old timer.

“To piss”

“Here’s to blood in that piss. The clap to every Englishman.”

“To the clap.” They shouted to uproarious laughter.

They drank their second and  third and fourth and fifth mug.  Some of the men didn’t make it back to the ship until they were ready to sail three days later.

 

CHAPTER 7

Those interested in explanations for Cornelius’s astounding success after  success should  not underestimate his size as an explanation for his fearlessness  and ability to lead.  He was huge.  By the time he was 9 years old he was bigger than Luke, and bigger by far than any of the other boys. Part of this was innate, but in fairness to the virtuous, who emphasize the role played by character, part  resulted from the prodigious  effort he threw into every task.  Like a body builder he  pushed himself  beyond the physical pain screaming  for him to stop.  Sheer will drove him past any weakness that he could have experienced, but in truth that rarely was a problem.  His eyes always remained on the prize.  He didn’t know any other way.   It made Cornelius’ body powerful  and while he may not have had a brilliant mind, that was not nearly as crucial as his strength of purpose,  his bulldog determination to get what he wanted.  This strength carried over to his interactions with people. He knew he was big and knew he could overpower almost any boy and later any  man that he met.   It didn’t occur to him to do anything other than lead.  He assumed it first physically, then mentally, and later, monetarily.  He rid himself of fear by fighting, especially if he was in a situation that allowed abundant cursing.

On the other hand he was not stupid.  Only an idiot goes into battle knowing there is no chance. Having his eyes on the prize made him shrewd and practical.  It allowed him to  retreat without feeling defeated. Since he could accurately measure his progress by  the size of his savings, and since that kept growing as the war continued, Vanderbilt saw himself as on a non-stop victory cruise.  Screaming  and cursing, being an irritant to those around him, his underlings on the ship, not to mention Sophia and  his children, was the price he paid and especially they paid.  He was not an easy man.  There was one additional factor that helped.  He knew the environment that best suited him.   A sea going man is spared layers and  layers of courtly behavior to which his cousins on land must pay heed. Cursing, which is well developed in most sailors’ vocabulary, is a luxury  but also a necessity.  Most seaman  are too busy dealing with the sea, to notice anything but powerfully expressed emotions. Only loud voices can be  heard above the roar of the ocean.

Still, dress it up as we might, the fact remains that Vanderbilt had a nasty temper. Every one of Vanderbilt’s crewman shook in his boots when Vanderbilt  was in a foul mood.  When he dressed someone down everyone of them feared he might be next. This was even true of those who everyone thought of as his favorites.    You never could rest on your laurels.  Vanderbilt could turn his fury on you at any time.

But an hour after he blew up he was fine and so were his victims, probably because he wasn’t malicious.  His tirades were broadsides, self ventilation more than piercing, hit-you-where-it-hurts remarks.  He bore no resemblance to those sneaky soft spoken people, preparing their daggers, and vicious when least suspected. Besides his crewmen didn’t have to like him.  They counted on him to remain exactly the way he was.

His dominance, as threatening as it could be, also reassured them.  His unswerving will coupled with his practicality meant what had to be done would get done.  On more than one occasion, when in serious trouble it kept his crew from panic.   Pep talks would have sounded strange from a man like Vanderbilt.  Vanderbilt’s screaming and cursing,  were like bugles calling out the charge signal.  Yes, he could sound desperate, but there was no quit in him.  His furious outbursts were as familiar as war cries.  He was indestructible. So they were.  Especially when he dazzled them with his navigational miracles on the water.  At least that is the way they were remembered when told and retold  in  stories decades later.

Normally, Staten Island farms fed Manhattan.  But the presence of the English in the Bays during the war made this too chancy.  So Vanderbilt brought food to New Yorkers from farmers up the Hudson and from Connecticut and Long Island along the  Long Island Sound.  He went wherever money was to be made, jumping from place to place, sometimes right under the British Navy’s noses.  The first time he brought a boat load of food there were cheers as he docked.  Same with the second and third docking.  Big grins on every ones’ faces, a foxy cheeky boy outsmarting the English.  Then it became routine.  His crew could dock, unload, and be out of there in no time.  He liked the accolades.  He liked the idea of being an outlaw of sorts, but what he liked most was that he could command his price. He ended the war  with  three schooners.  At 19 he was prosperous enough to marry his first cousin Sophia Johnson, who grew up on the neighboring farm.  They had been together since they were 14.  Everyone thought he was set for life.

They were wrong.   He sold the schooners and went to work on a steamer.  He understood the future.  His fascination with the sea may have begun with his love of schooners, but it was never sentimental.  He cared about what mattered, power and speed. He cared how fast he was going to get where he needed to go and how much it would cost.  Steam ships were dirty and disgusting, tar and potash and smoke in your lungs, but Vanderbilt was as excited as everyone else who grasped their potential.  They were the future on the sea.

 

Lacking  the capital to buy a steamship Vanderbilt went to work captaining one for a Thomas Gibbons on a route from New York to New Brunswick, New Jersey, the first leg of the journey to Philadelphia.  The ship made a mandatory stop in New Brunswick over night.

Sophia and Cornelius saw opportunity.  They moved to New Brunswick soon after they were married and took over a rundown tavern by the riverside.  Every spare waking moment, when Cornelius was not captaining the steamship,  the two of them patched and repaired and painted.  Not a problem for Sophia any more than it was for Cornelius.  Having grown up on a farm, working 7 days a week,  dusk to dawn, was a given.  She was resourceful.  She found discarded fabric and used it for bedspreads. She made tablecloths.  She sewed, and stitched, and lifted until the place almost looked like home.

Sophia named their inn Bellona Hall.  She had a tight grip on it from day one. She was a shrewd judge of character.  Within moments she knew whether an employee would give her all.  Most of them were not Dutch.  Like her husband, she took pride in her capacity to out work any of them.

Word traveled fast.  Six months after it opened “Bellona Hall”,  had become famous for good food and service.  It had become a special part of the trip to Philadelphia, then as interesting a voyage as a trip today to Europe.  On Wednesday nights she served her mother’s Bahmi Goreng.  Friday it was her aunt Elsa’s Boerenkool.

Sophia saved every penny that they earned.  Like Cornelius, she had absolute faith that if they worked hard they would harvest a slow and steady accumulation of wealth.    In addition to her duties as head of the hotel, and bookkeeper for their joint enterprises, she gave birth to a child about every two years while living in New Brunswick; she had thirteen in all. Her work in the inn and work at home were one and the same thing. As the children became capable they helped with chores.  It was a good life for the family.

But to Cornelius, New York to New Brunswick was a temporary bend in the road, a means to an end.    The real action was taking place on the Hudson River.  Gibbons owned many businesses.  He had begun his career as a plantation owner in the South, but at midlife he left it all behind for Elizabeth, New Jersey.  Cornelius  mentioned the Hudson over and over again  to Gibbons and his reaction was always the same.  Nothing.  He acted like he had not heard him.  He walked out of the room.  He went on with whatever else he had been talking about.  But one day Gibbons was in a particularly good mood, or perhaps it was Vanderbilt wearing him down.  Vanderbilt had presented the figures for the year for the New Brunswick run.

“Mr. Gibbons, I can triple those numbers on the Hudson.”

This time he responded, “I know. I know.”  .

“So then let me do it.”

“Cornelius, we have a good thing here.  Why take on additional risk?”

“What if I can guarantee there will be no risk?”

“How can you do that?”

“I saw the boat you replaced  for this run.  Let me use that one.”

“I’m not even sure it will still float.  Have you taken a look at the engine?”

“I’ll get it going.”

“But how much will that cost?”

“You can take it out of my salary.”

“What will you live on?

“We have savings.  Bellona Hall is doing quite well”

Gibbons walked over to the window of his office.  He spoke with his back to Vanderbilt.

“What about Fulton’s company.  The New York Legislature gave exclusive rights to the Hudson.    The people bankrolling his company are among the most powerful men in New York.  We’re a little company in New Jersey. They would laugh at us challenging them on the Hudson

“Let them laugh.  They’re sucking people dry with their goddamn’ rates.  Competition will normalize things, bring the rates down.  Trust me.  We will have friends in no time.”

Gibbons was quiet for a few moments, but the decision had been made earlier, before their conversation  He had gone over this issue many times in his mind. The more he thought about it the more it became clear that it would succeed.  It was a good idea but that wasn’t his main rationale.  After years of judging Cornelius’ work, he had been completely won over. If  Cornelius said he was going to get something done it would get done.  No matter what it took.   He would not quit until he prevailed.

“Okay.  We will try it for a year.”

Vanderbilt enthusiastically shook Gibbons hand.  “One year.  One year.”

“You got it.”

“One other thing.”  Corneel hesitated, then plunged forward. “ I want a share of the profits. “

Gibbons ignored this last stipulation.  Vanderbilt knew he never made promises. He also knew that Gibbons was a fair man.

This was the kind of project that Vanderbilt loved more than any other.  Vanderbilt had never won over his superiors by impressing them with a quiet confident demeanor, anything but.  His raw, always too loud absence of grace, led him to be consistently underestimated as a blowhard.  But in the end he invariably enjoyed respect even if he had to rip the hell out of those who hadn’t given it to him.    But it wasn’t necessarily payback.  The big guys were on the Hudson because the payoff was huge.   New York was America’s most important port.  Prosperity flowing through New York created towns up and down the Hudson.  As far into the wilderness as the Hudson River could be navigated,  Albany was already a major American city.  George Washington was inaugurated in New York in 1789 and it was designated the nation’s first capital until envy from other colonies dictated that a neutral site be chosen.

But even more important was the future planned for the Hudson and New York.   When the  Erie Canal would be finally completed in 1825, freight by the tons could be shipped up the Hudson not only to Albany, but beyond, through the canal to the Great Lakes.  It meant a trade route to lands half way across America.  Before that, most travel to the Great Lakes had used the St. Lawrence River through Montreal.  It was shallow at points and required leaving the water several times.   New Orleans was at the base of  the Mississippi, so it too had access to large portions of the interior but nothing that could  compare with the Great Lakes.  New York would have  trading  access not just to the most distant point west, Chicago, but to thousands and thousands of miles along the shores of each of the Great Lakes.  We now know the consequences of this geography.  Great cities would evolve from trading posts on the lakes.  Besides Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, and Milwaukee would become powerful centers of commerce and business. Manufacturing muscle  would grow all along the Hudson as well as within the city itself.  Like London or Paris, it was assumed New York would become dominant from almost the beginning.  The Erie Canal multiplied those possibilities.  It made New York City’s supremacy absolute.   It was one of the busiest ports in the world.  But we are getting ahead of ourselves.

For the Hudson steam ship, Vanderbilt took Gibbons’ small rusty vessel and made her shine.  Then he selected a hard-bitten crew and drove them to the limits of their endurance. They bitched and moaned.  He screamed at them, begged them, where necessary, threatened.  But by far his most successful motivator was the usual, the fact that he outworked them. Vanderbilt’s determination counted more than anything he could say.  He did  what he had to do without giving a second thought to the work involved.  He saw himself on a mission.  And, in the end, so did they. That, more than anything else, helped them avoid feeling weighed down by what they had to do.  By the end of the first year he had turned a losing venture into a profitable one.  With his success, and having learned the intricacies of steamboats, Vanderbilt induced Gibbons in 1818 to build a larger and finer steamer, christened the Bellona, designed by Vanderbilt himself.

Gibbon’s  earlier incursion on the Hudson annoyed  Fulton’s people but was tolerable.  The new Bellona represented a true challenge.  They were not going to allow it.  This is what Vanderbilt had been waiting for, sharpening his wits, getting into a real battle.

As the Bellona approached the Manhattan docks, he could see Sheriff John O’Neill himself, with thirty armed  policemen.   The first time the Bellona docked they had been met by thugs.  They were no match for Vanderbilt and his men.  This time however, a lawsuit against Gibbons had been brought by the New York monopoly.  Violation of the court order might mean that Vanderbilt, if he showed up anywhere near the dock, would be put  in jail and he could stay there for a while. Some people went off to the Manhattan jail and never were heard from again.  That is why they called it the Tombs.

Disappearing forever into the Tombs wasn’t likely with Vanderbilt.  He already had too many friends in important places to simply disappear. Besides many of the people who worked for Fulton knew they might one day work for Vanderbilt.  Bureaucrats were bumblers when it came to getting things done, but, as always, they were formidable at looking after their own safety.  In any dispute, who was right and who  wrong was irrelevant.  It was who might win.  Their primary focus was remaining  safe from the wrath of the winner, should they choose the wrong side.

But there was a complication. While  the Sheriff was also attentive to  not offending  the powers that be, or might be,  he had the same weakness as Vanderbilt, an explosive temper, an unwillingness to capitulate when his Irish was aroused.  He had wanted to cut Vanderbilt down a peg or two from the moment he laid eyes on him.  No particular reason.  Call it body language.  Call it instinct.  He didn’t like a certain  kind of man.  And Vanderbilt was exactly that type.  Just didn’t like him.  Talked about him a lot. Too much, his deputies felt.

Perhaps it was that Vanderbilt was six feet one and his eyes never dropped to the ground. He peered down at O’Neill.  The Sheriff was used to it the other way around.  At five-eleven most men were smaller than him and meek in his presence. Vanderbilt was anything but.  It was just a question of time. If he lost it, O’Neill was capable of shooting Vanderbilt. He had shot a number of men.  Not always for reasons that he could comfortably express if there had been a hearing.  Just shot them.  His deputies backed up his justifications for his shootings, either out of respect for him, or fear that he could one day shoot them as well. In those days lawmen were given considerable leeway.

O’Neill was not stupid.  He understood that his Irish had gotten him the job.  He also knew it could lose it for him.  Or his life.  The last sheriff had gotten shot in the back.  They never figured out who did it.  O’Neill didn’t know what  was ahead for him, When he was thinking rationally  he hoped that Vanderbilt was also thinking clearly and steering clear of him.  But his temper, or Vanderbilt’s temper, could be fatal.

The Sheriff’s hopes were fulfilled.  Vanderbilt was prepared for the sheriff.  He had a secret compartment built under his office so that he could hear everything being said to his first mate.  The Sheriff wasn’t fooled.  He knew he was speaking to  Vanderbilt.

“Make sure Captain Vanderbilt knows we will arrest him.  The State of New York has given Fulton Steamers exclusive rights on this river.   If Gibbons wants to steal what is coming to them, it’ll cost him.  If the Captain is willing to start something he’ll get something.  Get it good.  He is breaking the law.  This boat is not allowed to operate on the Hudson, by order of the State of  New York.  End of discussion.”

He pointed at two crewman standing to the side.

“Deputy Flaherty.  Arrest them.”

The first mate could hear movement in the hidden compartment.  He knew Cornelius.  If he got going there could be serious trouble

“Sheriff, the Captain understands the law and fully respects it.  He will have his day in court.    He is not with us on this trip, but I will convey your message.”

“What is  making all that noise down there?”

“We have a rat problem.”

“I smell a big one…”

“Yes sir.”

“ But then you can always smell Vanderbilt from 100 yards.”

“Why are these men being arrested?”.

“Your crew broke the law.  If  your boat returns here you will all be arrested.  So have money in the bank for your wife and kids.”

It took great self-control for Vanderbilt not to jump out of his compartment and have it out with O’Neill. But fortunately,  O’Neill’s  reputation kept Vanderbilt silent  Rights to the Hudson were extraordinarily important but not worth dying for.  Not at this very moment.  It would cost them money to buy his men out of  jail.  It  would not be easy finding the right judge, but not impossible.  Vanderbilt kept silent  while the sheriff was carrying on, but this didn’t mean  his anger would not explode.  As soon as the sheriff was off the boat. Vanderbilt was in a mood to kill.

“Who the fuck does he think he is?”

“Commodore, he’s an asshole.  Never you mind.”

“I will kill him,” he said to no one in particular as he watched his men loaded into the paddy wagon.  He seethed as he watched O’Neill in the distance whip his horse and ride off.

Vanderbilt screamed at one of his men loading a crate of hardware that they intended to bring up the river “Gentle, gentle, you son of a washerwoman”. Soon he was again barking out orders.  “Let’s get a fuckin’ move on it.”  He didn’t know when the sheriff was going to return.

Three weeks later Sheriff O’Neill was shot dead, but he had had many encounters with enemies, and Vanderbilt’s name wasn’t even mentioned.  In truth it was not Vanderbilt’s style.  No one connected him to violence throughout his long career  But after that,  the sheriff who replaced O’Neill was not as aggressive. When offered discreetly, he was known to not look unfavorably on gifts.

Within a few years momentum started to shift.  The New Jersey legislature passed laws that enabled his crew to arrest New York’s sheriffs if they impeded them.  Vanderbilt’s men  succeeded in grabbing two of the deputies  and brought them  off to New Jersey.  Finally, the year before the Erie Canal was to open, 1824, the United States Supreme Court stepped in, and ruled in favor of the man from New Jersey, his boss Gibbons  They declared Fulton’s monopoly, given to him by the New York Legislature, invalid.

There was no stopping Vanderbilt after that.  With the nest egg he had accumulated through the Belonna, the money from selling his schooners, and savings he had been able to put away from his salary, he was able to buy his first steamer in 1829.  His business strategy couldn’t lose.  While his competitors charged $4 for a trip, he charged $1 and still made a profit.  Business was good, extremely good.  It didn’t take long before Vanderbilt was  killing them.

The pattern was always the same.  He saved every cent of his profits. A few years later he built another ship, then another and another. He had done the same thing for Gibbons. By the time he left , he had increased Gibbons one steamer to nine. So when he began his own business he had already perfected the formula for growing a steam ship company.  He refused to let his business get complicated.  All of his figures could be carried in his vest pockets.   He made his vessels into what one newspaper called  “floating palaces.”  Another described his ships as staunch, fast, handsome, comfortable and Vanderbilt, still close to his roots would add, always cheaper than his competition.    Eleven short years after he went into business for himself Cornelius Vanderbilt operated a fleet of over 100 steamboats.  By then, 1840,  he  was the largest employer of men in the United States.

 

Chapter 8

It was time to leave New Brunswick, New Jersey and come home to Staten Island. Sophia was opposed to it.   For more than twenty-five  years she wasn’t bothered that his work centered in New York and beyond, while the family was in Jersey.  She thought of him as a sailor, home when he was home, but the rest of the time they wrote letters.  And while she didn’t mind returning to her brothers and sisters and a few of her favorite cousins, she had come into her own away from home.  She didn’t want to leave Bellona Hall.  In New Brunswick she ruled the roost, her children and the business.  She was the exact opposite of her husband.  While he always looked around the next corner, forever extending his horizons,  she could not care less about adventures.  The scrapes and bruises and hurt feelings, quieting  the bickering of her children was  adventure enough.  When she  finally agreed to move back to Staten Island it was so that Cornelius would see his children more often.  He hardly knew them.  She was hoping he would love them.

Vanderbilt had different plans.  It had begun to bother him that he was an outsider to New York society.  In the business world he knew everyone of importance.  He had won and lost going up against them or with them in his various deals.  Along the way he had developed  his share of people he considered enemies.  If they ignored him they did so at their own peril.  He was a force to contend with, a person whose potential next move could make or break their plans.

Vanderbilt also had his share of  friends,  people who owed him favors or money, including people in the upper rungs. He was proud of his character.  Finesse wasn’t a quality he aspired to.   He called  things the way he saw them, blunt and to the point.  Indeed he was half pleased  being thought a curmudgeon.  If negotiators didn’t like his style, they could go elsewhere.  He could give you a drumming, outsmart you with a poker face.  But that was part of the rules in high stake competition.  His honor was tied to fundamentals.   His one dictum he was unwavering about.  If  he gave his word he kept his word.

He was not naïve about his friends in business.    Any one of them could turn on him if it made business sense.  Still even among his “friends”  he wasn’t invited to their homes.  It was time.  He had arrived. Their children should know his children.  He was not at all happy that Sophia preferred to raise them as if they were still farmers.  In 1846 he built the finest steam boat on the Hudson ever seen by New Yorkers.   Like the hotels his new boat was named The Vanderbilt. On the invitation to the boats christening, sent to the finest families in New York,  he began the practice of calling himself “Commodore.”   Truth was,  if he were going to give himself a title, he deserved Commodore.  He was a fine, even brilliant boatman.  That didn’t matter.    Very few of the invited guests showed up, and those who did, came more out of curiosity than respect.

After the last person  left the boat, Sophia and Cornelius sipped coffee together on the deck.  It was a bright sunny day in May.  Sea gulls flew over them cawing and cawing.

“All  and all I’d say we got a decent response.”

“I’m glad it lived up to your expectations.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“You can be honest with me Cornelius.  I know you are disappointed.”

“ I didn’t know the Astors would be having their party today.”

“Can I be blunt?’

He nodded.

“What did you hope to accomplish with this boat?”

“It’s a beautiful boat.”

“Yes, but truthfully…”  She looked him right in the eye, “It’s too much.  It’s ridiculous.”

He answered angrily “Why, because your father wouldn’t take you on a boat like this?”

“My daddy was too drunk to take me on any boat.”

“Exactly.”

“At least my father knew where he belonged.  You think these people are where you belong?  That is a joke.  They laugh at you.”

“They’re jealous.”

“They laugh at you..”

“I didn’t hear any laughing.”

“Okay, snickering. Byron Scott and Scott Pippen were having a great time cutting you up.  They thought I didn’t hear them but I heard every word  Also Mrs. Widdle and her sister.  I didn’t know where to hide.”

“I am sick and tired of you always making fun of my projects.  One day these people are going to be begging to talk to me.”

“Dream on.”

“Mark my words. Some of the fine people here tonight don’t own a pot to piss in.  Some of them owe me so much money, they’d be out on the streets if I called my loans”

“I am sure that is why half the people that came here this afternoon showed up.  But they will never accept you.”

“Fine they are too good for us.”

They both became silent.  Vanderbilt got up and walked over to the edge of the boat, then returned.

“Actually this is a perfect time to break the news.”

“What news?”

“We’re going to move to Manhattan.  I bought some land.”

“We are not moving to Manhattan.”

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“ First you make me leave the Bellona. “

“I brought you home.”

“Six years later and we are moving again, just so you can be near these wonderful people.  There is something wrong with you.”

“You’re afraid aren’t you, afraid you won’t be as good as them”

“You mean afraid of feeling like a fool.  Yes I am.  From sad experience I might add.  Whenever we go to occasions with them I see the looks we get.  These are not our kind of people. I know I am plain.  But you! Mr. Pippen imitated a gorilla.  Mrs. Pippen found that hilarious.”

“I’ve heard enough”

They built a house on Washington Place in New York.  However, when the new house  was ready,  Sophia couldn’t or wouldn’t go ahead with it.  She had become despondent, so much so that she could hardly function.  She stayed in bed from morning to night, claiming exhaustion.  But the doctors could find nothing wrong.  Often she could be heard crying.  Her two eldest daughter, Maria and Frances, were able to take over the care of George and Catherine.  Her other four daughters, now married and with families of their own, also stopped by frequently to help out.  But their loyalty, while it brought comfort,  was not what she needed.  Her condition remained the same, or if anything, got worse as the date for the move got closer.  Finally she was committed, upon Cornelius’ insistence, to a private sanitarium for insanity.  Her foul moods, had brought an atmosphere of gloom to all of them.  Cornelius was now sorry he had changed the subject whenever she brought  up her opposition to the move.  It doubled her panic when the time came.  He also couldn’t dismiss the idea that her melancholy was her way of fighting him.  She was capable of that.

He understood that change was difficult, but not impossible.  People make adjustments all the time as circumstances change, and in this case, his new status was simple reality.  He didn’t think she had made half an effort.  She was stubborn.  Why did she underestimate his determination, particularly in light of the fact that no person, no obstacle had ever beaten him? He was sure that would continue.  Yes he wanted respect from New York society and wasn’t getting it but he didn’t think they were better than him.    By his calculations  he was way ahead of them. Parlor gentlemen were parasites living off their parents’ hard work. They were not above him in class-on the contrary.  At least, that was what he calculated, whenever he added up his fortune, which was frequently.

Sophia was released from the sanitarium in the spring of 1847, after a few months confinement.  The cure was straightforward.  She snapped out of it when she gave up on Cornelius. The truth is that all along she loved herself, and her children, more than Cornelius, and once that dawned on her, she was okay. She loved Cornelius, just not as much as he demanded.  When she decided  to go obediently to the new home in the city  it was the beginning of the end of their partnership.

During the course of their marriage they had spent more time away from each other then together, but each assumed that business necessities, rather than choice, forced them apart.  That illusion was now gone.  Over the years both had been disappointed  with their marriage, but they had never given up hope that  the love they had once felt for each other, was revivable. When they quarreled that hope was challenged, but it remained an article of faith, a thin thread, but its existence meant everything.   The realization that their love was now totally gone had brought on her melancholy.  Yet after she accepted it, when the end  no longer was out there in a mist of possibilities, but was simply a fact,  she was able to move beyond it.

Not all at once.  Old habits die hard.  Sophia still got jealous when Cornelius looked elsewhere, but eventually she came to realize it was her vanity, more than her love for him, that was at issue. It took her until she was 55 to realize the difference between the two.  Once she grasped the new reality her Dutch pragmatism took over and was dependable.  Her fate wasn’t terrible.  Many women had done far worse for themselves, including her own mother, who had to put up with her father, a violent lout when he drank, which was practically all the time.

As she eventually understood it,  what defeated them was Cornelius’ vulnerability, the very same quality that had attracted her in the first place, and that she had attended to very successfully when they were young.    His desire to be loved could be contained within his sexuality and lovemaking, starting with their first fumbling experiments when they were both 14.  She was able to give every part of herself to him with abandonment.  It was the secret of her fertility.  After they were married she craved more and more children.  More to love.  More to love her.  He could provide for them nicely.  So his craving met hers and the results were fulfilling, not simply the act itself, which at times could be feral, but creating new life, multiplying the family.

There was trouble when his first episode of cheating was exposed but she got used to that. She knew he loved her more than his whores. Always had.   The real trouble began only in recent years when he truly was too much for her. Or she wasn’t enough.  His success had unleashed cravings that were not containable.  After she failed she increasingly realized that nothing in this world could adequately feed his hunger.  At least with sex there was an end point.  When his sexual longing was replaced by a broader desire,  the solution became an impossibility. Nothing, absolutely nothing could quiet him for very long.  No amount of recognition, no amount of money, would be enough to put out his passionate longing and his determination to find satisfaction.  Nothing.  His ambition was the product of that longing.  It could, and had, and would suck anything and everything, to fuel his mighty engine, an engine that regardless of how much it was fed, perpetually ran close to empty. Perhaps that is what it takes to become the richest man in the world, insatiability and the strength to carry through on its requirements.

When she left the sanitarium it was tacitly understood that they would remain married.  They would try to publicly get along, and not cause the other embarrassment.  He would be discreet.  She had reached an age when friendship meant more than passion.  Henceforth they were to be partners about practical matters.  Not being entangled was a relief to both them.  And, in fact, once that was accomplished they loved each other in memory and from a safe distance.  She gave her heart to their many grandchildren and he felt freer to more explicitly look elsewhere for union.   But there was a loss.  Their souls were no longer tied together to face the future.  This was shortly before the Boston Vanderbilt opened and he met Belize.

 

Chapter 9

The California Gold Rush of ‘48  stirred up the entire nation.   Large numbers of fortune seekers were desperate to get to California as fast as possible. A day lost might be the day they might have struck it rich.  Vanderbilt still remembered his own eagerness when he had started out.  But his main focus was  the business opportunity open to him if he was the one transporting the men to California.  It was a seller’s market.  They were desperate enough to pay royally   He sat with  the numbers, adding them up over and over,  unfortunately, always with same  result.   He couldn’t  beat the going price by enough to make it worth his while.  However, he refused to give up.  For weeks fresh ideas, angles, inspirations ripped through his mind.  None improved upon the well established route, a boat to Panama, then a slow journey by mule across to the Pacific.   It didn’t make sense for him to get involved

That changed when he learned the British Navy had taken over a port at the entrance to the San Juan River, in Nicaragua, renaming it Greytown.   He ordered maps of Nicaragua to be brought to him immediately.  He saw what they were after.

Lake Nicaragua.

The San Juan River starts on the  Caribbean  coast and connects to Lake Nicaragua deep in the interior.   From the lake it is 12 miles to the Pacific Ocean.    The problem, he is told,  is that the San Juan River cannot be navigated.  It is too full of junk. He is soon on one of his ship to Nicaragua  with his people.  He arrives within a week at the entrance to the river.

On the second night, by candlelight  Cornelius writes to his oldest son William

“They are not wrong.  The San Juan River is a  cesspool.  It’s filthy, full of abandoned projects, boat hulls rotting in the harbor, if that is what one would call the mouth of the river.   The English Navy has arrived and unopposed  taken over the port.   This is not a real nation as we know it in America.  Few roads, little trade.  People live in villages and rarely go further than  30 miles away during a lifetime.     Nature is relentless here  The moment a settler runs out of energy it takes over again.   Half a mile out of the town you find  houses that are entirely covered in vines.  You can understand giving up.     No one can work for very long to impose their own will.   It is too hot and humid.   They call the coast of Nicaragua the Mosquito Coast.  It deserves the name.  You can’t keep them away.

All in all exactly the kind of insane project that gets me going.  If we succeed the payoff will be enormous.

Keep an eye on your young ones and don’t argue with your wife.  Learn from our mistakes.  Send my regards to your mother.

 

Your father,

Cornelius”

 

After three weeks Cornelius has found that his first impressions were an understatement.   He writes his son again

“The heat is unbearable. Sane men would not want to work in Nicaragua, unless they had a predilection for self torture. The mosquito coast?  The mosquitoes are only the start of it.   The leeches in the river extract an even larger portion of your blood.  The heat favors life.  There is too much of it, animals and plants and molds, living things everywhere, growing on top of each other  Cockroaches are as big as mice, mice as big as rats, rats bigger than cats..  You sweat continuously, soaking through your clothes.  Nothing  ever dries.  Some of the men have terrible rashes.  Other diseases as well, yellow fever, malaria. People here live intense, short violent lives. There are horrible sounds at night, squeals, cats, frogs, primordial screeches.  Reptiles cut across your path.  Ants are everywhere.

They work like the dickens to reserve their hotel rooms for human beings. Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning.  Still every day there is a story among the guests of a snake in one of their rooms. Along the river, as the sun finally sets,  the men have to be careful removing debris from the river.  Crocodiles can emerge from underneath the  green slime. Squalor is understandable in Nicaragua, starting projects and abandoning them is a movement towards sanity.  No man can fight it for very long.  The men from New York that I  brought with me are going home.  Fortunately I was able to find local workers who are more used to the conditions. But I know their inclination is not to work hard. I now understand mañana, later, later.  Not now.  I am busy.  Busy trying to rest.  I don’t blame them.  At home we work to keep warm.  Here they don’t work so as to not get warm.  They can’t cool down.  Oh for a New York winter.  White snow.  Clean, cold white snow.  Oh to be cold.

But these grumblings aside,  I am excited by the possibilities here.  This is where history will be made.

Give a kiss to your son Cornelius and the others

 

He understands the difficulty of getting things done in Nicaragua.  He also understands the numbers.  A canal here would be of extraordinary importance.  Not just the commerce generated by  the gold rush.  This is the long sought route to the Far East.  It brought Columbus to America. It brought the British Navy to Nicaragua.  It brought Vanderbilt.  Heat and slime were trivial  adversaries when there are possibilities of great fortunes.

Vanderbilt christens his new enterprise the American Atlantic & Pacific Ship Canal Company. The Erie Canal, connected rivers to lakes.  This would connect oceans. In England,  he hopes to attract other investors to build a 12 mile canal from the lake to the Pacific.     He comes back empty handed.  But he has another plan..  After clearing the river Vanderbilt is able to negotiate exclusive rights to it, from the Nicaraguan government   He has boats built that can navigate the relatively shallow waters.  His renamed company, the Accessory Transit Company builds a road from Lake Nicaragua to the Pacific.  Wagons wait at a dock on the lake and speedily whisk his passengers to his ships on the Pacific on the new road he has built

The plan works beautifully.  His is the fastest route from New York to California by two days. He is able to offer a price beating his competitors by two hundred dollars. Soon his ships from New York are regularly filled to capacity. He adds ship after ship.  Eventually there are eight making their way from New York to Lake Nicaragua.  Later he has ships departing from New Orleans.  His competitors’ boats are soon emptied of passengers.  He will not allow his adversaries a crumb of leftovers. The US government has been  paying them five hundred thousand dollars a year to carry the mail to California.  Vanderbilt offers to do it for free.

By 1853 the rush is pretty much over.  At just under 60 years old, he has made so much money that he takes the first vacation of his life. There had never been time for it before.  Work was the only thing he knew.   If he and Sophia  had enjoyed their pennies during the early years they would have thought of themselves as wastrels.  Yes every once in a while they had seen families and couples living it up.  But this was not a choice that they could understand.  They were raised as farmers and a farmer’s work is never done.

The trip to Europe is his victory cruise.   From port to port he tours  with his  children, grand children, friends and minister on his yacht, the North Star, the biggest and most sumptuous personal yacht ever built for a private individual, nicer than the yacht used  by the King of  England.  Cornelius is Cornelius.  In his widely read book, The Cruise of the Steam Yacht North Star, his minister writes that they bypassed Rome, which passengers had anticipated as a highlight of the trip, when Cornelius became angry with a delay caused by a health officer.  When he is asked how he got on with the Commodore, then known to be particularly curt with members of the clergy, Reverend John O. Choules, says, “The Commodore did the swearing and I did the preaching, so we never disagreed.”   While Vanderbilt is gone, however, the men left to run the company in Nicaragua,  throw their hand in with an American from Nashville Tennessee, William Walker who has overthrown the government in Nicaragua  with only 60 men.  This puts Vanderbilt  out of business there.

There is the long arm of the law and there is the long arm of Cornelius Vanderbilt. He wrote to his former employees “You have undertaken to cheat me. I won’t sue you, for the law is too slow. I’ll ruin you.”  He kept his promise.  Later he added a statement for posterity.   He rarely gave to charity, but in his will he gave a large amount of money to found  Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee.  William Walker is today unknown in his home town.  Vanderbilt is the towering figure in their history.  Generation after generation of students, citizens and the curious in Nashville, bring Vanderbilt to life, telling and retelling his story.

 

 

Chapter 10

H.R. removes his diplomas and awards from the wall of his Hartford Connecticut office and puts them in a box. He is 63, a man of his times, old school Dartmouth circa the 1950’s.  Making his final check of the room to see if he has missed anything, his eyes rest for a moment on a brass LIBERTY MUTUAL INSURANCE sign sitting on his desk. He picks it up and digs his fingernail into a discolored section. He takes out his handkerchief to polish it.  Not completely satisfied he puts it down.  He reminisces about the first day he arrived in this office. He felt on top of the world. He dials his wife.

“That just about does it. Twenty-three years in this room and…” he looks at his cleared off desk.  “In ten minutes it’s like I’ve never been here.”

Mrs. Rutherford is emphatic, “H.R. I won’t hear that kind of talk.  You’ve given Liberty everything you have. They know that. Take a look at those awards. The insurance industry recognizes you as a giant.”

“Well, this merger means the board wants a new CEO.  That makes me a demoted giant.”

“I won’t have you feeling sorry for yourself.  The same thing happened to Jack Elkins and you were the first one to tell him he hadn’t done anything wrong. I spoke to Linda.  They are the happiest they’ve ever been.  Jack has time for his grandchildren.  They play golf twice a week.”

“You’re right.  Give me time. It takes getting used to.  Listen I’m just about done here. I’ll be home in a half hour”

H.R. hangs up.  He walks over to the window.  He looks out at the skyscrapers.  The Travelers, Aetna, Connecticut General, The Hartford; insurance companies built this city.  Over the years, whenever things got stressful he would look out at the skyscrapers just as he is doing now.  No thought, he would just look out and it would calm him.  Even today he has a bit of a smile.   Being head of one of the majors was far more than he had expected.  He’d come a long way from his parents’ grocery store in Minnesota.  When he graduated college, with not the best grades, he felt lucky to find a job, but after he got some momentum going he went straight up to the top.  Joe Lempel, head of Sun Mutual was from Chicago, from the other side of the tracks. He really deserves credit.  Tom Leyland was from Maine.   Actually only one of the heads of the majors was from Connecticut and he was from Waterbury, Bill Segur.   But they all belong to the same club. Except for Joe Lempel, they go to the same church. When they swing their 2 iron they are competitors, but it has always been collegial.   No one pushed too hard for the other’s business.  They existed in parallel fiefdoms, each with their own territory, their own investments, their own culture, and their own buildings.  .

He liked the buildings and he liked Hartford, or used to like it before it went the way of other American cities in the 70’s. He has learned to look past the street scene.  He considers the real Hartford the one that he came to in the 50’s. It struck him right away.  Hartford people reminded him of his people back home, old time Minnesotans, orderly, soft spoken and hard as nails.  They went to Church and didn’t talk about it.  They simply knew what was right.

H.R. had grown to love Connecticut, or his version of it.  He loved  Katherine Hepburn even before he moved to Hartford.  Although he would never admit it, she was a part of the reason he came, as a young man, to Hartford in the first place.  He had a fantasy that their paths might cross.  Now he could smile at his foolishness, but like most men when they are young, his fantasies kept his blood flowing powerfully, and gave an eager edge to his purposes.  Only recently did he admit to his wife that his crush on Hepburn was part of the reason he wanted a summer cottage in Old Saybrook.  His wife laughed.  They had recently been exchanging many of their secrets.

Katherine  Hepburn was born here and grew up here, the Hartford way, strongly held beliefs, further inculcated by confident private education. It was less about what other people have and more about what you have to do.   Los Angeles excited Ms. Hepburn, as did  New York, and she was no saint, but she never questioned where she wanted to eventually be, where she wanted to live. She never questioned the rules she lived by.  She might have broken them, on occasion, but she didn’t doubt them. The rules were the rules.  That was the secret of her toughness, the rod in her back, the steel certainty of her gaze.  Unquestioned values.

Mark Twain lived in Hartford for close to twenty years.  He lived next door to Harriet Beecher Stowe up on a hill.  It was where Twain liked to act the gentleman.  Some of the first insurance companies began here.  Not that Hartford was unique in that way.  There were companies all over America willing to gamble on the possibility of others’ misfortunes.  But Hartford’s companies flourished.

There was a  good reason.  To an outsider the abundance of prep schools in Connecticut is some snob waspy thing.  But it isn’t that simple.  Yes there is as much snobbery here as elsewhere, probably more, and a lot of it isn’t pretty, but the pride of the locals is not based on showboating. The opposite. Connecticut is about quiet values, never discussed beliefs.  No fancy rhetoric. You knew the rules and lived by them, kept your rule breaking very private, or you were an outcast. It is the very opposite of the South where evangelical rhetoric is spectacular, where Clintonesque poets of God declare everyone saved on Sunday morning after a wild Saturday night. People from Connecticut aren’t good at that, convincingly stringing together words that leap out of their mouths and sound so fine.  They aren’t good at partying either.

In the old days the prep schools ran a tight ship, showers at a prescribed time with the hard yellow soap they provided, specific times when letters home had to be written, study time, time for team practice, chapel, morning to night rigorous  character building.

Yes Sir.

No Sir.

A thousand times a day.

People here are usually described as unfriendly, but then again they have very little practice at being friendly.  Their homes are far apart compared to city people.  Before air conditioning, in the Bronx or Brooklyn, in Newark or Philadelphia, even Boston where the immigrants live, you could stick your head out the window and in 2 minutes you were in the middle of a conversation.  In Connecticut people are more used to spending time alone with their own thoughts.  Good fences make good neighbors.

New England was settled by people with convictions, religious convictions, Pilgrims forced to flee to America.  They still hold on to that. Certain things are a given.  They don’t change.  They won’t change.  They can’t change.  The rules are the rules. “What are we, if we are not principled,” New Jersey’s Woodrow Wilson might have woven that into a speech.  Katherine Hepburn would not have given that speech.   It wasn’t up for discussion.  The less said the better   Rules, boundaries, not a lot of hugging in New England, less improvisation.  Sometimes hard, hard people.  No lynch mobs after a crime of passion.  These people burned witches.  Killed people under the jurisdiction of God. The rules are God’s rules, If you break them you are taking your chances.  But you cannot change God’s rules.

So it wasn’t coincidence that Hartford was once America’s “insurance city.”  Its companies’ reputation as reliable insurers emerged after the calamitous New York City fires of 1835 and 1845, when Hartford companies fulfilled their payment promises, while many others didn’t.

H.R.’s buzzer goes off.  The temp. He gave his secretary the week off.  It is bad enough that he has to clean out.  She, at least, could be spared the details.  Before he can answer the buzzer there is a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Martin DeSalvo, the new CEO, and Leonard Birch, the new executive VP, enter.  DeSalvo, fortyish, fit, a black shirt underneath a custom Italian suit, moves confidently forward. Birch lays low.

“It wasn’t necessary to see me out.”

“I know that sir. I just wanted to wish you good luck.  You’re a legend in the industry.”

H.R. stands up and busies himself organizing the things in his box.  He stands at an angle that allows DeSalvo to offer his hand.  H.R. ignores it, turns his back more fully to them.  He continues to organize his things

“Anything wrong?”  DeSalvo asks.

HR remains with his back to them, still organizing his box.  He doesn’t answer.

“I was just asking.”

H.R. puts down his box and turns around.

“Look DeSalvo.  We bought your company and now you’re in charge. The board wanted that. Okay fine. That’s the rules. But it doesn’t change anything.  You are not insurance people-never will be. “

DeSalvo nonchalantly picks up the same brass Liberty sign that HR had said goodbye to.  He puts it down with no particular reaction to it.

H.R. isn’t finished, “It won’t be such easy going with the rest of our costs.  You’re going to pull the plug on the wrong person, piss the wrong person off.  You and those Germans that stole this company.”

“Hey just one minute. The Germans don’t own this company. And contrary to rumor, nor do the Arabs, and it’s not the Japanese. It’s not even the Mafia or the Jews. The people appointing the board are 100% American.”

“Whoever you are, you are 100% sons of bitches.”

He knows more than that.  DeSalvo’s uncle is Mafia.  High up. H.R. has wondered more than once whether the Mafia had, in fact, bought into health care in a big way.  How could they not with a trillion dollars  to steal.  Rumors, speculations.  No straight facts.  Not even a smoking gun.  But it would not be impossible.  They do well where there is confusion.

It is not like the Gambino family could call up the board of the Aetna and offer to buy the company. If they were going to do it, however, with Wall Street laundering, all things are possible.  Wall Street allows enough layers of camouflage so that who owns what can be well hidden.

DeSalvo can’t help himself. The chance to lecture HR is too good an opportunity to pass up.

“HR what you and your people never understood is, that in the end, it’s about the bottom line.  I can assure you this company is going to be the most profitable it has ever been.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“That is the whole point of this operation. Isn’t it? Earning money?”

“I thought we are an insurance company.”

DeSalvo amused countenance is forced as HR continues.

“You know it wasn’t always like this. We delivered insurance at a good price.  That was it.   That was the insurance business.”

“ The good old days. Ey H.R>  Except if it was so good how come it didn’t add up?”

“You mean by the new math? H.R.’s voice raises, “ We didn’t have to squeeze every last dime we could out of the company.  We were going to be around for a while.  Our number crunchers, your buddies, you know what they did in this company?  The actuaries figured out what our rates should be.  That was it. We lived or died by our actuaries.  We did our books straight with actual real numbers. No spin. Just numbers.”

DeSalvo’s smile switches from half polite to genuine.  The opportunity to watch H.R. rattle has gotten him going.

H.R. continues. “Numbers…The bottom line… Every quarter, the bottom line? Wall Street will like this.  Wall Street won’t like that. Gamblers. Gamblers control half the companies in the United States.”

“Investing isn’t gambling.”

“Gamblers hire and fire whomever they want.   CEOs move from rubber companies, to auto companies, to insurance companies.  Don’t know twat about any of it. Doesn’t matter. They know how to massage numbers, how to make them good, how to keep the stock flying.”

“Listen buddy.  The owners of the company expect to make a decent return on their investment.  You think there’s something wrong with that?”

“Making money is one thing.  What you guys are doing on  Wall Street is out of control.  Hundreds of billionaires appearing out of nowhere; just like that. Billions squeezed out of everyone else.”

“I don’t see you hurting.  Your retirement is going to leave you in pretty good shape”.

“I’m talking billions.”

Maybe you should become a politician, give speeches about what’s wrong with the country.  Wicked Wall Street. You can read people the Communist Manifesto.”

H.R. picks up his box. He glares trying to regain leverage, but it is hopeless.   DeSalvo stares back with a broad smile.

“You couldn’t wait 10 minutes until I was out of here, could you?”

“Here we go again.”

“Yes here I go again.” He hesitates.

“You got something on your mind say it.”

H.R. shakes his head. “I used to think the problem was you weren’t raised as a gentleman.  I was wrong.  You are not fully human.”

“H.R.  We can do this two ways.  Either I call security, and they escort you out of the building or you be nice, and join the board.  You make it hard on me. I’ll make it hard on you. Believe it or not, we want the nice way. I mean that.  You’ll be great on the board…”

“Right. So Liberty can keep everyone believing this is still an insurance company…let me tell you…people are catching on.  Little by little.  Not just me, other people.”

“Look, as long as what you have to say stays in this room, fine, have fun.  But you won’t know what hit you if you break our termination agreement. I’ll have you working in the cafeteria. I mean it.     We want the nice way. We don’t want your balls on a plate. You’re welcome on the board.  We will send a limousine, and if you move,  a jet to bring you to meetings.  Or you don’t have to come at all.  Just shut the fuck up.  We can all be friends”

H.R. walks to the door with his box .  Before he leaves DeSalvo blurts out,

“Think about it.  We want you with us and you don’t want us against you”

H.R. closes the door    Martin and Lenny dance gleefully, do a high five, yelp a little.

Then Martin DeSalvo hesitates, sucks it in, stares triumphantly at the closed door, “H.R. You old fart.  You got it exactly right.  I would not have missed this moment for a million bucks, watching you march out of here with that fucking box in your hands.  Just to see your pale face was beautiful.  Most beautiful  thing I’ve seen in years.  What goes around comes around. Bay-bee. Liberty wouldn’t even hire me 15 years ago.  Fuckin’ Ivy League pricks.  Gentlemen.  Mr. Dartmouth, Class of ’59. He’s lucky we let him keep his job the last 5 years.

“Marty.  Calm down.  We won.”

“Yeah.  Well old H.R. has been a pain in my ass every step of the way.  “We don’t do this, we don’t do that.” Well fuck you! We do do this and we do do that and we’re going to do more and more of it. I swear he’s been working for the doctors all along.  Whatever they wanted he handed it to them.  Our money.  Well that’s fixed now.  We pay the bills. We’re the boss.”

Leonard Birch is having a hard time suppressing a grin.  “I brought some champagne. I’ll have them bring it in.”

“Later.  Plan A starts immediately. Call P.R. I want to see the press release they came up with.  Letting 5000 people go needs the right spin. (taking a breath) We’re there Lenny.  At the top of the list is the claims department. Those fuckers been gumming up the works long enough. I don’t want a single H.R. person remaining. I only want people trained by our guys.”

“It is sweet Marty.  So Sweet.  Liberty is finally getting rid of the dead wood.”

“Yeah… well, get going.”

 

 

Chapter 11

No one in Boston knew much about Commodore Vanderbilt’s private life but everyone sensed something was amiss.  At first his visits were events, a chance for Van Doren and his employees to spiff up.  But as the visits became numerous and commonplace, even the employees became suspicious. “Why?” the whisperers asked. “Why Boston?”  The leading theory was that it was close enough to New York to be accessible and far enough from his wife so that she could not easily drop in on him. The Commodore was caught straying many times- all over the world.  He had his needs. Like many sailors he was rumored to have the proverbial woman in every port.  But Boston was different.  It was assumed the explanation for his love affair with his hotel in Boston had to have been Belize.  The question was how far they had gone.

One version of the current  gossip Michael heard was that the Commodore never declared his love, although others emphasize that if that is possible, she must have noticed the way he looked at her.  Still others said everyone looked at Belize that way so she may not have been aware. Some tell of a quick furtive embrace, which frightened both of them, ending it right off.    Nonsense to all of this the current manager of the Vanderbilt Hotel insists.  Others on his staff agree. Rumors are a waste of time.  They acknowledge they may be good for business.  They bring the curious.  Current management, however, has little doubt that the hotel was a business venture through and through, requiring every bit of the time the Commodore chose to give to it.  But then again, Michael thought, why should  this kind of fact lover have a better grip on the facts?  Business men always claim they are the only realists.  Yet, busy men miss all kinds of things that are obvious to others.

May of 1858. Cornelius is accompanying Belize in Paris to shop for the hotel. They are on his recently built ship, the Vanderbilt, between New York and Marseilles. Cornelius has been busy with meetings and inspections, checking that everything is running as it should.  The presence of Belize is having an added effect on him.  He feels younger.   He can’t help it.  The trip on his yacht to Europe, while tense and unsatisfying,  had set his mind going on this venture.  England’s preoccupation with the Crimean War offered him a timeframe to go into competition with the Cunard Line so he took it.  The three ships have been losing money, which has made him uneasy.  For now, however, with Belize on board, his pride in being the owner of the Vanderbilt is over riding his usual concerns about  profitability.

Entering the boiler room, his chest throbbed with the power of the engines, the most powerful of any ship in the world    Belize’s presence has made him  more aware of  details, the shining brass, the polished wood, everything immaculate. The Vanderbilt has the finest captain on the Atlantic, perhaps in the world,  R. B. Smith.    Though he would never admit it, Captain Smith’s calm commanding English demeanor  is giving Vanderbilt unexpected pleasure.   So are the carefully chosen sailors, who are noticeably energetic and disciplined.   The last few days he has more  than once wondered what his mother would think if she were traveling on this ship, the largest in the Atlantic Ocean?  How would his father, the old geezer, react to the fact  that his ship holds the record for crossing the Atlantic, 9 days 1 hour.  There are times he sees his life as a carrying through on a little boy’s dreams.  He speaks of it to no one, though his wife would understand if he spoke to her about it.  He prefers being gruff with her.  At this point she would see sentimental feelings as weakness.

They are seated at the Captain’s table. Seated to the right of Belize  is Mrs. Mary  James originally  from Albany, New York. Belize and Mrs. James are very busy in conversation, mainly about Paris sites that Mrs. James’ children might enjoy.  Vanderbilt is seated across from Mrs. James.  Her husband had to remain in their stateroom, with a touch of sea sickness

An aide comes up behind Captain Smith  and whispers in his ear.  He pats his lips with his napkin and rises.

“Commodore, my apologies for the interruption.  A small matter has come up that needs my attention.”

“Would you like me to accompany you.”

“Absolutely not.  It is a misunderstanding that I have to straighten out.    Please enjoy your dinner.”

They sit silently as he leaves.

Mrs. James is the first to speak,  “What could have happened?”

“I am sure it is nothing to be concerned about,” the commodore adds loudly enough for the entire table.

Soon private conversations have returned.

Belize addresses Vanderbilt,  “Commodore.  Mrs. James is from Albany. Didn’t you used to go there often?”

He nods, “Yes I used to have business in Albany quite a lot.  It’s a fine city.”

“My family and my husband’s family are from Albany but actually our address is now 21 Washington Place in New York.”

“Really.  I live at 10 Washington Place.”

“Yes.  I know.  You were all the talk when you built your townhouse.”

“What did they talk about?”

“Oh, nothing.  Chit-chat.  I suppose that is the price of being well known.”

Cornelius face does not reveal satisfaction with her compliment.  He harrumphs  a bit, then quickly follows with a question

“The James family from Albany.  I believe your husband’s father, William did business with me thirty, thirty-five  years ago, or one of his associates.  Wasn’t he involved with the Erie Canal?”

“Perhaps.  I’m not sure.”

Belize smiles broadly, “Neither of you  know each other and you live across the street from each other.  New York is a strange place.”

“Yes.  It is.” Cornelius adds.   “Still it’s funny we’ve  never run into each other on Washington Place. I suppose that is the price of living there.  No one goes for a stroll.  Out the door and into the carriage.”

“ It could be us. We are not home that often.   My husband isn’t  happy unless he is traveling somewhere.”

“He travels for business?”

“No.  He despises business.  His father did enough of that to last 5 generations.  So did my father.  My husband lectures.”

“On what?”

“Mostly spiritual topics,”

“ He’s a  preacher.”

“Yes.  Only he doesn’t believe  in any specific religion.  He quit Princeton Theological Seminary because he felt further from God the more he studied it.  You have heard of the transcendentalists,  Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thomas Carlisle?     They feel God is in every person, in every tree.”

“Is God in the dirt?”

She smiles, “I suppose.  You will have to ask my husband.  Actually he will be lecturing in Paris.  You must come to a lecture on transcendentalism”

“Transcenden… I’m not good with six syllable words.”

“The  transcendentalists ..you never heard of them?”

“Sorry, no I don’t have much time for reading or lectures.”

Belize adds cheerfully.  “Your husband sounds like he does a lot of deep thinking.”

‘Oh he does.  The answers he is seeking are like food and air to him.”

“That must be interesting.” Belize says reassuringly

“Very! You should hear him talk about peace and love between brothers. He can be very compelling.  He thinks  competition brings wars.  It gets in the way of people understanding each other. That is what he has against business”

Cornelius cuts in, “I’m not sure about that.  In business, competition is the name of the game.  Businessmen understand each other very well.”

“It can get nasty though, can’t it?”

“Well men are men but not really.” Vanderbilt replies,   “You just have to accept from the beginning that beating the other guy means he may beat you.”

“Exactly.  That is what my husband wants to avoid.  He disliked that quality in his father.”

“They didn’t get along well?”
”Like oil and water.  Two very different men    Both outstanding in their own way.  But opposite.  My husband wants to avoid that with our children.  He’s made himself totally available to them.”

“But doesn’t his work take him away?”

“That is why our whole family is on your ship.  We are off to Europe again. So far we have lived in Switzerland and England and this time it will be France.”

“Lucky children  No school.”

“We have a tutor and my husband is their teacher.  Besides he feels you can learn as much riding on a tram, as in a classroom.  Especially, a tram in Paris.”

“Must be  nice to be able to teach your children yourself.  It takes a lot of time.  I wish I had the time.”

“Fortunately,  my husband’s father left him the means to live life as he pleases.”

“Sounds like Mr. James’s father was a kind man.” Belize adds.

Noticing that two of her  boys have entered the dining room  Mrs. James calls out  to them “Henry, William”  She waves her hand  at them.  They have not spotted her yet.

“Fine boys.  How old?” Vanderbilt asks.

“Henry is 15 and William is 16.”

“So they just travel with you?”

“Yes our home is  wherever we are traveling”

“A man after my own heart.”

She waves for the boys to come forward, but they stay back and motion for her to join them

“Well I’m afraid my husband is not doing too well. I’ll have to attend to him.”

She holds out her hand to Vanderbilt. “Commodore?”

“My pleasure”

“I’ll mention to my husband that I met you.  He is very impressed by this ship. When he read of your record breaking voyage, he insisted on booking on the Vanderbilt”

“I’ll be happy to give him a tour.  He can bring the boys”

As soon as Mrs. James is gone Cornelius cannot contain himself.

“Henry James. He’s quite a character.   I’m sure his father William is rolling over in his grave.  He was an immigrant and through hard work made a lot of money.  Apparently he specified in his will that his inheritance depended on his son settling down. Henry, Mr. “ peace and love,” got a good lawyer and put an end to that. He was able to break the will and has been living off his father’s money ever since.”

“Interesting.”

“Very.  I would call that very non-competitive, grabbing your father’s money after he is gone.  The beauty of it – looking down your nose at businessmen.”

 

Chapter 12

Belize is on the ship’s deck with a book, bundled up in a blanket not far from the bridge.  It is noon, late in  May . The sun is brilliant and warm but the sea air is still nippy.   She can see Cornelius guiding the captain’s wheel, the captain nearby with a half smile, both sharing the pleasure they are getting from the state of the art sextant.  Vanderbilt calls out his readings to the captain who enters them into the navigational log. She looks out at the ocean, its stunning brightly lit deep navy color surrounding them, endless in every direction.  She wonders how many years of training it took before Vanderbilt  did not feel lost at sea.  For centuries ship have been  able to travel thousands of miles without landmarks yet able to know exactly where they are.  .  Vanderbilt has left the bridge and is coming towards her

Belize is planning her campaign.   Before they decided to come to Paris, Vanderbilt had been so impressed with what she had done in the hotel that he had told her he was giving her  free rein.

“Make the hotel your hotel.  Make it a French hotel.  Make it as nice as any hotel in Paris.”

That is what he said.  She isn’t completely sure what he means.  Of course she would like to make the hotel on the level of Le Grande, nicer even, but in his businesses he has a reputation  for liking to make money not spend it.     The first test of his offer will be two very large Persian rugs to be placed at the entrance to the Clarkson. She has caught his attention..  Shading her eyes she gestures with her other hand for him  to join her. Vanderbilt walks towards her.  With her eyes she signals him to take the  deck chair next to her, which he does

Cornelius  shudders a bit, blows into his hands, shaking off the cold.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Yes.” He says emphatically. He takes a deep breath, “I love ocean air.

Especially when I’m been on land for too long.”  He takes another breath, feeling the cool air  moving into his lungs

“It’s something, isn’t it?”

“It is”

“I am actually a simple man.  Just breathing like this gives me more satisfaction than doing almost  anything else.”

“More than the moon over the ocean?”

“That’s  nice too.”

“More than the sunset last night?”

“Your enjoying the voyage?”

“Very much.  “I never traveled first class before.  And this boat.  Everyone is talking about it.”

He continues to blow into his hands.

“You look cold.  You should get a blanket”

“I have my flask of brandy. What are you reading?” he asks.

“A book on the rugs of Isfahan.”

“Isfahan?  Where is Isfahan?”

“In Persia.  I told you about the two rugs I want to get for the entryway to the Clarkson. I want them to be very special.”

“Yes .It’s a good idea. Rugs would look nice there.  You should do it.”
“I want to get the best.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.  Everyone is talking about what you’ve done so far.  If you think those rugs should be the best we will get the best.”

“Thank you.”

“ So what is it about rugs and  Isfahan.”

“In the 16^th century the very finest rugs were made in  Isfahan.  According to this book they have never been surpassed.

“You can get them in Paris?”

“Of course.  The most beautiful rugs are in Paris.”

“Why Paris?”

“Because Paris is Paris.  We crave beauty.  We worship artists.”

“But rugs?”

“Yes rugs.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you.  Why is it that Parisian are so interested in luxury.  You know throughout England factories are springing up that make decent things cheaply, lots and lots of things.  What they manufacture becomes   affordable for the average person.  The French don’t seem interested in that.  Your countrymen feel it is more important to sell luxurious things”

“I don’t know why.  You think the French are wrong?”

“Wrong or right.  It is just the way things are…   So the nicest rugs can be found in Paris?”

“Certainly the most beautiful.  You know Persia’s greatest artists worked on rugs.

“For instance, who?”

“They don’t have names.  Some of the rugs we will be looking at are 300 years old.”

“Really.”

“Their names are forgotten.  They never expected them to be  remembered.  I like that.”

“So do I,” he adds.   Discussions about art and artists ordinarily irritate Vanderbilt, especially when he is with  people who get precious about  their tastes.  But Belize’s passion for artistic things has the opposite effect.  Perhaps it is because it isn’t art that interests her so much as beauty.  Her roses, her lipstick, her shoes, are all part of that.  She has told him she doesn’t like many English painters, or Spanish painters because they are less interested in pretty people.

“So what have you learned from your book?”

“You want the short version or the long version?”

“The long.  If I am going to learn something I might as well really  learn about it”

“Really?”

“Especially here.  All this time on our hands.   I have compete faith in the Captain.”

“And this ship.  This beautiful ship.”

“So the long version it is.”

She begins to read.  “Persian rug making began thousands of years ago among nomads in the desert.  They provided warmth at night, a luxurious floor and a bed in the middle of nowhere.  It wasn’t long before the women who made them began to make them decorative. Eventually  rug making became a central part of the women’s lives. You know women’s need to talk to each other. When their other work was done, mothers and daughters and grandmothers would sit together and weave for hours at a time. They’d gossip, share memories, fill each other in.”  Belize looks up at Cornelius like she has been talking silly talk.

“Go on.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.  It is interesting.”

“Each family had their secret recipes for dyes.  They’d boil huge pots of  flowers and roots.  Some family’s rugs  are known for their extraordinary  shades of red, others blues or yellows and some family’s colors went perfectly together. The really good dyes fade very little over years and years..  Sometimes, when a family line died out, no one could  figure out how certain artisans were able to achieve the colors that they did. Their secrets died with them.”

“Really.”

“ There is something about parents working with their children.  You want to  teach them the right way to do something.  And they want to show you they can. And then some.  Over the generations, the rugs  became nicer and nicer. I can understand that. In my family there were recipes for certain dishes, and every generation added improvements, but you know about the French and food.”

“Yes, you are very serious about your pleasures.”

His eyes become fastened on a color plate in the book. She hands the book to him.  He looks at it more closely, then hands the book back .

”It takes years to make a large rug like that doesn’t it?”

“The rugs we are going to look at took close to twenty years to weave.”

“You’ve folded down the corner of that page.  What is on that page?”

“You want me to read it?”

“Yes.”

“ Since the tribesman were illiterate eventually the rugs began to be a form of writing. They turned to them as a way to tell their  stories in pictures. Some of the  rug weavers depicted scenes with powerful emotions attached to them, their fortunes and troubles, their parents in heaven, a passionate moment of love.  Sometimes they were inspired by a vision.”

As she reads he  rests his eyes on her in a way that isn’t possible in ordinary conversation. She has the grace of someone who performs on the stage.

She looks up at him.   “Did you ever feel the need to do that,  portray something that has effected you?.”

“Absolutely, certain stories I tell over and over again. It bothers my children.”

She continues, “It must be nice to make something that emerges from  your spirit, and that comes to life when other people share it.  It’s like a part of you comes back to life.”

“It’s funny.  Lately. I’ve been thinking about that kind of thing.”

“You have?” she asks

“I think about leaving something behind that is permanent, that  will continue after I am gone”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure.  But I think about it.”

“Well, we have our children.”

“Perhaps, but, I don’t know…Sometimes I get the feeling my children mainly are thinking about what they are going to get from me when I am gone.  That is the downside of having a lot of money.  No.  I am thinking about something else.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure, but especially lately.  My father died at 63.  That is when it began, a year ago, when I reached  63.  But continue reading.  You were saying some of the  rugs makers were great artists.”

“Some of the rugs are extraordinarily beautiful.”

“Especially the ones in Paris,” he teases.

She smiles at him as she continues,  “In the towns and cities the rugs eventually became like jewelry, a place to keep the family’s wealth. The court of Cyrus the Great, who founded the Persian monarchy over 2,400 years ago, was said to be bedecked by magnificent carpets.”

“2400 years ago?”

“Yes 2400 years.  And imagine, for 2400 years they have been getting better and better at making rugs.”

She reads further.

“As early as the 6^th century they were being exported.”

He loves her  wonderful full French lips as they shape her words.  Her tongue darts out occasionally wetting her upper  lips

“Neighboring countries but also people from far away knew about Persia’s rugs and wanted them   Even when the Mongols invaded- they destroyed every thing they could.”  She  purses her lips before hurrying to the next sentence. He can’t take his eyes off of them.  “They randomly slaughtered people, made piles of heads that they had cut off.  The rugs were seen as treasures, as war booty.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I don’t think I want to go to Persia.”

“I don’t think that happens anymore.”

“You’re sure?”

“ Well, I hear they still like to cut off heads.  But you French perfected it with the guillotine.” He smiles.  For just a moment she senses cynicism.

“That was my grandparents generation.”

“Did they tell you about the revolution?”

“They stayed on the farm.  They were uninterested in politics just as I’m not.”

His voice is warm again as he asks her to read on.

“Among his few graces, the conqueror Tamerlane spared rug artisans from his warriors’ swords.  He  had them sent to his palaces in Turkistan.  He had big  plans for the rugs.  Following his reign every generation of Shahs understood that the rugs could bring fortunes to the kingdom.”

As she reads the light catches Belize’s eyes, momentarily making them glisten as they move back and forth.  She looks up at him.  Those eyes!  He feels himself being pulled -he could leap into them like the ocean, drown in them.

“Is this boring you?”

“Not at all.  Continue..”

Her tone has moved up a notch. “The climax came with the Safavid dynasty in the 16th century. When Shah Ismail occupied the throne in 1499 he began laying the foundation for what was to become a national industry that was the envy of surrounding countries…”

She looks up again

“Read more?” she asks.

“Yes.  Stop asking.”

“Okay, as you wish…”  She continues, “The most famous of the kings of this era,” she continues,  “Shah Abbas, more than any one, transformed the industry, bringing it from the tents of the wandering nomads into the towns and cities. In Isfahan…

“Ah  Isfahan.”

“ Yes and Paris has  the finest collection of rugs from Isfahan”

“That’s what your book says?”

“No but it does.”   She smiles knowingly.  “ In Isfahan, which Shah Abbas made his capital, a royal carpet factory was established.  He brought the finest  artists to prepare designs to be made by the best craftsmen. By then men had begun to make rugs.  He paid them extremely well.  They were as important to him as his generals.

He tries not to, but  he lingers over her long graceful fingers, her finely manicured nails.  Then her thick black hair holds his attention.  He hopes she hasn’t noticed; she might consider him an old fool.  But another part of him senses that she is enjoying the way he is looking at her.

“During Shah Abbas’ lifetime the art of carpet weaving achieved its pinnacle.”  She looks up at him again.  “I promise you.  We will find in Paris the nicest rugs from  Istafan.”

“Does it mention any particular rugs.”

She turns back a few pages, puts her finger on a line.

“The best known carpets of the period, dated 1539, come from the mosque of Ardebil and, in the opinion of  many experts, represents the summit of achievements in carpet design.”

Half seriously he asks, “Can that be brought to  Paris?”

“I doubt it. “

“Don’t be too sure.  If you are willing to pay enough you can buy almost anything.”

“That would be nice.  Very nice.”

 

The conversation leaves Belize very excited.  When they finally get to Paris many of the 16^th century Isfahans are as the book described, like paintings.

“Take a look at this Cornelius. These two go together.  They are the right size.  Feel  it.”

He does as he’s told.  Pure tufted silk. Thick but tight.  It feels soft, very soft.

“The  motif is light and airy.  Not what you might expect from a rug.”

The rug depicts a young woman dressed in a bright garnet top, leaning backwards at an alluring angle, while sitting against a tree. She is wearing a green waist band and a yellow skirt. A pink and black kerchief is tied around the back of her jet black hair  The exposed tree branches form an intricate network that fills the background. At her feet is a man making offerings.  Her face is vaguely depicted compared to her clothes and the background

Belize speaks softly.  “The man who created this loved beautiful things, perhaps more than people.  What do you think of  the color?”

“It is a damned nice rug.” he says in a  smart ass sailor  tone.  But she can see that he is very taken with it.

“Ask them how much.”

She translates the merchant’s answer, “Sixty thousand francs.”

He stares at the merchant and laughs “You can build fifteen houses for that money.  Tell him that.”

She translates this and the merchant’s reply.  “He says the price is for the two rugs.  There is nothing like these two rugs  anywhere in the world.  Rugs of this quality come along once in a lifetime.”  Her eyes plead with Vanderbilt

“Tell him 55,000 francs.”

She is thrilled by the merchant’s answer.  Cornbelius is thrilled by the look that she gives him when she realizes the rugs will  be in the hotel.

Today those rugs, at the  entry to the Clarkson Ballroom are almost as famous as the “Ardbil” carpet, now in the collection of the Victoria and Albert Museum .  One hundred and fifty years later students still visit  the Clarkson to  see them.  The same can be said for the tapestries, which Belize got a first glimpse at on the second  day of their shopping.  Many years later the Metropolitan Museum of Art enquired about the tapestries after they borrowed them for a show. The curators had never seen anything of comparable quality.

“What do woman want?”  Freud asked half in frustration, half in good humor.  Are gifts  the gateway to a woman’s heart?  If they are, Vanderbilt had the potential to be the greatest gift giver of them all.  The purchase of the rugs had a dramatic effect on Belize.  It was the way he said yes as much as the fact itself-no misgivings, not a trace of hesitation.  He seemed as excited as she was.  She had suspected, she had hoped,  but didn’t truly know that she would be able to buy things for the hotel at this level of quality.  When her aunt visited her  the first night in Paris she told her to tell her mother that she was happy.  It was the first time she had ever used that word  with her mother. Six months later she  wrote to her mother herself that she was very happy.  She continued to be happy for years and years. There were so many things to buy.

Vanderbilt also was effected by the purchase of the rug.  He had been attracted to other women but it never lasted beyond sexual gratification. This was something else. Maybe it was going into the ocean steamship business.  Maybe he sensed that he was running out of time.  Or maybe it was simply the look she gave him when he gave his approval for the rug.  That  stayed with him.  He craved to have it repeated.  There is no mystery about this.  Any man would delight in having the ability to satisfy a woman as beautiful and passionate as Belize. Bringing her to fulfillment, to climax , would have  satisfied anyone capable of bringing her there.   Men’s insecurity about their manhood places bringing the woman they love to orgasm on a special intimate plane.  Buying something of this magnitude for Belize, thrilling her, was not different in kind.  For at that moment she felt complete, happily possessed.  And Cornelius was the man who brought her there.

For the rest of  the trip they went to shops and galleries, to artists’ homes, to importers, to merchants of every variety, wherever the trail traveled by exquisite merchandise led them  The extraordinary  sums that Vanderbilt was spending  rearranged his psychology.  Normally, the only comparable satisfaction was adding up his net worth in his mind, a number that kept growing and growing and sent him off to many fine nights of restful sleep. He wasn’t used to afternoon delights.  He wasn’t used to the satisfaction of spending his money in a way that made him feel richer.   Commodore Vanderbilt, the person used to being  in control of almost every situation,  ceased to exist when he was with her.   Again and again the experience was the same.  He was thrilled to thrill her.    He had never been devoted like this before.   His will, his intelligence completely disappeared. He  swam in a sea of her desires and frustrations.  He saw things through her eyes.

Too blue, not a deep enough grey, brown undertones, yes, no, yes.  Nothing was more important.   Her “hows” and “whys” and “maybes” became his.   Every consideration, and reconsideration about purchases for the hotel, pulled him into her.  He was having a great time shopping.  It had been years and years, he couldn’t remember when he had last had a good time, let alone a great time, doing anything.  Perhaps never.  For  Dutch business men, great times are not their idea of a life well spent.  Or an afternoon.  Or the day after that.

One day led in to the next.  They bought paintings, furniture, fixtures.  Her wonderful choices weren’t  just due to the fact that she had  the money to buy anything in the world that could be bought.  Yes shopping with the money of the richest man in the world helped. But, as with her flowers, her  passion played the key role in her decisions.     She’d enter a shop and suddenly it was there.  No one could have predicted, including her, how strong this passion could become.  On the contrary she always seemed to be  self possessed,  self denying, hard at work.  “Eats like a bird.” would be the verdict of those who observed her cravings.  True enough .  But there is no other way to explain her rapture.  She had been starving for this.

3 PM.  They sat on a very private park bench surrounded by rows of  tulips.  Both of them were exhausted, having gone through hundreds of items that day.   This very bench had been one of Belize’s favorite spots when she had lived in Paris. The garden beds constantly changed with new flowers.  Not least among  this spot’s charms was that few people came here.   It was almost impossible to find.  It had been 15 years since she had last been here.  She could have found it  in the dark.  Indeed she often used to remain here long after the sun went down.

She originally came upon the bench serendipitously.  A month or two after she had settled in Paris when she was 14, she had gotten lost one evening and happened upon it.  After that  she spent long hours over many years in a melancholic state on this exact bench.   Fourteen is an age when loneliness can be made poignant by beauty.  It becomes almost enjoyable, like listening to  the blues-misunderstood, yet again, but oh how the soul sings.   Surrounded by flowers, she was comforted, even as her longing was intensified.   The bench was her nunnery.   She could too easily be violated.  It was not her fault and it wasn’t the men’s fault whose lives crossed hers during those years, simply a consequence of the fact that women like Belize, dazzlingly  ripe with youth, must invariably learn to factor protection into the equation of their lives.  Perhaps it was being without family, without school.  Perhaps it was the tension of her difficulties with her father, but  refuge was essential  and she found it here.  And so her desire to belong to a man, and her fear of them, infused the flowers with her passions.  That is how it began. They were safer than the  men, although as fickle in bringing satisfaction.

She had been a long time away.  Cornelius had been through this park many times before on his trips to Paris,  but he always was in a hurry, always had a purpose, if nothing else to get exercise or take in the fresh air.  He had long ago forgotten how to linger.   A cardinal chirped away as it rested on the limb of a dogwood that hung over the bench. She pointed it out to Cornelius.  They listened to its dialogue with its mate. It was a rare moment, letting down his guard and indulging his own melancholy. He had a fine walking stick bought for him by Sophia, but he hadn’t really noticed, until sitting there he studied its carving.

Belize spoke gently..  “After you catch your breath, there is a café I want to take you to at the corner of the park.  Would you like a little coffee and pastries to revive you?   I’m sure you have not tried all of our pastry.”

He said nothing.   He ordinarily ate sparingly, but Belize could see hints that he was interested. She  quietly unwrapped a small statue and  held it up, studying first one side than the other, trying out different angles, hopeful that her initial satisfaction would be repeated.  It was. Perhaps it was the expression on her face at that moment, or perhaps it was inevitable, but his capitulation had become so complete that he was unaware of being captured    A place in his heart had opened, his fear and caution swept aside by the cadences of her voice, stroking, stroking-he didn’t allow himself to think about it as love.  Not in a serious way.  That would be disastrous.  This was his nephew’s wife, his favorite nephew.  But the flowers were affecting him too.

How could they not?   He was no different than anyone else in her presence. Her soul electrified not only her own vision, but anyone with her.  An old part of him was coming  back to life, the intensity of the earliest, most thrilling, days of his youth, lying with Sophia, in the forest near their homes, hidden from view, discovering each others’ bodies for the first time.  He tightened.  He would not allow it.

Belize held the statuette in front of Vanderbilt, positioning it at an angle for him that matched the angle she found most perfect.

“What do you think?”

He said nothing.  She brought her hand down and carefully rewrapped it.  He sat quietly listening to the birds singing.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He hesitated for a moment then spoke.  “You remind me of Sophia.  She’s the only other person that ever got me to walk in to shops.”

“Is that so terrible?  Am I robbing time from more important things?”

“Let’s just say that by my usual accounting, this goes in the minus column not the plus column.”

“Oh.” Her face drops.  She doesn’t understand his meaning.  He sees that.

“No actually I like it.  I liked it with Sophia too,” he quickly adds.  We went to junk shops.  But it was the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Finding things that will work.  Fixing things up.  When we bought Bellona  it smelled from beer and piss, and stale cheese.  It was a tavern for river rats.  Sophia made it nice.  I liked helping her.”

He sighs, as if Sophia were dead.  Perhaps, she is dead, at least that Sophia, the one he had been so in love with when they worked together on the inn.

“What happened between you?”

“I don’t know.”  He truly doesn’t know.  He had his business, and that had always come first in his plans, but also in her plans. Not pleasure.  Sophia, even more than Cornelius, did not understand pleasure as a goal.  Business before pleasure was implicit in every thing they did.  Both of  their families had known very hard times. The original purpose of Vanderbilt’s striving was to  get a margin of safety for them.  He originally assumed the long hours, the financial gambles were for them.  Though not married at the time, even his adventures during the war, somehow, he felt, were part of his gift to his family.

But, eventually he could no longer fool himself.  His fantasy of happiness for everyone, and what his actual family turned out to want, were two different things.  He realized that they weren’t consulted on the original contents of what he sought to give them and so, perhaps he was bound to fail.  He experienced their reaction as ingratitude, when, in fact, the problem was his original fantasy of  generosity.  But in that he was like a lot of other fathers, disappointed that what he worked for meant so little to them.  The bickering, the tension when they were all together was unbearable.  Their voyage on the North Star had been a disappointment to him.  He had made one final try, but nothing seemed right

His relationship with Sophia had started so well.   When Sophia lugged back junk for him to polish or repair, she had a vision.  They both did.  And together, his elbow grease and hers, his scrubbing and hers, they had gotten rid of the beer smells, cleansed the floor of the last remnants of urine, opened the windows, brought in fresh air.  Together they had erased their families’ history, generation after generation of want.

The Vanderbilts had a few very nice things, things that Belize might have liked. Both his family and Sophia’s had always been proud of a Delft vase that had been brought by their ancestors from Holland and carefully preserved in the family for a century.  It was  finally given to them by the grandmother that they had in common.  Also the tulips, which every spring were displayed  in the vase.   The bulbs had multiplied over the course of 150 years. Their family knew the secret of propagating tulips.   Both of them loved tulips.   From other conversations Belize felt she knew Sophia well.

“Your wife and I have much in common.”

But it wasn’t Sophia she understood.  Sophia’s presence was once removed, a shadow, barely alive, dying inside of Cornelius.  She could only know, only feel whatever Cornelius felt about Sophia.  And that Sophia aroused sympathy for Cornelius.    She wanted to caress the loneliness she sensed in him, the loss that kept eating away at him.  She moved forward innocently. They were old enough and experienced enough to take heed of the warning signs.   They could be heading for trouble.  But that was out of the question.  They both told themselves that these shopping trips would have to do.  They were determined to stick to that

And shopping they did and did  There were similarities between Sophia and Belize, but the difference between them was also important. Sophia disliked the fancy people,  felt humiliated when she had to mix with them, embarrassed for herself as well as Cornelius. Sophia was satisfied when she could make the Bellonna presentable.  Belize’s love for beautiful things was her raison d’etre. And she rarely doubted that she belonged.  When he was with her she felt as if she had, at last, arrived.

 

Chapter 13

Eric Clapton is playing softly on the stereo.   Deborah is on the sofa.  Michael returns home after a long day.  He hangs up his suit jacket and enters the living room without a word.  They have not made up after a fight the previous evening.  He can smell the marijuana.  He goes to the ashtray and examines a joint, puts it back.  He goes to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and searches for something to eat. His eyes fix on a half eaten open tuna can with a plastic baggie loosely placed over it.  He hates when Deborah does that. He’s told her a hundred times. It will spoil and Ritchie might eat it.  Actually Ritchie won’t go near it.  But still…

“ What are we doing for supper?” he calls out.

She doesn’t answer.

He won’t be put off.  He returns to the living room.

“In case you didn’t notice you still have a son left. Lately, you’re stoned more than you’re straight.”

She will not answer when he assumes that tone of voice.

“Ritchie never comes out of his room.  I can’t get him to look at me let alone talk to me. The two of you are feeding off each other.”

“Right. It’s all my fault.”

“I didn’t say that.  Deborah, I remember when you used to be the strong one in this family.  We all counted on you to keep us going.”

“Things change.”

“They don’t have to.”

Ritchie has put on a new CD in his room.  He is blasting his music.

“That does it!” Michael heads for Ritchie’s room, flings open the door. Ritchie turns down the volume on the music with his remote control.

What’s wrong? he asks innocently.

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah?”

Michael tries unsuccessfully to calm himself before speaking.

“I want you to get help.”

“What kind of help?”

“I want you to talk to someone, a professional.”

“What’s that going to do?”

“After Lisa, I went to someone.  It made a big difference.”

“Yeah right.  Lisa came right back to be with us for Christmas.”

“Look I don’t want to talk if you’re not going to be serious.”

“I don’t want to talk period.”

“I want you to go to this guy-the same one I saw.  Dr. Stern. You’ll like him.”

“And what if I refuse?

“There simply isn’t a choice on this one.”

Ritchie pushes the button to his stereo.  The music immediately blasts. He falls on his bed with his back facing Michael.  Michael looks at his son helplessly.  Ritchie is angry.  He is also afraid.

 

Restlessly Michael thumbs through a magazine in Dr. Stern’s waiting room.  Ritchie sits legs spread staring at the floor. Dr. Stern’s receptionist answers her intercom.  She turns to Michael.

“Dr. Stern’s free now. Mr. Russell you go in first.”

He enters the office. Dr. Stern remains seated behind his desk.  There is a Sean Connery warmth in his professionalism.

“Hey Michael”.

“Thanks for fitting us in.”

“No problem.  You okay?”

“I’m worried about Ritchie.”

“What’s the problem?”

“He’s depressed.”

“Very?”

“Very.”

“Suicide kind of depressed?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Because of Lisa?”

“Probably, but I know nothing. I’ve been with him every day for 16 years and your guess is as good as mine.”

“Has he hinted at anything that is bothering him?”

“No.”

“About today, did Ritchie agree to come?”

“No.  But he’s here.  If Ritchie didn’t want to come he wouldn’t. He has a lot on his mind and he knows it.”

“Let’s see how it goes.  With any luck we’ll connect.”

“Hope so.”

“Send him in.”

Michael goes back to the reception area.  He stands over Ritchie.

“Remember. Give him a chance.”

“Yeah right.”

Ritchie goes into Dr. Stern’s office .   Michael looks around the reception room.  He opens a New Yorker.  He turns the pages mindlessly, tries to look at the cartoons, reads the movie review, tries to start a story.  But he reads the same page over and over. Finally he gives up.  Forty five minutes later Ritchie returns. The receptionist tells Michael that he should go into Dr. Stern’s office.

He enters. Dr. Stern is on the phone. He waits until Dr. Stern hangs up.

“How did it go?”

“About how I expected.  He didn’t do too much talking.  It’ll take a while.  Which worries me. That was your insurance company on the phone. He’s only approved for follow-up medication visits.’

“What do you mean?”

“That’s the new model.  Everything’s a chemical imbalance.  I’ve put him on Prozac.  I have no problem with that.  Chances are it will help him feel better.  But he needs therapy and I’m not sure they will let him get much of that.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“We’ll talk soon.  Don’t worry. We will figure something out.”

Michael walks out with the doctor.  He tosses the keys to Ritchie.

“You can drive champ.”

He waits until they are on the open road before questioning him.

“So how did it go?”

“What do you mean how did it go?  I sat opposite this old guy and he asked all these personal questions.  Like I really want to tell him about my shit.”

“Do you want to see someone else?”

Ritchie floors the accelerator and passes a car.  They just miss an approaching van but Ritchie is able to pull it back to the right side of the street.

“Hey take it easy. This isn’t a video game.  It’s the real thing. You could have gotten us killed.”

“Like I really give a shit.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just what it means.”

“You don’t care if you get killed?”

“Frankly, I don’t care but that’s another subject”

“No, that’s exactly the subject.”

“Look Dad. I don’t care if I live.  I don’t care if I die.  I don’t care if I see Dr. Stern, or if I see someone else or if I see no one.  I don’t care.”

 

That evening Deborah is again stoned.  In the dark she is watching videotapes of the family.  Michael enters, throws down his coat. He smells the marijuana.

“Deborah, you gotta stop. You’re smoking too much dope.”

“It helps me get into things.”

“Well you’re so in to things I don’t even know you any more.  Where’s Ritchie?”

Deborah moves the images around on the screen with the remote control.  They both watch the video as she talks.

“God you were so handsome.  I wasn’t bad either… look at me.”

“Where’s Ritchie?”

“In his room.”

“Did he seem all right?”

The video continues.

“Remember that?  Look at you holding Ritchie.  He was gorgeous. Such a beautiful baby… Gorgeous! You were so proud…  Look.  Lisa off in the corner… Wait let me rewind…”

She rewinds.

“She doesn’t look so happy.  Look at her blonde hair, its practically platinum.  God, it darkened.  She was almost a brunette…” The tape continues. “Oh there.  Now she’s smiling.  I love this part.  When we put Ritchie in her arms.”

The camera moves in for a close-up of Lisa.

“Look at her. Oh Lise…” The tears begin.   “You were such a good sister…”

“I can’t take this.  How can you look at that over and over again?”

She snaps out of it, feels betrayed, combative.  “What Michael?”

“You heard me.”

“What do you want me to do?  Just tell me Michael.  What am I supposed to do?”

“She’s gone Deborah.”

“Maybe for you Michael. Maybe for you.  You didn’t give a shit then and you still don’t.”

“Deborah.  This isn’t my problem. It’s yours. You won’t let her go.”

“Right. Okay Michael.”

Deborah pushes the eject button, waits for the tape then holds it up.

“Here’s the tape.  I’m going to dig a 6 foot deep hole and toss the tape in.  That’s what you want? You want her completely gone. You want her dead?”

“She is dead.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“No I don’t. I don’t think you really know it.”

“Listen buddy. There is nothing I know more than that.  Nothing.”

“So then accept it.”

“I have, Michael.  I have.  I should have known I was going to get this shit tonight.  When you used to go to Dr. Stern… Every time you came home… You had the answers to everyone’s problems.  Got any new psychobabble for me?  Come on Michael.  Come on Mr. Fix-it.”

“You just want to fight don’t you?”

“You’re the one who came home with an attitude.  I got one thing to say. She gives him the finger,  “Fuck you!”

“Actually I wouldn’t mind that occasionally.”

There is a sudden very loud strange noise in the bathroom at the end of the hall.

They both freeze.  She shouts.

“Ritchie!”

Michael and Deborah immediately head there.

Michael shouts, “Ritchie!”

Deborah’s  terrified.  She shakes the door

“Ritchie. Ritchie!”

Michael, in two tries, breaks the door down.  Ritchie has tried to hang himself by jumping off the toilet.  He is semi-conscious. The pipe above the toilet, that he had tied a rope to, has broken and water is gushing out of it soaking him and the room.  Michael springs into action.  He embraces Richard around the waist and lifts him up to take the weight off his neck.  He struggles with the knot.

“Get a knife from the kitchen.”

She returns with a big knife and Michael cuts him down.  As he does they both fall clumsily to the floor.  In the process, Ritchie’s forehead is cut.  It is bleeding.  Struggling, desperately, Michael loosens the noose.

“Call 911”.

Michael is about to start CPR but then Ritchie starts to choke and then breathes quietly on his own.  Deborah returns.

“They’re on their way.”

Deborah grabs a towel and puts it on Ritchie’s gash on his forehead.  She gets down on her knees on the floor and moves his head onto her lap. She watches him breath and begins to rock, holding his head to her breast.

“Oh baby. My baby.”

It is too much to bear.  Out of breath Michael quietly leans against the doorway watching.

 

 

Outside the Russell’s apartment complex an ambulance with flashing lights has attracted a crowd.  As they move Ritchie off the gurney and into the ambulance one of the workers stands with Michael and Deborah.

“He’s gonna be alright.  Mrs. Russell, you can come with us in the ambulance.  Sir, you follow in your car.  We’re going to Mt. Pleasant Hospital.”

Deborah gets in the ambulance with him.  They drive off, sirens blaring.  Michael is still holding the bloody towel.  He doesn’t move for a few moments as he stares at the ambulance driving away.  He walks back into the building, takes the elevator and returns to their apartment.  He looks for his coat. It is not in the front closet. He looks around some more.  The sound of his footsteps can be heard on top of the utter silence. Their home seems empty.

 

Chapter 14

It’s 3AM in the Mount Pleasant Hospital Emergency Room. A very attractive 20-year-old woman paces back and forth with a young baby in her arms.  She is obviously psychotic, talking to herself from time to time, sometimes laughing out loud, sometimes looking very distressed, sometimes erupting in anger. Indifferently, a policeman watches her.  Occasionally his hand radio goes on.  Surprisingly loud, muddled directives are issued by his sergeant at the police station.   A thin distressed young man, knees tightly together, looks down at the floor. Michael and Deborah sit together, taking it in.  Despite the hour they are wide awake, as are all the newly arrived patients now waiting.

The policeman speaks into his hand radio, “I talked to the doc.  He’s saying I gotta’ stay here until he hears from the insurance company.  They’re short on security.  Says there’s been cut backs.”

“We’ve had someone there since 4 PM,” the sergeant barks back,  “Just leave.  We need you on your beat.”

“I’ll get back to you.”  He clicks the radio off not waiting for a reply.  He approaches a nurse at the nurse’s station that seems in charge.

“My sergeant’s getting pretty antsy.  I can’t stay here all night.”

“There’s nothing we can do.  We can’t admit her without approval and so far they are not going along with us.”

“This lady’s nuts.  Did the doctor get the part about how there is a device hidden in her baby’s vagina?  She says she keeps looking for it.”

“He knows all about  it.”

“So?”

“Her insurance is giving us a hard time.”

“Like what?”

“They don’t think she’s a danger to anyone.  They want us to send her to a day hospital.”

“What about the baby?”

“They say that’s a problem for child welfare.”

“She’s not going to show up at no treatment program every day.”

“Exactly.  That’s why you are still here. Dr. Lurin  agrees with you.  She needs to be in the hospital.  And by the way, our hospital isn’t contracted with her company for day hospital.  So, as of now, she’d be going to  Mercury General.”

“How the hell is she going to get over there every day?  That’s an hour and a half each way, 3 changes on the T.  She doesn’t even know where she is right now.”

“You got it.  We are trying to get people in Minnesota to understand what’s happening here in Boston.  They keep coming up with reasons why she can’t be admitted. The reason you’re still here is  Dr. Lurin won’t give in. Right now we are waiting for one of their supervisors to get back to us.  We’ve called 4 times. No supervisor. They’re hoping we will give up and go away.”  She looks at her watch, clowns a bit. “ We’re going on 8 hours.”

“This stuff is unbelievable.”

“No kidding. You want to hear something really special?  We are on hold now.”

The nurse pushes a button turning on the speaker phone.  Kenny G can be heard. A very airline cheerful voice speaks above the music.

“We are experiencing a temporary over load in volume. But please hold. Your call is very important to us.”

More Kenny G. Then the airline voice returns.

“Want to feel better?  Try laughter.  Having a sense of humor has been shown to increase self-esteem.  It even helps the immune system.”

More Kenny G.

Again that happy happy voice.

“Do you want more respect?  Try treating your fellow workers with respect…Studies show it is the secret of every happy workplace.”

More Kenny G.

She flips the speaker phone off, “That’s what we’re up against.   Alice in Wonderland”.

.           She points to the policeman’s chair.

“Better find a comfortable position.  With this on appeal, it’s going to be an all-nighter.”

Dr. Lurin walks out to the waiting area and approaches Michael and Deborah.  They recognize each other.  He takes Deborah’s hand.

“Aren’t you Laurie Lurin’s son? It must be 10 years.  The last time I saw you, you were four foot one.”

“I thought it was you when I saw your son’s chart.  It’s been a long time.”

She hugs him.  Her tears begin.

“Ritchie’s okay. No damage done. We’ve admitted him.”

“Can we talk to him?”

“We already sent him upstairs.  He’ll be okay.”

“Did he say anything?”

“I know you want to see him but come back in the morning. You can see him then.”

The young crazy woman’s voice has gotten loud.  She is yelling at a fifty year old Hispanic man with a broken thumb, sitting with his 14 year-old son.

“You did it to my baby didn’t you?  You put that transmitter in her vagina.”

He tries to ignore her. His son is looking up at the ceiling.

Michael talks directly to Dr. Lurin.

“That woman with the baby– what is going to happen to her?”

“I wish I knew. I have a situation like this almost every night, a stand off with the bastards.  Look, go home and get some sleep.  Things will look brighter in the morning.  Go home.”

They hesitate.

“Go.  There is nothing to do here.”

“Is there a diner around here?”

“Listen to me. Go home.  You have a long day tomorrow.”

 

Chapter 15

The morning after his suicide attempt Ritchie walks down the corridor of the ward nodding to other patients.  His neck shows scrape marks where the rope had been.  He catches the eye of another patient approximately his age.

“Hey man.”

“Yo.  What’s happening?”

An aide goes to the main locked door of the ward and unlocks it with a giant key.  Michael and Deborah enter.  He is wearing a tie and sports jacket, Deborah has on a dress. They are shy in any new surroundings, but the inside of a  psychiatric  ward?  It isn’t something they ever imagined they would see.  They don’t know what to expect.  They’re not sure what they are supposed to do.  They look around.  So far so good.  A lot of teenagers.  Not that different from Ritchie. They are relieved.  They thought it would be full of very strange people, like the woman last night in the ER.  Apparently not.  Apparently the really crazy people are sent somewhere else.

They spot Ritchie off to the side shyly trying not to eye a group of girls.  One of the girls in particular is petite and cute.  Deborah and Michael relax.  They wave to him.   Deborah smiles wanly. She mouths “I love you”.  They follow Dr. Agnew into his office.  He is a young cocky man who clips his words as if to exaggerate that he is succinct.

After a perfunctory greeting he points to two chairs then wastes no time getting started, “How long has he been on Prozac?”

“He was supposed to begin it this morning.  He…”

Dr. Agnew cuts Michael off, “So he never got it.” He writes that on a form then looks up again at them.

“How long did he see Dr. Stern?”

He just had one visit, yesterday.”

“Did Richard…”

Deborah intervenes, “Ritchie.  He likes to be called Ritchie.”

Dr. Agnew’s voice takes on an irritated tone. “Did Ritchie give any indications that he was thinking about suicide?”

Michael answers, “Not really.”

Deborah disagrees. “ Once, I think two years ago he talked about dying.  He wanted to know whether his sister Lisa—she died 5 years ago from a lymphoma- might really be alive in heaven.  We talked about that.  I was surprised.  He believes in it.  Michael I guess he got that from you.  He really misses her.  We all do.  Immediately after Lisa died, Ritchie would bring things home from school that he said he was saving to show Lisa when he went to heaven. He’d speak about that a lot, And then he stopped talking to us about those kinds of things.  He’s become our mystery teenager.”

Dr. Agnew makes his impatience unmistakable, “I mean actual suicide threats.”

“What do you mean actual?” Michael asks

“Threatening to do it.”

“No nothing like that.  But you know…”

“Any family history of suicide?”

“No.”

“Dr. Stern told me he saw you for depression several years ago.  He kind of hinted that you also are depressed Mrs. Russell.  So there is a strong family history?”

“I don’t know. Not before Lisa’s illness.”

“Lisa?”

“My daughter.”

“Oh right, the one with the lymphoma.  What about his grandparents?  Did they get depressed?”

“They were okay.”

Michael cuts in, “What about your mom during menopause?”

he asks Deborah.  “She was pretty crabby?”

“Well that was only a few months. I…”

“So the answer is yes.  There’s a strong family history.”

He marks it on his chart

“Well I’m not sure.  I…”

“Listen, I have a patient scheduled in a few minutes. I’m all set.  I got what I need.”

“That’s it?”

“You’re supposed to see Mrs. Franklin next. She’ll answer your questions. She’s in charge of disposition…”

“What do you mean? Who are you disposing of?” Michael asks sarcastically.

“She’s in charge of discharge planning.  She’s an important part of the treatment team.”

“Why?  Are you thinking about discharge?  He just got here!”

“Hospital wards are not the proper place to treat patients.  It causes regression. Patients begin to like it here a little too much.”

“And you think that could happen with Ritchie?”

“I don’t know Ritchie, but yes, very possibly.  Let me talk to Ritchie some more and talk to his therapist…”

“Who is his therapist?”

“I already told you. Mrs. Franklin. She’ll meet with you later.  Let me see what time.”

The doctor picks up his phone and dials her extension. He mumbles something into the phone, then looks up.

“In about an hour.  Why don’t you see if you can find Billy out there”.

“Billy?”

Dr. Agnew sneaks a look at his chart.

“Sorry…Ritchie.”

Dr. Agnew shows them the door.  They go into the corridor. Many patients, including Ritchie, are in a common room at a lecture. Michael and Deborah catch Ritchie’s eye, take a seat towards the back. A young pollyannish woman, Ms. Allison is in front of the screen where slides are being projected. A large picture of a nerve junction is depicted. Her pointer moves to what appears to be bubbles.

“This is serotonin. Depressed people don’t have enough of it. Who is on Prozac?”

Five patients raise their hand.  Ritchie doesn’t.  Michael signals him to do so. Ritchie ignores him.

“What about Celexa, Zoloft, Paxil, Effexor?”

Almost all of the rest of the patients raise their hand.

“Good.  These drugs fix your chemical imbalance.  They are miracle drugs like antibiotics.  If you take your medication you will feel much better.  Although sometimes they don’t work, we have other medicines and the chances are they will work. It’s very important that you take your medication… Religiously!”

A patient raises her hand.

“So our problems aren’t what’s bumming us out?”

“Well I’m sure you think they are, but it’s really your chemical imbalance.  Well… that and one other thing…Anyone know what that is?”

No one raises their hand.

“Come on Connie. You’ve been here before.”

Connie gives her a look of disgust. Ms. Allison isn’t the least distracted.

“Negative attitudes.  I have this booklet for you that I want you to study about how to think more positively.”

A new person pipes in, “When do we meet with the doctor about our medication?  I’ve been here 5 days and I’ve only seen him once for 15 minutes.”

“ Well, he makes rounds every day and the staff reports to him. Exuding cheerfulness she continues, “He’s very, very busy.”

“Do we get to meet with him about medication problems?”

“Well, in special situations.  But we encourage you to bring up any medication problems in medication group.  For those of you who are new-you’ll meet together once a day with the nurse and that’s where you are supposed to ask about any side effects that bother you.”

“I’m not going to talk about no side effects in front of every one else.”

“Sometimes you just have to find the courage.”

“Are you serious?  You know lady.  This serotonin thing.  It sounds like one size fits all.”

“Well you can look at it that way, but that is just negative thinking.” Very cheerfully she adds,  “You’ll see. Very soon you’ll feel fine.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know it because I used to get depressed. Just like you.  And now I am on medicine and… well…can’t you tell how positive I am? That can be you.”

“So now you have no problems?”

“I didn’t say that.  Now I look at my problems differently… with a positive attitude.”

“You is one drugged lady.”

“Well, any other questions?”

Ms Allison looks around the room.  No hands are raised.

“Very good.  For those who don’t have one of these (holding up the booklet) come up to get your copy.  Seriously, there is a lot to learn about a positive attitude. It works.”

 

Most of the patients do move forward to get the booklet.  Ritchie conspicuously moves in the opposite direction towards Michael and Deborah. He hugs his mother.

“You okay mom?”

“I’m good. I’m good.”

Michael addresses him,  “Are they treating you okay?”

“Well, no one’s coming at me with needles like they did last night.”

“You should get a copy of that booklet.”

“There’s so much bullshit up here.”

“I’m going to get a copy.  I’ll be right back.”

Michael leaves them.

“Is dad pissed at me?” Ritchie asks his mother

“No, he really isn’t.  Can’t you tell?”

“Not really.”

“He’s there for you Michael.  You gave us a big scare. She moves her fingers through his hair as she talks, “Are you feeling better?”

Ritchie shrugs…

Michael returns. Deborah and Ritchie greet him with an artificial smile.  Michael hands him the booklet.

“Read it over tonight.  What have you got to lose?”

“Yeah right, Dad.”

“Ritchie what do you want? Just tell me because we aren’t playing a game here.”

“For starters, I want out of here.  Right now.”

“What if we can find a different place?”

“Like where?”

“I don’t know.  I’m seeing Dr. Stern.  He’ll have some ideas.”

“It’s got to be a place where they don’t take away your shoelaces.”

“You seem to have forgotten why you are here.  Any place is going to do that.  He tries to soften a bit, ”Look let’s see what Dr. Stern has to say.”

Michael looks at his watch, “I have to call in to the office; then I want to see Dr. Stern.  Deborah.  You want to see Dr. Stern with me?”

“I’m okay staying here.”

“Dad. Could you check the ER? I’m missing my ring-the one Lisa gave me.”

A visual image of the ring flashes through her mind  “Really?  The ring?”

“Okay.  I’ll check it out.” It already is on his to do list  “See you guys later”.

Michael leaves.  Ritchie and Deborah stand together, speechless and  awkward. A psychiatric aide appears. He can’t be more than 23-24 but his voice has deepened into a commanding staccato.

“Russell. You’re supposed to be at community meeting.”

“I’m with my mother”

“Doesn’t matter.  You have to attend the community meeting.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“In our house visitors go by house rules.  You have to go now”

“What are you going to do?  Give me a bad grade?  Am I going to get an F in patient cooperation. ”

“You want it?  We’ll be glad to give you an F.  A good, good F.

Deborah intervenes “You know I noticed on one of the bulletin boards that they have AA meetings at the hospital.  There’s supposed to be one today.” She looks at her watch,  “actually, in about 10 minutes. Ritchie.  Listen to this gentleman. Go to your meeting.  I want to go to that meeting.  It’s been a while.”

 

Ten minutes later Deborah is in a large hospital conference room used twice a week for AA meetings.  Several members surround a large coffee maker.  A tall angular man fusses over preparing his coffee.  He carefully pours a teaspoon of  sugar, turns  his spoon over, then repeats it for another teaspoon and a half.  Next comes  the powdered creamer.  Carefully he sips, smacks his gums; it is still too hot. He studies the donuts.  He picks a circular cinnamon sugared one from the supermarket box.  He  tears the donut  in half.  He hasn’t looked at another person in the room.

There are clearly regulars, old friends.  Deborah is also not paying attention to anyone.  She overhears small talk all around her, somewhat like the buzz you hear at the beach when you are trying to fall asleep, a  buzz without details, soft mumbled conversations fading in and out.    She waits her turn at the coffee maker feeling awkward, trying to be invisible.  For the most part she succeeds.  She takes a seat alone.  Several of  the younger divorced men, as always looking for a girlfriend, steal glances at her.  She is pretty, which is numero uno for the younger guys with active hormones but  Deborah is oblivious.  She has been since she met Michael. She quickly reverts to her usual companion  Lisa.  Memories replacing memories, then another, then all over again.

The very first time they went to  their camping site, a sunny amazing day.  The whole family is  excited to have discovered this place. Michael grabs one-year-old Ritchie and swoops him into the air.  He catches him effortlessly, then sets himself for another toss Michael  throws him high, high into the air.  When he played baseball, he preferred a homerun swing to a controlled bat .  Ritchie is terrified but just as quickly he lets out a happy squeal as Michael gently catches him. 

“Gaan!”

“Again?”

“Gaan!”

“Again?”

Deborah confirms his translation. “ Yes, Again”

He throws him up again, perhaps ever higher. Ritchie squeals with laughter.

“Gaan.”

 Lisa pulls at Michael’s  leg.  He looks down at her.  She points straight up.  Michael hands Ritchie to Deborah and picks up Lisa who looks up at him excitedly.  He throws her up almost as high as he threw Ritchie and catches her the same way. He’s delighted with himself.  She doesn’t seem happy.

“No. As high as Ritchie!” she demands.

“That was as high!”

“It wasn’t. I saw. You threw Ritchie into the sky.”

            “You want to go into the sky?”

            “Higher than that!”

            “Okay.  I’m going to send you higher than the sky”.

            “To God.”

            “I’m not sure what kind of catcher he is.”

            “The best”

            That memory does it every time.  A tear forms.  She dabs lightly with a Kleenex.

 

Another memory: earlier in their relationship; she and Michael are still wildly in love.  They are dancing. They go to the punch bowl.  She is  tipsy.  Michael finds her silliness absolutely wonderful.  They dance and dance.

 

Deborah fingers the back of her neck, squeezes the muscles, trying to loosen them. She looks around the room.  A speaker is talking about his life when he drank.   Her memories continue.

 

She opens up a book where she has hidden a joint.  Michael comes in to the room.  She tries to hide it.

 

Another: A demonstration against Reagan’s support for the contras;  Deborah has a flower in her hair.  Michael has a beard and long hair. A hundred of them  stand strong holding hands as  policemen close in on their crowd.  Some one, not far from them,  screams at the lined up policemen, “PIGS”   Suddenly the police charge.   Everyone scatters.  Fear, real physical fear, the first time she has ever felt it. She watches at a safe distance as one of the policemen throws Michael to the ground.  He lifts his nightstick but then thinks better of it and chases another demonstrator.  It was at that moment, the moment she suddenly felt terrified for Michael, that she decided she wanted to spend her life with him.

 

A new speaker is before the group, a black man in his 50’s wearing a bow tie.

“ I want to say, right out, the bottom line. AA saved my life. AA saved my life.  That’s the truth.  AA saved my life.   You new people tonight.  I know you probably think that’s bull.  Probably all of it sounds phony. Higher power.  Give me a break right?  Well you’re right.  It is bull.  Some people like to talk a lot of bull. AA lingo.  It’s annoying.  But you know what? The people that talk like that are right about all of it.

When I first came here I had to convince myself that there was something wrong with me.   Like, what is an alcoholic?  So what if I get drunk every once in a while?  What gives other people the right to tell me how much I should drink?  Fuck them.  I will decide for myself.

It’s my life not theirs.  They just want to judge, judge, judge.  Yeah they say they are trying to help me because they care. Yeah right.  Fuck them. FUCK them.”

A couple of brothers chime in,  “Yeah man.”

He continues, “But you know what?  I’m here and you’re here because we know damn well they’re right. Doesn’t matter what their reasons are. They’re right. First time I came here I waited for AA to do something for me, to prove it was going to work.

It didn’t work.  I screwed up for two more years.  Kept cheating.  Until I fucked up one too many times.  Lost my job.  My wife said she had had enough.  I knew she meant it.  I got desperate.  That is what it took to get me serious, when I fuckin’ decided I was a goner.  Couldn’t stop myself before that.  I couldn’t stop drinking.  That’s when I stopped caring about you jerks at the meeting.  I had to stop.  That’s all that mattered.

Took me a while but now I know.  Getting wasted is a wasted life.  Getting all cocked and telling off people feels good.  Absolutely right except for the next morning.  You wake up with this fear.  How you made a fool of yourself, how you made a new enemy.  How your wife’s feelings aren’t going to recover for weeks.  Maybe never.”

“ Man. Okay maybe occasionally you have a good time just because you are high.  And you can’t get that feeling any other way.  Partying is the best.  Telling people off is the best. Right?”

He hesitates.

“Feels good right?”

He hesitates again

“Wrong.”

“You need to get things fixed another way. You gotta keep half your brain.  Or you are going to be in deep shit. Because if you couldn’t do it while you are sober there’s gotta be a reason. There has to be a reason why you have to shut off your brain in order to get there.

Okay without a little help you are too afraid to do anything.  You are in  prison.   I ain’t got no easy suggestions  how to fix that.  See a shrink? Find out what is wrong?  Find out how to change. Learn how to have a good time without getting high. Take a medicine that helps you to enjoy yourself without having to be drunk.  That is if there is one.  Okay there isn’t. Okay maybe the very best times you’ve ever had were when you were drunk.

There is a reason for that.  The devil always throws the best party in town. Man nothing beats the devil.”

He hesitates for effect then continues. “ He also is the way to hell.  As high as you get from booze and marijuana, and heroine and cocaine, that is how low you will get from being high.  You are here today, and you will come back here because your low has made all the highs you got, all of them together times ten thousand, all that great time you’ve had is worth shit now.  It is the shit.”

“AA is bullshit, but man it’s saved me.  Because when you finally know that getting shit- faced is for shit that’s your only chance…

Knowing it and remembering it and living by it.  That’s exactly what will save you.”

“Yes,” calls out someone in the audience.  Then a lot of “yeses” and “yeahs.”

“Yeah you know it is good.  Real good. So what do you do?  Just in case you forget, you come here.”

“Yeah some people have to come here again and again.  And yeah some of them sound like robots.  So fuckin’ what if the real reason they repeat it, the reason they have to convince others so often is that they have to convince themselves.  Continually.   They preach and preach to anyone who will listen but especially they preach to themselves. So fuckin’ what.  You do what you have to do.  If I don’t preach I’m going to be in trouble.

I am Larry and I am an alcoholic.”

“I am Larry and I am an alcoholic.  Somewhere else I am a father, a son, a husband.  I am the boss on my factory floor. Other people think about me other ways.  But you know what?  I am an alcoholic.  I almost blew it all and I still can.  Because I want to get high.  I can almost taste it.  I am Larry and I am an alcoholic.”

“I need help from anything that makes even a little bit of sense.  Whether I say it or someone else says it. Any phrase that I can repeat.  It’s gold.

Gold.   One day at a time. Hell for me it’s one hour at a time.  Right now I want to have a drink.  Right now.  I am Larry and I am an alcoholic.  I haven’t had a drink in seven years.”

Applause. Deborah has left Lisa for a moment. She is listening.

 

Chapter 16

  Belize took Vanderbilt everywhere in France, but especially “her Paris” as she put it, meaning her dream Paris, the places she had previously gaped at from afar.  Before leaving for Montreal, she had been a shop girl at Les Trois Quartiers in the object des arts section.  From the outset it had been more of a calling than a job. She had been taken to Les Trois when she was twelve, while visiting her Aunt Francoise in Paris.  It was love at first sight.  From that day forward she knew exactly where she needed to be.  As close to her love as she could get.

Belize brought up her Paris trip to her mother repeatedly, sometimes with a dreamy far away gaze.  At first her mother smiled as she listened, fondly remembering her own teen foolery,  but when it was clear Belize and her father could not exist under the same roof for very much longer, Belize’s fantasies were turned into a plan.  Aunt Francoise arranged for  a job working at Les Trois and everything else followed. It went well.  Belize could have been frightened being sent off to Paris at such a young age, but other than a few butterflies the first hour or two when she arrived in her new home, Belize was raring to go. Even at 16, after she had worked at Les Trois for close to two years, her sense of  adventure remained.  She was having  a passionate affair with most of the items she sold.

In the farmhouse of her childhood, bric-a-brac would have seemed odd. Her father was like Vanderbilt. Things were things, functional or useless.  It was exactly the opposite for Belize.  The merchandise in Les Trois Quartiers possessed her.  The person in charge of the two large rooms that Belize worked in, Madame Reynaud, was more than happy to be her mentor. Indeed there could be no greater gift to the Madame than Belize’s enthusiasm.  She had started to become bored by her routine.  Belize’s keen interest reminded her of her own when she  began working at Les Trois.   Belize revived it.  “Chic”, “handsome,” “ amazing,” “stunning,” the Madame pronounced her judgments to Belize. Belize  delighted in them

They got each other going.  After her aunt took Belize to the ballet La Sylphide, Belize imagined herself to be Marie Taglioni, a feather of a creature.   When no one was around, Belize would hum the tunes and dance through the room, doing a bow before a stone Buddha, a twirl for the benefit of  a marble Apollo (her favorite of the gods).  She stroked the smooth brass of one of the lamps.  Her fingers registered the lushness of silk.    On more than one occasion, unbeknownst to Belize, Madame Reynaud  watched her with a full heart.

The store was filled with the very finest products of gifted craftsman from all over the world, from France, Bavaria, Vienna,. Brussels, Venice, Geneva, Madrid. Toledo, Florence.   Madame Reynaud had her admiring stitching, studying small and large designs.  Boldness excited her, meticulous detail was calming.  There were certain difference between teacher and student. Belize, for instanced was very fond of Chinese and Japanese crafts.  Madame Raynaud was not.  To Belize, the absence of froo-froo, the simplicity, the tight  focus, the  lines of steel, the  absolute discipline hit a chord.  Not because it accurately described  Belize’s habits.  If anything she was precisely the opposite.  Discipline would be the last thing that occurred to you when confronted by  Belize’s  galloping spirit. But when she did  something  she loved, she got very good at it from endless repetition. Maybe it isn’t peculiar that she was attracted to a culture so at odds with her personality.  Many girls her age want what they don’t have, seek to be who they are not.  At sixteen,  growing  up sometimes appears to be transformation  rather than an unfolding of character.

Belize longed not only to change into a person she was not, and might never be, but more to the point, to possess what she would never own.  The items she loved were so far beyond anything she could afford.. they only could be approached as part of her dream life  This  placed  the items in an almost exalted plane rather than part of her day to day experience.  It was not altogether  unlike many  girls her age on the verge of womanhood, when they first discover the world outside their home.  Most girls eventually lose that lavish sense of wonder as they settle into a familiar adulthood, but not Belize.  It was more intense from the very beginning and grew from there.

One afternoon a vase arrived from China that sent her into a  hypnotized state. She fought to remain focused as best she could,  to remain busy, in this case  by dusting the rest of the items in her department. Then dusting them  again.  But the vase kept calling her back.  It had a deep blue glaze with a delicate web of  cracks throughout as part of the patina.  She worshipped the voluptuous curves, perfectly proportioned and molded.  Day after day, week after week, her attraction grew. She moved the vase to an inconspicuous  location. She kept her back to it constantly.  She tried everything to regain mastery over it.  Nothing worked.

Nothing until she finally gave in and yielded to it.  She first began, at  that point, the behavior she was to greatly expand upon in The Vanderbilt Hotel.  She moved the vase throughout the department, anxious to see the effects of its placement.  She moved other objects near it, away from it, behind it, until finally,  an epiphany. Not a spiritual moment in the ordinary sense, but something like the satisfaction that comes to an artist when he is  able to possess a beautiful scene that has captured him, change his yearning and hunger for it into his completed rendering.  It wasn’t just the vase.  The pull of  the things she loved was continuous.  If she could not buy them, finding the right spot for them would  have to do. Her arrangements were the only kind of ownership possible.  She would  sigh with contentment when she got it right.

The results of her inspirations were no small thing.  Madame Raynaud encouraged her to do whatever she wanted in her arrangements. And very soon one look and customers who entered into the department knew something unusual was occurring.  She had no training but she intuitively knew what was needed.  She searched to find the right combination of color shadings, of shapes that moved and shapes that tranquilly anchored the eye, sizes that stood up and others that drew you down, textures that cuddled the vision, or bounced back at the viewer like polished stone.  And always the perfect light.     From here, in this department store,  through days and weeks of the rituals that she performed for her job, the future Belize was to be  born, the Belize of Boston.  Here she began what she later continued and perfected at the Vanderbilt Hotel, arrangements of gorgeous things as only Parisians shopkeepers can do.  And, by the time she was 20, word had gotten around among the fashionable.  Her section of the store was visited by all the best people.  That was the good part.

The bad part was that she was a shop girl.  Belize often had the upper hand when madams visited her section, simply by being young and beautiful, and possessing her talent.  Many of her customers came to depend on her judgment, and gladly told her in subsequent visits about compliments they had received for decisions made by her.  But certain customers were not going to give her an inch.  They made sure she remembered she was a shop girl.  It wasn’t just at work.  From time to time, on her days off, she was occasionally sniffed out by certain shopkeepers at the very best shops who were not fooled by her fashionable outfits and always present personality.  They could tell by her shoes.  Fine ladies do not wear inexpensive shoes.   It was humiliating, and it could be repeated when she least expected it.  Perhaps going hand in hand with their taste, Parisians are especially gifted at looking down at those beneath them. Germans are known for their arrogance when they hold  social advantage, the English can extinguish their inferiors by being oblivious of them, but the French are more likely to revel in the details of taste and grace. It took only one or two snubs and she didn’t go back for third helpings, which is exactly what the shop owners wanted.  It took three or four and she decided to move to Montreal.

One incident in particular stood out in her memory.  The Chinese vase she loved was completely out of her reach, but she had  been determinately saving for six months, often skipping meals, for a particularly fine mantelpiece clock, at a local shop, rumored to have once been in Napoleon’s drawing room. Being in the business she was to receive a discount.  She was one month away from owning it and had come, as she always did, to pay it her weekly visit.   When she arrived, the Countess of Champagnes was already there, running her palms along the smooth arches of the clock.  The shopkeeper, who, on more than one occasion, had been half irritated by Belize’s visits, couldn’t refrain from the opportunity.  Acting  superior in the presence of the countess was a temptation she couldn’t resist.  Until then she had been polite and businesslike, even friendly to Belize, hoping to make the sale.  But instantaneously that changed. Belize didn’t know what hit her. The mocking tone cut right through her.

“Ah, here is our shop girl.”.  “Countess I give to you … Your name mademoiselle?”

“Belize.”

“Belize? What kind of name is that?”  the shopkeeper asked impatiently.

Belize looked at the ground.  She wanted to sink into it.

“It’s the name my family used.  My formal name is Jeannette.”

“Ah.  So then why Belize? Why Belize? What does Belize mean?” the shopkeeper  repeated to her as if scolding  a child.

“It means nothing.”

“So then why not Jeannete?”

“Why not indeed.” The countess stepped in.  “What is your family name?”

“Moreau.”

“Oh.  The Moreaus from Auvergne?” said the countess.

“Yes.”

The shopkeeper raised her eyebrow as if she were cackling. The countess smiled, savoring the delicious morsel of  their triumph. Their  expression was not wasted on Belize who  immediately realized there are no Moreaus in Auvergne.  The jig was up.  The  shopkeeper’s voice took on a patronizing, just before the kill, howl of victory.

“So, my mystery woman, Belize Moreau, or Jeanette, or  whoever you are.”  Their look said it all.  Words were not necessary You invented yourself.  You are not real.  Why would you want to do that?  What are you ashamed of?”

It had reached the point of no return.  Literally.  Belize hands covered her face as a reflex, as if she had been struck there.

“Pardon,” she mumbled as she turned around.  She wanted to run but she left the store with measured steps hoping to retain remnants of her dignity.

For years her humiliation burned in her memory, causing her to blush, even though, at the time it seemed as if she had made a  quick recovery.  Indeed with the money she had saved for the clock she  decided that she might as well go after what she truly wanted,  the Chinese vase. It would take her a very long time- it was five times the price of the clock..  By her calculations she might have the money for it in eight  months to a year.  Only there was a formidable problem. Store rules forbade hiding any item for sale.  Nevertheless, when she sensed a prospective customer she did her best to make it look unattractive, putting in completely unsuitable flowers.  Despite her efforts, the vase kept getting serious attention from buyers.  There was no way to hide its perfect proportions.  Twice she had told customers it was already sold.  If either of those customers were to have mentioned this to store management, she would been out of a job.  But when she finally had the money, brought the vase home and made her first flower arrangement, it was all worth it.  She at last experienced  the consummation of  her desire.  Yes the love could  be measured in hours,  at most days.  After that the  flowers she had placed in it would wilt. But short love affairs are always the most perfect. The wonderful thing was that her experience could be renewed, gloriously restored again and again, every time Belize brought wonderful flowers to put in it.

On more than one occasion, with good reason, Belize wondered if she didn’t have any talent at all.  In truth anyone who put even a single flower in that vase, might be similarly impressed by their abilities and turn to flower arrangements with their fascination multiplied.  Flowers placed any which way looked  so wonderful that this vase might have convinced  them that they were blessed with a great  gift.  Simply  feeling the power to create beauty like that is transforming.  Or perhaps these considerations are academic. Whether it was the good fortune of finding this vase or inherent genius,  the very first time she put a flower in that vase, she was swept along a channel that eventually culminated in her masterful creations.

She had worked so hard to save the money, existing on day old bread and meat and vegetables on the verge of spoilage, wearing a coat during the winter  that had grown thin but the vase had been worth every sacrifice.  On alternating nights she would bring flowers home and enter another world while arranging them.  For years she awakened in the morning and quickly went to the vase to view the flowers she had placed the previous evening.  Often, as she made improvements, she suddenly  realized she would be late if she didn’t get a move on it. During the day, she would recall her arrangements as others recall a certain look, a moment with their  lover.  Or she would be bothered.  Something was not quite right.  On those nights she would rush home to address the problem, making adjustments until she was satisfied.  On her  day off she was a very happy young lady,  doing serious arranging, and serious studying of the results. Perfect love.  She always got back as  much as she  gave.  And she gave a lot.

The sacrifices that she so willingly made for her purchase intensified  her excitement later on, when she was able to buy whatever she wanted.  She entered a kind of paradise, with Cornelius Vanderbilt as the maker of her miracles.  And let us not ignore the fact that  Belize’s limitless budget may have saved her soul. What if she hadn’t crossed paths with Vanderbilt?   Her inability to own things that she loved had originally inspired her with longing, but eventually youthful desire could have easily eaten away at her and begun to turn into envy.  Her desire could have turned back on itself, become bitterness and dissatisfaction, the fate of so many who begin with dreams.  She was simply lucky.  Vanderbilt rescued her from a potentially unhappy transformation.

How different it was to return to Paris as a welcome visitor, to see the very people who had once dismissed her, now servile before the mighty Vanderbilt.  It wasn’t just shopkeepers.  In later shopping trips Belize and Cornelius were welcome at chateaus for dinner that, in her former life in Paris, she would not have gotten past the outside gate.  She loved the preposterous spectacle of the nobility kissing up to this farm boy turned sailor.  It was a spectacle.  He’d be announced  and the counts’ and dukes’ and earls’ hearts skipped a beat. She watched as they waited for a moment to insinuate themselves into a conversation with Le Commodore, or her, all so that they might get a private meeting with him.  She loved the roll of their tongue, their lips, as they pronounced  “Commodore Vanderbilt”

Word had gotten out among the nobility.  Vanderbilt possessed extraordinary, unheard of amounts of currency.  Dollars and dollars.  Ridiculous amounts.   He literally had more money than the entire United States Treasury.   Money, in those amounts, made him king.  Having guillotined practically all of the counts, viceroys, kings, queens, and princes in France, without true royalty, the result in Paris went as might have been predicted.  Given a power vacuum not brotherhood, liberty and equality, but a catty ever shifting aristocracy of artifice characterized Parisians.  If the Eskimos have a hundred words for snow, the French have a thousand phrases to express their taste and superiority.  Up in society one day, down in another. In fashion, out of fashion.  Paris had already begun the process that had made Parisian obsession with ever changing ideas of  fine things, a defining characteristic.

In that sense, Belize and Vanderbilt fit in quite well.  Not necessarily, however, because  they were nouveau riche.  In one respect they  were almost more representative of the old order, than the new.  Yes Belize had begun as a typical Parisian and lost badly enough that she had had to leave town.  But she had returned as the real thing, meaning,  Vanderbilt’s money was not going to run out.  So whether she made up her name, or had been exposed as a parvenu was irrelevant.  She might have left the town in defeat.  But that only made her return that much more enjoyable. Word was out. Vanderbilt would pay a fortune for an item in their chateaus if he liked it.  Ludicrous amounts.  Actually not he.  She.  If Madame Belize liked something incredible money could magically appear.

It was all done tastefully.  Belize would see something she liked and Vanderbilt would stop to study it and very soon the count would offer it as a gift, a memento of their visit.  The following morning, Belize would come to pick it up and name a price that was always to the nobleman’s liking.  The money, of course, was refused.  It was a gift they would insist.  But there was no way Belize could leave without offering a handsome offering of dollars in return. And with great protestations they would finally relent. With paintings it was clumsier, but always it was given as a gift, not as a sale.  Everyone knows that the nobility have no great need of bourgeoisie money.

In private, Belize and Vanderbilt  bluntly referred to their dinners as shopping for the hotel, but whatever it was, it got the two of them more invitations to gala evenings with their fine feathered hosts than they could keep up with.  Nice friendly notes on embossed cards came all the time, as well as flowers for no particular reason.  All said the same thing. Come to my chateau.  Come to dinner. And, as if there weren’t enough invitations to keep them busy in Paris, eventually nobility came from the neighboring provinces,  and eventually invitations came from all over France when they heard the Commodore or Belize were landing in Marseilles and shortly would be back in Paris.  Vanderbilt had become an honored and esteemed man.  As Belize put it,  “Money may not buy happiness but it does buy easy friends.”  Without a king to set standards, fallen aristocrats from around the world now gathered and tried to hold court.  It had also become a city where a rich businessman could buy a family title.  True pedigree mattered, the pedigree of having more francs than any other pretender to the throne. While Vanderbilt was not interested in becoming a nobleman, Commodore would do, he enjoyed royal status every time he appeared with Belize.

It also allowed Belize to visit the chateau of the Countess of Champagna.  She found it as memorable as their first meeting.  From the start of that evening the Countess stared at Belize with a vague recollection that she had seen her somewhere before.  There was also the name.  Belize.  A strange name.  The Count  had invited them because he was in a perilous financial  situation.  His gambling debts had reached a point where they were being hounded by their creditors, treated poorly, even by common tradesmen who were becoming tired of their IOUs.  They had a Delacroix in the main dining room that they knew could fetch enough to pay off all of their debts. Hence the dinner in honor of Monsieur Vanderbilt.

Belize was uninterested in the painting.  She was very interested in the clock below it, above the mantelpiece, yes the clock rumored to have belonged to Napoleon.  When she ran her hand across it, the Countess finally placed her.  Cornelius, a short while later stood before the clock.  The count offered to give him the painting.

“I was admiring the clock,” said Vanderbilt.

The Countess stepped forward.  “I’m sorry Monsieur Vanderbilt but that clock was given to me by my mother, ” she lied.

Belize spoke directly.  “That clock, the way it sits right now beneath the painting, they belong to each other.”

“Yes.  Yes. The two. Let me give you the painting with the clock,” said the Count.  “I would be honored.”

“No” the Countess interrupted.  I think we should give you this painting and that one next to it as well, both along with the clock.”  It was the moment Belize had long waited for.  She savored the desperation in the Countess’s voice.  Belize looked her in the eye.  The countess could not take it.  She flushed.

“Yes,” Belize said smoothly.  “How kind of you.”

The next morning the countess herself, rather than their business agent, exacted the best price she could.  Normally, Belize didn’t bargain.  She was absurdly generous. She could afford to be.  Whatever they paid was a drop in a gigantic bucket.  But this time she paid half what the paintings might be worth.  The Countess knew what Belize was doing, but getting the money was more important than her pride.

As time went on Vanderbilt showed more interest in the items they were buying.  He initially bought things because Belize wanted them.  But after a while Belize would bring him objects to look over and it was impossible not to notice that they were compelling. And once that took hold of him, his interests deepened. It might even be suggested (with great trepidation) that he was developing good taste.  Belize said that to him once and he didn’t contradict her.  At home he despised good taste, hated New Yorkers’ and Bostonians’ snobbishness about wines, ideas, music, their vapid desire to establish that they were better than others.   But with Belize there was no one to defend himself against.  She came from the same social class.  So when he was with her, Vanderbilt could be open to culture and his refinement proceeded honestly and naturally.  And once that door had opened, he began to respond to the layers and layers of emotions that certain of his paintings could evoke in him, especially when he was in her presence.

It might not have developed at all if he hadn’t met Belize.  Having her close by did to him what she did to others, sent his senses into  intense receptivity.  The world was illuminated around him. Back home he invariably, whether he wanted  to or not,  played the fool with the swells, but in France his broken French peppering the charming French lips of Belize, made the two of them legendary.  Good or bad gossip followed them wherever they went.  True or false, small details or larger then life tales- no one got tired of examining  their debris. Once they left a chateau, on a given evening, all of the other guests might ridicule and imitate them, which only meant that even when they were gone, they still possessed center stage. As far as Belize was concerned, the very best thing about all their invitations was that she got to see some very fine rose gardens, and brought back to Boston, the most spectacular specimens.

Vanderbilt relished being at the hotel when the  harvest of treasures from Paris were uncrated,  all soon to be  at home in their new hotel surroundings.  .  When she waited  with anticipation and fear,  hoping but not sure that an item  would be as wonderful as she had remembered it,  he was with her.  When she was pleased she would watch his reaction to see if he was pleased. When she was disappointed, her eyes moved to him for comfort.  It was like they were playing house, like a wife showing her husband what she had brought home from her day of shopping.  Ernstand Belize had a terrible fight following the first time he caught on to what was happening.  After that Ernststopped going to the uncratings.  He accepted Belize assurances that nothing was going on beyond that or would go on, but he knew.  He knew.

Buying and owning and honoring the objects of Belize’s desire went on for decades .  Their time together was a fulfillment of her quest.   She lived and breathed in every inch of the hotel, in every hallway, in every room.   but no more so than in the Clarkson Ballroom, which eventually became the most elegant, the most beautiful location in Boston, the place where the finest people in Boston met.

Belize and Cornelius both agreed that the finest thing they owned was the Rembrandt.  In truth it might not have been  a Rembrandt.  No one knew who painted it. But one day, at one of the chateaus, Cornelius had stopped in front of this painting and studied it for a long time.  The eyes of a man in his 60’s, staring out of the canvas, held him there.  It was Belize that came to the conclusion  that it was a Rembrandt.  She told him that the intimacy of this man’s expression could not have been painted by anyone else.  Vanderbilt said he felt as if the man in the painting were alive, and about to speak to him. It seemed as if the man in the painting urgently had something  to communicate.

Vanderbilt didn’t mention anything about wanting to buy the painting, but Belize knew.  Only years later did he realize what had pulled him to the man in the painting. The way he looked at Vanderbilt was the way his father sometimes looked at him after they had reconciled.  He missed his father.  He had been gone 15 years.  The longer he was dead the more Vanderbilt appreciated him.  The tense awful years between them had disappeared.  His memories were of the two of them during the early years, when Cornelius simply belonged to him, when the standards of the outside world had not yet intruded into his opinion of him  When he was in the presence of this painting, when he looked into the man’s eyes, he felt serene.  He told Belize about this and she said “Good, you said your father wanted to make an impression on the world.  We’ll put it in the Clarkson Ballroom so he can look out at the fine people that come here and be proud of his son.”

 

 

 

Chapter 17

The front of the menu in the Cornelius Breakfast Parlor at the hotel states that the Vanderbilt Hotel was built upon the exact spot that the original Boston Brahmins, families such as the Lowells, Cabots, and Lodges first built their homes.  The old families in Boston find this claim absurd.  It is off by miles.  Besides, the Cabots and Lowells would never have demolished their homestead even for a fabulous price.  They were not that easily bought off.  A wit at the time described the Brahmins in this way: “This is good old Boston/….where the Lowells speak only to Cabots/ And the Cabots speak only to God” / Yes, the land was owned by the Cabot family.  However, there the evidence ended.  They owned land all over Boston.  Their homes were not for sale. The Brahmins wanted nothing to do with Vanderbilt riffraff.

The Brahmin’s attitude didn’t stop their children. from attending the twice yearly balls at the Clarkson Ballroom.  There was nothing they could do. While their  decorum was perfectly suitable to conduct daily business it was useless for a night of fun.  The  balls held at their homes were too proper.  They were  paltry imitations of something witnessed in England, a suffocating exercise totally without the spark that  distinguished the Clarkson’s occasions.   There, the goings on often were uncouth, or downright rude, everything parents devoted themselves to eliminating in their children. But it is exactly this edge that  made the Clarkson balls dazzling.  The moment you stepped into the room you could feel it, the musicians attacking their instruments with abandonment, violins ringing out their melodies with a gusto that fed  the gayety of the dancers, who in turn brought the musicians to still another level.

Those on the dance floor  knew they were at the cutting edge.   When it became popular in America the Viennese Waltz was first named “the Boston” because it was first danced in 1834 in the Beacon Hill mansion of Mrs. Otis.  They took  it to still the next level at the Clarkson.  Four different versions of the Boston were invented, not including the Boston Dip which had  first been created there as well. The dip was done by a huge step that would make the knees bend the body down. Partners held their hands on each others hips.

“The devil’s playground” Mrs. Otis’ minister cried out during a sermon.  “The temptations offered by the devil are glorious which is why they must be feared.  They are the first step to sin.” His  sermons were very convincing even to the children.  But by Saturday night, Sunday morning sermons were long forgotten.  What is wit compared to laughter?  And oh the laughter in the Clarkson. And, in the early days, the  wrestling, the challenges to duels, sometimes shouting- almost every year there was some sort of  fight. These were not affairs that could end in a whisper.

While some  of the parents were confused by their children’s refusal to be stopped from going to the Clarkson, the honest among them could take it in better stride than those with short memories.  Yes, the possibility of bad blood mingling with their own couldn’t be swept from the back of any of their minds.  There had been, in fact, several instances of intermarriage between their classes.  But they also remembered their own youth, the thrill of taking chances, that dizzying state where risk is, at best, an afterthought.  Most knew they could not stop this, the price too high if they succeeded.  A child  made overly serious and cautious too early, and too emphatically, will later miss the  opportunities for pleasure never taken.

Young people’s attraction to wildness is an elemental force, a given like a hurricane or a flood.  The lure of pleasure cannot be eliminated from the behavior of the young.  The dialectic continues  in every generation.   Indeed, no sooner were subsequent generations of the Vanderbilts completely gentrified than a new crop of uncouth men appeared.

Vanderbilt wealth grew out of  young America.  He was part of the mercantilist period, where trade- boats, ships later railroads  brought riches. In the  generation that followed him, industrialization took societies to new levels of prosperity.  The number of men becoming very rich  were far more in number.  And these men were even more aggressive.  They persistently bought land on Beacon Hill, building mansions that completely overshadowed each and every existing home.  This became so offensive that for two years, the Clarkson Ballroom’s popularity faded.  Across America, unimaginable wealth was accumulating in the treasuries of men like John D. Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie, J.P. Morgan, Jay Gould and countless others like them who fueled the industrial revolution.  It was not unlike the 1990’s, when similar wealth was created among legendary traders on Wall Street, and inventors of new ways to use computers, successful investors in the trillion dollar health care industry, not to mention crooks who stole money in previously unrecorded quantities, hundreds of millions, sometimes billions of dollars, some caught, most not.

Boston’s blue blood society viewed the new prominence of industrialists as akin to the invasion of the barbarians.  It was similar to  Vanderbilt’s and Belize’s shopping, only multiplied a hundredfold.  In Europe, with their newly created barrels of dollars, they were grabbing everything that wasn’t tied down.    Paintings, sculpture, jewelry, furniture, silverware, possessions that had belonged to aristocratic European families for fifteen, twenty, even thirty generations, were hauled off to America.  Castles belonging to lords, barons, and counts were sometimes stripped down to bare stone.  It wasn’t just their belongings. They lost the subjects of their manor, whole boroughs of people, people whom their families had counted on for hundreds of years, people whose families they once counted as their own, those who had farmed their land, generation after generation, those who had been connected to their land.  It was where their subjects were born and where they were buried.  It was where they belonged. Their parents and grandparents had worked this land, and their grandparents’ parents and grandparents.  Yet given the choice, more confident of survival, just like that, they left this land as if it meant nothing to them.  They left forever. Not just them, the townspeople, masons, smiths, craftsmen of all varieties went to work in the mines or the factories in the cities. Or they went to America.   The land rich but penniless aristocrats had no choice but to sell and sell.

With this kind of power, not surprisingly the new industrial barons were convinced that the future belonged to them.  And the past was also theirs, all of it, at least what was left of it in the form of the things that they now owned. Only, they didn’t just want things.    They wanted what went with it, a history longer lasting than the span of their lives.  Their future required a solid foundation, a better history, the past rewritten.  This is confusing to people who haven’t been in their position. It is natural to be shocked, to ask why someone would want anything more than they have, if they already have more than anyone else.  It has something to do with permanence.

Down the coast from Boston, in New Haven, much of Yale’s campus was built in the 1920’s and 30’s, some in the 50’s, with Neo Gothic architecture modeled after the great English universities.  You might swear the buildings were a thousand years old.  Some of the windows were intentionally cracked to give the appearance of authenticity. It is very beautiful, but more importantly, the illusion of its age creates a treasured aura of substance.

Despite its beginnings the Clarkson Ballroom developed that aura.  It makes the shiny lavish modern makeovers of other grand hotel rooms in America seem tawdry.  Today its caretakers still snobbishly cluck their tongues as they tell you that the Clarkson was never a convention center, nor they  claim, will they ever let it become one.    They point out that the people who came to the Clarkson defined American royalty.  Boston Society was la crem de la crem. They could trace their lineage to the Mayflower.  Pilgrims by choice, principle rather than destitution brought them here.  In America, the acid test of  status is whether what you have what everyone else wants.  In the nineteenth century  the answer was yes.  Later, other men of lofty status, American sports heroes, also ate the breakfast of champions. Robber barons, as they came to be labeled by muckraking journalists, ate the breakfast of champions and dinner too.

 

 

Chapter 18

Philanthropists often seek to have their names remembered through bequests to public institutions, through donated paintings, wings of museums, churches, or hospitals.   This made no sense to Cornelius Vanderbilt.  As he reached his seventies, he gave serious consideration to what he would leave behind, to a fitting monument.  Except business is business. He preferred to retain ownership of his monuments.  Vanderbilt  planned two. The first, Grand Central Station in New York, is everything its name implies.  It is central and it is very grand..  Even today no one, not even commuters hurrying along, can pass through Grand Central’s main concourse without experiencing the presence of a powerful architectural will.  The eyes are swept upward, the vision soars until the station’s vastness captures even the reluctant soul. In that sense the station most resembles a cathedral.

But cathedral it is not.  At ground level horrifying gargoyles once greeted all visitors to the Notre Dame in Paris.  Looking up to the heavens offered the only freedom from fear.  Grand Central Station is not about that.  Multitudes of people in motion, pandemonium gets the adrenaline going.  And up above?  Atop his building, Vanderbilt placed ten massive cast iron eagles perched in hunting readiness.  They had 13-foot wingspans. This was before airplanes, when eagles truly ruled the skies. God was irrelevant.  Not even Roman Gods, the usual cop out for those staying clear of Jehovah.  He insisted that eagles be on top of his building.

Vanderbilt lived during a time of strong belief.  The Eiffel Tower, built in 1889, the Statue of Liberty in 1886, Grand Central Depot in 1871, all proclaimed the same glorious faith.  Men can create their own wonders.  The Statue of Liberty was originally offered to Egypt to celebrate the opening of the Suez Canal.  It was twice the size of the Sphinx. But the Egyptians did not commission the project, so it was instead offered to the United States. It was a better home.  Some feel the Statue resonates more powerfully than the Mona Lisa. Well into the 20th century millions of immigrants,  would never forget the moment they first beheld its proud upraised arm, gently holding the light of liberty above them.   America’s welcome.  Many burst into tears of joy.  Even today, the image grips us.

Grand Central Station cannot lay claim to comparable drama, but the station conveyed an equally compelling idea.  All roads once led to Rome.  Grand Central announced to travelers that they had arrived at the portal to New York, the Empire State, center of American commerce, an engine of wealth creation never before known. Cornelius Vanderbilt was the giant of that empire.  He built the station after selling all of his shipping interests eight years before.  He was only in the railroad business for that long, grabbing control of the Harlem and Hudson Railroads and later connecting them to railroads that brought him to his usual target, Chicago.  Already  in his seventies he had hardly missed a beat.  While others his age might be in rocking chairs, he had bought the acreage in Manhattan for Grand Central Station and built it.  Once again he read the future accurately.  Railroads were to be the future and he wanted to be a major force in the industry..

Yet Grand Central didn’t succeed as a monument to Vanderbilt.   In 1871 it was by far the largest train station ever built.  There were many innovations, among them platforms at the level of the train door.   But the consensus of critics was that the building was virtually obsolete the day it opened.  Thirty years after Grand Central Depot (its original name) was completed New Yorkers began the process of destroying it. Bit by bit, section by section, room by room everything was replaced until forty three years after it opened, essentially nothing was left.   The original glass ceiling came crashing down after a blizzard.  And later, smoke from the engines operating in a closed tunnel blinded an engineer causing a terrible crash. A law was passed requiring electrification and this led to major renovations.

Today one eagle remains, retrieved during the 1990’s from a garden in upstate New York.  It is very pointedly grounded.   The eventual owners of Grand Central Station, Penn Central Railroad turned their own Penn Station into a sports arena.  In 1968 they announced that they wanted to completely demolish Grand Central Station as well.  Jacqueline Kennedy was able to put a stop to that.  After her rescue, it was recently restored to its former glory, but the closest thing to a monument honoring Vanderbilt is a statue of him in the station, which few people notice. Michael Russell was unable to find it.  He asked conductors, policemen, people at the information booth.  No one knew  where it was.  Vanderbilt Hall, in theory,  a huge room open for rental for huge parties, is mainly used to store heavy equipment, iron pipes and the like.  Grand Central has a Vanderbilt Avenue address, but so what?  Where is, and what is Vanderbilt Avenue?  At least when people refer to Carnegie Hall they say a name, even if it isn’t connected to a person. When they speak of Yankee Stadium it is known as the house that Babe Ruth built.  Not one in a hundred thousand people connects Grand Central Station to Cornelius Vanderbilt.

By contrast, Vanderbilt’s more personal monument, his Clarkson Ballroom in the Vanderbilt Hotel in Boston, still belongs to family.  The Breakers in Newport, Hyde Park in New York, the Biltmore in North Carolina, said to be the largest home in America, all are astounding and all were built by Vanderbilt’s heirs.  Nevertheless, the Clarkson is uncontested as the finest room of all the rooms that Cornelius himself, commissioned.       Although it is still used for occasions it is often considered part of his  private collection.

Theories abound but no one knows for sure  how and why the Clarkson came to assume the prominence it currently enjoys.  One rumor has it that Vanderbilt, at the peak of his power, cherished the Clarkson because of a single episode.  In defiance of convention, he is said to have danced openly in the ballroom with the one woman he truly loved.  But this is not documented. Moreover, despite this claim, it is impossible to cite the time, the incident, even the woman. Belize’s relationship to Vanderbilt is an unknown. Arthur Howden Smith, one of Vanderbilt’s biographers makes no references to Belize.  Michael was  in the realm of rumor and speculation.

The facts are, nevertheless, that Vanderbilt specified in his will that the keepers of the Clarkson Ballroom must be the hotel’s most trusted employees. Belize’s daughter, Ariana Van Doren, head of the hotel from 1902 until 1934 made sure that this stipulation was taken with utter seriousness.  Forever was impossible, but she put extraordinary energy into ensuring that Vanderbilt’s will would get a good long run. She was a shrewd judge of character.   She carefully chose Irene and Ben Wallace as caretakers, to take over after she was gone,    Irene, from day one, was ga-ga about the beauty of the silverware, the tablecloths, the dishes and wineglasses.  And Ben was a good young man with a sentimental disposition.  He was like her puppy.  At the time they were chosen they were engaged to be married.

Ariana was confident she had found the right people for the job.  But, so as to insure it, she threw a wedding reception for the Wallaces in the Clarkson Ballroom.  For a night they owned the room, for a lifetime they would treasure it. They were told their daughters would also be married in the Clarkson. When they came back from their honeymoon they were given a title that appeared in the hotel directory.  Caretakers of the Clarkson.  They were well compensated.  They had at their disposal any and all workers found necessary to keep the Clarkson up to Ariana’s exacting standards. They were devoted, some would say  pious.  They, in turn, chose their daughter to replace them, and she and her husband were also up to the job.

Today, employees working in other parts of the hotel, sometimes joke that the Caretakers of the Clarkson are servants in a mausoleum.  They say that late at night ghosts inhabit the room.  It is jealousy. It is also partially true.  Irene and Ben Wallace, Caretakers of the Clarkson until 1974, treated the room as if it were a holy relic.  They took the MTA home at night to eat and sleep in a Dorchester apartment. But during the day, they stood grandly with Cornelius Vanderbilt in his room.  From an early age they enlisted their children to help make the Clarkson shine.  Vanderbilt lived through them.  And with each generation this aspect has grown.  His spirit doesn’t die.  He lives in stories, which have multiplied over the years, stories that have been repeated so often that no one can sort out what is true and what is legend. It won’t be long until the legends become religion.  Indeed, both Irene Wallace and her daughter had the same vision which awakened them in the middle of the night. Vanderbilt walked on water.  They were certain that meant something.

Monuments usually represent a person’s dreams. If the Clarkson embodies Vanderbilt’s dreams, it is worth our attention.  For dreams are always revealing and fascinating, particularly because they bear so little resemblance to reality. Dreams are the antidote to reality, filling in for what is missing.  They keep us going with hopes of what still might be.  In America they are given an unusual place of honor. Not the past but our dreams, our hopes for the future, our love of the new has turned out to be our most enduring tradition. When dreams are actually made real the result can be magnificent, a word often used to describe Vanderbilt’s ballroom.  Nevertheless, the Clarkson remains a product of imagination.  Its most assured quality, its elegance  speaks volumes about its history.  The room is exactly as it was intended to be.  Nothing has changed.  Nothing is allowed to be changed.  Which is the point worth noting.  It protests too much.  It conceals rather than reveals its true history.

The Clarkson belies the Vanderbilt family’s identity.  Let us recall that Cornelius Vanderbilt’s parents were not from Boston.  They lived on a farm.  They had dirty fingernails.  Manure stuck to the bottoms of their shoes. When they were prosperous chickens and pets went in and out of their house.

Vanderbilt’s dream, or was the Clarkson Ballroom the product of Belize’s will? Or did they both become the same thing?

 

Chapter 19

Michael is back in the emergency room.  The insane twenty-year old woman is still there and still pacing.  A strapping black policewoman is watching her.  Once again there is the staccato sound of her hand radio.  It is loud enough to be heard 25 feet away.  The static is constant.  You can barely make out the codes, so the messages are repeated and repeated until “over and out” communicates  the message has been understood..  Michael approaches a nurse.

“Can I speak to Dr. Lurin?”

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Lurin saw my son last night.”

The nurse says nothing.  She turns and walks down the hall.  Michael watches the insane woman.

The speaker blares, “ Code blue  in 624, Code blue in 624.

Aroused by this the crazy woman’s mumbling gets louder.  Then suddenly she shouts furiously at a nervous middle age balding man, who has been trying to avert her gaze.”

“First you take my baby. Now Code blue.  You think I don’t know what that means.  The spying machine you hid in my baby. I checked it yesterday eight times. I know you’ve hidden it there.”

Her voice gets louder and more rapid but then she stops as the  police radio catches her attention.

“All units.  We have an 11-15  at Melbourne and 9th.11-15 at Melbourne and 9th”

The crazy woman listens intensely focused,

“Do you hear me?” she lets out to no one in particular.

She gives the man’s shoulder a shove then walks to the middle of the room.  She is not very different from a drunk in the street, looking for someone to engage.  She withdraws back into mumbling.  Suddenly, she catches the eye of  a woman at the end of a bench.  She goes over to her.  The woman is now staring across the room, regretting her curiosity.  The women’s fear  emboldens the crazy woman.  She  bends over and freezes into a furious stare  four inches from the unfortunate woman’s face.   The police woman slowly walks over and in a commanding voice .

“Carmen!”

That seems to do it.  The crazy woman moves on, shakes her head, starts conversing with herself again

Dr. Lurin approaches Michael.  He calls out to Carmen with a friendly smile..

“We’re trying.”

Dr. Lurin doesn’t really know if she understands what he is talking about, but it  will have to do. His friendliness may have registered.   Dr. Lurin turns his attention to Michael

“Amazing, isn’t it.”

Dr. Lurin signals for Michael to follow him

“How’s Ritchie doing?” Dr. Lurin asks

“I wish I knew.”

“Yeah at that age it is a tough read.  You’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I hope so.”

“You wanted to talk to me.”

“Ritchie is missing a ring that his sister gave him.  Did you know Lisa?”

“No not really.  I knew someone who knew her.”

“Lisa gave him that ring.  It means a lot to him.  It’s his only remaining connection to her.   Could you ask around?”

“I haven’t seen it anywhere, but I’ll ask.  Things tend to get lost here.   Try admissions. They’re in charge of personal belongings.

“Thanks.”

“Is Ritchie adjusting to upstairs?”

The crazy woman lets out a shriek.  Then another.  Then another.  It is unbearable to Michael.

“I can’t believe she is still here,” Michael says angrily.

Dr. Lurin is unruffled.

“She’s leaving today.”

“They agreed to hospitalization?”

“No. These new places are springing up. Kind of like surgi-centers.  Cheaper than hospitals.  They’re basically boarding houses with uniformed guards.  A psychiatrist visits once or twice a week.  Her insurance company will allow that, nothing more.”

“What do they do at these places?”

“She’ll walk out tomorrow, but she’s out of here.”

Michael gives Dr. Lurin a look.

“Mr. Russell.  You don’t understand.  There’s nothing else I can do?  She can’t stay here. This is an ER not a psych ward.”

“So what about a psych ward?”

Dr. Lurin says nothing but his face says it all.

“Things are that bad?”

“Yes  it’s that  bad. But I am not going to take the rap for this.  Once her insurance company said no the first time, most other docs would have sent her straight off to the boarding house.”

“I don’t doubt that.  It is good that you aren’t most docs.”

“Don’t worry I will be.  They’ve been around a few years.  I’m still learning.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“I’m four weeks into my residency.  The ER is my first rotation Three or four more battles with her company and I probably won’t bother.  What’s the point?  You can’t win.”

“Never?”

“I don’t know about never. But so far”

“So what do you do?”

“ You learn to do nothing.  You get upset the first, second, maybe the third time it happens.  Then you just put it out of your mind.  You can’t get wrecked over everything that happens in this place.  Too many things happen. If it gets to you are useless.  Truthfully I’m surprised the cop brought her here in the first place. They usually know it’s pointless. I guess it was because she was walking around in the streets with a baby.”

“So it took you four weeks to learn not to react?”

“To what? The crazy patients or the crazy system I have to deal with?”

“Both.”

“Yes  both.  The patients I expected, I didn’t really know about the other stuff.  Actually its not getting to me as much as in  the beginning.  At first it was, “what the hell’s  going on around here?”  But then I looked around and I asked around and eventually I saw.  This is it.   What do I do?  Give up on being a psychiatrist?  Find something that doesn’t have this.  I taught school for two years in Roxbury.   This is better than that.”

Michael spots Dr. Stern down the hall approaching them . He is relieved to see him,

“I was going to stop by at your office.”

“Had to come to the hospital… Lurin, Is there an open office?””

“I don’t know, try the conference room.”

As Dr. Lurin leaves, Michael calls out to him,   “Ben.  Say hello to your mother.  And I think you are making the right decision to see this through.”

Dr. Stern closes the door of the conference room.  They sit down at a large table.

“What’s the story with Ritchie?”

“He’s not a happy camper.  He wants out.”

“That’s not an option.  He has to be here until he is out of danger.”

“But it’s like a factory.  They don’t really connect to the patients.”

“That’s how it is at most places.”

“Dr. Lurin kind of indicated  psychiatric care has taken a dive.”

“You don’t want to get me started”

.”“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to get me started.”

“Actually I would like to get you started.”

“You’ve got too much on your plate already.”

“You forget what I do for a living. I’ll be writing stories anyway.  Why not about this?”

“Because you need to concentrate on Ritchie.”

“Writing a story and being there for Ritchie are the same thing.”

“No they aren’t.”

Michael gets up and walks a bit.  He starts to speak and then stops again.”

“What Michael?”

“I don’t want  to do what I did with Lisa.  I was completely out of it with Lisa…..”

“I know.”

“You don’t know.  I felt nothing.  Well not nothing, but …Maybe it was the Prozac. Maybe it was… I don’t know…  I just went about things.  I used my brain a lot.  I listened to one doctor then another, tried to understand what they were telling me, and then whether what they said made sense.  It didn’t always, but what was I going to do?  I mean Harvard.  I nodded “yes” and “no” right through ‘til the end.  It’s weird the things that stay with you.”

“Like what?”

.           “Like how I worried about making a good impression on the doctors and nurses and everyone that kept coming into the room. Not just me, all of us did,  Lisa and Ritchie even Deborah.  We all did it. We kind of stayed cheerful, showed other people what a nice family we are.”

Michael’s lips form a smile.  “I was raised to do things like that.  Put on a face out in public.  Big time.”

“It’s what most people do.  Keep private things private.”

“But now it seems bizarre, Lisa’s dying and we were worried about coming off as an All-American family. More than that.  A great All-American family.  Maybe that’s what made me numb…I don’t know.  Maybe that’s bullshit.  Maybe I simply wanted to tune out.  Deborah says that’s what was going on. Because it wasn’t just in front of other people.  It pissed her off.  Now she says she forgives me but then it pissed her off. She was right.”

“You needed to tune out.  A lot of people do what you did. What else were you going to do,  scream at people.

“Maybe.”

“Cry all the time.  The first day you cried for an hour you were on the phone to come see me.”

“Men don’t cry.”

What sucks about cancer is it’s slow.   It goes on and on. It made you  people  think you could  be with Lisa all the way, right up to death’s door. But you couldn’t. You did what you had to do.”

“Deborah was there with her.  Completely. Holding her hand.  Anything.”

“She probably was.  But look at her now…She died with her.  Died.   Believe me, Lisa was lucky if she did some tuning out too”

“Maybe but I’m not going to be the way I was with Lisa. When this started with Ritchie I promised myself it’s going to be different. I’m going to be there every step of the way.  Writing a story will be good.  It’s what I do.”

“It  can’t hurt Ritchie if you are in the middle of things.”

“Ritchie thinks I’m a pain in the ass.”

“You probably are.  It doesn’t matter.  You can’t leave this to the doctors.”

 

Chapter 20

Michael  turns on his  pocket dictation machine,

“The first time you saw Ritchie.  You said something about approved visits.  What did you mean?”

“Your HMO only approved med visits, no therapy. That’s pretty  typical.  Insurance companies don’t want psychiatrists doing therapy?

“I went home and read my policy. It says Ritchie can be seen as much as necessary.”

“They don’t think therapy is necessary, especially with a psychiatrist.  They think it’s bullshit.”

“What do you mean bullshit?”

“They are not going to pay for it, a few visits and that’s it.  The only therapy they’ll allow is therapy that is finished quickly.”

“Which is what?”

“Right now it’s called  cognitive behavioral therapy. They think if you teach patients how to think positively that will do the trick.”

“Deborah sometimes puts positive sayings on the refrigerator door. Is that the idea?”

“Basically.  Remember Henry Higgins from My Fair Lady.  Kind of like that.”

“Henry Higgins?”

“ Henry Higgins  The same mind set.  You can will anything, take charge-  you just have to work at it.”

“Yeah right.”

“These guys hate Freud, hate any kind of psychotherapy that involves emotions. B. F. Skinner is one of their heroes. Psych 101:  “The emotions are excellent examples of the fictional causes to which we commonly attribute behavior. He was kind of loony, an eccentric”

“Like Henry Higgins ”

Basically he claimed that when people’s emotions trouble them it’s because they have the wrong ideas.   They think repeated wrong ideas are like bad habits, liking biting your nails,  stuff like that.  With the right habits, the right ideas, emotions can be tidied up, become anything you want. Eliza Dolittle could become a baroness if she practiced acting like a baroness often enough.”

“You mean speak like a baroness.  What about what is inside?”

“It’s bullshit to them, gobbly-gook.   Dr. Spock.  You know the guy in Star Trek, the one without emotions?

“Yeah.”

“He’s their man.  All mind.  It’s  a matter of practice.  The rain In Spain falls mainly in the plain.  Say it over and over.  Put up posters with positive messages. Catch yourself every time you have a negative thought.   You know that half empty half full saying.  Well when these guys arrive in hell, which is most peoples’ idea of a  zero to one hundred percent ratio, they’ll believe that with enough positive thinking they will turn it into the Shangri-La. If it remains hell they’ll assume they must not be practicing enough.

“I can see Ritchie really getting into that, rushing home to put up a poster where it really matters, the positive sayings of Darth Vader on the top of the wall where he keeps his feet when he lies in bed.  Looking at it through his toes will be good  practice.”

Stern smiles warmly and helplessly.  They’ve been here before.  You can’t change what you can’t change. Gallows humor. He wishes he could really laugh.  Absurdity demands a joke.   But, he is not from the “if you don’t laugh you’ll cry” school. People like that know how to laugh.  Now that would be worth practicing.  If he had developed more of a sense of humor it would have helped. The best Stern can do is nibble on grace, try to capture moments of poise when he can try to savor a quick lick of irony.   It is not the same as a good laugh.

His brother, Jerry Stern is in the sweater business.  He is a funny guy.  When they were much younger, and Dr. Stern was getting great grades in school, Dr. Stern thought of himself as smarter, which, at that point, meant he had more things figured out.  He assumed that, in the long run, he would have a better chance of really figuring things out than his brother.

When he decided to become a psychoanalyst at the age of 14, he thought psychoanalysts, after years and years of training, had discovered the way into the  promised land. They lived there.  It wasn’t something he actually ever told himself.  But that assumption  propelled him forward.  If put in words it was something like this, if you learn everything that is expected of you in order to become an analyst, you will be given the secret of life.

He was tested.  And retested. Years and years of testing.   It was the old days. You were on trial until you finally got there.  College, medical school, internship.   Then residency for three more years, then training begins to become a psychoanalyst, five, six, it took him eight years.  Paying your dues, and paying your dues and then paying your dues.  You didn’t complain about this.  Everyone had to do it.  But it would be worth it.

Only it didn’t get Stern where he thought it would.  He never got there.  At sixty it was dawning on him that there was no there. Already in his thirties, like everyone else his age, he was amused by the expectations that seemed so important at 14. Or he tried to convince himself that he was amused.  Seeking “the secret of life” was not an acceptable goal for a grown man. He was as sophisticated as the next person, able to be detached about the loss of his innocence, giving up his belief in the tooth fairy. However the real truth is that he had simply put it on hold.  Even now, the dream is not dead.  A part of him still harbors a belief that such a thing exists and that the only problem is that he simply hasn’t figured it out.  Some people have   Stern is still waiting for that to come to him.  Sixty years old and he is still waiting for that moment when he knows.   It is in some book he hasn’t read yet.  Or he hasn’t been ready for it. But some people possess that knowledge.  Or are they fooling others?  Or themselves?  Some people have that look.  Is that look just fait?.  That is what the rabbi use to tell people.” Questions are a curse. You must have faith.”

God was alive in him as a child, as alive as his heart or fingers or eyes.  Only later, when God had become an idea rather than something he felt living in him, did he consider it ridiculous.

“God is in the trees, the wind.” His wife talked like that.  God is not like a person.  Not a God-god.  Dr. Stern told her that means she doesn’t believe in God, just like he doesn’t.  If God is not a living god he is not a god.  She vehemently disagreed. .  There is a spirit, call it what you will, “a higher power” she said.  She often called herself a spiritual person.

A god that is not actually alive, thinking, guiding the world, listening to prayers, judging,  a god without consciousness, was useless to Stern.   But he didn’t give up  believing that there was some profound truth that could change everything.  He didn’t talk about it but he held on to the hope that he would finally get it.  An insight might exist that would be as good as god,  give him a true direction.   Every part of him resisted what his brain told him. We are not just atoms happening, acting randomly in a universe moving in the direction of entropy.  At this point he would have been satisfied for how he felt as a kid.  Even when he misbehaved  as a kid he knew that there was purpose, God’s purpose.

Except the smarter person in him knows  these are idiotic for a grown man. So 99.9% of the time Stern is a realist, meaning he now realizes that his brother Jerry grasped the nature of reality far more clearly than he did.  At twelve Jerry understood what had taken Stern decades to admit.  Nothing is all that mysterious. It’s simply ridiculous.  A joke.  Now, sometimes Dr. Stern envies his brother.  He doesn’t have all those degrees on his wall.  He barely made it through Cornell.

But he got it right.  Irony doesn’t hold a candle to a good laugh.  Still  like it or not, Jerry is Jerry and Stern is  Stern.  He  has to go with what he’s got.

“On the ward they had all the patients sitting together for an educational seminar. There was this woman talking to the patients about being positive.  She was very determined. Do you know who I mean?”

Stern answers in a monotone voice, “Yeah Ms. Allison.”

“You are saying it is total bullshit?’

“Not total but yes bullshit.”

“Why not total?”

“Sometimes it does work.  I mean someone is drowning, you throw a life preserver.  It’s going to help if it gets the person back on the boat.  Look, religion works for some people.  It turns some people completely around.  Essentially cures them .  Sometimes for life.   Winning the lottery has a terrific cure rate for depressed people with money problems. “

“But people without money throw tons of money away buying lottery tickets?”

“True.  But  it gives them what they need most.”

“Which is what?”

“A chance. You have to feel like you have a chance.    If you have that you’re in pretty good shape.”

“I guess.”

“ When I was a kid and I got down my mother always had a good positive thinking  line ready for me. “Whistle a happy tune,”  “Stick and stones will break your bones.”  “Every cloud has a silver lining,”  “The sun will come out tomorrow.”  Was that one of hers?  No that’s from Annie. Anyway, you name it and she said it to me at one time or another.  I’d complain to her and she always had a good line. Sometimes it was from a show, sometimes she read it somewhere, sometimes it was her own zinger.   Mrs. Buddha Stern.  She grew up during the depression.  She’d tell me.  “In America who knows?  All things are possible. Here today gone tomorrow. Well the opposite too.  Down one day, up the next.”  Sometimes it worked great.  What the hell else was my mother going to say?”

“So positive thinking is good.”

“Positive  is good.  Positive is great, the best.  Some people are amazing. They bounce back no matter what.  They will not let any hardship get in their way.  Sometimes I meet people and I wish I could bottle whatever it is they have.”

Stern and Michael are two peas in a pod.  Idea junkies. Theories comfort Michael.  Always have.  From the first time Michael and Stern got together they both knew it was a match.

Stern continues,  “Look, if you are a therapist and you totally buy into positive thinking, and you convince your patient that all they got to do is practice, well hell they are going to feel a whole lot better.  The lottery, religion, positive thinking, it all works, especially if your depressed and you’ve lost hope.”

“Granted.”

“But here’s the mean part. It’s how you get there.  Insurance companies push that positive thinking approach very hard.  According to them, that, and using medication, are the only legitimate treatments.  That’s why it’s garbage. Of course you want to get to a place where you are feeling positive.  The question is whether you can get there the same way you train a dog to salivate to a bell. For some people it works. Unfortunately, it’s not going to help Ritchie.  He needs real therapy.   He’s got to make sense of things.  It isn’t magic but making sense of his emotions will help him.  I mean when the currents are raging around you it gives you an island of sanity.  It give you a grip. Not everyone can get there, but a lot of people…”

“So then why not positive thinking?  Isn’t that a grip?”

“It’s not going to be Ritchie’s grip.”

“It wasn’t mine.. I tried all these self help books.  I don’t know what I would have done without therapy.”

“It’s what Ritchie needs.”

“I know.  But if my insurance won’t pay part of it, how am I going to pay for therapy? I’m broke.”

“You were broke when I treated you.   We will work something out.  Anyway that isn’t the problem now.  We have a more immediate issue.  We have to make sure they keep Ritchie in the hospital until it’s safe for him to leave.  Chances are they will discharge him in a few days. It is very important that we not let that happen”

“Dr. Agnew was saying that but if he has to stay…”

“Doesn’t matter.  Your insurance company will make sure he’s discharged quickly.  Insurance companies don’t like talk therapy but that is nothing, absolutely nothing compared to what they think of hospitalization.  They consider hospitalization complete bullshit.  It’s public enemy number one.”

“But if it’s not safe for Ritchie to leave how are they going to discharge him?”

“They will find a reason.”

“Come on…”

“Trust me.  It’s a sure thing.  They will find a reason.”

“They can’t just…”

“They will.  That’s the way it is.”

“How can they do that?”

“Easy.  They have rules.  The rules tell their people whether Ritchie can stay or Ritchie goes.

“But…”

“ Even if the doctor manages to answer yes to all of the conditions that they specify, they come back the next day, “Well that was yesterday.  How about today?”  Sometimes the docs have to fill out forms over and over.  Or else they have to talk live to an insurance person.  Only there they get you too.  Everything has become this way, but Insurance companies definitely win the award for sleeziest. You call and listen to music for 15 minutes, then you finally get someone and they tell you they aren’t the right person, and they don’t have the phone number of the right person.  Or they say they will switch you to the right person and they send you to the exact place you were before, listening to music again, with a message every few minutes., “Your call is very important to us.  Someone will be with you in just a moment.”  I’m sure you’ve had it happen to you.   Insurance companies have perfected it. Every 15 seconds they say that over and over.  Moreover, you can’t get out.  If you press 0 for the operator, you get “that is not a valid choice”.  And if you hang up you are again back to where you began only now you have returned to the end of the line. Sometimes you finally get someone and they answer “hold on”, which you do, and then while you are waiting, the dial tone comes on.  This is just for starters. If you do get a person it’s pretty obvious what they are after.  You have to plead your case to a person who isn’t really listening.  His job consists of  listening for some angle to deny treatment.  They know it. That is why these people will only give first names not full names, no specific extension.  You can’t get to talk to them again if you need to clarify something”

“That is what they are doing?”

“Every once in a while you get someone who is human and really wants to help, but not surprisingly they don’t last long at their job.  The whole purpose of the system is to wear you down, make you give up.”

“Fine, but if it is clear Ritchie has to stay, what can they do?”

“Trust me they will find some rule that says Ritchie’s has to leave the hospital.”

“They can’t.”

“They will.  That’s definite.  They’ll find something. “

“So there is nothing you can do?”

“Well these people have supervisors.”

“And what about them?”

“If you ask for a supervisor you get their voice mail and a lot of the time they don’t call back.”

“Do they ever call back?”

“Sometimes.”

“And?”

“They’re more educated, but basically they’re no different.  They know who they work for.  They’re also afraid of losing their job. That’s why the voice mail.  Their best strategy is never answer the phone.  Then play a little phone tag, stall.  Believe me this stuff out Kafkas Kafka.”

Stern catches his breath.  He is watching Michael for signs that he has heard enough.  Michael checks how much time is left on his tape.  He puts the recorder back on the table. “Go on”.

Stern continues,“ I used to do consults at the hospital.  I’d see some people in the ICU after they recovered from a suicide attempt.  Part of my job was explaining to someone at an insurance company why this person had to get psychiatric treatment in a hospital after they left the ICU.  Sometimes I’d find out a patient’s insurance was not going to cover our ward. So I’d have to track down which hospital they would cover. Sometimes I’d call the number on the insurance card and no one would know where they do or don’t cover.  And it wasn’t just small dinky companies.  Some of this insurance was being given to employees by big corporations.  I vowed never to buy anything from GE after I had a few run-ins with their insurance plans.  They were the worst of all of them.  It was incredible.   What kind of company would do some of the things they do to their employees? Until they found out about Welsh grabbing for himself every luxurious perc imaginable, season boxes in Boston and New York to practically every sport event you can imagine, nightly dinners at the swankiest most expensive I mean super expensive restaurants,  private planes, limousines, you name it.  Until that came out  he was the champion of all CEOs, at the cutting edge, a man of courage who dared to tell it like it is.  Went around giving talks about how to run a lean company, cutting to the bone every indulgence that might be offered employees, all for the sake of the corporation   After he dumped his wife  for a trophy wife she exposed the whole thing. There really is no mystery about what is going on.  Some things never change.  What a greedy pig.”

“I’m beginning to feel sorry for Dr. Agnew.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.  But it is true. He is a symptom not the disease.  Dr. Agnew is a jerk, but he is between a rock and a hard place. If he starts to push for patients too many times, the insurance company can, and will cut off Mount Pleasant from being in their network.  They have something called the  ALS, “average length of stay.” Each year they ratchet it down.  Right now Mt Pleasant  is at 5.7 days.  They’ve been told that is too high. Sometimes it works the other way.  Hospitals don’t want certain insurance companies as clients.  They pay so little that the hospital loses money on every patient.  But, then when the hospital  has eliminated too many insurance companies, they look around and see that the wards are empty, so they have to accept the money, or shut another ward, or go out of business, which, by the way, a lot of psychiatric hospitals have done.  At Mount Pleasant  they’ve shut down three units  And in the units they have left, in order to not be running a losing proposition, they’ve had to fire more and more staff, meaning people who take care of patients.  Plus they have to hire more and more people to handle the paperwork.”

“This really sucks.”

“It does.  Sorry Michael.”

They are both silent for a while.

“So what can we do?”

“The number one priority, for now  is  finding a way to keep Ritchie in the hospital for more than a few days.  He’s got to stay there.  With luck it will take one or two  weeks, before Prozac starts to kick in.  If we are unlucky maybe it’ll be four or five weeks before Prozac will work well enough for him to be safe.  There is also a chance that the Prozac won’t work at all, but until then, until he’s no longer suicidal he’s got to stay where he can’t try to hurt himself again.”

“But you just said they won’t let him stay.  They aren’t going to give him weeks.”

“I did. Except as we’ve been  talking I got an idea.   How long will it take for you to write this story?”

“Don’t no”

“What if you  knocked out a quick story about what’s going on.”

“You think that could make a difference?”

“It’s worth a shot. It might scare them enough to be very, very cautious with Ritchie.”

“The only thing is I cover business stories.”

“Exactly.”

They are both quiet for a while

“I don’t doubt that what you are telling me is true, but there is something I can’t grasp. How can they can get  away with it.”

“Michael. No one can understand it.  Including me.  You know if it always had been this way we would think, “Oh maybe some day. I have a dream,” some thing like that. We’d hope that one day we would live to see better psychiatric care.  But when things go backwards, it’s harder to comprehend.”

An awkward longer silence intervenes.  Dr. Stern stands up.

“Let’s get out of here.  I need a smoke.  There’s a park a block away.”

 

Chapter 21

Michael and Dr. Stern walk along a path at the edge of a pond, Stern has a cigarette hanging from his lips, in his youth an affectation that he originally patterned after Jean Paul Belmondo in Breathless.  Closing in on 60, it has become his own.  People from his generation might have placed him, with his raincoat, as a mix of Columbo and Belmondo.  But while his appearance might have originally been derivative, over the years it has also become completely his own.  In truth, he looks nothing like Columbo or Belmondo.  Like other sixty year olds, whether his original motivation might have been to be someone cool, by now, no effort is required in that department.  No longer young, he no longer has a compelling need to choose an image, nor,  for that matter,  is  it possible. He doesn’t  have energy to waste.  He is what he is. He looks like vintage Dr. Stern, which will have to do.

Joggers run by them.  They find a bench along the pond.  Michael picks up a pebble  and tosses it into the water.  They watch the concentric rings.  A swan is in the middle of the pond.  Off to their right they hear screaming.  A five year old boy is trying out  the remote control to a motorized toy boat his father has bought for him.  The boy has gotten the boat stuck in irises ten feet into the pond.  His father takes over  the remote control  with an I’ll show you  attitude.   The boy tries to grab it back, but he is no match for his father’s determination.

“Daddy!” he screams

“Wait” his father answers “Wait” gently slapping his son’s hand away, then pulling his own back like a hand evading a mosquito.

“Daddy”  the boy screams accusingly, “Give it to me.”

The father hands the remote control back to him but he is irritated to have to do so.    The  boat’s battery has apparently run down.  So now the toy is probably a goner.  The boy’s screaming gets louder.  His father takes the remote control back but to no avail.  The screams are unrelenting.

His father tells him he will buy him a new boat. But they both know he won’t. The screaming isn’t letting up.  His father’s has just about had it. Trying to calm himself as much as his son, he offers a lollipop.  The boy  throws it down on the ground.  It shatters.  His father shakes him.  Now the little boy is really crying.

Watching silently.  Dr. Stern can’t resist.

“There it is. Right in front of everyone’s nose.  He wanted to do a good thing, take his son to the park with his new toy  The result?  Warfare. It starts early, very early, at an age when you can hardly remember it. It starts that young and it never ends.  Even when you think it’s gone.”

“I remember those dreams that we went over.  That was scary stuff.”

“You had wild dreams.”

“I didn’t know where they were coming from.”

“Well you found out.”

“My father had been dead 10 years.  I hardly ever thought about him during the day.  And night after night, after Lisa died, there he was scaring me in my dreams- a real prick.  And he was a nice normal guy, a soft-spoken man…”

Dr. Stern laughs.

“You learned a lot in your therapy.”

“I still don’t know if he was a prick.”

“Sometimes he was a prick and sometimes he was a nice guy, like everyone else.   The important thing is that you were a small kid, and your father was a big guy.  And sometimes you both got pissed.  That wasn’t your imagination.  Sometimes you hated each other’s guts.  We all feel that sometimes,  but especially fathers and sons.   Later you put things in perspective, forgave each other, laughed it off but back then, when he was angry, he got put in your dreams forever.  A big bastard for the rest of your life ready to pounce on you for disappointing him.”

They leave the bench and walk on silently until Dr. Stern speaks

“I’ve read a lot of your articles.  They’re good… Believable, totally believable.”

“I try to stick to the facts.”

“That’s what comes through.  The truth is pretty straight-forward with this story. The insurance industry makes every penny of its profits by limiting care. Pay out too much they lose money. Pay too little they’re on easy street. So what they do is inevitable.”

“But what kept them from doing that before or have insurance companies always done this?”

“No.  Before HMOs existed doctors treated patients the best they knew how and insurance companies paid for the treatment. And that was that.  They just had to figure out the correct premiums.”

“So what this means is they don’t think doctors can make decisions about what is best for their patients.  They can’t be trusted.”

“That is it in a nutshell.”

“HMO defenders argue that it was necessary.  Doctors were getting too rich and didn’t have to answer to anyone.”

“Probably true.  No one really thought about what things cost.  Only what is going on now has nothing to do with monitoring waste.  It’s way beyond that.  They have totally redefined what psychiatrists can do.”

They continue walking.  When  Michael was in therapy they occasionally went for walks.  They could be quiet for long stretches without the awkwardness that sometimes occurred when Michael wanted to think rather than talk.  Therapy was like the telephone.  You had to keep the conversation going or sit there and stare at each other, which both of them hated. Walking was better.

After thirty or forty feet,  Michael breaks the silence.  “I keep thinking there is something I’m missing, something I can figure out that will straighten it all out.  I still don’t really get it. Even if Ritchie can’t leave they will still push him out of the hospital?”

“ He’s a thousand dollars a day to them, end of mystery.”

“A thousand dollars?

“That’s a whole other story-why it costs so much.  You have no idea how much staff it takes to do all the paperwork and cover your ass.  Some other time we’ll get into that one.”

“But aren’t they afraid of lawsuits?  I thought people sue when anything goes wrong.”

“They have this perfect setup.  The doctors can claim the insurance company forced them to go against their better judgment.  So they are pretty safe.  Not 100% but pretty safe as long as the doctor can document that he filed appeals, stuff like that.  But here’s the issue in a nutshell.  You can’t sue an HMO.  They’re protected by federal law.  They are untouchable”

“There’s nothing…”

“Nothing.  No law suits period?”

As they walk Stern keeps slipping looks at Michael.  Stern is nervous about the expression on Michael’s face, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.   This I can do.  I felt useless up on the ward.”

“I can understand that.“

“What else can you tell me?”

“I have a good article for you to read.  Go on the net.  Google   Linda Peeno.  She was the medical director at a couple of these insurance companies.  It’s an interesting story. She thought maybe she was with an unethical company when she quit the first one.  But it was the same everywhere.  Finally she quit the industry when she couldn’t stomach it any more. Became an ethics professor at a university.   Read it.  You can get an insider’s view. People think someone made a mistake when their insurance company won’t pay.  There’s plenty of that, accidental on purpose mistakes, which get insurance companies out of paying.  Unless people challenge them, which most of the time they don’t, especially after being put on hold for a half an hour, or not getting an answer to an appeal letter, or a voice mail, beyond that.  They also hire doctors whose full time job is to  dream up innocent sounding rules that gets their company out of paying.  Read her stuff on the internet.   It’s a good place to start.”

 

Chapter 22

Mid-May from 1866 well into the 1960’s the Debutante Cotillion Ball at the Clarkson Ballroom in the Vanderbilt Hotel opened the social calendar in Boston.  It was eagerly awaited every year but particularly in 1875 when the New England winter had punished Bostonians beyond even their endurance.   Once again, the crocuses and daffodils had been a tease, making April fools of everyone.  For on April 2^nd Boston was under siege, pounded by its second blizzard in 30 days, this time 2 ½ feet of snow, drifts of ten feet, temperature below zero for close to a week.

The blizzard arrived unannounced around midnight.  By 3 AM half the people in Boston were awakened by the howling winds. In the dark they listened and felt a chill before they tightened the blankets around them and drifted back to sleep.  The next morning they were greeted by the chatter of hail, striking glass.  This brought them to the window, and actually their first look at the storm contained an element of fascination with the sheer power of nature.  However, as the day progressed the storm seemed to strengthen and their fascination was replaced by concern.  The winds angrily blasted away, moaning and screeching with a vocabulary undecipherable to human intelligence.  Giant tree limbs came crashing down, blocking roads, breaking through the roofs of homes and businesses. The second night was worse than the first.  When this was repeated still a third night the storm began to cut away at people’s sanity, especially because a number of residents were sure they had felt the earth rumble during the night. There hadn’t been a serious earthquake in Boston since November, 1755.

Some paced the floor, many more twisted and turned in bed throughout the night trying not to listen to the wind, not to think, not to do anything other than sleep, the very worst way to fall asleep.  By the third morning, when the storm still had not let up, some Bostonians had become unnaturally quiet. No one knew what to expect next.  In 1875 there was no radio, TV, telephone, or weathermen, no explanation of what exactly was happening and when it would end.  Fear makes minds work overtime, makes the imagination run wild.   Everyone had to make whatever sense they could.

Perhaps the blizzard was punishment for collective sin, for something awful that they had done.  The honest among them knew their personal contribution and this wasn’t altogether comforting, but would God be this angry?  At what?   In a fury he had once wiped out the world with 40 days of rain when the human race had become corrupted beyond forgiveness.  Was this the beginning of a forty day blizzard?  Or was it simply an anomaly of nature, an unlucky roll of the dice, a once in a hundred year storm?  And was that an earthquake last night?  If only they could hear what the priest had to say, hear if there was news.  Not knowing was the worst of it.

It is fair to wonder why there must be so much speculation.  But then again it is to be expected.  People think and think when something is wrong.  Good thoughts or bad thoughts, valid explanations or nonsense, they think and think until they have found something that makes sense.  Whether true or false, it almost doesn’t matter.  When danger is knocking on the windows, when the wind wildly mocks the ordinary silence of night, what else can people do if they don’t speculate?  Pace the floor? Climb the walls? Start bickering with each other? Read the farmer’s almanac for the third and fourth time? Collapse heavily into a chair in despair, or spring up like a deer hearing a menacing sound? They did all of these things and considered still more theories.  None of it was very effective.  The truly insane might do what most would have liked to have done, attempt to strike back, open the door and scream curses at the storm. The sensible, however, understood that they would be shouting into the void.  Their sound would be completely unheard beneath the howling winds.

By the third day those who had earlier learned how to tune out, now stared off into space, took a journey inside their minds to familiar places. The less fortunate found crevices from which it might be harder to return.  Some people played the piano until they got tired of the same old tunes. Some people prayed, some laughed, or imitated laughter.  And when all was said and done, regardless of how they tried to handle it, there was only one true answer to this storm and the winter of 1875.

The spring.

To a starving man a scrap of bread tastes as fine as Belgian chocolate.  The same principle applies to the seasons, the worse the winter, the more glorious the spring.  A few snowflakes fell in early May two weeks before the ball, but no one paid it any mind. The snow melted almost immediately.  As terrible as things had been during the blizzard and the hard freeze that extended through most of April, the worst had been forgotten after they had sunshine for a week in May, then two weeks, then 16 glorious days in a row.

Given that the blizzard was still recent no one was ready to assume they were completely out of the winter, but the evidence was mounting. A profusion of dogwood blossoms was a good sign.  Then something better, something that often goes by unnoticed, but this year lit up like fireworks ablaze in the sky.  Tulips appeared followed by azaleas and rhododendron: vibrant colors, gorgeous colors, dazzling reds, purples, crimsons, cranberry, and pinks battled the grey torpor of winter, shook the senses to awaken.   From absolute stillness, from a suspended state, from nothingness, life had sprung back into motion.  Plants peeked out of the ground then got down to business.  A week or two later, they bloomed.  Flowers and flowers. The brain smiles at  flowers even in New England, where smiles are tentative. Especially in New England.

Spring is a parade of flowers in every shape and size, one following another in assigned progression.   By the time redbud arrives in the middle of the parade,  people’s expectations have reached a point where they expect the marvelous.  They aren’t disappointed.  Cherry and crab apple blossoms, peonies, poppies, lupine, roses, a procession varying little from year to year. That year, 1875, because of the long freeze, the emergence of each flower telescoped into a shorter time frame. It was a spectacular effect.  Each flower appeared, while the earlier flowers still remained.  Belize’s flower arrangements were the best they had ever been.  Everything appearing all at once, the entire cast together in a finale, leading to a grand crescendo, the Cotillion Ball held in the Clarkson.  The ball was the high point,  the culminating event.  Entering the Clarkson had come to mean  that spring was finally irreversible.   But it was more.   For those caught up in the social calendar the Ball at the Boston Vanderbilt seemed as if it had been the whole purpose of the parade.  Each rite of spring built upon the last prelude, everything leading to this,  the grand event.  Nature’s most beautiful blossoms, dangerously beautiful city blossoms, debutants, the fairest of the fair, the daughters of pretty woman chosen by successful men, all gathered together in the Clarkson Ballroom where they could be duly celebrated.

They arrived in fine coaches driven by impeccably attired coachman, with horses that seemed to prance as they appeared from behind the circle surrounding the fountains and came to the grand entryway of the Vanderbilt Hotel.  Those who were simply witnesses to the ball, those without daughters being introduced, entered the lobby with laughter and gayety.  Those who were presenting their daughters tried to seem just as carefree, but that fooled no one.  Strain edged their laughter.  Each of the young ladies was ushered to a special room with their mothers and servants where they might prepare for their moment.  They were very excited.

If you looked at the faces of the debutants you saw children, dreamy, without a clue, which was very desirable.  Dressed in the most beautiful gown they had ever worn, intimations of the women they might become took hold of their audience.  The seeming contradiction of their childish nature and their women’s bodies created a powerful tension. Some consider the beauty of virgins the most precious lure.  The most desirable quality was to not have a trace of sophistication.  Glorious innocence, but with devilish curiosity and flirtatiousness, was perfection.

They were closely studied by every matron in attendance that night.  They were a reminder of a place and time where each of them had once been.  They could remember their own thrill when, at last, they had been invited to the adults’ table.  Like Christmas time, those who delight in the children’s excitement do so because it arouses their own memories.  It allows them to recall themselves as a child so they can have Christmas again. In the same way the debutants’ youth and energy enticed everyone to share it with them, to recall their own younger physical qualities.  The debutants’ bodies were still perfect,  better than they would ever again be, newly formed, natural, with no thought given to repair. Their noses had not yet grown, nor their lips or ears.  Their teeth were shiny white, their hair was thick and healthy where it should be, and peach fuzz everywhere else.  The men, young and old could have looked at them forever, or at least until they were aware that they were practically drooling.  This happened every year.  The ball in 1875 took it to the next level.

The horrible winter, combined  with the preceding  two and a half  weeks of  May sunshine, created  virulent spring fever, emotions heating up, expectations high, patience thin.  Perhaps that explains why, when Ariana Van Doren , just turned 17, was  introduced, people became disoriented. She started a riot.   Not on the outside where polite society almost never shows what is going on inside. Indeed, there was no discernable reaction to Ariana, as she stepped forward to do her curtsy for the honorable William Claflin, governor of Massachusetts.  If anything, she got less applause than some of the other girls, particularly from other women.   But if there were an instrument that could measure seismic vibrations inside the mind, this moment was off the scale.  Granted that the winter had been so awful that a frog might have looked like an angel and stoked up the hormones. But Ariana’s impact can be best understood in simple terms. Not only did she not look like a frog, she was the most beautiful debutant in this or any other year. She was the most beautiful woman any one in the ballroom had ever seen.

So it is not surprising that Eric Lowell, the youngest Lowell in his clan, 19 going on 20, fell into a swoon the instant he saw her. Swoon used to be used to describe a woman’s reaction to a powerful man, a hunk as they would say today.  But, in truth Ariana was having that effect on men and women alike. She shared her mother Belize’s French features, but there was also another element, more mysterious, more difficult to pinpoint.  Was it Dutch? Flemish? Swiss blood that she carried in her veins alongside the French? Was it her hair?  Her lips? Perhaps it was the slight flaw, which saves the truly beautiful from banality, a tiny scar above her right eyebrow, the result of a teacup used as a missile by Ariana’s older sister when she was four.

Her skin was as smooth as silk, but moist like morning mist on a flower.  It made her luminescent.   She was heart-stopping, show stopping.  The moment she appeared, everything else stopped.  Simply stopped.  There is no other way to describe it.  A hush, an instinctive simultaneous gasp from everyone there, a collective sigh, the silent sound of psyches being thrown into disarray, rearranged without a prior plan.  Not just Eric, every eye was drawn to her like a magnet.  She dared the shy, she emboldened the brazen to take a longer look.

Ariana’s beauty was not the only factor setting the ballroom on fire.  It was her lineage. Women who were jealous of her, and for that matter, especially those who never liked her mother, brought up all of the usual rumors about the identity of her true father. It wasn’t just them.  Ariana’s father, Ernest, and his family had all along treated the rumors as indisputable.  She was rejected by the entire Van Doren family, her father’s father, mother, his sisters, though not his brothers .  The Van Dorens couldn’t mask their contempt.  Fine, she was likely to look like her mother.  But they knew Van Doren from non-Van Doren and Ariana wasn’t one of them.  Not a single one of her features matched anyone that they knew or could remember. No one dared utter Vanderbilt’s name.  Ernest’s livelihood depended on silence, and they could not be sure. But Ernest’s dependency added to their anger.

All of this was hard on Ariana.   Belize had, herself, been here before.  Many times Belize told her daughter to ignore their coldness, but Ariana was unable to do so, suffering from the unremitting distance that her father seemed to reserve for her and her alone among her four sisters and brothers.  It made Ariana shy around boys and men.

It wasn’t only that she might have been the byproduct of sin.  Ariana was the daughter of hotel employees, not members of society.   When her mother Belize first arrived in Boston, she had similar problems with the upper crust. She didn’t care for them and they especially didn’t care for her since they saw her as Vanderbilt’s attempt to impress them. Eventually she won most of them over but Ariana’s invitation to the ball aroused their animosity all over again.  For there was little they could do.  As an invited guest, courtesy was required. A few considered not attending the ball.  They felt Vanderbilt was pushing his luck. Most came, however, not only because they wouldn’t miss an evening at the Clarkson.  It was the Cotillion Ball, one of the best evenings of the year.

“Crazy.”  Crazy, was the verdict of Mrs. Cabot when she told the story  twenty years later.

“Tense.  Very tense” added Mrs. Holcomb

Intended or not, Ariana’s invitation was a further assault on the  Brahmins’ world.  First a trickle.  Now  the flood.   The upstarts already had more money and nicer homes.  Their most obnoxious characteristic, their manners was not half as important as the real issue, their unwillingness to bow to  the upper crust.  And now, one of them had found a way to get invited to the ball.  One of them was to be welcomed as a debutante.

“What is next?” Mrs. Elliot whispered to Mrs. Smith  “Are the janitors going to bring their daughters?”  “Are the maids?” piped in Mrs. Smith.

They were not prepared for the final blow. When Ariana  stepped out to be introduced to society  it made each of their daughters ordinary.  Their night, the night that should have been the grandest of their daughters’ childhood  was being  spoiled by a hotel keeper’s daughter.

They had their moments.  At one point, for just an instant, Arianna tripped on her high heels and almost fell down.  The relief that passed through the room was palpable.  But unfortunately for them  Ariana’s  recovery was quick.  She was soon comfortably smiling  as she swayed to the music.

In the middle of it all sat luftmensch Mr. Henry James.  After a lifetime of wandering all over the world seeking God and the truth he had found it among the Boston Brahmins, as a resident wise man and philosopher.  His beliefs in being rather than doing, in fellowship resulting from not having to compete, finding God in nature and other people, sat well with those who sat at the top of society, and like him didn’t have to work.  His belief in nature was best experienced in the city.  His nasty competitive side was limited to his family, including his increasingly successful sons.  He rarely hesitated to embarrass them with his harangues.  Unfortunately for his usual allies,  ladies from Boston’s finest families, he had nothing to say.  He was all man.  He was  enchanted as much as anyone by Ariana’s appearance.

Arianna’s beauty was leaving wounds. Mrs. Sergot  felt it in her bowels.  She took leave for a longish retreat to the powder room.  Mrs. Harrison noticed that the muscles in her neck were pinching again.  She might have to make a trip to the spa to get those knots out.  Dame Gayle Tyler had the beginnings of a headache, (one that lasted 2 days) and Mrs. Nancy Tuttle noticed that she could not quite catch her breath.  There were other casualties, not all trivial, but they can’t be proven.  Mrs. Vigor insisted until she died that her cancer had sprung on her the morning after the Ball.  For years after, Mrs. Oliver Crompole claimed that the ball had made her daughter go insane, her very pretty daughter, the one who everyone expected to be crowned that night as the princess of her generation.

Over breeding had made them helpless before Ariana’s onslaught. The only defense that any of the women could muster up was whispers;  whispers and whispers, gossip, glaring looks at her that they tried not to make obvious, but that kept breaking through their usually well-exercised smiles. You could feel the tension rising, especially when Margaret Thaler started to hang with her

“Turncoat” whispered Mrs. Holcomb to Mrs. Cabot loud enough for Mrs. Thaler to hear.

Mrs. Thaler called her daughter to her side and that was the end of that.

A growing collective desire to see Ariana have her come up pence, a moment capable of ending her spell gave them hope.  For until the actual end of the evening many possibilities could still rescue their equanimity.  Mrs. Turpin, well known for her uncanny bluntness, had a comforting private fantasy that would have done the job:  Ariana, vomiting over her beautiful gown.  That would be an excellent solution to the evening.  Mrs. Rather’s thoughts turned to God.  Surely he would not allow a bastard child to tempt good Christians with worldly indulgences.  There were many comforting thoughts throughout the room. However, even as the evening got worse and worse for those suffering from Ariana’s appearance, one thing remained constant.  No one could take their eyes off of her.

Eric wished he could approach Ariana like a Latin lover, simply walk over, stick out his chest and begin from there.  One night last summer he, and three of his friends, had snuck out, gone to Spanish town, and saw  the way the men  approached women.

Ariana, had exposed him and his friends’ big talk as a pipe dream. You are who you are. He was becoming desperate.   She had moved and he was no longer able to get a good look at her from across the room.   He would have to move, but he didn’t want her to know that he had moved closer. So he stayed where he was, despite the fact that, more than anything, he needed to look and look and look and look.  He wanted to drink her in with his eyes.

If from time to time, in his life so far,  he had recognized  a vague, uncomfortable feeling that something was missing. Now he felt bereft, powerless, broken without it.  His grandfather had told him it was his rib.  Adam had bestowed that feeling on all men.  Now suddenly Eric needed his rib back.   He was broken without it.  He needed to know if  she would belong to him? And the best he could do was try to get a better look.  And then another look  and another.  Only propriety demanded, not to mention pride, that he could not  buzz, could not  let his mouth drop and simply stare.  The strength of his desire was pushing him to do exactly that.  So early in the night Eric turned to his best defense, the same thing every one else was doing.  Ignore her, or try to act like he was doing that.

Not just Eric was struck .  Mrs. Sergot,  Mrs. Harrison., Gayle Tyler, Mrs. Argyle Tuttle,.  Mrs. Vigor and Mrs. Oliver Crompole and twenty, maybe thirty, others there that night were in a sorry state.  For years after that evening they  tried to ignore Ariana.  They would not meet her eyes, not act friendly.   They made a point of not seeming impressed, or favorably influenced  by everything and anything Ariana did or said.  They couldn’t forgive her.  They exacted punishment for the pain she had caused them that night, and it was never enough.  There was no suitable amount that could even the score.

There are those who can only regain the safe high ground through contempt (for the very things that have struck their fancy).   Ariana subsequently suffered more than her share of being on the losing end of one-upmanship.  Over and over she let down her guard, she didn’t see it coming, didn’t even suspect their motive until it was too late.  Eventually she caught on and did what was necessary. In her final thirty years, she was thought of as a bitch by those who didn’t know her well.  However, all of this happened later, much later, as more and more people gained enough time to turn to their best defenses, and she hers.  That night motivations were early and pure, and so,  more poisonous.  The disquieting wonder that took hold when she entered the room, the awe, dictated what the polite were forced to do that night.  After her introduction, only stolen glances were possible.

Eric stole a lot of them.  He couldn’t help himself.    Unlike some of his pals, Eric had thought about falling in love before it happened to him.  But he hadn’t taken into account just how much love could seize him. He loved the way she walked, loved the way she smiled, loved the way she brought her index finger to brush against her nose when she felt an itch. And he was the first person in the room to notice her scar.  Which  strengthened his feelings. He loved the scar.

The more he noticed the more he loved.  Each and every observation intensified the pain.  It didn’t matter what she did, or what he learned.  He was smitten.  So were at least twenty other young men who had nearly identical feelings. But it was among the worst for Eric.  He was completely miserable.  There was only one answer for what now plagued him, finding out if she loved him.  A very straightforward issue his grandfather would counsel.  “You have a question.  You get the answer.”

Yes or no.  No mystery. Nothing to analyze. “What is the big deal?” say believers in mind over matter.  Only anyone who has been there, young or old knows that this question is a form of torture.   Love makes you its prisoner.   You need the answer.  Need it, not want it.  You can’t sleep without it, you can’t think without it.  You can’t do anything. The question is on your mind constantly.  You want to know her.  You have to know her.  Conventional wisdom is nonsense.  It is not better to have loved and lost. Love is dangerous unless it is returned.  It can destroy a happy disposition, change a person to long lasting, sometimes permanent, bitterness. That aspect is democratic.  Love has destroyed kings, captains of football teams, cool dudes and accountants. Some people never venture to the next step, never truly take the chance.  Some won’t go there again.  Not like the first time when despair visited at the slightest bad news, after the briefest indifferent glance.

Unfortunately for Eric, there was a more serious challenge.  One very important suitor, Andrew Carnegie age 36 was still unmarried.  He had come to Boston to meet with Cornelius Vanderbilt for business.  He had heard Boston was the best place to find Vanderbilt receptive to new introductions. Vanderbilt, now 81 years old, was impressed with the young man’s grit. He saw a bit of himself in him.  He immediately thought Ariana would make a wonderful match. If he could cement the deal with Ariana it would be good for her, good for Carnegie, and good for the business between them  He had Ariana and her parents Belize and ErnstVan Doren to lunch with Mr. Carnegie.  It didn’t take long for Vanderbilt to notice Carnegie’s interest.  Indeed, after their lunch Andrew visited a jeweler and bought a very fine sapphire and diamond brooch to present to Ariana that evening with the hope that the ball might go as he expected.

Ariana was not immune to the extreme reaction that was stirring up around her.  She herself had been taken back by her appearance as she caught herself in the hallway  mirror before leaving the family suite at the hotel.  She stopped and stared for a few moments.  It was as if she were looking at another person.  She had never been allowed to wear a woman’s gown. She had never pulled up her hair quite like that. She could see that she was beautiful.  It wasn’t conceit, or even self-satisfaction.  In fact, what she saw in the mirror made her uneasy.  Even before the tension developed at the ball, she instinctively knew that what she was looking at was not quite from the ordinary world.  In New England God’s creatures were expected to be ordinary.  The devil is more likely to favor perfection. When she began to tremble she too had to look away.  She had the kind of beauty that hurts, that makes others hurt themselves, or hurt someone else, or hurt her,  beauty that could only bring pain.

Which is ironic; words like  “sweet,” “loving” come to mind to describe Ariana’s disposition.  She was a friendly nice girl.  The young lady who had suddenly appeared in the mirror was anything but the Ariana she herself had known.  Well not completely.  Beauty had always received special emphasis in her values.  She was taught the usual by her mother, that beauty is only skin deep, that beauty is superficial and temporary and unimportant.  Like her mother, however, she couldn’t fool herself. If it was temporary it was all the more valuable.   As long as she could remember, and even tonight, her mother’s beauty thrilled her. When Belize got dressed for an occasion, and there were many occasions, she would come into her room to give Ariana a kiss good night.   Ariana would cry out, even at two and three years old,  “Oh Mommy you look so pretty!”

Perhaps every girl identifies with Cinderella, wonders if one night she will be Cinderella precisely because of her very unprincess  circumstances.  Not just Cinderella. The fairy tales have a common element, a beautiful young women imprisoned in a tower, or with a spell put upon her so that she remains asleep; the men too, frogs, beasts, that become princes, brought to life by a kiss. Year after year Ariana prayed and wished and fantasized that some day…someday, maybe, you never know, maybe she could look like her mother. She didn’t seriously think it was possible.  Until the night of the ball she had not realized her wish could be granted.  She had been plump as a child, pleasant, eager to please, quickly forgettable.

And now suddenly her past  might as well have never happened.  One look into the mirror, and she instinctively knew her life had been permanently altered.  She finally had what she had always wanted.  She just hadn’t expected that her first emotion, after realizing she had been granted her dream, would be trepidation rather than happiness. She had long wondered, she couldn’t wait to know, how it would feel to be a woman. Tonight the wondering was over.  The beginning had begun.  It was like sliding down a sheet of ice, no screaming allowed.

 

Chapter 23

By the middle of the evening Eric was in even worse shape.  He had been whipped into a lather.  Tradition allowed young men to become idiotic, to add a little racing fuel to their veins, Jamaican rum. Their foolishness was part of the evening’s entertainment for the older men in attendance.  Watching the young men act stupidly restored their place in society, their function.  They became indignant, and thus were appreciated as keepers of community standards.

Stirring up Eric’s courage made him uncharacteristically wild. Or perhaps it wasn’t the fuel.  A lot of people that night were changing substantially in very little time, or were about to change.  Before tonight  Eric had been comfortable enough.  He had had a nice long run at being a boy, teasing, toying, torturing his buddies for the fun of it. And able to take it when they returned the favor.  Puppies do the same thing to each other. Fun fights, nips, chases.  He hadn’t been in any particular hurry to see that end. It never occurred to him that it would end.  But in an instant, in that first look at Ariana, Eric’s childhood cocoon, which had always seemed to contain his entire universe, had turned into an empty shell. His puppy hood was over.

Fortunately for Eric he was a Lowell which counted for something in Boston. But more important than his breeding, he could count on his youthful cockiness to move him forward, especially reinforced by his introduction to bottled spirits.  It was a weird feeling, like he could leap without fear of falling.  He didn’t know whether he liked the heightened energy or distrusted it.  But he and his equally soused friends were making too much noise.  For a moment he attracted the disapproving attention of the sponsor of the ball, Cornelius Vanderbilt.  Eric’s position in society stopped Vanderbilt from saying anything.  Besides, other than his misgivings about Eric’s group, Vanderbilt was thoroughly enjoying himself.

This was the gala affair he had always wanted and Ariana was the belle of the ball.  At first her shyness overcame any other instinct.   She felt their stares.  But then, towards the middle of the evening, after Eric asked her to dance, her transformation was complete.  She could see the way Eric looked at her, his eagerness, his alertness to even a spark of interest from her.   It freed her.  But there was something else.  He was sweet.

“Sorry”, he mumbled at the beginning of the dance after he stepped on her toe.  It was not self consciousness.  It was concern for her toe.  But then they got started and he was better, and then better, and then very fine indeed.  His natural grace was an essential ingredient, but something else was happening.  His body had become an instrument of his worship.  He felt the music take over his limbs. The same thing was happening to her.  They felt suspended, they felt lightness as the two of them lost themselves in twirls across the floor, in effortless motion, gliding like ice skaters on the Charles River.  She followed him like a woman in love.  Her body knew Eric’s intention before he did. Neither had a sense of the other’s will.  They were without awareness of will.

But when the dance finished their bond immediately dissolved.  He stiffened as they came off the floor.  She waved to one of the men she had danced with earlier and that seemed to totally end what they had.  He became strangely formal and polite.  Perhaps he didn’t know what to say, what to do next. Perhaps, his nerves simply failed. Later she would go over these things in fine detail.  He awkwardly thanked her for the dance and then he left, to get lost among his friends who were giving him a hale and hearty salute with their raised glasses of rum.

She asked herself what she had done that might explain losing him but couldn’t come up with an explanation.  A careful observer could see that she had done nothing, but when Ariana now and again looked Eric’s way, she wasn’t able to capture even a flicker of interest. He had become indistinguishable from everyone else, meaning like almost every guy there that night, he was doing his best not to let on how much he wanted to stare and study her. So Ariana’s glimpses of Eric went unnoticed.  Once or twice Ariana thought she caught him looking differently her way. Once or twice Eric also thought he saw interest on her part.  But that is the nature of these episodes, lovers are invariably out of phase.  Eric, in particular, took what he thought was her indifference, hard.   He was becoming increasingly pessimistic about his chances, especially because almost every time he looked her way she seemed to be enjoying herself.   Her partner for the last three dances was Andrew Carnegie. He had no difficulty asking her again and again for the next dance.  And she refused none of his advances.

As the evening drew closer to an end, Eric felt pathetic.  What had gone wrong?  As they always did for each other, his friends assured him that it would all turn out okay.   But tonight the usual fibs weren’t working.  Then, as the music began, for what he thought might be the last dance, he caught a look from Ariana.  Or he thought he did.  He wasn’t sure if he read it correctly, but now frantic, he was willing to take his chances.  He walked right over to her in the middle of the ballroom.   She had already  moved to the middle of the ballroom with Carnegie.  Eric cut in front.  He offered his hand.  She took it and the two of them danced off, leaving Carnegie standing alone like a fool.  Vanderbilt caught that moment.  He was not happy with it.  Carnegie was a man like himself, self made.  He didn’t know about Lowells.

Because it was a warm evening, along the entire length of the ballroom, the French doors were left open to the veranda so that dancers could cool off under the stars.  That night they expected the usual, Boston’s bracing sea air.  But the air was thick with the fragrance of magnolia.  It cast a spell.  The magnolia tree in the courtyard had been placed there under the direction and inspiration of Henry McBride, from Savannah, Georgia.  He was brought, or more accurately, bought  North in 1851 from the Jefferson Rogers estate where Commodore Vanderbilt had stayed for a weekend, and there, decided on the spot, to bring a bit of the South to Boston.  He thought that would make Belize happy, which it did. Vanderbilt wasn’t invited back to the Rogers estate, but he felt he had gotten the better of the deal.

In Boston magnolia blossoms normally appear, if at all, very early in the spring.  They are easily destroyed by a nighttime frost. That year, the appearance of the buds and the opening of the blossoms was greatly delayed by the frigid early spring.  When they finally bloomed the day of the ball, it was in all its glory.  After their dance, Eric and Ariana leaned on the iron railing wondering about the stars.  They were both looking beyond, looking where they might go together.  She lived at the hotel.  She knew the garden’s secrets.

Beyond the veranda courtyard, a gate invites the curious to follow a spiral path down to Belize’s rose garden.   The scent pulls you forward long before your eyes are dazzled by its beauty.  To this very day, it is still lit by gas lanterns. They produce a small flame that barely penetrates the darkness, a faintness of light that has been repeatedly useful, generation after generation, to couples in search of privacy.  The lanterns, purchased by Commodore Vanderbilt himself in Paris, cast a strange glow, especially on moonlit evenings. Belize had once brought Ariana here on just such a night.    Her roses invite the eyes to their satiny wine red petals grayed by the darkness.   Here, the shadows converge into blackness in the center of each bud. Ariana guided Eric to a bush she had planted with her mother on her 5^th birthday.  Its most enticing characteristic was that some years it began to bloom in mid May.   This night, in the velvety moonlight, a perfect blossom waited.   Eric plucked it and presented it to her in the darkness.  She slowly, gently pulled the slightly moist flower across her cheeks until she brought it to her nostrils.  The sounds of the orchestra drifted in and out of their attention.

He stood very close behind her, humming almost in a whisper. Eric put his arms around her waist. They instinctively moved to the music.  Ariana closed her eyes and imagined the two of them on their wedding day as they left the church, first smiling, then grinning.  She couldn’t remember when she had last grinned.  Her mother’s happy eyes met hers at that moment. The image flashed into her mind and was gone as quickly.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she answered.

She took his hand and led him along, out of the rose garden, down a path, to the pond amassed with lily pads. Cornelius had built it at Belize’s request.  When it was finished they had walked there alone.  Only once, but that was enough.

Eric and Ariana crossed a footbridge to an island with a gazebo. At the time Cornelius brought it from Atlanta, no one had ever seen anything like it. In the future, this spot would be known as Ariana’s Kiss.  In the 1940’s, generations of young ladies experienced their first kiss here, often after the prom, a kiss they still could recall when they became grandmothers. Later the spot went out of style, and the story was forgotten.  Eventually the sign came down and wasn’t replaced as no one could remember or explain why there was a sign, or who Ariana was, and what the kiss was about.  Everyone agreed the whole thing was dumb anyway, at least, until it was rediscovered by a retro look designer, hired by management to spruce up the place.

Whether remembered by later generations or totally forgotten this was the spot where Eric kissed Ariana.  Her first kiss.  His first love.   In later reveries, which remained with Ariana until her last breath, she could remember the distant sound of the orchestra.  It mixed with the melodies and rhythms of cicada.  She could remember the taste of his lips.  The way she moaned ever so slightly, without embarrassment, the touch of his tongue on her scar, the way she trembled.  She was completely his prisoner.  Anything he asked she would have given.  She wanted to be with him forever.

The music stopped. They were both suddenly aware of time.  People would start to wonder.  Her mother had not seen her leave.  They planned where they would meet the next day. He took off his ring and gave it to her. She slipped it on, caressing it with her other hand.  Eric kissed the ring on her hand.

Stories about the Clarkson continued long after Commodore Vanderbilt and Ariana were gone.  The old-timers, who, to this day, still frequent Sunday lunch at the main dining room, repeat the tales again and again. By far the most talked about part of the Clarkson’s history is the spot where, as you enter the ballroom from the veranda via the door at the far right, there is a faded but still visible stain where blood soaked into the floor.  It’s Eric Lowell’s blood.  Who killed him is unclear.  The record is somewhere but no one is curious enough or able to go through the dust to find out what actually happened.

One story has it that it was one of Carnegie’s men. Carnegie had approached Ariana as she and Eric returned.  She rebuffed him, which made him all the more insistent.  Eric, perhaps influenced by the booze, or by his passion, shoved him hard. Too hard.  Carnegie tripped and went down.  He reached in his pocket and soon after Eric reached in his pocket, and almost immediately he had a knife in his hand.  Probably Eric showed it to him to tell him to back off.  But Carnegie was also drunk and he got up and came right at Eric.  Eric raised his hand with the knife. Then Carnegie’s men seemed to appear from out of nowhere.  A shot rang out.

Or so one version of the story goes.   Another version has it that the perpetrator was a Vanderbilt employee.  Another that they scuffled and it was an accident.  Either way, whether the perpetrator was properly punished, has long since become irrelevant.

Ariana held Eric in her arms. He was conscious for at least 10 minutes.   She couldn’t make out what he was saying.  Then, silence. She knew it was over but she didn’t know. She didn’t know. With his head in her lap she started to rock.  Her legs pulsed up and down. She didn’t know. She sobbed as her hips moved, shaking him, shaking him, waking him, insisting, encouraging, then, finally, gentling him, releasing him to sleep.

He remained motionless.   A doctor appeared from among the guests.  He moved Ariana away and pronounced Eric dead. Belize arrived and held her daughter tightly, very tightly, trying to squeeze her love in to her. At first she was lifeless, but then she began to tremble.  So Belize held her even more tightly until she stopped and then started to rock her. They were both covered with Eric’s blood.  It was every where, and remnants are still there today.   An artistic historical map describing the incident is framed and hangs near the door in question.

After Eric’s death not much was heard about Ariana for over a decade.  She lived with her parents at the Vanderbilt Hotel in the family’s suite.    There are actually two portraits of Ariana in the Clarkson, one of her as a child with the rest of the Van Doren children, the other after her retirement from the hotel’s management. After Belize died,    (ErnstVan Doren had died a decade earlier) Ariana continued to live in the management suite and took over management of the hotel.  In truth Vanderbilt’s son, and later his grand daughters, treated Ariana with patronizing charity that eventually grew thin.  But they never made her leave. It was rumored that this was due to a stipulation in Vanderbilt’s will. Perhaps.  Perhaps not. In any case she remained true to Eric.  She never married.  There was nowhere else to go, no where else she wanted to be. Unlike her mother, she wasn’t a social creature.  She kept to herself.

Only her employees appreciated her passion and her genius.  Only her employees knew that they were working for an inspired taskmaster.  Only they loved her. It didn’t matter to her that they had heard the rumor that she was Cornelius’ love child.  She had come to believe it.  Her dedication to the Clarkson was not because of the stipulations in Vanderbilt’s will.  It was a monument to that evening, a monument to Eric and her love.  For at least 30 years employees knew that they worked on sacred ground.  Really until the middle of the 1960’s when the world of privilege, of debutants, and magnolia  was mocked as totally uncool..

But even the 60’s didn’t completely end it.  Yes.  There were no more grand balls.  But the workers at the hotel treated the room with respect.  Even the Ecuadorians, who came to work there in the late 90’s, and did not speak English, even they knew.  Even the sarcastic workers, many generations of sarcastic workers, despite the jokes that were inevitable, they also treated the ballroom with a kind of love that they could not explain. But then anything that Belize had given birth to had that effect.  It continues to the present day.

But they are also being influenced by Ariana who improved upon her mother’s conception.  Perhaps the story of Ariana and Eric is true, perhaps not.  It is certainly true that like her suspected father, hard work defined Ariana’s soul, and passion which she could not control and to which she gave free rein.

 

Chapter 24

Michael has returned to the psych ward from his walk with Dr. Stern .  Deborah and Ritchie are standing together in the day room, a common room that serves as public meeting place for  patients and visitors.  Michael and Ritchie greet each other with an uncomfortable hug.  Ritchie whispers.

“Dad I gotta go.  Dan’s going to be here soon.  See you tomorrow. Okay?”

Awkwardly, Michael tries to hold him.  “We‘re going to get through this.  You are going to be all right.”

Ritchie pulls away.

“Sure.  See ya Dad.  Bye Mom.”

She needs a hug.  Ritchie starts walking away, but then he returns and gives her a very warm, very concerned, hug– squeezes her good. As he walks away he turns around and looks back, still concerned for her.  He turns a corner and is out of view. Deborah notices Michael’s uneasiness, “What is it?  Did Dr. Stern say something?”

“He said the whole system has turned to crap. HMO’s have targeted therapy.  But more importantly for us right now, they’ve targeted hospitalizations.  They think it is all bullshit.”

“What do you mean? How can they do that?”

“Apparently they’ve done it and no one has stopped them.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that…”

Deborah is quiet.

“He thought we may have leverage if I let them know I’m doing a story…”

That does nothing for her.

“He gave me the name of a hospital that used to be pretty good, Golden Hills.  It beats this place.  Only they had to fire a lot of their staff when the HMO’s started running things. Stern said they have a third of the beds they had two years ago.   I’m going to see if we can get Ritchie treated there.  Do you have a quarter?  I want to call now.”

Deborah finds a quarter in her purse, and gives it to him.  She hands him Lisa’s ring with the quarter.

“Listen, I forgot to give the ring to Ritchie. It’s a good thing they found it.  That ring means a lot to him.  I think you should bring it to him.”

Michael heads for the phone.  Deborah approaches one of the patients, who has just come from the direction Ritchie went.  Melissa is a thin, attractive high strung 16 year old little lady. She is an energy package.

“Do you know where Ritchie Russell went?”

“His room is right around that bend.  Try there.  Are you his mom?”

“Yeah hi.”

“I’m Melissa. Ritchie goes to my school.”

“Oh, so you know each other?”

“Sort of. We’ve seen each other around. Actually, since the third grade. He’s really cute. Those eyes.”

“Yeah.  I know.”

“A lot of girls at school have a crush on Ritchie. Only he doesn’t seem to notice us.”

“Lately he doesn’t seem to notice much of anything.”

“You gotta feel real bad to try to hang yourself.”

“Do you think you could talk to him a little?  Be his friend.”

“I’ll try but he kind of ignores everyone.”

“If you really want to be his friend you can do it.  I know Ritchie.”

Michael returns which seems to be a signal for Melissa to leave.

“Nice meeting you.”

“Maybe we can talk again sometime.”

Michael tries to make eye contact with Melissa but she avoids it.   She walks out of hearing range to the other side of the day room.

“Golden Hills said the insurance company won’t approve transfers unless there is a compelling reason.”

“What do you mean?  We can’t choose where we want Ritchie to be treated?”

“You got it. Golden Hill said they’ll accept him as a private pay.  That means a cashier’s check for $25,000 dollars before admission, then another one every 3 weeks.”

“So we’re stuck here?”

“Baby, I would do it if I could.  Only our second mortgage and home finance loan, not to mention our maxed out credit cards. We still haven’t dug out from Lisa.  We’re not going to come up with $25,000.  What about your aunt?”

“I can’t.  Last year I borrowed another $12,000 to pay off some bills.    We still owe her on that.”

“Still…”

“I can’t.  I just can’t.”

“I’ll tell Ritchie that we’re going to have to make the best of it at Mt. Pleasant.  You want to come with me?”

“Nowadays whenever we’re a three-some, the two of you don’t get along.”

“We’re too busy trying to score on each other.”

“That’s because I’m a great prize.”

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I am. While you were gone, I went to an AA meeting in the hospital.”

“It’s been a while.”

“It isn’t only AA.  I just have this good feeling. I don’t know why.  Maybe Ritchie’s making us rethink things.”

“Such as what?”

“Don’t know.  Bring the ring to Ritchie. Talk to him. Tell him things are looking up.  I’ll see you tonight, meet you in your favorite spot.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It’s a certainty.”

 

Michael enters Ritchie’s room.  The lights are off.

“Rich-you asleep?”

Silence

“Rich?”

Once again, darkness and silence.

Finally, “Yeah?”

“How come you have the lights out?”

“I like it that way.”

“What happened to Dan?”

“Don’t know.  He didn’t show up.”

“Maybe he’s just late.”

“Maybe.”

“Listen they found Lisa’s ring.”

Ritchie, just for a moment, shows emotion, the first time Michael has seen it in a while. He has this habit of fingering the ring whenever he gets tense. Several years ago when he was about 10 he had a dream.  He told Deborah about it.  Lisa’s spirit went inside her ring.  Literally.  This blue Geni left her body and got absorbed  into the ring.  Her spirit was living there.  He woke up gripping the ring tightly.  He wore it on a metal  necklace like GIs wear.  Sometimes he felt something strange when he took it off his neck and slipped the ring off and on the end of his finger.  Like the dream was true.  She was alive in the ring.  He told Deborah he felt possessed.  He didn’t tell Dr. Stern that he still believed it.

Ritchie puts the ring back on the chain.

“That means a lot to you, doesn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“ Do you know the story about it?”

“Which one?”

“Grandma Ann had a great aunt, who was supposed to be very beautiful. She lived in the Vanderbilt Hotel downtown.  You know that fancy hotel. We took you and Lisa there for ice cream once.  Remember it?”

“The one with the garden behind it?”

“You remember it?”

“I think so.”

“Well when she was young  this man fell in love with her and gave her the ring.  But he was shot on the day they met.  She never married. She still wore the ring at 90.   She gave it to Grandma Ann when she got sick and was dying.  Your grandma liked this woman.”

“What was her name?”

“I don’t know. Your Mom does.”

“She does?”

“ Mom found it in Grandma’s attic.  Lisa always liked that story.”

There is a very long pause.

“In a way it’s good that Dan didn’t come. It’s been a long time since we talked.”

“Right.”

They are both quiet for what seems like an eternity.  Finally Michael cannot control himself any longer.

“Ritchie, why did you do it?”

“I wanted to.”

“And now?”

“You want the truth?”  The answer is written on his face.

“Why, why do you want to die?”

“Dad. This is going to go nowhere.  I appreciate the effort, but it’s not something you can understand. We’re coming from two different places.”

“Not as much as you think.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No I’m not.  You jump all over the  ways we’re different… for instance because I like Spyro Gyra.  What is it with you and your friends with music?  I used to hear you and Dan putting everyone down. It’s like you’d categorize this one or that one as a creep or cool according to the music they like.”

“Music says a lot about who you really are.”

“Maybe, but some of it is bullshit “us” and “them” stuff.  People always find a way to do that.  People fight about religion.  They still do, hate people with a different religion. In this country it’s almost disappeared.  At least the people I know and you know.   So what do you and your friends do?  Music does just as good a job.”

“Oh fuck this. That’s why you came here?  To show me how fucking smart you are?”

He puts his hand on Ritchie’s shoulder.

“Sorry.”

Ritchie does not respond

 

“You’re right. It’s automatic… it’s this dad thing, I keep thinking I can teach you something.”

“Yeah, well, that’s one of the things that turns me off. I stopped listening years ago.”

“I am sorry.  I really am. I want to understand, because the truth is I really don’t understand anything.  What do you mean we’re different?”

“You just react to things differently… You always have some kind of cause.  Something you gotta do.  Stuff at work, fixin’ something at home.”

“So?”

“I don’t.  For me there’s no point. I go through the motions. …  After a while, I don’t see the point of going through the motions.”

“But things change.    When I was your age I was tall and skinny, a geek.  I kept trying, making jokes, doing favors for people, anything, kissing ass all over the place just to get people to like me. It didn’t work.  Only losers, I mean real losers called. And there was always someone who couldn’t resist the temptation.  He had to let me know what a nothing I was.  Really rub it in, ‘specially with other people around…  After a while I stopped trying. I thought about dying… a lot of times.”

“You did?”

“A lot. Seriously thought about it. Almost every day.  Maybe. I don’t know…Maybe I would have tried something if it continued… Only it didn’t…That’s how it is…Talk to your Uncle Dave.  Talk to Aunt Barbara. Talk to anyone who’s been around for a while. Practically everyone’s been there.  Your aunt Barbara was  down when she was around twelve or thirteen.   I can still remember it… She had acne.  She had put on a lot of weight.  ”

“Aunt Barbara?  She’s practically a tooth pick now.”

“Those two years we used to call her Big Barbara.  She started developing earlier than the other girls.  All she talked about was how fat she was?  Whatever it is… when  it’s happening you can’t imagine things could be different. It’s like the end of the road.  There is nowhere else to go. Kaput. Finished…(With a flourish) time to wave good-bye.”

Ritchie is pissed at his father’s levity. Michael notices. He immediately settles down but it is too late.

“Why do you fuckin’ do that?”

“I’m sorry.  I guess I thought being lighthearted could help the situation here.”

“You think this is a joke?”

“It’s not a joke, but Ritchie, it is exactly what I am trying to say to you. Look I know, and you know, that we don’t communicate too well with each other.”

“No.  We’re great buddies.”

“I’m trying okay? I’m trying.”

“I don’t know if trying means very much.”

“So you want to kill yourself and I am supposed to do nothing?

“No.  But you can’t do anything if I want to.”

“Fine, but, at least, think about what I am trying to tell you.”

“Which is what?”

“It changes.  It just does.  Five years, ten years later you can hardly remember the bad times. It’s ridiculous.  You were tortured, and then you can’t really remember what that was like. Or why. It’s like a tooth-ache. You can’t remember how bad it feels.  Yet when you have one, it is the most pain you ever felt.”

“That’s you not me.  This isn’t  something that is going to pass.   I haven’t been right for a long time…”

“Since Lisa?”

“Yeah Lisa… We’re different. I remember how you cried.  I didn’t. I kept thinking about how she was afraid.  The day she died she was afraid.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Dad. I know. I saw.  I was there right ‘til the end.  She was afraid. Until the last second.  She was scared out of her mind.”

“No.  You can’t know that.”

”Dad.  She told me. She gave me the ring and I was holding it.  She was squeezing my hand right up until the end.   Dad she was scared.  I can’t forget that.”

“Well, you have to.  You just have to.  Your mom (fumbling) What about your mom?  She couldn’t take losing you.  That would be it.  You’re all she has left.  You can’t do that to her. You gotta stay around for her.”

“You don’t get it, Dad.” Tears start to stream down his face.  “Mom’s already gone.  She wants me to end it so she can finally be finished. She wants to totally let go. (more tears).  Just look at her, listen to her.  She wants it over.  I’m not doing her no favor sticking around.(through the tears) She wants it over.”

“Ritchie. I swear to you.  Right before I came in here your mother was saying things are looking up. She had this feeling”

“Dad.  Come on!  I’ve heard that a hundred times.  She was probably on something.”

“You’re wrong.”

Ritchie’s tears keep coming, “No, Dad.  She’s probably been taking my Prozac.”

“Even if that were true, so what if she is? That’s what you need too.”

“You think I’m going to drug myself out of this?”

“It’s not the same thing as taking illegal drugs.  It’s from a doctor.”

“Oh, okay.  It’s not the same.  Except I see some of the patients around here and they’re in la-la land.”

“You know that woman in the group may be right.  Your negativity…  Where do you get it from?  How do you see things that way?”

“What do you mean?  Where were you?  Where are you? You just have to tell it like it is, quit bullshitting.”

It is beginning to sink in. Michael sits quietly, considering his next move.

“I want you to promise me that you won’t hurt yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I’m asking…  Because no matter how sure you are of the way things are, there are always surprises.  Things change.”

“What kind of surprises?”

“How do you know you won’t fall in love?”

“You think the secret is falling in love don’t you?”

“You want to know the truth? Yes, I do. Except for Lisa, I haven’t really been depressed since I met Mom.”

“Well she has.”

“You know you’re scaring me Richard.  You really are.  You’re scaring me.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning just that.  Welcome to the scared out of your fuckin’ mind club.”

“You’re trying to scare me aren’t you?”

“I’m trying to do nothing.  You asked.  I am telling you just how it is.  Your son is losing the war.  Got that? I’m a loser.  Let it sink in.  I’m a loser.  The son of Michael Russell is a loser. Be honest. That’s what really bothers you isn’t it?”

“You are so wrong. I’m way beyond that Ritchie.  This is about you… Listen.  You just started this medicine.  Maybe they’re right.  Maybe this is all a chemical imbalance.  Give Prozac some time.”

“Yeah.  It’s a chemical imbalance.  Right Dad.”

“Maybe it is”

“Prozac is going to cause me more problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Do I really have to get into that?”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell you the real reason I tried to end it.”

“Well tell me, Ritchie. Tell me. I want to understand.”

“I don’t know.”

“Please. Ritchie. I can’t stand trying to figure you out anymore. It gets me nowhere. I can’t do it. Just tell me okay?”

“I did it because that day at school a couple of girls were teasing me, calling me a faggot.”

“You’re not gay.”

“I’m not so sure.  I’m not as interested in girls as I used to be”

“Did you talk to Dr. Stern about that?”

“Yeah.  He said it’s because I’m depressed.  He said I’m not gay because I’m not attracted to guys.  He asked me about wacking off.  It’s true. My fantasies are about girls.”

“So then what is the problem?”

“I don’t know. Just when they were teasing me it went right through me.  See it wasn’t just teasing.  Last week -Ellen, she was one of them- I tried to do it with Ellen and I couldn’t get it up.  I felt like shit.  It was on my mind constantly after that.  And then when the teasing started… I just didn’t want to do it any more.”

Michael’s panic dies down.  ”I know this is going to sound crazy.  But I’m relieved.  If this is about sex I’m relieved…  Because that is going to fix itself. That I’m sure of.”

Ritchie hates that tone of voice. “You are such a fuckin’ asshole.”

“That’s good.  Be angry… Because I’m not going to let you die.”

“You didn’t hear anything I said. Did you?”

Michael puts on the light. Ritchie covers his eyes.

“Oh man.”

“I heard every word and you are not going anywhere. Mom and I are going to be there at your college graduation. I’m going to dance with your wife at your wedding.  It’s as simple as that. I won’t let you die.”

For a very brief moment, from the expression on Ritchie’s face, it looks as if Michael might have gotten somewhere. But that moment quickly passes.

Ritchie gets up and walks out of the room without a word, his body language saying “fuck you”.

Michael is left in the room alone. His face keeps switching. One moment he looks lost and, the next moment determined.    The image of Lisa near the end, that has flashed into his mind from time to time, but it has always disappeared before he could focus on it.  This time it decides to stay.  He can see her face.  She is afraid.  She’s terrified. He whispers, ”God. Help me…Please.”

 

CHAPTER  25

Ritchie is playing pool by himself.  Melissa comes over and watches him for a while.  He misses several shots.

“You got to be smooth,” she says as if talking to no one in particular.

“You think you can do better?”

Melissa reaches for a pool stick.

“May I?”

Ritchie nods.  She chalks the pool stick, then knocks several balls down.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“My father.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. My dad’s neat. Ever go to any girl’s basketball games?”

“No.”

“You should.  I’m the starting point guard. My Dad taught me all my moves. We’re good.  We went to the state championships last year.  This year we’re going all the way.”

“Melissa…”

“So you know my name?”

“You know I do.  We were lab partners in 7th grade Mrs. Mor…  Mrs. Moravy? No. Mrs. Morton?”

He cracks his first smile in a long time.

“Mrs. Moron.”

“I like when you smile. You have a great smile.”

“Yeah, well.  What was her name?”

“Mrs. Motown”

“Come on.”

“That was it. I’m telling you.”

“No that’s a record label.”

“Mrs. Morky.  That was it.  Morky…like Dorky.”

He smiles again.

“So how come you’re here?”

“I took some pills.  It was stupid.  I got pissed at my mom and took Tylenol.  I told her 5 minutes later, but she made me come to the hospital anyway.  And then they put me in this stupid place. I’m out of here tomorrow. Never going to do that again. Those tubes they put in my nose were disgusting… How come you’re here?”

“I don’t want to go there. But I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Oh yeah?

“Real soon.”

“They told you that?”

“No, but I’m working on it. I hear no one stays for very long.”

Melissa looks at her watch.

“I have an appointment with my therapist.”

“Which one?”

“Mrs. Taylor”

“Is she nice?”

“I’ve seen her all of one time.”

“Let’s face it, we are a pain in the ass to them. That’s why they hide.  They just sit behind those walls at the nursing station ordering food.  Like some time they ought to show up here among the patients.”

“Yeah and share their pizza. Or at least let us order out.”

“Okay.  Got to go.   If I don’t see you again, hope you get out soon.  And listen.  When we’re around school sometime, how about saying hello to me?  Or are you too stuck up for that?”

“It has nothing to do with stuck up.”

“Yeah right.”

“It doesn’t. I just have things on my mind.”

“Well I’m more important then any stupid thing you are thinking about.  So it’s going to be hello from now on.  Right?”

No answer from Ritchie

“Right?”

“Right.”

She walks away. She slides her slippers along the floor like a little girl in her mother’s shoes, like Lisa used to do.  She looks back.

“You take care Ritchie Russell.  And when you get out we’re going to get together.”

No answer from Ritchie.

“You’re going to come watch me play basketball …Just once…  Okay?”

Ritchie catches a glimpse of Dan down the corridor.  He shouts to him.  Dan has a kid’s rubber football in his hand.  He passes it to Ritchie.  He makes a neat one handed grab.  Ritchie throws it back. Melissa watches them.  Dan throws the ball to Melissa. Another patient turns up his CD player.  A couple of other patients get involved.  A psych aide starts to move to the music.  They are having a grand old time until an older nurse enters the picture.

“Knock it off.”

Everyone but the psych aide ignores her.

“I said quit it…. Now!”

Their pleasure increases the more aggravated the nurse becomes.  She signals two burly staff members. Melissa has the ball. The nurse looks into Melissa’s eyes with her most commanding stare.

“Throw that and it’s seclusion.”

Melissa throws a perfect spiral right into the nurse’s gut. Dan grabs his ball as it bounces on the floor.

The nurse pronounces the sentence.  “Six hours seclusion.”

The group watches as she is led away.   Dan comes over to Ritchie.

“Great place.”

“Yeah, we have good times here.”

“What is seclusion?”

“Remember “time out.”  This is a jazzed up professional version. They lock you up in this padded room, a padded cell like in the movies, only it’s real. You should see some of the patients.  They really get into it.  Bang their heads against the wall, scream like wild coyotes.  It’s great times here.”

“You deserve it. You were supposed call me if it ever got that bad. Why didn’t you?”

“Dunno.”

“Ritchie, come on.  Why?”

“Why.  Why. There is no why.  Things are the way they are and that’s that.”

“What are you fuckin’ talking about?”

“Things are the way they are. That’s it.  You can’t understand that?”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit. Oh fuck. I just finished with my father and now I got to explain it to you?”

“Explain what asshole?”

“Me. I gotta explain me.”

“You know things just aren’t that complicated unless you make it that way.”

“Another one! It’s thinking that’s the problem- so I should just stop, right? That’s all we hear on the ward. They drill it into our heads.  Talk happy talk.  These assholes, positive thinking; this happy happy horseshit.”

“Yeah but Ritchie you take bad karma to new heights.  You’re the champ of gloom and doom. You’ve perfected it.”

“What can I say?  If you are going to do something, do it right.”

“You got to stop yourself.  I mean it. Just stop.  Only I don’t know if you want to stop.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“No, you know it. Admit it asshole.”

“Admit what?”

“You don’t want to stop.  Sometimes I get this feeling that what you really want is to pull me in with you. See things like you see them.”

“Look I can’t stop. Period.  I can’t.  And okay sometimes I want company where I am.  I’ll admit it.”

“But when I try to cheer you up…”

“That doesn’t work.  Believe me when people are kidding around at school, even good jokes, the best I can do is fake a smile.  That’s the worst, watching everyone else kidding around.  It’s just not there.  Nothing’s funny.”

“Why don’t you talk to your father?”

“He just finished with me. He kicked my ass.”

“Your father isn’t that bad.”

“He pisses me off!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Dan signals Ritchie to run down the corridor for a pass.  He takes off.  Dan throws a perfect spiral which Ritchie again catches neatly over his shoulder with one hand.  He brings back the ball and flips it underhand back to Dan.  They are both silent for a while. Dan fidgets with a zipper on his jacket.

“Ritchie?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I really would like to help you.”

“I know Dan, but you can’t.  No one can.  It’s okay.  I still like you.”

 

Chapter 26

Sitting on the edge of his desk, DeSalvo is on the phone.  Lenny is nearby.

“Get me John Parker.  Thanks.”

He impatiently taps on the phone.  He signals Lenny to make him a drink, which Lenny does.

“I don’t care if he is at a meeting.  This is Martin DeSalvo.  Tell his secretary I want him out of his meeting now.

He continues to tap impatiently for several minutes.  Lenny returns with his drink.  Unconsciously he salutes Lenny with his drink,  jabbing it in his direction

“Bob, this is Marty.  Just want to make sure you are putting the proper spin on the bottom line numbers coming out of this round of layoffs.  The street has so far looked at the dollars saved from reduced salaries.  I want them to understand that the employees that are leaving represent the part of the old regime that was approving unnecessary treatment. Stress that I have finally taken total control of Liberty, that the efficiencies coming out of our new claims processing will be enormous.  Also try to squelch those stories about us taking over Beneficial Bank.  If you can get rumors going that it is not going to happen, the shorts might hand us a present.  Got it?”

Marty gives the thumbs up sign to Lenny.

“That’s perfect.  You’re doing a good job Bob.  You’re my man.  Send my regards to Elaine.”

He gets off the phone, slaps Lenny’s hand like he’s just made a good basketball shot.

“He’s lining it all up?”

‘It’s going according to plan.  I put options for 300,000 shares in Calvin’s name.  He’s got it down to a routine.  The other two times worked great.  This’ll go through without a hitch.”

“Well I got to say, you have balls.”

“Some day, when I’m out of here you’ll pull off this kind of stuff too.”
”It’s brilliant, but I’m not sure it’s my style.”

“To the victors go the spoils.  When you head up Liberty you’ll see.  You’ll have the balls.”

 

 

Melissa paces back and forth in the padded cell. She screams.

“Let me out of here.”   Her pain is on the face of several of the newer patients, who are not used to screaming of this magnitude.  She is really going at it.

“This is America you Fascist fucks.”

Melissa drops to the ground. Leaning against the door she begins to sob in earnest. Ritchie comes over to the locked door.  He whispers to her.

“Melissa?”

Melissa continues to sob. Ritchie raises his voice.

“Melissa?”

“Go away.”

“Come on.”

“Go away.”

“I’ll talk to them.  I should be in there as much as you.”

“It’s not just being locked up.  It’s everything.”

“What do you mean everything?”

“Everything! It’s all bullshit. I’m just a big liar.”

“What do you mean?”

“I lie all the time.”

“So what.  Sometimes you have to do that.  Especially if something  hurts…”

“I just lie, hurting or not hurting. You know that stuff about my father?

“Yeah?”

“It’s a lie.  I never met my father.  My mother isn’t even sure who he is.”

“It doesn’t matter.  I like him.  I like him a lot.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means lying is good sometimes.”

Melissa is quiet.

“My sister Lisa used to make up stories.”

“About what?”

“Everything.  You name it.  She had these two characters.  Shirley and Eddy the talking cockroaches. See Lisa and me discovered Shirley and Eddy in the forest.  I was 5. Lisa was 6.  They became famous. Us too. We became famous. We went on TV with them.  Sometimes I’d keep her company when she was stuck in bed and she’d have us go all over the world with Shirley and Eddy performing.  We met Queen Elizabeth and Barbara Streisand and the Earl of Zebra Land.”

“Who was that?”

“No one. She just always said it because it made me laugh.  Only after a while I was making up the laughs.  It got harder and harder to fake it the more sick she got.  But she’d tell the stories anyway and I’d pretend to laugh. She knew I was pretending. We did a lot of that.”

“It sounds like you really liked her.”

“I did, especially when she lied and I lied. I’ve never been as close to anyone as that.”

“You should give someone else a chance.”

“I don’t know.  But Melissa, it’s cool that you can lie about your father like that.  You’re father is a fine man in your head.  And now he’s in my head too.”

“You’re a nut.”

“I know. I guess we are where we belong.”

 

 

DeSalvo enters Lenny’s  office with a giddy look on his face.  He closes the door and jokingly makes believe he is tip-toeing across the floor.  When he reaches Lenny he playfully punches him very lightly on the arm.

“It’s done.”

“You did it ey?

“Without a hitch.  Nothing, nada- no one batted an eyelash. 94 million is now in the plus column.”

“Not bad for a couple of hours work.”

“It’s only the beginning.”

“Come on.  You can’t do this too many times.  Some one is bound to catch on.”

“I’m just warming up.”

“Marty.  There’s no reason.  You already have 100 million in that account.”

“Look buddy.  I don’t want to rub this in.  But that is why you are where you are and why I am where I am. You don’t ignore opportunity. You grab it while the getting is good.”

“Well, you just got a whole lot of good.”

“Come on.  Let’s go to celebrate.  Let’s go to Joeys

“You really like the other side of town don’t you?”

“After the big ones yeah.”

 

Marty and Lenny are having a drink at the bar section while waiting for their table. A very nice looking, maybe 19 year old cocktail waitress delivers a fresh round.  Marty is feeling real good.  He moves right up to her. Holding a fifty between his index and middle finger he pushes the money into her cleavage.

“For you beautiful.”

She is not amused.  This is her first day at the job.  She thought Joey’s was not that kind of place.

He takes out four twenties and starts to push them in with the fifty.

She pulls  his hand away from her and  answers snappily.

“We haven’t been introduced.”

He doesn’t let go of her hand.  “Go over to your boss and tell him Martin DeSalvo wants to see him.”  She disengages her fingers and abruptly turns around.  As she leaves she wonders if she came across a little too strong.  Eighty dollars.  It would have been almost half way there to the bassinette she needed.  She finds Joey.

“You said I should come to you if anyone is messing with me?”

“Some one is giving you a hard time?”

“This guy’s got fast hands.  He said he wants to talk to you.  He acts like he knows you.”
“What’s his name?”

“Deloomis, something like that.  He’s an ass hole.”

“Well, bring me to this Mr  Deloomis.  I’ll straighten him out.”

He follows her around a corner.  Recognizing DeSalvo, in a flash his macho intensifies but in a friendly kind of way, like a gangster around his boss.

“Hey Mr. DeSalvo”

“Listen Joey.  We need a table.  What do you say?”

“Mr. DeSalvo, any time you come here ask for me.  She’s new here.”

He walks off with her, as they turn the bend he speaks sharply.

“You are going to have to learn fast, very fast, who’s who around here.”

“ I didn’t know okay?”

“Fine,  but now you do.  Treat DeSalvo right and he’ll treat you right.”

“What does that mean? He was sticking money in my cleavage, like this is a strip joint.  What is treating him right? Give him a blow job?”

“I’m not asking for you to have sex with anyone. I want to keep it simple here.  I expect you to flirt a little.  I want guys to come here just thinking maybe they can score with a good looking girl like you.   Flirt, not make guys feel like ass holes, if they work up a little boldness.  All you gotta to  say is “sorry”  and mean it.  But be nice.  Be not so nice, and I’m going to be pissed. Be too nice.  That’s your own business.  Capeesh?  Be nice.”

“Okay.  I get it”

“Good.  Tell Vince to find these guys a good table.”

 

Martin and Lenny are finishing off their coffee.  The cocktail waitress comes over to their table.

“Listen Mr. DeSalvo.  I’m sorry if I was a little short with you.”

“My fault.  It’s those uniforms.  I just misread the situation.  You were right to set me straight.”

“Thanks Mr. DeSalvo”

“Listen, here is the money you turned down before.”  He hands her the four twenties.  “No strings attached. You are a good kid.”

She takes it and leaves.

“I can never figure you out, Marty.”

“What can’t you figure out?  I have a daughter her age.”

“I know.”

“My family is everything.”

“I know.”

“Everything important I’ve  learned is from my family.  Everything.”

“Yeah right family…”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing…”

“ You got your MBA at Wharton right?”

“Yeah.”

“ Well some of the people who taught me can’t even spell Wharton.

I used to tell my grandfather about the things I was learning in school and he’d crack up.  He thought it was funny, the idea of a professor teaching business. People who are lucky if they make five figures.  He said they were teaching me how to go out of business.”

“He didn’t like teachers?”

“No.  He liked teachers.  To teach kids.”

“Some of them do pretty well as businessmen.”

“Maybe”

“ What about Joe Rankin?  He’s a real sharp guy”

“Once he threw away his books.  I’m not saying some of them aren’t brainy, just that a lot of them get all caught up  proving they are always doing the right thing. ”

“Yeah.”

“Not exactly the kind of guy you want with you when you go to war.”

“I don’t know.”

“Trust me.  They’re fucked up.  Can’t get anything done.”

His voice is a little loud.

“You’re feeling good.”

“Look, some of them figure out what’s what. But most of them, it’s like having to carry 200 pounds on your back every where you go.  Not a lot of energy left for doing anything else.”

“No I know.”

“It’s their families.  They cripple their children with that goody-good crap.

My dad set me straight from the beginning.  He never contradicted my mother but we knew he thought the way she looked at things was for children. Nice sentiments, but total bullshit.    Lenny. You need another drink.”

He signals his now most loyal waitress.  She comes quickly.

“Bring the bottle.”

She returns with a bottle of scotch.  They both down 2 shots straight.

“Anyway, I used to tell my grandpa what I was being taught and he’d tell me professors have their heads up their asses. They should be giving sermons in churches.  You don’t need business professors.  You got to keep it simple. The idea always is to look for simple things.”

“Like what?”

“Like timing.  Everything is timing.  The right time.  The right place. That’s it.”

“Yeah… And?.”

“Sometimes business possibilities suck. You have to bide your time.  But you have to be ready when the time comes.  “Go West young man.” It made my father’s head spin. He told me the west was the high point of Western Civilization. The law hadn’t made it to town yet?  The wild west.  That was the greatest”

“Yeah?”

“Well.  That’s health insurance.  We’ve tossed out the old rules. Everything is brand new…Creativity is at a premium. Not the kind of creativity the professors love.  Real creativity.”

“That’s the wild west?”

“Exactly, the wild, wild west. You and I are in heaven. A trillion dollars spent on health care.  We make the rules.  It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

He lets out a cowboy whoop.  A smiling drunk at the next table lifts his wine glass in a salute.

 

Michael is in front of his computer.  He can’t find the name of the person that Dr. Stern mentioned who wrote the internet article.  He speeds through his tape recording of their conversation.  Finally he finds it. He types Linda Peeno and US News and World Report in Google  and within a half a  second he finds the article.  He registers with the US News and World Report site and is soon reading.

 

“In 1987, after nine years of practice in clinical medicine, DR. LINDA PEENO switched to medical administration. Attracted by the predictable hours and good pay, she became an HMO executive and for the next four years reviewed medical claims for various managed-care organizations. Her final role was as an HMO’s medical director–the person who must ultimately approve or reject requests for care.

In 1991, Peeno left the industry. In the article that follows, she describes the experiences that made her leave. Names, exact dates, and other identifying details have been removed from this account to protect the patients and specific organizations involved. Indeed, the significance of her recollection is that it portrays not the practices of one or another HMO but the tensions that are fundamental to the managed-care industry as a whole. “

 

What is the Value of a Voice

By Linda Peeno, M.D.

I stare at the paper on my desk, trying to find a clue. One of the HMO nurses had brought me a letter from a doctor, requesting a voice machine for his patient, a young woman who suffered a rare and usually fatal brain-stem stroke, shutting down the pipeline through which the nerve impulses controlling her voice travel. The letter is layered with colored Post-it notes. One asks: “Is this experimental?” Another proclaims: “Excluded under DME [durable medical equipment guidelines]!”

The staff of our medical department had attached questions as the letter passed through its maze to me, the HMO doctor at the end of the decision-making line. If something has to do with medical necessity, I am the final word. Our nurses could make denials if something was a benefit decision. Cosmetic surgery, for example, would be excluded in the certificate of coverage. The number of notes on the letter signals that this request falls in the gray area between outright necessity and clear-cut exclusion–the danger zone for the patient.

The decision is now mine, and I feel the pressure to find a way to say no. If I cannot pronounce it medically unnecessary, then I have to find a different way to interpret our medical guidelines or the contract language in order to deny the request.

A bright-blue square catches my attention. It is from a particularly cost-conscious staffer and contains a handwritten warning to me: “Approve this, and it will be your last!” It is common practice to use the removable stickies. After we have finished passing any document around, we can remove all the comments. Official records will reflect only the final decisions and not the process by which we made them.

Technically, I am in charge, but for several weeks, some staffers have chided me more and more openly. During the most recent board meeting, our department was blamed for the HMO’s bad numbers and recent financial losses. We had an increase in admissions to the hospital, the number of outpatient surgeries had spiked upward, and our doctors were approving too many emergency-room referrals. After the meeting, I began to hear rumblings about needing someone tougher to replace me.

A few days after this board meeting, a woman in a clerical position came to my office to remind me that she needed her job. The employees were concerned that if the medical decision makers did not do a better job, some of them might lose their jobs. Well, she challenged, are you going to do your job, or not?

What is my job, I asked myself. For her, I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “I’m trying.”

After a few failed attempts, I stopped explaining that the financial success of an HMO depends upon many things, not just my performance. Always, I hit a wall. Though factors like budgets, networks, and contracts make critical differences, once a plan is up and running, the quickest way to a good bottom line is to limit and deny services. And the industry message was clear: That is the medical director’s job.

As I was learning, medical directors are expected either to do it directly or to figure out how to get the treating physicians to do it for us. The results are the same. Money unspent is money saved. Lest I forgot that, my bosses delighted in reminding me that I was dispensable, that there were plenty of doctors who would do my job. The money was better than some made in practice, and the perks included lots of power with no night call.

By the time the letter for the voice machine came to me, I had begun to feel that I had to justify every approval to every employee in the whole plan, especially if requests were expensive or called for care outside of the network’s contracted doctors and hospitals. I had begun to notice that some approvals prompted quick confrontations from more and more people, some who had no clinical background at all. One person, who worked on the business end of the organization and had nothing to do with medicine, explained that I was spending everyone’s money, especially those who stood to receive bonuses from the plan’s success.

When it came to the goal of money and numbers, everyone assumed the right to question my clinical judgment. I had realized very soon into this job that a doctor who had old-fashioned notions about patient care would not survive. Although my questions about the work I did increased and nagged me more, I tried to suppress them. Convinced that I could keep the goals of economics and quality balanced, I struggled daily to do a good job.

I had worked my way from part-time medical reviewer to medical director, changing companies more than once. I started this new career full of enthusiasm and plans for being part of positive changes in health care. But what I found was that the pressure was always there: Deny as much care as possible in order to cut costs. I changed jobs, feeling disgusted with demands to keep a certain denial rate and pressures to make decisions that I knew were harmful to patients but feeling a new company would have more humane procedures.

As I moved within the industry, I gradually assumed positions of increasing authority. I believed that with growing power, I could do things differently. I could ensure that our members would get the care they needed. I could work closely with the physicians in our network to improve their practice patterns. We would keep patient care foremost.

But I couldn’t overcome the pressures to deny care, to manipulate medical guidelines and contract language, and to push physicians toward some practices that endangered patient care. I was surprised to find that it made little difference whether a company was for-profit or not-for-profit. The basics of managed care were the same.

While I originally resisted the pressures, I became more compliant in the ways that counted: getting our numbers lower, cutting costs as much as possible, and denying everything we could. Should we have any doubts about what we were doing, the message was always there that our jobs were to control doctors and patients. We have a mission, one administrator loved to say, and the future of health care in our country depends upon how we do our job!

With the vigor of a supercharged ball club, we would all go back to our respective positions in our game called managed care and play out our strategies. In the first year I was on staff, we scored in the areas that counted: dropped admissions and days in the hospital; controlled access to expensive X-rays; and limited hysterectomies, C-sections, tonsillectomies, and other outpatient procedures. We enforced our formulary, a limited list of approved prescription drugs, and denied unnecessary emergency-room visits. We measured what doctors did, and what it cost, and let them know we were watching. We were emboldened by the fact that what we did was for the good of society. No one dared to think, much less ask, what gave us the right to sacrifice the well-being, and even life, of particular individuals for this so-called good.

Now, nearly two years into this game of numbers and dollars, I am staring at a letter about a voice machine. I do not know anything about this equipment. The rehabilitation doctor has attached a brochure, and I examine it briefly. This machine is a special kind of computer that turns letters into sounds. A patient types in words, and they are vocalized. I note that a female voice can be obtained at additional cost.

I ask my secretary to bring me the file on the patient mentioned in the letter. I do not need her file; I know her well. Almost every week for nearly a year, there has been some new request from her. One staff member calls her “our patient from hell.”

Initially, I cringed when I heard such references to patients. But I discovered quickly that it was futile to fight it. We are at war, and patients and doctors are the enemy. In this high-stakes combat, we cannot be weak.

Our young woman with the stroke had lost all confidentiality long ago. Elizabeth, as I will call her, was a young nurse who had a sudden attack on her brain. It occurred without any warning. Within minutes, she had massive damage that affected most of her body functions, including her ability to talk. Several of us knew her from our prior work at the hospital, and we could hardly imagine that she would live, much less recover.

At first, we were all sad and concerned for her and her family. How quickly, though, our empathy left when Elizabeth’s costs started rising. First came the mounting days in the hospital. HMOs use something called length of stay as one guide for success. This was an average of all the days members stayed in the hospital. But length of stay can never be low enough. Regardless of how quickly we moved our members in and out of the hospital, we would go to a board meeting and hear the same command: Bring it down more. There was a common phrase for it–“tightening the vise.”

The nurses and I came to dread really sick patients, especially when their cases were complicated or required doctors and services that our limited network did not cover. One seriously ill patient like Elizabeth could destroy a year’s hard work in a matter of weeks.

We knew from the beginning that Elizabeth would be a tough case. She would certainly need to be in the hospital for several weeks. If she lived, she would have to go to a rehabilitation center for months. After that, we might have to find a long-term-care facility, and we did not have good contracts with any local places. Since no one could predict what would happen with her, we anticipated that our costs from her care would soar.

We monitored her continued needs and changes as we did for all patients with long-term conditions. The case-management nurse worked closely with her doctors as we moved her from hospital to rehabilitation center. Her recovery had been slow, and her costs were high. When I expressed frustration to co-workers, one of them–a nurse–complained that Elizabeth just needed to die. The nurse saw no hope for her and remarked almost daily that she thought what we had to spend on Elizabeth was a waste of resources.

Some days I reacted to such comments; other days, I just ignored them. We were increasingly part of something that I could no longer identify as the work of medicine. Sick people were a burden, and we were losing any sense of empathy about the experiences of our fellow human beings.

I had begun to feel that we were part of some psychology experiment whose design was to see how quickly those of us in the health profession abandoned our humanity. We were removed from the bedside of patients, distanced from their pain, anxiety, fear, confusion, and other desperate experiences. We no longer looked them in the eye, touched their skin, heard their complaints, examined them for myriad subtleties that told us more than lab values and diagnostic codes could ever do. Our job was to manage care, and simply put, that meant we had to keep the costs of care as low as possible. We reminded ourselves that we could not pay for everything for everybody.

Ordinarily such a rationalization would comfort me. But this request for the voice machine jolts me to a different level. I am used to turning down requests for experimental procedures, services, and equipment. But there is something about this that seems different.

I do not know what to do with this letter. I am certain that the equipment is expensive. And it will be more expensive to get Elizabeth the voice of a woman. I reread the letter. The doctor tells me that Elizabeth is still making progress at the rehabilitation center. She is ready to learn to use this machine. This machine would not only make her care easier but would give a connection to the people around her. Since her stroke, she has been silent, and her caretakers and family can only guess at her feelings and needs.

This final note about her silence touches me. I cannot imagine what it would be like to have a clear mind but have no means to share what is happening within it. I catch myself before this kind of reverie goes too far. If I have learned one thing in my job as a company doctor, it is the position on what we call creature comforts.

I had never heard the phrase until I began working as a medical reviewer. I had gotten a request from a doctor to admit an elderly man to the hospital the night before major surgery for colon cancer. The company had begun denying all requests for admissions to the hospital the night before surgery, what we called pre-op admits. Even when persons had medical conditions, serious personal difficulties, or limitations with the hospital, we could only give authorization for the day of surgery.

A doctor had called to tell me that his patient was almost 80, lived alone, and could not handle the preparations he would need to make for bowel surgery. Besides, we had already told the doctor that the surgery would have to be done in a hospital over 60 miles away from the man’s home. Without the pre-op admission, this frail man would have to drive himself to the hospital almost in the middle of the night, after hours of laxatives and withholding of fluids. When I approved the request, I got a call from my physician supervisor, angrily telling me that we did not pay for creature comforts!

Under such industry wide unspoken guidelines, no doubt, a voice would be considered a creature comfort. Especially a female voice for a female patient. Certainly, a voice would not be worth tens of thousands of dollars. I began to anticipate the questions and comments. How often I had heard them with other cases. It is not our responsibility–let some charity foot the bill. We are not denying her care; we are only denying her the payment of something extravagant that does not fall into her coverage. She purchased a Volkswagen plan and wants Cadillac care–she will have to live with her choices. We have given her the most appropriate care possible for her condition, but there is a limit to what we can do. What if we did this for every member?

As I stare at Elizabeth’s file, the past few years of experiences come to a head. I realize that I hate what I have come to do and what I have come to be.

I realize that I could easily deny this request for the voice machine. I could make such a case. But I have already twisted words enough. As I was later to tell a congressional committee, at least one man may have died as the result of such actions on my part. There are probably others whom I do not know about. I could be consoled by the fact that the good thing about managed-care plans is that they do not track the outcomes of their limitations or denials. I do not have to know, much less confront, the consequences of my decisions.

I realize that I am sick of being the good company doctor.

I call the doctor who has written me a letter, and then I call the company that makes the voice machine. We plan a meeting at the HMO about Elizabeth’s case. The representative for the manufacturer of the voice machine is invited to bring her device to our plan for a demonstration. I tell her to bring one with a female voice. I know I am going to approve it, but I want everyone to know why.

After the presentations, we talk about the vital need for Elizabeth to have her voice. I have prepared the doctor, and he uses HMO language to make his case, talking about the cost savings that will occur when we do not have to admit Elizabeth to the hospital for conditions that can be treated at home because she will be able to tell us her needs.

Our meeting has only a small effect, as I feared. Despite all the talk about quality and outcomes, the overriding concern in managed-care companies is avoiding expenses. In the end, few staff members at the HMO really care about Elizabeth’s voice. They care about the expense of the machine. I defy the pressure to fulfill what even I have come to regard as my responsibility to the plan. I approve the voice machine.

No one in that meeting, including Elizabeth’s doctor, knew that it was the beginning of the end for me. None of them knew that Elizabeth’s voice machine marked the point at which I knew I could not continue to do the job of medical director. My colleagues were right: I was not tough enough to do the job of issuing denials in order to save money.

In some very significant way, I owe this to Elizabeth, for she is the one who taught me what it really means to be tough. She overcame great odds and got back not only her voice but a productive life as well.

I know this because several years ago, just at a moment when my own enthusiasm for health reform was waning, I opened my local paper, and there was an article about a young woman who was working again after struggling with the aftermath of a catastrophic stroke. There was a picture of her with a computer, which I know included a machine with a female voice.

I know, because I gave it to her. And in return, Elizabeth provides me with something my former employees and bosses could have never given me: the continued courage to give voices to those who have none against the power of managed care.”

 

 

CHAPTER 27

Michael enters Dr. Agnew’s office with an umbrella and drenched raincoat. Dr. Agnew points to a doctor’s scale where his own raincoat has been hung.  Michael puts his raincoat on the other end of the scale

“It’s really coming down out there isn’t it?  When I got here at 8 it was like a hurricane”

“How is Ritchie?” Michael asks him.

Dr Agnew answers with practiced professional calm. “We think he’s coming along.  We’re going to discharge him on Thursday.”

“Aren’t you rushing things? You just met him four days ago.  You’ve seen him twice for 15 minutes each.

“We can only keep him if he’s suicidal.  We don’t think he is.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“For one thing we’re not sure his attempt was that serious in the first place.  He had some drinks to get up the courage and had smoked marijuana.  From what we understand the pipe that he tied the rope to was pretty flimsy. He knew it would break.”

“I think he meant to succeed and miscalculated. He still has rope burns on his neck.”

“Look Mr. Russell.  We see kids like your son every day.  Mainly, they want to get something across to their parents. He knew you were home.  I’ve seen Ritchie on the ward gabbing with the other patients.  We don’t think he is depressed at all.  He’s pretty charming. Depressed people are not charming.”

“Why do you keep saying “we.”  Who is we?”

“The treatment team.”

“Which is who?”

“Ritchie’s team consists of six professionals.  Plus we have 23 other people who see patients.  The staff’s on duty 24 hours a day.  There are three shifts.  Every staff member comes into contact with Ritchie every day,  All are professionally trained. Social workers, nurses and aides.  They report any unusual findings to me. “

“And what have they reported?”

“ Ritchie hasn’t come up once.  No incidents. No talking about dying.  They don’t even think he looks sad.  Every patient here is rated by staff on a depression scale. Every staff member must speak to every patient, at least once a day. Before they go home they have to score each patient.  They can’t leave until they get that done.  We add up the scores.  It’s a pretty good predictor. That is the point.  Ritchie is barely in the depressed range.”

“All those people talking to every patient every day.  That sounds like a lot of contact.  You must have a very committed staff. And filling out those papers in order to be able to go home. That sounds like an ideal time for reflection.”  Michael raises his voice:   “If Ritchie is willing to talk to more than one or two people in a day it’s a miracle.  So how do they get their assignment done?   What is your secret?”

“You can hold down the sarcasm.”

“Forget sarcasm.  Here’s the facts.  It sometimes takes months before Ritchie really opens up to someone.  He has to get to know you.  You can’t just give a try demanded by your boss and expect to be his best friend.”

“Our scales are evidence based. Almost 100% inter-rater reliability has been demonstrated over and over. “

“ Which means every body agrees with each other.  Gee.  Why doesn’t that surprise me? The we’s agree with each other.”

Look sarcasm isn’t going to help things.  These scales have been validated over and over.  People agree.  All twenty-nine can’t be wrong.”

“In Stalinist Russia  twenty-nine out of twenty-nine was hardly worth mentioning?  They could get 10,000 out of 10,000, a hundred thousand.  You name it .  Everyone agreed.  Those who disagreed knew their head would roll. Russia was big on that.  Us stuff.  THE People.  No one said I.  China was good at that too.  The People’s Republic.  If you weren’t part of “the people” you were a crazy man, decadent bourgeoisie, someone who thought they were better than everyone else.”

“Mr. Russell.  If the shoe fits…  You’re always right and the rest of us are nuts, or stupid, or immoral.”

“Not one on one.  I’m as stupid as anyone else.  But yes, compared to ideas of the we’s I’m a genius.  So is anyone who thinks for himself. Put people in groups and they stop thinking.  They become a pack of wolves. “

“That’s a little bit of an overgeneralization-wouldn’t you say?

“Maybe Christmas carolers are an exception,  but let’s bring it back here.  It’s  29 of you against 1.  Me.  Twenty-nine to one.  Only that is the wrong arithmetic.   29 times 0 equals zero. 1 is better than zero.  You “we’s” know zero about Ritchie.  Nothing.  You  know nothing about him.  And you couldn’t care less.  Knowing real people is anecdotal right Mr. Scientist.  It isn’t knowledge at all, right?”

“Have you been preparing that speech for a long time?”

Michael ignores him.  “I’ve been reading some of the crap in psychiatry journals.  You we’s don’t know he can pal with his buddy Dan and walk out of a room with him and seem fine.  Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.  Five minutes after Dan’s gone, he can look like it’s the end of the world, that is, if he does come out.  Sometimes he is in his room for days.  He stays up ‘til all hours.  He can’t settle down. This has been going on for years”

“He’s slept fine at the hospital.”

“You mean you give him meds to make sure he sleeps”

“It’s not just sleep.  He scored 7 on the Hamilton Scale. In my book, a 7 on the Hamilton is not serious depression.”

“You’re not listening.  He could be a 7 and three minutes later he could be off the charts for depression.”

“You mean he has mood swings?”

“He is like a volcano.”

“Does he ever get high?”

“You mean besides marijuana?”

“He was positive for marijuana on our drug screening.”

Michael is silent.  He has often wondered if Ritchie steals some of Deborah’s pot.

“Ever high without pot?”

“I don’t know.  His moods can swing a lot in a day.”

“I suspect he’s bipolar.  I’m going to put him on a mood stabilizer.”

“That was quick.  Just like that he’s bipolar.”

“He has mood swings and he’s depressed a lot.  That’s bipolar disorder.”

“What’s a mood stabilizer?”

“Just what it sounds like. It’ll level him out.  It’s also neuro-protective.”

“You just decided he was bipolar this second?”

“The mood swings. “

“But a lot of kids his age have moods that change quickly.  They’re bipolar too?”

“There’s a good chance.”

“Isn’t that something that is genetic, that you are that way for life.”

“Yes.”

“But I was that way when I was his age.  So was my brother.  So were practically all of my cousins.”

“It runs in families.”

“First you say he is not really depressed then you say he has bipolar disorder.  Which is it?”

“Before I didn’t know about his mood swings. I think he’s bipolar.”

“So it’s decided?”

“Yes.  It’s decided.  And since he is not depressed now we will discharge him pretty soon,

“Fine.  He’s not depressed.  He’s a happy kid who just happened to miscalculate during one of his moods.  And since he gets caught up in his moods the best thing is to do is medicate his moods away.”

“Exactly. “

“Only he tried to kill himself.  Do you know anything about him?  Do you know what led up to him trying to end his life?”

“You mean your daughter’s lymphoma?  Not that much, but it doesn’t matter. People used to think that you have to get to the soul in order to understand someone.  They were wrong.  You don’t.  You just have to know how to diagnose his mental illness. We got numbers now.  Facts.  We can calculate risks”

“And what is my son?”

“Bipolar disorder type II 296.89 I think your whole family may have it.  You should all see someone by the way.  Meds could help. Speaking of which Cannabis dependency 304.30”

“Got any other numbers?

“I suspect borderline personality 301.83.  You may have it also.”

“Meaning what?”

“Your desire to blame.  The way you like to stir things up.  Your anger Mr.   Russell.”

“You don’t think there is anything to get angry about here?”

“You’ve had your share of hard times, but no I don’t.”

“I shouldn’t be angry that you know nothing about Ritchie and don’t want to know anything. I shouldn’t be angry that you think you have this science here which tells you the scientific thing to do for the particular DSM IV diagnosis or diagnoses that you have assigned to my son…who you may or may not know the name of. Who you spent all of a half an hour in toto meeting (let me change that) questioning him.  And that you follow something called an expert consensus protocol and that every one of the experts derives a considerable part of his income from the payment of drug companies.”

“Sounds like you’ve been on the internet.  So you think this is one big conspiracy?”

“You’re messing with my son.  I’m asking you to make sure that you know what you are doing.”

“Look.  I have thirty patients on this ward.  And they constantly change.   I don’t know every body’s name.  This is it.  Used to be if someone had insurance, they could go to any doctor in the world and the insurance company would take care of it.  Used to be your own doctor took care of you when you needed hospitalization.  No more.  This is it.  This is the way things are done now.”

He waits for Michael to come back with something, but he doesn’t.  Dr. Agnew continues, “And this is the final point. Ritchie signed a contract which means he no longer matches our criterion for medical necessity.”

“A contract?  What kind of contract?”

“Here, read it.”

Dr. Agnew takes the contract out from Ritchie’s chart and hands it to Michael.  He looks over the piece of paper.

“He’s put his signature on our form saying he is not going to kill himself.  That’s the contract.”

“You think this means something?”

“It’s a promise.  Most people keep their word.”  99% percent of people who say they won’t kill themselves don’t. “

“This contract means nothing, absolutely nothing.  He signed this so he can get out of here and finish the job.”

“The staff disagrees with you.  It’s not just  me.  The entire team agrees.  We all agree”

“You don’t know my son.  I do.”

“We have to be objective.  We have to use a system.  We have to be accountable to people paying for all of this.  We can’t keep someone who is not a risk to themselves or others. He signed a contract.  That means your insurance company will not give further authorization.  That’s the rules.”

“Did my insurance company insist on getting Ritchie to sign the contract?”

“They expect patients to be contracted as part of our treatment approach.  Since Ritchie signed it that means he no longer fulfills criteria for continued stay.”

“And you just went along with them?”

“No, they actually wanted him discharged tomorrow, but Dr. Stern refused to see him tomorrow.  So we will need an extra day to find a different psychiatrist.”

“Why wouldn’t Dr. Stern see him?”

“You’ll have to ask Dr. Stern.”

“I’m asking you.”

“There’s no reason to raise your voice.  Dr. Stern is not with the program.  He’s from the old school.  They used to keep people in the hospital for weeks, sometimes months.”

“You mean to be cautious?”

“They just did it. They didn’t have the same kind of medications we have today.”

“Ritchie’s Prozac hasn’t kicked in yet.”

“It could take a couple of more weeks, but that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The hospital isn’t good for him.  It could make him worse.  It’s too comfortable here.”

“You think this is comfortable?”

“Not having to go to school. Not having to face his classmates.  Not having to take exams.  Not functioning is comfortable.  In a hospital you don’t have to face your life.”

“He has a better way planned. Look.  It’s not just me.  I’ll give you the phone number of his best friend Dan.  We’ve talked.  He’s worried that Ritchie could do it too.”

Dr. Agnew rises from his desk.

“We’ve made up our mind.”

“You can’t expect me to go along with this.”

“It isn’t up to you.”

“Dr. Agnew.   At least wait until the medicine has time to work.”

“That will take weeks.  We don’t have weeks.  We have days.”

“Why days?”

“We’re going around in circles.”

“Okay. A few more days.  Give me time to get another plan lined up.”

“I don’t know how to make this any clearer.  We are only allowed to keep people when it is medically indicated.  He doesn’t  match our criteria for continued stay.”

“Until Monday.  Please. I’m asking you. Give me the benefit of the doubt. You could be wrong. Be fair.  What if it was your boy?”

“This isn’t a question of right or wrong. We have rules. You’re asking me to break the rules, to make an exception for your son.  There is nothing I can do.  He doesn’t match our guidelines for continued stay.   Period.”

“What if you had a gut feeling about a patient that he just might do it?  Would you go by that?”

Dr. Agnew is having difficulty controlling himself.  Seething with frustration he pronounces his words one by one.

“Not if the patient did not meet our guidelines.”  His voice raises.  “Mr. Russell.  There are rules for everything you do.   I don’t make the rules. You don’t make the rules.  But they are there and both of us have to follow them.”

“You’re saying rules outweigh your professional judgment?  You are not allowed to think for yourself.   And you’re telling me that if you told some one in Utah that you know the situation better than they do, they would ignore you.”

“Mr. Russell, this is pointless.  We’re getting nowhere. You are in some 1950’s head about doctors.  This is the way it is now.  Now.  You can’t accept the way things are and I can’t change it so this all adds up to a waste of my time and your time.”

Michael heads for the door.  He turns around before leaving the room.

“Just one last thing, I’m a reporter. I taped this.  Dr Agnew blinks, he emits a barely perceptible sigh, but then almost instantaneous his professional detachment  returns.  He looks at his watch.  He looks at Michael as he silently  counts to ten.

“This is going to be a story.  I recorded our conversation and every conversation I have had with each and every one of you.   I’m not going to let you do this.”

“Right, Mr. Russell”  He repeats it.  “Right”  He is thinking of the  6 phone calls he has  to return… “Fine.”…  He had  ten, no,  now nine minutes to make the calls.  He says to no one in particular.  “I’ll see you.”  And closes the door.

Which jars Michael awake.  He leans against the wall, hesitating. thinking, “This is it.”

This is it.   During the  70’s he and everyone else he knew in Berkeley  thought  the system conspired against people. The system explained everything that was wrong.   Its goal was to exploit people.  Make us shut up.  He and his friends weren’t exactly sure who was in charge of the system but he knew, like everyone else, that it existed.

By the 80’s Michael had grown up a bit.  He laughed at himself when he heard the phrase, “the system” just as he laughed when he saw foolish pictures taken when he had wild hair and bellbottoms.  He was dead serious in the 70’s about his politics. He really thought he understood what was wrong with the world.

Then as he matured he forgot about it.  Realizing that things are more complex was not hard on him.  He knew it was a step forward when he finally appreciated that the whole conspiracy thing was childish.  There were no bad guys constructing an elaborate plot.  Besides eventually the system had been unraveled and identified.  It was attitudes.  It was stereotypes, sexism, things like that. Most importantly, as he got busy with his life, he realized that it wasn’t all that serious. 1984 came and went and there was nothing noticeable, nothing that even resembled an evil system.  Besides  Michael had long ago become a part of the system he once identified as the enemy.  He thought of it as growing up.

But now, suddenly, his acceptance of the way things are, his maturity (he liked to call it) is over.  “This  is it.  This is it.”  Clarity has returned. Evidently. his Berkeley ideas never truly went away.  All of sudden  he is again convinced there is a network of the powers that be.  Not organized.  But a system.  The we’s against the I’s.  A system where the we’s always win.   The enemy has always been here.  The we’s need to make every “I” into a “we”.  Make everyone afraid not to be a we.  The Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  That movie had it all figured out.  He heads for the community room.  Ritchie is in a group led by Mrs. Allison. She stops the patient who is speaking and looks up at Michael.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Ritchie Russell’s father.  I have to speak to him”

“Well you’ll have to wait ‘til the educational seminar is over.”

“I want to talk to him now.  He’s my son, God damn it.”

“If you don’t go to the visitor’s area I’m going to call security.”

“Ritchie get over here.”

Ritchie is embarrassed.  He tries his best to give off an  “I don’t know this man.”  look but the incrimination is beyond anything he can counter.  Nevertheless, he does as he’s told.  Michael grabs his arm and marches him to his room.  Ritchie laughs self-consciously.

“This isn’t funny Ritchie.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Why did you sign that contract?”

“That’s what I needed to get out of here. Did Dr. Agnew have you cosign it?  I’m a minor and it really should be cosigned.”

“I’m not going to let you do this. I told you.  Get it out of your mind.”

Ritchie pulls away.  Michael tries to grab him by the arm. Like a basketball player with a rebound, swinging his elbows wildly around. Ritchie  gets his father in the jaw..  Michael brings him down just as Dr. Agnew and two security guards arrive at the door.

Agnew mumbles to one of the guards. “A borderline … entitled.  Thirty other people here but everything has to be the Russells.”

Agnew stares right into Michael’s eyes, “First I am going to call the police. They will arrest you for assault.  Then I’ll be calling the department of child welfare.  There are three witnesses to child abuse.”

He lets that sink in for a moment.  “The other option is for you to leave  Mr. Russell.  It’s your choice.”

The guards, one on each side, move very close to Michael.  They will not budge from their position six inches from him. Each one takes an arm. They move him towards the metal door separating the ward from the rest of the hospital.

Michael swings his arms free

“Okay, I’m going.  I can walk myself.”

The guards move him further along. Michael turns around as best he can.

He shouts to Ritchie. “I told you. It’s not going to happen.”

Dr. Agnew continues, “Mr. Russell.  You ‘re not to come back here unless we give you permission.  And I can tell you all permission is denied, no visitor’s passes until we tell you to come here and pick up your son.  Do you understand that?”

The guards hasten his walk through the giant bolted door.  When they are out of the ward one of the guards hands Michael a piece of paper.

 

 

Ritchie sits on his bed.   A tear starts to form.  .  He’s been holding a tennis ball in his pocket.  He stands up and throws it against the wall as hard as he can.  He catches it on the fly. He sits down on his bed and looks up at the ceiling.  He punches himself in the back of his head hard, very hard.

“Calm down” he viciously whispers to himself.

He waits a moment. Then another moment. He can feel his heart beating “Calm down!” he says a little louder and more insistently . He punches himself still harder and again whispers  “Okay.  You’re cool, You got it,”.  He takes a deep breath.  Then another one. He straightens up and walks back to his meeting, very taut but back in control.

 

 

It is 1 AM. Michael is in front of his computer.  He stops for a moment and rubs his eyes.   Deborah comes up behind him, drapes her hands over his chest.   “Its late.  Get some sleep.”

“ I can’t.  I have to finish this article.  It’s our best shot. It’s our only shot.”

“I still don’t know why Dr. Stern refused to see Ritchie.”

“He said he would see Ritchie, but not under these circumstances. It’s too dangerous. The hospital wanted him to see Ritchie tomorrow.  Stern said that was so they could get him off their books and on Stern’s.

“What do you mean?”

“If he sees him he has legal liability.”

“That’s what they are thinking about?

“Probably, but I don’t blame them for that.  How would you like to have lawyers ready to haul you into court for every mistake?  The point is, Stern pointed out, they smell trouble.  If they are calling to make sure Ritchie has to be seen by someone the day after he leaves the hospital,  it means they know he is not ready to be discharged. Stern said half the patients are simply sent home after they promise they will call someone for follow up.  Most call no one.  And no one really cares.  No one is worried. When the hospital staff gets involved this way, you know they’re calling about someone who shouldn’t really be leaving.”

“Still.  Stern seeing him is better than nothing.”

“He made a big point about that.  He said penicillin is a great drug.  But it is not going to do anything for a heart attack. Ritchie has to be kept in a safe place. Period.  Even if Stern saw him every day, every hour, Ritchie still could hurt himself at any time.”

“Yeah but…”

“He told me a story about another patient…  Same situation. The hospital called.  They wanted the patient seen immediately. It was at the beginning of HMO’s.  He had no idea why the  social worker at the hospital seemed so aggressive in getting the patient seen immediately.  She was desperate.  He agreed to try to help…”

He hesitates.

“Go on.”

“The patient taught second grade in Sudbury. Her son was the starting shortstop at Sudbury Lincoln High.  She had a daughter in the fifth grade…”

Michael hesitates for a moment deciding whether to continue, but only a moment.

“She came to her appointment but wouldn’t go into Stern’s office. She was frightened, paranoid, something. He pleaded with her in his waiting room.  No luck.  She remained in the waiting room.  So he talked to her a little bit there, mainly about coming into his office.  Then his next patient came into the waiting room. So she finally came into his office with five minutes left in the session.  He did what he could to comfort her.  She told him that she had ruined her life.  He tried to  convince her that that wasn’t true. He told her she had options. They made an appointment for the next day.  She didn’t show up. He called her.  Her husband answered. She had blown out her brains with a shotgun the night before.”

Deborah’s eyes water up.

“Same as Ritchie.  She had signed a contract.  It is a fantastic cover your ass tool. They can go to court and say the patient swore she wouldn’t do anything to harm herself. They have it in writing.”

“How can they live with themselves?”

Facing the computer screen Michael moves his document to a new part of his story.

“Here look at this…He reads through it, paraphrasing as he goes, Stern told me the chief of their psych department, Dr. Pollack, resigned last month.. They had pushed the hospital down to 6.8 ALS, that stands for average length of stay The insurance companies wanted 6.4 days or they were going to terminate the hospital’s contract. He couldn’t take it.”

Deborah suddenly feels completely overwhelmed, exhausted.

“I’m tired.  I’m going to bed Michael.”

Deborah leaves him.  She is distracted with her own thoughts.  She lies in bed half listening to Michael as he shouts from the adjoining room.

“Stern told me that at the monthly psychiatry department meeting they were joking about Dr. Pollack, the old chief. No one said anything to Stern directly, but it was clear that they were making sure that he heard what they said about Dr. Pollack.  It’s like they are saying “ You’re stuck in the past.  Why won’t you move on? Stern says he feels like the weirdo. The younger doctors see nothing wrong with the way things are.  To them it is normal everyday reality.”

Deborah closes her eyes.  She is not listening to Michael. He continues to shout from the next room.

“Stern says it’s automatic.  People adjust to anything.  Whatever is just is.  It’s Reality. If you question it you’re a troublemaker or you’re a complainer.  Most people will talk themselves into whatever it is they have to believe. Anything. It’s too uncomfortable not to.”

Deborah is still.  Very still. She stares sadly off into the darkness.

“He says that’s part of what happened with the Nazi’s.  You could see it at the Nuremberg Trials.”

“Michael don’t get started with the Nazi’s.  It’ll ruin your article.”

“I know. I won’t.  It’s just I don’t get it. Guys like Dr. Agnew.  Why would he go to school all those years just so he can be a prick?  He looked us straight in the eyes, acted like ”what’s your problem?”

Deborah is lying on her side, head on the pillow.  She speaks half heartedly

“I have to go to sleep.”

Her eyes remain open, staring, staring.  At nothing.  Thinking.  She hates his rants.  She hates him.  She wonders why she married him.  She has passed that point.  More and more it happens.  She cannot hear anything he is saying.”  .

“Stern says on some level people know they’re wrong but if it is unsafe to admit it, they will go with whatever they are told is right.  They will pick survival.  Since they aren’t going to be very comfortable knowing they are wrong they will find a way to  convince themselves they are right. Anything for innocence.  Anything.  But they pay a price   People who have to lie to themselves become very brittle, snappy, even meaner than they would be.  In other words they get angry at you because you are making them all nervous. The Germans could either hate the Jews or hate the Nazis.  For their peace of mind it was no contest.  They hated their victims way beyond even their anti-Semitism.”

Deborah lifts her head

“Michael.  Stop it.  We’re talking about Ritchie, not about Nazi’s.”

“I can’t help it.  I can’t understand any of it. I can’t.”

He starts to type.  He stops. He reads over his last paragraph.

“Stern told me that Agnew will be gone in a year or two.  They’ve had one psychiatrist after another.  They begin like him and then after a couple of suicides they can’t talk bullshit anymore.”

Deborah once again lies in bed very still.  Her eyes are closed.

Michael is like a man possessed

“The stories Stern told me, insurance stories about his patients. Dozens of them!  The amazing thing was that every one of them happened.  Every detail. He saw it with his own eyes.  And he had dozens more.  And he’s only one

psychiatrist.  There must be thousands and thousands all over the country…”

Silence.

“Deborah?”

Michael gets up from the computer and goes to the bedroom.

“Deborah?”

He lies down next to her in bed.  Trying to comfort each other they make love tenderly but without passion.  She cannot be there for him.  He cannot be there for her.  This is too close to home.  She hates his ideas.  When he feels anxious he produces them in great quantities.   Figuring things out somehow allows him to not feel helpless.  Even if he is helpless   It doesn’t really work for her.  Maybe it is a Jewish thing.  Michael’s father was Jewish. He was brought up with religion, went through a religious phase in his 20’s.  He went to India, and briefly thought he had incorporated strength from a guru.  It didn’t last.  Ritchie was not bar mitzvahed or baptized, but that didn’t matter

He stops. He goes to his computer.  He looks at the piece of paper handed to him by the security man on Ritchie’s ward.  Scratched in big letters is the guy’s name, John Newcomb and his phone number. Scribbled in large letters Call me. 

It’s one o’ clock in the morning.  Michael reaches for the phone than pulls back. Then he decides to go ahead with it.  He calls the guard.

At first confusion.  The guard, is wide awake watching TV, but he doesn’t immediately recognize Michael’s name.

“I’m Ritchie’s father.  Ritchie Russell.  I’m Michael Russell”

“The one we kicked off the ward?”

“You got it.”

“I had that piece of paper in my pocket all week. Sorry I had to kick you off the ward.   I heard you’re doing a story.  .”

“Yeah.”

“Well I just want you to know that it is about time someone gave them a hard time.  We need an article about this shit.”

“I am doing a story about the kind of things that are happening with HMOs.”

“Well.  It is not just them .  It’s the whole system.  Someone’s got to tell people what is going on around here.  It sucks.  It used to be nice. I heard you’re a friend of Dr Stern.  He was one of the nicer doctors that used to come here.  Boy.  It used to be real different.  They used to have encounter groups for the staff.  People telling each other secrets about themselves, letting each other  know what they liked and didn’t like about each other.  Sometimes it got really hot in there.  People losing it.  Including the doctors. But it worked.  We were family, people to each other.  And the patients were people.  We really got to know them. Sometimes they were there for months. It was good.”

“So what is it like now?”

“Now none of the staff doctors come here.  Dr. Agnew works for the hospital.  He sees all the patients.”

“Do you still have those meetings?”

“You gotta be kidding.  We don’t have any time for that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  We have all this paperwork.  We have forms for everything. We have to document everything. It’s necessary for quality assurance”

“I thought you said the quality is bad.”

“It’s terrible.  Which is the joke.  We spend half our time filling out forms to document quality care.  But the care is nothing compared to the way it was, when  we didn’t fill out any forms.”

“What’s wrong with it now?”

“We’re too busy.  No one cares. The doctor makes a lot of jokes about the forms.”

“Who? Dr. Agnew?”

“Yeah and especially the one before him. Dr….Can’t remember his name.  There’s been so many.”

“How’s Dr. Agnew stack up?”

“He’s very smart and he’s practical but basically all he cares about is where his pay check comes from.  Well I guess just like me.  But at least I care about what is going on.  I hope you can understand that I can’t speak up about it in front of the others.  They’d fire anyone who told people what was going on.  That’s why I snuck you the note.  I wanted you to know that it really stinks to high hell in the hospital.  All the good people have left.  The other guys told me to slip the note to you.    Couple of us think you are right about Ritchie.”

“Why? What have you seen?”

“Nothing specific.  I don’t know.  It is a certain look he has.  Not that often.  But all of a sudden you look in his direction and you think he could definitely do it.”

“Are you or your friend willing to talk to me?”

“Not if you are going to let anyone know we talked to you.  But yes. The other guys and me really want to talk to a reporter.”

“I’ll keep whatever you say private.  Let me give you my  phone number.  Pass it around.”

 

 

Chapter 28

Feet on his desk, Joe Dyer’s takes a drag from his Marlboro.  He is frustrated with Michael’s article.  He doesn’t know what he is going to do with it. He turns to the last page, then throws it down on his desk.  He takes another drag.  He goes to the door of his office, lifts his hand and signals Jerry Rollins as if he is hailing a cab.   Jerry walks over to Michael.  Michael heads towards Joe’s office.

Joe is seated by the time Michael enters.   He waits until Michael is seated.

“What do you want me to do with this Michael?”

“Look I know it steps on a lot of feet.”

“Feet?  I’d call it several knees to the groin.  You know I can’t print something like this.”

“Why not?”

“Oh Jeez.  Don’t play dumb with me.  You know just what you are doing here. I think you are going to get people just a little excited.  They are going to  kick your mother fucking ass.  How the hell do you think you are going to take on this whole fucking industry?”

“Look, I know that.”

“You know that? Let me tell you something.  The people behind the HMOs are heavy hitters. But it isn’t only the insurance companies.  Try most of the Fortune 500.  Hell the Fortune 20,000.  Every businessman in America is screaming bloody murder about the money they are spending on health care.    And you know what is number one on their list of things that got to go.  You got it. Mental Health.

To them it is people bitching and moaning to their shrinks. And they have to pay for it. Great. You want to see a shrink?  Talk and talk about what is wrong.  Go for it.  You want to go for Yoga?  What ever you want. Do it.  Only don’t make me pay for it.”

“Dr. Stern helped me a lot.”

“How do you know?   You didn’t get better any faster than any other father I know who lost his 12 year old daughter”

“But that’s not it.  There were a lot of other things going on.  Debbie and I weren’t getting along.  No one was.  We were angry. Furious. Someone would cut me off in the car.  I’d explode.  Completely out of control.  And when I was quiet I began to think maybe dying wasn’t so bad.  It went on for years… Ritchie was growing up listening to all of it.  Watching Deborah and me sometimes hating each other.”

“I remember you then.  We all stayed out of your way.”

“ Dr. Stern got me out of it.  He helped clear things up in my mind.  I’m telling you.  He saved me.  And we’re not done yet. We’re not done with Lisa.  Ritchie’s got to be getting that kind of help”

“Okay fine.  He was helpful and you came out understanding a lot of important things.  Granted but…”

“But what?”

“Michael.  I’m just not sure about this issue.  I know HMO’s  are probably as bad as you say, but everyone knows that.  I mean where’s the news?  Anyone who has been to a doctor.  Anyone who has had to get a question answered by their insurance company.  Everyone knows it’s for shit.  Where is the news?”

Michael doesn’t answer.

“More to the point, where are you getting all of this?

“From a lot of places.  It doesn’t matter.  It’s real.”

“Fine. I don’t doubt that.  I respect  your honesty.  But the key point that you miss is that there isn’t really a villain. You say it here:  “Almost all of the managed care companies are the same.  They compete on price.  They have to beat the other companies and get the price down.”  Executives don’t get a kick out of screwing patients?  They don’t even think about it. They are doing their job.   If they can get office supplies down, legal costs, you name it.  Health care is a cost of doing business like anything else.”

“Okay there’s no intentional evil.  It is just good old capitalism at work.  But they’ve taken a meat cleaver to fix things. They couldn’t give two shits about how they do it.  It doesn’t even register. You cut health care?  You’re cutting off real people?”

“But that is not what they are aiming to do.  They aren’t even thinking about it.“

“Even more that’s why they’re  pigs.”

“No. That’s why they are valuable.  Do you think that a surgeon can take a scalpel and cut through another person’s flesh, ignore the blood, imagine the pain his patient would be in if he were awake.  No let’s make it a surgeon in a primitive situation, no anesthesia.  The patients screaming, flinching with every stroke.  That surgeon has to keep his wits about him.  He can’t let his feelings interfere.”

“And what if the insurance company decided anesthesia costs too much?  You are saying that would be okay.  If they can figure out how to save money then it is okay even if it could kill Ritchie?

“They aren’t trying to kill anyone.  It’s their job to save that money.  They’re doing their job”

“You know Hitler used to pull down the shades in his train cabin when he passed scenes of destruction.  He didn’t want to know.   No these guys are pigs.  Some of the HMOs are making fortunes.  They are literally taking care away from patients and putting it in their own pockets. I mean it is mind boggling.   Not just psychiatry- any time the results of treatment are not fast and clean. People with multiple sclerosis, people with strokes—after a few weeks no more physical therapy. Physical therapy is what gives them a fighting chance.  Dr. Stern told me about this  patient with a colostomy bag for 20 years.  She was just getting by.  The bags were expensive.  All of a sudden the insurance company wouldn’t pay for them anymore.  She was desperate.   Believe me she didn’t sell her Lexus.  She couldn’t get new tires for her 13 year old Chevy.  She gave her kids cheaper food to eat, and cut back on her own meals.  She had to give up one of her medications.”

“Granted, things like that happen, but they’re mistakes…”

“No.  They know what they are doing.  The head of Oxford Health paid himself 28 million dollars a year.  And that’s a small local company. When US Health Care was bought by Aetna the CEO walked away with 900 million dollars. There is a fortune to be made denying care.  That money was made squeezing patients’ benefits.  The fortunes are being made by  stealing people’s colostomy bags. Magellan Behavioral Health was formed out of the remains of this huge chain of hospitals.  It had its stock sold on Wall Street.  Some of their executives went to jail for padding bills, making up diagnoses that got them maximum pay from Medicare.  These people closed down their chain of hospitals and simply switched to where the money is.  The money is to be made managing care, in other words,  denying care!

“So you are admitting that hospitals were charging insurance companies and Medicare, for phony services.  They needed to be watched. “

“ I don’t doubt there are many crooks in a 1 trillion dollar industry that is not carefully policed.  But you’re not hearing my main point.  The very people who were ripping off the insurance companies for care were put in charge by the insurance companies of limiting care.  The same bastards, only now they are telling everyone else that they can’t give the care people need.  These kind of guys are totally tuned in to how to steal the money.  If it’s giving care they will steal it that way. If it is denying care they will steal it that way. The State of Michigan gave one company 16 million dollars to give mental health care to state employees.  They spent 9 and kept the rest.”

“Okay fine there are some people in this business who play it close to the legal edge.  But the concept is clean.  Companies are entitled to restrict benefits.  Companies say this is my budget.  This is all I’ll spend for my employees’ mental health.  They say to  the insurance company,  “you make it happen.”  They do what’s demanded or they are out of business.  You know Michael I don’t think you have ever really gotten it, what global competition means, how it forces you to be  lean and mean. I don’t think you understand that if you don’t think that way you’re a goner.”

“I understand that.”

“Michael, it’s what saved American business in the 80’s.”

“Oh fuck you Joe.  I’m telling you about evil and somehow it turns into good.”

“Fuck you Michael.  Communism is dead.  You want to go after corporations? Try the environmental movement, try global warming, protecting rain forests, or go after genetic engineering.  How about endangered species?”

“Joe.  You don’t get it.  Everyone got excited about “corporate greed” with Enron, when they lost money in the stock market. When the secrets came out.  Well this has not been a secret.  People are getting fucked right out there in the open. When they run into a problem with their insurance they figure someone is making a mistake.  They don’t understand there is no mistake.  This is carefully thought out policy.”

“Fine but this is the place that companies have to take a stand.  They can afford the stupid environmental issues.  It’s a pain in the ass but its peanuts compared to health care.  This is big big money.”

“Well fuck these people.  If I can slow it down a little.  At least not make it so easy.”

“Nothing will change.”

“Nothing can be done?  Is that what you want me to say?”

Joe lights a cigarette.  Then he continues.  “Right now you don’t have a story.  You haven’t found an angle.  Heath insurance means nothing to most people.  Oh yeah.  Their mother in her 70’s had some bills.  It was a hassle dealing with them.  But that’s it.  There’s no story because everyone knows the insurance company is  going to be a pain in the ass. That’s not news.”

“Unless you get sick.”

“Yeah, but most people go to the doctor, get their antibiotic and they’re done. “

“You are overlooking a lot of other things.”

“No I ‘m not.  Think about it this way. How many people want to read about the deficiencies of their  homeowners policy? Not unless they get screwed royally by an insurance company. But a story about that? Who wants to read a newspaper article about home owner policies?  How about electricity companies?  I’m sure you could dig a little and write  a story about  how electricity companies fuck up all the time?   How about paper manufacturers?  That would excite people. Michael.  Maybe, there’s nothing here.”

“That is far too easy…”

“Michael.  I understand about Ritchie.  I don’t have answers. Only what my dad used to tell me. You have to look after your own.  That’s the bottom line. Maybe a story isn’t the way to do it.” He blows out a stream of smoke.

 

Three hours later Michael returns home.  He throws his coat over the couch.  Deborah scoops it up and gives it back to him.  “Hang it up.”

Michael walks around the room noticing that everything is spiffed up.

“You’ve been busy.  The place looks great.  What’s the occasion?”

“I just felt like it. What’s Dr. Stern’s latest advice about what we should do?”

“He thought I should talk to the new head of the department.  Maybe call the insurance company.  But mainly he wants the newspaper story from all this. He thinks that could help us.”

“Do you think it could help?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know but Stern  wants this story bad  The main thing is convincing  Joe that we have a story.  So far he doesn’t think so.”

“Even if Joe ran it, do you think it could scare them enough to have an effect?”

“Joe wasn’t too encouraging about the first draft.”

“He never likes your first draft.  You’ll think of an angle.  You always do. Does Dr. Agnew know you’re a reporter?”

“I told him.  I threatened him.”

“Maybe you ought to show your story to him.”

“It’s not really challenging him directly.”

“Still.”

“I guess it’s worth a try. We are running out of time.”

“Listen I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

Michael pours himself a drink.

“Do you mind?”

“No. I’m good.  I got it under control.”

“You’re sure?” He loosens his tie. “You know it could all be so nice. If we can get Ritchie straightened out and you too…  The house looks wonderful .”

Deborah moves next to Michael, puts her hand on his cheek.

“What?”

“The way you’ve been.  This is the person I love. I know you’re going to get this fixed with Ritchie.  Maybe we can send Ritchie to Golden Hills. My aunt said she will loan us another $10,000.  And I called your Mom. She can give us $5000.”

“That’s her retirement money.  She’s got to live on that.  I can’t take that.”

“Okay, fine. So all you have to do is get $15,000 from the bank and we are in business.”

“I don’t know if I can get $15,000 but I’ll try.”

“I have the name of someone at First Union.  Got it from my aunt.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“Also someone else told me that they have a friend at Child Welfare who might be able to help. I called the friend. She told me that we could legally abandon Ritchie. That would force the hospital to keep him.”

“You know I think somehow this is going to come out okay.  We have so many angles. One’s got to work.”

“So get going. Get that loan.”

Michael takes a look at his watch.  He says a hurried goodbye.

 

Michael foot is ever so slightly  tapping as he sits on the other side of  the loan officer’s desk while he reviews the loan application.  He has not mentioned the money they owe to Deborah’s aunt since there is no record of it.  He, nevertheless, feels dishonest doing this.  His tapping has been silent, but the officer, nevertheless, senses the motion and it irritates him.

“Your application says you want to borrow money to pay for hospital costs for your son?”

“That’s right.  Our insurance is limiting care.  We are willing to pay for it ourselves”.

“You’d be surprised how many people are doing that.  Only problem is I’m not sure that you have the assets to do it. How did you ever get so deep in the hole?”

“It wasn’t hard.  My daughter was ill for a couple of years. That just about did it. We haven’t been able to get back on our feet. Look. It’s only 15,000 dollars.  If I were applying for a car loan for more than that you’d approve wouldn’t you?

“But the car would serve as security.  Look, your monthly payments on your house alone practically eat up all your salary.  Why did you take out the home finance loan?”

“It wasn’t really a choice at the time.  We had heard about a treatment at Stanford University and we went for it.  Our insurance company considered it experimental and that pretty much is the whole story, $335,000 in the red.  We’ve been slowly paying it off since.”

“Did the treatment help your daughter?”

“No, it did nothing.”

“And you want to do the same thing with your son?”

“I really didn’t come here for advice. You think because we’re broke that entitles you…”

“Sorry.  I didn’t mean anything.  Do you have someone to cosign?”

“Not really.”

“Not really or no?”

“Look, just get to the bottom line. Yes or no. I’ve an appointment to see a doctor at the hospital…”

Michael looks at a clock on the wall which says 12:35.

“Oh crap. He said he won’t see me if I’m not at his office by one.”

“Well. You can leave the application but quite frankly…”

Michael grabs the application and crumples it up as he runs out the front of the bank.

Moments later at the city garage Michael races up a ramp to the parking space and gets to his car.  The front door won’t unlock.  It’s been fussy for months but he hasn’t wanted to spend the money.  He kicks it.  No luck.  He tries the other front entrance.  It opens.  He hurriedly gets in, slides across the seat behind the driving wheel.  After several tries he gets the car started and burns rubber to the parking attendant.  He rolls down the window and hands him the ticket and money.  The attendant is slow in giving him change. The attendant talks to himself, “I don’t have quarters.  Wait a minute.”

Michael takes a quick look at his watch. “Open the fucking gate. Keep the change.”

This is not normally Michael’s way but, at this point, it doesn’t bother him.  The attendant opens the gate.  Michael tears out on to the street nearly causing an accident.   He doesn’t know if he can make the appointment.  He is driving wildly. The hospital parking lot is full.  He parks a block from the hospital, gets out and starts to run. When he gets through the main door he continues to run to the elevator. On the 11^th floor he spots a nurse in the hall and asks her for directions.  He is in the wrong wing.  The directions are complicated.  He can’t really absorb them.  She points in a direction and he jogs that way, making the second right as she has told him to do.  He can feel his heart banging, banging in his chest. He finds another hospital worker who  points him  back where he  came from.  Again  Michael runs down a hall.  It leads at the end to the hospital library.  He goes in. This time he listens very carefully to the directions. The librarian walks out into the hall with Michael and carefully goes over his route.  Michael goes running off.  This time he finds the office.  On the door is written Dr. Sturbridge, Chief of Psychiatry.  Michael straightens his hair, prepares a calm veneer, opens the door, walks in softly. He can hear himself gasping for breath amidst the  beeps of electronic instruments.  He opens another door.  Dr. Sturbridge looks up from his desk.

“You could knock.”

“Sorry.  I’m Michael Russell. My son…”

“Ritchie Russell’s father.  What do you want?”

“I’m willing to sign papers legally abandoning my son.  I was told that you can’t discharge him if he has nowhere to go.”

“You were told wrong.  That’s been tried before.  We will send him to a shelter if we have to.  Look Mr. Russell what is it that you really want?”

“I want to be sure my son is safe.  I want him to stay here until he’s no longer in danger.”

“Dr. Agnew feels he is not in danger.”

“Dr. Agnew doesn’t know shit.  He’s an arrogant young man.”

“Dr. Agnew graduated  Harvard Medical School.  He did his residency at Yale.”

“He doesn’t know shit.  He doesn’t know my son at all.”

“Your son signed a contract.  Maybe Dr. Agnew knows what’s going on more than you think.  Did it ever occur to you that you are too close to the situation?”

“My son is going to hurt himself if he is let out of here.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He told me.”

“Our patients say things everyday that they don’t mean.”

“I’m not willing to take that chance.”

“What you are asking is impossible.  I can’t undermine my staff by overruling them.  No doctor is going to stand for that.”

“Well, just evaluate my boy independently.  I’ll pay for it.”

“I have to tell you straight out.  Even if I agree with you, your insurance company probably won’t allow it.  I have very little influence with them.”

“Well who does have influence?”

“Truthfully.  No one.  They have criteria. A nurse goes over a list.  The contract that Ritchie signed more or less makes discharge automatic.”

“But they have never met Ritchie.”

“It doesn’t matter.  That is how things work.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Do you have children?”

Dr. Sturbridge stares into his eyes for what seems like eternity.

“I’ll see your son this afternoon.  If I disagree with Dr. Agnew I’ll talk to him and we’ll put in an appeal.  Then it is out of our hands.”

“How long will that take you?”

“If we’re lucky 2, maybe 3 hours.”

“ I’ll be at Dr. Stern’s  office. Call me there.”

 

 

“We’re doing better than I thought we would,” Dr. Stern tells Michael.

“Dr. Sturbridge wasn’t that bad. I got the impression he might lean in our direction.”

“ You’ll need all the help you can get.”

‘You know I was thinking. What if I simply take him home and between Deborah and me we don’t let him out of our sight?”

“You couldn’t keep it up for very long. Are you going to go into the bathroom with him, get rid of all the scissors and razors?”

“That’s not impossible.”

“I just don’t think it’s an option. ‘specially with hanging. Plus, from the sounds of what’s going on lately, Ritchie and you are getting each other going.  You could have one little skirmish and just like that you’d be in trouble.”

The phone rings.  Dr. Stern picks up.  It’s Dr.Sturbridge.

“Hey Lonnie, How ’ve you been?… He’s with me now… Did you think he could be discharged?  Uh huh..Uh-huh.”

Stern gives Michael a thumbs down.

“Yeah.. No I understand.”

Stern continues, “That Dr. Day is a pisser isn’t he?  You’re right…I agree… Okay take care. I’ll talk to Mr. Russell.”

He hangs up.

“Bad?”

“Dr. Sturbridge said he agreed with Dr. Agnew, but he called Dr. Day from your insurance company anyway to make an appeal.  It was denied. Ritchie apparently made you sound like a nut.

“Do you think that?”

“I think Ritchie is very serious about getting out of there.  That worries me.  I just hope he’s not in this place where he’s found the answer. It would explain why all of a sudden he doesn’t look all that unhappy.  Depression is weird.  The helplessness, not  knowing what to do, feeling like it will never change—that can go away if  you realize  there is something you  can do.”

“Isn’t that good?”

“Ordinarily yes, but if I’m right  this isn’t a good sign.  The hopelessness could be  gone because Ritchie’s gone the next step.

“You mean kill himself?”

Michael searches Stern’s face for an answer..   “You know that or is  that a guess?”

“It’s a gut feeling.”

“How good are your gut feelings?”

“More than half the time my gut is right.”

“Great.”

“ Look Michael , maybe I’m being an alarmist.  I’m guessing.”

“Yeah but you know what you always preached.  “Plan for the worst.””

Michael completes it, “Hope for the best.” Michael reaches in his pocket for his car keys.   “Who is Dr. Day?”

“He’s chief of psychiatry at St Anne’s in Bridgeport Connecticut. He’s in charge of your insurance company’s behavioral management. He’s not an easy guy.”

“I’m gonna call him.”

“Don’t bother.   You’ll get his voice mail.  He’ll call you back in 5 weeks minimum  People like you are the reason call screening became necessary.”

Michael flips his car keys a few times.  H e looks at his watch. It’s 11:30. He calculates that he could make it to Bridgeport in two and a half hours.

“You have an internet connection here?  I need Map Quest. “

“My computer is in that room over there.

 

It turns out Michael knows exactly where St Anne’s is.  He grew up a few miles away.   He hasn’t been to Bridgeport for 15 years.  After his mother moved out he had little reason to return.  It was already going bad 30 years ago, but he is not completely prepared for the scenes of devastation  surrounding him.  When he turns on to Pembroke Street he feels the full impact.  He used to hang out here.  It is  unrecognizable. Goody’s candy store is gone. So is the drug store where he used to be the delivery boy.  Same thing for the bakery where he used to be sent on Sunday morning for fresh rye bread.  None of the stores are familiar.   Some are boarded up with plywood.  There are three liquor stores in a two block stretch.  There are drug dealers moving back and forth along the sidewalks. Cars pull up to them.   Broken glass is everywhere.

Drunks sit on wooden crate boxes near a street corner where he used to eye Carol Shapiro, this amazing looking girl, on her way home from school (She lived a block away.  He never found the courage to approach her).  Automobiles are double and triple parked.  Some have multiple tickets that have not been removed from the windshields. There are also rusting cars without wheels, completely stripped of all useful parts.  A 10 year old boy runs out into the street without looking.  Michael screeches to a stop.  The boy’s two friends start banging on the hood. Michael  gets out and yells at them.  They move on after giving him the finger.

He parks in the guarded hospital parking lot.  After he takes the keys out of the ignition, he simply sits still for a minute, takes a deep breath, waits for his determination to gather.

The psychiatry ward has the same kind of heavy metal door as Mt. Pleasant’s. He rings a buzzer and an aide lets him in.  A huge black male patient wearing mascara and a wig approaches him.

An aide with a commanding voice, speaks from behind him, “Margaret.  Go back to community meeting.”

Margaret doesn’t obey but he keeps his distance and stares at Michael.

“Don’t worry about Margaret.  She’s more scared than you are.  How can I help you?”

“Dr. Day’s office.”

He points down the hall.  Michael moves down the corridor.  He comes to a locked door with a heavy glass window at face level.  He stands in front of it so he can be seen.  A buzzer lets him in. He faces a receptionist.

“I’d like to see Dr. Day.”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Mr. Russell. Michael Russell.”

The receptionist picks up her phone and pushes a button.  She speaks softly into it.  She puts down the phone and looks up at Michael

“He said he won’t see anyone without an appointment.”

“Tell him he spoke to Dr. Sturbridge this morning about an appeal for my son.  I’m Ritchie Russell’s father.”

“He knows who you are. He won’t see you.”

“Well I’ll just have to see him.”

The receptionist blocks his path.  “You can’t go in there.”

“I don’t really want to have to shove a lady. But I will if I have to.”

She steps out of the way.  Michael enters.  Dr. Day is a tattered man in his 50’s, balding on top but with long hair along the sides.  There is a big sign on his wall

TALK IS CHEAP

“Isn’t that an unusual sign for a psychiatrist’s office?”

“Yeah.  It’s the opposite.  Talking to a shrink is very expensive.”

“My son can’t be  discharged from the hospital.  I think, and his psychiatrist thinks, he is serious about killing himself”

“You’re totally out of line coming here.”

“I had no choice”

“He’s been evaluated by two psychiatrists and a treatment team at the hospital.”

“Their decision is wrong.”

“It’s not negotiable.”

“I don’t think you heard me.  My son is  serious about hurting himself.”

“Look Mr. Russell.  You think you can come in here from the other side of the world and demand special treatment.  Why you and not someone else?”

“This has nothing to do with special treatment.”

“The answer is no. Your son’s doctors agreed with our decision.”

“But they have no choice.”

“They can choose to keep anybody they want.  You know that does happen sometimes.  More to the point. If you are sure, why don’t you pay for uninsured care?”

“I don’t have the money.  The hospital wants payment up front.”

“My guess is your son just needs a whippin’ to get him to open his eyes.  .  Kids like him have been whining to their mommies since they’re two years old and the worst punishment they get is “a good talk”.  We’re not going to pay for talks.  He’s had enough of them already.”

“This has nothing to do with my son.”

“If your son is upset tell him to get a life.”

“He’s a little more than upset. He..”

“Look I don’t want to hear the details.  When you were driving over here did you take a look outside? Take a good look going home.  These kids are watching their friends shoot up every day.  Hell their parents, that is, when they have parents.  People are dying of AIDs all around them. Every night they hear gunfire.  The next morning they find out who was killed.  I don’t want to hear about your son.  He’s leading a fucking privileged life and if he can’t deal with that.  Than so be it.”

“I brought something for you to read.  I’m a reporter and this story is going in the Boston Sentinnel.  This conversation is being recorded.”

Dr. Day quickly skims the article. He hands it back.

“So what else is new?”

“That‘s all you’ve got to say?”

“You think that I give a damn that this guy made 900 million?  Look around you.  You want a cut of my millions. Your article has nothing to do with me. I probably make less money than you.”

“I’m going to stop this, one way or another.”

“I hope you enjoy your drive home.”

“I’m not leaving until you agree to let my son stay in the hospital.”

“Listen hot shot. Get the fuck out of here.”

Dr. Day shoves Michael. Michael swings at him. Dr. Day grabs Michael and pulls him down.   Michael  isn’t a good fighter and doesn’t land a clean blow.  The police had already been called by Dr Day’s secretary.

 

 

Five hours later Joe and Deborah greet Michael as he is given back his possessions at the jail.

Deborah  touches his brow  soothingly.  She looks him over for any signs of bruises.  There are none. “How was it?” she asks.

“It was worth it.”

They go to Deborah’s car.  She hands him the car keys.  Deborah and Michael sit in the front, Joe in back. Michael hands his article to Joe in the back seat.

“I had time to work on the article some more. Read it.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Joe looks over the article.

“Did you visit Ritchie?” Michael asks Deborah

“This afternoon.”

“And?”

“And you are doing the right thing.  I don’t know what we are going to do.”

“What do you mean?  He said something?”

“It was just the way he was acting.  I can’t pinpoint it.  I think he is going to try again.  I also think he wants us to know it.”

“What?  What  did he say?”

“Nothing.  He said nothing.  But I can feel it.”

Joe finishes the article.

“What do you want me to do with this?”

“Print it. I need pressure on the doctors and the insurance company now.  Right now.”

“Did showing the article work with Dr. Day?”

“No.”

“So what makes you think it will work with anyone else?”

“I don’t know.  I can’t think straight any more.  I’m out of ideas.  I mean what if you put it in the paper tomorrow?”

“Michael, it’s not ready.  We’d need very careful fact checking by our legal people.  And even then why should that matter?”

“I don’t know.   It might make them feel like they are being watched .  Just get their adrenaline going.  Put them on notice.”

“Well you definitely got Dr. Day’s adrenaline going.  Look I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get the personal fax number of Martin DeSalvo.  He runs your insurance company.   I’ll fax him your article asking for a response.  That will get their attention.  Maybe you got a shot that way.  But I’ll be honest with you.  He’s supposed to be an absolute son of a bitch.  If anything, once he sees this he’ll probably try to get your son kicked out right on the spot.”

“You’re serious?”

“DeSalvo isn’t a hide your head person.  He’s a macho guy.  Just on principle the bastard could go harder on your son.”

“Honey, you’ve worked really hard on this article, but I don’t think it’s going to move things quickly enough.  We may have to take him home and watch him like a hawk.”

“If we have to but Dr. Stern thought that wouldn’t work.”

“Well what else can we do?”

“I’ll send the fax.  You never know.”

“Joe.  Do you think you could loan us the $15,000?”

There is a sudden chill.  They are all quiet for a moment.  The tension mounts.

“Michael  I can’t help you.  I really am sorry but I can’t. Except for my daughter’s college fund I don’t have that kind of money.  Maybe a thousand or two.”

“I have Dr. Stern’s emergency number.  Maybe he has a new angle.

Michael borrows Joe’s cell phone. He dials.

“Can the doctor talk?”

He watches the road like a hawk, one hand on the wheel.  They stop for a red light.

“Anyone see a sign for 95?  Come on.  Come on.”

“Where are you racing to?  There is no where to rush to.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“Hold it.”  He puts his hand over the phone mouthpiece,  refocuses then continues,  “Go on… Right… So do you think that is good?..  Okay.  Talk to you tomorrow.”

“What did he say, Deborah asks.

“There is some kind of plan.  They are not discharging him tomorrow.  I’m to meet with Dr. Agnew in the morning.”

 

 

Martin DeSalvo’s 17 year old daughter Barbara sends a backhand, hit with authority, along the side line out of her father’s reach.  She has won the set.  He meets her in the center of the court.

“Great shot Babs  It looks like those lessons are paying off.”

“Thanks Dad.”

Lenny Birch, dressed in a suit, walks out of the mansion with Michael’s article and hands it to him.  They are out of Barbara’s hearing range.

“It was just faxed from Boston.  An article from that reporter that Dr. Day called you about.”

Marty reads it over.

“Who the fuck does this Michael Russell think he is?”

“What do you want me to do?”

A malicious smile forms on his lips as he thinks about it, “Absolutely nothing.  Nothing  at all.  These articles come out all the time. That Dr. Peeno testified in front of congress 4 years ago. She was a fuckin’ insider.  Knew the whole racket. I thought we might be in trouble then.  She wrote an article that every one read.  Hell it almost made me cry.(sarcastically) That poor patient! But that was 3 years ago. Nobody gave a shit.  People are bored by this subject.”

“Russell mentions Dr. Peeno in his article.”

“The best thing that ever happened to America was all these expose shows on TV. You know 20/20, 48 hours, Frontline.  I’ve lost count.

So has everyone else. It’s almost funny.  They’re pumping out so much of this junk that all they get nowadays is: “Oh well.” Probably because everyone’s on Prozac.”

“You sure we can relax about this?  You don’t want me to check up on this guy?”

“Do what you want. Just make sure you send a copy to P.R. but I don’t even think they need to do anything.  Those guys in Boston are just getting off on being big bad boys.”

“I’m gonna check up on him anyway.”

“Lenny really.  Don’t bother.  I have a more pressing problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Beating Barbara for the second set.”

 

With some trepidation Michael enters Dr. Agnew’s office the next morning.

“I’ll be frank with you Mr. Russell.  I’m not surprised you landed up in jail.  You’re out of control. Next time they’ll give you real jail time.”

“Look, just get to the point.”

“We’ve arranged for your son to be accepted at Second Chance.  It’s not a hospital, but it’s a good place, a drug treatment center, good reputation, good staff.  His pot smoking was certainly part of the problem.”

“You  really believe that?”

“Not entirely, but it’s a good compromise.  It was Dr. Day’s idea.”

“Dr. Day can fuck himself.  He’s going to pay. One way or another.”

“You’re in the wrong profession. Maybe you should get a contract put out on him.  Maybe you’ve missed your calling.  You should have joined the Mafia.”

“You’re right. I would have been more effective getting done what has to get done.”

“You really think intimidation works?”

“ I  wish I had the Mafia’s fire power.”

“Enough.  This is stupid. I need to know now if you’ll go along with our plan. Ritchie’s tentatively accepted for tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t tell you now.  I want to discuss this with my wife.  I have to talk with Ritchie.”

 

An hour later Deborah and Michael are in a diner a block from the hospital.

“I don’t know Michael. His problem isn’t drugs.”

“We don’t have any other choice. I called Dr. Stern. He’s heard good things about Second Chance.”

“Well I guess the decision is made…”  She stirs her coffee, lifts her spoon and watches the coffee fall back into the cup.  She does that several times,  “I wish we had money.”

“And power. It’s about power.  You know in jail… for the first time I understood those guys. Everything  stacked against you. You have no chance. It makes you willing to do anything. Rules- they’re bullshit.  You just want to get even.  I started having these thoughts like how the Mafia is okay.  It’s funny because Dr. Agnew said something like that.”

“My Phi Beta Kappa boy.  You’re going to trade in your pin for a gun.  Don’t you know the pen is mightier than the sword?”

“That was written by a writer.  Truth is I want to kill someone.”

“Like who?”

“A lot of people; Dr. Day for one.”

“Better watch it or you’ll land up in jail with those guys.”

“Maybe.  Because I’m seeing things the way they see it. I am ready to blow.”

“But someone like Dr. Day.  He’s just doing his job”

“You sound like Joe.  He kept saying that to me when he was reading my article.  He also said all of this is really not news.  Everyone knows about HMOs.  Is that what you think?

“Well…”

“You knew about this?”

“No.  I mean everyone knows they stink but I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“Dr. Stern told me about this case that they wouldn’t let him give psychotherapy  after ten visits.  It was the story of Job,  a woman with breast cancer in both breasts, she had had two heart attacks before the age of 40.  Her very handsome son had lost 3 jobs and she thought he was becoming a drunk.  Her husband was tired of listening to her complaints and was totally tuned out.  Her daughter had recently walked out of her marriage, for reasons she couldn’t understand.  Her daughter’s new boyfriend was a bum  She needed to talk, to talk real bad.  When the therapy was denied Stern kept at it.  He went through level after level of appeals.  That was years ago before he knew the ropes.  Anyway he got to the top.  He got to talk to Dr. Day.  Dr. Day told him she needs hospice not psychotherapy.   Stern tried to explain that she was not terminally ill, for now she was still working at a job.  The family needed the money.  In fact,  they deducted a significant amount of her pay every week for the insurance. When Stern kept pushing, Dr. Day told him if he wasn’t happy with his decisions no one was forcing him to remain one of their doctors.  Then he simply hung up.  What I want to know is why can’t that be in the news?”

“You’re right.  There should be a way that it could be part of a news story.”

“Stern’s theory is that people really do know all about this kind of thing from their own life.  That’s why they want to read about something else.    He told me he has patients who are living a nightmare.  All kinds of unimaginable things.  And they don’t want to talk about it.  Yet they watch horror movies.  One after another.  That gives them the release they need.   Like with Hitler….”

“I told you.  No Hitler.”

“Well this is the same principle.  People don’t want to hear too much about bad things when they are real.  Maybe after the fact, but not during it.  Not if they can’t change it.  Stern may be right.  That will never change.”

 

 

Late in the afternoon Deborah and Michael tell Ritchie what is planned for the following morning.  Ritchie is emphatic

“I’m not going to no drug program.”

““We’re doing the best we can.…This is it.”

“You don’t have to be locked up, do you?”

Deborah runs her fingers through his hair.

“Am I going to have to go through all this bullshit checking up on me every two seconds?”

“I don’t know,” Deborah answers

“I’m not putting up with that kind of crap.  I’ll tell you right now.”

Michael’s voice toughens. “You’re going to have to go along with whatever the rules are.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Don’t go there Ritchie.”

Dr. Agnew enters the room.  Ritchie doesn’t look up.

“What have you guys decided?”

“We’re going to do it,”  Deborah answers. “ But Ritchie has a question.”

“What is it Ritchie?”

“Nothing.  I’m good.”

“You’re sure?”

Ritchie doesn’t answer.  Dr. Agnew waits for a moment then stops at the door.

“Actually it’s a nice drive to get there…  In the country.  About two hours away.  It’s supposed to be nice weather tomorrow morning.”

Dr. Agnew leaves.  Ritchie picks up a vase and throws it against the wall.  It smashes into a thousand pieces.  Dr. Agnew returns.

“You’re going into seclusion.”

Ritchie gives him the finger.  Michael and Deborah sit passively on the bed as the attendants come into the room and take Ritchie away. They are actually a little proud of Ritchie’s defiance.   Michael picks up a piece of broken ceramics and aims it for the waste basket.  It goes in. At that moment he remembers an incident only a few months before.

They were playing basketball at a playground.  Michael drove towards the basket.  He missed. He went up hard for the rebound. His elbow accidentally hit Ritchie in the chin.  As a reflex Ritchie  shoved his father. He was screaming,   “Always have to win don’t you?”

Michael spit back at him, “Is that all you got? Come on.”  Ritchie then punched his father in the nose.  Michael was more surprised than physically hurt.  He had a bit of blood at the tip of his nose.  Ritchie saw the blood and was upset.  He walked away as did Michael.  Ten yards away Michael turned around.  Ritchie  was punching himself in the head.  Michael turned back and walked away.  He said nothing.  He was too upset.

 

It is 7PM. Melissa is at the door of the seclusion room.  “You okay?’ she asks.

Ritchie sounds drugged, “I’ m good.”

“You sound too good.  Someone slip you a funny pill?”

“No, I’m just real good.  I’m finally getting out of here.”

“Ritchie you sound funny.”

“Tomorrow is a real big day.”

“What do you mean?”

“I finally have things straight in my head.”

“About Lise?”

“Yes.”

“What did you figure out?”

“I’m not going to be rid of her unless I’m with her.”

“Ritchie come on. That’s no answer.  You want to die. Wait until it’s your time.”

Ritchie is silent.

“There is still too much in this world that you haven’t even tried out.  Don’t give up on us.  I mean there’s Dan and there is me and you don’t even know me, but I get better the better you know me.  I make great lasagna. I mean totally the real thing.  My grandmother taught me.  I mean come on.  You have to taste my lasagna.”

Silence.

“Lisa can wait for you.  Believe me she’s not lonely.  I heard she’s got a boyfriend.”

Silence.

“You didn’t know that did you?  I’ve got psychic powers.  The minute you told me about Lisa I visited her.  She told me about everything.  How she misses everybody but she’s all right.  She’s  worried because you are having a hard time.”

“Can you really talk to her?”

“I just said I can.  She’s the one that said she can wait.  Not me. You shouldn’t do anything. That’s what she said.  She said she’s good and wants to see how you will turn out when you grow up.”

Silence.

More silence.

Melissa’s mood changes.

“Ritchie you bastard. Just like my father.”

“I thought you never knew your father.”

“I lied. He used to beat up on my mother.  He killed himself.  What an idiot.  I hate my father. Ritchie don’t do it. It’s stupid.”

“Melissa listen I’m not going to do it.  I think about it a lot.  But no. Lisa’s not there so I’m not going to do it.”

“Good but you’re wrong.  Lisa is there.  And I did talk to her.  And she said I should tell you to stick around.”

“I said I would.”

“Promise?”

“You want me to sign a contract?  God what assholes they are in this place.”

“I want you to promise.”

Silence

“Ritchie?  Ritchie?”

More silence.  Melissa is getting very edgy.

“Ritchie.” She starts to cry.  “Come on Ritchie.”

Ritchie is sitting on the floor near the door, his back leaning against the padded walls .  He has left Melissa.  He is smiling to some inner voice.

 

It is 11 PM.   Melissa is at the nurses station.  She bangs on the locked door.

“Open up.  I gotta talk to somebody.”

Melissa hits the door again.  Finally it opens.  The aide licks her fingers.  She has been called away from her Kentucky Fried Chicken.

“Now what can be that important?”

Melissa hesitates.

“Girl.  I’m talking to you.”

“You have to promise me something.  When Dr. Agnew comes in.  Someone’s gotta tell him that Richard Russell is going to hurt himself when he gets out.”

“He told you that?  He said he’s going to kill himself?”

“Well…”

“What were his exact words?”

“He said he wouldn’t.  But I know he will.”

“Yeah I heard about you and how you think you are a psychic.  Let me tell you something girl.  The sooner you get back on this earth the better.  You’re a pretty girl.  You don’t need to be in no psychiatric hospital.”

 

It is 11:15.   Michael and Deborah have just finished making love.  They are lying calmly in bed.  Periodically they stroke each other

“Michael I’m going to get a job.”

“That’s a good idea. You were really good when you used to work.  What made you decide?”

“First of all and second of all we need the money.”

“We can manage.”

“That’s sweet of you but let’s face facts. It would help our situation now if we had some savings.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s not just that. The way I’ve been is stupid. I should have gotten over Lisa, gone forward.”

“It wasn’t stupid. You did what you had to do. You weren’t ready.  Now you are.”

“I was never going to be ready. It messed up Ritchie seeing me like that for so long.”

“Coulda, woulda, shoulda, it doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not just Ritchie.”  Tears silently run down her cheeks,  “I’m glad we have something again.”

Michael keeps stroking Deborah’s hair.  He looks into her eyes searchingly.

“What is it?” she asks

“I don’t know.  It’s been so long.  You really have been like a stranger to me.  For years.”

“Well now I’m not going to be a stranger.”

“I hope so.  It’s been lonely. Truthfully, I thought we would never be close again.”

“Don’t let me go back there okay?  No matter what.  Just don’t let me do it.”

“How do I do that?”

“I don’t know, but you can.  I’m sure you can.”

Michael gets out of bed. He slips into a robe, goes to the bathroom, comes back.  He watches Deborah for a moment  before speaking.

“Are you going to come with us tomorrow?

She wipes her eyes.

“No, I don’t think we’re  ready yet.  It still works better one on one. I’ll call Ritchie and explain.  I’ll visit him tomorrow after he gets there.”

Deborah notices how down Michael is.

“It will work out.  We’ll get through this and through whatever comes after that.   Things are going to be better.  It’s the law of averages.”

The phone rings.  Michael looks at his watch.  It is midnight.  Deborah is frightened. No one calls them that late.  She answers, listens, hangs up.

“That was Melissa.”

 

 

Chapter 29

 

Michael is on the dais holding the Hitchcock medal up above his head.  Deborah doesn’t know what to make of his hamming it up, but it doesn’t matter.  The industry deserved to get slammed. She’s proud of Michael.   Desalvo’s arrest for stock fraud gave him the opening to put his articles in play. He made the most of it.  He got them good. DeSalvo was sentenced to two years of hard time. Not enough, but the main thing were the articles.

Except nothing changed after the articles came out.  Maybe the award will wake people up.

She takes a deep breath, tries to keep in control of her emotions.  She didn’t know what her reaction to the award would be but she didn’t expect this much anger.  Anger and fear.  The fear is always there.  It’s worse at this moment.  She can’t calm down.   Her mind is racing all over the place but her thoughts remain out of focus, too vague to capture  a specific thought. She feels a little dizzy.  Her fingers are tingling.  Her jaw is tight. She feels flushed. She is sorry she came.

Michael has come down from the dais. But he doesn’t get far. Several people are surrounding him, glad handing him, including his publisher, who is determined to have a conversation here and now.   Michael looks Deborah’s way, raises his hand, as if to say “Hold on.”

“Are you okay?” Esther asks Deborah.

“Fine.” She answers

Esther looks Michael’s way.  “He deserves the Hitchcock.  He’s been like a bulldog. At the office we have all been talking about it.”

“I know. Once he gets going.”

“He’s been like that from the day he got hired by the Sentinnel.”

“Yeah.”

Her thoughts go to Ritchie.  Deborah is not in the mood for conversation.  She feels closed in.  Esther leans over and kisses her cheek.

“If there is anything I can do…”

“I’ll call.”

“Your once a year call?”

“Maybe it will be in six months.”

“Do you talk to anyone?”

“To Michael.”

“That’s it.”

“I talk to my mother every day”

“Your mother?”

 

With surprisingly little difficulty her relationship with her mother has reestablished itself, her mother who Deborah knew, early on, she didn’t want to be, her mother, who more than anyone else, helped her to define herself as opposite in every way. Her mother couldn’t fathom Deborah’s friends,  couldn’t fathom looking to herbs to heal them, or, for that matter, medicines, or philosophies, or psychotherapy, or even kindness.  She didn’t really understand a lot of the things Deborah and Michael did.   Not that Deborah understood her mother.  But she offered Deborah a quality she needed most.  She would be there for her.  No matter what. So Deborah didn’t have to waste energy trying to act appropriately.  She was completely herself with her mother.

It wasn’t that Deborah’s friends didn’t understand, or  didn’t care.  But they were friends.  And not best friends at that. There were limits to what she could expect from them and limits on what they would tolerate. It was a question of pride. She didn’t want them to know how bad she had become.

Lisa’s illness and death had hit her with the force of a flood, carried her emotions wildly through rapids, crashed her into rocks, flipped her around in 360’s, sent her flying, leaving her on the edge of terror.  She could be thrashed by the ring of a telephone.  She wouldn’t allow her friends to see how truly hopeless she could be.

It wasn’t simply the intense fear and sadness that visited her every day. Life, as she had known it, up to that point, was over. Going through magazines for ideas about a new kitchen, or where to go on vacation, reading about new restaurants, watching Ritchie and Lisa grow up, nudging them along-she could still recall the wonder they had as children when she read a story to them, or, as she read, her own giddy anticipation that she was laying down a sturdy  base upon which they would grow strong.  Everything that had concerned her before, everything that her friends still cared about, had become besides the point.  Life as they lived it was over for her and would never return.

Her mother warned her after Lisa died.   “You can’t follow your emotions where they want to go.  You can’t let go of the rudder.  It will make everything worse. You’ll be swept away.”

“Work. Pour your sorrow into work,” she groused. “It will control the pain.  Do it until the pain goes away.”  “Do something,  something that needs to be done.”

She wishes she had listened then. Not until Ritchie’s trouble did she realize that her mother was right.  She had to grab control of herself, get to work, work with every ounce of energy she had left.

Her job was to stay sober.  Especially since that was exactly what she didn’t want to do. Feeling floaty from a joint, swimming in the syrupy stupidity of booze- like sirens,  memories of happy highs called to her. She had long ago become her own best company.  It had worked with the help of drugs. Which is why they were so dangerous.  What Ritchie told Michael was accurate about Deborah. Given the choice between sinking or swimming, sinking was very  tempting. The  bottom was inviting. At unexpected moments, she had a sudden impulse to abandon the effort, if for no other reason than exhaustion.  She’d open a book and stare for five minutes before realizing she was on the same page. She needed a drink.

But Ritchie was also wrong.  She had something left in her, something from her mother. Just a bit, but a bit is not nothing, if it allows you to hold on for dear life.  One foot in front of the next.  One day at a time. She clung to any and every saying from AA,  any and every  tidbit of attitude, any phrase that could be used to keep her going.

Since that first meeting in the hospital she religiously went to AA meetings.  She hated them. Almost any incident  could  irritate her, especially uncalled for  personal advice, given in AA lingo. She hated hearing “One day at a time.” mouthed robotically.  Pronounced  by others, any of the phrases, sounded hollow. It weakened the power of her own belief.  She desperately needed for that not to happen.  She would leave certain meetings agitated.  On the drive home, she promised herself that this would be the last time she would go to a meeting.

But there was no choice.  For weeks after Lisa’s death she tore away at her hair.  Whole tufts came out.   It never really stopped until she started going to the meetings.

“Deborah, I was wondering.” Esther has turned back to her.  “We are having some people over next Saturday.  Nothing fancy…”

“That sounds nice, but no.”  She said it more icily than she would have chosen.   She does have a meeting and could not make it, but she doesn’t understand why her persona no longer functions.  Esther didn’t deserve it.  She was well intentioned. But it is what Deborah truly feels.  She needs to be left alone. Esther again turns her attention to the person on the other side of her.

Deborah looks around the room.  People are trying to catch her eye to congratulate her.  She is feeling crowded.  She looks up at the portraits.  She sees little at first.  She can’t focus on them either.  All of her senses are a blur, except the butterflies in her stomach, and the cold sweat that has formed on her brow.  She catches words, phrases, spoken here and there.  She can only make out a few of them, but she definitely can make out “Michael”, “Ritchie”, “Russell”  Like distant whispered hallucinations she hears their names.  She wonders what is being said but only for a moment.  Her eyes move to the largest  portrait.  It is of  Cornelius Vanderbilt.  Michael had told her.  He is no country bumpkin.  He looks distinguished, triumphant, even a bit handsome.  The sadness in his eyes is subtle enough so that it softens rather then eliminates the power she senses in him.  Michael’s fascination is making sense to her now.  What would it be like to never let anyone beat you?   No debates.  Just get done what needs to get done.

She moves on to the painting directly to the right of Vanderbilt’s portrait, to the Rembrandt that Michael wrote about in his novel.  Once again Michael’s description is accurate.  It is difficult to accept that the man looking out from the painting is no longer alive.  It is as if he is in the room looking at her, inviting her to speak to him.  He has a little bit of a frown, but also a calm that only could have come from making peace with hard times.  But he has  survived and is still able to have expectations.  She glances at the next portrait, the one of Ariana and quickly moves to the next. She tries to move on to the one after that   But she is drawn back to Ariana.  She must have been very beautiful. God. Very beautiful.  She looks around the room,  finds the portrait of the entire family, ErnstVan Doren; that must be Belize, although Michael told her, they are not sure that woman is Belize.  There standing out from the rest of the children, Ariana. She is stunned. What a  beautiful child.  Deborah’s eyes return to the adult picture of Ariana, done after her death. She stares at her face, but her attention is drawn elsewhere.

There, there on her finger, Lisa’s ring.  Deborah’s heart explodes.  She hadn’t seen it before.  She gasps again, stares at it.  She can’t move on.  Lisa’s ring. She can feel the tears wanting to burst from her eyes. She tightens with every bit of self control she has, which makes it even harder to catch her breath.  She has to get out of the room.  She looks back at the table as she makes her way to the door for the veranda.  Michael has returned to the table.  She isn’t sure if she wants him to join her.  More and more people are congratulating him.  As she makes it outside the cool October air shocks her for a moment, but her legs will not let her stop.  Down into the darkness, through Belize’s rose garden.

Michael has  settled in at the table. Wallace has called the room to order.

“Tonight would not have been possible without the efforts of Sandy Stone and Marsha Pannozza.  They did it all, designed the invitations, check and rechecked that our mailing list was accurate.  As always they have made this evening run without a hitch.”

Michael’s listens to the applause.  He briefly claps but as the applause dies down and Wallace continues from his list of people to be recognized, Michael returns to his memories.

 

He is in Dr. Agnew’s office early in the morning to pick Richard up to take him to Second Chance.  Dr. Agnew is not in the mood for another round with Michael.

“Mr. Russell, I am not going to credit anything Melissa says as resembling the truth.  She is a pathological liar.”

“You think Melissa would make up something like that?”

“I think Melissa has a few screws loose.  She’s a patient on a psychiatric ward.”

“Come on.  Have you ever talked to Melissa?”

“Have you?”

Michael’s face gives him away.

Dr. Agnew presses on.  “You won’t let up.  You keep going and going.  You’ve tried every angle. Now this. The answer is no.  Ritchie’s being discharged this morning.  He doesn’t fit our criteria for continued stay.”

“You mean the insurance company’s criteria?”

“Give it a rest.”

“This is about my son.”

“The pulpit.  Give it a rest   You know somehow you missed what everyone else seems to know. I mean…”  He pauses, not sure if he wants to be blunt,  His father was lucky.  He could say what he had to say and go right back to work the next day.  Doctors cannot say what they think,   “Fuckin’ kike, fuckin’ faggot.”  That would have been the end of it. Later at dinner his father would have justified it to the family .  Who appointed them?  God’s chosen people? Chosen for what?  To sit in judgment.    Dr. Agnew felt the same thing.  “Get the hell out of here.”  Only you can’t say any of that nowadays.

“I’m waiting.” Michael says insistently  “What did I miss out on?”

Dr. Agnew has had it

“ You think you’ve earned special rights because you’re good with words. Do you really think Jesus cares  whether you are smart or not smart?”

Michael is stung.  “Jesus?”

“Forget it.”

Michael is relieved.  Knowing what he is up against is better than not knowing.

“You think Ritchie is going to try again. Maybe he will. What you don’t know is that we see people like your son all the time.  All the time.  We have people here right now who have tried 5 or 6 times.  One women in there has tried 9 times. Just like Ritchie they give plenty of warning. But they’re still here, alive, breathing, back for more.  Some have been doing this for years.  What should we do?  Keep him in the hospital  for ten years.  You want to keep Ritchie here ten years?”

“No but how about until the medicine works.  How about getting to know my son so you can at least guess when he should leave.”

“ If I kept everyone like Ritchie here, we’d keep half the ward here months at a time  Who pays for that?   Sure it can happen. Ritchie could kill himself.  Yes we are gambling, but so are you every time you step off a street corner.”

“This is higher odds than that.”

“Mr. Russell  How come I make these decisions all the time and other parents aren’t climbing all over me?”

“I can’t answer that.  I’m not them.”

“But you are asking not to be treated like them.  You want an exception made for you.  And I am not going to do it.  Ritchie is going to leave here like everyone else.  You can’t pay for it and the hospital can’t afford to give it away for free.”

Michael gives him a contemptuous look

“Fine.  You are a great parent.  You care.  You’re the greatest Mr. Russell.  And I am  not.  I don’t give a damn about Ritchie.  I don’t give a damn for any of the patients. Does it feel good to put us bad guys down.”

“Well…  ”

Dr. Agnew continues,  “Look Mr. Russell I feel bad for you. If that ever happened to my daughter I’d probably blow my brains out.  But that doesn’t change a thing.   Most  people here think you are an asshole.  Maybe well intentioned.  Maybe.  But  definitely an asshole. “

“Dr. Agnew.  What do you want me to tell you?”

“Tell me nothing. Go talk to Dr. Stern and whine to him.   Leave me out of it. He’s your therapist not me.”

He puts out his hand and hands Lisa’s ring to him. “ They took it away from Ritchie when they put him in isolation.” Michael accepts it. Dr. Agnew puts out his hand for a handshake.  His voice is half friendly.

“ Your son is waiting for you.  Be smart.  Drive him to Second Chance straight from here.  It’s a half way decent place.  Then  get out of the picture.  You’re stirring up a lot of dust, but that is about it.”

 

Two hours later Michael and Ritchie are driving through the countryside on the way to Second Chance.   The radio is on. Michael and Ritchie listen quietly.

“Do you have that Nancy Griffith CD you used to play?”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah, play it.”

Nancy Griffith sings “Across the Great Divide.”  Ritchie is still floaty, smiling a lot in a strangely contented way.  It’s a sunny fall day New England country style.  They go up and down hills, pass a meadow, then through a covered bridge.  From time to time Michael steals a glance at Ritchie and vice-versa…  Michael will go wherever Ritchie takes him. The music continues:

 

The finest hour that I have seen

             Is the one that comes between

The edge of night and the break of day

It’s when the darkness rolls away

           

Ritchie breaks the silence.  He speaks sweetly, “God, I haven’t listened to music with you in so long. I want to play the yodeling song.”

Ritchie hits the button, until he gets to song 6,  He still remembers that it is 6. Nancy Griffith’s Night Rider Lament begins.  They yodel along with the song.  Both crack up.  Then there is silence.  Total silence. They both look out the window and listen to the music.  Every once in a while Ritchie  looks up at his father, softly.  Michael pretends he doesn’t notice.  He stares straight ahead at the road.  Michael is afraid to look.  Afraid of what he might see.  Ritchie is not afraid.    Michael can sense the difference.  He doesn’t know why but that frightens him more.  It’s not Ritchie.  Being in a good mood is not Ritchie.

The drive continues as does the music.  “We’ve been here before haven’t we?”

“You’re amazing.  Yeah.  For a while we used to camp out here every year when the leaves were just like this.  Mom and I promised each other, we’d do it every year. We did it about five years until Mom called it my version of Rosh Hashanah. It was so much cooler to think of it as a yearly renewal of my connection to God.”

“Why’d we stop doing that?”

“I don’t know.  After Lisa…  We shouldn’t have. We just stopped. You want us to start coming here again? It’s a deal. You get better and we’ll come here every year…”

Ritchie doesn’t answer.

“Every year. You’ll bring your children, and then they’ll bring their children. That’s how it’s supposed to be. You keep going and going.”

“Dad.  Why did you write about Vanderbilt?”

“I don’t know.  It was something about how he always won. He wouldn’t let it be any other way.  No one could stop him.”

“So where did it get him?”

“Nowhere, but still you have to admire him.”

“Do you really believe in God?”

“Yes” he lies.

“And heaven.  You think we are going to see Lisa again?”

“We are going to be together. But Ritchie first we have a lot of years here.  I know you think it’s bullshit, but Mom’s better. Everything is going to be better.  You have to get better and then we will be okay.”

“Wait, hold it. This is the spot isn’t it?  Up there…  Where we used to go camping.”

Michael pulls the car over to the side of the road.

“I want to see this place.”

He stops and they  climb up a steep rocky path.  They reach a clearing.  Ahead is the vista.  Ritchie has to raise his voice to be heard.

“Where’s your camera dad?  I remember every year you’d take a picture of us right over there.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything dad.  Everything.”

“I’m going to start taking pictures again.”

“I remember Lisa hiding behind that tree. Harry found her.

“Do you want another dog?  You said you didn’t but maybe we should get one…The new Russell family” Michael half whispers to himself

Ritchie walks over to the edge of the cliff. He looks down. He clutches Lisa’s ring.  The wind  is above and below, making different sounds that sometimes overlap,  rushing, high pitched, like blowing into a jar, but magnified by the valley, and also the  deeper tones humming, almost singing. Occasionally the two harmonize.  Between the gusts there is silence, only to start up again.  Michael shouts to Ritchie

“Don’t get too close.”

“Don’t worry dad.”

Ritchie sits down with his legs dangling over the edge.

“Come here. It’s nice.”

Michael does as he’s told.

“It is nice. I love this spot.”

They sit silently.  They watch an osprey in flight, soaring, soaring.  A few beats of its wings then it glides free in a giant circle.    Down below leaves swirl in bursts as the wind recedes and returns.  The vastness before them, and their smallness in the scheme of things, creates a kind of calm.

 

 

Ritchie and Michael say their goodbyes outside the admissions building at Second Chance.  They hug and strangely Ritchie wants the contact as much as Michael,  which Michael finds encouraging.  Michael returns to the car. He pushes a button for a CD. Jasha Heifitz playing Brahms.  He pulls out on to the road.  He drives very slowly, quietly.  He’s flooded with memories…Their home movies.  Michael and Deborah each making clown faces for the camera.  Michael throwing infant Ritchie into the air and catching him.  Lisa pulls at his leg.  He hands Ritchie to Deborah.  He picks up Lisa and throws her up. 

Michael arrives at the spot where he got out with Ritchie earlier that morning.  He walks up the path.  He goes behind the tree.  He can almost hear the sound of their giggles… 6-year-old Ritchie, 7-year-old Lisa running around in circles.  He can almost see Deborah, young Deborah, radiant Deborah offering him  a canteen of cold water.  He is sweaty from putting their tents up. He had done a good job.  Deborah rarely saw him doing physical work.  The look in her eyes as she handed him the water.  He is almost in a dream as he arrives home.  He  pushes the button in the elevator to the 5^th floor.  The elevator stops with a jolt.  The elevator door opens.  He’s greeted by the aroma of Mrs. Murphy in 5F making her famous cabbage soup.

 

Michael leaves his  table in the Clarkson Ballroom in search of Deborah. He  pushes through the door to the veranda, finds  the path to the gazebo.  Barely 15 steps forward and  the city disappears.  The lanterns are dim. He can barely see anything other than the path.  He can hear the  frogs croaking at each other, challenging each other, in their  primordial duel for territory.  A foot here a foot there.  They say people are naturally loving, friendly.  That you have to be taught to hate.  What if they are wrong?  What if even back then, our ancient reptilian ancestors were constantly fighting.  With the exception of their love of  insects, frogs are not warriors  They don’t claw or bite or ram with their horns.  They are mushy.  But they croak at each other.  Croak and croak. All night. And eat insects

 

Michael puts his key into the lock but it opens before he can turn it. Deborah stands before him. She is overcome by grief.  She has been waiting for him.  Waiting to collapse in his arms. Tears are not enough.  She needs to collapse. Needs to sob. Needs him to hold her.  Michael doesn’t say a word.    He’s thinking about what Debby needs, what he can do for her.

“Ten minutes after he got there.” She speaks slowly almost as if she is trying to comprehend what she is telling him.  She stops after each sentence,   “He found a necktie.  He was holding Lisa’s ring in his hand.”

She’s there.  At the end of the path. In the gazebo. She is staring at the water. Her arms are wrapped around herself trying to fight the cold.  As soon as she sees him she is completely undone. Michael holds her pressing his prize, which is  still in his hand, into her.  Feebly, she angrily hits at his chest, once, twice.  Then she stops as an image comes into her mind, a picture she once saw of Michael, as a child, holding on to his toy soldier. Sobs replace her tears.  Years of tears, centuries of tears.  Emotions gather from her fingers, her breasts, her womb, her bowels, her lips, a flood of tears, an ocean.  She begins to shake.   She can’t stop herself.   

  The End

 

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction  Although the characters, dialogue, and situations are completely fictional this book was inspired by a real story.  Stewart Moscovitch (not a reporter but a factory worker) filed suit against his insurance company PHS, Danbury Hospital and Vitam Center Inc. after his 16-year-old son committed suicide in July 1995.  According to the suit, Nitai Moscovitch was hospitalized at Danbury after twice attempting to kill himself. His 12 year old sister had died of cancer several years before his suicide attempt.  Eight days after admission, PHS had Moscovitch transferred to Vitam, a drug treatment center in southern Connecticut. He hung himself shortly after his arrival.  Mr. Muscovitch had begged the doctors not to discharge his son. He had been advised by a friend to claim he would abandon his son.  He was told his son would be sent to a shelter. Vitam was a compromise worked out with the doctors and the insurance company.  The Moscovitchs eventually divorced.

Federal Judge Chrisopher Droney on October 23, 1998 ruled that due to a legal technicality (the transfer of Nitai from one health facility to another) PHS was not automatically exempt from a lawsuit.  It was the first time that there was a ruling of this type.  The matter is still in litigation.

Dr. Linda Peeno, a physician who worked for 3 managed care companies before she could no longer stomach it, testified before a Congressional subcommittee on Health and the Environment on May 30, 1996.  She had no apparent impact.  Her testimony and many articles by her can be found on the internet.  Showtime produced a film Damaged Care that tells her story.

Just before September 11th Congress appeared to be on the verge of passing legislation that would allow lawsuits against HMO’s. Following September 11th the matter essentially disappeared from the political landscape.  On June 23, 2004, the United States Supreme Court unanimously decided that states could not pass laws that allow lawsuits against HMOs.  The announcement of this decision was delayed until a bigger story broke so that it might be hidden with the rest of the news (In this case Governor Rowland’s resignation provided cover), but there is also the abortion issue, which has somehow made all other issues before the Supreme Court seem trivial.  Why this issue and not the HMO issue, which directly effects everyone, how and why the news industry and politicos choose certain issues to dramatize and fight over, while concrete real life and death  issues are buried, is one of the mysteries of our time?  Or is that how it has always been?  Another perspective is that the unusual 9-0 vote supports the contention that restrictive health care is too important, the pressure too great for the justices to take this one on.  A trillion dollars worth of important.

 

This is truly a work of fiction. Insurance executives may or may not be indulging in illegal trading and no one has gone to jail, although at one point, Aetna and Cigna were each sued in Federal Court by several state medical societies for racketeering under the  Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act.  As for the illegal trading in stock options depicted in the movie there is no current claims that anything resembling it has taken place.  What has actually occurred has been much more straight forward.  The Wall Street Journal ran an expose, “Health Care Gold Mines.” It was reported that William McGuire CEO of one of the larger health insurance companies, United Health Care, has unrealized gains on stock options worth 1.8 billion dollars.  He had been given the right to “time” his stock option grants.  His timing was so extraordinary that questions have been raised that he backdated his purchases.  His associates call him “brilliant.”  Very brilliant. The Wall Street Journal’s analysts concluded that if the options were granted to him blindly, the chance of his guessing as well as he did, was 1 in 200 million.

There has been no journalism prize for coverage that exposed the health insurance industry.  But the practices of the insurance companies depicted in this book are totally factual. Most of them are from cases I have treated.   The stories about the Vanderbilt Hotel, (there has never been one in Boston),  Belize, Andrew Carnegie,  Ariana, the descriptions of  that era  are totally fictional. Totally.  Most, but not all of the other details of Vanderbilt’s life, and the quotes from him, are factual. For a further elaboration of his life see my  Commodore available at Amazon. The Belize part of this novel was pure fantasy and is the basis for my novella The Ballroom also available at Amazon.

The stories about the second grade teacher who was prematurely discharged from the hospital and killed herself without ever making it out of the waiting room and into the psychiatrist’s office is factual.  She was my patient.  Or more accurately, she sat in my waiting room that one time. So is the story of the patient with cancer in both breasts and several heart attacks.  Other aspects of Dr. Day are fictional but Robert Dailey MD head of PHS psychiatry told me that I could not have more sessions with this patient when I appealed PHS’s denial of care.  He said “she should be sent to hospice.”  All of the others stories about HMOs are based on actual clinical cases, including the young mother in the emergency room who was completely insane, claiming a spying device  was in her baby’s vagina.  Oxford, her insurance company would not allow  hospitalization. To no avail I spent hours in the emergency  room of New Milford Hospital trying to get approval for inpatient care.  I have many, many, many, many other actual stories to report.  So do hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of patients throughout the United States.  It is so common that  it has not been newsworthy.