William F. Buckley Jr. (27 page)

“… It’s quite possible,” the form letter read, “that you have heard him play. He is quite magnificent! If you have, then you know the truly miraculous thing about ‘Jackie’ (that is what they
call him—I call him Giacomo) is that he is one-armed. Yes! A piano player with only a left hand! Like the great Paul Wittgenstein, who died in March. Maybe you never heard of him, the great left-handed pianist, brother of the famous philosopher? Ravel and Strauss wrote music just for him. Oh well, we never said a Smith education touched in at
all
bases, did we? Anyway, with Giacomo it’s congenital, but he started as a little boy in Italy (his family didn’t come here until just before the war), and I swear, well, you’ll know for yourselves when you hear him play—with one hand he can accomplish more than some pianists with three hands. Musicians who have heard him play (he went through Juilliard) are so inspired by Giacomo that several have written, or have promised to write,
one-handed piano pieces!
dedicated to him! Aranjuez (the Spanish composer) wrote one for him just last year. It is very substantial, fifty-two minutes, and very beautiful. Maybe we can have a party one day soon (at Smith? At a reunion?—I’ll write Polly and propose it!) and he will play it for all of us. Giacomo has been married before, it was a terrible mistake. If I had known him, I mean, even as a friend, I think I could have steered him away. There’s a little girl, but she lives with her mother in Wisconsin. Anyway, our wedding will be ‘private’—just his parents, his sister, my brother (did you know Mom died last year? What a saint!). But after that we will drive through New England so that as many of my friends as possible in that part of the world can meet Giacomo. And the month after, we’ll drive through California so he can meet my western friends. Our permanent address is 100 West 75th, New York 10023, the phone is KL5-7223. I can’t wait to see you again and for you to meet Giacomo. Thank you for sharing this special joy with—Your friend, Harriet.”

Caroline bundled off a wedding present and wrote to say she would be delighted to meet “Giacomo/Jackie” whenever they passed by. She was surprised when, only two weeks later, Harriet rang. She was in Boston, she had planned to drive with Giacomo on a leisurely swing south, but he had got a call from his agent and would be performing in Dallas, replacing a pianist who had taken ill—“Giacomo played for the Dallas Music Development
Center two years ago and they loved him, so they’re having him back.” Under the circumstances, Harriet was going to drive by herself straight to New York, but if convenient, would have dinner and spend the night at Greenwich—“the last day of my honeymoon!” Of course, Caroline said, and the schedule was confirmed for the following day.

Danny groaned on being told Harriet would be there. “She’s such a talkative old bag.”

“In the first place,” Caroline continued her knitting, “she is a very pretty woman, not an old bag. In the second place, yes, she talks, but she talks mostly about other people. About their concerns—”

“I suppose you will now tell me that to talk about other people is the Christian thing to do.”

“Well, yes it is. Christian doctrine tells you to love your neighbor. Harriet loves her neighbor. She is bent on finding out how she can help her neighbor—well, her friends. She can’t do that without asking about them. Asking about their family, their problems.”

Danny continued reading the afternoon paper.

Caroline put down her knitting and went over to Suzy, the four-year-old playing in the corner of the room with her giant jigsaw puzzle. Caroline looked over her shoulder. Suzy was attempting to squeeze the rear end of the horse behind the head of a cow. She had begun to hammer down on the plywood piece.

“Not there, darling. Over there.”

“I don’t like it there.”

“Well, that’s where it belongs. Have you ever seen a cow with the tail of a horse?”

“Yuss.”

“When?”

“Yussterday.”

Caroline laughed, bent over and picked her up. “We have to go to bed now, darling. Go kiss your father good-night.”

Danny looked up from the
New York Post
, tousled Suzy’s hair, returned to the paper and said, “Good night, sweetie.”

The following afternoon Margie called from the office. Danny
had asked her to call, she said, to say that a business meeting would keep him so late in New York he would spend the night in town. Caroline thanked her. Danny had decided to give Harriet a wide berth.

Harriet brought presents for all the children, told the three youngest a ghost story during the children’s dinner, kissed them all good-night and, accepting a glass of wine, sank back into an armchair, chattering first about the children and how beautiful and gratifying they were, and didn’t Toby have a little bit of a temper? She then spoke about Giacomo and how wonderful it was to be married to someone she could not only love, but also admire. Caroline felt it coming, and it did.

“Now,” Harriet said, “since Danny isn’t here, it’s really easier to talk. How is everything going?”

“Danny is distracted. His business—the hotels—takes a lot of time, and keeps him away.… On the other hand, you know, Harriet, it’s probably not altogether a bad thing that he is away—I figured it out the other night. Last year he was gone a total of a hundred and twenty days—”

“About a third of the time.” Harriet would file that datum, Caroline knew. “That means two plus days per week, average of, say, ten days per month.”

“Well, I didn’t figure it out that way. I counted the nights he spent away—away either from here or from the family when we’re in Newport or Palm Beach. My point is that when he
is
here, he is not completely happy. He quarrels with me, and doesn’t pay very much attention to the children, though I do think he has a sneaker for Suzy. So? Better he should be away one third of the time than the whole of the time.”

“He’s—talked about breaking up?”

“No. No, no. But when he is here he does perfunctory games with the children, plops down with the newspapers, magazines, occasionally a book. Drifts into his study and is on the telephone for as much as a half hour. If there is a guest, somebody he likes, or—let’s face it—somebody who is influential and might be helpful if he runs for the Senate, his face lights up.”

“Does he have a mistress?”

“Yes,” Caroline said, turning her glass on its coaster.

“How do you know?”

“I think I’d probably have pieced it together from this and that. The occasional very discreet phone call—door closed, phonograph record on—the difficulty of tracking him down when he is away and I actually need to consult him—Toby’s polio scare, for instance. I found a matchbox, cleaning out his jacket one day, from the Bel Air Hotel. Why should he pick up a matchbox?—he doesn’t smoke—at a hotel he doesn’t stay at—the Bel Air is a competitor of the Trafalgar. But then—”

“Smoking gun?”

Caroline nodded. She bent her head down more sharply to her knitting. When she spoke her voice was unsteady.

“Yes. It was an anonymous letter.” She laughed briefly. “You always think of anonymous letters, at least I do, as made up of snippets from newspapers of different-size type, different fonts, maybe a little ungrammatical, like ‘
WATCH FOR YOUR LIFE BECAUSE YOU WILL SOON MEET YOUR MMAKER
.’ Two M’s in ‘maker.’ But this was really odd.”

Caroline paused to think. Then, “Harriet?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to hear it?”

“God, yes.”

Caroline put down her knitting, left the room, went into the hall, and in a few minutes was back, a sheet of paper and envelope in hand.

“The postmark is Berkeley, California. The letter is typewritten. It is even dated—March 1, 1965. Ready?”

Harriet poured another glass of wine. “Ready.”

“ ‘Dear Mrs. O’Hara: You will perhaps be less resentful of my anonymity if you force yourself to answer the question, “Why
should
an informant, on such a mission as this, identify himself?” There are reasons why it does not make sense to divulge my identity, none that argue any use in doing so, let alone any obligation to do so.’ ”

Harriet whistled. “He sounds like Lord Chesterfield.”

Caroline continued. “ ‘Your husband, Daniel O’Hara, has been—I use a Spanish idiom—“making house” with a young woman in Los Angeles. When Mr. O’Hara is in town, he spends the night with her at the Bel Air Hotel. Occasionally they travel together, as for instance to Acapulco not long ago. I cannot absolutely predict the intended arrangements between them, but the liaison has lasted two years.

“ ‘What is my purpose in writing to you? I am of the young generation who believe in women’s rights. If a man betrays his vows, his wife should know it, as this will widen the choices she has: to ignore the infidelity, to confront her husband or to terminate the marriage.

“ ‘What is my proof? I am not in a position to give you proof—I am not, for instance, a freelance photographer—but even if I were, I’m not sure I’d be disposed to give it to you. It is this simple: If you wish proof, the next time your husband travels to Los Angeles, retain a private investigator to follow his movements. For your convenience, I enclose the relevant listings from the Los Angeles Yellow Pages directory. You will see there are a number of agencies ready to help you, should you wish to get professional help.’ ”

Caroline paused and Harriet spoke gravely. “Is that it?”

“No, actually. He adds a P.S. ‘If your husband gives you a hard time and you want to slow him down, ask him what really happened to his mother’s necklace the day before you were married.’ ”

“What’s that all about?”

“I don’t know. I dimly remember Rachel losing a necklace. It’s hardly important.” Caroline then held up the enclosure that came with the letter. “Here are the listings from the Yellow Pages.”

Harriet’s eyes stretched up, then down. She was silent. Then, “As Jackie—Giacomo—would say, What kind of a cat wrote that letter?”

Caroline picked up her knitting. Thelma came in. Dinner was ready.

The two women, seated in the candlelit dining room at one
end of the Sheraton table, had a problem trying to focus on other subjects while dinner was being served. But they made the effort, and Harriet talked about Giacomo and his practice routine, about the recording he would make next month of Ravel’s “Study for a Left Hand,” of Harriet’s decision to apply for a job with an advertising agency in New York, to which she could bring the experience she had accumulated in Los Angeles. Caroline talked about the children, their schools, and about Henry, and the tragic death of his interpreter, who over the year they were together had become like a son. Both agreed that the situation in Vietnam was bad, but certainly, with the infusion of a quarter-million U.S. fighting men, the war would be soon over.

At last dinner was finished and they went back to the little living room. Harriet wasted no time.

“Have you any idea who wrote that letter? I don’t mean what
person
wrote that letter, but what
kind
of person wrote it?”

“No. It’s postmarked Berkeley. Sounds to me like an academic type, maybe a graduate student. But begin with the beginning: You’ve heard it. Do you doubt that what he says is true?”

Harriet shook her head. “No. I don’t. What are you going to do? Have you decided?”

“Yes—I have decided. I mean, I have decided what should be done, and what I want done. What I can’t be absolutely certain of is that I’ll have the strength to do what I have decided to do. Is that too complicated, Harriet dear?”

“I understand what you are saying, but not what your decision is.”

Caroline reached for her coffee cup. She spoke, it seemed, to the cup, not to Harriet. “I think there is a point in trying to do the ‘right’ thing. And for quite a few years now I have thought that the right thing continues to be—right—never mind what its appeal. I have a moderate amount of pride, and I’d satisfy it hugely if I changed the locks to this house before Danny comes in tomorrow. I could easily get the private eye in Los Angeles to lock up the legal case for me—that would be good economic footwork, right, Harriet? Then …”

“Then what?”

“Exactly. Then what? I get the house, maybe five thousand dollars a month. The children are without a father, I am without a husband.”

Harriet began to speak. Caroline raised her hand. “Wait. You’re about to run into the business of how can I sleep with a man who’s sleeping with another woman. I don’t pretend this is a so-what question. It’s been rough, that part of it, since I found out. And it’s for that reason, because it’s rough, that I quickly had to come up with it. Meaning, to say to myself: I’ll have to find the strength. I
know
what is the right thing. For my children, for me. And guess what, Harriet? For my husband. After this run with the lady in Los Angeles he may have got it out of his system. Granted, he may end up wanting a divorce, in which case there’s nothing I can do about it. But both of us know, from personal experience but also from our reading, these things happen—and marriages survive. Not always, but sometimes. And …” Here Caroline needed her handkerchief, the tears streaming from her eyes. She had to pause before she could pronounce the words she wanted to speak. “I feel that if I do what God would want me to do, I can’t be doing the wrong thing.”

She had said it and now, her eyes dry, and she looked up at Harriet, and her eyes had back the old spark, and that little buoyant sense of detachment. Harriet extended her hand, Caroline took it.

L
ILA DIDN’T OFTEN press him so insistently, so over the telephone Danny said okay, okay, but why did Cutter Malone have to be there? Technical questions? Too technical for Danny? Okay, four o’clock, Union Club.

He buzzed Cutter. “Lila—my sister—has set up a meeting, absolutely insists you be there, she says it’s something very important to her. She is my kid sister, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was some appeal centering on the FDR business, or maybe it has to do with her dissertation—yes, it’s got to be that. Because I received the galleys last week with a covering note from her. Gibbon couldn’t have been more excited when the
Rise and Fall
galleys came in. Maybe she’ll put in to have us order a copy for every room in the Trafalgar chain, along with King James.
Anyway, she said it wouldn’t take too long. Four o’clock, Union Club,
mañana. Hasta mañana
, Cutter.”