There Should Have Been Castles Read online

  During that week I had an interesting experience at the apartment. I had returned from another illiterate day at the greeting card factory and found that Susan, the last of my three landladies, had arrived. I introduced myself to her and she eyed me curiously, more with amusement than with interest. Then, formalities behind us, we made love, after which she asked me if she was a better screw than Alice and Jessica. I said that she was superior in every category and every subdivision. This evoked a big laugh from Susan in that she wasn’t Susan at all, she was Alice. It had been so dark in the room when we first made love that I never really saw her face. Then, she left so early that I didn’t know she was gone until I came out of my trance. Fortunately, Alice was of a good nature and promised never to tease me again on the subject provided that I change the after-shave I was using to something a bit more inspiring than bay rum. I allowed her to choose the fragrance and she opted for something French—Guerlain, as I recall. And she placed me under strict orders to use it only with her and never with any of the other girls.

  Don was soon to get a job at 20th Century-Fox, in the mailroom. He was a messenger at thirty-eight dollars a week. The meager salary didn’t bother him, he was that pleased to be in show business, a field he always believed he had an affinity for. He was frankly surprised that he had gotten the job because the other young men hired were all Jewish, the result of a kind of reverse bigotry in that, in those days, the big New York-based advertising agencies were hiring, for their mailrooms, only Presbyterian Ivy Leaguers—no riffraff. And so, the movie companies, all of which maintained advertising and publicity staffs in New York, as if in retaliation to the ad agencies, hired only Jews, plus a couple Catholics, a smattering of blacks, a dash of Puerto Ricans and a random leper. Don figured that he had slipped in under the “leper” banner. “I’m their token WASP,” he said. “But I’m so grateful that I will eat a bagel every day and donate a portion of my salary to the UJA.”

  And so Don had himself a job. He was making less than I was but his vistas were much broader. He was reading scenarios—I was reading “get well” cards. I asked him to bring home a scenario because I was curious about what a movie script looked like. He said he couldn’t, it wasn’t allowed. It was top secret and he could get fired. But he brought one home anyway. “All About Eve” by Joseph Mankiewicz. It was so brilliant, so simultaneously brittle and solid, that I read it a dozen times…after which I read it no more because I didn’t have to. I had it memorized. I kept that script. Red cover, number 156. One hundred eighty pages of the best movie I ever read.

  Where I worked pretty much by myself, selling retail to the card-buying public, Don was thriving behind the scenes in a world so glamorous that it almost made me cry not to be a part of it. He would tell me of the other young men he worked with, describing them so vividly that it was as though they were in the apartment with me, sharing my last cigars.

  I yearned to be a part of it and asked Don what my chances were of passing for Jewish, especially since I was circumcised and was, therefore, an all-around good fellow. Don said that he could probably teach me a few Jewish mannerisms to go along with my circumcision but that my lack of a college degree would rule out all chances of my getting a job. Besides, there already was a full coterie of “Men of Tomorrow” (that was their official designation), twelve being the maximum. Nor was it likely that one of them would die and thus leave an opening.

  As to my circumcision, Don felt that it could only work in my favor if I ran into W. Charles Gruber in the men’s room and wanted to flash my credentials. And since W. Charles Gruber, vice-president of the whole thing, had his own private bathroom, the chances of that happening were nil and I should stop living in a dream world.

  Susan eventually flew into town, putting a dent in my circumcision that lasted a week. Things eased up when Alice announced that she was leaving TWA to marry a dentist in Cincinnati. I would miss Alice because Alice was my first, even though I couldn’t see who she was at the time. She gave me a farewell bang and said that I could return to bay rum if I liked. I told her that I would continue using Guerlain because Guerlain would always remind me of her so she banged me again, plus a few other things that she did so well.

  Jessica still came and went like the migration of elephants, and Susan did indeed make fresh orange juice though she never gave milk. But it was Alice who I really loved and the memory of her died hard.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ginnie

  1948

  Mary Ann Maitland and Walter Harrison were married in a sterile ceremony in which her dearest friend, Francine Lazenby, sang “Because” though I never really heard anyone ask “Why?” Everyone was so glad to see those two get married that you’d have thought they were, both of them, pregnant.

  It all went off cleanly, like a beheading, and lots of important people attended—at least they dressed that way—Uncle Gerald, the congressman; being the most important of all because he was the newly appointed Minority Chairman of the House Foreign Relations Committee and was being looked upon as a possible running-mate for Eisenhower in 1952.

  Two good things immediately resulted from Mary Ann’s move to Chicago. One, she was out of my life and good riddance and that went double for Old Nine-Incher. And two, I was the only child in the family and on the premises. I thought, therefore, that things would change. But nothing changed. My father kept right on painting and my mother kept on traveling. And, because I no longer had an older sister around to guide me in the paths of righteousness, I was straightaway hustled off to another private school, the lucky devils.

  It only lasted a couple of months. I caught Beverly MacNamara in bed with Louisa Demeter, which wasn’t so bad in itself except that Beverly MacNamara was a student and Louisa Demeter was an instructor. An instructor in what, I’d hate to tell you. Let’s just say it wasn’t Home Economics.

  Craftily I tried to work it to my advantage—a little innocent extortion, just to keep things alive on campus. Beverly would have to give me ten bucks a week (no big deal, her father had trillions) and Miss Demeter would have to pass me in History (my absolutely worst subject and one she taught).

  It all backfired when I was suddenly hauled up before Miss Calhoun (grande dame of the whole Whittier School for Over-sexed Girls) and confronted with James Griffin (dull-witted handyman), who, it seemed, was accusing me of making indecent demands of his person. They must have paid the sonofabitch a fortune to say that because it never did set too well with his wife. But I guess, later, when he showed her the moolah, she thought better of it and maybe even spurred him on with other Whittier girls as there was no doubt a fortune to be made in such out-and-out fucking lies.

  So there I was, fifteen and with a past: I had designs on a handyman, having offered to pay handily for his handiness. The man was quick to say that he had turned the money down and that nothing happened, but I was still stigmatized and shipped home like something out of Oliver Twist.

  My father, who had been duly informed of my impending return (my mother was away, ho-hum) dropped his pallet long enough to have a little heart-to-heart with me.

  I had looked forward to the talk because, though I didn’t much care what the rest of the world thought of me, it was important to me that my father know the truth. So, in his den all male and outdoorsy, my bags still packed and beside me, he listened as I told him exactly what had happened, after which, with the calm of Andy Hardy’s father, he spoke down at me from Mount Wisdom. “Ginnie, almost anything that a young girl does during adolescence is explainable and understandable.”

  “But, Daddy, I didn’t do anything except try a little blackmail. And I only did that as a joke.”

  “Shhhhhhh, let me finish. Please. The important thing for parents to keep in mind is that a young girl’s mind and body are in turmoil during adolescence. Desires crop-up. ‘Lust,’ if that’s the correct word, appears. It has to be contended with and ‘conquered’—if that’s the word.”

  Up until then I never had an inkling
as to what a stuffed ass my father was. I’d never really talked to him. I had merely watched him move around, playing Master of the Manor, Squire of the Land. Could it be that, despite all the wealth passed on to him, they had allotted him no brains? “Daddy, you’ve got it all wrong. Really. I know they must have made it sound pretty bad, but, when you hear my side of it—”

  But he wasn’t listening to me anymore. He was listening to himself and he liked the sound of his voice and the brilliance of his paternal bullshit. “I think, Ginnie, that it’s important for you to know that, no matter what you do, I’m always here for you to talk to. However, there’s one rule—no lies. There must be no lies between us if I’m to be of any help to you. Do you understand that, Ginnie? Ginnie? Are you listening?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was my father, pontificating as he was condemning me, and I had a quick flash of what it had to be like for my mother, always being forgiven for her transgressions when, just maybe, she hadn’t been transgressing at all. And maybe, if she was, maybe my father’s need to forgive was so great that, to please him, she had to continually do things that he could forgive her for. Or at least pretend to do them. It suddenly had all the earmarks of a Gothic comedy. My beloved father was seemingly both a patronizing clod and a twelfth century bumpkin, and I could hear the idol shatter in my head. “Honesty, Ginnie, honesty is the secret of a good relationship, of any relationship. Honesty. If you and I can effect such a relationship then perhaps I can be helpful to you in whatever crises occur. And they will occur, they always do. Especially in the teen years. And I want you to know that I’ll always be here, my door always open. And all I’ll ever insist on is—”

  “Honesty.”

  “Exactly. Now then, if we understand each other on that point, perhaps you’d like to tell me exactly what happened because only then can what I say have any value. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because if I’m asked for guidance on an untruth then any conclusion I come to or anything I say to you will have no bearing, no—validity, if that’s the word.”

  “That’s the word.”

  “Very well. Now tell me what happened, exactly what happened.” He sat back in his big chair, all puffed up with how well he was handling what could all too easily have become a very sticky matter.

  I chose the path of least resistance because I really didn’t care to hang around much longer and watch my father turn into plum pudding. “Well, Daddy—about Beverly MacNamara and Miss Demeter—you were right. It never happened at all.”

  “Ahhhh.” He was so pleased at having pulled the truth from me you’d have thought the Louvre had bought one of his paintings.

  “I made it all up, to cover myself.”

  “I understand.”

  “Because the truth of it is, Daddy—I mean, you do want me to be honest, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “The truth is—I offered Mr. Griffin, James Griffin, ten dollars if, if…”

  “If what?”

  “If he’d let me have a gander at his penis.”

  He didn’t bat an eye. His pristine daughter, baring the depths of her debasement, and the old bloke doesn’t even inhale. “And why did you do that?”

  “Because ten dollars was all I had.” I hoped he would laugh and see what a jerk he was being, but he didn’t. He just continued on in his role of Judge Hardy, like his kid was asking for a raise in his allowance. I was so crushed I almost ran from the room. But then I became fascinated with the game of how far I could go without Daddy pissing in his pants. But he wasn’t pissing and he wasn’t laughing. He was just asking, like in a game of bridge, like, “Why did I play that card?” “Why did you want to see his penis, Ginnie?”

  “Gee whiz, Daddy—”

  “Honesty. Ginnie, we’re dealing with honesty. Why did you want to see his penis?”

  I straightened up like a kid doing the Pledge of Allegiance. “I wanted to see his penis because I heard, from some of the other girls, that it was enormous and attractive.”

  “I see. Other girls had paid Mr. Griffin to reveal his penis?”

  “Half the school. I don’t know how he ever got any work done.”

  “And did he show it to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “So did I.”

  “And how did you feel when you saw it?”

  “You want me to be honest?”

  “Yes.”

  “I felt cheated.”

  “Why?”

  “It wasn’t as big as I’d been told it was.”

  “Did you have something to compare it to?”

  “No. I’d only been told it was huge, and I didn’t think it was.”

  “Did you verbalize your disappointment?”

  “In a way.”

  “How?”

  “I asked for five dollars back.” I was giving my father a chance to display either a sense of humor or a touch of intelligence. Failing that, I was going to give him something really fantastic to forgive me for.

  “And did he give you five dollars back?”

  “No. He said he had nothing smaller than a twenty.”

  “How did you settle it?”

  “Well, gee whiz, Daddy, it’s getting a little embarrassing, you know? Discussing it so clinically? I mean, wow!”

  “Ginnie, how did you settle it?”

  “He put his penis in my hand and I soon had ten dollars worth.” I couldn’t believe I’d said that, but it was my voice so it must have been me.

  He took a short pause. That pleased me. At least he was beginning to wonder. Then he pulled himself mightily together and— “Then what happened?”

  “Daddy!”

  “What happened?”

  “Well—I squeezed it—his penis. Daddy, gee whiz!”

  “For how long?”

  “Till he agreed to give me my ten dollars back.” I waited for him to laugh. Laugh, I thought. Laugh, you imbecile!

  His mouth dropped but he still hung in. “And did he give you the ten dollars back?”

  “He gave me twenty.”

  He was fussing with some things on his desk. “I must admit, I’m at a loss as to what school to apply to. Surely they’ll check with Whittier and find out everything. Ginnie, quite frankly, you’ve given me a great deal to think about.” I turned, grabbed my bag, and got the hell out of there. When I reached the hall, I was laughing, but when I got to my room I was crying. I wanted my mother. Where was my mother?

  My mother, as it turned out, was in San Francisco, some kind of clinic opening or hospital dedication. I guess she hit the main entrance with a bedpan full of champagne and they rolled the patients right in. My father had apparently gotten in touch with her because mother was home before the week was out, and all the patients had to be sick without her fabulous face to give them something to live for.

  During that week my father, with my help, managed very neatly to avoid me. He was painting some kind of landscape—Iowa, I think—and had his meals brought to him in his studio. It was all terribly dramatic, the artist at work, sealing himself off from the world, holed up in Iowa while his daughter rattled around in the big house listening to Buddy Clark records and reading E. E. Cummings.

  I don’t know whether my father was mortified or mystified. I don’t know if he realized what a dope he’d made of himself or if he didn’t really see me as some kind of modern day duBarry, bedding down aristocrats and peasants alike in hopes of avoiding war with England. All I knew was that in the first trauma of my life (I’m not including Walter because that was just silly) my father chose to take the word of a schoolful of dykes over mine, and from then on it was okay with me if he never came out of his room. He could stay in there and paint Iowa, Wyoming, Alabama, and Greece—and then he could wallpaper the whole place with Russia; I just didn’t want to see him anymore.

  My mother returned and, after an hour of putting on her face, appeared at my door. Damnit, but she wa
s beautiful. Why couldn’t I look like that?

  She gave me a little kiss and her perfume went delicately to my brain. I hadn’t realized how young she was, many years younger than my father who I knew to be fifty-nine. She asked me to please tell her what had happened and, just to test her, to see if she didn’t share the same midget intellect of my father, I told her I had been fucking since I was twelve years old—anything in pants, from Harold, our butler, to Mr. Jamison, the friendly druggist, to Walter Harrison, my recent brother-in-law.

  Mother listened to it all, saying nothing. But when I included Walter in my conquests she laughed so hard that one of her earrings popped off. I guess naming Walter as one of my amours was just too hard to swallow.

  Her laughter was delightful and I remember wishing that I had heard more of it in the house. She pulled herself together and asked again what happened at Whittier and I told her and she believed me and I loved her for it. And then we both relaxed and let our hair down.

  She told me that she had every confidence in my being able to handle my own life, that contrary to what my face would have me believe, I would one day be pretty and how lucky I would be not to inherit her breasts (or lack of them). She was sensational. Sitting in my room with me she was suddenly the sister I never truly had. She was bright and funny and inventive, and, since her name was Maggie would I please call her Maggie.

  We gabbed—it must have been for hours—and I learned how she and my father had gotten married. It was like a Joan Crawford movie. Her father was a poor but honest plumber with the emphasis on the poor. Originally from Camden, New Jersey, she was sixteen and working in a crummy Philadelphia diner that various artists frequented when my tall and handsome father came in and ordered some terribly romantic spare ribs. She could see that he was rich and attractive and that here was her chance to get out of the hole her family had her living in. So she deliberately dropped the gooey spare ribs into my father’s lap and looked so great crying that my father, evidently a boob even then, ended up consoling her over a lobster dinner at one of Philadelphia’s finest seafood spots.