Pictures of the Past (28 page)
J
ason Stone had always exhibited a maturity and strength of character beyond his years, and that is what his parents, Rachel and Richard, were hoping would surface when they presented him with the news that they were relocating to Chicago. The year was 1979 and Jason was ten years old.
“We’re what?” was his initial response. “I can’t leave my friends. What are you thinking? What is this really about?” Instinctively, tears were welling up in his eyes. “You’re not hiding something, are you? You’re not getting divorced, are you?” he ambushed them accusingly. Richard and Rachel looked at each other more than lovingly and couldn’t hold back little laughs. “No, darling,” his mother had said quickly. “You know that is not true.”
“I’m not sure I know anything anymore,” he returned. “It’s just that every day it seems like the parents of someone at school are getting divorced. And half the time at games the kids have one mom dropping them off, a stepdad picking up, a stepmom cheering— another having a tantrum with a dad and then the next thing you know my friend has left school and moved farther uptown or to Long Island.”
Rachel and Richard again were sharing knowing looks and shrugs. Their young son had so graphically articulated the scenarios at many of the pricey Manhattan prep schools, where parents had too much money and too little time for anything but themselves—where children were often one more commodity for display. Husbands were leaving families for colleagues, secretaries, and nannies, and wives were multitasking with jobs, workouts, lovers, or any list of priorities that did not include raising kids. Their son needed the strongest reassurance at this point that they were an extremely intact family.
“Jason. We are moving—all three of us—together— and happily—back to my hometown of Chicago. All the reasons are good. Your New York grandparents, Dad’s parents, have relocated to Florida, and since Aunt Ida and Uncle Chal married, they are away for half of the year themselves. If we move to Chicago, my parents can enjoy watching you grow up and we can be there for them as they have needs. It all began because Dad’s firm presented him with a wonderful opportunity to be a managing partner in their Chicago office.
Architecture Today
is anxious for me to work out of that area and has given me the title of Midwest editor.”
Rachel knew she was speaking quickly and in an almost artificially upbeat manner, as if her tone and cadence could obscure the reality of what enrolling in a new school and separating from old friends might entail.
“I don’t suppose it’s like I have any choice in this decision, anyway; at least you can be honest with me in that,” Jason said.
At this point, Richard took over. “Jason, one thing you can be assured of—to us you are number one—we would never do something that would in any way hurt you. We know that Chicago is going to be a wonderful hometown for Mom again and now for all of us. Our job opportunities will mean security for us and for our futures, including your education. And we like the pace of Chicago. It is a big city, but maybe a little less intense than New York.
“You asked if you have a choice and you do. If you truly feel that you cannot cope with the news, then Mom and I will reevaluate our decision. But we hope you will choose to be happy and excited and to welcome this adventure.”
“By the way,” Rachel added, not above sweetening the pot with a small bribe, “your grandpa is waiting for the word that we’re really going to live by him so he can pick out a new racing bike for you. He’s so happy that you will live where there are safe streets and bicycle paths.”
Suddenly Jason’s sullen look was lifted—he was still, after all, a ten-year-old boy confined to walking and taxi riding in his Manhattan environment. “Well, that would be nice,” he said softly, trying to maintain his pitiable attitude for he was enjoying the sympathy it was evoking. But he couldn’t restrain himself. “No,” he finally interjected to his parents’ initial dismay. And then he quickly added, “No, he can’t pick it out himself. I’ll go with Grandpa to Spinner’s Cyclery—I remember I saw that they have one in Chicago too. I want to pick out the bike.”
And three months later, as the school term ended, Jason and his grandfather left the bicycle shop rolling the sleekest royal blue and steel gray bike, the newest model—The Courtland.
W
hile his wife, Emily, constantly protested his traveling for business, in reality, when Taylor was home, he was inattentive and distant, even dismissive of her. Earlier in the evening, she had approached him while modeling a new formal gown and reminding him to begin preparations for that evening’s charity event. Once again, however, he accused her of caring more about her looks than about any cause and challenging her to choose an existing dress from her wardrobe and to donate the difference. Naturally, she stormed off in tears. But Taylor made no move to placate her or to apologize. He was content to spend time alone in his study, simply using the remote to scroll through the channels on the television set, when suddenly something caught his attention. It was some sort of special presentation featuring a hotel dining room, with the cameras scanning everything from the rich, textured wood furniture to the antique dishes. He was attempting to raise the volume when the venue changed to highlight the veneer of a massive and lengthy maple wood bar. He knew he had been to this location, but he could not immediately place it. He had a familiarity with the spot to the point where he could say to himself, “I sat on that chair,” or he could picture the bartender drying a wine goblet and then holding it up to the light to check for water spots.
Taylor was becoming increasingly frustrated. He could put no name to the property. He had turned to the program after it had started—but the familiarity of the lobby, the details of the columns and arches of the foyer, pulled him in—and then finally, fading to the commercial, the name was revealed. It was the Waldorf=Astoria Hotel in New York City—the venerable institution where he stayed at the end of the summer of 1937. Those were the few days he had spent in deep contemplation of his future as he returned from Europe, from meeting Sarah Berger, when he delayed venturing on to Chicago where Emily Kendall would be waiting. Could it really have been fifty years ago that he ate in that dining room and planned for a perfect future that did not materialize?
He was glued to the television set like a child returning from school, ignoring all other stimulus while nibbling on a snack. He was, in fact, just reaching for the bowl of mixed nuts and pretzels at the corner of his expansive desk when once again he was magnetized to the screen.
“And now we return to our special presentation focusing today on New York City’s Waldorf=Astoria Hotel, with host, Rachel Gold.”
He heard her name and his reaction made him spill half of the assortment on the floor. He moved closer to the set.
“Thank you,” Rachel was saying, “and welcome back to the glorious ballroom of this grand hotel. Imagine it is 1940 and you are a descendant of Mrs. Astor’s famous 400 list. How many events during any one year might you have attended here? The hotel itself has meticulously documented many of the society weddings. Picture the elegant bride entering this room filled with hundreds of roses—her train so long that it extended down the first five rows of seats. In one bridal party alone, two of the attendants fainted from standing straight and still during the extended procession and ceremony…”
At this point, Rachel turned to the escorting hotel manager. “We have with us Mr. Jay Montgomery, manager of the Waldorf for the past twenty years. Mr. Montgomery, you run quite an establishment here. Can you take our viewers on a behind-the-scenes look at what it takes to keep this place ticking?”
“Thank you, Rachel.” He beamed into the camera, but then turned back to the hostess in a less self-conscious manner. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to the world of the Waldorf=Astoria.”
“May I ask one more question before you continue, as our audience may be intrigued by your unusual logo, as I was.”
“You mean the double hyphen, the equal sign between the words Waldorf and Astoria. It is no mistake. It is just one more thing that distinguishes us. It was meant as a symbol not only combining two origirial hotels, but combining the original established standards with the newly constructed edifice.”
Mr. Montgomery seemed to feel comfortable as a speaker and Rachel appeared impressed with his next segue. “Yes, if you are thinking the name is sounding familiar,” he said, again almost to the camera. “Your Waldorf salad at lunch is a creation of our very own maitre d’hotel, our most illustrious Oscar Tschirky. And credit him also with your veal Oscar at dinner.”
Continuing her walk through an ornate corridor of the hotel, she noted a gallery of photographs delineating the history of famous events and guests. “Here is a picture from 1933 of a gathering of chefs of the hotel, all in their tall white hats, led by the stripe-suited and robust Oscar. They are holding up champagne glasses of Dry Monopole, dated 1925, and toasting the end of Prohibition.
“Now we move to a picture of Crown Princess Ingrid of Denmark dining with Thomas J. Watson, president of IBM. It is May 1939.” The picture is not flattering for the princess who towers over her dinner companion. She is caught in a wide-mouthed speaking pose, her royal jewelry, from her necklace to her crown, overpowering his display of medals—her earrings competing with the hotel chandeliers.
“And in 1956, Prince Rainier III of Monaco and his fiancée, actress Grace Kelly, announced their engagement in the Waldorf’s Conrad Suite.” The camera closes in on this photograph, as well. As Miss Kelly sits in a glamorous evening gown with long gloves and a pearl choker, her handsome prince stands by her side, leaning on her chair. The rows of medals on his tuxedo are even with the top of her head, his trademark thin moustache adding to his distinguished European look.
Taylor was mesmerized by Rachel Gold. She was not hard to recognize; she looked as young and fresh as the day she entered his home, but perhaps more polished. She must be about thirty-seven years old, he was thinking. The same age his son Court would have been. She was beautiful and self-assured. “I know he is eighteen—he’ll be in college soon,” he actually said aloud to himself. He was thinking now of Rachel Gold’s son, his grandson, “Rusty,” who had been Jason Gold Stone for many years, and he tormented himself once again, wondering if he shouldn’t try to connect with him.
But no,
he thought,
that would only be good for me and I want what is best for him.
Luckily at that point, as if on cue, his precious granddaughter, his ward, seventeen-year-old Sylvie, distracted him as she entered his study dressed elegantly in the prom dress she had just purchased, and she approached him as a young princess wanting the approval of the king. And then he was confident again he had made the right decision. As Sylvie maneuvered through adolescence and the woman she would become peeked out ever so slightly now and again, he would not risk reintroducing her father’s chaotic past and disturbing the stable environment he had created for her.
E
ven as he approached his ninetieth year, Taylor Woodmere was not a man of idle pursuits. While he enjoyed the serenity and seclusion of his study, with the comfort of his weathered leather chair and the cavernous walls of his volumes of books, even there, he was always at work. Though his father and grandfather before him would be credited with amassing the family fortune, Taylor had been responsible for maintaining the tremendous growth of the company during his tenure as president and chief executive officer. He had loved making money—and spending it. He was not immune to the lure of luxuries—automobiles, vacations, art, and the like, but he also loved that he employed a great number of people—that more families than his own depended on his business acumen. He was a pioneer in health benefits for company employees. Through the years, he had sat on government advisory boards for labor practices. He was a big businessman with a strong social conscience.
Years ago, he had prided himself on his beautiful handwriting, though he now considered it a lost art. Then, he would stay up late into the night and pen letters to friends, business associates, and government figures. And now with the onset of arthritis, he was proud to have transitioned to the keyboard touch of the computer, even e-mailing his newer associates, as, naturally, so many of the old colleagues were gone.
He especially enjoyed communicating by computer almost daily with Sylvie, the beloved granddaughter that he had raised. Often, Taylor would recall when Sylvie transitioned from being a weekend visitor at her grandparents’ home to a permanent resident in Kenilworth. As she matured into a bright, confident and capable woman, he had actually hoped that Sylvie might step into a position of authority in the company, since her father, Court, had never met that potential, and had died before the age of thirty-five. But Sylvie had chosen her own path in her efforts at self-discovery. She had become a respected psychologist, the author of several articles in professional magazines, which today were among his library collection.
They did, however, work together on one major project. Taylor was still often seen about his community and even downtown in Chicago, still active in the Woodmere Foundation. The foundation funded grants in many areas, from medical research to work internship programs for minority young adults, targeting both high school graduates in the trades and college graduates. The foundation had been his true baby. He had certainly received more pleasure from it than from his own child.
This failure with Court had been a deep pain that Taylor had carried through his life. Whether valid or not, he bore tremendous guilt for his son’s behavior and shortcomings. Why had he not been more empathetic and nurturing as Court was growing up? Why had he not remembered his own struggles with adolescent insecurities, his own fears of disappointing his father? Initially, he had tried to place the blame on Emily’s poor influence, remembering the positive role that his own mother had played in bolstering his self-esteem. But eventually he blamed himself for not being at home enough as Court was growing up, for not recognizing that Court did not possess a constitution strong enough to shoulder the weight of the Woodmere legacy. Although Taylor, himself, was not so dissimilar from his father, Addison Woodmere, Jr., and his grandfather, “the senior Addison,” both men of great accomplishment, they did each expound that the son of the next generation, the continuation of the dynasty, was of primary importance. In this, Taylor had failed his family. His son, Courtland, had basically peaked in high school and had become an incredibly challenging young adult, even before he was asked to leave Northwestern University after his second year. How ironic, that this son had achieved the one milestone that none of the Woodmere patriarchs could. He was, unbeknownst to almost anyone including himself, the father of two children.
More and more lately, Taylor’s thoughts reverted back to that day in 1975, when a beautiful young woman, looking for Court, had entered his home with her little boy, and how he had followed the life of that little boy, Jason Gold, for over thirty years. No matter what, he knew that Court had come through in one respect— given him two wonderful grandchildren, one to be openly proud of—and one to clandestinely enjoy.
