Roscoe (36 page)

“Stop at the grocery,” Roscoe said to Joey. “Get me four Hershey bars. I won’t have time for lunch.”

And when he was gone Roscoe asked Hattie, “Do you think Elisha ever got it on with Pamela?”

“God knows she was ready,” Hattie said. “And he did have a bit of a stable back then, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know how serious he ever was about that.”

“He was amused by women.”

“Many are. He was also at a low point, with the mill and the loss of his daughter. And he was drinking too much. He was in New York often, and she did live there.”

“Why are you bringing this up now?”

“I’m trying to imagine him as Gilby’s father.”

Hattie went silent at that, and in her silence Roscoe again sees the finale of the convention, the thrill, the bathos really, of the reconciliation on that stage when FDR shakes hands with Al
and says, before a hundred newsmen and the whirring newsreel cameras, “I’m glad to see you, Al, and that comes from the heart.” And Al retorts, “How are you, old
potato?” Hats fly into the air, and roars erupt from the headless, hatless mob at the restoration of affection between its not-quite and next presidents. Even Roscoe feels, against his will,
this ready-to-wear emotion in his throat as enmity is publicly buried and harmony rises from the grave. But Al really will not stay harmonious for very long after this night, for it will quickly
become clear that he will never be a New Deal insider, that his days of power and influence are over. And he will then become FDR’s vigorous enemy. Nor are Roscoe and Patsy destined to be New
Deal wheelers. Their dream—the Patsy dream that Roscoe borrowed—of proximate power at a more exalted level, also died with Elisha’s defeat. We came so close. But that’s that and quit
brooding, says Roscoe. Think of tonight as the festive prelude to FDR’s presidential victory, which is only a month away: a Democrat in the White House at long last, a Democrat up at the
Capitol.

Roscoe, Patsy, and their Albany legion will officially bury all rivalries, will deliver heavy pluralities for every Democrat on the ticket. They will awake on the election’s morning-after
and Roscoe will call Patsy to say for the first, but not last, time, “Pat, we are Democrats, remember? And we are steeped in Democracy. We own the city, the county, the state, and the nation.
Things could be worse.”

They also own the splendor of the night that follows the convention’s end, the midnight streets as bright and crowded as Times Square at the theater hour, lines forming in front of the
restaurants, dance bands carrying on with their hot and sweet duty at the hotels, speakeasies guarded by plainclothes Albany cops against untimely raids by dry agents who should mind their own
business on a night like this. Lights will burn all night long in The Gut, a time to get well, girls, and, in the Ten Eyck’s ballroom, Elisha’s private party is throbbing for half the
town. Roscoe in memory sees his allies and kindred strangers shoulder to shoulder in the social afterglow of all that political stardust. He sees Hattie being wooed by a state senator whose name
has long been erased from Roscoe’s memory. Bart Merrigan is ready to deck whoever pinched his wife on the elevator, but Bart can’t decide which of three men did it. The Democratic women
are in great demand by the randy Manhattan delegates, and when Roscoe brushes against Veronica he says, “I remember you,” and she answers, “And I you.” Waxey’s beer is
on tap, and Roscoe sees Mush monitoring the movement of two more kegs of it; but the Waxey-Mush axis will soon be redundant, the real goods coming back, and Roscoe’s Stanwix will again become
the label of choice at political gatherings, also at all saloons hoping to prosper in the city. Mike Pantone’s six-piece jazz band is playing “Walking My Baby Back Home,” and in a
corner to the right of the band, partly hidden by a potted palm, Roscoe sees Alex offering his silver hip flask to his Aunt Pamela, precocious youthful reveler joining the party. They learn
quickly.

Thirteen years later, alone with Hattie in the back seat of his car, Roscoe will ask her, “Where did Alex stay that night? Did he have a room at the hotel, or did you get him
one?”

“Wouldn’t he have stayed out at Tivoli?”

“I doubt it. He was into the action. Do you remember seeing him at any point that night?”

“I remember him looking very young and very cute, and talking to women.”

“Which women?”

“Older women. That’s who were there. There weren’t many his age.”

“Which older women?”

“Damn it, Roscoe, how can I remember? Maddie Corrigan or Dodie Vance, maybe. I remember thinking they found a way to send their husbands home. And Pamela.”

“Alex with Pamela.”

“He was dancing with her, and I thought it was his social shyness, hanging out with the family, not quite ready to step out with a stranger. Does this surprise you?”

“Nothing surprises me, old Hat.”

And Roscoe mused on whether a one-night stand on Jay Street might have moved to Pamela’s place in New York. Alex often went down to the city from New Haven on weekends. It would explain
his anxiety over Gilby’s custody case, and his fierce hostility to Pamela. And while Pamela’s line, “It’s a wise child that knows its father,” means nothing to Elisha,
who’s beyond scandal, it could weigh as a genuine threat to Alex, who isn’t. A theory. And Roscoe can tell no one.

Roscoe’s Prayer to Elisha

Beau Geste
(1)

Judge Francis Finn in shirtsleeves, his robe on a hanger on the corner coatrack, sat at his desk in his chambers, a wall of law books behind him, and watched the two
benefactors who put him in this chair, Roscoe and Marcus Gorman, as they settled into leather armchairs facing him.

“Are we going to find a way to resolve this suit amicably?” he asked them both.

“Amicably between mother and son,” Marcus said.

In Marcus’s smile Roscoe saw the confidence of a man with encyclopedic precedents for the indisputable custody rights of mothers. We’ll be here all morning.

“I’ll want to talk with the young boy,” the judge said. “Is he in the courtroom?”

“He is, Your Honor, with his mother,” Roscoe said.

“You refer to his adoptive mother,” said Marcus.

“His mother in fact if not biological fact,” said Roscoe.

“The petitioner is here, Mr. Gorman?”

“She is. We are ready.”

“I have information worth airing before anything goes on the record,” Roscoe said.

“I’ll be pleased to hear it,” Marcus said.

“I’m not sure you’ll be pleased,” said Roscoe. “It’s about money. Pamela Yusupov is seeking custody of her son as a means of gaining money from the estate of
the father, Mr. Danilo Yusupov.”

“She wants her son. The money will support them,” said Marcus.

“So she now says. But I am prepared to prove that Pamela, seeking money, not custody, approached Elisha Fitzgibbon months before his death. Veronica will testify to the amount she asked
and how much they might have given to help her out. Pamela not only insisted on more, she wanted a continuing income. When Elisha rejected the idea she threatened to accuse him of fathering Gilby
during a forcible encounter.”

“Oh, for chrissake,” Marcus said, “this is desperation strategy. This is melodrama.”

“In assorted ways, counselor,” Roscoe said. “I presume you’ve both heard the slanderous rumor that Elisha died by his own hand. His autopsy fully proves otherwise, that
he was terminally ill and died of a coronary occlusion. I could affirm this with abundant fact and fanatical vigor if necessary, or I could, for the sake of our argument, hypothesize that, if he
did take his life, he did so to protect his wife and his son. Elisha had readily agreed to adopt Gilby at birth and raise him as his own, for he
was
his own. He did not tell this to Veronica
when he agreed to the adoption. She was still grieving to distraction over the loss of their five-year-old daughter and eager for another child. And he was not ready to admit that, in a bout of
heavy drinking and debauched wildness, he had raped her sister. I can personally verify that Pamela is a supreme seductress, even when she isn’t trying, and that uncountable men have acted
upon this obvious truth, Elisha being one of them. I don’t blame Pamela for their carnal encounter, nor did Elisha. He took the blame and lived with the shame, and in time did what he felt
was necessary—he adopted his own sin and lived with it lovingly, giving the boy the fullest and richest life a father can give a son. He thought he’d lived the sin down, but then here
it came back to plague him. Pamela, poor soul, fallen on hard times, sought financial relief through Elisha, and the man became unhinged. He was dying and he knew it, but when he tallied up the
credits and debits he saw a way out. Pamela was determined to destroy his reputation to gain a bloodsucking income, but Elisha could not let that happen, nor could he chance the possibility that,
in vengeance, she’d destroy not only him but his son Alex, and his beloved wife. And so he revealed to Veronica his shame and her sister’s threat. Pamela had no qualms about destroying
her sister’s family. She had envied Veronica all their years growing up—Veronica the greater beauty and the fortunate wife; Pamela, the inferior little strawberry tart, always viewing herself
as the sister in the cinders.”

“Jesus, Roscoe,” said Marcus. “Sister in the cinders?”

“I know you enjoy language, counselor,” Roscoe said. “And so Elisha, as a way of putting himself and the family beyond Pamela’s reach, designed his own death. You
can’t blackmail a corpse. He knew that, for those aware of the blackmail, his death would be judged as the act of a shamed man who could not face public disclosure. But he also knew Veronica
would understand why he was really doing this, and she did. He even told his secretary, just before his suicide, that the enemy was closing in and that Roscoe would understand who that was. And I
certainly do. But Elisha misread his enemy’s perseverance. In the courtroom outside the door of these chambers on the first day of this hearing, Pamela whispered to Veronica,
‘It’s a wise child that knows its father.’ We all knew what she meant. Her blackmailing would continue. I wonder, counselor, did your client mention any of this to you?”

“Roscoe,” said Marcus, “you are a maestro. Your inventions are as entertaining as your rhetoric. But I fail to see your point. The father of the boy is Danilo Yusupov, and this
is not disputed, not even by my client.”

“Perhaps she’ll change her mind,” Roscoe said, and he opened his briefcase, took out copies of Yusupov’s and Gilby’s blood tests, and gave them to the judge and
Marcus.

“Mr. Yusupov’s blood group, which is O, doesn’t match Gilby’s, which is AB,” Roscoe said. “As you well know, Your Honor, such disparity is a legally sound
basis of nonpaternity.”

“That’s correct,” said the judge.

“This is a fraud,” said Marcus. “You politicians can fabricate any document and you often do.”

Roscoe opened his briefcase and handed his listeners more papers. “A letter from Yusupov’s lawyer,” he said, “with verification of his blood test. Call the man in Los
Angeles if you like. He resents Pamela’s lawsuit as much as we do. And finally,” he added, finding more papers, “Elisha’s and Pamela’s blood tests.”

“How did you get my client’s blood test?” Marcus asked.

“I married her,” Roscoe said. “We took blood tests together and I kept them. Call me sentimental. The blood groups of Elisha and Gilby are both type AB, and are compatible with
Pamela’s blood group, which is A. This is not positive evidence that Elisha was the father, but it means he could have been.”

“We need time to investigate this, Your Honor,” Marcus said. “The paternity of Yusupov has never been in question before today.”

“Very true,” Roscoe said. “Yusupov rejected the child and behaved as if he never existed, and we now know he had good reason. And that’s how it remained until Pamela
became a blackmailer. Her story of rape, however true, will be just another lie when her blackmail and perjury go public, and you should convey to your client, Marcus, that we stand ready to
prosecute her for both blackmail and for perjury in representing Mr. Yusupov as Gilby’s father when she knew he was not. Let’s face it, counselor, your client is a scheming and
perpetually lubricious woman, and I will celebrate that fact with exuberant fanfare if we go forward. I also admit the possibility that she was truly confused and believed she had diddled Yusupov
when it was actually Elisha, or Elisha when it was actually Yusupov. Or maybe it was John Gilbert, for whom Gilby was named. Perhaps she could track down Mr. Gilbert’s blood type and seek
relief from
his
estate. I don’t want to seem too severe with Pamela for losing track of her multitudes, and for the sake of Elisha, we will not bring any charges at all if she desists
from this charade.”

Roscoe closed his briefcase.

“I trust, gentlemen, that these hypothetical facts will be kept confidential. Elisha’s death, which is not provable in this context unless we decide to prove it, stands as a heroic
act of redemption—a
beau geste,
if you will—a noble gesture, a self-martyrdom by a saintly man, and his good name must not be despoiled. I have no intention whatever of prolonging this
hearing any further, and if opposing counsel has no objection, Judge Finn, I move that you quash the custody petition, considering perhaps J. Hogan, ‘In the Matter of Gustow,’ that,
‘while the parent ordinarily is entitled to the custody of a child, the welfare of the child may be superior to the claim of the parent.’ I hope we can now have a speedy
conclusion.”

The judge looked to Marcus, who said, “I’ll speak to my client.”

In the Courtroom

Veronica’s and Gilby’s smiles radiated sunbeams as they heard the judge say, “. . . the home life of the child for his entire life has been so fortunate that
it certainly should not be changed in favor of a technical mother’s care, and all parties now agree the boy should stay where he is, with the relator having the right to visit at reasonable
times. The habeas corpus writ is quashed and dismissed.”