The Wrong Kind of Money (53 page)

Now two women, one older, and one younger, enter the south elevator car together, press the buttons for their respective floors, and the elevator doors slide closed. The elevator starts upward smoothly enough, but suddenly there is a little jerk, and a little bump, and the car stops abruptly. Both women press their buttons again, and when nothing happens they look at each other.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere between nine and ten, I think.”

“These are brand-new elevators.”

“Yes, I know.”

“There should be an alarm button.”

The younger woman finds it and presses it. But no alarm sounds, and the elevator remains at a standstill. Both women laugh nervously.

“Is there a telephone in that little box on the panel there?”

The older woman opens it and lifts the receiver, jiggling the hook up and down. “It doesn't seem to be working, does it?”

“Well!”

“Well!”

“Maybe there's been a power outage, do you think?”

“But the lights are still on.”

“You're right.”

“Well.”

“Well.”

“Here we are.”

“I'm sure someone will notice this sooner or later, won't they?”

“Oh, I'm sure. And I'm sure there's plenty of oxygen in here for us. Isn't there?”

“Oh, I'm sure. These things are ventilated, aren't they?”

“I'm sure they are. I wonder where the ventilation comes from, though.”

They laugh nervously again. “The main thing is not to panic.”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you live in this building?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

“Should we try—screaming, or something?”

“I don't know. That might use up too much oxygen. Because, frankly, I don't see where any ventilation could be coming from, do you?”

“No.”

“So. Let's just stay put until someone notices that this elevator's out of order.”

“Yes.”

There are little benches in the corners of the car, and each woman takes a seat on one of these daintily padded triangles.

Silence.

Then the younger woman says, “Since we may be here for a while, we might as well introduce ourselves. I'm—”

“As it happens, I know who you are,” the older woman says. “You're Carol Liebling. My name is Bathsheba Sachs.”

“Oh,” Carol says.

“I'm on my way up to have lunch with Cyril.”

“And I'm on my way up to have lunch with Hannah.”

“What an odd place for us to finally meet,” Bathy says.

“There's not much we can do about it, is there?” Carol says.

“No.”

There is a little silence, and then Carol says, “Of course, I've heard a lot about you, Miss Sachs.”

“I'm sure. And not all of it good, I'm also sure.”

“Yes, I must admit that's true.”

“And please call me Bathy. Everybody does. Or Aunt Bathy. We don't have to be friends, but it wouldn't hurt us to be friendly, would it?”

“No. I quite agree.”

“I know how Noah resents me, and I know perfectly well why. And I imagine you do, too.”

“Yes, I do, Bathy. Noah told me all about it years ago. You sent him a Christmas card. He tore it up.”

“I was his father's mistress. For quite a few years. One morning he arrived at Grandmont from college unexpectedly—he'd been booted out, in fact, after that motorcycling escapade—and he came into a room where he found his father and me in—well, let's just say he found us in a situation that would have been difficult to misinterpret. He never spoke to me again.”

“I know. Noah told me all that.”

“I'm sorry he feels that way. I was always very fond of Noah. But there's nothing I can do about it now. One can't undo one's past.”

“No, but you see the thing is, Bathy, that Hannah has no idea why he feels the way he does about you. He doesn't feel up to telling her, and I certainly don't think it's my place to tell her.”

Bathy's eyebrows go up.
“Really?”
she says. “Hannah told you that? That she has no
idea
why Noah resents me?”

“None whatsoever. She'd give anything to know.”

Bathy laughs. “My dear, I'm afraid my big sister has misled you. She knows perfectly well why. I told her all about the incident on the afternoon of the day it happened. We haven't discussed it since, of course. There's been no need to. But she knows perfectly well why Noah feels the way he does about me.”

“But—then why does she keep insisting that Noah tell her what's troubling him?”

“My dear, that's just Hannah's way. She insists that everyone she deals with lay his cards flat out on the table, face up. Even when she knows the answer, she wants to hear it from the horse's mouth. Remember, I've known her a lot longer than you have. My big sister knows
every
thing. But she's the kind of woman who'll demand an explanation even when she already knows perfectly well what the explanation is. She's the kind of woman who'll buzz for her secretary to ask what time it is even when there's a big clock facing her on the opposite wall.”

“How very interesting,” Carol says.

“That's Hannah for you. She knew all about Jules and my affair from the very beginning. She even encouraged it. In fact, I sometimes think she actually helped initiate it, putting us together all the time. She was certainly all for it.”

“Really?”

“Oh, absolutely. Hannah and I had a deal.”

“A deal …”

“And yet—and yet I really loved old Jules,” she says. “That was something I couldn't deal with. Can anyone deal with love?”

“She's told Noah that she won't turn over his stock to him unless he agrees to take you back into the company.”

Bathy laughs again and slaps her knee with her gloved hand. “Oh, dear,” she says. “Oh, dear, dear me! Is she still on that tired old subject? She knows better than that. I wouldn't go back to work for that company if everybody in the family got down on their hands and knees and begged me!”

“You
wouldn't
?”

“Never!
”

“But Hannah says—”

“It's just not the same company it was when I worked for it—when Jules was still alive. It was
fun
then. There was a wonderful raffishness about the liquor business in those days. We flew by the seat of our pants. We were always looking over our shoulder to see if the sheriff was coming around the corner. It was almost as though what we were doing was still against the law, and some of it probably was. We never knew when the government might decide to crack down on us with more rules and regulations. That made it exciting. But today Ingraham is just another giant corporation. The fun's gone out of it.”

“But Hannah keeps insisting that Noah has to bring you back.”

“Well, that's Hannah for you. She knows I won't come back. But she's got the idea that I need more money. I may not be as rich as the Lieblings, but I've got all the money I need, and all the money I want. I had a wonderful career in the company, but I'm happy to be retired.”

“I find this all very interesting,” Carol says. “Because if you refuse to come back to Ingraham, that could mean that Noah will
never
get his stock.”

“So it's a Mexican standoff, is it? Well, that's just like Hannah, too—this kind of arm wrestling. To see who'll give in first. She's good at that. Of course, you know the real reason she wants me back, don't you?”

“No, I'm afraid I really don't.”

“When she steps down, she wants someone she can trust to be there to keep an eye on Noah—to make sure he doesn't jump ship.”

“Jump ship? Why would he do that?”

“It's something he used to talk about. Not threaten, exactly, but he used to talk about it. Hasn't he ever mentioned Aesop to you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact he did—just the other night. Something about an alternative plan.”

“So, you see? That's what worries Hannah—that once he gets his shares of stock, he'll go off and establish the Aesop thing.”

“But what exactly is the Aesop thing?”

“Then, you don't know?”

“No.”

“Well, you'd better get Noah to explain that to you. It's a little complicated and visionary and—to me, at least—a little bit pie-in-the-sky. But I told Hannah that if she wants me to go back to work at the mill just to make sure Noah stays on the straight and narrow, she's got the wrong woman. But I suggested that you might be useful to her in that capacity.”

“I see,” Carol says thoughtfully. “I wonder if that's why she wanted to have lunch with me today.”

“Could be,” Bathy says. “When Hannah asks someone to lunch, you can be sure she's got something on her mind.”

“Interesting,” Carol says again. “Because if I can be useful to her, then she can be useful to me. A tit for a tat.”

Bathy laughs heartily. “That was one of Jules's favorite expressions. A tit for a tat. I haven't heard anyone say that in years!”

“You know, I'm really awfully glad we had this meeting, Bathy,” Carol says. “You've made a lot of things clear to me that weren't clear before. And you've given me several good ideas.”

“Good. I'm glad. And do you know something? I really think we could be friends, don't you?” She extends her hand, and Carol takes it.

“I think so, too,” she says.

“I mean we might as well be, since we may both be about to die of starvation in a stalled elevator.”

“Or of suffocation. Have you noticed the air in here getting to seem a little—close?”

Bathy touches her forehead. “Well, now that you mention it—yes.”

“But we mustn't panic.”

“No. But we might try prayer—”

And with that word, as though a deus ex machina has been summoned, the elevator rattles to life. There is a downward lurch, followed by an upward jolt, and both women clutch the seats of their little corner benches and eye each other with alarm. Then the elevator continues smoothly upward.

“Well!”

“Well!”

Carol gets off first, at Hannah's floor. “Good-bye, Bathy,” she says. “Let's get together again.”

“I'd like that,” Bathy says. “Good luck with Hannah,” and she gives her a little wave before the doors close, and she continues on to the floor above.

And now Carol sits in Hannah's dining room with its walls covered in pale blue watered silk. “I'm a little worried about Noah,” Hannah is saying. “Our meeting at your house the other night did not go well. He even used vulgar language with me, which isn't like him. Do you think launching this new label has been putting too much of a strain on him?”

“Let's not talk about Noah for a minute, Nana,” Carol says. “Let's talk about the Van Degans and their museum gift.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I was going over the figures for Van Degan Glass at the office just this morning. My spies got them for me. Carol, that company really is in terrible shape.”

“Good,” she says.

“Good? Why?”

“It's good for our side, Nana. It gives us more bargaining power.”

“Even if we gave them the contract to manufacture bottles for all our labels, I don't know if that would get them out of the hole they're in.”

“Could we do that, Nana?”

“Could we do what?”

“Offer them a contract to manufacture for all our labels?”

“Well, I suppose we
could,
but—” She glances nervously at the portrait of Jules Liebling at the end of the room. “Goodness, I hope he isn't listening to us talk like this. He'd be spinning in his grave. Except he isn't in any grave. He's in that yellow jar on the sideboard over there.”

“Here's what I'm thinking, Nana,” she says. “You liked the idea of my becoming a trustee of the Met, didn't you?”

“Oh, yes, of course. It would be wonderful. If you really think you could pull it off.”

“Let me tell you how it could be done, Nana,” Carol says, and Hannah puts down her salad fork, listening.

“Let's suppose,” Carol begins, “that we were to tell Van Degan Glass that we're considering offering them a contract to manufacture bottles for all Ingraham products. That would be a nice little piece of new business for Van Degan, wouldn't it?”

“Absolutely. We're the biggest distillers in the country.”

“In the millions?”

“In the millions.”

“The high millions?”

“I should think so, yes.”

“Right now the Van Degans are willing to turn over roughly half of their collection to the museum, with a few little bells and whistles attached to the gift which their lawyers have tacked on for their clients' tax benefits. But if we were to offer them a contract like that, I think I could persuade the Van Degans to donate even more—perhaps seventy-five percent of it, even ninety percent. Don't you?”

“I see your line of thinking,” Hannah says. “No collection, no contract.”

“That's right. Squeaky wheels get oiled. And from what you tell me, the wheels at Mr. Van Degan's company are particularly squeaky right at the moment.”

“Indeed they are.”

“And, as a nonnegotiable condition to their gift, I will have Mr. Van Degan insist—”

“That you be placed on the Met's board.”

“That's right. No trusteeship for me, no collection for the Met. A tit for a tat.”

“Will the Van Degans buy this?”

“I don't see why they wouldn't. It makes no difference to them whether I go on the board or not. And they'll get wonderful publicity from it—the great philanthropists and all that. They'll get a big hunk of new business from us. And they'll get a big tax deduction, which, if their lawyers are smart enough, they can probably spread out across several years. And for us—”