The Club--Part ThreeIn Part Two, Dicky and Lloyd hacked their way around Dyker Beach Golf Course--Dicky keeping the other two men in the foursome distracted with chatter while winning five-dollar-a-hole bets from each by besting them on almost every hole; while Lloyd provided most of the laughs—beaning assorted golfers with his hooked and sliced drives and losing all his balls in the pond or over the fence. But then on the way home, the mood of bonhomie changed. Dicky confessed that he been messing up at college, spending all his time drinking and philandering and was thus in danger of being expelled. He told Lloyd that he had been instructed to insist that he join the Traubs for dinner so his mother could ask him all about how well things were going at Columbia in the hope that Dicky would be inspired to also become, what else, a pre-med.
In Part Three which follows . . .
“And sure, I can stay for dinner. When we get to your house I’ll call to let my parents know. They’ll be fine with that.” I knew they would be—they liked me to spend time with the Traub’s. Just as Dicky’s mother thought I might set a good example for him, my parents thought some of the Traub “class,” as my father put it, might rub off on me.
* * *
As Dicky pulled the Fiat into the basement garage we could hear Mrs. Traub’s fluttering soprano from two floors above, “Not those glasses, Ella.” She was directing her maid up on the second floor where the Traub living and dining rooms were placed by their architect, Lorenzo del Pesto (Dicky said “Yeah, I know,” when he spotted my raised eyebrow when he mentioned his name), expressing what Dicky told me del Pesto called an “upside-down motif,” with the bedrooms below, on the first floor, in order to emphasize, in his words, “the living over the sleeping.”
“We’re having company for dinner, Ella,” I could hear Mrs. Traub sing, “Dicky’s friend Lloyd. So let’s put out the crystal.”
“Take off your shoes,” Dicky told me with a shrug, “My mother doesn’t want anyone walking on her carpets in shoes. Once we get upstairs she’ll give you some slippers to wear that she bought on one of her trips to Morocco.”
And immediately I could see why I needed to remove my shoes. I had never entered the Traub’s house this way. I had always used the side door which led directly to the wing of the house where Ella’s and Dicky’s bedrooms were. The rest was off-limits to his friends—it was Dr. and Mrs. Traub’s private preserve.
These stairs, as Dicky opened the door from the garage, admitted us to a landing that ran the full length of the bedroom floor. Everything was carpeted with a deep white wool shag, into which my shoeless feet sank almost to the ankle. Everything was immaculate and hushed. Clearly Ella was as good at vacuuming as she was at baking—Dicky had brought to Dyker some of her memorable pecan and Bourbon Brownies which she made especially for him.
I was in awe of this silent splendor. But couldn’t help noticing the Traub’s “master suite,” again del Pesto’s words, looming before us, its two brocade-covered pocket doors almost completely hidden within the walls. It was almost as large of my family’s entire apartment. Not only was there the largest bed I had ever seen but also to one side there was what looked to me like a full living room—a magenta silk sofa, two matching side chairs, and a crystal coffee table, though I was not sure if it was appropriate to call it that since it was unlikely that coffee of any other form of food or drink would be served there. There was, though, a small stack of worn leather bound books, one of which lay open with a pair of antique Ben Franklin spectacles serving as a sort of bookmark, to note the place where Mrs. Traub had probably left off reading the night before.
However, it was the bed that most captured my attention. Though it was at least the size of two double beds, most remarkable was not the unimaginable comfort that that sumptuousness alone would provide, but rather the headboard. It appeared to be made of solid gold. Literally. Though there was just the light from two small brass side lamps it was enough to set it glinting as if bathed in full daylight.
It was also unusual in its shape. It was a huge semicircle that almost reached the ceiling and on it were embossed what appeared to be the markings of some forgotten language or pictorial alphabet.
Dicky saw me involuntarily drawn to the foot of the bed as if to an ancient temple. “It’s not real,” he said. “It’s only a reproduction. Lorenzo designed it and had it made in Mexico.”
I stood mesmerized in the dim red light that was a blend of that golden bed and all the magenta furniture, window treatments, and wall fabrics. Even the air in the room felt tinted. I could barely speak. “What is it?” I asked with a hushed voice so as not to disturb the atmosphere.
“You know, it’s the Aztec calendar. Half of it anyway. The real one’s in Mexico. It’s a full circle so it wouldn’t fit in a room this small. But Lorenzo thinks even half of it is a good thing for my parents. He means it to bring them many years of happiness.” I thought I heard Dicky snicker. “He told them that the Aztecs believed that the world goes through something like 52 year cycles, and they built this calendar to keep track of them. Since the cycles last for so many years they needed a really big calendar. Not like the ones we use.”
“I seem to remember reading about this. Though I think it was the Mayans who believed in these cycles. But either way the headboard seems like an incredible idea to me.”
“Yoo-hoo, Dicky,” it was Mrs. Traub calling from the floor above. “Where are you? Dinner will get cold.” She snapped me out my trance and we turned back to the steps, still carpeted, which now swept in a glorious arc up to the living floor.
* * *
Mrs. Traub was wearing an elaborately embroidered crimson caftan which I imagined she must have also brought back from Morocco. It billowed like a sail in the breeze she generated as she glided across the shag toward us. She reached out to me as if I had returned from a long voyage, “Oh Lloyd, darling, did you make any birdies?” And without waiting for a response, said, “Here, take these and put them on your feet. They will make you feel so good after so much walking.” From an ivory-inlaid cabinet she retrieved a pair of Moroccan slippers, as Dicky promised, the ones with the tiny mirrors embedded in them and the turned up toes. “Oh they fit perfectly. You look so adorable. Doesn’t he Dicky?” Dicky grunted.
“I only made one birdie, Mrs. Traub; I’m not a very good golfer. Not like Dicky. I think he shot an 82 today, which on a city course, which don’t have the kind of greens he’s used to, is an excellent score.”
“But enough about that. Between you and I,” she pulled me close to her and whispered, “I hate golf.” I could smell her scent—either something exotic, also brought back from the Middle East, or the faint residue of the hairspray from her twice-weekly visit to the Elegant Lady Beauty parlor across Church Avenue from their house.
“All that chasing after that silly ball. I go to the club to see my friends. If Dr. Traub would only leave me alone I wouldn’t ever set foot out of the Acorn. That’s the bar you know.” She quickly moved to correct herself, “But of course, I’m sorry, you don’t. We haven’t had you to the club. We must one day soon. They give us so few guest passes. I’m sure Ducky explained. It’s a scandal considering what it costs to be a member and how much we have to spend every year in the Acorn Bar and Tack Room, the restaurant.” She looked over to Dicky, “Go fetch your father. He always has his nose buried in the paper, the sports section, when he isn’t looking into someone’s mouth. He’s such a sportsman.” I thought I sensed she was being ironic, but quickly realized that I was wrong considering their magnificent life.
“Come, Lloyd, come over here and sit by me,” Dicky had left to look for Dr. Traub. She had swooped over to the love seat in the living room, whipping her caftan in waves as she moved, which was a duplicate to the one in her master suite on the floor below. Patting the swollen cushion next to her, she trilled, “I want to hear all about Columbia.”
Though Ella was hovering in the dining room end of the “living suite,” again how Dicky told me del Pesto designated it, I felt uncomfortable sitting so close to Mrs. Traub, especially since, as she beckoned me to join her, the neckline of her caftan fell away from her voluptuous chest.
“Is it OK, Mrs. Traub, if I sit over here?” I stammered with diverted eyes, “I hurt my back during crew practice, and the orthopedist wants me to sit only on straight-back chairs.”
“Of course darling. I’m so sorry you hurt yourself. Anything you want. You must be careful. But please, you must call me Trudy.” Her smile was radiant. She too had perfect teeth.
Dicky reappeared to announce that his father was still involved in reading about the upcoming Belmont Stakes and would join us shortly. Dr. Traub was also known as the neighborhood’s foremost horseman. Rumor had it that he even owned a “string of ponies,” or at least was part of a “syndicate” that did. Mrs. Traub frowned but told Ducky to sit in the other straight-back chair on the other side of the love seat which she now was fully occupying—after I had declined her offer to join her she pulled her legs up under her and sat on them so that only her ruby-lacquered toes were peeking out.
“Dicky, Lloyd was just about to tell me about Columbia.” Dicky squirmed in his chair. He too tried to sit on his legs but the chair was too small to accommodate his muscular calves and thighs. “Weren’t you Lloyd?” I knew from what Dicky told me when we drove to his house that I needed to be careful not to make things worse for him. It was not so much that I had done well or fit comfortably into campus life—quite the contrary (I was one of the few freshmen not to have been invited to join a fraternity, not even a Jewish one); but at least I had passed all my courses and wasn’t on probation.
“Well,” I began, though my father always slammed the table whenever I began a sentence that way, “Well, to tell you the truth I just managed to squeak by, and as I mentioned I got injured before the rowing season began and didn’t even get to row in any races.” I stopped hoping that would deter her from asking further about my studies. Maybe, even though she hated it, she’d want to know more about our golf game, and then I’d be able to tell her more about how well Dicky had done. Of course, not about the betting.
“Dicky isn’t Lloyd just so modest?” He sat staring at his mirrored slippers. “Why just the other day, at the hairdresser’s,” I noted that she didn’t refer to it as the “beauty parlor,” “Lloyd’s mother was telling all the girls about how well he had done at college. How his advisor said if he kept up his grades he felt certain he would be admitted to a very good medical school. Maybe not Columbia or NYU, forget Harvard, but a very good place nonetheless. Accredited and in the United States. He wouldn’t have to go to Mexico to medical school. Like your cousin Phil had to do. And she told us how hard he studies. Even on the weekends. And how many books his father had to bring home when he picked him up at the end of the year. Books that he had to buy and read for his required courses.” All of this had been directed, like arrows, at Dicky, both of whose legs and feet were vibrating so violently that I thought that the chair might tip over or shatter—it looked fragile, like a real antique.
And then, again to me, Mrs. Traub continued, “Your mother said there were so many books your father had to build more shelves. Is that true? You know, Dicky, that Columbia has very difficult requirements. In, what is it Lloyd, your mother mentioned something about ‘civilization?’”
“Contemporary Civilization,” I muttered. “It’s a requirement for everyone.” Dicky appeared ready to explode. I should have just nodded.
He jumped out of the chair almost shouting, “I’ll go get dad. Look at Ella, she’s going crazy. She probably burnt the roast already,” and with that he again bolted down the stairs, three at a time.
Mrs. Traub leaned further forward. Again I looked around the room, noticing for the first time something in the distance that looked like an antique piano. Mrs. Traub noticed that my attention had drifted in that direction. “That’s a harpsichord.” Thankfully we had moved on to another subject. I could resume normal breathing. “It’s not an original, it should only be, but a reproduction. My architect insisted I have one, knowing my interest in music,” she sighed.
“Of course, sorry, I should have known that. In my required Music Appreciation class, at Columbia, we studied Baroque music and some of Bach’s harpsichord music. We listened to records of Wanda Landowski, and . . .” As I uttered these words I realized that in my eagerness to accommodate and talk about anything but Columbia, I had taken us right back there!
“I do know her playing very well. I tried to get Dr. Traub to take me to St. John the Divine Cathedral, actually right up by Columbia, to hear her play Bach’s
Well-Tempered Clavier. But as usual he was too busy with his horses.” I knew for certain that this time she was being critical of him.
“I’m sure he was so tired from all his work,” here I was now making excuses for him as I had been attempting to do for Dicky. I should never have agreed to have dinner with the Traubs. Minimally I should have just sat there and kept my big mouth shut.
And with that, as if on cue and to rescue me from myself, Dr.Traub appeared with Dicky, hang dog, right behind him. He mumbled something inaudible, which I assumed was some form of greeting, and gave me a limp hand to shake. The very hand that had been so forceful and confident when it spent hours in my mouth exploring, palpating, and drilling on my juvenile and adolescent molars and bicuspids.
Ella simultaneously announced, “Miss Trudy, dinner is
finally served.” And with that we marched over to the dining end of the floor, with Dr. Traub,
Major Traub in the lead. And then, surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling smoked mirrors, none to be sure fabricated by Mr. Perly, the local glazier (Mrs. Traub said Lorenzo had them made in Murano, in Venice), we proceeded to eat dinner in almost uninterrupted silence, broken only but Dr. Traub asking Dicky or me to pass the platters of whipped yams or creamed spinach.
He sat at the head of the table, reflected by the mass of mirrors into smoky infinity, so bent over his plate that his nose almost touched the mound of potatoes. He leaned both arms, to the elbows, on the table so that they surrounded his dish so completely, like battlements, that even an advancing enemy could not breech those arms to attack his food. Which he gobbled down, swallowing without any sign of chewing in just minutes.
Mrs. Traub did attempt to bring a conversation back to college, but Dr. Traub’s massive, silent presence overwhelmed her efforts. As a consequence I could see Dicky relax and even manage to banter a bit with Ella who was kept busy literally running back and forth to the kitchen to bring evermore helpings of her special yam and marshmallow casserole, clearly Dr. Traub’s favorite. It was now obvious to me how he had earned his nickname--Sugar.
I counted the minutes until I could escape. But not before downing an enormous slice of Ella’s peach cobbler, her grandmother’s recipe she said, which was so delectable that it was worth delaying that escape and risking more talk about Columbia or Bach. Some risks are worth taking.
But very soon, after the cobbler and all its crumbs disappeared off everyone’s plates, I said a quick goodbye and thank you and raced across Church Avenue back to the sanctuary of my bedroom. But not before Mrs. Traub, hugging and kissing me, again saying, “We must try to get you out to the club. Before the end of the summer. Promise?”
I was glad my parents were visiting relatives so I could also escape the grilling I would surely have received about
everything that happened at the Traub’s. My father would ask, “So you pulled her Fiat into the garage, and . . . .?” And I would be expected to report on everything, every minute-by-minute detail, including everything about the décor and especially the food.
* * *
The rest of the summer was by comparison uneventful. I had trouble finding a job so I enrolled as a visiting student at Brooklyn College to occupy my mornings, taking a course in Modern American Drama—lots of Odets, Miller, and especially O’Neil. The instructor was quite inspired and expressed open pleasure in having a Columbia student sitting in among his regular public college students. He quickly lost interest in me, though, as soon as he discovered that their papers were superior to mine. At least I wouldn’t have to experience the further humiliation of receiving a grade—as an external student I had opted for a simple pass/fail.
To compensate, and as a way to prepare myself to go out for the track team if my crew injury didn’t heal properly, self-taught, I took up the Shot Put—a field event in which you compete by “putting,” or hurling, a 16-pound steel ball. The world’s record at the time was about 60 feet, set by Parry O’Brien, a mass of a man. By the end of the six-week mini-semester at Brooklyn College I had passed 24 feet, almost halfway there. Who knows? Not bad, I thought, for someone learning on his own and himself weighing but 175 pounds.
But from the pressure my mother applied to her sister, my Aunt Tanna, who in turn exerted pressure on her husband, my Uncle Eli, I was given a job up in the South Bronx in his meat processing plant. Where the most orthodox of my relatives smoked hams, pork loins, and pigs knuckles, as well as more traditional Jewish fare—pickled tongues and pastramis. After dragging myself up there via an endless subway ride at six in the morning, I spent eight hours a day unloading trucks. The hams, for example, arrived semi-frozen packed into the body of huge trailer trucks. I stood on the back of those trucks and with a meat hook, shades of
On the Waterfront, I tossed them into huge stainless steel tubs which we then wheeled into one of Eli’s enormous walk-in refrigerators. At least that supplied some respite from the scorching heat.
Actually, there was some excitement—Eli got a large order for tongues from Macy’s meat buyer (at the time Macy’s had a gourmet meat market at its flagship store on Herald Square); and to make what he thought would be a reasonable profit, Eli had us pump so much pickling juice into each steer tongue that they ballooned to three-times their normal size. Needless to say that when Macy’s customers cooked them at home they shrank down to their original puny size; and as a result of an avalanche of complaints Macy’s buyer came looking for Eli, who we effectively hid between racks of pork butts in the smokehouse.
At least I made good money which would help offset some of the tuition that was burdening my parents.
Dicky and I did get in a couple of rounds of golf at Dyker Beach. Nothing much to report about that. Joeboy did show up each time to caddie and Dicky did manage to hustle a podiatrist and limousine driver one time, and a high school teacher and building superintendent the second time. So there was no problem keeping me supplied with balls since the pond at the Eighth hole and Brooklyn Poly Prep’s campus alongside the Ninth continued to serve as fairways for me.
But then, in late August, just as I was beginning to think about what I needed to do before returning to college, something remarkable occurred: Mrs. Traub called. Me!
It was a Saturday morning and I was still sleeping so my mother answered the phone. I could not think of any reason why she would wake me from a deep and healthful sleep—maybe if the air raid sirens went off and it was “the real thing”--but wake me she did, shaking me to tell there was an “urgent” call for me. In my drowsiness, half-emerged from a nightmare, I imagined it must be something like the Dean at Columbia calling to say they recalculated my grade point average and were expelling me, advising me that I had better secure my job with Uncle Eli and begin to reconcile myself to a life of pumping pickling juice into cow’s tongues.
“Who is it?” I mumbled.
“Dr. Traub’s wife, Mrs. Traub,” my mother whispered as if it were a call from the White House or the Vatican.
As I stumbled into the breakfast room where our one phone was located, I asked again in total bewilderment, “Mrs. Traub? Dicky’s mother?” thinking now that maybe he had been paralyzed when riding his horse.
“Yes. Her. Pick up the phone before she hangs up,” she admonished me for moving so slowly.
“Hello,” I said, attempting to be matter of fact and to mask my nervousness. “How have you been?” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Lloyd, I have wonderful news for you. Do you know the Silvergolds? How silly of me. Of course you don’t. They are members of our club and have given us a guest pass for the Labor Day weekend.”
The what? I thought. “Ugh,” I stammered. “That’s great. Very nice of them.”
“And Dr. Traub and I thought you might join us there that Saturday night for the annual end of summer dinner dance. It’s formal you know. Dicky will be wearing his tuxedo with the white jacket. You of course would have to rent one”
In my half-sleep I still didn’t understand why she was calling me. “I didn’t know he had a tux.”
“I think you’re confused—I’m calling to invite you. Can you make it? It would be so wonderful if you could. Dicky has so much wanted you to see the club.”
“I know, he keeps telling me that.”
“And the Silvergolds have a wonderful, actually, a
beautiful daughter, who is about to go to college, who they would like you to meet. So please, darling, just say ‘yes,’”
Which I did. And went back to bed, dreaming now about the Silvergold daughter and her . . .
To be continued . . .
