“No, we need to teach him that sometimes you don’t always get to keep what you want,” Charles replied, waving the spoon so that the baby could see.
“He’s just a baby!” My heart constricted, then leaped toward my child as if to provide him the comfort my arms could not. I knew that if I took a step toward him, Charles would block my way. I glanced at Betty; she, too, was standing so rigid, yet every muscle seemed to be straining toward the baby. Then she looked right at me, her chin raised, her blue eyes challenging; I was shamed by that look.
But I couldn’t; I could only watch helplessly as Charles Junior continued to wail as his arms flailed about, looking for his spoon, for comfort, for something. And Charles Senior watched his son with a maddening smile on his face, and I told myself he really didn’t enjoy hurting him so. I told myself this was just his way of toughening up his son, even at such a tender age; that he really felt he was helping him, being a good father; the father he himself wished he’d had.
Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked and blinked, my arms, my chest aching to comfort my child. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, my mother came hurrying out onto the terrace.
“What on earth?” She ran to her grandson and snatched him up out of his high chair, not caring that the front of her silk dress was instantly covered in a mixture of tears, saliva, and cake crumbs. She soothed and patted, and while Charles narrowed his eyes, he heeded my silent warning as I grabbed his arm. “Why were you all standing around? My poor little man!” She began to walk little Charlie around the terrace, bouncing him up and down in her arms so instinctively that I was jealous; I was even more jealous when he quieted immediately and nestled his head against her shoulder, his face still wet with tears.
But jealousy was overshadowed by frustration; why couldn’t
Because she would soon go back to Washington. And I would remain here with my husband, dependent on him for everything.
“She’s spoiling him,” Charles growled, throwing the spoon back down on the high-chair tray.
“It’s his birthday. He deserves to be spoiled on his birthday.” I joined my mother and son at the table, which was soon towering with the birthday presents that Con and Daddy brought out. And I couldn’t help but contrast this obvious, ostentatious display of affection for my son with the cruelty—yes, cruelty—just exhibited by Charles. I felt my loyalties torn, not for the first time, between the two; between my child and my husband.
After we helped open all the presents—the baby was more interested in playing with the ribbons than any of his actual gifts—we lingered. It was such a beautiful afternoon that no one in my always bustling family seemed in a hurry. For once, we were all content simply to sit and be.
“Daddy, you’re looking a little tired.” I turned to my father with a smile. “Are they working you too hard in Washington?”
“Nobody can work a Morrow too hard,” he replied. Yet he remained slumped in his chair, unaware that he had crumbs of cake on his necktie.
“Well, just you wait. I’m afraid it’s going to get much, much worse.” Mother shook her head. Her gray hair, bound simply in a low knot, looked almost white in the sun. She had new lines on her face, too, just like Daddy; lines that were not there before he became senator.
“I know,” Daddy predicted, stirring slightly. “Hoover hasn’t exhibited any grasp of the situation, I’m sad to say.”
“I don’t know about that,” Charles replied. He turned his gaze elsewhere, to that far-off star on the horizon only he could see. Once I had found this inspiring, a symptom of his courage, his vision. Now I had to admit I sometimes found it aggravating: It was as if those of us nearest to him could never really matter enough.
“Hoover’s a good man,” my husband continued, squinting into the distance and sighing at what he found there. “It’s the system that’s broken. Capitalism is inherently flawed. Look at what’s happening in Germany. There’s an example of something broken, but at least its leaders are looking for solutions. They’re not content just to sit back and slap a bandage on a gaping wound, and hope the fat cats get around to doing what’s right.”
My parents exchanged a look. I knew they didn’t want to contradict Charles; no one ever wanted to contradict Charles. When they looked at him, everyone still saw that brave boy of ’27—that unique and fearless boy who had captured the world’s heart and imagination. The man of ’31, however, was harder to love.
“Well, let me tell you, young man,” my father began, as I tried to distract him by waving at the baby, who was still in Mother’s arms, reaching for a strand of pearls that she deftly pulled away from his chubby hand.
“Dwight, Charles, no politics at the table,” my mother murmured, but Daddy couldn’t be stopped.
“You want to become a socialist nation?” he continued. “Like Germany? Where there’s very little in the way of free press these days?”
“They’re not socialist yet, Daddy,” Con interrupted, with her sunny, earnest smile. “Hitler didn’t quite steal the election from Hindenburg, although he might on the next ballot.”
“I doubt the German people will elect Hitler,” Charles said with authority. “Although I don’t disagree with some of his party’s practices, really. At least he has vision.”
“I don’t know what to think of the situation over there,” Daddy said, with a shake of his head. “I don’t like either of them. Hindenburg’s a holdover from the days of the kaiser.”
“Hindenburg’s just a puppet. It’s immaterial. Germany doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things; it will never recover from Versailles, although if it does, it will be because of a man like Hitler—someone who has energy, anyway. Someone who can engage the people. But the truth is, we have dangers enough here at home.”
“Dangers? From without or within?” My father glared at Charles.
“Both,” Charles replied mildly.
My father nodded and slumped back down in his chair, breathing heavily. He stirred himself a little, turning to Con. “It’s good to see you taking an interest in current events, missy.”
“How could I not?” She shrugged. “With a senator for a father?”
“My daughters,” Daddy complained. “They run the show, the women in this family. Be glad you’ve got a son,” he said to Charles.
“As do you, dear,” Mother said, so mildly that it took a moment for her words to register. Con and I exchanged wary glances, while Daddy merely nodded, and slumped even farther in his chair.
“It’s been so long since we were all together as a family,” he said wearily. “Anne, just when we get you and Charles to stay put for a while, your sister has to go missing. What’s so important in Maine that Elisabeth can’t come out here even for her nephew’s birthday?”
“She still needs her rest,” I reminded him.
“Has she even seen little Charlie since he was born?”
“Oh, Daddy, of course she has,” I answered as I felt the tips of my ears burn, and I looked down at my lap. Although, to be truthful, she hadn’t seen him very much, so busy was she with her new school—and with avoiding me. Taking trips to Nassau, to Maine, all in the name of recuperation; at least, that’s how she put it to the rest of the family.
With me, however, she was more honest. Woundingly so.
I remembered her first visit after the baby was born. I was still in bed, my breasts painfully hot and engorged, my lower body wincingly tender, when Elisabeth swept into my room, an enormous stuffed giraffe in her arms.
“Goodness, look at you!” she exclaimed, while not doing precisely that—looking at me. Her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes so bright I suspected tears. She made a beeline to the changing table, where the temporary nurse was fussing over the baby. Elisabeth gazed at my child in awe for a moment before abruptly turning away and fumbling in her purse—for a cigarette, I suspected—until she seemed to remember where she was, and shut the clasp with an exasperated sigh. She looked about the room as if she’d never seen it before, jumpy, ill at ease; I knew she would vanish again in a moment if I didn’t speak first.
“Could you see about some tea?” I asked the nurse, who nodded, returning the baby to his bassinet before she left the room. Then I patted my bed, beckoning to my sister. “Elisabeth, please. Sit for a moment. I’d like to— I’d like to talk to you, like—”
“Like we used to?” Elisabeth smiled ruefully but joined me. As she settled herself carefully at the foot of my bed, I studied her. She was still so thin, pale; almost translucent. I could see the blue veins beneath her porcelain
