Chapter 20 Isadore
“Who was on the phone?” Izzy asked Simon again from behind a well-worn copy of Screenland that she’d found on a park bench, her head propped on a pillow. Greta slept in a crib at the foot of their bed.
The first two times she’d asked about the caller, Simon pretended not to hear, intent on drinking his tumbler of whiskey. The last time, he turned off his bedside lamp and feigned sleep.
“An associate in Cleveland,” he finally muttered like she was a child to be pacified. “She had good news about one of my properties.”
What kind of good news agitated him so? After hanging up, he’d paced the hallway for a good half hour, matting a trail in the carpet.
At least Louie hadn’t come sniffing around again. Months ago, Simon said he’d dealt with him.
Izzy lowered the magazine. “Did it sell?”
“She has a prospective buyer,” he replied. “We’re working out the final details.”
Then the cash would fall. Or so he kept saying.
Simon still spent most of his week in Cleveland, and she had long tired of hearing about all the money coming their way.
She needed more than the paltry ten- or twenty-dollar bill he’d give her each time he returned, barely enough to restock their side of the pantry and buy a secondhand crib and baby carriage.
She walked Greta through campus almost every afternoon with the rickety buggy like she was still in school.
Her roommates were long gone, off planning their weddings or decorating their newlywed homes. Once the best of friends, not one of them sent her a wedding invitation. Like they’d all forgotten her. Or were they still gossiping about her marriage and baby?
She longed for a friend again.
In August, she’d spent a month in Elms, helping her mother the best she could in the hours she wasn’t caring for Greta. Even her mother, who loved her, had said it was time for Izzy to return to her husband.
At least she and Simon weren’t cooped up any longer in the gardener’s shack.
He’d moved her and Greta into the main house after a stifling month when she’d begged him for a box fan.
He hadn’t insisted that his father relocate yet to the backyard, but she supposed the arrangement worked well enough.
They ignored Professor Farrow most of the week and tolerated him during Sunday dinner.
But with the drudgery of each new day, the Farrow house still didn’t feel like home. She longed to do something new. Even step back on a stage, where she could at least pretend to be someone else.
When Simon discovered her parents had no money to support them, he’d said some awfully mean things. Things she was certain he now regretted.
She was equally as sorry and told him in the aftermath that she’d never meant to upset him. She hadn’t thought her parents’ income—or sufficient lack—would matter much, since Simon already owned a fancy house and car and all that real estate he bought and sold. Why would he need money from her?
She turned the Screenland page, skimming through a story about an actress who’d collapsed on set.
Her agent had sent the woman off to someplace dreamy, probably on a private beach to rest and recover with a whole host of servants at her beck and call.
All that glitters isn’t gold, her mama liked to say, but it sounded pretty golden to her.
After Simon discovered she had no money to contribute to their marriage, they’d stopped talking about a honeymoon.
Even though she could no longer afford to buy the Hollywood rags, she couldn’t stop dreaming about long walks on the beach, staying at a posh hotel, meeting a leading man or lady under the marquee lights.
Lately, the only headlines at the five-and-dime had been about the war, and that’s all people seemed to talk about when she left the house.
Why couldn’t they focus on happier things?
Germany, England, all those other places were so far away when the theater was just a few blocks from campus.
And there was no place happier than the theater.
She leaned toward Simon, lowering her voice so she didn’t wake Greta. “Silver Summer is opening next week.”
“I’m trying to sleep, Izzy.”
“A silver summer on the silver screen.” She could only imagine how romantic that would be.
Silence from his side of the bed.
“Did you hear what I said about the movie?”
“I’ve heard plenty about it.”
From her, of course. Practically every night for the past month, ever since the theater pinned up its release poster with Carole Lombard as the lead, she’d hinted at going.
Every time she and Greta strolled by the theater, she stopped to admire the poster, proud that she’d met the author who’d written Silver Summer before it became a motion picture.
She sighed. “It’s supposed to be a love story.”
“We’ve no money for frivolities.”
“We will after that woman sells your property.”
When he didn’t respond, Izzy switched off her lamp, hoping beyond hope that Simon would have an extra fifty cents by next week. She didn’t need popcorn or a soda pop. She just wanted the housekeeper to watch Greta for three hours so she and Simon could spend an evening on the town.
Or the professor could babysit. He’d taken to Greta, much more than Simon had, often holding her while Izzy ate. Sometimes she even heard the old man cooing over his granddaughter.
Sadly, all the charm Simon had shown Izzy when they first began dating was gone. He no longer tried to impress her with flowers or chocolate drops in fancy tins. Instead of bringing her treats, he told her that she needed to lose the weight she’d gained in the past year.
But no matter how many walks she took, even when she abstained from the breakfast and lunch meals, pounds clung to her waistline like Greta did to her bottle.
Simon had said he would bring her something soon that would trim her figure, and when he did, just maybe, he’d start looking at her again like he used to.
Months ago, on a late night after Simon had left for Cleveland and Greta refused to sleep, Professor Farrow told her that she didn’t have to worry about her future.
“I’m not worried,” she’d lied, trying to rock away her daughter’s tears.
“No matter what happens, you and your baby won’t go hungry in my home.”
She didn’t dare ask about his concerns, simply smiled and corrected him. “Our home.”
He’d taken Greta from her and paced the entryway for an hour until his granddaughter finally slept.
Then he’d laid her into the wooden bassinet and Izzy collapsed for the night, wondering at this man who mistreated her husband.
How could he be so kind to Greta and yet so cruel to his son?
Even though she and Simon had been married for nine months, she still didn’t understand his family.
Simon’s breath slumped into a snore, and sleep finally wooed her away, transporting her into a dreamy Emerald City with a lion on her right, scarecrow on her left, as she searched for the wizard. She would have stayed right there in the technicolor Land of Oz, but someone shouted Simon’s name.
She woke to the professor, pounding on their door, and a cry from the crib.
Izzy crawled to the end of the bed, picking Greta up before the tears agitated her husband even more.
Simon reached for his robe and flung open the door. “It’s past midnight!”
“You have to stop this game, Simon.”
“What game?”
Simon tossed a glance toward Izzy, then he slipped into the hallway and closed the door. She patted Greta’s back, and as the baby drifted again to sleep, she strained to hear the conversation between father and son.
“You can’t blame me for that,” Simon said in the hallway, his tone colder than she’d ever heard.
“I know exactly what you’re doing.”
“And what might that be?”
Why didn’t her husband simply tell the professor that he needed to scoot himself out to the backyard instead of waking them up in the middle of the night, accusing Simon of things that simply weren’t true?
Whenever she was home—and if the professor continued in his kindnesses to her and Greta—he would be always welcome, but Simon needed to take over as the leading man for their household.
All this waiting had done none of them any good. The men would continue to fight and—
“The stakes are too high, Simon.”
“For you, maybe.”
The professor’s voice escalated. “You’d risk losing your wife and daughter for a scheme?”
Her spine tingled with the professor’s question. Simon would never risk losing his family.
“What I do with my wife and child is my business.”
“They are only collateral to you,” the professor said slowly.
“You wouldn’t throw out your granddaughter,” Simon said.
Of course he wouldn’t throw Greta out. Simon would demand the professor leave.
The professor’s groan could have carved a chasm between them. “You don’t even care.”
Greta began to stir again, but Izzy didn’t move, listening for Simon’s reply. “I care plenty.”
“About your horses, maybe.”
“They’re a profitable venture,” Simon said.
No humor accompanied Professor Farrow’s laugh. “You’re gambling away the little money you have.”
“I’m going to sell one of them soon.”
His property—the big windfall—was a horse? Izzy didn’t know how much a horse was worth, but surely not as much as a house or land. He’d said he owned land, hadn’t he? Real estate.
Then again, ever since Greta was born, her mind was all messed up.
“I don’t want anything to do with your dirty money,” the professor said.
“I’m taking care of it.”
“You are a brilliant man, Simon. One of the smartest I know. But you’re wasting your life. All those years of school, right into the trash.”
“Into the bank, more like. I’m on the verge of something big.”
Professor Farrow’s voice dropped, but her ear was pressed against the door now. “If one of your so-called associates knocks on my door again, I’m calling the police.”
Had Louie returned while she was visiting her parents? If so, had he threatened the professor?
“You call the police,” Simon spat, “and you’ll have a bigger problem on your hands.”
Izzy tried to drown her panic with rapid breaths as she bounced Greta in her arms, hoping she wouldn’t cry again. What had Simon mixed himself up in?
“Not everyone is corrupt, Son.”
“Most people,” Simon replied, “appreciate money more than morality.”
“Maybe in your world but not in my house. Stop playing stakes with your family.”
“Hush,” Izzy whispered, speaking more to herself than the baby. How could Simon be gambling with them?
“Button it up, Simon,” the professor continued. “Or you’ll be out for good.”
Her husband stopped speaking, like he often did when he and the professor argued. Ending the conversation with his silence.
This was Simon’s house, she wanted to scream. His mother had left it to him.
Or not.
The idea sprouted like a weed in her muddied head, twisting and tangling through every other thought.
What if Simon had lied to her, like she’d lied to him? What if he wasn’t going to have a windfall from property in Cleveland? And what if he didn’t inherit this house?
If he’d lied to her about his standing, what exactly did he have?
Horses, apparently. A baby. And a wife who couldn’t return to live with her parents.
Professor Farrow continued to yell, but any sparring between the men was muffled in her ears.
Even if he’d lied, she and Simon would find a way to make it work. The stakes may be high, but Simon would bet on them.