Seeing my hesitation, Peg said, “Just tell her about it, Vivvie. Trust me—Olive is better at this kind of stuff than any of us.”
So I backed up, and started my saga all over again. The car ride in 1941, Walter’s disgracing of me, the driver calling me a dirty little whore, my dark time of shame and banishment in upstate New York, and now the return of the driver—a patrolman with burn scars who had been on the Franklin. Who knew my brother. Who knew everything.
The women listened to me attentively. And when I got to the end they stayed attentive—as though they were waiting for more of the story.
“And then what happened?” asked Peg when she realized I wasn’t talking anymore.
“Nothing. After that, I left.”
“You left?”
“I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to see him.”
“Vivian, he knew your brother. He was on the Franklin. From your description, it sounds as though he was gravely wounded in that attack. And you didn’t want to talk to him?”
“He hurt me,” I said.
“He hurt you? He hurt your feelings twenty-five years ago, and you just walked away from him? This person who knew your brother? This veteran?”
I said, “That car ride was the worst thing that ever happened to me, Peg.”
“Oh, was it?” snapped Peg. “Did you think to ask the man about the worst thing that ever happened to him?”
She was becoming agitated, in a manner that was not at all in character. This was not what I had come for. I wanted comfort, but I was being scolded. I was starting to feel foolish and embarrassed.
“Never mind,” I said. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have bothered you today.”
“Don’t be stupid—it’s not nothing.”
She had never spoken to me this sharply.
“I should never have brought it up,” I said. “I interrupted your game—you’re just irritated with me about that. I’m sorry I burst in here.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the goddamn baseball game, Vivian.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just upset and I wanted to talk to someone.”
“You’re upset? You walked away from that wounded veteran and then came here to me, because you wanted to talk about your difficult life?”
“Jesus, Peg—don’t come down on me like this. Just forget it. Forget I said anything.”
“How can I?”
Then she started coughing—one of her awful, jagged, coughing fits. Her lungs sounded barbed and brittle. She sat up, and Olive pounded on her back for a bit. Then Olive lit another cigarette for Peg, who took the deepest drags she could, interspersed with more fits of coughing.
Peg composed herself. Dummy that I was, I was hoping she was about to apologize for having been so mean to me. Instead she said, “Look, kiddo, I give up here. I don’t understand what you want out of this situation. I don’t understand you at all right now. I’m just very disappointed in you.”
She had never said that. Not even all those years ago, when I had betrayed her friend and nearly capsized her hit show.
Then she turned to Olive, and said, “I don’t know. What do you think, boss?”
Olive sat quietly with her hands folded over her lap, looking down at the floor. I listened to Peg’s labored breathing, and to the sound of a window shade on the other side of the room, tapping in the breeze. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what Olive thought. But there we were.
Finally Olive looked up at me. Her expression was stern, as always. But as she chose her words, I could sense that she was choosing them carefully, so as to not do unnecessary harm.
“The field of honor is a painful field, Vivian,” she said.
I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.
Peg started laughing—and again coughing. “Well, thank you for your contribution, Olive. That settles everything.”
We sat there quietly for a long time. I got up and helped myself to one of Peg’s cigarettes, even though I’d quit a few weeks earlier. Or had sort of quit.
“The field of honor is a painful field,” Olive went on at last, as though Peg had not spoken. “That’s what my father taught me when I was young. He taught me that the field of honor is not a place where children can play. Children don’t have any honor, you see, and they aren’t expected to, because it’s too difficult for them. It’s too painful. But to become an adult, one must step into the field of honor. Everything will be expected of you now. You will need to be vigilant in your principles. Sacrifices will be demanded. You will be judged. If you make mistakes, you must account for them. There will be instances when you must cast aside your impulses and take a higher stance than another person—a person without honor—might take. Such instances may hurt, but that’s why honor is a painful field. Do you understand?”
I nodded. The words, I understood. What this had to do with Walter and Frank Grecco and me, I had no clue. But I was listening. I had a feeling her words would make more sense to me later, once I had time to give them more consideration. But as I say—I was listening. This was the longest speech I’d ever heard Olive make, so I knew this was an important moment. Actually, I don’t think I’d ever listened more carefully to anyone.
“Of course, nobody is required to stand in the field of honor,” Olive continued. “If you find it too challenging, you may always exit, and then you can remain a child. But if you wish to be a person of character, I’m afraid this is the only way. But it may be painful.”
Olive turned her hands over on her lap, exposing her palms.
“All this, my father taught me when I was young. It constitutes everything I know. I try to apply it to my life. I’m not always successful, but I try. If any of this is helpful to you, Vivian, you are welcome to put it to use.”
—
It took me over a week to contact him.
The difficulty wasn’t in finding him—that part had been easy. Peg’s doorman’s older brother was a police captain, and it took him no time at all to confirm that, yes, there was a Francis Grecco stationed as a patrolman in the 76th Precinct in Brooklyn. They gave me the phone number for the precinct desk, and that was that.
Picking up the phone was the hard part.
It always is.
I will admit that the first few times I called, I hung up just as soon as somebody answered. The next day, I talked myself out of calling back. The next few days, too. When I found my courage to try again, and to actually stay on the line, I was told that Patrolman Grecco was not there. He was out on the job. Did I want to leave a message? No.
I tried a couple more times over the next few days and always got the same message: he was out on patrol. Patrolman Grecco clearly did not have a desk job. Finally I agreed to leave a message. I gave my name, and left the number for L’Atelier. (Let his fellow officers wonder why a nervous broad from a bridal shop was calling him so insistently.)
Not one hour later, the phone rang and it was him.
We exchanged awkward greetings. I told him that I would like to meet him in person, if he would be amenable to that idea? He said he would. I asked if it would be easier for me to go out to Brooklyn, or for him to come to Manhattan. He said Manhattan would be fine; he had a car and he liked to drive. I asked when he was free. He said he would be free later that very afternoon. I suggested that he meet me at Pete’s Tavern at five o’clock. He hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry, Vivian, but I’m not good at restaurants.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I didn’t want to put him on the spot.
I said, “How about we meet in Stuyvesant Square, then? On the west side of the park. Would that be better?”