E. Doctorow - The Book of Daniel

Save this space for the letter my father wrote back:

October 4, 1967

Dear Dan,

Sorry it has taken me this long to answer your letter. You gave me some interesting homework. I won’t cite the precedents for you but it seems highly unlikely that a court would approve the termination of the trust if Susan so petitioned while she was under psychiatric care. Although she attains her majority this year, Lise and I remain her guardians until such time as she recovers.

However, as you know you are entitled now and have been since your twenty-fifth birthday to assume your pro rata share of the corpus. Susan’s illness does not impinge on that. If you were to decide to become her guardian in our stead and apply to the court for that purpose on the grounds that as Susan’s sibling you would be more likely than we to dispose of her share as she sees fit, you might get the court to agree. I, of course, would not contest such an application.

There remains one other exception. A third party might have grounds for suit in Susan’s behalf by claiming her mental health would be improved were she to assume control of her share of the corpus. I cannot predict what success he would have. But assuming that “the Isaacson Foundation” as endowed by her trust money would have a salutary effect on her condition, a court could conceivably find merit in this argument.

Needless to say I was fascinated by your questions. What have you found out? I don’t recall Susan’s mentioning any Artie Sternlicht, nor does your mother. Of course there was a period of a month or six weeks when she was not going to class, and there is no telling what she did during that time or where she went or whom she saw. In any event I am encouraged by the drift of your thinking — by the thought that you may be reconsidering your stand not to relieve me of the responsibility of your share of the trust. Please let us know what’s on your mind.

Love from us both,

Dad

That ends this part of the story. It is interesting to note, aside from everything else, the operating pressure of fatherhood in Robert Lewin’s letter. He wants to stabilize me with responsibility. That is a true blue american puritan idea. In that idea is the fusion of the Jew and America, both of them heirs of the ancient seafarers: you ride the sea best with lead in your keel. My lawyer father is no accident, and it is no accident that he loves American Law, an institution that constantly fails and that he constantly loves, like a bad child who someday in his love will not fail, stabilized with responsibility.

While my parents were in jail awaiting their trial General of the Armies was called home, Douglas MacArthur, who cut such a fine figure with his corncob pipe, his aviator shades, and the rakish block of his garrison cap. He had tried to make policy in opposition to Washington’s and he had propagandized against his own commander in chief. For his disobedience, his Neanderthal ego and his general failure to step smartly to the orders of an amateur captain of artillery, he was relieved as Supreme Commander of Everything and ordered home to a tumultuous reception. America had not forgotten her hero. In Washington, in New York, the streets were massed with shouting, screaming worshipers. There were parades. There was a mawkish address to both houses of Congress. There was talk of impeaching the President. There was talk of MacArthur for President. I watched these obscenities on Aunt Frieda’s magic new television in the afternoons when she was down in her store and unable to tell me not to waste electricity. MacArthur came closer to overthrowing the government of the U.S. than any person in modern times. He was acclaimed throughout the land. I noticed he combed his hair across the top of his head to hide his baldness. How could the country trust a man of such pathetic vanity? I began to wonder if he had been that good a general. What is a good general anyway? What are the criteria? At night Susan and I slept in the same bed, Aunt Frieda’s, while she slept on the couch in the living room, It was not a good arrangement. Under the sheet was a sheet of rubber. Susan was regressing and could not wake up to go to the bathroom. In the middle of the night a tide of urine gently lapped at my pajamas. I awoke in the urine mists of dawn.

I was desolate. It is an in-chest feeling of vacuum. I remembered the joy of traveling downtown on the subway with my mother and father, one on either side of me. We were going to hear the New York Philharmonic in an engagement at the Roxy. There was also a technicolor movie. Another time they took me to the Stanley Theater on 8th Avenue near 42nd Street and we saw Alexander Nevsky. What was life come to as I lay now with my leaky sister in the staleness of Aunt Frieda’s bed in Brooklyn, a loveless bed, and looked forward the next day to possibly another sentimental speech by a killer general.

As I work out the chronology I believe this period at Frieda’s coincides with the first of the government’s superseding indictments. There were a total of three as the U.S. Attorney and the FBI gradually perfected the scenario. First there were eight overt acts. Then there were nine Overt Acts. Then there were TEN OVERT ACTS.

FRYING, a play in ten overt acts

Monday the 5th

Hi, my dearest Danny, what do you think of Brooklyn? Is it interesting? Have you made any friends yet? I know it’s probably boring to you to be out of school, my honey, but all of this — the not being together, the disruption of the routine — is only temporary. In the meantime you should get Aunt Frieda to take you to the library and get lots of books to read. Mr. Ascher, “Uncle Jacob,” is trying to get you into the public school there, but that may take a few more days. My beloved little Susan will go to a nursery school.

Listen, my dear sweetheart, I have a surprise for you: “Uncle Jacob” will be bringing a present for each of you from us. I hope you enjoy it. Your father and I discussed what we would get you in our letters and we have asked him to bring it home to you from the store. That is to make you feel not so lonely, because it is from us — and also so that you will have the best possible time!

Please write to me again, my sweet angel boy, I enjoyed your letter so much. Tell me what is on your mind. You are such a comfort to me!

And please don’t worry about us! We all miss each other, but cooperate with your Aunt and take care of your sister — I know you do that without my even asking, my honey — and before you know it well all be together again.

With lots and lots of love,

Your “Mom.”

It was two presents, an Erector set, which bored me, and a drawing pad and colored pencils. I was alarmed by the tone of the letter. I was hurt because it contained no information. Susan got a tea set of tin and a coloring book and crayons. I had to play house with her — an endless distracted game of house that began always with our sitting down to breakfast in front of the tea set. She was the mother and I was the father. After breakfast we drew pictures in our house. I was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe in Aunt Frieda’s apartment. She kept the windows locked. When Ascher came with the presents he tried to open the living room window but he couldn’t. The apartment was dark and airless. I was finding it more difficult to sleep. I had seen a 1930’s prison movie on television: the man was shaking the bars of his cell shouting I’m innocent! I’m innocent I tell ya! I’m innocent! breaking down in sobs because no one is there to hear him and he slides to the floor in a heap, still holding onto the bars of the cell door. All night my parents rose and fell on the bars, like the horses in a merry-go-round, pulling themselves up and sliding down with their hands attached to the bars.