Arthur Hailey - The Moneychangers

"An ordinary American who believes that, in the military, discipline is necessary." "Even in an immoral war like Vietnam?"

"A soldier can't decide morality. He operates under orders. The alternative is chaos."

"Whoever you are, you sound like a Nazi. After World War II, we executed Germans who offered that defense."

"The situation was entirely different."

"No different at all. At the Nuremberg trials the Allies insisted Germans should have heeded conscience and refused orders. That's exactly what Vietnam draft defectors and deserters did." 'The American Army wasn't exterminating Jews." "No, just villagers. As in My Lai and elsewhere." "No war is clean."

"But Vietnam was dirtier than most. From the Commander-in-Chief down. Which is why so many young Americans, with a special courage, obeyed their consciences and refused to take part in it." "They won't get a unconditional amnesty."

"They should. In time, when decency wins out, they will."

They were still arguing fiercely when Edwina separated them and performed introductions. Later they resumed the argument, and continued it while Alex drove Margot home to her apartment. There, at one point, they came close to blows but instead found suddenly that physical desire eclipsed all else and they made love excitedly, heatedly, until exhausted, knowing already that something new and vital had entered both their lives.

As a footnote to that occasion, Alex later reversed his once-strong views, observing, as other disillusioned moderates did, the hollow mockery of Nixon's "peace with honor." And later still, while Watergate and related infamies unfolded, it became clear that those at the highest level of government who had decreed: "No amnesty" were guilty of more villainy by far than any Vietnam deserter.

There had been other occasions, since that first one, when Margot's arguments had changed or widened his ideas.

Now, in the apartment's single bedroom, she selected a nightgown from a drawer which Alex left for her exclusive use. When she had it on, Margot turned out the lights.

They lay silently, in comforting companionship in the darkened room. Then Margot said, "You saw Celia today, didn't you?" Surprised, he turned to her. "How did you know?"

"It always shows. It's hard on you." She asked, "Do you want to talk about it?" "Yes," he said, "I think so. "You still blame yourself, don't you?"

"Yes." He told her about his meeting with Celia, the conversation afterward with Dr. McCartney, and the psychiatrist's opinion about the probable effect on Celia of a divorce and his own remarriage.

Margot said emphatically, "Then you mustn't divorce her."

"If I don't," Alex said, "there can be nothing permanent for you and me."

"Of course there cam I told you long ago, it can be as permanent as we both want to make it. Marriage isn't permanent any more. Who really believes in marriage nowadays, except a few old bishops?" "I believe," Alex said. "Enough to want it for us."

'When let's have it on our terms. What I don't need, darling, is a piece of legal stationery saying I'm married, because I'm too used to legal papers for them to impress me overmuch. I've already said I'll live with you gladly and lovingly. But what I won't have on my conscience, or burden you with either, is shoving what’s left of Celia's sanity into a bottomless pit."

"I know, I know. Everything you say makes sense." His answer lacked conviction.

She assured him softly, "I'm happier with what we have than I've ever been before in all my life. It's you, not me, who wants more." Alex sighed and, soon after, was asleep.

When she was sure that he was sleeping soundly, Margot dressed, kissed Alex lightly, and let herself out of the apartment. While Alex Vandervoort slept part of that night alone, Roscoe Heyward would sleep in solitude the whole night through. Though not yet.

Heyward was at home, in his rambling, three-story house in the suburb of Shaker Heights. He was seated at a leather-topped desk, with papers spread out before him, in the small, sedately furnished room he used as a study.

His wife Beatrice had gone upstairs to bed almost two hours ago, locking her bedroom door as she had for the past twelve years since by mutual consent they moved into separate sleeping quarters.

Beatrice's locking of her door, though characteristically imperious, had never offended Heyward. Long before the separate arrangement, their sexual exercises had grown fewer and fewer, then tapered into nothingness.

Mostly, Heyward supposed, when occasionally he thought about it, their sexual shutdown had been Beatrice's choice. Even in the early years of marriage she made plain her mental distaste for their gropings and heavings, though her body at times demanded them. Sooner or later, she implied, her strong mind would conquer that rather disgusting need, and eventually it had.

Once or twice, in rare whimsical moments, it had occurred to Heyward that their only son, Elmer, mirrored Beatrice's attitude to the method of his conception and birth an offending, unwarranted invasion of her bodily privacy. Elmer, now nearing thirty, and a certified public accountant, radiated disapproval about almost everything, stalking through life as with a thumb and finger over his nose to protect him from the stench. Even Roscoe Heyward at times found Elmer a bit much

As to Heyward himself, he had accepted sexual deprivation uncomplainingly, partly because twelve years ago he was at a point where sex was something he could take or leave; partly because ambition at the bank had, by then, become his central driving force. So, like a machine which slips into disuse, his sexual urgings dwindled. Nowadays they revived only rarely even then, mildly to remind him with a certain sadness of a portion of his life on which the curtain fell too soon.

But in other ways, Heyward admitted, Beatrice had been good for him. She was descended from an impeccable Boston family and, in her youth, had "come out" properly as a debutante. It was at the debutante ball, with young Roscoe in tails and white gloves, and standing yardstick straight, that they were formally introduced. Later they had dates on which chaperones accompanied them and, following a suitable period of engagement, were married two years after meeting. The wedding, which Heyward still remembered with pride, was attended by a Who's Who of Boston society.

Then, as now, Beatrice shared Roscoe's notions about the importance of social position and respectability. She had followed through on both by long service to the Daughters of the American Revolution and was now National Recording Secretary General. Roscoe was proud of this and delighted with the prestigious social contacts which it brought. There had been only one thing Beatrice and her illustrious family lacked money. At this moment, as he had many times before, Roscoe Heyward wished fervently that his wife had been an heiress.

Roscoe's and Beatrice's biggest problem was, and always had been, managing to live on his bank salary.

This year, as the figures he had been working on tonight showed, the Heywards' expenses would substantially exceed their income. Next April he would have to borrow to pay the income tax he owed, as had been necessary last year and the year before. There would have been other years, too, except that during some he had been lucky with investments.

Many people with much smaller incomes would have scoffed at the idea that an executive vice-president's S65,000 a year salary was not ample to live on, and perhaps to save. In fact, for the Heywards, it was not.

To begin with, Income taxes cut the gross amount by more than a third After that, first and second mortgages on the house required payments of another $16,000 yearly, while municipal tax ate up a further $2,500. That left $23,000 or roughly $450 a week for all other expenses including repairs, insurance, food, clothes, a car for Beatrice (the bank supplied Roscoe with a chauffeur-driven pool car when he needed it), a housekeeper-cook, charitable donations, and an Incredible array of smaller items adding up to a depressingly large sum.