Scruff

by Robert Ludlum

  But she wasn’t growing; the children were. They talked, they walked, they filled uncountable pails of diapers and spewed out unmeasurable amounts of cereal and bananas and milk. She loved them with enormous joy and faced their beginning years with the happiness of the new experience.

  And then it all began to slip away. Slowly at first, as with so many others. She understood that, too.

  The schoolday was the initial shock. Pleasant to begin with—the abrupt cessation of the high-pitched, demanding voices. The silence, the peace; the wonderful first aloneness. Alone except for the maid, the laundry man, an occasional repairman. Essentially alone, however.

  The few really close friends she’d known had moved away—with husbands or with dreams of their own having little to do with the New Haven-Hartford environs. The neighbors in their upper-middle-class suburb were pleasant enough for an hour or two, but no more. They had their own drives—company drives; East Haven was the territory for them. And there was something else about the East Haven wives. They resented Phyllis Trevayne’s lack of need and appreciation for their corporate strivings. That resentment—as resentment so often does—led to a form of quiet, progressive isolation. She wasn’t one of them. And she couldn’t help them.

  Phyllis realized that she’d been thrust into a strange, uncomfortable limbo. The thousands of hours, hundreds of weeks, scores of months that she’d devoted to Andrew, Doug, and the company had been replaced by the all-day, everyday needs of her children. Her husband was more often away than at home; it was necessary, she understood that, too. But the combination of all things left her without a functioning world of her own.

  So there was the first, free-of-cares, purposeful venturing out on a regular, daily basis; unencumbered by infant concerns. No patient explanations to impatient maids, no elaborate preparations for noontime, snacktime, playtime, friendtime. The children were in private schools. They were picked up at eight-thirty in the morning and returned conveniently at four-thirty, just prior to the rush-hour traffic.

  The “eight-hour parole” was the term used by the other young, white, rich mothers of the white, rich youngsters attending the old, white, rich private schools.

  She tried relating to their world and joined the proper clubs, including the Golf and Country; Andrew enthusiastically endorsed them but rarely set foot on the premises. They palled on her as rapidly as the members did, but she refused to admit the disenchantment. She began to believe the fault was hers, the inadequacy hers. Was there guilt? Then that was hers also.

  What in God’s name did she want? She asked that question of herself and found no answer.

  She tried returning to the company—no longer a warehouse, now a sprawling complex of modern buildings, one of several branches. Pace-Trevayne was running at high speed on a very fast track in an extraordinarily complicated race. It wasn’t comfortable for the wife of the energetic young president to be seated at a desk doing uncomplicated chores. She left, and she thought Andrew breathed easier.

  Whatever it was she sought eluded her, but there was relief to be found, starting at lunch. In the beginning it was a delicate glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. Then graduation to the single Manhattan, which swiftly became a double. In several years her degree was awarded by the switch to vodka—the no-telltale, very viable substitute.

  Oh, God! She understood Ellen Madison! Poor, bewildered, rich, soft, pampered Ellen—hushed-up Ellen Madison. Never, never phone her after six p.m.!

  She recalled with painful clarity the late rainy afternoon Andy found her. She’d been in an accident, not serious, but frightening; her car had skidded on the wet pavement into a tree about a hundred yards from the driveway. She’d been hurrying home from a very long lunch. She’d been incoherent.

  In her panic she’d raced from the smashed car to the house, locked the front door, and run to her room, locking that also.

  A hysterical neighbor ran over, and Phyllis’ maid called the office.

  Andrew convinced her to unlock their bedroom door, and with five words her life was changed, the awful years terminated.

  “For God’s sake, help me!”

  “Mother!” Her daughter’s voice intruded on the stillness of the new bedroom that opened on the impractical balcony. Phyllis Trevayne had nearly finished unpacking; it had been an early photograph of her children that had triggered her silent reminiscing. “There’s a special delivery letter from the University of Bridgeport for you. Are you lecturing this fall?”

  Pam’s transistor radio filled the downstairs. Phyllis and Andy had laughed when they met their daughter at Dulles Airport the night before; Pam’s radio was turned on before she reached the passenger gate. “Only biweekly seminars, dear. Bring it up, will you, please?”

  The University of Bridgeport.

  The coincidence of the letter and her thoughts was appropriate, she considered. For the letter from such a place as Bridgeport was a net result of her “solution,” as she called it.

  Andy had realized that her drinking had become more than a social habit but had refused to accept it as a problem. He had more problems than he needed; he attributed her excess to the temporary condition of household pressures and too little outside activity. It wasn’t uncommon; he’d heard other men speak of it. “Cooped up” was the phrase usually accompanying their rationalizations. It would pass. Further, he’d proved it to himself. For whenever they took vacations or were traveling with each other, there was no problem at all.

  But that rainy afternoon they both knew there was a problem and they had to face it together.

  The solution had been Andy’s, although he let her think it was hers. It was to immerse herself completely in some project with a specific objective in view. A project in which she found a great deal of pleasure; an objective ambitious enough to make the time and energy worthwhile.

  It didn’t take her long to find the project; the fascination had been there since she was first introduced to medieval and Renaissance history. It was the chronicles: Daniel, Holinshed, Froissart, Villani. An incredible, mystical, marvelous world of legend and reality, fact and fantasy.

  Once she began—cautiously at first, auditing graduate courses at Yale—she found herself as impatient as Andrew was with the expanding concerns of Pace-Trevayne. She was appalled by the dry academic approach to these vivid, full-bodied histories. She was infuriated with the musty, cobwebbed, overly cautious literateness given these—her—poetic novelist-historians of the ages. She vowed to open the rust-caked doors and let the fresh air of new appreciation circulate among the ancient archives. She thought in terms of contemporary parallels—but with the splendor of past pageantry.

  If Andrew had his fever, she caught one, too. And the more she immersed herself, the more she found everything else falling into organized place. The Trevayne household was a busy, energetic home again. In less than two years Phyllis had her master’s degree. Two and a half years later, the once-described objective—now merely an accepted necessity—was reached. She was formally conferred a Doctor of English Literature. Andrew threw a huge party celebrating the event—and in the quiet love of the aftermath told her he was going to build High Barnegat.

  They both deserved it.

  “You’re almost finished,” said Pamela Trevayne, coming through the bedroom door. She handed her mother the red-stamped envelope and looked around. “You know, Mom, I don’t resent the speed you get things straightened up in, but it doesn’t have to be so organized, too.”

  The more she immersed herself, the more she found everything falling into organized place.

  “I’ve had lots of experience, Pam,” said Phyllis, her mind still on her previous thoughts. “It wasn’t always so … tidy.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I said I’ve done a lot of unpacking.” Phyllis looked at her daughter as she rather absently thumbed open the back of the envelope. Pam was growing so tall; the light-brown hair fell loose, framing the sharp young features, the wide brown eyes that were s
o alive. So eager. Pam’s face was a good face—a very feminine version of her brother’s. Not quite beautiful, but much more, much deeper than pretty. Pam was emerging as a most attractive adult. And beneath the surface exuberance there was a fine intelligence, a questioning mind impatient with unsatisfactory answers.

  Whatever the hang-ups of her immediate growth period—boys, transistor radios turned these days to mournful, back-country folk ballads, pop posters, poor marches and Boone’s Apple Farm—Pm Trevayne was part of the vast “now.” And that was fine for everybody, thought Phyllis as she watched her daughter part the curtains over the door of the impractical balcony.

  “This is a crazy porch, Mother. With luck you could get a whole folding chair out there.”

  Phyllis laughed as she read the letter from Bridgeport. “I don’t think we’ll use it for dinner parties … Oh, Lord, they’ve got me scheduled for Fridays. I asked them not to.”

  “The seminars?” asked Pam, turning from the curtains.

  “Yes. I said any time from Monday through Thursday, so they assign me Fridays. I want Friday open for weekends.”

  “That’s not very dedicated, Madame Professor.”

  “One dedicated member of the family is enough right now. Your dad’s going to need the weekends—if he can take them off. I’ll phone them later.”

  “Today’s Saturday, Mom.”

  “You’re right. Monday, then.”

  “When’s Steve getting here?”

  “Your father asked him to take the train up to Greenwich and drive the station wagon down. He has a list of things to bring; Lillian said she’d pack the wagon.”

  Pam uttered a short cry of disappointment. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have taken the bus home and driven down with him.”

  “Because I need you here. Dad’s been living in a half-furnished house with no food and no help while I’ve been at Barnegat. We womenfolk have to put things to rights.” Phyllis shoved the letter back in the envelope and propped it against the bureau mirror.

  “I’m against your approach. In principle.” Pam smiled. “Womenfolk are emancipated.”

  “Be against, be emancipated; and also go unpack the dishes. The movers put them in the kitchen—the oblong box.”

  Pam walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, tracing an imaginary crease on her Levi’s. “Sure, in a minute.… Mom, why didn’t you bring down Lillian? I mean, it would be so much easier. Or hire someone?”

  “Perhaps later. We’re not sure what our schedule will be. We’ll be in Connecticut a lot, especially weekends; we don’t want to close the house.… I didn’t realize you were so maid-conscious.” Phyllis gave her daughter a raised eyebrow of mock disapproval.

  “Oh, sure. I get uptight when I can’t find my ladies-in-waiting.”

  “Then why ask?” Phyllis rearranged some articles on the bureau and looked casually at her daughter in the mirror.

  “I read the article in the Sunday Times. It said that Dad had taken on a job that would keep him busy for ten years—with no time off—and then it would only be half-done; that even his well-known abilities were up against the impossible.”

  “Not impossible; they used the word ‘incredible.’ And the Times is prone to exaggerate.”

  “They said you were a leading authority on the Middle Ages.”

  “They don’t always exaggerate.” Phyllis laughed again and lifted an empty suitcase off a chair, “What is it, dear? You’ve got that I-want-to-say-something look.”

  Pam leaned back against the headboard; Phyllis was relieved to see that her daughter did not have shoes on. The bedspread was silk. “Not ‘say.’ ‘Ask.’ I’ve read the newspaper stories, the stuff in the magazines; I even saw that TV news thing of Eric Sevareid’s—they called it a commentary. I was very big on campus; he’s grooved these days.… Why is Dad taking this on? Everyone says it’s such a mess.”

  “Precisely because it is a mess. Your father’s a talented man. A lot of people think he can do something about it.” She carried the suitcase to the doorway.

  “But he can’t, Mom.”

  Phyllis looked over at her daughter. She’d been only half-listening, parent-child listening, more concerned with the thousand and one things that needed to get done. “What?”

  “He can’t do anything.”

  Phyllis walked slowly back to the foot of the bed. “Would you mind explaining that?”

  “He can’t change things. No committee, no government hearing or investigation, can make things any different.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the government’s investigating itself. It’s like an embezzler being made the bank examiner. No way, Mom.”

  “That remark sounds suspiciously out of character, Pam.”

  “I admit it isn’t mine, but it says it. We talk a lot you know.”

  “I’m sure you do, and that’s good. But I think that kind of statement oversimplifies, to say the least. Since there’s a general agreement that a mess exists, what’s your solution? If you’ve arrived at a criticism you must have an alternative.”

  Pam Trevayne sat forward, her elbows on her knees. “That’s what everyone always says, but we’re not’sure it’s so. If you know someone’s sick, but you’re not a doctor, you shouldn’t try to operate.”

  “Out of character …”

  “No, that’s mine.”

  “I apologize.”

  “There is an alternative. But it’ll probably have to wait; if we’re not too far gone or dead by then.… A whole big change. Top to bottom, a huge replacement. Maybe a real third party …”

  “Revolution?”

  “God, no! That’s a freak-out; that’s the violent-jocks. They’re no better than what we’ve got; they’re dumb. They split heads and think they’re solving something.”

  “I’m relieved—I’m not condescending, dear. I mean that,” said Phyllis, reacting to her daughter’s sudden questioning look.

  “You see, Mom, the people who make all the decisions have to be replaced with people who’ll make other decisions. Who’ll listen to the real problems and stop making up fake ones or exaggerating the little ones for their own benefit.”

  “Maybe your father can point out … things like that. If he backs them up with facts, they’ll have to listen.”

  “Oh, sure. They’ll listen. And nod; and say he’s sure a great guy. Then there’ll be other committees to look into his committee, and then a committee to look into them. That’s the way it’ll be; it’s the way it always is. In the meantime, nothing changes. Don’t you see, Mom? The people up there have to change first.”

  Phyllis watched her daughter’s excited expression. “That’s very cynical,” she said simply.

  “I guess it is. But I’ve got an idea you and Dad don’t feel so differently.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it seems to me everything’s kind of … impermanent. I mean, Lillian’s not here, this house isn’t exactly the kind of place Dad digs …”

  “There are good reasons for the house; there aren’t many available. And Dad hates hotels, you know that.” Phyllis spoke rapidly, offhandedly. She didn’t care to spell out the fact that the small guest cottage in the back was ideally situated for the two Secret Service men assigned to them. The “1600 Patrol” was the name she’d read on a memorandum from Robert Webster.

  “You said the place was only half-furnished …”

  “We haven’t had time.”

  “… you’re still lecturing up in Bridgeport.”

  “I made the commitment; it was near home.”

  “You even said you weren’t sure of your schedule.”

  “Darling, you’re taking isolated, disconnected statements and making them support a preconceived judgment.”

  “Come on, Mother, you’re not building a case against somebody’s footnotes.”

  “I might as well be. I’ve seen an awful lot just as misleading. And extraneous.… What your father’s doing is very important to him.
He’s made some agonizing decisions; they weren’t easy, and they hurt. I don’t like to hear you imply that he’s not serious. Or part of a sham.”

  “Oh, wow! I’m sending out the wrong vibes.” Pam rose from the edge of the bed and stammered, embarrassed that she’d so obviously upset her mother. “I’m not saying that, Mom. I’d never say that about Dad. Or you. I mean, you level.”

  “Then I misunderstood you.” Phyllis walked aimlessly back to the bureau. She was annoyed with herself; there was no reason to pick at Pam for saying what men—and women—far more knowledgeable than her daughter were saying all over Washington. Not the sham; the aspect of futility.

  The waste. And Andrew hated waste.

  Nothing would change. That’s what they were saying.

  “I just meant that Dad maybe wasn’t sure, that’s all …”

  “Of course,” said Phyllis turning, showing her daughter an understanding smile. “And you may be right … about the difficulty of changing things. But I think we ought to give him a crack at it, don’t you?”

  The daughter, relieved by her mother’s smile, returned one of her own. “Gosh, yes. I mean, he might switch the whole Navy around, make it a sailing fleet.”

  “The ecologists would approve. Go on, now, get those dishes out. When Steve arrives, he’ll be hungry.”

  “He’s always hungry.” Pam went to the door.

  “Speaking of your father, where is the elusive man? He conveniently disappears when chores are in order.”

  “He’s out back. He was looking at that oversized doll house in the south forty. And that nutty driveway that looks like someone goofed with a cement mixer.”

  “ ‘Monticellino,’ dear.”

  “Mom, what does that mean?”

  “Monticello got pregnant, I guess.”

  “Oh, wow!”

  Trevayne closed the door on the small guest cottage, satisfied once again that the equipment for the 1600 Patrol had been properly installed and was functioning. There were two speakers that picked up any sound from the main-house hallway and living room as soon as a switch underneath the living-room rug was stepped on. He had done so, and he’d just heard the front door open and a brief conversation between his daughter and a postman, followed by Pam’s shouting to Phyllis that a special delivery had arrived. Further, he’d placed a book on the ledge of an open window in the downstairs rec room—so that it horizontally broke the vertical space—and noted, again with satisfaction, that a high, piercing hum was emanating from a third speaker beneath a numbered panel when he’d entered the cottage. Every room in the main house had a number that corresponded with one on the panel. No object or person could cross a window space without activating the electronic scanner.