Brass Ring

by Diane Chamberlain

  The network was gleefully courting him. Terri Roos was no longer the only one in regular contact with his office. Everyone seemed to be taking delight in their stimulating chats with the compassionate Mr. Patterson.

  “But he really wants to talk to you, Vanessa,” Terri had told her the day before. “Your name keeps popping up in his conversations with other people, so he’s figured out that you’re our guiding force. Do you have time to give him a call?”

  Vanessa forced herself to consider it. Patterson wouldn’t know, she thought. He couldn’t possibly figure out that Vanessa Gray was, in reality, Vanessa Harte. And even if he heard her childhood name, she doubted he would make the connection. He probably didn’t remember her at all.

  But she begged out of calling him once again, and this time she sensed Terri’s impatience. “Some people are upset that you’re not being a team player on this, Vanessa,” Terri said. “They’re saying we should proceed without you.”

  Vanessa bit her lower lip, hurt. She was hungry to join her colleagues, hungry to lead them in this fight. She wanted to see this thing through, but that was impossible. Not as long as Zed Patterson was going to walk with them every step of the way.

  “Terri, please don’t leave me out,” she said. “I can’t give you my reasons for not being more fully involved right now, but my heart’s still where it’s always been. I’m committed to the AMC programs, you know that. I just can’t work through Patterson. It’s…it’s political.”

  She could almost hear Terri’s brain cells swirling, trying to make sense of Vanessa’s words. “You mean, you’ll get in hot water with the hospital or something?” Terri asked.

  “Something like that. You can consult with me. You can use me any way you want. But I can’t deal directly with Patterson’s office. All right?”

  Terri had accepted her refusal to participate with reluctance. She was sure to pass Vanessa’s cryptic message on to other members of the network, and they would concoct theories to explain her unwillingness to deal with Patterson. But even the most inventive among them would never come near the truth.

  Brian was her balm, her shelter in the midst of the storm surrounding her. In three weeks, they would be married. She had told no one because it seemed unreal to her. Until the justice of the peace pronounced them husband and wife, she wouldn’t believe it. She wanted it, though. She wanted that bond with Brian and felt very certain that he wanted it, too. She would be safe; he wouldn’t leave her.

  She’d stopped taking her pills, hesitant about it at first. It was the wrong time for her to get pregnant, she’d said. She was still having nightmares, and her days were filled with anxiety over the AMC program and the dilemma she was in—the person who could best help her and the program was someone whose name she couldn’t utter without an attack of nausea.

  Brian shot her arguments down, one by one, and she secretly welcomed the loving words of persuasion coming from his lips. She’d cried after they made love last night, the first time since she’d stopped the pills. She’d cried not out of regret or fear but because he would be leaving again this morning, and for the first time she felt as if she couldn’t bear the separation. That was when he suggested she spend her evenings researching Zed Patterson’s personal and professional life. Make sense of it, Brian had said. Get control over it.

  She started with the Congressional Directory. Walter Zedekiah Patterson had been born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, on June 3, 1935. He’d been president of a social fraternity in college, then served two years as deputy sheriff of Jeremy before being elected to the office of mayor. He had a law degree from the University of Kentucky and was first elected to the Senate in 1977. He married Elizabeth Gregg on April 7, 1963, and was divorced from her in 1965, with no children. He married Penelope Carter in 1985 and had a son, Kevin, born 1987 and a daughter, Kasey, born 1989.

  She hadn’t pictured him with children. The thought disturbed her, and she stared at their names for a long time.

  She scrolled through a series of newspaper articles about him. The articles covered legislation but gave her little insight into the man. There was one photograph, gritty and in profile, and she scrolled through it quickly. She had no interest in seeing Zed Patterson’s face.

  It was nearly closing time in the library, and she was so tired that she almost missed the headline in the Seattle paper: Molestation Charge Filed Against Senator. Sitting up straight in her chair, suddenly wide-awake, she hunted for a date on the paper. The article was from this past December, just two months ago.

  She scanned it quickly the first time through.

  The Patterson family had taken a baby-sitter along with them on their vacation to a Delaware beach the previous summer. The babysitter was a thirty-year-old woman who was accompanied by her eleven-year-old daughter. The girl was claiming that, on two occasions when she was not feeling well and had stayed home from the beach, Senator Patterson had come into her bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and fondled her. On a third occasion, he kissed her on the mouth when she was going to bed and no one else was around. The girl apparently told her mother about the incidents only the week before, after the mother had complained about the senator not paying her on time.

  There was a direct quote from Patterson as he swept aside the girl’s allegations: “This is a disturbed young girl who, already at the age of eleven, has been in trouble with the police for shoplifting as well as with the school system for truancy My wife and I knew she had problems when we allowed our sitter to bring her with us to the beach, but her mother is an excellent child-care provider—beloved by, and very responsible with, our children—and we felt that perhaps by allowing this young girl to spend time with our family, we could help her. We all had an excellent week together at the beach. I’m perplexed and saddened by her allegations.”

  Acid rose in the back of Vanessa’s throat. She read the article three more times, then hunted through other papers for more information on the girl and her accusations but found nothing. She made a copy of the article, ignoring the librarian who was telling her the library was closed and she would have to leave.

  The instant she got home, she called Terri Roos, not even bothering to sit down or unbutton her coat.

  “Are you aware that molestation charges were filed against Zed Patterson?” she asked Terri, pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor.

  Terri yawned. “Yeah. By a very screwed-up-sounding kid.”

  “Terri.” She was appalled that Terri would use those words to describe a child. Terri’s devotion to Zed Patterson was blinding her. “You knew this and didn’t mention it to me?” she asked.

  “He didn’t do it, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You mean, they cleared him?”

  “Not yet. They had a preliminary hearing, and the trial’s next month. But it’s cut-and-dried, Vanessa. The kid is a very disturbed little girl he was trying to help.”

  Vanessa was squeezing the receiver in her hand. “Listen to yourself,” she said. “You run a program for kids who were abused. You know, better than ninety-nine percent of the population, how kids can be discounted when they report this stuff. And you’re willing to say he’s innocent without even—”

  “The man is a champion of victims’ rights, Vanessa. He breaks his back for kids who have suffered real abuse. There’s no way he could ever—”

  “You don’t know anything about him. You’ve seen ministers and teachers and lawyers and doctors who’ve done it.” She waved her arm through the air. “For heaven’s sake, Terri, wake up.”

  Terri was quiet for a long time. “Vanessa,” she said finally, “listen to me. First, I don’t appreciate being screamed at over the phone. Second, while you’ve been an incredibly hard worker and a driving force behind the network for a long time, the truth is that you’ve done jack-shit to help us out with the lobbying and other critical work that needs to be done now.”

  Vanessa leaned against the wall, eyes closed, while Terri continued.

 
; “Now, I don’t believe for half an instant that this man who breaks his back every day to protect the rights of women and kids could be guilty of hurting a child. But Vanessa—forgive me for this—even if he is guilty, he’s a powerful force in the Senate, and we need him. Got that? I mean, what do you expect us to do? Let go of the one true advocate we have because some fucked-up kid said something negative about him?”

  “Actually, yes,” Vanessa said. “At least, I would hope you’d care enough to uncover the truth.”

  She hung up without waiting for Terri’s reply and stood staring down at the phone. How many bridges had she burned with that call?

  She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Ten-thirty. It was time for bed, but she made herself a cup of tea instead and carried it into the living room, where she settled down on the sofa with a stack of journals. She wouldn’t go to bed. Sleep would only bring her the carousel, and she knew she would fare better tonight if she didn’t sleep at all.

  24

  JEREMY, PENNSYLVANIA

  1962

  THE BIG DOORS OF the barn were closed much of the summer because Vincent was ill. Every once in a while, he’d manage to get out to the workshop, and Claire and Vanessa would join him there. But despite the coziness and the warm, familiar smells, the workshop was not quite the same as it used to be. Vincent didn’t seem to want to talk, and the sound of his breathing often filled the air as he whittled or painted or glued pieces of wood together. He kept his pipe in his mouth, but he never smoked it anymore.

  The young deputy sheriff was around a good part of the summer, helping Vincent with the mechanical workings of the carousel. Zed Patterson. “He’s a genius at making that thing go,” Vincent would say, and then he’d laugh. “He doesn’t understand the meaning of a carousel, though, that boy. Says I should put some prettier music on the organ. What’s he expect—a little Mozart? Chopin? Not on my carousel.”

  One day—it was not a Friday—Len Harte showed up unannounced. He walked into the kitchen where Claire and Mellie sat at the table hulling strawberries while Dora rolled pie dough on the kitchen counter.

  Len walked straight across the kitchen floor to where Mellie sat and slapped her hard across the face. Mellie’s head snapped to the side, and his hand left a mark on her cheek as red as the berries.

  Dora gasped, and Claire dropped the strawberry she’d been hulling to the floor. She had never seen her father hit a person before. He didn’t even hit her or Vanessa when they deserved it. “My God, Len.” Mellie stood up, her pale hand with its pink nails pressed against her cheek. “What’s—”

  “Where’s Vanessa?” Len boomed. He looked directly at Claire, who drew her feet onto the chair and hugged her knees close to her body.

  “Upstairs,” Claire said, the word barely audible. Vanessa had been upstairs most of the morning. She’d said she wasn’t feeling well.

  Len stomped through the kitchen and pounded up the stairs. Mellie looked at her mother. “Why is he acting like this?” Mellie asked.

  Dora was trying to press a wet cloth to Mellie’s cheek, but Mellie brushed her hand away and started up the stairs after her husband, with Claire not far behind her.

  From the stairwell, they could hear Vanessa crying in little hiccupy sobs.

  “Now!” Len yelled at Vanessa. “You have three minutes.”

  At the top of the stairs, Mellie turned to Claire. “Go downstairs, darling. Everything’s going to be all right. You just go down and wait with Grandma, and I’ll get everything straightened out up here.”

  Mellie’s cheek was still red, but she was smiling. She would fix whatever was wrong.

  Claire walked slowly down the stairs. She sat at the table again while Dora ran the rolling pin this way and that over the dough on the counter. The dough was so flat that from where Claire was sitting, it looked as though Dora was rolling the pin on the counter itself. Dora talked about the state fair while Claire poked at the strawberries in the bowl. Dora spoke very loudly, as though she could overpower the screaming and shouting from upstairs and somehow prevent Claire from hearing it.

  After pressing the paper-thin dough into the bottom of a pie plate, Dora pulled a coloring book and a box of crayons from the cupboard by the back door and set them on the table in front of Claire.

  “Let me see you color something pretty,” she said, and though the book was far too juvenile for Claire, she obediently opened it to a picture of two robins and a worm.

  It wasn’t long before footsteps thundered on the stairs and Len came flying through the kitchen. Claire looked up from her coloring only long enough to see that he was dragging Vanessa by the arm and carrying a suitcase with his free hand. Vanessa was crying so hard she was choking on her tears as her legs scrambled to keep up with his. Then Claire returned to her coloring, carefully staying inside the lines. She didn’t look up at her sister again. And she kept coloring as Mellie ran, screaming, after Len and Vanessa into the yard. That was not like Mellie. Claire squeezed the red crayon as she worked it around the robin’s fat breast. Dora talked even louder. There would be a lot of strawberry pies entered in the state fair this year, she said. The weather had been just right for strawberries. And Claire colored, and as the screaming and yelling and little sobs grew to a crescendo, she held the picture up for her grandmother to see.

  Len’s car screeched away from the house and sped down the long driveway. It was a while before Mellie came back into the house. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying. Dora and Claire looked at her.

  Mellie pulled one of the kitchen chairs close to Claire and sat down. She took both of Claire’s hands in hers. “Your daddy and I have decided to live apart for a while,” she said calmly.

  What did that mean? “Are you divorced now?” Claire asked. She had a friend named Barbara whose parents were divorced. Barbara saw her father every weekend.

  “Divorced!” Mellie laughed as though Claire had said something wildly amusing, and Claire smiled uncertainly. “Of course not. Sometimes a married couple needs to have some time apart. That’s all. And Daddy wanted to take Vanessa with him so he wouldn’t be too lonely. And you’ll stay with me so I won’t be lonely either.”

  Mellie stood up and lit a cigarette. She walked to the counter where Dora was laying strips of dough on top of the strawberries in the pie tin.

  “I believe that’s the most delicate pie crust I’ve ever seen you make, Mama,” Mellie said. “You’ll win first prize this year for sure.”

  25

  VIENNA

  EACH TIME CLAIRE RAISED her eyes from the papers on her desk, the office swirled around her and the windows danced momentarily on the wall before snapping into place again. She couldn’t shake this grogginess. Sleep had been fitful the night before, for both her and Jon, and they had spoken little on the drive into work. Were they both simply exhausted, or did he feel as she did—that once she’d told him she wanted to continue her friendship with Randy, there was little else to be said? He’d stroked her shoulder in the car this morning and rested his hand on hers, and she’d felt the sadness in his quiet touch, a strange sense of resignation that brought tears to her eyes. Jon was in pain, and she couldn’t bear that she was the cause of it.

  At ten o’clock, she had her third cup of coffee and met with two of the rehab therapists, Kelley Fielding and Ann Short, to talk about a problematic patient they shared. Kelley was much improved in dealing with her male patients. Her new sense of confidence was evident, and she practically carried the meeting by herself, which was just as well, since Claire’s concentration was nonexistent.

  Claire spent much of the meeting pondering her choices. She tried to imagine her life without Randy in it. It would be like cutting off her air supply. Cut the theatrics, she told herself. You have a wonderful husband and an incredible life and no financial problems and

  what the hell more do you want? Maybe Jon was right, and the memories would die a natural death if Randy were no longer around to stir them up in her. M
aybe she could go back to the woman she used to be—the pre-Margot woman who could turn every problem into a challenge, every tense situation into a festival. Then again, maybe not. It was hard to imagine feeling good again. She never felt happy anymore, never content or at ease with herself. It was as if she were passing through a long hallway, and she had seen too much behind the doors to go back again unchanged. Randy held the key to the last door, but Jon sat in the center of the hall, his chair too big for her to circumvent without injury to herself or to him.

  And what would her life be like without Jon in it? Unthinkable. Unbearable.

  At noon, she carried their lunches into Jon’s office. He looked surprised to see her as he raised his eyes from his work.

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He moved his papers to the side of the desk and took the bag she held out to him. They were quiet as they poured bottles of apple juice into Styrofoam cups and opened their bowls of salad.

  Jon squeezed a packet of dressing onto his salad and glanced at her. “Margaret’s accepted our invitation to be keynote speaker at the retreat,” he said.

  “Fantastic.” She didn’t care who spoke. She didn’t care if anyone spoke at all. In years past, the SCI Retreat had consumed them both. This year, it seemed like an event in someone else’s tiresome dream.

  “I’ve made a decision,” she said.

  Jon raised his eyebrows. “About?”

  “I won’t see Randy anymore.” She looked at him. “I’ll go to his restaurant this afternoon to tell him in person, but that will be it. I’ll try very hard to put this past month or so behind me, and I’ll think of some things we can do for fun. And plan a vacation, if you still want to do that. I love you, Jon. I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult lately.”