by Walter Blum
Adam was always a little jealous of men like that, but there was no point in letting it prey on his mind. Fading the pot, he eased into a commercial. While it played, he sifted through the loose-leaf binder filled with spots he would have to read that night. He came across a promo for the morning show and sighed. The station was always searching for another morning DJ, constantly on the lookout for the perfect replacement for Simon Denning. Adam wondered why they hadn’t asked him. Susan wouldn’t mind if he switched. The morning shift was more conducive to a young marriage. Working nights was hard on both of them. It meant they could rarely go out to parties, or take in a movie during the week, or just enjoy a quiet dinner without having to rush.
The commercial ended. He segued into his theme, taking great pride in the way things moved on the show, the smoothness, the seamless connection between one element and another. It meant he was not only the engineer and the star, but also the producer of Evening Shadows, the master of the Bell Tower. The musical mood shifted from major to minor, from strings to woodwinds. He faded the pot and pulled the microphone closer.
“And I guess you’re feeling pretty good about now.”
He liked to start in the middle of a sentence, as though he and the invisible listener were already part way through a conversation when the microphone just happened to be turned on. It was part of the illusion, the pretending. And always it was “a listener,” a single person who was out there being spoken to. Announcers like the one with the Brahma bull voice who “hosted” the big band remote, who were always addressing listeners in the plural. That was not how he saw himself.
“Settle back. We’re scheduled for a little ride in the Bell Tower, a soft, gentle ride with lots of love. Of course, there’s no telling where we’ll end up.”
The first instrumental slipped in, almost unnoticed, as he released the record. He lifted off the theme disk and replaced it with a vocal by Patti Page. Once the turntables were set, he had a few minutes to do what he pleased. Tonight, he was overcome with an urge to phone Susan, to hear her voice and tell her for the thousandth time how much he loved her, but he knew that wouldn’t be wise. She often fell asleep listening to the show—sometimes before it started—and if he rang now it might wake her up, and that was the last thing he wanted.
Despite the many months since the miscarriage, even now he felt compelled to tread carefully. Their doctor said that this wasn’t an unusual phenomenon. For women, a pregnancy gone awry could be almost as traumatic as one that had to be terminated, more painful than any man could imagine. His wife was grieving, he said when Adam phoned him one afternoon in desperation. It couldn’t be helped. He recommended rest, but doctors always advise rest when they don’t know what else to say.
He segued into the Patti Page and slid the promo for the morning show out of the folder, transferring it into the copy holder above the control board. As he did so, his eye was caught by the VU meters—there were two of them—and that was when he saw the needle wasn’t moving.
He pulled back, startled. Was the tower about to take off again, and if so, why had he received no warning? No, this was different. Music could still be heard on the large speaker that hung from the ceiling, but he knew immediately that the sound wasn’t leaving the building. The transmitter had gone dead, probably because of the storm, the dampness and the lightning. Something had happened and the “carrier,” as the engineers liked to say, was no longer being “modulated.”
The phone rang. He recognized the low, throaty voice that belonged to Beverly, one of his regular listeners.
“Hi, Adam. Something wrong with your station? All I’m getting is static.”
“Yes, it seems we’ve had an outage.”
“What’s an outage?”
“We’re out. The transmitter’s dead. It happens sometimes, especially on stormy nights.”
“How long before you come back on?” Beverly wanted to know. “I like your music.”
“I don’t know. It could be a while.”
He hung up and dialed the number taped to the board. An engineer named Dominic was on call for situations like this. Adam had never met him, but everyone said you could count on Dominic if anything went wrong. The transmitter was as old as Methuselah, having been installed some time before the War, and it was generally agreed that sooner or later the whole thing would go down—permanently. Adam hoped this wasn’t the night. To his dismay, the woman who answered the phone told him that Dominic was out having a drink with some friends.
“But I know how to get hold of him.”
“Please,” Adam said. “It’s an emergency.”
Dominic turned up at the station half an hour later, a skinny young man with a long, needle-like nose and blond hair that rippled to his shoulders. Adam had never seen anyone who looked quite so scruffy. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five. He had a nervous twitch and he spoke with an accent redolent of some Eastern European country, which Adam had trouble understanding. Dominic was in a bad mood and wasted no time on frivolities, vanishing into the back room where most of the meters and dials were kept.
When he reappeared, there was a frown on his face. “Tube’s blown out.”
Adam had no trouble understanding that. “Don’t you have a replacement?” he wanted to know.
“We’ve used up our last one,” the skinny young man said. “Your boss should keep track of these things. I’ll have to get another one.”
“What do you think caused it?” Adam asked.
“Storm,” the young man shrugged. No doubt the technical reason for what had happened was beyond the comprehension of anyone with only a Third-Class license, which was what Adam possessed. Dominic did not think much of people like Adam, who were referred to in the business as “combo men.” Most small-town announcers were expected to combine running the board with taking readings, but you couldn’t expect them to know what to do if the equipment broke down, which might happen at any time.
“How long do you think it’ll be before we can get back on the air?” Adam asked.
Dominic shrugged. “Could be an hour, maybe more.” The expression on his face conveyed only a kind of weary disdain.
“What about my show?” Adam wanted to know.
“I got to go get another tube,” Dominic mumbled. “Don’t carry them around in the car. And then I got to get it installed, and I got to test the transmitter and make sure there’s nothing else wrong.”
“It’ll be sign-off by then.”
“Sorry. I don’t make the transmitter, I just repair it. If Mr. Baines would shell out a little money for new equipment, you wouldn’t have problems like this.”
“Mr. Baines has other things on his mind.”
“Well, there’s your answer.” He pronounced the “W” as a “V” and had some trouble with the “th” sound, for which he substituted a “d.” “Anyway, you might as well go home. You ain’t going to get in a show tonight. I got a couple of other things to do here.”
“Will you lock up when you’re finished?”
“I’ll lock up.”
This was the first time he’d experienced a full-scale breakdown. Usually, the outage lasted only a few minutes; often the station, after a bit of huffing and puffing, would come back on the air by itself. In an emergency, he’d been instructed to open the panel of circuit breakers beside the reel-to-reel tape machine and flip the switch that happened to end up in the wrong direction. He had tried it before and it worked, but this time first aid was of no use.
He had no choice but to go home.
He thought of calling Susan first, but reminded himself that if she had indeed turned in early, she’d probably be asleep by now. No point waking her. He filled out his log and returned the records to the library, where they could be replaced on the shelves in the morning. Dominic was still taking readings when he left. Adam felt as though he’d rubbed up against a porcupine, but as long as the guy knew his stuff and didn’t charge the station more than he was worth, it r
eally didn’t matter.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but there were puddles in the asphalt parking area and a damp heaviness about the air, warm and thick, almost as though it were midsummer. It was a night like this, the same wet stillness floating in the air, that had brought Susan into his arms at the country club, the Mellow Tones serving up a medley of ballads. He remembered how she looked moments before, standing at the drinks table in her pleated skirt, the glow of her hair, and later the darkness of the car where they had their first kiss.
He drove slowly, aware of how the road could sometimes flood after a sudden storm like this. There were big old oaks and doddering elms lining the road, and some of them were known to weaken and come crashing down, so it was wise to keep an eye peeled.
WCAN was on the north edge of town, home was south. The state had promised that a fast road would bypass the business district of Canelius someday, but that prospect was several years off and the only direct route home now was through downtown—south on Heffernan to Graham Avenue, turn left two blocks to First Street, then right past the Jefferson Davis Hotel. Most of the streets were one-way and there wasn’t much in the way of nightlife. So quiet was downtown that, at this hour, red traffic lights were replaced with flashing amber. Usually, it was a fast trip. Door to door, no more than twenty-five minutes at most.
The hotel was on his right now. When it was built, back in the nineteen-thirties, critics insisted such an establishment was more hotel than a town the size of Canelius needed. Now, when a convention moved into town or the county fair was in session, the Jefferson Davis bulged to capacity. Even without some event on the schedule, the curb was lined with cars belonging to guests who had arrived late and could no longer find room in the parking lot across the street. Businesses and restaurants were beginning to fill in the spaces near the hotel. Around the corner and a couple of blocks farther down was the B&B Cafe where, during his single days, Adam would often linger until two or three in the morning over coffee and a piece of cherry pie.
It was intensely dark tonight, no moon, no stars. The streetlights twinkled with little halos around each one, the lingering effects of the rain that still coated the pavement with a glossy slick. A drunk was making his way down the street, tacking uncertainly into an invisible wind. He lurched against the line of cars, bounced off the side of the hotel, righted himself and continued down the middle of the sidewalk. The presence of a single man on a deserted street at this time of night startled Adam. He slowed down to a crawl, fearful of hitting the man should he suddenly careen into the street. Sure enough, the drunk veered sharply off course and ended up doubled over between two cars, one of them a large black Lincoln.
It wasn’t until the last moment that he realized the other car was a red Ferrari.
Slamming on the brakes, certain that his imagination must be playing tricks on him, he edged forward slowly, careful not to attract the drunk’s attention, his lights on dim. But as he came closer, he could see the license number plainly enough. The car was empty, but there was no doubt to whom it belonged.
Only it didn’t make sense. Why would the Ferrari be parked downtown when she was at the house, probably asleep? Could it have been stolen? No, Canelius was known for its dearth of crime. People just didn’t steal cars out of other people’s garages. Was it possible he’d misread the license plate? Rather than back up and take another look—there could be a fracas if the drunk thought he was being followed—he decided to speed up, drive around the corner and come back again. That took him past the hotel’s front entrance, which was all glass with a revolving door so you could see the lobby and, against the back wall, the desk.
He was about to accelerate when he saw them through the plate glass, standing at the desk. The man was signing the register; she stood beside him, her hand in his. She had on a dark blue blouse and matching skirt, one he had bought her only a few weeks before. Just as he passed the entrance, the clerk turned to the row of cubbyholes against the wall and took a key from one of the slots. The young man signing the register also turned at that instant to say something, and Adam saw his face.
His foot hit the accelerator and he shot forward as though flung from a cannon, his back jammed against the seat, his head in a whirl. Barely aware of the hotel, the street, the streetlights, the silent army of cars, he flew toward the intersection. All he wanted was to get away, and yet as soon as he had put a hundred feet between himself and the hotel entrance, a strange calm came over him. He knew he would have to go back and take another look.
He rounded the corner and parked on Main Street. He sat in the car for a good ten minutes, gathering up the courage to do what needed doing.
Where had they met? Probably in the store, which Bernard Silverman practically ran by himself now that Max was involved in so many other projects. Or it might have been the country club. Adam recalled an ordinary looking guy, dark and brown-eyed, straight black hair and a prominent nose. A good salesman. Knew how to hold back and ingratiate himself with a customer. People appreciated the respectful treatment, and he sold a lot of furniture that way.
Adam gritted his teeth. The simple solution was to start up the car, drive home, have a cup of hot cocoa and wait for her to come home. But he couldn’t do that. That was the coward’s way. Besides, he had to have some confirmation of what he had seen.
Moments later, after sighting a space, he parked the car and pushed his way through the revolving door into the lobby. The desk clerk had temporarily abandoned his post—no doubt few guests circulated through the lobby at this hour. The register lay open. There was a silver bell beside it, which could be rung should someone require assistance. Adam saw his opportunity. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he sidled up to the desk, turned the register around and ran his eye down to the most recent entry. His hand was still on the book when he heard a sound, and looked up to see the desk clerk approaching from the office in back.
“Can I help you?” The expression on the desk clerk’s face was a mixture of insouciance and suspicion. Adam knew the last thing he could afford was to let the man think he was rummaging around in places where he didn’t belong.
“I’m sorry,” he said, indicating the register. There was no point pretending he hadn’t already looked at it. The book was still turned around the wrong way. Inside, he was trembling, but he couldn’t let the man see it. “My friend Saperstein said he was checking in this evening,” he said, improvising as best he could with a name that somewhat but not too closely resembled Silverstein. “I thought he said the Jefferson Davis, but it might have been some other hotel.”
“Sir, there’s only one other hotel in Canelius. That’s the Leverton, and it’s on the other side of town.” The desk clerk’s tone seemed to suggest that for a person of quality, the Jefferson Davis was the only hotel worth staying in. He turned the ledger around to face him. “No, I don’t see anyone by the name of Saperstein on the guest list.”
“Smith?”
The desk clerk nodded. “Yes, we have a Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Checked in less than ten minutes ago.”
“Dark-haired fellow?” Adam said. “His wife’s a redhead.”
“Yes, the gentleman has dark hair, but Mrs. Smith is a—” His mouth dropped open. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize.” The ploy had put the desk clerk instantly on the defensive. “Oh, sir, this is most embarrassing. I naturally assumed that, since they were together—well, most of our guests—after all, the last time they came in they seemed like an old married couple.”
“The last time?”
“And the time before.”
“Just tell me what room they’re in.”
The desk clerk glanced down at the register, which gave him a chance to compose himself. When he looked up, his face had regained its usual hauteur. “Room 824,” he said, and stopped. “You’re sure it’s the same person?”
“Yes.”
“Jewish fellow?” the clerk inquired, a nasty tone to his voice.
Adam nodded. H
e started toward the elevator, then pretended he had changed his mind. “Better not,” he said, with a wink at the desk clerk, who smiled back as if to say that he too was a man of the world and understood what was going on upstairs. At that moment, the elevator door opened and Albert, the black bellboy, emerged. Albert stepped back in the elevator, ready to take him up, if that was his desire. In a panic, Adam grabbed a fistful of air, backed away, turned and flung himself out the revolving door.
The next thing he knew he was on the rain-slick pavement outside, stumbling, lurching as fast as his legs would carry him back to the car.
He slid into the front seat, his head reeling. He felt as though he had to throw up, and at one point he opened the door and leaned over, retching violently, but nothing came. He had no idea what to do next. He couldn’t go home. This was no time for coffee and a piece of pie at the B&B. As a last desperate measure, he drove around the corner and headed back in the direction of WCAN. Halfway there, he remembered that Dominic would probably still be working on the transmitter.
At the next intersection he turned right. The narrow two-lane road was a shortcut through a heavy stand of scrub pine to Larry’s house. Five minutes later, he was outside the house with its neatly trimmed lawn, which had always aroused his admiration although there was no reason why, after his divorce, Larry would have kept the place. He walked up the flagstone path and rang the doorbell. Everything was dark inside, but after leaning on the bell for a while, he was rewarded with lights going on and Larry’s sleepy figure in the doorway, yawning. He was wearing striped pajamas and a bathrobe. A smell of perfume hovered in the air.
Adam was covered with confusion. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t know…I mean…”
