The Bell Tower

by Walter Blum

  Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink.

  ***

  “Mr. Bay-ul?”

  “Yes, Mattie. Who’s it going to be tonight? Vernon, Dexter?”

  A faint titter. “Oh, Mr. Bay-ul, you are so funny. I haven’t seen those two ol’ boys in ages.”

  “So who’s the dedication for?”

  “Nobody. Just play it for me, Mr. Bay-ul. You don’t even have to say anything. I’ll know.”

  “The usual?”

  “The usual.”

  He got up, went into the back room and checked the meters to make sure they were kicking, pulled down a spare copy of Secret Love from the shelf—the original had worn out from overuse—returned to the control room and slipped the record in the rack. The irony of the song wasn’t lost on him. He played the furniture spot. He ran an ad for Clearskin, read the tag naming the half dozen local stores that carried it, segued into a Percy Faith instrumental and leaned into the microphone.

  “Yes, it’s that kind of night.” With the headphones on, his voice quickly changed into the deep comfort zone. “Here in the Bell Tower, with the lights turned low, wine on the table, a bunch of flowers on the mantel and wherever you are right now, it’s time to relax, lean back and join us for an evening of romance.”

  How many times had he said that, or something like it? One thing he knew and that was how to set the mood, how to float the listener into his world—or at least the world he had created—to light the candles, to pour the wine. It was a kind of impersonal seduction that he would never try outside the Bell Tower, even if he knew how. The real listener might be either frightened or amused, laughing at the obviousness of it, which was even worse—but in fantasy anything is possible.

  The pounding of the engines had started up again. Now was the time, if ever, to begin the sequence that would launch the tower that would send it on its final journey. But he needed a password, a symbol. He needed to know which dials to turn, which buttons to press.

  “Mr. Bay-ul?”

  The pounding stopped and then started up again, so loud he was afraid it could be heard through the microphone. Suddenly it dawned on him that the sound came, not from far below, but from just outside. Someone was beating on the door, which he was required to keep locked after hours, someone standing outside in the mist and darkness, demanding to be let in. Strange. Hardly anyone ever came by the station at this hour—in all the time he had worked here, Hunter Baines had visited only once, Larry Kellin a couple of times. Wally Bascom knew enough not to poke his nose in when Adam was on the air.

  He reached into the rack and retrieved a Jackie Gleason LP album, which he kept poised for moments like this, cued up the record by touch and segued into the first cut, planning to back-announce later. When the familiar song began, he made his way to the door.

  “Hello, Adam.”

  It was the last person in the world he expected to see. “Sorry to bother you at this time of night, but I was working late at the store and I figured this would be a good time to talk.” Adam stood blocking the doorway, staring stupidly. “Well, aren’t you going to let me in?”

  Adam moved to one side. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Come in.”

  “You have time to talk?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of the show right now.”

  His father-in-law strolled through the door into the control room. It was obvious he knew his way around the station. “I’ll wait,” he said. Max pointed to the darkened studio. “Can I sit in there?”

  “Certainly,” Adam said, startled at the thought that he and Max Goldman were alone in the station at this time of night. It didn’t please him to be watched from the other side of the glass, to know that someone would be looking at him as he performed, but he couldn’t very well throw his father-in-law out the door. They walked into the studio. Adam flipped the light switch, let Goldman into the studio and made it back into the control room just as the Jackie Gleason cut was coming to an end.

  “This one’s for Mattie,” he said, releasing his well-worn copy of Secret Love.

  He went through his paces, following the play list, trying to sound enthusiastic and failing, although no one could possibly know what was going on beyond the microphone. From time to time, he glanced through the window at Goldman sitting on the piano bench, his back to the keyboard, a copy of Broadcasting magazine in his lap. Nothing about his expression betrayed his reason for being here. Why tonight? Why couldn’t he have stayed home with his study full of books and his 17-inch TV set and all that soft leather furniture arranged to satisfy the creature comforts of a man his age? If necessary, they could have talked on the phone in the morning.

  Adam glanced at the big clock overhead, wishing desperately that he could make the sweep hand slow down and stop and then move inexorably backward.

  But in the end the clock won. The program wound down, as he knew it would have to. He made a long chore of putting records away, giving the back room a touch of the broom, checking the meters. Usually, the exercise was a routine one. Tonight, Adam not only penciled in the readings meticulously but double-checked each one. Finally, unable to put it off any further, he concluded his obligations, closed the station log and left the control room for the studio.

  Goldman, laying aside the magazine, got right to the point. “Does the name Ted Sauer ring a bell with you?”

  “Yes,” Adam said, trying not to sound surprised.

  “They say Sauer is in the process of putting together a radio empire,” Max continued. “Not a network, like NBC or CBS, but a chain of stations around the country embodying the principles of broadcasting he believes in.” He gestured at the studio and the control room. “And now he’s bought this station.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A man named Parker Goodwell. I’ve mentioned his name to you. He’s my right-hand man, runs MG Enterprises. Parker’s from St. Louis. His family’s in the banking business, they keep him informed of what’s happening in that part of the country.

  “And Parker Goodwell keeps you informed.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Well, this man, Sauer, also happens to be from St. Louis, and he’s been attracting a lot of attention up and down the Midwest, it seems, adding stations to his holdings, selling large blocks of radio advertising. Now he wants to move into the Southeast, and WCAN is his first stop.”

  “But this is all just speculation.”

  “No, the deal went through today. The papers were signed this morning, although the announcement probably won’t be made for another day or two. I’m told that when Sauer decides to do something, he moves fast. You’re going to have to make some decisions in a hurry, Adam.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. Ted Sauer runs something called Top 40 radio which, as I understand it, calls for a certain type of music and a certain style of announcing.”

  “So?”

  Well, you don’t fit that style, Adam. Believe me, I’m not trying to be brutal or unkind. I’m just stating the facts. When a man like Ted Sauer moves into a market, he sets up his operation, he brings in an entirely new staff and he disposes of the old one—it’s as simple as that.”

  “I can fit in if I have to.”

  “You can’t!” Goldman said, his eyes briefly blazing with anger. “It’s not up to you. The Ted Sauers of this world are revolutionizing the business you’re in. There are no more Jack Bennys, no more Fred Allens. The very nature of the medium is undergoing a sea change. Radio—the radio you know and seem to love—is a ship with a hole in its bottom, and if you stay on you’ll end up paddling around in a pool of dirty water.”

  “I’ll stick around a little longer,” Adam said.

  Goldman opened the lid of the piano keyboard and struck a note. He made a face, for the sound was sour and it hung in the air like an evil cloud. Closing the lid, he turned to face Ada
m, looking him straight in the eye for the first time. “Why do you have to be so obtuse?” he wanted to know. “Don’t you see what’s happening? You’re not going to be asked to stick around, not even for a little while. The future has arrived, and you’re not part of it.”

  “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”

  “I have a reputation for honesty,” Max said, unaware that the line was being subjected to a gamma ray of scrutiny.

  “All right,” Adam said slowly, “what do you suggest I do?”

  Goldman replied without hesitation. “Come to work for me. A while back, I made you an offer. The offer’s still good—join us at MG Enterprises. Say the word and you can start in the morning. I won’t beat about the bush, Adam. I have selfish reasons for making this offer. My daughter’s happiness and well-being are on the line. You want to make sure she’s happy, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know a thing about business.”

  “You can learn.”

  “How?”

  “It’s not as hard as you think. All Americans are born with an extra gene, a natural affinity for business. I can spot it in an instant. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Adam. You speak well, you’ve got a kind of—well, for want of a better word, let’s call it an instinct—a feeling for what works and what doesn’t. You’ll pick up what you need to know in no time at all. The one thing you can’t do is stay aboard a sinking ship while it’s on its way to the bottom.”

  “Aren’t you overstating the case just a little?”

  “Well, it’s a big ocean out there. You can swim around in circles until the sharks get at you, or you can throw in your fortunes with me. I’d rather see you in my corner, and I won’t make any bones about it. have a personal interest in this.”

  “How soon do you need an answer?”

  “Tomorrow. Forty-eight hours at the most. If I’d known what was going on, I would have come to you sooner. Listen, I know you’ll want to speak to Susan and get her input. Why don’t we drive over to your house and tell her what’s going on? I’m not kidding. Let’s do it right now, before it’s too late. If she’s sleeping, we’ll wake her up.”

  “If she’s there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We can only talk to her if she’s home.”

  “Why wouldn’t she be home? At this time of night? Where would she be?”

  Adam looked for some sign that his question had caught Goldman off guard, but it was clear the older man, who had already started for the door, had no idea what he was talking about. Moments later, he had locked up the station and they headed for their cars. He knew he ought to bring up the matter of the hospital and how Max had been carted off to the emergency room, where his chest pains would be diagnosed as indigestion. He knew that the minute he heard the story from Max’s end, it would reveal itself as a lie. But what good would that do? Max would undoubtedly back up his daughter, regardless of how implausible her lies might be. If she lied, so did he. The difference was that Max told his tales in good faith. He probably hadn’t the slightest clue about what was going on.

  They drove south into town, Adam glancing now and then in the rear-view mirror to make sure Max in his big black Cadillac with the fins was behind him. When they rounded the corner into First Street, Adam felt a prickling sensation down his back. The front entrance of the hotel seemed to be lit up like a fireball and, seeing the revolving door, he almost imagined two people walking through it. Thank God he hadn’t said anything to Max, who would instantly deny that anything could possibly have happened. It’s bad enough, he thought, when a husband has to confront his wife’s infidelity. For a father—an old-fashioned father like Max Goldman—it would be inconceivable.

  The house looked suspiciously dark when they pulled up, but that was to be expected. He parked in the street and let Max pull his Cadillac into the driveway. Out of habit, he slipped the key into the lock as quietly as possible and pushed open the door, flipping the light switch on the other side. Goldman followed him through the foyer into the living room. They nodded to each other, and Adam climbed the stairs to the bedroom. It was a chilly night, and the cold penetrated his thin windbreaker, which he had neglected to take off.

  He rejoined Goldman in the living room and slumped into the large easy chair near the fireplace. He felt like saying, “I told you so,” but he held his tongue. Goldman stared at him, his thick, black eyebrows twitching. “Well?”

  “She’s not home.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Out.”

  Max stared at him as if he’d just been told that the black, star-strewn sky outside was about to collapse. Suddenly, he leaped to his feet, tore out of the room and up the stairs with a spryness that belied his years. Adam was astonished at how fast he could move. Footsteps thudded overhead, for the master bedroom was directly above him and Max walked with a heavy tread. The footsteps halted for a moment, and then the light upstairs flew on, and then he was back in the living room, standing across from Adam with his hands on his hips.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Sit down,” Adam commanded, pleased that the initiative had finally been turned over to him.

  Max stood where he had planted himself, glaring angrily. “Where’s Susan?” he said.

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you,” Adam replied.

  For a while, neither of them spoke. Max, slumped in a chair to the left of the fireplace, had picked up a copy of Look magazine from the coffee table and spent some time flipping through its pages, although it was clear his eyes kept sliding past what was on the page. At one point he stopped and pointed. “These things they call ‘toreador’ pants. I don’t see how any woman can allow herself to wear something like that. I’m glad Susan doesn’t—” He closed the magazine and laid it down on the table with a snap. His look was shadowed.

  “All right, what’s going on?”

  Adam knew he couldn’t keep it from him, not indefinitely. It was the first time he’d said the words aloud, and it was like mouthing something in a foreign language. “Susan is having an affair.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “That’s where she is now.”

  “With some man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Time had dropped out, and even the sweep hand on the glass-covered clock on the mantel seemed to have come to a halt. The two men sat facing each other like triceratops on an ancient plain. It was so still Adam could hear the muscle on the side of Goldman’s jaw twitch.

  “Who?” Goldman repeated.

  “I don’t think you want to know.”

  “But you know this for certain, or are you just guessing?”

  “I’ve seen them together. They use the Jefferson Davis Hotel while I’m busy at the station with my show.”

  “That damn show!” Max muttered. His voice was low and sooty. His eyes were like coals that had not yet caught fire.

  Adam got to his feet, wandered over to the fireplace and stared down into the grate, trying to conjure up a fire that would never be lit. Why did Max keep harping on the show? The show had nothing to do with it. Why did Max insist on turning everything on its head—trying to make it seem as though…He grabbed a poker from the fireplace and, hardly aware that he was holding it, returned to the easy chair and sat down.

  It was a mistake, because unconsciously he was holding the poker as though it were a weapon. He knew he would never use it. In the back of his mind was something he once said to Larry, how Max was such a sweet guy and all he wanted was the best for Susan. But there was nothing sweet about Max Goldman now. The father lion defending his cub was all fangs and claws, snatching at the enemy with a swoop that could kill if you didn’t get out of the way.

  He remembered how she looked that morning in Johnson’s Drug Store, the brown plaid skirt and flowered yellow blouse, her golden hair done up in a pony tail, her wrist slightly bent as though she was drying her nails. Even now, he had no idea what she�
�d been doing at the greeting card rack, who the card was for, what occasion was being honored. He had never even looked at the card. All he saw was the smile, all he was aware of was the fact that she had spoken to him, nothing before or since had ever seemed so marvelous, so full of pure, sensuous delight.

  How long ago that seemed. In just a year they had gone through a half dozen lifetimes, riding one wave to its peak and back down, then another and another. In his imaginings he had possessed the most beautiful woman in the world, a perfection men often dream of without ever holding in their hands. But the dream wasn’t real. It never existed. She’d never been his; he should have known it was a lie, but how could he have penetrated the falsehood when it hadn’t crossed his mind to ask?

  And now it was closing in on him. The room seemed to be losing air, little by little, as though some huge vacuum machine—silent but deadly—was sucking the life around them. The clock on the mantel chimed. It did that on the half hour, all day and all night. The clock, a gift from Susan’s cousin Tamara, who had since moved to Israel, would ring forever on this mantel in Canelius if they let it, in the house Max Goldman had found for them. But the clock was in another world. Its sound rose like second-hand smoke, almost as an afterthought. The room itself was silent. The house lay on its side. The only refuge from this emptiness, the tower of his evenings, was too far away to offer the protection he needed now.

  They waited. In the living room, staring at the empty, silent fireplace, they waited. He and Max Goldman. Young man and father-in-law, facing each other without seeing what was there. The cold wrapping itself around his skin, sinking into his bones. It occurred to him that he might turn up the thermostat, or light a fire—only there was no wood to lay on the hearth, nor newspapers to give sufficient warmth. Tomorrow, recognizing the season, the sun would come up and toast the countryside in its image. That was how it should be, but tonight he found himself shivering, trapped on a planet whose light was on the verge of going out.