Even in the fading light, he could tell that the grass was more than ankle deep. In another year or two, maybe by the next summer, Elizabeth might be mature enough to be trusted with a lawn mower. Maybe.
After reclaiming his coat from the study, he looked from the front hall. David remained slouched in front of the television. Elizabeth was—what else—reading on the living room sofa.
“Let’s go, Elizabeth,” McDarvid called. “David, turn off the television.” He took two steps backward and yelled up the stairs. “Kirsten!”
Nothing happened. Elizabeth remained on the couch. David’s eyes remained glued to the television, and only silence returned his call from the second floor.
“Let’s go!” He waited. Nothing. “One, two, three…” He hated the counting routine, almost as much as Allyson, but it worked. Sometimes, with clients and children, you had to go with what worked, or nothing happened. “… four … five!”
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” grumbled David.
“Stop, Daddy. Here I am!” Kirsten bounced down the stairs.
“Father, I will be there when—”
“Seven … eight…” McDarvid continued implacably.
“Father!” Elizabeth scrambled off the dark brown couch and dropped the book on the battered coffee table that Allyson kept threatening to replace.
McDarvid opened the door. “Elizabeth,” he added, turning to his older daughter, “you’re the one who needs the dress. You could be ready to go.”
“I am indeed prepared, Father.”
McDarvid pinched his lips together, considering that someday Elizabeth would have children. Had he been that much of a little prig? Spankings hadn’t helped, even when she had been little, and the therapist had insisted that only firm, considered, and insistent follow-through would be effective. It had helped—some.
“I get the front!”
“It’s my turn!” insisted Kirsten.
“Father? Would you resolve this dispute?”
“David, you’re in back on the way. Kirsten, on the way back.”
“It’s not fair.”
“It doesn’t matter. For less than eight blocks, we’re not arguing.” McDarvid opened the driver’s-side front door.
Creaaaak.
“Father, you really should—”
“—have it fixed,” completed McDarvid. “I know. But they fixed it two weeks ago. It didn’t stay fixed. Do you want to take it back to the dealer for the third time?”
“Where are we going, Dad?”
“Woodies, first.” And last, I hope.
“Can I go over to the record store?” asked David.
“Not unless we actually go into Mazza.”
Parking at Woodies wasn’t too bad. McDarvid found a spot in the next-to-last row of the covered parking. With the darkening clouds and the possibility of a cold winter rain, the decision to drive looked better.
“How long is this going to take?”
“As long as it takes to get Elizabeth a dress.”
“Why don’t I get a dress?”
“Because your mother got you yours last week when Elizabeth was sick.” McDarvid pushed open the store door.
“Can I wait here?” asked David, standing by the appliance section.
McDarvid really didn’t like leaving David that far away.
“Please, Dad. I don’t want to hang around dresses.”
“All right. But you stay here.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I stay?”
“No.”
“Why not? You’re letting David stay here.”
“No.”
Kirsten’s shoulders slumped.
“Come on, girls…”
The juniors’ department was on the far side of Woodward and Lothrop.
McDarvid eyed the dresses on the front rack. The shiny silver against the black looked cheap. Lifting the sleeve, he checked the price tag. Sixty-four ninety-nine—hardly cheap for a dress for an eleven-year-old.
“Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Father? That dress is not suitable.”
“I know, I know. It’s also too expensive.” He saw a green and black dress. The skirt section was black, gathered to a wide drop waist. The bodice and sleeves bore alternating black and green bands, too wide to be called stripes. The material was heavy enough, almost a flannel, for winter wear, at least in Washington.
“That’s ugly,” offered Kirsten. “Elizabeth should get something bright and pretty.”
McDarvid studied the dress, then passed it by. They’d come back to that one because the colors would look good on Elizabeth, as would the drop waist. The next rack held a set of dresses that combined red-and-black-striped leggings with a red overskirt. The neck was scooped, and the sleeves were tight and tapered. His gangly daughter would look like a combination of pipe stems in it.
“I like this one!” Kirsten looked at her older sister.
“Elizabeth can try on several.” McDarvid sighed. “Elizabeth, have you found anything?”
Elizabeth held up a shiny green dress, short-sleeved, with a long row of tiny white buttons up the back.
“How will you button those?”
“Father, they’re not real buttons. There’s a zipper underneath.”
McDarvid looked beyond his daughter toward the main aisle, then back toward Kirsten. A man in khaki trousers and a gray windbreaker looked back at him, meeting his eyes.
McDarvid felt his guts chill as he recognized the pseudo-Secret Service type he had seen earlier at Larry’s funeral. The same bold look, the same midlength hair. McDarvid forced himself to stare back at the other until the younger man dropped his glance and turned toward the jewelry.
“Elizabeth, Kirsten. We have to get David. We’ll come right back.”
“But—”
“Father…”
“No. I shouldn’t have left David.”
Both girls looked at each other, then at their father. It took all McDarvid’s will not to sprint for the escalator as he dragged the girls with him.
“He won’t be happy,” piped up Kirsten.
I just hope he’s there, thought McDarvid. I shouldn’t have left him.
“Father … you’re hurting my arm…”
“Sorry. Please hurry.”
McDarvid’s eyes ranged across the housewares section toward appliances once they cleared the escalator.
He took a deep breath as he saw David, standing next to an older boy in front of the wide-screen television.
“David?”
“You guys done already?”
“No. I need you to come with me.”
“Dad … you promised…”
“David…” McDarvid’s voice was ice.
His son looked from his father to his sisters. “All right, all right. It was getting boring, anyway.”
“I told you he wouldn’t like it,” observed Kirsten cheerfully.
“Father, can we get back to selecting a dress without further confusion?”
McDarvid took another slow deep breath. “Yes. Just remember. Sometimes fathers make mistakes.”
“We know that,” noted Elizabeth coldly.
“Look, Miss Perfect, I am the one buying your dress.”
Elizabeth was silent as they took the escalator back upstairs. McDarvid squeezed her shoulder, then David’s.
The man in the gray windbreaker was gone, and, thankfully, none of the red-legging outfits came in Elizabeth’s size.
McDarvid wiped his forehead as he and Elizabeth looked in the three-way mirror. She had on the black and green.
“What do you think, swanlet?”
“I prefer this one.”
“I like the bright green better,” said Kirsten.
“When are we going?” asked David.
“As soon as Elizabeth changes, and as soon as I pay for her dress.”
“Can we have a fire?” asked David. “Will you play checkers with me?”
“We’ll see. We’ll see.” H
e thought about the man in gray. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Then, you have to play Old Maid with me,” insisted Kirsten.
“I’ll do that, too.”
“I’d like the fire,” added Elizabeth, “if I can read in your chair.”
McDarvid smiled. “Just while I’m playing games with them. Now, get that dress off so I can pay for it.” He still felt cold, thinking about the man who had been at the funeral showing up at Woodies. Who was he? Could it just have been coincidence? His eyes flicked from David to Kirsten and then to the dressing room doorway, as he waited for Elizabeth.
The fire would feel good, even if it weren’t that cold outside.
15
“MR. CORELLIAN IS HERE,” the intercom on the battered wood desk announced. The scratchy metallic tone all but disguised the gentle Caribbean lilt of the secretary’s voice.
“Send him in.” Esther Saliers rose slowly from the battered brown executive chair. She stood to one side of the desk, waiting.
“Ms. Saliers? I’m Andrew Corellian.” The visitor extended his hand. Wearing a dark gray suit, starched white shirt, and burgundy, silver, and navy rep stripe tie, Corellian looked both dignified and completely unremarkable, almost, to Esther Saliers, as she imagined a Mercedes salesman—mature, thoughtful, confident, and wanting something.
“Sit down, please.” The gray woman with the plump pleasant face and strained impatient expression seated herself.
“Thank you,” responded Corellian smoothly as he took the straight-backed gray plastic government visitor’s chair closest to the desk.
“Why did you insist on seeing me? We already have your computers, and they’re not what you claimed. God knows why we bought them.” Esther’s thumb, in a hitchhiker motion, pointed to the machine in the corner.
“First of all, although I’m with Lao Systems, I’m not a salesman. I didn’t come here to talk about computers. If you have any suggestions, I can certainly relay them to the sales and manufacturing offices. I’m actually head of our Corporate Responsibility Office. That includes our gifted students’ outreach and endowment effort.”
Esther blinked. “What does that have to do with pesticide exposure and effects? This is the Health Effects Division, you know.”
Corellian cleared his throat. “I’m trying to explain. The outreach and gifted student programs are designed … well … frankly … for what our founder called the disenfranchised middle class—for the young man or woman who has grades and the ability to succeed at a first-class university, but who is neither poor nor necessarily a minority. Like your daughter, Keri.”
“But … why … how?”
Corellian shrugged. “We can’t find them all, nor, frankly, could we fund all those who fill the qualifications, but we do the best we can with what we learn. You may have seen the application cards … but we also go on recommendations. The stories about your husband’s illness … they all mentioned her talent. So we contacted the school to determine if she was eligible. Her scores and grades are outstanding.”
Esther put out a hand and steadied herself against the desk. Her husband’s battle with cancer was no secret at Environment. Even the local papers had mentioned it—ecologist loses long fight with cancer.
As for Keri, many people knew about her problems, but so what? They had their own kids they couldn’t afford to put through college. After she finished her senior year, Keri would have to work, and in a year or so, once they were back on their feet, would go to college somewhere.
“I’m not quite sure I understand…”
Corellian beamed. “The Lao Foundation outreach program has authorized me to present a scholarship grant to your daughter.” The tanned, sandy-haired executive produced a piece of paper and handed it across the desk with a single fluid gesture. “That’s a copy of the certificate we’ll send to the school for presentation to her officially.”
“I can’t accept this. It’s against all the rules.” Esther’s voice mixed both sadness and confusion.
“Nonsense. It’s for Keri, not for you. The outreach program is sponsored by a chartered charitable corporation. That is only a certificate, showing that her room, board, and tuition, up to the amount on the certificate, will be paid to whatever accredited four-year college your daughter attends. In addition, each semester, she will personally receive a small check of one thousand dollars for books, fees, and the other incidentals necessary for a college student.
“The terms are pretty much standard for such grants. She has to finish her senior year with the same level of achievement she has thus far shown, although,” and Corellian smiled briefly, “we do anticipate a bit of a senior slump after an award like this. Once in college, she must maintain a three point average and remain a student in good standing. If she graduates with some sort of distinction, she may also be eligible for graduate assistance.”
“But … I mean, the rules … Why are you telling me?”
“Because we are not a well-publicized foundation. What would you have said if the school or your daughter called up and told you that she had received this? Besides, the parents have worked the hardest. I’m a little selfish. I’m a parent, too, and I wanted to tell you first.”
“I’m still not sure—”
“It’s no problem,” interrupted Corellian cheerfully. “Even the strictest rules don’t prohibit scholarship grants to children. Besides, you’re not at all involved with procurement or contracting, are you?”
“No, not at all. I work with pesticides, not procurement.” Esther leaned back in her squeaky brown chair and took a slow deep breath.
“Even if you looked into the spirit of the ethics rules, how could a grant such as this be unethical? You don’t deal with procurement or contracts, and my company’s not involved with pesticides. The thing to remember is that your daughter won’t be penalized because of your husband’s medical bills or because you’ve chosen to work, rather than be poor. She can go to almost any college of her choice.”
Esther looked blankly from the first stack of papers on her desk to the second, then to those piled in her “in” basket.
Corellian waited a few moments before continuing. “I must admit I was pleased to be able to meet you. I’ve always been interested in environmental issues. I suppose that’s why I ended up in Corporate Responsibility.” He paused again. “I know that the title of your office is Health Effects, but”—the sandy-haired man shrugged—“exactly what does that mean? I mean, what sort of work do you do with pesticides?”
“I’m responsible for determining the health and environmental effects of the active ingredients in pesticides.”
“So you decide which pesticides can be used?”
“Oh, no. That comes much later. The division basically determines how much exposure to what chemicals is dangerous. Or exactly how dangerous. Then the regulatory types use our models to determine whether a pesticide should be registered and under what conditions. That’s an oversimplification, but roughly how it works.”
“I have kids myself. I worry about their health, and their education,” Corellian said amiably. “If you have a chance someday, I’d like to hear about how your work contributes to keeping unsafe products off the market.”
“I don’t know about that,” Esther responded. “Even around here, people’s eyes glaze over when I talk about dose-response curves. I try my best, particularly since Derik…” Her voice caught momentarily, and she swallowed, then retrieved a tissue from the top left-hand drawer, quickly wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know…”
“No … I really mean it. Sometime, when you have a little time, I’d like to know more about how you establish … is it the health effects?”
“Well … they’re actually modeled health effects, based on animal studies and human epidemiology. It involves applying the appropriate risk assessment models…” She broke off. “You see? I’ll have your eyes glazing over, and that’s not even why you came.” She paused. “I still don’t believ
e this…”
“Why not? We at Lao have enjoyed some considerable providence over the years and feel fortunate that we can pass some of it on. In particular, by helping those children who will become the custodians of tomorrow.” Corellian rose to leave and extended his hand. “I won’t keep you any longer. You might want to act surprised when Keri tells you her good news, in a week or so, when the paperwork gets to the school. If you want to tell her before then, that’s your choice. But I know how you feel and wanted to let you know first.”
Esther quickly rose and stepped around the desk. “Please do feel free to call me. Anytime after next week. With the ethics rules…” She laughed nervously. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind brown-bagging it, and I could bring in a special dessert. I do bake a decent and real French cheesecake.”
“I’ll give you a call, and I’ll count on the cheesecake.”
As soon as the sandy-haired man had left the office, Esther looked at her watch, then at the stacks of paper on her desk. For the first time in months, she actually felt like looking at them. Not telling Keri about the scholarship was going to be hard, but not nearly so hard as it would have been telling her daughter that college was impossible. She shook her head, thinking absently how fortunate Keri was, and how, strangely, she looked forward to a simple brown-bag lunch with the amiable Andrew Corellian, the first corporate type since she couldn’t remember when who hadn’t bullied or patronized her.
She checked her watch again. Still a good hour before the car pool left, and time enough to dig into the latest McCorvey mouse studies.
With a faint smile, she picked up the top file from the “pending” box.
16
THE LIGHT BLUE WALLS OF THE SMALL CONFERENCE ROOM, the one Larry had always used for his client meetings, held cool and tasteful pastel watercolors of Washington—the Supreme Court building, the old Library of Congress building, and, strangely, one of the Taft Carillon near the Senate Office Buildings. An overhead projector sat on a cart in the far inside corner.
Both the men sitting at the circular table were heavyset. Bill Heidlinger overflowed his once-tailored gray pinstripe, and the yellow power tie merely reinforced his bulk and his pale face. The other man—dark-complected—wore a double-breasted dark blue chalk stripe with wide lapels. Both men rose from the table as the two consultants entered.
The Green Progression Page 6
