by Joseph Kanon
“You’ll end up working for Drew Pearson, that’s what.”
“A legman,” Nick said, his father’s expression.
Larry looked surprised again, then grinned. “Yeah, a legman. Hear anything worth hearing?”
Nick shook his head.
“Well, neither do they, mostly,” he said, still whispering. “Come on, up you go before they catch us both.”
Nick turned to go, then looked back at Larry. “Dad asked you to help him,” he said, a question.
Larry stood up. “I can’t, Nick. Not the way he wants.” Then he smiled and ruffled Nick’s hair. “He’ll be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll all help him.”
They heard the sound of the door opening and Larry made a face of mock alarm, shooing Nick with his hand up the stairs and turning away to start down the other flight. Nick darted up, out of his father’s line of sight, and watched Larry’s red hair bob down the stairs. In a minute his father followed. Over the banister Nick could see him stop at the foot of the stairs, waiting until he heard the front door click shut. Then he turned, straightened his shoulders, and went in to join the party.
No one was going to help. All the rest of it, the confusing jumble of elections and deals and witnesses, still came down to that. No one. Not even Uncle Larry, who had just been trying to make him feel better on the stairs. He’d heard them. His father felt like he was drowning. Nick wondered what that was really like, everything closing around you, choking for air, reaching up for any hand at all. No one. It wasn’t smart anymore. Not even for his father to help himself.
The draft in the hall seeped through his thin pajamas, making him shiver. He felt like leaping into bed, pulling the covers over his head, and curling his body into a ball, as warm as the cabin fire. Instead he went down the hall to his parents’ room. The bedside lamps were on, surrounded by piles of books and Kleenex and alarm clocks. He walked over to his father’s dressing area, a mirror and a tall row of built-in drawers that pulled out on smooth, quiet runners, not like Nick’s, which always stuck. All the shirts were white, stacked in two neat piles. He took one out. Garfinkel’s, all right. But the tag under the laundry mark was 15?-35. Just as he’d said. Nick almost grinned in relief. The next one was the same, and suddenly he caught sight of his pajamas in the mirror and felt ashamed. This wasn’t playing the spy game with Nora; it was wrong, like being a burglar. What if his father noticed?
Nick put back the shirts and evened out the edge of the pile. But he’d already started-why not know for sure? Carefully he flipped through the collars of the shirts, looking for the size tags. Some weren’t even Garfinkel’s. Then, halfway down, he found it. A Garfinkel label, 15?-33. He stared at it, not moving, his finger barely touching the tag. Why had he kept it? Maybe it was a mistake, a present from Nick’s mother. But that wouldn’t matter. Uncle Larry said nothing was innocent now. They’d find it, just as Nick had. There was a laundry mark, too-he’d worn it. Nick tried to think what that meant. No fingerprints. That woman, any trace of her, had been washed away. And all the shirts looked alike. But what if they had other ways? As long as it was here-
He heard the front door slam, voices downstairs saying goodbye, and without thinking snatched the shirt, closed the drawer quietly, and ran back to his room. He looked around for a hiding place, but then the voices seemed to be coming up the stairs so he shoved it under his pillow and got into bed, breathing fast. Outside the snow had finally begun, blowing almost horizontally across the light from the street lamp. When his mother peeked in through the door, he shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He kept them closed as she crossed the room to tuck him in. For a second he was afraid she would fluff his pillow, but she only kissed his forehead and drifted away again in a faint trail of perfume.
Tomorrow he would find someplace to get rid of it-a trash can, not too near the house-and then his father would be safe again. Then he thought of the laundry mark. He’d have to cut that out. No trace. He turned on his side and put one hand under the pillow, anchoring the shirt. He tried to imagine himself at the cabin again, snug, but the room stayed cold and awake, as if someone had left a window open. His grandmother once told him that people in Europe thought the night air was poison, so they sealed everything tight. But now it came in anyway, blowing through the cracks, making his thoughts dart like flurries, poisoning shelter.
His father was wrong about one thing: Welles did have to delay the hearing. The next day, a Friday, snow covered Washington in a white silence, trapping congressmen in Chevy Chase, swirling around Capitol Hill until the dome looked like an igloo poking through the drifts. In the streets nothing moved but the plows and a few impatient cars, their heavy snow chains clanking like Marley’s ghost. By midmorning everyone on Nick’s block began digging out, a holiday party of scraping shovels and the grind of cars spinning wheels in deepening ruts. Nick’s father helped the other men spread ashes around the tires, then push from behind until the cars lurched into the street, shuddering with exhaust. At the curbs, snow was piled into mounds, perfect for jumping. Even Mrs Bryant next door came out, tramping up and down the street in her galoshes and mink coat, dispensing cups of chocolate, mistress to the field hands. Afterward Nick and his father knocked the heavy snow off the magnolias with brooms to save the branches, and it fell on their heads, seeping under their collars until they were finally forced inside to dry out. They had soup beside the fire, the way they did at the cabin, and Nick hoped the snow would never stop. The shirt, stuffed now behind a row of books, could wait.
“They’ll cancel the dance,” his mother said, glancing out the window. “Poor old Miriam. Her first year as chairwoman, too.” She giggled. “What do they do with the flowers, do you think? God, she’ll be furious.”
“It’ll be gone by tomorrow night,” his father said. “Anyway, a little snow won’t stop her. She can fly in on her broom.” This to Nick, who laughed.
“Walter.”
“It snowed last year too, remember?”
“Yes, and half the people didn’t show. Poor Miriam.”
Nick leaned back against the club chair hassock, warm from the fire, and watched his parents. It was the sort of easy conversation they used to have, before the troubles. Her new dress. Where the United Charities money went anyway. Whether the President would come this year. When the phone rang it jolted him, as if he’d been half asleep.
His father had barely said ‘Hello’ before his expression changed. He glanced up at Nick’s mother, then, seeing Nick, retreated to a series of noncommittal ‘Yes’ and ’I see’s. When the call was finished, he went up to the study without saying a word. Nick could hear him dialing, then the low tones of another conversation. His mother, nervous again, followed him, standing outside the study door with her hand against the frame, braced for bad news. Then she went in, closing the door behind her so their voices were no louder than the muffled sounds in the street.
Nick knew they were not going to tell him, whatever it was, and he wondered in a kind of quiet panic whether he’d waited too long to get rid of the shirt. The storm had lulled him into thinking there was time, but now it was starting again. He got up from the floor and headed out into the hall, grabbing his winter jacket from the closet before racing up to his room. The shirt was still there, folded behind the books, and he stuffed it under his sweater, then put on the jacket, buckling the belt to keep the shirt from falling out. His boots were in the back mud room, drying out, so he’d have to go that way, through the kitchen.
“And where might you be going?” Nora said when she saw him.
But he was prepared. “The hill. With the sled. Mom said I could.”
“And your boots still wet.”
“I don’t care. Everybody’ll be there,” he said, pulling them on in a rush.
“Who’s everybody?”
But Nick was already opening the back door. “Everybody.”
And then he was free, crossing the back alley courtyard, where all the garages were. The snow was deep he
re-no one had bothered to shovel in back yet-and it took him a minute or two to reach the garage and find the sled, crammed in a corner with rakes and shovels. Any moment now his mother might appear at the window, calling him back. But she didn’t, and after he turned the corner into the alley, he knew it was going to be all right.
The problem was where to dump it. The snow had covered the trash cans along with everything else. He couldn’t just bury it in the snow. They’d find it after the melt, like a body. A mailbox would be ideal, but his father had told him it was illegal to put things there. Somebody would report it. Pulling the sled behind him, he walked as far as Massachusetts Avenue, where the plows had been. But it was crowded here, store owners shoveling sidewalks, people carrying paper bags of groceries, so he turned onto A Street, back toward the Capitol.
He had gone two more blocks before he saw it-a storm drain at the curb that hadn’t been blocked by snow. He looked around, then knelt down, fishing the shirt out from under his jacket. The label. He took off his gloves and ripped off the black tag, his fingers surprised by the cold, then stuffed the shirt into the space behind the grate, pushing it with his bare hands until it fell with a quiet thud into the drain. He stood up and looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but the street was still empty. He remembered then that he hadn’t cut out the laundry mark, but it was too late. And maybe it wouldn’t matter. The sun would melt the snow and the drains would run, carrying the shirt along their underground tunnels until they emptied into the Potomac, or wherever they went, miles from the committee room. When he reached the Capitol a few blocks later, making a circle, he felt happier than he’d been in days. Somebody had finally helped.
There were more phone calls in the afternoon and Mr Benjamin, the lawyer, came to dinner, so Nick ate in the kitchen, catching only bits of the talk in the dining room. No one had to tell him, however. It was there in Nora’s afternoon paper. WELLES TO RE-CALL COCHRANE. NEW COCHRANE TESTIMONY MONDAY. He’d overheard Mr Benjamin say that it was a typical Welles tactic to tie up the weekend papers in speculation. By the time Monday rolled around, people would think she’d already testified and it would hardly matter what she actually said. But it mattered to Nick. He hoped it would be about the shirt, floating away. When he went to bed that night, his mother told him not to worry about anything and he nodded, as if they’d both forgotten to pretend he didn’t know a thing.
The reporters were out in front again the next morning, even though it was Saturday. Nick’s father went out to tell them he had nothing to say, but they lingered anyway, drinking coffee and looking up at the house, waiting for clues. No one came. Nick’s father was shut in the study on the phone while Nora and his mother fitted her dress for the United Charities that night, because now his mother said they had to go, so Nick was invisible again. It was easy to disappear. When his father came out of the study, his face pale and distracted, he looked right past him, not seeing anything. The phone rang, and like a sleepwalker he turned back into the room. Nick had the odd feeling of not having been there at all. His mother told him to go outside-they were building a snow fort across the street-but he wanted to stay close to his father, ready to help. He knew he couldn’t leave him now, alone despite the phone calls. Someone had to be there.
He was sitting listlessly in the club chair after lunch when he heard his father in the hall, putting on his boots. Where was he going? He looked out the front window, checking the street, then went back down the hall to the kitchen, obviously heading for the back door. Nick didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jacket in the mud room and pulled on his boots without bothering to close the buckles. When he stepped out into the snowy courtyard, he could see his father already turning the alley corner.
He followed about a block behind, not even worrying if his father turned around, trusting his invisibility. His father walked past the Senate Office Building, then turned down the hill, toward Union Station. He wasn’t going out for milk or the afternoon papers. No errand took you to the station. Nick watched the herringbone coat cross D Street, not stopping for the light, then weaving through the moats of clear sidewalks between the banks of snow. Nick picked up his own pace. There were always crowds at the station, and he might lose him.
He darted past the line of taxis and into the great hall, a roar of loudspeaker announcements and newsboys and shoes clicking on marble. Nick moved to the side of the room-a kid alone might be suspicious-and walked quickly past the waiting benches crammed with delayed passengers. His father stopped and looked around, but Nick was lucky, hidden by a swarm of people heading for the track gates. Besides, you never saw what you didn’t expect to see. Then his father went over to the row of telephone booths and, taking off his hat, sat down and closed the folding door. Nick waited by the newsstand, trying to make sense of it. Why come to Union Station to make a phone call when that was all he’d been doing at home? But he hadn’t bought a ticket, that was the main thing. He wasn’t going anywhere. Nick stared blankly at the magazines, warm with relief.
The trip home, up the hill, was longer, and Nick kept his distance, letting the coat stay several blocks ahead. He could probably spin off now, avoiding any risk of being seen, but he wanted to be sure. It was only when his father turned into the alley, back home, that he felt safe again. The sky was darkening for another snowfall, but he couldn’t go in yet. Not so soon. Instead he went around the block to the front and pretended to roll snow with the other kids for the big fort. When they started throwing snow, he was the first to get hit, because he hadn’t seen it coming. He was looking over the reporters’ hats toward the house, protective as a guard dog.
He ate dinner alone again, then went upstairs to watch his parents dress for the ball, his father in a tuxedo with jet cufflinks and shiny shoes, his mother in a tight shoulderless top and a long skirt that swooped out with stiff petticoats. The day was almost over and nothing had happened. Nick kept glancing at his father, wondering if he knew he’d been followed, but he seemed unaware, smoking and fixing his bow tie with some of his old spirit. His mother was wearing her good necklace, the one with the garnet pendant, and she was smiling in the mirror, so that Nick thought maybe their good luck had come back again. It had been like this a hundred times before, the warm busyness before a party, the air rich with powder and aftershave.
The telephone rang.
“Now what?” his mother said, annoyed. “We’ll be late.”
His father answered the phone and listened for a minute without saying a word. Then he put the receiver back gently, as if he were afraid of waking someone, and looked up at them, pale.
“I have to talk to your mother, Nick,” he said simply, and Nick knew that it had come, whatever it was. He glanced at his mother, but her eyes, anxious now, were fixed on his father.
“I’ll be there in a minute, honeybun,” his mother said absently, and Nick, dismissed, went out and closed the door. At first he could hear nothing, then a quiet undertone of voices, a moan. He had to know. He crept back to his room, then through the door of the connecting bathroom, the way he did to fool Nora, watching her vacuum. But now the spy game was real. The door to his parents’ bedroom was open just a crack, and at first he heard only conspiratorial whispers. Then their voices rose, his mother’s a kind of wail.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t,” his father said. “I couldn’t.”
“ Now?” his mother said, inexplicably.
“I didn’t know it would be tonight. I’m sorry.”
“No, I don’t believe any of it,” his mother said, and Nick could hear a cry beginning in her voice. “What about us? What about us, Walter?”
“I’m sorry,” his father said quietly. Then, more audibly, “Come with me.”
“Are you crazy?” his mother said. “You must be crazy. Everything-” She broke off, sobbing.
“Livia, please,” his father said.
“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, and Nick froze.
For a moment he hear
d nothing, but he didn’t dare push the door open. Then his father was talking, so quietly that Nick missed the next exchange.
He heard his mother take a quick few steps. “No, you can’t,” she said. “It’s all-Walter, this is crazy. You can’t-”
“Livia, I have to,” he said calmly. “Come with me.”
“Go to hell,” she said, almost spitting the words.
“Livia, please,” his father said.
Nick heard a new sound, then realized she was hitting his father’s chest. “Go,” she said. “Go.”
“Believe me, I never thought-”
“Never thought,” she said, her voice unfamiliar with scorn.
“Never. I love you.”
Now his mother was crying.
“I’ll call tomorrow. The way I said.”
“I don’t care,” his mother said faintly.
“Don’t say that.” Nick heard his father move toward the door, then stop. “You are so beautiful,” he said softly.
For a moment there was absolute silence. Then, “I hope you die,” his mother said.
Nick heard the door close. He rushed into the room and saw his mother sink onto the bed, her head drooping, as if the crying had made her limp. His stomach heaved. Once he had seen a man lying on the sidewalk downtown, people surrounding him and calling for an ambulance, and he’d felt this same fear, of life stopping before he could run away. Then he heard his father below, and he bolted from the room, clumping down the stairs and racing along the hall until, breathless, he caught him at the back door, his coat already on.
“Nick,” his father said, turning, dismayed.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to go away, Nick,” he said, bending down to face him. “Im sorry.”
“I got rid of the shirt,” Nick said.
“You did?” he said, not understanding.
“Fifteen and a half, thirty-three. Like the lady said. I got rid of it. They’ll never find it. You don’t have to go.”
“Nicku,” his father said, holding him by the shoulders. Nick watched his father’s eyes fill with tears. “My God. I never meant any of this to happen to you. Not you. Do you believe me?”
