“So you decided—with my father’s blessing—to use this shitty apartment as a hideout, in the hope that you wouldn’t have to do the Maple Leaf Rag to the High North?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And while you were indulging in the hospitality of the Great Radical Professor’s daughter, why not fuck her at the same time?”
“I think that was a pretty mutual decision.”
“Yeah, but if you hadn’t come on to me, I would have never dared make the first move. And I wouldn’t now be in such a goddamn mess.”
I clenched my fists and tried to think clearly. After a moment, I said, “As far as I’m concerned, if you have to flee to Canada, you can pack your bag and hit the road straightaway. But knowing what I now know, there’s no damn way I am driving you to the end of Pelham Main Street, let alone the border.”
“You have no choice.”
“Oh, cut the melodrama. We both know that, even if the feds have already tracked your movements to Maine, they’re not going to figure out—”
“What? That I’m not here? Christ, you are naive. Don’t you know that, having worked out I’m in Maine, they’ll try to figure out all my known contacts here? And I promise you that, knowing my connections with your dad, they’ll open up his file, see that he has a daughter in Maine . . .”
“How the hell are they going to know that?”
“Hannah, as far as the feds are concerned, your dad is a big-deal troublemaker—not to mention, in their book, an Eastern establishment class traitor. And if there’s one thing that Hoover hates more than the Eastern establishment, it’s a radical from their ranks. I promise you, they’ve got such a comprehensive file on John Winthrop Latham, they don’t just know the name of each of his mistresses, but the time, place, and position of every fuck he’s had since . . .”
“Shut up,” I said.
“And just to be on the ultrasafe side they’ll have run countless background checks on you and your husband. So, believe me, the feds know that you live in Pelham—and with me now in Maine, it’s not going to take them very long . . .”
“All right, all right,” I said, the fear now evident in my voice. But even though I had been completely persuaded, I still wasn’t going to aid and abet his run to the border.
“Look,” I said, trying to sound calm and rational. “If the feds do show up here and you’re gone, I’m still going to be in trouble for putting you up, right? Whereas if I help you flee, I will be guilty of criminal activity.”
He reached for the wine bottle, splashed some more Chianti in his glass, threw it back, then regarded me with contempt.
“I knew you’d try to get out of it. But you’re not getting out of it—and here’s why. If you don’t drive me to Canada and the feds do nab me before the border, I will tell them you harbored me for all that time they were looking for me, and I’ll even drop in the fact that we were lovers, just to really stick it to you. And even if I do make it into Canada undetected, once I’m there the Weather Underground will release a statement to the press, saying I’ve fled and that, thanks to the ‘fraternal courage of certain comrades in Maine,’ I was able to get out of the country. I promise you, once the feds read that, they’ll do another cross-reference with your dad’s file and you’ll have a dozen agents swarming around Pelham with photographs of me. And when they discover that I was here under an assumed name, and that you knew my true identity . . .”
“You son of a bitch,” I said.
“You can call me any name you want,” he said. “The fact is: this is a war. And in a war, you sometimes have to bend the rules to achieve your aims. And I don’t care what you think of me or my methods. All I know is, as soon as night falls, you are driving me to Canada. And if you refuse—if you force me to go it alone—”
He reached over and scooped up the car keys that I’d left earlier on the kitchen table.
“. . . I’ll take your car and drive it myself across the border. If you call the cops to have me arrested, I’ll talk . . .”
“All right, I’ll fucking drive you,” I said.
He favored me with a nasty little smile.
“Good,” he said. “And I promise you, if you do exactly what I say, follow everything I tell you, you’ll be back in Pelham by early morning tomorrow, and no one will have even noticed you were gone.”
Then he asked me if I had a road map of Maine. I said there was one downstairs in the car. He asked me to get it. I left the apartment and went outside to the Volvo. Once there, I leaned against the passenger door and fought the urge to get sick. Don’t think, don’t think. Just do what he asks. Get it over with. Get back here, and hope to hell that when the feds arrive, you can play naive and dumb.
I opened the car door and took the map out of the glove compartment. Then I went back upstairs.
Toby was crouching down by the playpen, goo-gooing with Jeffrey.
“He got a little upset when he realized you’d stepped out. So I was keeping him happy.”
I pushed by Toby, reached into the playpen, and picked up my son.
“I don’t want you even looking at him again,” I said.
Toby let out an amused laugh.
“Hey, suit yourself,” he said. “But you do know he’s coming with us to Canada.”
“Did you actually think I’d leave him behind?”
“No, but I thought you might try to deposit him with that babysitter you use—just to keep him out of this.”
“And raise more suspicion?”
“My point exactly. Glad to see we’re on the same wavelength. Can I see the map?”
I handed it to him.
“Why don’t you get that sauce heated up while I’m plotting our route. And could you get some spaghetti going too?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, you’re going to be driving all night—and you’re not going to be able to stop anywhere to grab a bite, so you’d better eat now.”
I walked over to the kitchen and turned the heat on under the sauce. Then I dug out the big pot I used for pasta, filled it with water, put it on the stove, and turned on the gas flame. While I waited for the water to boil, I plucked Jeffrey out of his playpen, put him in his high chair, and fed him a jar of applesauce. Toby reached for another of my cigarettes—then motioned me over to the table.
“It’s a pretty direct shot from here,” he said. “We drive to Lewiston, take the interstate to Waterville, switch for Route 201, and drive straight north to Jackman and the border. Keeping well within the speed limit, it’s five hours tops each way. If we leave in an hour—around seven-thirty—and considering the time you’ll have to spend in Canada to cross back over another checkpoint, you should be back here tomorrow by seven a.m. And since it’s a Saturday, you’ll be able to sleep for most of the day.”
I said nothing. I simply nodded.
“I’ll get the rest of dinner together,” he said, standing up. “Why don’t you sort out what you need for the drive—and then you can call your husband.”
I went into the bathroom, stripped off all my clothes, and took a very fast, very hot shower—washing away any lingering reminder of Toby Judson from my body. Twice during the shower, I felt myself about to start sobbing, but I fought the temptation to start feeling sorry for myself. Get through this . . . get through this. So I finished the shower, dried off, wrapped a towel around myself, and went into the bedroom. I dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweater. Then I stripped the stained sheets off the bed, dug out the spare set from the closet, and remade the bed. I found a small travel bag and stuffed it with a couple of clean diapers, a spare set of pins, baby clothes, and an extra canister of baby powder.
“Dinner’s ready,” Toby shouted from the other room. I emerged with the bundle of dirty sheets, and said, “Back in a moment.”
“Hey, do you really need to do laundry right now?”
I turned back to him and said, “Yes, I do. Because I need to remove every trace of you from this house.�
�
I went downstairs. I shoved the sheets in the washing machine, dumped in some powder, turned it on. Back upstairs, I accepted a plate of pasta from Toby, turned away from him, and ate standing up. Toby laughed another of his shitty little laughs.
“If you want to be that way . . .” he said.
I slammed my plate down on the counter. And said, “Let’s get something straight here, mister. I will follow your orders. I will do exactly what you say in order to get you to Canada and out of my life. But beyond that, I want nothing to do with you anymore. And I especially don’t want to talk with you—except about the simple logistics of driving you across the border. Are we clear about that?”
“Have it your way,” he said.
I finished the spaghetti, then filled the percolator with coffee and put it on the stove. As I waited, I prepared a couple of bottles of formula to bring with me, and threw two jars of baby food into the bag. Once the percolator dome started turning brown, I found a thermos and filled it with coffee, then went over to the little pantry where I kept a spare carton of cigarettes and dropped two packs into the bag. I knew I would be smoking heavily tonight.
“One small, crucial detail,” Toby said. “Do you have a passport?”
As a matter of fact, I did have one—having gotten one three years earlier when I thought I might be traveling to Paris for my junior year abroad. I nodded.
“Good—and while you’re at it, why don’t you find your son’s birth certificate. You don’t need this stuff for entering Canada—most of the time they just wave you through—but just in case we encounter an asshole official at the border . . .”
“Fine,” I said tersely. I returned to the bedroom, went into the closet, opened the file box where I kept all important documents, and dug out the passport and birth certificate. Then I went back into the living room and picked up the phone.
“You calling your husband?” Toby asked.
I nodded.
“Tell him that . . .”
“Leave it to me,” I said sharply. I finished dialing the number. There was no answer for three, four, five, six rings. He must be out. And if he’s out now, he’ll ring later. And we will have to wait for his call, because if he rings around ten and I’m not here, he’ll get worried and call Nurse Bass and ask her to check up on me. And she’ll find the apartment empty and the car gone. And then . . .
Or if we do wait around until ten and then leave, I won’t be back until at least ten the next morning. And people will notice that the car isn’t there when they get up in the morning (people in Pelham always notice these things). And then . . .
Seven rings, eight rings, nine rings . . .
“No one there?” Toby asked.
I nodded.
“Well, hang up and we’ll hold on until . . .”
Suddenly, someone picked up the phone. It was Dan, sounding out of breath and tired.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Just dashed in from the hospital. Why are you calling?”
“Why am I calling? I just wondered how your dad was doing.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I’m just usually the one who calls.”
“So?”
“He’s still holding his own. Still comatose, but his heart is stronger than ever. And I’ve decided I’m out of here tomorrow.”
Oh great.
“That’s terrific,” I said, trying to sound genuinely enthused. “Will you be taking the bus?”
“No, the plane.”
Worse and worse.
“Isn’t that a fortune?”
“An old high school classmate, Marv English, is running the local travel agency here—and he managed to get me a flight to Portland via Syracuse and Boston for fifty bucks one way.”
“That’s . . . great. What time do you get in?”
“It’s an early start. The flight from Syracuse is at seven-fifteen, but there’s a two-hour stopover in Boston . . .”
Well, thank God for that.
“Still, I should be landing at Portland at ten-thirty . . . which is a hell of a lot easier than fourteen hours on the damn bus. So can you pick me up?”
“Uh . . . sure.”
“And what about our houseguest?”
“As it turns out, he has to be out of here tomorrow too.”
“Good timing, then.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“You sound a little tense, that’s all.”
“Just a bad night with Junior,” I said. “He doesn’t seem able to settle right now.”
“Well, that will pass. Can’t wait to get the hell out of here,” he said.
“It will be great to have you back,” I lied.
As soon as I put down the phone, I turned to Toby and said, “We have to go now.”
“So I gather.”
I walked over to the window and glanced out at the street. Night had arrived. I checked my watch. Six thirty-five. All the shops on Main Street had closed. The place was deserted.
“Coast clear?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Let’s do it.”
Toby went down to the car first, bringing his backpack and my overnight bag. Upstairs, I changed Jeff’s diaper, put him in a new onesie, and remembered to bring two pacifiers and a couple of rubber toys to keep him occupied. Then, leaving a light on in the living room (just in case anyone was out walking and happened to glance upstairs at our place), I picked up my son and brought him downstairs. En route, he started to cry—evidently not pleased about being exposed to a midautumn frost and a very dark early evening. I closed the driver’s door beside me and held out my hand for the car keys.
“No funny stuff now,” said Toby. “You drive us to a police station, I promise you I’ll—”
“Shut the fuck up and give me the keys.”
He actually laughed—and dropped the keys into my outstretched palm. I turned on the ignition, put the car into gear, and pulled out onto Main Street. Jeff was still crying.
“Is he going to keep this up all the way to the border?” Toby asked.
“If he does, too damn bad.”
I turned into Main Street. It still looked completely empty. Until . . .
“Oh shit,” I said.
“Just keep driving.”
“It’s Billy,” I said, recognizing his sloping gait and the way he hung his head while walking. But as he heard our car approaching he looked up.
“Wave to him,” Toby said.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I said. But as we drove by, I did nod in Billy’s direction. He smiled shyly—and I could see him taking in the fact that Toby and I were in the car with Jeffrey.
“If he mentions anything, just tell him you were driving me to the Greyhound station in Lewiston.”
“I’d worked that one out already.”
“Well, bravo for you. Right turn here.”
“I do know the way to Lewiston.”
We fell silent—and stayed that way for most of the next five hours. I had tossed a pack of cigarettes on the dashboard before setting off. We slowly worked our way through them during the drive north. The narrow back road to Lewiston was free of traffic. When we reached the interstate, I stuck to the speed limit, resisting the temptation to pick up a little extra time by traveling five miles an hour faster than allowed. I kept glancing at the clock on the dash. By the time we’d reached Waterville—and the turnoff to Route 201—Jeff had fallen asleep. I switched on the radio and listened to the music being spun by Jose, the nighttime DJ who always sounded like he’d had two joints too many and favored Pink Floyd, Iron Butterfly, and other trippy bands. Next to me, Toby seemed lost in some sort of deep personal reverie—chain-smoking, staring out the window, taking my refusal to speak with him at face value, looking pensive and drawn and more than a little anxious. And me? One hundred different things were swirling around my head—most of them centering on my father, my husband, the shit sitting next to
me in the front seat, how Dad had betrayed me, how I had betrayed Dan, how this horrible little man had used all of us for his own aims, and how I was guilty of the worst judgment imaginable over the past forty-eight hours. I so wanted to talk to Margy right now and tell her everything, but I couldn’t help thinking that the phone might be tapped, that the feds would be waiting for me when I returned (or, worse, were standing by at the border, ready to nab us), and wondering if my marriage would survive all this, and if Dan would try to take Jeff away from me, especially if I was found guilty of a criminal offense, and how I’d never really be able to look at my father again after what he did, and how I was more scared now than I had ever been in my life, and . . .
“Let’s stop here for a moment,” Toby said, pointing to a gas station at the intersection of the interstate and Route 201. “We need to fill up and I need to take a leak.”
We pulled over and drove up in front of a pump. As I turned off the ignition, Toby reached over and pulled out the keys, pocketing them.
“I’ll hold on to these,” he said.
I was going to call him names, but felt too tired, too tense, to do so. So I just said, “Fine,” and got out of the car to check on Jeff. He was completely zonked out. I glanced at my watch. Nine-eighteen. Three hours to the border, all going well. So far, we were on schedule.
The gas station attendant—an elderly man with a match in the side of his mouth—came out and filled the car and squirted some water on the windshield and wiped it off with a squeegee. Toby returned with three more packs of cigarettes.
“Figure we might need these.”
“Yeah, we will. The keys, please. Now it’s my turn for a pit stop.”
“You actually think I’d drive off with your son in the backseat?”
No, I didn’t, but I wanted to make the point that I completely distrusted him. So I just stuck out my hand and snapped my fingers. Another of his smirks and he dropped the keys in my hand.
I went into the grubby toilet and held my breath against the stench of blocked drains as I had a fast pee. Then I splashed some water on my face and avoided gazing at the cracked mirror over the sink. The last thing I wanted to do right now was look at myself too closely, if at all.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 130
