Tapestry

by Belva Plain

  Then, after a while, a long time, he couldn’t have said how long, he began to recognize things. He saw a uniform, not a navy blue policeman’s coat, but gray, the color of dust. A man’s voice said, “We’re state police, son. And we’ll take care of you. Let’s step outside to the air. Here, we’ll go this way.”

  With his arms around Hank’s shoulders, the man led him to a side door. Though Ben must still be lying there, where they would have had to step over him. The man sat Hank down in a chair, one of those fancy iron chairs at a table under an umbrella. Two more police came over and sat. Quiet now, Hank put his face into his hands.

  “We need to telephone to somebody,” the first man said. “Your mother—”

  “No!” Hank cried. “Not my mother. You can’t just call her and tell her—”

  “Who else then? Can you think?”

  “My Uncle Alfie lives near here. About fifteen miles, I guess. His name’s Alfred DeRivera. The number’s in the phone book, I don’t remember—”

  “That’s okay. Joe, you make the call. I’m going to stay here with—what’s your name, son?”

  “Hank.”

  “You’re a brave boy, Hank. I’m not going to leave you until your uncle comes. And if you want to cry, don’t hold back, just go ahead. It’ll be better for you.”

  But the sobbing was over; only still tears stood in his eyes, dazzling his sight. Numbly he sat, watching two small gray birds hop in the grass. The afternoon had turned hot and windless. The horizontal branches of the trees lay still on the heavy air. And the life had gone out of the day, out of the world. Numb he was, until after a long, long time he heard the sound of a familiar voice and saw Alfie, sweating and red, come running to take him in his arms.

  The funeral was a public event. On the sidewalk outside the funeral parlor, a small crowd jostled and craned to see the coffin emerge, to count the widow’s tears, and to speculate about the death. The newspapers had given moderate publicity to the event under the heading SUSPECTED GANGSTER KILLING IN NEW JERSEY.

  Paul thought with distaste that there certainly were flowers enough for a gangster’s funeral. An indecent profusion of them took up a separate car behind the hearse. He stood for a moment, holding Hank by the hand. Cameras flashed and he suspected that government men must be there surveying the crowd.

  Donal, evidently, had the same thought. “It’s a disgrace. Rumormongers,” he muttered, coming up behind Paul. “Fault of the newspapers, making a mystery out of a clear-cut case.”

  Some columnists had conjectured that Ben Marcus had been “gotten out of the way,” lest he talk too carelessly under subpoena in a forthcoming trial for income tax evasion.

  Paul repeated, “Clear-cut?”

  “Of course. A simple payroll robbery. They thought he was carrying cash. He often did.”

  “They didn’t rob him. They ran away,” Paul said.

  “They lost their nerve when they saw he wasn’t alone. That’s simple.”

  Paul was motioned into a car before he could reply. It had been thought better that Hank ride to the cemetery with him and Marian, rather than with Dan and Hennie and Leah, for fear that Leah might break down again on the way; she had been hysterical all the day before, and the boy had seen too much already.

  The short black procession pressed through heavy traffic toward the East River. It crossed over onto bleak Long Island flats, strewn with warehouses, factories, gridiron streets of drab identical dwellings and cemeteries; the whole sweltered under the dull sky, while hot wind blew grit and soot through the open windows of the car. They rode in silence, while Paul watched Hank warily.

  The boy still touched his heart. Halfway between manhood and childhood he was, a man in his gray trousers and navy jacket and well-polished shoes, with the start of a dark down on his upper lip; a child with the braces on his teeth and the sweet candor of his smile. He would have touched any caring heart.

  His head was bent as though he were praying. Poor fellow, perhaps he was.

  They were all in shock, but to Paul, the horror of his own particular shock was that it could not be shared; indeed, he could scarcely allow himself to think it through. He wondered whether anyone else in the family could be harboring the same bizarre thoughts.

  Could Donal—would Donal—have ordered such a deed to help himself out of a tight spot? The first question was could he? Yes, of course. It would be naive to think otherwise. There were plenty of henchmen, a hierarchy ranging from truck drivers at the bottom to specialized lawyers at the top. A telephone call, a word, and almost anything could be accomplished, entirely out of the commander’s sight. He never soiled his hands with violence! The second question was would he? There was much one might say about Donal Powers: that he was shrewd, aggressive, determined, unscrupulous, and cynical. But murderous? And Paul pictured him at home, carving the roast at the head of his table, flanked by the refined and gentle wife—whom he had chosen when he might certainly have sought a very different sort of person—and by the beloved and increasing family. Was that the picture of a man who could send a trusted companion to his death? Such were the secret thoughts that went with Paul on the ride to the cemetery.

  It is the hole in the ground, Paul thought, that makes it all finally real. Prayers, music, and eulogy were all pageant, but when the coffin was lowered into the earth the fact was clear: He would never come back.

  “Oh God! Oh God!” Leah wept.

  They gave her a flower to toss into the grave, but she could only sob and bury her head in Dan’s shoulder. So it was Emily who tossed the flower, while Alfie, awkward and looking as if he, too, were about to cry, kept patting Leah’s back.

  “Oh God! Oh, why?” Leah cried over and over, until at last she was gently led away.

  Through it all Hank stood white and still, without tears. And Paul, as they walked back to the car and all the way home, held tightly to his hand.

  Friends came. The house was filled with them, all with their flowers and baskets of food. Everyone crowded around Leah, who had by now composed herself. Donal Powers beckoned to Paul and drew him apart into the hall.

  “I want you to know that I’m sending a package to Leah tomorrow. Some cash that rightly belongs to them. A hundred thousand.”

  If he had been waiting for a reaction from Paul, he must have been disappointed.

  “The reason I’m telling you is that I know you’ve been handling her personal investments, so I wanted you to know she had it, in case she’s too upset to do anything with it.”

  “I doubt that Leah would ever be too upset not to know what to do with money.”

  Donal looked at him queerly. “This is cash. I myself am liquidating all but some highly selected equities. The market’s got to crash one of these days, you know.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Paul said.

  “Well, just thought I’d mention it. My father-in-law is too stupid to listen to me. Last time I talked to him—we don’t meet very often—I warned him, but he thinks he’s infallible.”

  Paul was not in any mood to discuss anyone’s business affairs. He suspected that Donal didn’t give much of a rap about them either, that the whole conversation had only been an excuse, an attempt to mend fences. Donal wanted no overt enmity. Appearances were everything.

  I despise this man, he thought, but remembering Meg, forced himself to be civil.

  “Well, it’s been a sad business today,” Donal concluded. “We’ll all just have to do what we can for Hank.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  So the two separated. Donal and Meg left for New Jersey, the visitors departed, and Hank was sent to bed. Hennie wanted to take Dan home after the strenuous day, while Emily pulled a reluctant Alfie away, still protesting, “Anything I can do, Leah, anything … you know where I am. I’ll call you anyway, in the morning.”

  “Stay, Paul and Marian,” Leah said.

  Marian objected. “You must be worn out. Really, you ought to try to sleep.”

  It was
Marian who was emotionally worn out and wanted to go to sleep, Paul knew.

  But he said, “We’ll stay as long as you feel like talking, Leah.”

  She was sitting on the sofa with her chin in her hands.

  “He was a good man. Thank God it was fast. He didn’t suffer.… You know, I’ve been thinking I’m partly to blame. I should have made him separate from Donal.”

  Paul’s heart leapt. Was she saying that she thought—

  “I always worried about his carrying so much cash.”

  No, she didn’t think. Paul’s heart subsided.

  “And this whole liquor business with so many competing groups—maybe somebody felt they’d stolen the Rainbow’s trade. Who knows?”

  Obviously, she didn’t know. Sophisticated as she was in so many other ways, she had little understanding of the way Ben’s business ran.

  “I must say Donal treated Ben well. Why, it got so that Donal was Ben’s best client. Lately,” Leah said ruefully, “perhaps his only client. He kept him so busy. Oh, but Ben was smart! Donal often said Ben was worth every penny he paid him.”

  Not smart enough. Instead of building a dependable practice right out in the open, he’d gotten himself mixed up in this underhanded business outside of the law. And Paul, in spite of all, felt a surge of anger toward the dead man.

  The words kept pouring from Leah. “You’ve no idea of the scope of Donal’s interests. I’m talking about legitimate investments. Steel mills in the Midwest, office buildings in Chicago and Buffalo, and they’ve even bought a distillery for when liquor becomes legal again. That’s why Ben had to travel so much. A lot of all this came from his ideas, you know.”

  A little smile touched her. Good, Paul thought with compassion. Let her feel pride, rather than shame. Then he thought: Speaking of Ben’s ideas, it must have been Ben who arranged Donal’s buy-out of the company that provided Hank with a major part of his income. And Paul’s anger almost choked him.

  Marian ventured again, “I really do think you need your rest now, Leah.”

  Leah’s little smile turned wistful. “I guess you’re right. I’ll need all my strength, won’t I? I’m so worried about Hank.… He loved Ben so, and Ben was such a good father. He’ll need a man to guide him, but Dan’s too sick and too old to do much. Will you do it, Paul? Will you take him in hand? He needs someone he can trust to help him get over this.”

  “You know I will. As if he were my son.”

  Marian stood up. She opened her pocketbook and shut it with a nervous snap. The tragedy and tensions of the last few days had begun to overwhelm her. She identified with suffering; when reading, she would skip a page on which some grief or horror was too boldly described; at the movies she would close her eyes.

  So Paul finished quickly. “You ought to take him out of town for a while. A little trip for a few days, with time to talk things over, would be a help.”

  “You’re right, Paul. But do you think you could spare a few days to do it with him? You’d be better for him right now than I would.”

  “I think I can manage it.”

  Leah put out her hand. “You’re always so kind to us, Paul. So kind and wise.”

  Yes, he thought, on his way downstairs, how wise I am! I can’t even straighten out my own head.

  As late summer turned to fall, before school started, Paul and Hank headed toward the Boston Post Road on their way to New England.

  “Where are we going?” Hank asked.

  “I don’t know. Let’s just keep pointing north and see what happens.”

  Paul looked very tall at the wheel, compared with Ben. Hank tried not to look at the wheel, so as not to see Ben’s hands in their pigskin driving gloves, and he tried not to remember how carefully, with a chamois, Ben used to clean the shining hood of his beloved car.

  He hadn’t known, during the early days after Ben died, what to expect. He had feared that everything would change, that they would leave the house and he would go to a different school, losing all his friends, maybe even have to get rid of the dog. It had seemed as if everything must tumble.

  But the first time they were alone together, when the mourning period was over, his mother had told him what they were going to do.

  “I intend to work as I’ve always done, and you’ll go to school as always. We’ll stay in this house. Yes, you’ll miss having your good father, but you’ll still have your grandfather and Paul, especially Paul.”

  So it was good, and Hank had a feeling of safety, in the car now with Paul. They drove on back roads, wandering through Connecticut toward the Berkshires. Late in the afternoon they arrived at an overlook on the Massachusetts border, where they bought ice-cream cones and beaded Indian moccasins. Then they traveled a little farther and stopped at an inn for the night.

  At dinner, Paul, who finished long before Hank did, sat back in his chair and watched Hank eat. “Two hollow legs,” Paul said, as though there were something extraordinary about Hank’s appetite.

  And Hank was back at Tony’s with Ben.… It came to him that he would never hear those words or eat spaghetti without remembering.

  Paul was being very talkative, which was unusual for him, making conversation about tennis and Grandpa Dan’s angina and whether Hank ought to choose German or French as his modern language. He thought he was being helpful. Perhaps he had been reading one of those books on child psychology that Mom had. Adolescence is a vulnerable time. So many changes are occurring. Et cetera.

  Hank had to smile at the foolishness in those books. Then he thought that maybe they were right about the changes; he did feel as if he had grown years older in this one summer.

  Suddenly now, Paul said a surprising thing. “I suppose you’re sometimes terribly angry at Ben.”

  Hank was shocked.

  “Anger is natural, Hank. Even when people die quietly of sickness or old age, we feel angry at them for leaving us. In this case it’s harder, since we don’t really understand how this happened to Ben. What we do know is that in some way it was connected with the work he was doing, so we can’t help but blame him a little. I blame him, too, sometimes.”

  Hank did not answer. “But don’t let’s judge. Remember the good that was in Ben, that’s all I’m trying to say. And after a while the only things you’ll remember at all are the good and the love.”

  There was a silence, then Paul changed the subject. “The farther north we go, the more we’ll see of fall. New Hampshire will be turning red and gold.”

  Hank was thankful to change the subject to the scenery. For an idea was taking gradual shape in his mind, an idea that he was afraid to acknowledge.

  On the fourth morning, they were close to the Canadian border. The hotel was an old-fashioned wooden pile with rocking chairs on a long porch, but there was no one in them and no one in the dining room when they came down to breakfast. It was past the season.

  There was a fire on the hearth. An enormous maple had turned all gold at the window by the table. Hank ate slowly with his eyes on the window. The golden tree gave him a feeling, oddly mixed, of happiness and sadness.

  “You’re very quiet,” Paul remarked. “I hope it’s been some fun being here with me.”

  He couldn’t say it was fun exactly, but it wasn’t bad either. “It’s nice,” he said. “I’m glad we came.”

  “You’re growing up fast, Hank, ever since—” Paul stopped.

  Go on, Hank told himself. The longer you keep it in, the more it will swell up and fill you. He took another forkful of food, giving himself time to choose his words, but they came out abruptly anyway.

  “I think Donal wanted to have Ben shot,” he said.

  “You do? What makes you say that?” Paul’s voice was calm, but Hank could see that he was shocked.

  “I was asleep in the back room at Tony’s. I was half awake, I mean, when some men came in and they were talking about somebody being afraid that Ben would talk in court. I didn’t see them, but I could tell by the way they spoke that they we
re real toughs, like the ones in the movies. One man said Ben’s too smart for that, and the others said, yes, he was, but he might get scared all the same.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. The case never even came to court. Donal paid a fine and the government settled.”

  Now Hank replied, “That doesn’t prove anything either, Paul. You haven’t heard the rest.” He felt worldly and clever, saying that.

  Paul leaned forward as if to study Hank’s face. “Tell me, then.”

  He would have liked, quite suddenly, to take back what he had already said. After all, he had promised Ben never to tell. And yet it was too hard to keep it all inside. “Ben and Donal had a terrible argument on the telephone. Ben said he was quitting.”

  Paul took a glass of water. Then he said carefully, “Did Ben say why?”

  “Yes, he said he wanted to be a professional. He wanted a change. But he said he would see Donal through his trouble first before he left. Donal was really mad, though. I could hear him yelling.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, I think Ben calmed him down, and it ended when Ben told him what time he was going to be at the Rainbow Inn.”

  Paul was still studying Hank’s face. “And then what?”

  “Well, we got in the car. Ben was really upset. He pretended not to be, but I could see he was. And he made me promise never, never to tell anybody about what happened, about those men or the argument, as long as I live. Oh, and now I’ve broken the promise! Was it awful of me, Paul?”

  Paul touched his hand. “No,” he said. “Sometimes in every life there’s something that you just can’t handle all by yourself.” He looked out of the window, where the maple glittered, and then turned back to Hank, saying solemnly, “And now that you’ve told me, you must never tell anyone else. And I do mean never.”

  “Oh, I won’t, Paul. I feel better with your knowing it, so I won’t.”

  “It could be very—”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Let’s say unpleasant. That’s quite an accusation, you know.”

  Hank nodded. “I understand. And hard to prove. Circumstantial evidence and all that.”