Looking Back

by Belva Plain

  Harriet was standing on the walk when they reached the car. All out of breath, she rushed her words. “Amos is already sitting on the doorstep, he’s so impatient. He’s so upset! I had to take the wheel away from him. I couldn’t even allow him to drive.”

  “Why, what is it?” cried Cecile.

  “Let’s go in. No, nobody’s died. He’ll tell you. I didn’t want him to come here. Tomorrow would have done just as well.”

  “Stop it, Harriet!” Amos, red of face, was almost incoherent. “Open the door, hurry up, and let’s sit down.”

  Once in the living room, he himself stood, and almost choking on his words, delivered his message.

  “You won’t believe it. You won’t want to, but it’s authentic. Listen to this: At a quarter past seven, Roland called from New York. They’ve dropped us. Bishop National has dropped us. Good-bye. Finished. Out.”

  “I don’t understand,” Peter said.

  “Out!” Amos roared. “What don’t you understand? Don’t you know what Out’ means? No loan. No mortgage. The deal’s over.”

  Never had Cecile seen her father so distraught. His face was now an alarming purple, and his Adam’s apple, always prominent, was threatening to burst out of his neck.

  Peter was sitting stiffly, as if he were numbed, while Cecile and Harriet looked to him to deny the shock that Amos had given.

  Frowning as people do when confronting a puzzle, he said quietly, “But we had an agreement, written and signed.”

  “No, no, no, it’s not that simple!” Amos waved his arms, sweeping all argument away. “We had dozens of agreements, didn’t we? Dozens of smaller packages, but the major loan, the guarantee that covers everything else—oh, listen! We’re not lawyers here, and it’s too complex and I’m exhausted. Listen, it’s this way. Let me make it short. Perhaps Bishop National was the roof of the house with everybody else inside. What good is a house without a roof?”

  “You’re saying then that it’s all over?” asked Peter, still quietly. “All these years, all this work, thrown away just like that?”

  “From our point of view, yes, but not from theirs. They’re going ahead with the terminal and the acreage. Oh, they’re going ahead all right! Except not with us.”

  “Then with whom?”

  “We don’t know. Roland swore he wouldn’t leave New York until he found out. But what’s the difference who it is?”

  Cecile was having a claustrophobic moment. You’ve traveled a long, long road, she thought. You’re sure of your direction, you’re riding cheerfully on your way, and then suddenly there’s a high wall with no exit.

  On the pretext of letting the dogs out for the night, she got up and went outside. Peter’s voice was sounding in her head. Was he saying this right now in the room she had just left, or was she remembering some past, intimate confession?

  This is the most thrilling work I have ever done. It has filled my mind and my days.

  I must not cry, she thought, steeling herself before going back inside. Amos and Harriet were already leaving, Harriet saying again that they should not have come.

  “We disturbed your sleep for nothing. What can you do about it tonight? But Amos insisted.”

  “All right, I’m sorry,” he said. “But if I should hear anything later tonight, do you want me to phone you?”

  “Please do,” said Peter.

  They went upstairs. Cecile hardly knew what to say, and apparently he did not know, either. Because it was too early to go to bed, they settled into their easy chairs, each with a book. After a long while, after she became aware that he, like herself, had not turned a page for many minutes, she spoke.

  “Darling, it could be a great mistake, a misunderstanding. It could be something temporary that will be settled tomorrow. Those things happen. Something tells me that’s all it is.”

  “There’s no point guessing,” Peter said. “Let’s try to sleep.”

  He had hardly finished the sentence, when the telephone rang. When he answered it, she watched his face for a clue. It stiffened and froze. When, after little more than a minute, he put the receiver back, he was stunned.

  “There’s no mistake, Cele. It’s gone. Gone to the Balsan Real Estate Company. Larry Balsan. Can you believe it?”

  The next day’s newspaper had a full spread of news and editorial comment about the enormous project on the railroad property. In the dark early morning, after a night without any sleep, Peter and Cecile laid the paper on the kitchen table between them and read, as one might read about the death of someone dear whom one had seen just yesterday, a description of Peter’s plan.

  “It is a highly original scheme. In place of the usual urban grid, the pattern is circular, with the terminal as the center. From there the streets radiate as far west as the river, and north toward the bridge, which provides a link with a revived Lane Avenue.”

  In total dismay, in total shock, they raised their eyes to each other. Then, without speaking, they returned to the printed page.

  “Alfred Cole, attorney and yesterday’s spokesman for the Balsan firm, characterizes the proposal as (one of the most important projects ever undertaken in this city, perhaps even in the state. It will revive commerce, create employment, and bring new prosperity to a benighted area.’ Mr. Cole also provided what he termed a ‘very rough diagram,’ showing the wheel-like appearance of the plan, the spokes to be lined with condominiums, shops, and high-rise international hotels as far as the spot where the circumference reaches the river. There it is expected that a spectacular casino will be erected.”

  Not all the editorials and comments agreed with that estimate. Some of them even decried the commercialization of what could instead be turned into a pleasant neighborhood, with the wetlands left intact and green. But even these agreed that the idea of the circle was a “stroke of genius, a masterpiece,” or it was “dazzling,” or it had “a Parisian grace.”

  Peter’s lips were trembling. In alarm, Cecile reached over and grasped his hand. Then, with a surge of grief, she laid her head on his shoulder and wept.

  For a long time they sat together. At last she got up, wiped her eyes, and brought a pitcher of water to the table. Each of them poured a glassful, drank, and stared out of the window.

  “Who could have known?” she asked. “It has to be a crazy coincidence.”

  His reply was so rough that it startled her. “Can’t you read? It’s theft, pure and simple. Even the language is mine: rotunda, axis, rotation, my descriptions of the museum in the terminal, and all my final summary. Coincidence!” Staring fully at Cecile, he demanded, “Who was here? Who’s been in this house?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “I mean that someone was in my workroom. Which Balsan was it? Or which friend of theirs? Who gave it to them?”

  “Peter, I cannot imagine. You know that the door locks automatically when anyone leaves that room. It’s the same kind of door that they have in hotels. So who could get in without a key?”

  “Now let’s get this straight. Think like a detective. Who in that Balsan family ever comes to this house? Norma and Lester haven’t been here or anywhere together since they’ve had Larry on their hands. And Larry—Dan—hasn’t been here since last summer. That leaves Norma, having lunch with you. You probably left the door open, propped open with the vacuum cleaner or something, and she snooped.”

  “I don’t use a vacuum cleaner when I’m having a guest, Peter. So that’s no solution.”

  “Then the only other one is that you talked. Not on purpose, for Heaven’s sake, but just carelessly, the way people do.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said, “first, to think that I would be so stupid or careless. And second, to subject Norma to suspicion is horrible.”

  “Well, if you don’t want me to suspect her, that leaves you. You dropped some hint to somebody—oh, innocently, of course. I didn’t say on purpose, for God’s sake, but you did it. You had to. How else did it get to Balsa
n?”

  Cecile was furious. “Easy to blame your wife, isn’t it? You wouldn’t dare blame Mr. Baker or Mr. Roland.”

  “I would dare blame anybody, Cecile, and you know damn well I would. But as it happens, neither Baker nor Roland ever saw my summary. Even your father never actually laid eyes on that last draft. I’m going to call him right now. I need to go over and talk to him. We have to talk.”

  When Peter came back from the telephone, he reported that Amos was already on his way here. “You’d better get dressed,” he said curtly, and left her. A few seconds later she heard the vicious slam of the workroom door.

  * * *

  Amos’s emotions were exhausted. Wearily, he listened to Peter’s accusation and Cecile’s defense, and wearily he chided them both.

  “What’s the sense in this talk? I hate to admit that the signs all point to you, Cecile. There is no other way this stuff could have leaked out! You talk too much. Women always talk too much. Your mother does. I love her dearly, but she’s a woman, and so are you.”

  Cecile, too, was exhausted. There was no use trying to refute such an outrageous, silly statement out of a time long past. Women talk too much! Well, let these two men talk! She would close her eyes and settle back to listen.

  “With hindsight,” Amos said, “we can see that we shouldn’t have dallied so long with Bishop National. But for safety’s sake, to avoid exactly what has happened—and there’s the irony—we wanted their signature to the effect that they would go through with the deal if our design should meet with their approval. Lord knows there wasn’t any risk in that. And we would have their guarantee on the money. Who can be a more respectable outfit than Bishop National?”

  Peter’s voice was hollow. “A couple of days’ delay. What’s that poem? Tor want of a nail, the battle was lost’?”

  Amos sighed. “Baker’s made a lot of inquiries around town. He must have been on the phone all night. It seems that Balsan’s been going after our local lenders for over a month. He’s agreed to take a little less in the way of loans and to pay a little more interest. I have a hunch, and Baker agrees with me, that a lot of these people who’ve been doing business with Balsan for thirty years felt sorry for Larry and were happy to help him get on his feet, after all the scandal and tragedy. All the more so because it wasn’t going to cost them anything. In fact, it was going to cost them a good deal less, as I just told you.”

  “Besides,” Peter added, “he also brought them that ‘highly original’ design.”

  “Yes, and having Alfred Cole’s contacts didn’t hurt, either,” Amos said bitterly.

  Cecile roused herself to return Peter’s insult. “You mean that there isn’t any fight left in either of you? Why don’t you sue?”

  At that Peter jumped in his seat. “Very, very smart, Cecile. On what grounds shall we sue, when it’s obvious that you gave the whole thing away to your dear, trusted friend? Your little musketeer?”

  Cecile shouted at him. “I am so hurt, so angry at you that I can’t even look at you. Accusing me—”

  “I’m not ‘accusing’ you of anything. You’re not the criminal here. You’re only a woman who talks too much. You didn’t mean to ruin all my work, you only—”

  Here Amos interrupted. “This is a waste of energy, and you’re giving me a worse headache than I already had before I got here. Listen to me. Alfred Cole is a friend of mine, and he comes to my house for tennis most Saturday afternoons. He’s due today. I want to have a friendly talk with him, probe a bit, and get the lie of the land before we make any decisions.”

  “Be careful,” Peter warned. “He’s a lawyer. With all respect to you, you’re not used to verbal combat.”

  “Well, you’re not, either. But you stand at the heart of the problem, and you should be there, anyway. And you should be there too, Cecile.”

  “I had every intention of being there, even if I wasn’t wanted,” she retorted.

  Alfred Cole, dressed for tennis with his racket on his knees, took a long, thoughtful look over the spreading lawns and the remnants of summer roses, still dotted here and there in Amos Newman’s garden. When he spoke again, his tone of puzzlement bore a trace of temper, or so it seemed to Cecile.

  “I thought I came for tennis,” he said, “but here we sit, just talking and getting nowhere.”

  “It’s not ‘just’ talking,” Amos corrected him. “It’s highly important to us”—this with a nod toward Peter—“as I’m sure you must understand. It’s of the essence, as you lawyers say.”

  “I could understand if I knew anything about it. As I’ve tried to explain, I’m only the lawyer for Dan Balsan. I haven’t the slightest knowledge of where this design originated, other than in Dan’s head.”

  “Did you know nothing,” asked Peter, “about the diagram that was in the newspaper?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m telling you that it is my diagram, Mr. Cole.”

  “If that is the case, then somebody must have given it to him to copy. Or else, it is sheer coincidence.”

  Now Amos intervened. “Alfred, how many years have we known each other? Don’t we go back as far as June six, 1944? Let us be frank with each other now. This is no coincidence, and we both know it.”

  “We’re talking in a circle, Amos. Let’s go back to the beginning.” And turning toward Peter, Alfred said quietly, “The only other person who was familiar with your work was your wife. She had total access to it, she and nobody else. This you admit. Therefore it follows that she talked about it—to whom we can only guess. She alone knows the answer.”

  All eyes were on Cecile. They pressed, they peered, they bored into her, and they were suddenly so intolerable that she stood up and walked away.

  The steps from the terrace led down to the “long walk” that she had trod as a bride. At the far end, where the improvised altar had been, there was now a little gazebo in which on a summer afternoon one might sit in the shade with a book. Here in the quiet, with the yellow leaves drifting and the sweet recollection of the past, here all was peace.

  But there was such a roaring in her head! It was hopeless; every one of them, from Alfred Cole who was the enemy, to the others who were not, had arrived at the conclusion: Cecile was the cause.

  Even her mother had asked gently, “Are you sure that you never let anything slip? I know how you two trusted each other.”

  Yes, Mother, we did. Once there were three of us, remember? And we all trusted each other. Of course, we were very young …

  When the throb and roar subsided, she got up and walked back to the terrace. Voices had risen during her brief absence, and the atmosphere was hot.

  “Do you realize what’s been done here?” The deep bass belonged to Amos. “A good man has been given a blow enough to topple him. Pour paint on an artist’s masterpiece! Plagiarize an author’s book! Seize a scientist’s latest experiment and claim it as your own! It happens all the time.”

  “My wife trusts,” Peter said. “If she did reveal what should not have been revealed, an honorable woman would not have taken advantage of her trust. I have the impression that Norma is very clever. She could have wangled it out of Cecile. She is the only one of the Balsans who has had any contact with Cecile.”

  Cole rose from his chair and shouted. “If you’re going to persist with your absurd accusation, if you’re going to sue, at least have the decency—since you talk about decency—to sue Dan Balsan. Leave my son’s wife alone. You have no right to accuse her. It’s a crime.”

  “Don’t shout at us,” cried Amos. “You’re in my home. Have some respect.”

  “You brought me here under false pretenses. I came to play tennis.” Alfred, crying back, flourished his racket. “So go ahead. Bring suit. You stand as much chance of winning as a snowball in hell. Go ahead. Go to court. Make fools of yourselves. Make a fool of this young woman, Cecile. You admit she’s the only person who has access to your papers. If there is any guilty one, she’s it. Guilty of having a loose
tongue. She could have prattled to a dozen women, for all you know.”

  Amos’s cheeks were burning. “Leave my premises. Leave,” he ordered.

  “I’ve left,” Alfred snarled from partway down the walk. “And if you ever come within a thousand miles of me you’ll be too near.”

  Transfixed, they stood and listened until the last sounds of Alfred’s engine had died away.

  * * *

  When you are in a car and so distraught that you are not capable of speech, the best means of avoidance is to play some music, Cecile thought, and that was exactly what Peter was doing. She understood better than anyone could that he was feeling a loss akin to a death. She understood too, after they arrived home, why he walked straight to his workroom and shut the door.

  Yet she tried to make contact. “You haven’t eaten all day. You’ll have a headache.”

  “And you think that putting food in my stomach will cure this headache?” he answered.

  At least he had not finished the sentence as he might have: this headache that you caused. But she had not caused it! Of that she was as certain as if her life depended on it. She had her own share of weaknesses and faults; forgetfulness and carelessness were not among them. It was a terrible thing to be falsely accused and have no way, no way at all, of proving that the accusation was false. Yes, of course he would ultimately forgive her, but how could he forget? Always this knowledge would lie between them, a chronic ache in each of their hearts.

  Hours later, Peter had not yet come out of that room. Cecile had not been able to read, to do a household chore, or to lie down. The sun was low in the sky and very golden when she had the idea that a long walk might help her. Yet the aftermaths of that day, the ugly scene with Alfred Cole and the feel of Peter’s anger, were too heavy; her legs felt too weary for any country walk. Yet she could not sit still, either.