After Gregory

by Austin Wright

  What are your motives?

  My motives? For what? Why, nothing. Curiosity, I guess. Simple curiosity, killed the cat, hope it won’t kill me, ha ha.

  Curiosity about what?

  You. You look pretty good. Relax. I won’t tell anyone.

  You served him a cold drink, and you talked together warily, trying to be casual as if past were past. Meanwhile, in the secrecy of thought, you tried to remember what made this polite and soft spoken man frightening. He was mixed up in your mind with terror, unjustified by rememberable facts. The only rememberable fact was the interview with him, innocuous enough. The morning after Hadley was killed, he just wanted to know if you as a neighbor had heard or noticed anything the night before. You remembered being agitated. There was something incomplete about it, some reason to be afraid. You were too distracted by your own problems, whatever they were, to take it in. Now, while he sat there with his mild eyes, bald head, he brought back madness from the past in an image of himself. If not police, he was personal, if not to pin you with crime, then blackmail. You saw what a fine blackmail target you were, with everything that qualifies: a lot of money and a secret. You kept watching for the blackmail hint, while scrambling for how to respond.

  If he makes demands, defy him. Wealth would protect you, you had figured that out before. In the woods, if things went bad your last resort was always that you could return to the river, it would still be there. That was freedom. Now you intended to live and had the means and didn’t need that freedom.

  You talked about house and grounds. Mr. Jollop and the garden. Sailing. You got around to asking him news from town. He didn’t know anything about your wife or children. It was a long time before you could ask: how did you find me? Not hard, he said. Did anybody ask you to? Nope, I did it all by myself.

  Well then (ask it), What do they think happened to Peter Gregory?

  By Peter Gregory, you mean you? I mean Peter Gregory.

  Well then, it depends who you mean by “they.”

  Why, the people in town, the general view of things.

  Sam Indigo didn’t know if there was a general view. The police take no position on the question. You: They didn’t buy it as suicide? Suicide? The sober blank considerate face had a glint of mischief, devilishness. Was it meant to be a suicide?

  Take a moment. Was no note found?

  A note was found.

  I went into the river. I really did. I expected to drown.

  I believe you.

  Do they believe me?

  How can I know what anybody “believes”? They might think others believe you are dead but doubt it themselves, or they might hear others doubting it but believe it themselves.

  What about the newspapers? He: It was in the papers. Did they call it a suicide? He: The article reported the known facts. What were the known facts? He: Your disappearance, the note in the car. You: No speculations?

  I don’t reckon most people think about it one way or another. Shaded mirth in his eye, fun at your expense. I expect most people figure if you’re not dead you wish to be thought dead.

  You said, You had doubts. But doubts alone wouldn’t have brought you here. You must have known something.

  That’s my business. You seem anxious to cover your tracks.

  Defy him then: I can bear it if I’m found, it’s not a life and death matter (implication: I’m not vulnerable to blackmail). But it would be kinder—kinder—to keep this undisclosed.

  I ain’t telling.

  He left without asking you anything. Thanks for the refreshment. His card, an address back home. If I can be of service. Back over the bridge, without having tried to blackmail or threaten, though you felt as if he had done both.

  Afterwards you sat for a long time on the porch trying to remember why that original interview had troubled you so much. You remembered some things. You remembered that he had come back later that same morning as if to interview you again. You saw his bald head from the window above ( just the way you saw him today), and you went out the back to escape him. Why did you do that? Some fright you had, something you did not want to be asked. This too came back, partially, a notion that you had told him a lie in the interview and he was going to check it out. What lie could you have told? You remembered a little more. The interview was on the morning after Florry Gates had dumped you in the park and you had come home on foot. Which happened—remembering this too—the same night as the Hadley murder, for you had seen the flashing lights and police cars in the street when you came home. You remembered that. Then a revulsion overcame you, a disgust with all things Gregory, and memory stopped.

  You expected to hear from him. But like Nancy Nolan, like your children, like Archie McWare, as the days passed without consequence Sam Indigo was encysted in another memory pocket of unfinished business. You forgot about him except when the cysts broke and memories rushed back, as they sometimes did.

  One day David Trace came to see you. He came to your office in the Rome Building, where you watched the waves of Dow Jones like the sea. You could watch such waves forever. The receptionist buzzed and said, Mr. Trace is here to see you.

  Brown beard concealing a young face. So big, he could die of a heart attack from the enormity of himself. He had tiny blue eyes squinting through the hair on his face. He said, You’re Stephen Trace, I’m David Trace.

  You remembered this: Brother of Jack Rome, first husband of Sharon, nee Grubbs. High official in the Rome Matrix. Rich alcoholic. His parents (who would be Rome’s parents too) keep Melly. He didn’t look like Jack Rome.

  How are you doing, friend, just wanted to take a look at you, another of Jack’s projects. Offer support. Answer questions you might not know who else to ask. How’s Sharon working out? You like her?

  You liked her just fine.

  Good. Have you heard from Luigi Pardon about her? Has he said anything about Sharon?

  No. Why should he?

  Forget it. I’m glad you and she are happy.

  David Trace leaned back in the chair hands across his belly, humphing out words like Theodore Roosevelt. Tell you everything, information to light your way. Ask. What do you want to know?

  Free questions? You saw an opportunity to solve the mysteries of life. Is it true you’re Jack Rome’s brother?

  She said that, did she?

  True?

  What is truth? It’s true enough for practical purposes.

  Then why is your name Trace?

  Good question, he said. You’ll find several Traces in the Rome Organization. Jack’s way of establishing dynasties without planting family trees. Instant genealogy. Watch for other Romemade family names in the Company. Trace, Landis, Greenbush, Delaware—but only one Rome. Not sure what Trace means, except subordination. Residue, what’s left. You are the ashes of something else. From Jack’s point of view, of course.

  You’re subordinate too?

  Jack’s point of view, I said.

  If you’re Jack’s brother, you don’t look like him. ( Jack small lean and dark, Italian; David big bearish and blond, Danish.)

  That’s because we’re adopted. Then Jack changed our names: he’s Rome, I’m Trace, whereby our brotherhood is sundered. Now we’re associates in the organization, he the primary, I the secondary. No doubt you wonder how the younger brother could co-opt the older into his realm against everything the older believes in. But some questions you might ask can’t be answered.

  Delaware’s a made up name? Landis, too?

  Delaware, Jack’s wife, created for the purpose, precisely. Landis, Osgood Landis, you’ve heard of him?

  I heard something.

  You heard about Landis and Jack’s first wife?

  I heard something about a feud.

  You ought to know about that. Landis was Jack’s mistake, regretted ever since. He was a street preacher in New Orleans when Jack picked him up. Stood on corners with his Bible and his zombie daughter and ranted. Jack saw him and gave him one of your grants: hellish playfulness, f
or Jack doesn’t believe in God unless maybe himself, but he picked this guy off the street, and you know the rest. Cult celebrity, the Landis Community, and by way of thanks to his benefactor broke up Jack’s family, as you may know. Driving Jack nutty. What else would you like to know?

  Was there anything you ought to know about your own grant?

  It’s an attempt to corrupt you. This was said so casually it took you a moment to hear.

  What do you mean by that?

  Well, let me think. What do I mean? You don’t think you’ve been corrupted?

  Nobody likes to be told he’s corrupt, but you checked your huff. You needed wisdom and asked, How am I corrupt?

  You accepted the grant.

  A banal and irritating suggestion, not to be taken seriously. Nevertheless, you asked, Why is that corrupt?

  Calm down. Not suggesting you give it back, nor overlooking your situation when you got it. Just want you to recognize the moral situation Jack has put you in. The specific corruption is the impact upon your character, which you compromised.

  Resist, make him explain.

  Do you deny you have distorted, silenced yourself for the sake of your fortune?

  Why no, you accepted the gift freely, no strings, no commitments.

  In that case, where’s Peter Gregory?

  You felt puritanical, parental pressure. Damned if you’d give anything back.

  Nobody’s asking you to. Forget it. Ask another question.

  You asked if there was any question David Trace thought he should ask.

  That’s a good one. All right. You could ask what David Trace has against Jack Rome.

  So, what does he?

  Some objections are ethical, some political. Politically, by conviction David Trace is a socialist. Doesn’t believe in great fortunes for a few at the expense of all the rest. If he had his way there’d be redistribution and equalizing.

  So why are you working for Rome?

  Personal weakness.

  What are your ethical objections?

  Jack Rome regards himself as a sovereign principality, a state unto himself. Last month his security guards caught a man trying to plant a bomb in the Rome Building.

  You heard about that. A terrorist.

  You heard about it. So did everybody in Rome. But the world will never hear. “Terrorist”—Jack’s word. Who was he, what did he represent? No one knows. Sovereign states take prisoners and execute spies. That man went into the Rome Building and never came out. Something to bear in mind, as you go around admiring Jack. I admire Jack too. If you think I’m biased, ask Sharon. She’s a great devotee and will give you full justification for every point.

  You’re trying to tell me something. What should I do?

  You want advice? I don’t give advice. Don’t do anything. No, resist a little. Don’t mess with Gregory/Trace. Be yourself and resist.

  The end of August. You alone on the porch, listening. You heard the late August sleep of the aging season, the still buzzing in the grass. The plopping water against the underlegs of the dock. Civilization in the air above, breath full of traffic and airliners melting into wind. You opened your eyes and saw the hazy chemical mist between you and the far city, the imaginary streets and crowds, your computerized office and Jack Rome.

  You heard a nearby squawk, a real voice, resonant and hollow in a primitive throat. Sea grass in the backwater behind the island, the long gray neck sticking up like a reed, motionless as the season. You had to imagine its robin’s eye because it was too far away even with binoculars. The resonance, rounded through a tube, like a child’s cry, which is what you thought first before your mind corrected it to bird, frog, blowing grass. There was a playground across the channel near the McIntosh house, but it was never used, because there were no children there. Never had been since you moved in, the distant slide, rusty-piped climbing maze, concealed in the dark green foliage.

  There was a book of exotic birds in the living room, left behind by the previous owner. It showed a heron in the reeds where you could see his eye clearly, just like the robin’s, looking out with astonished calm at you and the universe from a position somewhere between the death he created (minnows and snails) and the death coming to him. The artist fixed him in permanent colors in the permanent reeds and leafed him in with others to create, page by page, an aviary, bittern, stork, crane, rail, long legs all.

  You didn’t tell Sharon. You wrapped the book yourself. You asked Mrs. Heckel if she would receive mail for you addressed to a pseudonym.

  Dear Jeff and Patty,

  I am an old friend of your father’s. He told me once that you were interested in the birds and animals of your summer place in Maine and liked to poke around the reeds looking for crayfish and used to count the number of times a whippoorwill would repeat his call at night without taking a breath.

  For old friendship’s sake, I am sending the enclosed beautiful volume of paintings of exotic birds, in his memory. If you like these, I will send you another volume, birds of prey, for the book is part of a series.

  You can write to me c/o Mrs. J. W. Heckel at the address on the letterhead. Please let me know quickly that you have received the book safely.

  Yours,

  Murry Bree

  There was no reply.

  PART THREE

  Delaware

  TWENTY EIGHT

  In the middle of happiness, a request from Jack Rome: I want you to escort my wife Jane Delaware to Europe. He came in person to Stephen’s office to ask you.

  What is this, a favor, a command, a debt claimed? You didn’t ask. Just a little errand for me, Jack Rome. You won’t mind. You and Jane, to pick up a certain person in Venice and bring her home. Plus some business for Jane in our European offices. Tickets and reservations supplied, expenses paid. No more than three weeks, you’ll be back end of October.

  A certain person?

  That was glee in Rome’s eyes, a touch of devil. Her name’s Miranda Landis. You’ve heard of her.

  Miranda Landis the Virgin Healer, you had seen her hypnotic face rapt on television while Jack glowered, eyes smiling up, hands clasped, long hair down her shoulders over her blue robe.

  She’s coming over to us. The smug look of victory, an ecstasy of vengeance in Jack Rome’s small grin. It’s a secret.

  (Why me?) Just get her, bring her home. Delaware will explain. She’ll give you more precise directions.

  You tried tactfully to determine your wife’s place in this expedition, which could be a pleasant holiday. Your wife stays home, Rome said. Sharon will understand when you tell her I ask. It won’t cost you a thing. You’ll find it worth your while.

  You waited for Jack Rome to give you another reason. In vain. You wondered what motivation he thought would make you comply, servitude, gratitude, lust, fear, which would define your place in his hierarchy. Tickets and information in the mail, he said. You and Jane Delaware and her necessary maid. Questions, call Delaware. You had no time to choose before you were chosen.

  According to Sharon, if Jack wants to send you on a mission to Europe with Jane Delaware, you’d better go. Too calm, Sharon, too cool. You don’t mind? You don’t care? Relax, she said, it’s an opportunity. With two extra games of ping pong in the cellar that night, which as usual she won. You called Jane Delaware. Do you know what your husband has asked me to do? Yes, First Lady with the lady voice. Thank you so much.

  Since Jack Rome and Sharon Trace and Jane Delaware all agreed it was the right thing to do there was no reason not to go. Money would keep you safe. You had an inherited love of travel, and all you needed was to regard this as a fully authorized business mission for the man to whom you owed so much. So said Stephen Trace against you in this argument.

  A fast sequence: Tickets to London for S Trace, J Delaware, H Copzik. Reservations in London, Zurich, and Venice. Separate rooms in all hotels, maid included.

  So off you went to the heart of civilization, traveling in a dream with the whole world as false a
s you, interchangeable people, Jane Delaware for Sharon Trace. This Sharon refused sentimental good-byes. You’ll be gone three weeks, no big deal. Wouldn’t go to the airport. Sat on the porch railing swinging her legs in jeans over the bushes, holding the cat with one hand, the post with the other so that she could not wave, but cheerily bright in her plaid shirt, a blowing red scarf protecting her neck from the chilly sea air. In the big black car, Mr. Jollop driving, you waved for both of you.

  You picked up Jane Delaware, luggage and maid. She stepped out of the brass-shining door, click clicking to the car with a uniformed man carrying her suitcases, and maid in a smart coat. Playing escort, you jumped out and opened the door, while the footman loaded baggage in the trunk, and you went to the airport riding in back with her while the maid rode in front. Plenty of space between you. She talked to the maid about what they had packed and to you about the itinerary, with suppressed hilarity, a hidden joke somewhere. The maid, indefinite age, small with a tiny chin, talked New York and said You know all the time.

  You tipped the porter and took the tickets to the check-in like the father of a family. Waited next to her in bucket seats in the blue and silver plastic lounge, like a husband without husband knowledge. Wondered if she wanted you to sit by her and talk, or would she like to have coffee in the café, or would she prefer a drink in the bar, or walk around and look in the shops? I’ll just read a bit if you don’t mind, she said. So you bought a magazine and sat beside her, the maid too, all reading, and then she and the maid, whose name was Helen, talked, and you hoped you would stop feeling stupid soon.

  Time to board the plane, through security and the long corridor and the bright tube to first class on the 747, and an unspoken but important question who should sit together and who behind. Settled by her—you sit with me—as was also the question who should have the window seat, who the aisle. Then the pressure click of a door sealing the capsule, severance from the terminal and your house and Sharon and your life, fatal, while life in general went on, the plane taxiing toward the runway with the shielded plastic lights above, and trying to enjoy first class as you enjoyed wealth, the space between the seats, the deep ease, to escape this still unrelieved feeling of ruin. Using male thoughts about the thrust and power of big planes to avoid being imprisoned and low while the actual plane waited for its turn and you watched the others ahead with the lights on their colorful high tail pieces move down the runway ahead.