He saw the quick wariness in her eyes that was the standard response whenever he pulled rank. “Yes?”
“I’m visiting the school, talking to teachers, just seeing how things are going now that school has started.”
“Oh?”
“Would you have a minute or two we could talk?”
She hesitated, then nodded, her face impassive. “Of course.”
They were sitting in the faculty lounge. Her hands were folded in her lap, her legs were crossed. She met his eyes only occasionally, responded only to his direct questions, volunteered no more, no less than he asked. He decided to push a little.
“We’ve had some recurring reports about the classes in government.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Parents are reporting that some students are coming home with revisionist notions.”
“Like what?”
Good question! He shrugged. “Like saying that the government may be too repressive.”
She looked at him steadily.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, what?”
“Do you think the government is too repressive?”
“Have my students been reported as saying that?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh.”
This was maddening. This wasn’t the Leslie he knew. This woman was dull and listless. Evasive. If there was one thing Leslie had not been before, it was evasive. “You didn’t answer my question,” he finally said.
“What question?”
“Do you think the government is too repressive?”
“And you didn’t answer my question.”
Bryce laughed right out loud, startling her. Maybe she was evasive. But this stubborn streak—that was more like the girl he knew.
She watched him for a moment, then stirred. “Is that all?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She sat back, her eyes dropping to watch her hands.
“I would like to have dinner with you tonight.”
For the first time, he penetrated the wall she had erected. And what was worse, for the first time he saw fear in her eyes.
By seven o’clock, the temperature had dropped down into the eighties. The humidity was also down, and the summer evening was beautiful. As Bryce turned up Walquist Avenue and started watching for Leslie’s house number, he was actually whistling softly to himself. Not that he had unrealistic expectations about the night. He shook his head. The coldness with which she had accepted his invitation after he had made his veiled threat was like a hard slap across the face. But he had found her, he had made contact, she had agreed to go to dinner with him. That was more than he had ever hoped he could do in one day.
It was an old house, probably thirty years or more, and rundown and dreary. A screened porch ran across most of the front. The paint was faded. One corner of the screen mesh on the door had torn loose. The grass was not dead but was badly parched, and a few scraggly looking petunias and azaleas grew along the walk. It was a sharp contrast to the neat and well-caredfor rambler in Arlington where Leslie lived before. With a sudden sense of gloom, he turned up the walk.
As he lifted his hand to knock, he stopped. A movement at the far end of the porch caught his eye. He turned, stepping back a little, so as to see more clearly through the screen. An older man sat in a rocking chair, hands folded in his lap, chin down on his chest. Bryce would have thought he was sleeping if it weren’t for the fact that the rocker was going back and forth very slowly.
He knocked sharply, watching the man. His head came up slowly and turned toward Bryce, and Bryce’s jaw dropped. The hair was white and thinning, the cheekbones high and protruding, adding to the sense of gauntness about the face, but there was no mistake. It was Leslie’s father! His hands moved, and Bryce saw that they were twisted and deformed.
The effect was palpable, a jolt that shook him deeply. There was no question that Paul Adams had seen him, but he made no move to get up. He just watched Bryce steadily, the rhythm of the rocker never stopping.
Footsteps sounded in the house, and Bryce turned as the door opened and Leslie stepped out. She looked at him with the barest of acknowledgment, turned back, said something to someone inside, then shut the door firmly behind her. Finally he got a nod. “Good evening,” she said. It was cool. Not curt, but cool.
“Hello.”
She was dressed in a navy-blue skirt and pink blouse. It was hardly Neimann-Marcus, but it showed off the slimness of her figure and nicely accented her dark hair. It was a definite improvement over the severity of the dress she had been wearing at the school.
Instead of coming directly toward him, she turned and walked to the old man in the chair, bent over and kissed him on the cheek. Bryce barely heard the soft murmur of her voice. “Goodbye, Dad.”
He said something to her, too soft to catch, and one of the twisted hands came up and brushed her cheek. She took the hand in both of hers and kissed it quickly. It was a tender gesture, full of love and affection, and Bryce blinked, surprised at a sudden burning in his eyes.
In a moment she was back to him, ignoring his questioning look toward her father. She started down the walk briskly, not waiting for him. Bryce looked once more at Paul Adams, then moved quickly to catch up with her.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a car,” he said as he fell into step beside her. “Is there a good place to eat in Hillsburg?”
She shot him a withering look. “Only a government worker would apologize for not having a car.”
Bryce winced at his blunder, then just as suddenly laughed softly to himself. Maybe it would be all right after all. This was more like the Leslie he knew.
“What?” Her lips were pressed into a tight line.
“Nothing.”
“Do you enjoy laughing at me?”
He shook his head quickly. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I—I just remembered something, that’s all.”
From the look on her face, she took that about as well as a cat takes to having its tail pulled, but she said nothing, just increased her pace. “Look, Leslie—”
Her head jerked up.
“Sorry. Look, Miss Adams, I know you’re not wild about this whole thing. How about if we just go get a root canal instead?”
She looked at him blankly.
“Sorry, just a little joke. My attempt at some humor.”
She somehow managed to contain the gales of laughter.
“Look, I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to badger you into this.”
She stopped. “How sorry?”
Wow! This wasn’t conversational hand grenades. This was a full-blown artillery duel. He grinned. “Not that sorry.”
Off she went again, her heels popping sharply on the sidewalk. They walked on for several moments in silence before he tried again. “I…Look, hinting that I would write a negative report on you if you didn’t accept my invitation was really a cheap shot. I wouldn’t really have done it, you know.”
The look she shot him out of the corner of her eye was like getting jammed with a needle. That and seeing the broken hulk of her father on the porch was enough to change his mind about the wisdom of this whole idea. He stepped forward quickly, turned to face her, and stopped. She stopped too, head up, lips tight with defiance.
“I really am sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” He took a quick breath. “Actually, I didn’t come to the school today to check up on teachers. I came only to see you.”
That caught her off guard, and he pressed his advantage.
“If I give you my word that there will be no report of any kind, no coercion, no pressure, then will you consent to have dinner with me?”
Her eyes were still like flint. “You have my consent, remember?”
He shook his head. “No, I have your compliance, not your consent.”
“You take what you get, Mr. Carrol!” she snapped.
He shrugged, suddenly tired of what he was doing to her. “Then I don’t want it.” He stepped ba
ck. “I’m sorry for the whole mess. Good night, Leslie.”
He turned, thrust his hands into his pockets, and started away.
“Wait!”
He turned back slowly.
“Why did you come today?”
He let out his breath in a long weary sigh. “I met you once before.” He shook his head at her sudden surprise. “No, you would never remember. But I did and…I wanted to meet you again.”
Suspicion, surprise, and curiosity were all tumbling around in the depths of her eyes as she gave him a long, appraising look.
“But it was stupid of me to do it this way. Maybe sometime we can meet under better circumstances.” He risked a quick smile. “Like maybe when you’re really desperate to go out to dinner or something.”
Still she looked at him. “You really do mean it!” she said, still disbelieving.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
This time he laughed out loud. “What? I can’t even back out without you interrogating me?”
She didn’t smile. “Why are you telling me this?”
Suddenly he was very serious. “Because as much as I’d like to have dinner with you, I’m getting a little tired of people throwing their weight around. I suddenly looked at myself and didn’t like what I saw.”
“Neither did I,” she said bluntly.
“Oh, come on,” he said soberly, “don’t hold back on me. Give it to me straight.”
That won him the closest thing that he had yet seen to a smile.
“Really,” he went on, “I don’t blame you in the least for being really burned with me. So…” He shrugged. “Maybe some other time.”
“Maybe,” she said slowly. He met her steady gaze, seeing what he hoped was some hint of softening.
“Of course, if you were to change your mind…” He let it hang hopefully in the air.
“Then what?”
He kept his face very serious. “I’d promise to use my napkin and not steal any silverware.”
There was no answering smile, not even the glimmer of one. “You give your word there is nothing more to this than just dinner?” she asked gravely.
Bryce nodded, as sober as she. “Yes.”
She took a deep breath, still hesitant; then, while it did not reach her mouth, a smile did touch her eyes. “All right, then. You have my consent, Mr. Carrol.”
“Just call me Bryce, please.”
She was staring at him, and for a second he was caught completely off guard. Now what had he done? Then the realization hit him with a cold shock. “I mean…Mr. Carrol is all right. John would be better. But my name is John B. Carrol. B as in Bryce. My family and friends call me Bryce.”
Their date would hardly go down as a smashing success, but by the time they brought dessert—a raisin pudding with some kind of sauce—Bryce had to admit it had gone better than expected. She had finally picked the restaurant, as much, he suspected, because it was within easy walking distance as for the food. It was a small, corner cafe with red-and-white-checked tablecloths and a waiter/cook who looked like he’d just mustered out of a thirty-year stint with the merchant marines. The food was plain but passable. The prices, like those at Jessie’s motel, were ridiculously cheap.
As they were walking in, Bryce suddenly remembered that Lewis had only given him a little over ten dollars in ASA
currency. But he had no need to worry. He ordered a spaghetti dinner for a dollar fifteen, she had a chicken and broccoli casserole for one twenty-five. Lukewarm, watery soft drinks were a dime.
Short of standing on his head in the corner and singing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro, Bryce did everything he could think of to keep the conversation light and moving. He decided his charm was considerable because he managed to get her to smile three separate times, and once she laughed right out loud. But it was a painful task for him. Those brief moments of sunshine came hard. Most of the time she was withdrawn and quiet. It was hard to pin down an exact word for it—aloof, wooden, subdued. None of them completely fit. But whatever it was, it was a long way from the vibrant aliveness of the Leslie Adams he had known prior to last Thursday.
Through what little she did say, he also learned that the Adams family of this world was completely different from the one he had known before. He learned nothing about her father, and in fact she quickly steered the conversation away from him both times Bryce brought him up, but she revealed that her mother worked at a clothing factory. He also found out that Leslie was an only child. There was no sister named Kellie and no bright and mischievous brother named Keith. This was typical of many city families in CONAS. The economic realities of life were too harsh to encourage larger families, but it left him with a deep and profound sense of loss.
But none of that affected him as much as watching Leslie herself. He found only the briefest glimmers of the old Leslie he had come to love, and something began to happen somewhere deep inside him. As he had moved south across the countryside, he had been sickened by what he saw. But this was more than that. One could talk about the poverty, one could rail against the ever-present government oppression, one could shake one’s head at the never-ending, backbreaking labor forced upon the people, but this! This was the bottom line. The ultimate impact of the system was on the individual human spirit, and when he saw what it had done to Leslie, the sickness began to give way to a deep and smoldering anger.
As they finished, there were several moments of awkward silence, then Bryce pushed his chair back. “Well, shall we go?”
She stood up. “Thank you for dinner.”
He nodded, smiling. “Thank you for accepting. You had every right to refuse.”
“I know.”
He winced, then she softened it with a smile. “But I’m glad I didn’t.”
With that he even winked at the merchant marine as they walked out of the restaurant.
On the street, she stopped. “There is no need to walk me back,” she said abruptly. “I can find my own way.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then clamped it shut again. “Whatever you say.”
Her lips parted in surprise.
“I told you,” he smiled ruefully, “no pressure. If you say head for the bus stop, I head for the bus stop.”
For the first time he saw something really soften in her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Again there was an awkward moment of silence, but neither of them turned to go. “Look, Leslie,” he finally went on, “I would really like to see you again. Maybe we could just go for a walk or something sometime?”
Again there was the long, searching look.
“You have my promise,” he added quickly. “Anytime you say the word, I’m gone.”
She put her hands in the pockets of her skirt, looking at the ground.
He felt a sharp pang of disappointment. “I understand. Bus stop, here I come.”
Her head came up. “I didn’t say that.”
“What did you say?”
Again there was the hesitation, then she smiled a little. “When?”
His heart leaped. “Well, I’m in no hurry. How about tomorrow?”
She laughed. “Okay, tomorrow.”
“After school?” He was really pleased. “I could even meet you there, walk you home—”
“No!” She saw his surprise at the way she had blurted it, and went on quickly. “It…It would be better at the house.”
“Fine. How about five o’clock?”
“Yes. Five o’clock would be fine.”
Charles Buckner had deliberately stayed late at the office. He reached for his phone for the seventh or eighth time, only this time the director of the Office of Teacher Placement for the Virginia Provincial Educational District had made up his mind. He picked it up and dialed the number out of his desk-top directory. He drummed his fingers as the phone started to ring. He and Quenton Norris had been roommates at the Washington Teachers College, but Norris was still a big shot in the Ministry of Education, and B
uckner was still a minor official in a provincial office.
The phone clicked. “Hello.”
“Quenton! Charlie Buckner.”
“Well, Charlie, hello. This is a surprise. How are you?”
Buckner was encouraged by the warm cordiality in the other’s voice. “Good, thank you. And you?”
“Fine. How’s everything out in Arlington?”
“Well, pretty good. I just had a question for you.”
“What?”
He lowered his voice. “Quenton, I thought you promised me you’d warn me any time someone from your office was going to drop in on us for a check.”
The voice on the other end lowered just as swiftly. “That’s right, why?”
“Well…” He took a breath. “Yesterday we kind of got caught off guard. We had this guy named John Carrol drop in on us and—”
“Hold it,” Norris said, reaching for a pencil. “We don’t have anyone by the name of Carrol in our office.”
Chapter 19
“We’re really happy you’ve found her,” Jessie said the next morning when she and Lewis heard Bryce’s report. She hesitated a moment. “Did you talk to her about going to the United States?”
That startled Bryce. Thoughts of the United States hadn’t even crossed his mind. “No. She knows nothing about that.”
“Good,” Lewis said. “We think you ought to go slow with that.” He too hesitated now, and Bryce could see they both had something on their mind. “We’ve been doing some checking,” Lewis went on. “Her father is Paul Adams.”
“So?” From his face it was obvious he expected Bryce to be impressed.
Jessie leaned forward in surprise. “You’ve never heard of Paul Adams?”
Bryce shook his head.
“Even in the New England Confederation we know about Paul Adams.”
“What?”
“He happens to be the most famous dissident in all of CONAS.”
“Dissident?” Bryce gave a quick, derisive laugh. “Hardly. Not the Paul Adams I saw.”
“He used to teach at a university,” Jessie explained. “He and three others spoke out against the government. They sent them to prison, then to work camps.”
“Have you seen his hands?” Lewis asked.
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