by John Casey
“The barn on the Hazard property has to be a bookshop. The reason Tory Hazard sold to JB and me is so it wouldn’t be bulldozed. So I don’t see—”
“So she told me. I was a great admirer of her father, and I wouldn’t dream of anything that wouldn’t honor him. She seemed surprised, by the way, to learn that you and Mr. Callahan are more than business associates. ‘Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae,’ as Dido famously says—‘I sense the traces of an old flame.’ My plan for the barn is to make it the Everett Hazard Memorial Library. We have the Robert Beverly Hale Library down the road, but it’s very small, and now that I’ve brought so many more readers to the area, another library would be a public benefit. I don’t need to underline the public-benefit part—everyone seems to be learning a little law these days. But I’m sure that you and I and your Mr. J. B. Callahan have no desire to enrich a battery of lawyers. If we can reach an agreement on the real property, I can see a place for Mr. Callahan in our Sawtooth cultural program. A stipendiary position. You see? I’m looking for ways to make everybody happy.”
Mary closed her eyes for an instant. She’d been fearing it would come to this—not Jack’s iron hand in a velvet glove but facing her own wishes. She said, “I see you’re a marvel at mixing the carrot and the stick to get us donkeys to move along. Of course, you haven’t mentioned a price at all. But before you do that, I should say that there is one thing that could get me to consider your plan. If we agree to sell you our house, will you leave Dick and May alone in theirs?”
Jack sat back in his chair, spun away for a moment. She hoped that he might be satisfied with half of what he wanted, that he might be willing to imagine that there were other wishes as urgent as his own.
He spun back and leaned forward. “Mary, Mary, Mary—I’m glad to hear you say that.” She lifted her head. “It shows me that you’re thinking creatively about our problem.” She sighed. She wasn’t surprised when he said, “It shows me you’re halfway to seeing the whole picture.” And there he was doing his old soft-shoe, nimble for all his pomposity. “Sawtooth Point is a discrete piece of land with natural borders that will be on a sound financial footing and will support our traditional values of nature and culture.”
Had she sighed again? Had she raised an eyebrow? As if she’d dissented from a sacred text, he leaned even farther forward and snarled. “I’m serious, God damn it. I’m no Johnny-come-lately. I’ve been putting Sawtooth together for years—make that decades. It’s the core of my life. Piece by piece and year after year, while most people were fiddling away their lives, just one day after another. Eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, work. So when the cat comes into the kitchen, the mice scurry around and squeal. And then dive back into their little holes.”
Mary was surprised to find herself staring at him with pity. His last speech was how he really felt—no more hoo-ha about the benefit to South County—but it was more saddening than horrifying. How alone he was … If he’d been a poor crazy out on the street with no company but the voices in his head, you’d want to find him some help, but with a fortune in the bank he could keep himself propped up in his well-staffed isolation. In that isolation, after his hours calculating the dimensions and costs of his maneuverings, he couldn’t help but think of the people involved as obstructions in front of his bulldozer, as objects of more or less tensile strength—some were pliable, some were stiff and breakable. She imagined his mind grinding and grinding, perhaps with pleasure, during the morning, with a duller satisfaction during the afternoon, but by evening and into the night, the unstoppable grinding would begin to wear the coating off his nerves. He would list his kindnesses to Elsie and Rose, and wonder at their ingratitude. And hadn’t he been good to Mary herself? And Eddie Wormsley and Phoebe—where would they be without his giving them work? But there they all were, gathering around Dick Pierce. And in the middle of the night it was cold comfort that he had his “long-standing relationships with the people who actually keep things going”—they weren’t the ones murmuring in the corners of his empty room, nothing he could make out, just a rustling of ill will. And come to think of it, the poor man would be missing his wife—whether he’d sent her away to mind Jack Junior or if she’d swept off in anger.
Jack cleared his throat, and Mary realized that her silence was making him uneasy. He said, “Where were we? Ah—I may have sounded … I didn’t mean you when I said ‘mice.’ You’re sensible enough to come up here and have a sensible discussion. Of course, you’ll want to talk it over with Mr. Callahan.”
“I was only thinking all this must be hard on you.”
For an instant he appeared touched—the set of his face softened. Then grew tight again. He shut his mouth so hard his lips disappeared. He took a breath and said, “Not in the slightest. This is my meat and drink. Which reminds me—don’t you have to be getting back to the kitchen?”
Mary laughed in his face.
Unaccountably, Jack laughed, too. Did he think he’d been funny with his little skip from “meat and drink” to “back to the kitchen for you, my girl?” Hadn’t he heard himself being an asshole? Dear God, they were every one of them being got the better of by a man who was tone-deaf.
chapter eighty
With every day that passed it looked as though Jack was going to get his way. Elsie thought she’d been the screwup, but it turned out nobody else was getting anywhere, either. She recognized that she wasn’t purely out for justice—Dick would admire her, May would tolerate her, Jack would howl. And Rose? Every time Rose set foot in May’s house, Rose would have to think, Mom was the one …
Elsie shook it off. Too much dithering. Try again.
She phoned Mary Scanlon. Elsie was moved when Mary told her she’d offered up her new property if Jack would leave the Pierces in peace but not moved enough to offset her anger when Mary said that she talked to JB and that they couldn’t outspend Jack on lawyers. “Besides,” Mary said, “JB is sure he wouldn’t think of anything else, and he has to get back to his own work.” She added, “I’m remembering how I love it there at my old place.”
“Well, May and Dick love where they are, too.” Elsie hung up.
She tried Johnny Bienvenue again. He said he’d done what he could—he pointed out that he was the ex–attorney general and not yet a congressman, not in a position to horse-trade.
“And Jack’s holding a fund-raiser for you at Sawtooth.”
“Yes, he is. That was arranged a long time ago. Look. I sent someone to talk to the township. They say nothing’s definite; they’re waiting to see if things work out privately.”
“The threat of eminent domain is part of the—”
“And I talked to Jack. His position is he’s making a generous offer, more than generous, and when he gets the property, a slice of it’s going to be for a public footpath to the nature sanctuary. And it’s going to be hard to make the case that he’s throwing the Pierces out on their ear. He’s offering another house plus some cash. The demographics have changed. If South County were still farmers and lobstermen it’d be different. Now there are more people around who look at land as fungible. That means—”
“I know what fungible means.”
“—one acre of farmland is worth another acre of farmland, one acre of waterfront is worth another, et cetera. Now, if Jack was robbing them blind …”
Elsie said, “So it’s money, money, money. I thought you were better than that.”
He sighed. “I’m reporting the common opinion, not espousing it.”
“Have fun at your fund-raiser.” She hung up.
She walked down to the mailbox. She opened a letter from the Perryville School. It was a bill for one hundred eighty-five dollars. What the hell was this? Rose was on a full scholarship. She didn’t go back to her house; she cut through Miss Perry’s garden and marched into the school office. She plunked the bill down on the secretary’s desk. “What is this about? ‘Incidental fees’? What is that?”
“I’m not sure. There’s supposed to be
a code number. But there’s no code number; I don’t know why. I’ll get someone to go into the file after lunch.”
“I’ll do it myself.” The secretary opened her mouth and blinked. Elsie said, “I’m faculty, I’m administration.” She pulled Rose’s file. The charge was for incidental room and board. Elsie said out loud, “I thought she slept on the floor. Well, maybe not. But it was all for that damn play.”
In the file she saw the tax return she’d had to submit for Rose’s scholarship. An Aldrich scholarship—that egomaniac put his name on everything. And there was Dick’s tax return. Of course—both parents. She couldn’t resist looking. Dick’s gross income was a lot bigger than hers, but his net was much lower. Interest on debts, fuel, maintenance … Ah. Child support. She’d noted it in her monthly bank statement, but now she saw it as … what? More than a tenth of his net, closer to an eighth.
It was then that it occurred to her that this was how Jack was so well informed about Dick’s finances. She said to the secretary, “Who goes over these files? The scholarship committee?”
“Yes.”
“And who’s on that?”
“The headmaster, the dean, three board members—”
“Mr. Aldrich?”
“Yes. He’s chairman of the board. They meet in his office over at Sawtooth.”
“And they take the scholarship files over there?”
“Yes—I mean, I make copies for them.”
“And what happens to the copies? Do you go get them?”
“No. Mr. Aldrich takes care of that. They’re confidential. I think he has his secretary shred them.”
Elsie jogged back to her house, got in her car, and drove to Sawtooth. Bold. Time for her to be bold. March in and tell him … what? That he’d abused his position as chairman of the board of the Perryville School, used a confidential file for his private scheme, that unless he gave it up, she’d go to the board and make a big enough stink so he’d lose his chairmanship. He loved his chairmanship, part of being the laird of South County. And there’d be a taint on his good name. They’d have to take his name off the Aldrich scholarship.
Halfway up the stairs to the top floor, she stopped. She was sure he’d cheated, but what proof did she have? All right, all right—go in softly. She was here to ask a favor. What? About the one hundred eighty-five dollars. As head of the scholarship committee, he could clear that up. Penny ante for him, not for her. Hat in hand, poor Elsie. But somewhere in his files … Get him out of his office. How? Yell fire? All right, all right, something more sensible. She’d think of something.
No secretary in the anteroom. Lunch hour. She knocked on the office door. No answer. Tried the knob, not locked. Easier than she thought. And if he came back? She’d be writing him a note. On the memo pad on his desk she wrote, “Dear Jack, A problem I need a little help with.” All right, enough there. Files? No steel filing cabinets for Jack, solid oak. Under what? S for Sawtooth? L for land? P for Pierce? No, no, and no. Start from the beginning. And there it was—Adjacent Properties. There was Hazard, and there was Pierce Creek property. Indeed. Erase the people. And there was Dick’s tax return. She pulled it out. There it was in her hand. But now what? If she’d thought to bring a camera … All right, all right. A witness. Go down to the kitchen and get Mary. Ah. She’d been mean to Mary on the phone—got in an angry jab and hung up on her. But still, Mary wasn’t for Jack.
She took a step toward the door. Idiot—there was the phone on Jack’s desk. Mary wouldn’t have to come up; all she would have to do was listen. And better yet—fortune favors the brave—there was a list of in-house extensions. One for the front desk, two for the kitchen. She imagined Mary under oath—“Yes, Elsie called me from Jack’s office. I could tell it was in-house …”
Mary answered, “Sawtooth kitchen.”
“It’s Elsie. I’m in Jack’s office and I found Dick’s tax return. Jack shouldn’t have it; it’s part of the scholarship file.”
“Elsie, I don’t—”
“Just remember. Dick’s tax return. In the Pierce Creek file.”
Jack’s secretary called through the open door—“Mr. Aldrich? I’m back from lunch.”
Elsie hung up.
The secretary said again, “Mr. Aldrich?”
Elsie thought of saying something in a gruff voice, maybe “Close the door, please, Miss Swift.” No. Grade B. She called out, “I’m waiting for him. It’s me, Elsie.”
Miss Swift poked her head in. “Does he know you’re here? He didn’t say … I thought he was going to play tennis.” She looked out the front window. “Yes. There he is.” She looked at the open file drawer. “I’ll go get him.”
“Thank you.”
Miss Swift hesitated. Thought better of whatever she was going to say. Left.
Elsie took a breath. Leave the file drawer open? Yes. And she had the tax return in her hand. Let him come in and figure it out. Better yet, lay the tax return on his desk. She’d stand up and stab it with her finger.
Jack came in wearing his tennis whites, his face and knees pink.
“I’ve just got a minute. Or I might say that you’ve just got a minute. Miss Swift tells me … Never mind. What are you here for?”
She braced herself to feel as if she was in uniform again. “That paper on your desk.” She took a step toward it to stab it with her accusatory finger, but he beat her to it. He picked it up. “Is this from in there?” He pointed his own accusatory finger at the file drawer.
“Yes. And it shouldn’t be. The scholarship files … That’s supposed to be for the scholarship, the confidential scholarship meeting. You’re using it illegally.”
Jack sat down. He said, “ ‘Illegally.’ ” He wasn’t indignant, just musing. He said, “Miss Swift, could you come in here for a second?”
Miss Swift practically stood at attention.
“Could you find the Sawtooth S and L file? And then go down and tell them I’ll be along in just another minute.”
He riffled through the file and pulled out a copy of Dick’s tax return. He held it out to her. “As the mortgage holder in due course, we acquire all the information Dick submitted to the bank: the appraisal, outstanding debts, and, of course, tax returns. So it’s in the S and L file and cross-filed under Pierce Creek. And there we are. Anything else? Well, yes. We should remember nursery rules. I won’t go into your room and play with the toys in your toybox if you won’t play with mine.” He got up. “I’ll see you out.”
chapter eighty-one
I should have said, I should have said, I should have said … Nothing. Just as well she’d said nothing.
By the time she drove out the Sawtooth gate the heat in her face was gone. Cold. Cold to her core.
She got home. Too incompetent to do anything but slump onto the sofa and curl up. Everything that came into her head was in miniature. Tiny scenes on a one-inch screen. Jack laughing, saying to someone outside the frame, “I caught Elsie snooping through my files.” He laughed, and everyone joined in. He said, “No, no. Just sent her home.”
In all the years she’d known him she hadn’t ever lost an argument to Jack. Oh, he’d got his way, there was Sawtooth Point turned into his gated domain. But she’d been right, and now she was wrong—wrong and nakedly foolish.
It wasn’t fair that this one time, this one technicality, should undo her.
It wasn’t fair that men got the verbs and she ended up with adjectives. Jack plotted and squeezed and bulldozed. She was caught snooping—pathetic participle, half verb, half adjective.
It wasn’t fair that she knew South County, had hiked and waded and paddled all through it, knew the animals, the insects, the trees, the rocks, and the ponds, and Jack shuffled papers and owned it. He put on his wizard lawyer’s hat, pulled out his magic papers and wrote his magic words, and—presto change-o—they cast a spell. Okay, Jack was bad, but maybe she wasn’t good enough. She’d served her time in the woods and marshes, and used up that goodness in taking Dick to bed. No su
dden accident—she’d wanted him, wanted to have their child. And then? She’d been good again, good with Miss Perry, as good as a dutiful daughter—Captain Teixeira said so. And she’d absorbed the stinging side of Rose and let May and Mary have their share of Rose’s affection. Of course, there was another way of weighing that—what single mother wouldn’t be grateful for help? All right, all right—but here she was now, fighting to save May’s house … so May would say to Dick, “Go do your laundry in Elsie’s washing machine”? She knew what that meant—she was sure she knew what that meant. But twenty minutes ago, she’d been just as sure she had Jack dead to rights. Could it be that May only meant for Dick to visit her the way Tom visited Rose? Elsie had sifted Dick’s report of that do-your-laundry remark and his dumb male puzzlement, stuck in the literal. She herself had sifted it into finer and finer grains. She’d imagined May’s coming to a grim indifference—he could go do his laundry the same way he went to sea. Over the horizon. She’d imagined May settling on the phrase “Do your laundry” as willed blindness. Elsie had also imagined a barb of disdain—“Go do your dirty laundry.” Take it up there—all that smell of rotten bait, of diesel fuel, of overspiced food your Vietnamese and Portuguese crew cook up for you, and your captain’s swagger. Then go get cleaned up and come back home and make yourself useful.
This wasn’t some silky French arrangement, two sets of books for the business, two sets of books for la vie conjugale. This was Yankee stoicism. Less said the better.
It sounded right. The problem was that she couldn’t be certain. She couldn’t march up to May and say, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—do you not want to know?” She vaguely remembered from college physics something about uncertainty, about indeterminacy. The very observation is an intrusion by the observer that ruins the experiment … Was that Heisenberg, or was it Schrödinger and his cat?
