The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  “I’ll duck out and let you two catch up,” May said, embarrassed.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it!” Edward said. “Please join us, we’d be delighted. Besides, who knows? With a bit of luck, having you here might help keep the lunchtime fisticuffs at bay.” Grinning playfully, he pulled out a chair for her.

  “Wow, is it really that bad between you two?” asked May.

  “Like oil and water,” Sally-Anne said.

  “The pair of you are behaving like children, you know. You should be grateful instead of acting like spoiled brats. I used to wish I had a brother.”

  “Not this one, sweetheart.” Sally-Anne sighed. “Believe me!”

  “Jab at me all you like, you’re just going to make your friend more uncomfortable.” Still smiling, Edward leaned in and studied them closely. “So, what exactly are you two ladies up to? It must be salacious, considering this is the very first I’ve heard of you.”

  “Why would you have heard of her?” Sally-Anne asked. “Are you trying to tell me you people still actually sit around discussing me? I thought my name hadn’t even been uttered inside that house in ages.”

  “You thought wrong, dear sister. You’d know, if you actually deigned to visit your own family from time to time.”

  “Nice try, but I’m not buying it.”

  May cleared her throat, coughing into her own hand.

  “We’re business partners,” she began, stopping abruptly as she received a sharp kick from Sally-Anne under the table.

  “Partners?” repeated Edward.

  “In a manner of speaking; we work in the same department,” Sally-Anne corrected.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still at the Sun?” Edward scoffed.

  “And where else would I be?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that same question. Considering I heard you quit the paper at the start of summer.”

  “Well, you heard wrong,” May interjected. “Your sister has made herself indispensable in the newsroom. As a matter of fact, she might even get bumped up to reporter one of these days.”

  “Imagine that! I certainly didn’t mean to spread unfounded rumors. That’s very impressive. And how about you, May? What do you do at the Sun?”

  The meal quickly shifted into a getting-to-know-you session as Edward peppered May with endless questions. Sally-Anne was unbothered by her brother’s curiosity. At the very least, May was drawing attention away from her, thus sparing Sally-Anne a considerable amount of scrutiny and drivel. Sally-Anne wasn’t fooled at all by these quarterly lunches with Edward; she knew that they were intel-gathering missions for the Stanfield clan. Edward was a dirty little mole, a double agent working for their mother. After all, Hanna Stanfield had far too much pride for a face-to-face investigation into her daughter’s “decadent lifestyle.” Hence the convenient coincidence that every time Sally-Anne came to the country club, the Stanfield matriarch was nowhere to be found, a marked break from her daily routine.

  As Edward motioned to a waiter for more coffee, he casually asked if May was fond of the theater. A renowned company would be premiering Harold Pinter’s Betrayal in Baltimore the following evening, hot on the heels of a New York run that had wowed critics and audiences. “It is an absolute masterpiece, an experience not to be missed under any circumstances,” Edward declared. He explained that a friend had given him tickets for a pair of amazing seats at the premiere, but he had no one to accompany him.

  “Does this mean you’re all done with that blonde?” Sally-Anne asked innocently. “She was a knockout. What was her name again? You know who I’m talking about . . . Zimmer’s daughter?”

  “Jennifer and I decided to take some time apart to see where we really stand going forward,” Edward replied with utmost gravity and sincerity. “Everything was moving a bit too fast.”

  “What a pity. That must have come as such a disappointment to our poor mother. Jennifer was quite rich, after all.”

  “That’s quite enough, Sally-Anne. No need to be rude.”

  Edward signaled for the bill and quickly scrawled his signature, charging the meal to the family account, before rising to his feet.

  “Tomorrow night, seven o’clock sharp. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby by the ticket booth. Don’t forget: I’m counting on you,” he told May, then bowed once more to kiss her hand.

  Edward then turned and gave his sister a cold, obligatory peck on the cheek. As soon as he walked out, Sally-Anne waved the waiter over and ordered two cognacs.

  “Don’t even think about going!” she warned May, swirling the amber liquid around in her glass.

  May sighed. “Did it even occur to you how many years of scraping and saving it would take for me to get to see Pinter onstage? I can’t even afford the nosebleeds.”

  “I’m telling you: it’s a rotten idea. Even the name of the play is no mistake, I guarantee.”

  “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it. It’s one night.”

  “Don’t underestimate my brother. He’ll play you. It’s his very favorite pastime, and he’s a master at it. He takes down way bigger game without breaking a sweat, so if you want to keep a shred of your dignity, stay the hell away from him.”

  “Dignity? Who said anything about dignity?” May replied, giving Sally-Anne a nice little elbow to the ribs.

  The next day, May luxuriated in the bath before her date with Edward. Sally-Anne entered and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, a cigarette between her lips. She stared wordlessly at May, and the silence felt interminable.

  “Don’t start with the looks again!” May said. “I’ll come home right after the curtain call. I promise.”

  “We’ll see about that. But you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Just don’t forget: not a word to Edward about the paper.”

  “Oh, I know. My shin got that memo yesterday. What exactly went down between you two? You never talk about him. I almost forgot you even had a brother. I don’t understand why you—”

  “Because they’re all complete frauds, every last one of them. The glory of the Stanfields . . . is nothing but a tall tale. It’s all smoke and mirrors. My mother is like a queen reigning over an empire of lies, with my father as her spineless stooge.”

  “Don’t you think that’s going a little overboard? Your dad is a war hero.”

  “I don’t remember ever telling you that.”

  “You didn’t. Someone else did.”

  “Who?”

  “I heard it around. People talk.” May hesitated a moment, then sighed and gave in. “Fine. You really want to know? After we . . . became intimate, I did some research on you here and there. Don’t be mad. It is our job, after all! Comes with the territory, right? You could even think of it as a compliment; it shows just how interested I was in you. In any event, I never heard one bad thing about your parents, least of all your father. The man is widely admired. He’s a perfect success story.”

  “He’s not who you think he is. And that success was my mother’s, not his. She paid dearly for it, more than you could know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sorry, darlin’. We may be ‘intimate,’ but we’re not quite there yet,” said Sally-Anne, closing the lid on the conversation.

  May sat up in the bathtub and took Sally-Anne’s hand, gradually guiding it to her bare breasts. She titled her head upwards and kissed her passionately.

  “You’re trying to tell me that’s not intimate enough for you?”

  But Sally-Anne pushed her away softly. “Brother and sister in the same night? Wouldn’t that be a little uncouth, my sweet May?”

  With that, Sally-Anne walked out of the bathroom, grabbed her jacket, and left the loft.

  Sally-Anne, May would learn, had been right about everything.

  It was an exquisite night, in which everything unfolded magically. The play exceeded all expectations: an astounding tour de force with remarkable performances. Far from a vaudeville piece charting the escapades of a couple in an extramarit
al affair, the play revolved around the importance of what was left unsaid. The subject matter hit rather close to home for May, who couldn’t help but think of the double life she had been leading for the past few months. In their love triangle, the secret lover was clearly Keith. In that case, who exactly was the betrayed, Sally-Anne or May?

  All at once, May was filled with a sudden, desperate urge for something normal. It was like a breath of fresh air to spend the evening with a man who made proper conversation without swearing like a sailor, and wore an actual suit instead of work clothes. Just one night in classier company, away from the rough cast of characters running rampant through her life.

  Her friends would always ask to bum cigarettes, while tonight it was Edward who offered her one from his own pack. Silly as it seemed, even the fact that he used a proper lighter—and an expensive one at that—left an impression on May. Edward lit her cigarette like a proper gentleman, leaning in close with the flame. He politely asked where she’d like to go for dinner, treating her with respect instead of making the decision for her. Ironically enough, May ended up choosing Sailor’s Hideaway. A fitting choice, as despite Edward’s charm, Sally-Anne was still very much on May’s mind, and in her heart.

  With unfinished wood floors, tables, and chairs, and waitstaff wearing fishmongers’ aprons, Sailor’s Hideaway was obviously nothing like the restaurants Edward frequented. He put up with all of it, to the great delight of his date. When May saw that Edward ate his oysters with a fork, she opened another and brought it up to his lips.

  “Smell that, take it in,” she said with a smile. “You’ve got to relish the taste, right in the salt water itself. It’s amazing, you’ll see.”

  Edward did as she asked, savoring the flavor. “Okay, you’re right, I have to admit. It’s better that way.”

  “And now, a sip of white wine—tell me that’s not the most amazing combination.”

  “How in the world did you ever find this place?” Edward asked.

  “I live around the corner.”

  “So, this is how you spend your evenings. I certainly do envy you.”

  “How does a man like you end up envying someone like me?”

  “The life you lead,” he said, with a sweeping gesture around the space. “It’s freedom. Everything is simple, full of joy.”

  “I take it you spend your nights in a prison? Or maybe the morgue?” May asked.

  “You can poke fun at me all you want, but that’s not so far from the truth. The establishments I frequent can be fairly grim, the patrons stilted and cold.”

  “Like you?”

  Edward looked May in the eye.

  “Yes, like me,” he replied evenly, then leaned in closer. “Would you mind if I asked you a favor?”

  “Ask. And we’ll see if I mind.”

  “Would you consider helping me? To change myself.”

  May studied her date, finding his vulnerability endearing. But all at once she came to her senses and burst out laughing.

  “Give me a break!”

  “Am I that ridiculous?”

  “Sally-Anne warned me about you, but I think you’re even more dangerous than she let on.”

  “My sister can be judgmental,” Edward said. “But listen. I have a confession to make. As long as you promise not to tell Sally-Anne.”

  “Fine. I would spit in my palm, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  “The way things are between the two of us is entirely my fault. I envy my sister almost as much as I admire her. She certainly is braver than me. After all, she broke free from her chains and ran away.”

  “Sally-Anne has her flaws, too.”

  “Hers are exceptions; mine are the rule.”

  “I, me, mine. Four times total in the last thirty seconds.”

  “I rest my case. You see just how serious the situation is, how much I need you?”

  May resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “And just what could I do to help such a deeply unhappy man?”

  “You can’t call a man unhappy . . . when he doesn’t even understand what happiness is.”

  Not even the greatest masters of the art of seduction would have been able to come up with such a line. May’s last defenses soon yielded to her nurturing instincts. She led Edward down to the waterfront and kissed him at the end of a long dock.

  It was as though Sally-Anne’s words were ringing out from a distance over the calm waters . . .

  “They’re all complete frauds, every last one of them. The glory of the Stanfields . . . is nothing but a tall tale. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  16

  ROBERT STANFIELD

  March 1944, Hawkinge Airfield, Kent

  It was a perfect night for flying. The twinkling stars cast just enough light for visual flight, while the glow of the crescent moon was weak enough to obscure the Lysander’s dark frame, improving its chances of crossing enemy lines undetected. As the two-passenger plane was prepared for takeoff on the dirt runway, Robert Stanfield checked and rechecked his harnesses from the back seat. He heard the radial engine sputter to life and make the propellers spin, first choppy, then steady. As the mechanic pulled out the chocks, the small plane lurched forward with a jolt and started rolling down the runway.

  The Royal Air Force base, located just seven miles west of Dover, had played a vital role during the Dunkirk evacuation of 1940, aiding in the emergency airlift of soldiers from the battlefield. It continued to be a crucial operations base until the 91st Squadron abandoned the site for Westhampnett. Now, it served solely as a refueling station for aircraft traveling long distances over France.

  Special Agent Stanfield had landed in England two months earlier, after a risky transatlantic crossing. German submarines prowled the waters like steel sharks, ready to torpedo any prey that crossed in front of their periscopes.

  From the moment Robert set foot on British soil, he had worked hard to master the French language, just one part of the intensive sixty-day training regime for his mission. Over those long weeks, his superiors thoroughly tested his aptitude. He memorized the drop zone’s geography and topography, the names of surrounding villages, and colloquial expressions he could use to charm the locals. Robert also committed key players to memory, keeping careful tabs on who could be trusted and who might be playing both sides.

  The previous evening, around dusk, an officer had knocked on the young agent’s door. Robert had packed up his gear, including fake ID, transit papers, revolver, and a map of the Montauban area.

  The three-hour flight would push the Lysander to the limits of its radius of action, all six hundred miles, as planned, provided the weather didn’t change along the way.

  Robert’s mission was not to wage war, but rather to prepare for it. The Allied Forces were keeping their disembarkation plans shrouded in absolute secrecy. Once Allied troops had advanced into the heart of the French theater, one key condition for victory would be to supply the supporting forces with weapons and munitions. For months, the English had been airdropping equipment, which the French Resistance then had to stealthily recover and hide.

  Stanfield was assigned to serve as liaison officer. His mission was to make contact with a local Resistance leader and acquire crucial intel in order to map out the warehouse locations. The mission would run for one month, at which point a second Lysander would come and take Robert back to England.

  Robert’s fate had been sealed one evening at a Washington, DC, gala dinner in the winter of 1943. His parents had come to mingle with other wealthy American families being solicited for contributions to the war effort. While the Stanfields were eager to maintain appearances, at that point their riches had all but disappeared. Robert’s father, who was afflicted with an all-consuming gambling addiction, had squandered the entire family fortune. Yet the proud family carried on their lavish lifestyle, living far beyond their means and racking up crippling debts that dug them deeper into financial ruin. Robert was twenty-eight years old at the time. He was well aware of t
he consequences of his father’s recklessness, which strained their relationship to a breaking point. Robert harbored dreams of saving the family, restoring the Stanfields to their former glory and wealth.

  That night, as Robert was scanning the faces of the guests around the table, he noticed an understated man, slight of frame, with a gaunt face and receding hairline. It was Edward Wood, British ambassador and the Earl of Halifax, who found himself sidelined by Churchill and Roosevelt’s habit of direct communication. Wood hadn’t stopped staring at Robert throughout the entire meal, including during the inaugural address. Everything that night was exquisite: the grand hall, the gleaming china, the impeccably dressed women, the heaping platters of delicacies, the magnificent address. Yet Wood was transfixed by Robert, because his own son had been about the same age when he’d died in the war one year earlier. Eventually, the two began speaking at their table in hushed tones about the war effort.

  “I’m not talking about giving money,” Robert whispered to the older man. “I’m talking about devoting myself to the cause.”

  “Then enlist. Isn’t that what people your age do?” Wood asked.

  “Not in families like mine, not with my parents. I managed to avoid the draft due to some obscure, made-up medical issue. My father’s doing, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Assuming that’s true, that he could exert such influence, you shouldn’t hold it against him. I’m sure your father simply acted out of fear of losing his son. Quite a burden to bear, watching one’s children go away to war.”

  “And what of the child’s burden? Being branded a coward. Is that somehow better?”

  “Ah, to be young again. Such intensity, such idealism. It is truly commendable. But do you have any notion of what war is, my boy? I railed against the march of war with every fiber of my being. I even went to Hitler personally in hopes of averting the conflict.”

  “You met Hitler? The man himself?”