Bartley steeled himself and stood up. If he didn’t see the boy—boy? He must be in his thirties now—it would seem suspicious. He got up from behind the desk. “Let me talk to him. Bring him into the living room.”
He walked down the outside hall behind her until they reached another corridor running perpendicular to the first. There they parted company. Mimi went back to the front door and Bartley turned right and walked towards the living room, a large square chamber situated in the northwest corner of the house.
He was over at the bar fixing himself a drink when David came in. He turned to look at the young man. He hadn’t changed that much, not fat or bald or anything like that. Instantly recognizable. He wondered if that was true in his case as far as David was concerned.
“Hello,” David said, his hand outthrust in greeting as he walked across the room. Bartley took his hand, and shook it warmly, smiling. “It’s good to see you again, David,” he said.
They talked for a moment or two about the usual things. How times had flown, how David had grown, Mr. Bartley grown older, and so on. Small talk. Finally, Bartley offered David a drink. David took a dry martini and sat down on the luxurious white sofa near the picture windows. They afforded a view of the whole outlying area behind the house. It was on top of a small hill, overlooking the woods and a picturesque garden that seemed very carefully tended and rather expensive to keep up.
The room itself was very attractive and large, decorated in light, subdued shades of white and tan and blue. The rug was thick and slightly off-white; the furniture literally glowed with the light from the chandelier above. Yes, Ted Bartley had come up in the world. David took a seat across from him, a blue-cushioned chair, and fixed his gaze upon the older man.
“Well, you said there was something specific you wanted to see me about?” Bartley asked, leaning back comfortably in his seat. He looked very calm, almost cunning, ready for anything David might say. David, too, looked in control, considering he was the intruder. He complimented Bartley on the drink, then told him about his son’s sudden appearance at his apartment in New York, as well as his abrupt departure. He also mentioned the phone conversations with the maid, George’s story about being experimented on somewhere, held against his will. At that point Bartley started to look a little uncomfortable. He recovered nicely, and launched into a pre-arranged explanation even before David was through.
“So it was you, wasn’t it?” Bartley said, slapping his knee with joviality, looking suddenly humble with apology. “I’m so sorry, David. Mimi told me about your call, but we assumed it had to be a prank. You were always a responsible lad; I couldn’t imagine you actually calling up with such a preposterous stray when George was right with us in Lancaster all the time. Why, he was right there in my hotel room waiting for his mother to get ready to go out for lunch when Mimi phoned and told us about the call. Now, David, I know you’re not the type to play practical jokes. Your father and I go way back. So, obviously, the person you thought was George had to be somebody else, playing a joke on you. Experiments. Breakouts. Really, David.” The young man did not look convinced. He was going to be more trouble than he had imagined.
David looked down at his drink, his expression disappointed, maybe even a trifle angry. “I don’t know. If you say George was with you, then of course, he must have been with you. It’s just that the man who came to my apartment not only looked like George—I could tell that despite the clothes and the hair—he sounded like George, he had George’s memories. He—”
Again Bartley interrupted. “George had a stint in the army, you know. He met a lot of wild characters. Real crazy guys. Probably one of them got it in his mind to pretend he was George. Who knows? Some of his friends were real wackos.”
“But why would they do that?”
“Who knows when you’re dealing with lunatics? It has me stumped. George probably mentioned you to some nut he served with, and when the nut was on his last legs in New York, he decided to give you some grief, maybe get some money. All I know is, I know my own son, and George was with us in Lancaster all that time. One full week.”
David looked as if he were about to say something, but stopped. A second later he asked: “Do you have any idea who this amazing impersonator was?”
“Not the slightest. And I don’t care. I’m sorry if he caused you any trouble. But if I were to worry about every Tom, Dick and Harry who tries to fatten off the good Bartley name, I’d never get any sleep at all. No, David. It was all just an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“Where is George now? I’d like to see him.” Probably noticing the look in Bartley’s eyes, he quickly added, “Not to check up on you, Mr. Bartley. Just to say hello.”
“Of course. I’m sure George would like to see you. He’ll be sorry he missed you, but he’s out of town now. Running a little errand for me. Won’t be back for a couple of weeks probably.”
Had he heard right? Had David just muttered how convenient under his breath? The younger man shrugged and drank down the last sip in the martini glass, then popped the olive in his mouth. “Well, I’ll be here all summer probably. So, when he gets back, I’d appreciate it if you asked him to call on me. I’m staying at the house.”
“Ah, good. Always liked that place. Too bad about your father. I hope he’ll be coming home one of these days.”
“Me, too.” He got up and again shook hands with Bartley. Bartley gave him another warm smile, but one that was forced, tension nipping away at the corners of his mouth. “Well, thanks for talking to me,” David said. “Say hello to Mrs. Bartley. And I hope I’ll soon be seeing George one of these days.”
“Certainly,” Bartley said, releasing his hand. “I’ll have Mimi show you to the door.”
“I can find my way out,” David said pleasantly. The atmosphere was getting more precious every second.
But Mimi was there, anyway, just outside the door, as if she had been hovering all the while, waiting for her cue. As she walked down the corridor with David following, Bartley realized how ridiculous it looked. It would have been rather difficult for someone to make a wrong turn unless they wanted to. Obviously, that’s what he was afraid of. He chuckled. He had a vision of Mimi wrestling David to the floor to keep him from going in the wrong direction. Somehow he couldn’t see her in that role.
Bartley went back to the bar and made himself a double. It hurt at times like this, it really hurt. Every time he saw an old friend of George’s, every time he had to lie and manipulate and cover up the truth, every time he had to face the fact that his son would never be normal like them again. David was strong and handsome. He’d noticed the limp and had almost asked about it, but it seemed minor when stacked against young Hammond’s assets. David was everything George could never be. Not now. Damn! He put down the glass and lifted his hands to his eyes, which were already tearing. Just one mistake. Just one lousy miscalculation, and your whole world crumbled. Had he really sacrificed his own son on the altar of ambition? There had been no love lost between the two of them, true, but whose fault had that been? Had he even tried to understand the boy, tried to love him? He would have to live with the results of his anger, his actions, for the rest of his life.
Which might not be too long if Anton had his way. Was Anton correct in his assessment of the situation? Were things that bad, was life really that rotten, people that miserable? Ha, he should know the answer to that.
Look at you, he thought bitterly, and ask yourself that question. Are people miserable? They sure are.
He threw the glass across the room where it shattered against the opposite wall, spattering liquid and ice over the painted surface and onto the rug. He shook violently, then wiped his face free of all traces of remorse. Mimi came in to investigate the noise. He could only stammer, his eyes looking away from her direction. “P—Please clean up. It was an accident.” He pointed to the corner where the glass still lay.
Then he turned on his heel and dashed out of the room.
Chapter
Eleven
Randall Thorp woke up suddenly, smelling smoke. The children. The children were up to something. “Martin? Gladys?” He pulled himself out of bed, surprised that he was fully dressed in evening clothes instead of pajamas. Then he remembered: the party at the Evanses’ the night before. Ah yes. He’d come home quite late, paid off the babysitter—little bitch—and gone straight to bed, too tired to undress.
Or to brush his teeth. His mouth tasted dreadful. He called out again—”Theodore!”—but there was no answer. Time enough for the children; he would brush his teeth, wash his face first. Take a couple of aspirins, too. His headache was killing him. Where were the children? He saw the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray on the night table, and knew where the smoke smell was earning from. Good thing he hadn’t fallen asleep with one in his hand.
Randall Thorp blundered into the bathroom sleepily, the way he blundered from day to day hoping his life would change, afraid it would get worse—as if it could get any worse. Forty-four years old and he felt ninety. An old divorced man out of work struggling to retain a little dignity, taking care of three brats for almost as many weeks while their mother got some rest. Why did they call it visiting privileges? The whole thing was absurd, a scenario for a Hollywood screenwriter, something Cary Grant could have pulled laughs from. But in reality, his situation was about as funny as a tubercular baby.
He heard laughter, childish giggles from afar. Were they out in the yard? He went to the window, toothbrush still in hand, gobs of bubbly toothpaste dripping down his chin. “Teddy? Is that you? Gladys? Martin?” No answer. He must have only thought he’d heard laughter; it probably had only been the water in the faucet, tricking him. Everyone seemed to delight in playing tricks on him.
He went back to the sink and stared dolefully into the mirror. His face seemed to be crumbling into itself; was it the liquor doing that, or merely age? The marks of failure? The weakness of his chin was more pronounced by his shrunken cheeks, the heavy stubble on his face. His forehead seemed to stretch up endlessly before it met his receding hairline. He combed the hair straight back; it looked better that way. More appropriate for a man his age. His small eyes, so close together, peered at the reflection, and back at him, without mercy. Hazel in color, some might say they were penetrating; others, beady.
He turned off the faucet and listened carefully, trying to detect some kind of aural clue as to the children’s whereabouts. Nothing. Were they all right? That would be fitting, the perfect way to cap his life’s pathetic demeanor—having his kids die when they visited their daddy. Now and then he thought of the burglary— massacre actually—at the Harper house down the highway.
Worried in spite of himself, he went into the kitchen, scouting for traces. They had assembled some sort of breakfast, that much was obvious, but it was now nearly evening. He saw lunch’s residue, too. They liked to have sandwiches, and most of the bread was gone. Where the hell had they gone off to?
He looked into the backyard. Except for some toys scattered here and there, there was no sign they’d ever been there. He told them never to go off without him, to stay within sight of the house. He would be blamed, he knew. Blamed for this. He had been asleep upstairs, drunk, a shiftless no-account bum of a father. They’d never take into consideration that he had gone to the party at the Evanses’ because Mimsy Evans had told him that several producers would be there, people he ought to get to know. He was just trying to make a living for himself, to better his pathetic life, but no—they wouldn’t see that. All they’d see would be a contemptible, middle-aged man running off to get bombed at cocktail parties, living it up while his children stayed home with babysitters, sleeping to all hours while the children went off God-knows-where by themselves. They wouldn’t see his side of it, just the way his wife, Patricia, had never seen his side of it. He would be to blame, always be to blame.
Then he heard the voices, the laughs. Were they laughing at him, the little brats? He’d teach them. He was not to be laughed at, especially not by her children. He’d teach them but good.
They had been in the garage all the time, too busy talking and playing to bother answering his calls. He found them in there, huddled behind the car, playing jacks or some such foolish inanity. When he’d been their age he’d had far less frivolous things on his mind, things like hunger, and weeping, hard-working mother, and an alcoholic father who beat his children mercilessly for the slightest offense.
Knowing, but not caring, whose crimes he was re-enacting, he menacingly removed his belt from his pants and advanced steadily upon them.
Anna and David got up at the crack of dawn, it seemed. Actually it was later than that, but David had been used to getting up so late (and even Anna had had times in the past few weeks when she’d been able to sleep past noon), that the hour of their awakening seemed positively wholesome in comparison. They’d gone to bed, if not to sleep, quite early the night before. Anna had spent the morning and early afternoon resting up from her bus trip and capturing some badly needed sleep. David had seen his father and Mr. Bartley. Then during the late afternoon, David had taken them for a leisurely drive around the town in the Chrysler. There wasn’t much to see in the way of landmarks—the quarry, the apple orchards, Bannon Mountain Drive— but Anna enjoyed it just the same, breathing deeply of the fresh country air, enjoying the solitude and quiet to its fullest. And all the time, she and David got to know each other better, to feel more secure and comfortable beside one another. They had decided that today they would go back to the quarry for a swim. Lots of townspeople used it, although the wealthier ones had built their own pools and some used the pool in the motel for a small fee. (Since it had so few customers, the management figured it was a way of bringing in some added revenue.)
David had so far refrained from discussing the whole George Bartley incident with Anna; it was not a part of her life, nothing to concern her with. But she was becoming part of his life, and if he couldn’t share things with her, then who could he share them with? He brought the whole business up while he was making an early morning omelet, filled with mushrooms, tomatoes and peppers.
After listening to him relate the story behind George’s appearance in New York, and his father’s explanation for the kiss-off attitude when David phoned, Anna said, “Sounds like he’s trying to cover something up. All you can do is wait until George gets in touch with you in a few weeks.”
“If he ever does. I wish there were some way of getting in touch with him. I don’t buy his father’s impersonator story for one minute.”
She giggled. “Perhaps the man at your apartment was a clone of George Bartley.”
He handed her a plate full of omelet, a look of mock dismay on his face. “Shut up and eat. That’s all I need. Clones. Mad scientists. I’m still recovering from that business in Milbourne—” He stopped short and put his plate down on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry.” They had agreed some time ago not to discuss what happened in Milbourne; it was too strange, too upsetting. Anna reached out and touched him. She said softly, “It’s all right. I think about it myself sometimes. Those men disappearing. Harry London going into shock over something that he couldn’t verbalize to anyone. It haunts me. But there’s nothing I can do about it.” She straightened up, pulled her hand away, managing a bright expression. “Ummm. This is quite good. Now why don’t we forget about old mysteries, and see if we can solve this new one.”
He didn’t remind her that the mystery over George predated the death of her brother. “I keep thinking. Why would Mr. Bartley lie? If he had disowned his son and didn’t care about him, why didn’t he simply say so, why didn’t he say, ‘The affairs of my son are no longer my concern; a good day, David.’? Why cover up the way he did?”
“Maybe he’s ashamed. What father would want to admit that he knew his own son was penniless and unbathed bumming around New York in dirty clothes, and that he wouldn’t do anything to help? I think that George must have done something to anger his father, to really infu
riate him. When you called, and the maid relayed your message, he was still angry. How did he know George was that badly off? How did he know that his son hadn’t fed you your lines—y’know, the old sympathy routine? Now, weeks later, he and George are back together and Dad is ashamed of what happened, ashamed of the message he had the maid relay to you: in effect, ‘Get lost.’ So, he says it wasn’t George. Some crazy army buddy. Nothing to worry about. If George is a good little boy he’ll go along with the deception, you wait and see.”
“Not George. He wouldn’t do that. He’s too honest, too independent.”
“Ah, but think how embarrassed he’ll be when he sees you. He’ll be remembering what he looked like, how desperate he was, the humiliation of it all. Who would want to admit that they’d once been a tramp cluttering up your living room? Uh, the mere thought of it! I would have had the place fumigated.”
David was about to tell her that fumigation cost money and that a friend was a friend, after all, but stopped himself in time. No use nitpicking. “Still, George would know that I know the truth. He might come clean, no pun intended, because of that. Then again, I also know how poverty can affect a person, how it can change their whole character around.”
Anna smirked. “ ‘Let him go,’ said the judge, ‘he hacked the old woman up because he was underprivileged!’ “
“No, that’s not quite what I mean,” David said, annoyed, rushing out the words too quickly. He paused, recovering lost ground, not wanting to offend her. “I mean, if his father offered George a good job—and I assume he’s in the position to now—as much as George might have once hated the idea of working for the man, the thought of being penniless would still be fresh in his mind. So if his father said, ‘Don’t shame me, son. Tell no one about your desperate life as a bum in New York or I’ll cut you off without a penny,’ would anyone blame George if he kept his mouth shut?”
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