by John Saul
Father MacNeill's lips pursed and his expression tightened, a sign that he was about to confide in the mayor.
Sure enough, the priest leaned forward slightly, and his eyes darted around the office as if seeking some unseen person who might be eavesdropping. "If I might speak confidentially...?" he began, letting his voice trail off in an invitation to Engstrom to reassure him that his confidence would not be violated.
"Ya'll can think of this office as my own personal confessional," the mayor said, picking up his cue. "You'd be surprised the things I've heard in here, and I'm happy to tell you there's not a single soul in St. Albans ever regretted talkin' to me."
Father MacNeill still hesitated, as if trying to make up his mind, though Engstrom suspected the man paused only to decide how much poison to throw in the well. "He's ... evil," the priest finally said. "Whenever there have been Conway men living in this town, there has been trouble." For the next five minutes he detailed the death of George Conway, as if Phil Engstrom had never heard the story before. "As the spiritual guardian of our community, I simply don't believe I can countenance his presence here," Father MacNeill finally concluded.
Phil Engstrom leaned back in his chair and nodded in satisfaction. "I do appreciate your comin' down here to fill me in on all this, Father Mack. I purely do. And I can tell you I'll give everything you've told me every consideration if Conway ever tries to bring a variance up before the council." He glanced at the clock on the wall with a practiced manner that would ensure that his visitor not only saw him, but thought he was trying to check the time surreptitiously. "It's people like you who make this town what it is," he went on, launching into what he and Marge called his Exit Speech. Sure enough, the priest was already getting up from his chair, so Engstrom quickly got to his own feet and strode around the desk to walk his visitor to the door. He went through the rest of the speech, putting a genial arm around the priest's shoulders as he opened the door. "I know how busy you are, and I can't thank you enough for cuttin' into your schedule."
When Father MacNeill had left, Phil Engstrom went back to his desk, sat down in the big black-leather executive chair the council had approved for him only last year, and swiveled around to gaze out the window. It was a view he never tired of. The town square was spread out across the street, and beyond that lay a neighborhood of generously proportioned old houses, most of them sitting on lots of at least half an acre, shaded by huge spreading oaks and magnolias that seemed to throw a comforting green quilt over the whole town. But in the midst of that neighborhood, its steeple poking through the leafy canopy like a needle through the quilt, was the church of St. Ignatius.
It was also a needle in Phil Engstrom's side, a constant reminder that his was not the only power base in St. Albans, and that if he wanted to keep his office, he'd better pay more than simple lip service to Father MacNeill.
Not that there could be anything to what the priest had told him; the very idea that Ted Conway was "evil" was ridiculous on the face of it. Still, if a man wanted to remain in that big black-leather chair—and Phil Engstrom very much liked being mayor of St. Albans—he had to choose his battles carefully, and Ted Conway's battle was one he didn't need to fight. Maybe it might be just as well to put a few well-placed words in certain of the town's ears, he thought. Of course, if he let Father Mack have his way on this, he'd have to find another issue—something trivial, preferably—upon which to thwart the priest, so MacNeill didn't start getting any ideas about who was really in charge. Sighing, and wondering if maybe he could trade off his support for the priest on this hotel deal for a few Sundays on the golf course, he reached for the phone. A few well-placed calls would get "a groundswell of public opinion" rolling against whatever plan this Conway person might have in mind. But just as his fingers touched the receiver, the instrument came alive, and he heard Myrtle Pettibone's voice float over the intercom.
"There's a Mr. Conway here to see you," his secretary said. "A Mr. Ted Conway?"
Phil hesitated, but only for a moment. Might as well at least have a look at the chicken whose head he was about to chop off. "Well, send him on in," he boomed, already preparing his warmest smile of welcome. "Don't keep him waiting, Myrt. Just send him on in!"
Half an hour later Phil Engstrom was once again alone in his office, but when he picked up the phone, it wasn't to start torpedoing Ted Conway's plan. In fact, sometime in the last thirty minutes he'd completely changed his mind about where he stood on this particular deal. Ted Conway, it turned out, wasn't the man he'd been expecting at all. In fact, he'd turned out to be a downright fine fellow—"charming" was the word his wife would have used—and everything he'd said had made perfect sense to Phil Engstrom. By the time the half-hour meeting had ended, he knew Conway was not only a man he could work with, but a man he could be friends with, as well. But if he was going to go against Father Mack on this thing—and he surely was—he would have to be subtle.
Dialing his home number, Phil drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk while he waited for Marge to answer, meanwhile steeling himself to keep even the slightest trace of annoyance out of his voice when she finally did. He'd learned years ago that there wasn't any point in riling up a horse you were planning to break. "I think we ought to be havin' those new people to a dinner party," he said after his wife had finished repeating every word she and her mother had exchanged that morning. "Maybe on Saturday night."
"This Saturday?" Marge fretted. Phil read her intonation perfectly: Marge always worried that if she called people for dinner less than two weeks in advance, it might look as though the Engstroms' calendar wasn't full. "Don't you think it's awfully late to be—"
"Now, honeychild," Phil cut in smoothly, "you know people always love your fried chicken. I can't think of a single person in this town who wouldn't drop whatever they're doing for one of your dinners. And I want you to invite the new people—the Conways." There was a long silence, and for a moment Phil was afraid Father Mack might already have talked to his wife. But when Marge finally spoke, he relaxed.
"You're up to something, aren't you?" she asked.
"Who, me?" Phil countered with exaggerated innocence. Home free.
"Don't you try to fool me," Marge scolded. "I know how you stay mayor of this town."
"And how you stay Mrs. Mayor," Phil replied. "Here's what I want you to do...." As he talked, he could almost see Marge making quick notes, already planning the menu, the flowers, the seating plan, and every other detail that would make the evening perfect.
Marge would set the stage.
He would introduce the cast.
But the rest would be up to Ted Conway; the man would have to sink or swim on his own.
Either way, nobody would ever be able to accuse Phil Engstrom of having taken a stand.
Still, he'd go this far. After all, Ted Conway had struck him as a hell of a nice fellow, and it couldn't hurt just to introduce the man to a few people.
Could it?
CHAPTER 16
The clouds gathering in the sky were a perfect reflection of Janet's mood—dark and angry, promising that before the day was over a major storm would rage over St. Albans. But there would be no storm in the Conway house that day. No matter what Ted's condition might be when he eventually came home—if he came home—she would ignore it. Her suitcase was already packed and waiting by the door next to the boxes she'd packed for the children. She would simply put Molly in the Toyota, pile the boxes in, and leave. If school wasn't yet out, she'd wait for the twins in front of St. Ignatius, and they'd leave from there.
No more arguments.
No more fights.
No more scenes.
But what if Ted didn't come home?
What if he'd wrecked the Toyota?
That won't happen, she told herself.
But what if it did?
She tried to come up with a list of people she might call to come and rescue her and the children from St. Albans. Only there wasn't a single person she felt s
he could ask to come down and pick them up.
And that, she thought morosely as she gazed out at the gathering thunderheads, was something she should have thought about years ago, when she first realized Ted's drinking was eroding her friendships. In those days, she'd told herself her friends were wrong about Ted, but now, nearly twenty years later, she knew they hadn't been.
And now, when she'd finally decided it was over, there was no one left for her to call.
Janet was about to turn away from the living room window when she saw a car pull into the driveway. A moment later a woman picked her way through the tangle in the front yard—a woman whose bearing marked her as someone who counted, at least in St. Albans. Though her dress was linen, she was the type who could wear it all day without a single wrinkle daring to show. Her hair was ash-blond and framed her face in the simple blunt cut that seemed never to go out of style for a certain sort of woman.
"I'm Marge Engstrom," the woman said as Janet opened the door. She was smiling easily, her hand extended. "For the last half hour I've been trying to think of some clever reason why I'm here, but I'm afraid I'm not very good at dissembling. My husband is the mayor of St. Albans, and he sent me. It seems you have a problem. May I come in?" Somehow, Marge Engstrom managed to slip through the door before Janet really thought about whether she wanted to invite her in or not. "This is a terrible intrusion, isn't it? But since you don't have a phone yet, what could I do?" She scanned the expanse of the huge entry hall and her smile faded. "Oh, my, this is a mess, isn't it?" As she heard her own words, she reddened. "Oh, Lord, listen to me. Phil always says I talk before I think, and there I go. I'm so sorry. I—"
"It's all right," Janet assured her. "It is a mess. In fact, it's a horrible mess!" Stop! she told herself. Whatever the reason she's here, it isn't to hear about your marriage. She took a deep breath, then started over. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Actually, I'd like to see this house," Marge told her. "And maybe you can tell me just what it is that has Father MacNeill in such an uproar?"
By the time they entered the kitchen half an hour later, Janet had decided she liked Marge Engstrom's directness and the warmth the woman exuded like a comfortable old blanket. Marge had told her exactly why she was there, and what the purpose of her proposed dinner party was. For her part, Janet had held back from unburdening herself to this woman she barely knew.
Still, she had to say something. But what?
That she was going to be out of town for a few days and they would set something up when she got back? "Don't ever lie, Janet," she heard her mother admonishing her from the dim reaches of her childhood. "Lying only makes a bad situation worse." If she told the truth—that her husband was a drunk, and she was planning to leave him that very day—what chance would Ted ever have—
Ted!? Why was she worrying about him? Besides, didn't Marge Engstrom—and everyone else in St. Albans, for that matter—deserve to know the truth? Before she could say anything, though, she saw their old Toyota pull into the driveway, towing a trailer filled with more building supplies—at least five times as much as Ted had brought home the day before.
Who was going to unload it all, with Jared at school? she wondered. Unless she did it herself, she was sure the supplies would remain in the open trailer to be ruined as soon as the steadily building storm broke. And when Ted heard about Father MacNeill's visit to Phil Engstrom, she knew exactly what would happen.
First he'd get mad.
Then he'd get drunk.
Then he'd start feeling sorry for himself.
Then he'd start blaming her, or the kids, or anyone else he could think of. And given the hangover he was still undoubtedly nursing after last night, she suspected he'd probably already had a couple of drinks this morning. She braced herself for the scene to come, wishing there were some way to get Marge Engstrom out of the house, or at least to warn her. But it was too late. Ted was already coming through the back door.
"Do I smell coffee?" he asked. "Boy, would a cup of that taste good right now!" Janet, already on her feet, started toward the stove, but Ted waved her back to her chair. "Sit, sit! I can get it myself." Picking a cup out of the sink, he rinsed it, and, as he filled it with coffee, offered one of his dazzling smiles to Marge Engstrom. "I'm Ted Conway," he said. "And you'd be Phil Engstrom's wife, right?"
Janet stared at him, bewildered. After last night, his eyes should be bloodshot, his face haggard, and his mood even nastier than it had been yesterday afternoon. But his eyes were clear, there was a buoyancy to his step, and he was treating Marge Engstrom to the brilliant white smile Janet hadn't seen in years.
A smile she knew would darken into black rage as soon as Marge explained why she'd come, to invite them to a dinner party she was proposing for Saturday evening.
But Ted's smile didn't darken. It simply softened into an expression that looked more like sympathetic regret than anything else.
"Well, I guess I can't expect everyone to think my idea's as terrific as I do," he said. "I'm just glad we're not going to be totally on our own." His eyes shifted to Janet. "Do we have any plans for Saturday night?"
As if we've had plans for any Saturday night in the last ten years, Janet thought bitterly. She shook her head.
Ted turned back to Marge Engstrom. "Then we'll see you on Saturday. Can we bring anything?"
Bring anything? Janet silently echoed. The only things Ted had ever taken to a party were the half-dozen drinks he'd belted down before they got there. But what did it matter, really? With her and the kids gone, the odds of Ted even remembering the dinner party were next to zero, and the chances of him showing up sober were far less than that. And whatever chance he might have had at enlisting the mayor's support would vanish.
But it wasn't her problem anymore.
"I'll have to check the calendar," she said. She'd been covering up for Ted for so many years that her voice betrayed none of her emotions. "Perhaps I'll call you tomorrow?" But when Marge left a few minutes later, the neutrality vanished from her tone. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "Do you have any idea what it's like to wake up and find that your mate—who was so stinking drunk he couldn't stand up straight the last time you saw him—has taken off in the car?" Ted opened his mouth to reply, but Janet didn't give him the chance. "Of course you don't! And you never will, as long as you're married to me. But that's going to end, Ted. I've had it! Do you understand? I've finally and forever had it!" She paused, her breath momentarily spent, and braced herself for the explosion.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I don't know why you've put up with it all these years."
The genuine contrition she heard in his voice threw Janet totally off stride. She'd been prepared for the usual scene: a fight, building until she was finally reduced to tears. Only then, after he'd shouted her down, battering at her defenses until she had none left, would he finally gather her in his arms and promise that things would be different. But never, not in all the years since the drinking had started, had he suggested that she shouldn't have put up with his drinking at all.
But even now she was certain that whatever he said, his motivations were simple—to keep her with him, to keep her taking care of him. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why would you know?" she asked, her voice reflecting the exhaustion she suddenly felt. "You've been too drunk to know anything, haven't you? Too drunk to know why you lose your jobs, and too drunk to know how frightened your kids are of you. And way too drunk to know what you've done to me."
Molly, standing up in her playpen and clutching at the netting with her tiny fingers, began to cry, and Janet reached down to scoop her up. "It's all right, baby," she cooed. "Mommy and Daddy aren't going to have a fight. We're not ever going to fight again." Her eyes shifted back to Ted. "I'm leaving this afternoon," she told him, "as soon as I get the few things I'm taking with me into the car." Scout, who had been curled up on the floor, suddenly rose, whining almost as if he knew what she was saying. "Don't worry, boy," she told the big
dog. "We'll take you, too." Once again she braced herself against the attack Ted might mount on her determination, marshaling her grievances like an army, ready to repel anything he might say. Once again, he surprised her.
"Let me tell you what happened last night," he said so quietly it commanded her full attention.
But she didn't lower her guard an inch. "You mean you remember?"
Ted nodded. "Every bit of it. After you left, I kept drinking, and started wandering around the house. And everywhere I went, all I saw was a mess." A painful smile twisted his lips. "It was like looking at myself," he went on, his gesture sweeping over the kitchen and beyond, to the tangled mess of the grounds surrounding the house. "Everything about it's been let go, just like I've let myself go. Another few years, and it's literally going to fall apart," He turned back to Janet and met her gaze steadily. "Just like me," he went on. "Last night it finally came to me. I'm not just killing our marriage, and my relations with my kids, and my career. If you can call that job at the Majestic a career," he added derisively, but without even a hint of the self-pity Janet had always heard in his previous pleas. "I'm killing myself, too. I decided I didn't want to die."
Janet felt the first tiny crack develop in her defenses, and fought against it. "And," she asked, deliberately edging her voice with sarcasm, "having stumbled drunkenly upon this great truth, what exactly did you decide to do about it?"
Ted flinched, but didn't try to turn away. "I made myself sick," he replied. "I went down in the basement, and I threw up more than I've ever thrown up in my life." For the first time since he'd begun to talk, a genuine smile played around the corners of his mouth, and a sparkle of humor lit his eyes. "And you have to admit, I've thrown up some doozies in my life." When Janet failed to respond to his stab at a joke, his smile fled. "Look at me," he said softly. "Just look at my eyes."
Don't do it, Janet told herself. But she could feel the cracks in her resolve widening, and finally she allowed herself to look into his eyes.
