by Packer, Vin
Schneider said again, “Hello? Timmy?”
“No, it’s not Timmy, Mr. Schneider.”
“Who is it?”
“I have something important to talk over with you. It’ll take a little time.”
“Who are you?” Schneider said. “A friend.”
“Oh.” Schneider looked across the desk at Matt and shrugged. Then he said into the phone’s mouthpiece. “Just what are you calling about?” … He was getting used to it. He had never realized before this litigation how many friends Win did not have. To date, six of her alleged friends had offered to make affidavits on his behalf. There was a small matter of money involved, naturally. Some of the other calls making the same offers were from former servants. Win had never had a way with the help, unless it was a way of turning even the most docile, third-floor, three-day-a-week servant into a raging, indignant threatening human soul, who quit only after the most unbelievable anathemas directed at Win. Three weeks ago a chauffeur in their employment for a year and a half, had called Schneider to offer to testify “free-of-charge, sir, that the bitch would as soon see your kid dead as see the sun come up the next morning.”
The voice on the telephone said: “You needn’t sound angry. You did a favor for me, and I want to repay you, that’s all.”
“You’d better get to the point,” said Luther Schneider. “I’m busy right now.”
“Oh, you’re not alone? I want to talk with you when you’re alone.”
“Good luck then,” said Schneider. He saw Matt frowning at him from across the desk. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What?” he asked Matt. Matt said not to entirely discourage him.
“Can you call me later?” said Schneider to the telephone.
“Oh yes. I’m very patient, so don’t worry.”
“Try me in an hour,” said Schneider.
He heard the click, the line went dead, and then the dial tone, and he set the phone arm back in its cradle.
“Another offer to defame the good character of your charming wife, hmm?” Matt Flannery blew on his glasses and wiped them with a corner of his handkerchief. “I wonder if she gets many offers.”
“Probably thousands.”
“Let’s hope not one.”
Flannery put his glasses back on. He picked up the thin onion sheets in front of him, leafing through them. “I’m on page 13, Lute, section 4.”
Luther Schneider leaned back in his swivel chair, fondling his pipe while his lawyer began. “Section Four. On page 32 of her affidavit, Plaintiff states she was struck repeatedly by defendant on the night of September 16, and submits a doctor’s report describing — ”
Her neck. Schneider brushed a large hand through his gray hair and sighed. He had come close to strangling her that night. He had found her feeding Timmy whisky on a teaspoon to put him to sleep. A teaspoon won’t hurt, she had said. Timmy was screaming, his face lobster-color; a teaspoon won’t hurt his crazy head, for Christ’s sake, she had said, falling in her drunkenness across Timmy.
“and vigorously deny that Plaintiff threatened her life then or at any other time,” Matt Flannery continued, “and that pursuant to Section 309 of the Civil Practice Act — ”
Luther Schneider remembered the Christmas a year ago, trimming the tree with Timmy downstairs. Win had come from upstairs, holding the whisky bottle by the neck, singing “I’ve Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” — funny, how the mind remembered even the smallest details, like the song she sang then, and how he had stepped on a silvery-blue bulb on his way to her, trying to get her out of Timmy’s sight before he saw she was naked. She wanted to know what the hell crazy kids knew about naked women anyway. “You’re his mother — ” yelling it; and Win yelling back just as loud: “I didn’t give birth to that monster!” … “I’ll kill you,” he had said. Going around and around on the victrola — the Christmas carols:
Holy infant, mother and child; Yes, I’ll kill you, he had said. She laughed at him: “So you can be with her, Lute! Spawn another creep with her?” … Timmy watching everything, dressed in a pair of one-piece pajamas, standing under the tree: Sleep in heavenly peace.
Schneider only half-listened to Matt Flannery. He shut his eyes as though with that motion he could shut out the pictures in his mind’s eye as well, the thousand snapshots there — the rewards, the punishments, take your choice; Kate leaning over in the morning to put her bra on, something that simple, recorded as well as Win in a rage at the doctor, the year Timmy was three and they knew for certain he was unbalanced, the blue vein that stuck out in her neck and her screaming: “The hospital gave us the wrong goddam baby, and you send this idiot back and tell them to find out where ours is!” … Kate and Timmy walking ahead of him the day they all went to the Central Park Zoo, the sudden sight of Timmy skipping, holding to Kate’s hand … as well as Timmy hiding behind the shower curtain in the upstairs bathroom of the house in Bucks County, five o’clock in the afternoon when Luther Schneider had come home early; telling Timmy, no, son, Mommy isn’t after you with a knife. You dreamed it, son … lying to him … Schneider opened his eyes and looked across at Matt.
“I didn’t hear you, Matt.”
“I said, ‘That’s it.’ Of course, I don’t think any of it will stop Win or her lawyers, but it might impress the court, the parts about her mistreatment of Tim anyway … that’s what we really want. Tim!”
Luther Schneider said, “For the time being, that’s all. I’m going to marry Kate, Matt.”
“First things first, Lute. Watch that damn temper of yours, if you want my opinion.” Matt was stuffing papers into his briefcase, removing his glasses, and rubbing his eyes. “I mean it. Don’t knock her around any more. Hell, you know I’d like to help you knock Win from here to the Battery, but it doesn’t show up well in court, Lute.”
“I don’t want to knock her anywhere.” Luther Schneider sighed.
“I know. She practically begs you to slug her. I know that. It’s better you’re apart for a while. Mrs. MacGivern will look out for Tim.”
“I’m not really worried for the time being about him.”
“Mrs. MacGivern’s good with him, Lute.”
“I know. She can handle Win when she has to, too.”
Flannery got his overcoat from the leather couch in Schneider’s office. “I’ll be glad when Kate gets back here and things are normal again. I liked the way she used to take care of me. Get me into this thing and all,” said Matt, sticking an arm in his overcoat sleeve. “She still in Bermuda?”
“Yes.”
“A wonderful girl,” said Flannery. “And that’s an unqualified endorsement.” He smiled and shook Schneider’s hand, saying, “I know it’s unsolicited too, but I like her Lute, for the record, hmm?”
“Thanks,” Schneider said.
“It’s starting to snow out. Better not stay late.” He waved and started out the door. Before it shut, he said, “Let me know if anything comes of that phone call, hear?”
“Another bum steer, probably,” Schneider said.
Still, he waited at his desk for the telephone to ring. He was in the middle of a letter to Kate Weeks when the operator signaled an incoming outside call. He had made a rule that all incoming-outsides be put through on a direct wire. Matt’s suggestion. Operators intimidate the real leads along with the phonies, Matt had said; we can’t pick and choose; have to hear them all.
The voice said, “Can we talk privately for a while now?”
“Yes.”
“I read in the papers about the troubles you’ve been having. I know you have to take precautions. Your wire could be tapped, I suppose.”
Schneider said, “No melodramatics, hmmm? My wire is not tapped. Just get on with it.”
“I’m sorry about all your trouble. I would have come home earlier if I had known. I read about it in Rome.”
“Rome!” Schneider said.
“Oh, I know it wasn’t in the foreign press. I got some back newspapers from another American. Scandal sheets, you know.”
“And?”
“And I came home.” “Just to help me, hmm?” “Yes.”
“I see.” Schneider shook his head and sighed, swinging his chair around to face the window and watch the snow falling.
“I’m sorry about all your trouble. Your wife has been very unkind. I hate unkindness.”
“Are you a former friend of Win’s or a former servant?” said Schneider.
“I’m your friend.”
“Yes, of course … of course. Granted that, how did you know Win?”
“I didn’t. I only saw her once. On the street. Near your place on Ninety-first.”
“What is it you want Mr. — Mr. — ”
“You wouldn’t know my name, Mr. Schneider. I thought by now you might have guessed who I am.”
Schneider rubbed his forehead with the palm of his left hand, an expression of exasperation on his lean countenance. “Well, I didn’t guess. I’m sorry. I’m not good at guessing.”
“I sent Timmy a tiny Basque fishing boat from Biarritz. I think that was the first gift. Oh, I know it’s presumptuous to use the word gift — ” Schneider’s eyes grew wide with amazement as he leaned forward, holding the phone even closer to his ear, as though it was impossible to believe what he was hearing. The Basque fishing boat from Biarritz, the cock-eyed red sail attached to it. It had arrived that fall when Win was having another of her “rests” at the Hartford Retreat. Schneider had made a note to ask her who they knew who might be vacationing in southern France. It had slipped his mind to ask her; the gift had been passed along to Timmy with no special significance attached to it…. It had taken Luther Schneider over a year to put the puzzle together; another gift from Paris — this one for him, the helmet-shaped silver cream jug. They had both been sent to the Ninety-first Street apartment. The jug he had not taken with him to the country. He had not mentioned it to Win either. It had arrived shortly after she had found out about Kate, and everything that arrived was reason for suspicion, every Christmas gift, birthday gift, letter, bill — it was nearly the worst period of their marriage. He had left it with the rest of his silver…. There was a food broker — Saperstein, or Sardonspore — some name like that, for whom he had once done a favor. Schneider had heard he was in Europe for General Foods. Perhaps he was the donor, Schneider had thought, but it was an unconvincing explanation. The jug was very expensive, well over $600…. The piece in the puzzle, which Schneider needed to solve the matter, arrived from Rome. The punch-ladle; the card with “greetings” and “thanks for your faith in me.” … Then he knew. The silver salt spoons, the Basque cap for Timmy, the miniature Vatican City Swiss Guard — he knew who had sent all of them. Win would have had a lot of satisfaction in the knowledge that Timmy’s kidnapper was again in touch with Schneider. She was the main one to say he would hear from him again. When Schneider had paid the ransom, it was Win in her shrill tones who promised: “This is just the beginning of what you’re going to pay that fellow!”
• • •
“… none of the gifts would have been possible without your trust in me,” the voice was saying, “and now I’m going to pay you back.”
“You’re going to what?”
“Repay you, Mr. Schneider. It was always my dream to repay you.”
Schneider sat back against the leather swivel chair. “Repay me?” he said incredulously. He had not told anyone about the gifts being sent him. Against everyone’s advice — Win’s, of course — but also Matt’s, his mother’s, the F.B.I. agent’s — against everyone’s, he had kept his bargain with the kidnapper. He had purposely framed his response to the ransom note in a way intended to convince Timmy’s abductor he would not turn on him. He had used words like “faith” and “integrity,” appealing to him in a soft key, trying to reach him on whatever substrata level there was in his make-up which would respond to another human being’s confidence in him. At the time he had thought of it as being like attempting to get some very fragile and infinitely precious object from the sticky hands of a recalcitrant child, approaching him inch-by-inch on tip-toe, afraid that one false move would send the object flying to destruction…. He had tried to be ever so careful, and in the same way one does not ever fool some children, he had not tried to fool the man who had Timmy captive…. And it had worked. He had never regretted the way he had handled it. Long afterwards, when he realized it was this same fellow sending the gifts from abroad, his reasons for telling no one were striped half with fear that it would start a resurgence, half with a thin acceptance of the idea that the kidnapper felt remorse, gratitude, guilt — Schneider did not know what to call it. There was an ocean separating them. Schneider had simply let well enough alone…. He had not even told Kate about it, and he told Kate nearly everything, omitting only the raw details of his life in hell with Win. He was not a superstitious man, Luther Schneider, but he felt there was something frangible about the understanding which had passed between himself and the kidnapper, something that must keep it a covert thing; almost as though after all the time that had passed, if Schneider were to break his word, what would stop the kidnapper from finding some way to retaliate; this time, to harm Timmy? … Now he could only repeat his last words, “Repay me?” as though the most disbelieving, lip-service Catholic had suddenly been confronted with the vision of St. Peter saying: “You have kept faith and now I am here.”
“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Schneider. Where will you be, for example, tomorrow?”
“That’s New Year’s Eve,” said Schneider.
“A perfect time to settle old debts, isn’t it, sir?”
“I usually go to my mother’s for the day and evening.”
“Good. Tradition is a fine thing. I believe in tradition myself.”
“Is this a joke? I have trouble believing this is — ”
The voice laughed, “No, you have never had trouble believing. You believed in me sir. You never gave me away. You gave me great peace.”
“I’m — gl-glad,” Schneider managed.
“You sound as though you doubt me. I don’t blame you. I’m sorry I cannot see you in person to thank you.
I would like to shake your hand, Mr. Schneider. Thanks to you, I have been many places and seen many things. It has not all been easy for me; I have suffered too, and caused unhappiness to others. But I found my way finally. A whole new world opened up for me. A new field.”
“A profitable field too,” Schneider said. “It must be very profitable if you really mean that you’re going to pay me back.”
“It’s not something I can explain on a telephone. Even in person, I wonder if I could explain it. It’s very involved, you see.”
“You got into some line abroad?” Schneider imagined telling Matt this. Matt was a lawyer first, of course. He could hear Matt’s answer. “The man broke the law, Lute, and you didn’t report his contact with you. You’re an accessory! I don’t care if he did pay you back!” Schneider was smiling all the more. Matt would damn near die once he got over being a lawyer.
“Yes, abroad. In Rome. It started in Rome, really.”
“I see…. Well, Mr. — I don’t know what to call you. Mr. — ”
“I would tell you my name if I were sure you completely trusted me. Oh, I know you used to. When you had a reason to, you had faith. But you see, it’s a funny thing about faith. Inless there is a good reason, one loses it.”
“You’re quite a philosopher.”
“You’ve accomplished that for me. All my life I needed just one person to trust me. You did.”
Schneider could think of nothing to say. He watched the snow. He could not stop imagining the look on Matt’s face when he told him about this. Still, he could not quite believe it yet.
“I would like to tell you so many things,” the voice said. “I can’t. The things that have happened to me one doesn’t sit down and discuss.” There was a pause; Schneider heard a long sigh, then: “I will repay you tomorrow night.”
“How do you intend to do this?”
>
“I can’t say how. I wish I could. How or where, I can’t say, but you will be paid in full. I can promise that. By midnight.”
“My mother,” Schneider said, “is very old. She has a weak heart. I — ”
The voice cut in: “Don’t worry. I won’t be anywhere near your mother’s.”
Matt was picking Timmy up tomorrow morning, bringing him to Schneider’s mother’s home on Gramercy Park. Visiting privileges; Schneider thought they were the most sadistic words he had ever heard in any court…. The voice was reassuring him again; don’t worry, it would be managed efficiently; no embarrassment to anyone. Schneider played with his pipe as he listened; thank you, the voice was saying again, and then again the part about having always dreamed of repaying him. Always. Thank you.
Schneider straightened up in his chair. “I want you to understand something,” he said, “If this is any sort of joke, or trick, or an attempt to get more — ”
“Please! Please!”
“Well, I want you to be damn sure I’m not putting up with anything else! Do you understand!”
“I forgive you for looking at it that way. How could you look at it any other way? I forgive you!”
“Thanks.”
“Please, before I say good-bye, I’d like to hear a kinder tone. I know that’s very brazen of me. After all, I have no reason to expect kindness from you, but I’ve grown to think of you as my friend. I’ve thought of you more or less as my benefactor. That’s the word, all right — my benefactor.”
Schneider said, “Happy New Year! Will that do?”
“Your tone sounds harsh still. Do you mean it?”
“If you mean what you’re saying,” said Schneider, “I mean what I’m saying.”
“I swear by God,” the voice said. “I swear it!”
Then before Schneider could think of a rejoinder, the voice said, “Good-bye, Mr. Schneider. You’ll never hear from me again, but I’ll never forget you. I like to think you’ll never forget me.”
“Maybe I won’t,” Luther Schneider said; and, as he heard the receiver click, he thought: maybe I really won’t, and he had the same feeling he had had the night before Timmy’s return, a certain blind confidence in something all the odds were against happening; almost like a rapport with a perfect stranger … and yet a stranger who knew better than Luther Schneider’s most intimate friends, that the one thing Schneider had always wanted was an eighteenth century punch-ladle with a worm handle and silver mounts.
