Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Broadstreet handed the cabby eleven dollars. “Keep the change. I’ll find my own way home.” He had to hold his hat on his head, for the wind was gusting vigorously now, and the rain was steady. He squinted as the cab backed away from him, wondering what he would do if anyone in the restaurant recognized him. That would surely have happened at O’Doul’s. But if he had lunched at O’Doul’s, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t need a story to account for his lateness. He removed his wallet and pulled out his Helmsman membership card.

  A young man in a dull-red jacket and black slacks opened the door for Broadstreet. “Good afternoon. Will you be wanting a table or bar-space?”

  “A table. For two. I’m expecting a Mister Baxter. He isn’t here ahead of me, is he?”

  “Would you like to look in the dining room?” the waiter offered.

  “It wouldn’t do any good. I’ve never met the man face to face.” Broadstreet knew he was saying too much. “I need to call my office.” That at least was true, something that could be traced and included in making the so-called meeting appear authentic.

  “Down the hall on the—”

  “Left. Yes. I know.” He took a couple of steps in that direction, then added, “I’d like a brass monkey when you decide where to seat me.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the waiter.

  It cost him more than forty cents to make the call, for he had to tell Florence enough of the story to explain where he was. As he hung up and heard the coins he had deposited drop into the base of the instrument, he sighed, then walked back to the maitre d’.

  “Your table is ready, sir,” that worthy told Broadstreet, and signaled to the same young waiter who had opened the door for Broadstreet to escort him to a table with a good line of sight to the door. “For when your party arrives.”

  “Thanks,” said Broadstreet, and followed the waiter through the sparsely populated dining room—nine of the thirty-two tables were occupied, most by no more than two people—to a table that not only had a direct line of sight to the door, but was next to the picture window that looked out on the lawn and boathouse on the far side of the building. “Much appreciated.” He handed the waiter a dollar.

  The waiter nodded and went to get leather-bound menus with the luncheon selections, returning with two of them, offering one to Broadstreet and putting one on top of the charger at the place opposite his. “Will you want your brass monkey now?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have a hot buttered rum, light on the butte— No, make it an Irish coffee.” A day like today called for Irish coffee, Broadstreet decided, and gazed out the window, trying to piece together a story of the fictitious informant he would use to explain his unusual behavior, and perhaps be reimbursed for the taxi fare and the lunch.

  There were eight members who arrived together some twenty minutes later, and boisterously took over two tables pushed together; they seemed to be celebrating something. By listening to their excited conversation, Broadstreet gleaned the information that they worked for a marine engineering firm and had just secured a contract from the Navy for a device that would monitor all kinds of marine traffic along the coast from Norfolk to Charleston. The eight men ordered two bottles of Tattinger’s and drank a toast to Bateman & McNally. Making no apology for their merriment.

  “I think I’d better order even if my guest hasn’t arrived,” Broadstreet said to the waiter as he came by the table. “I don’t want to have to spend all afternoon waiting.”

  “Have you decided yet, sir?” The waiter gave a sign of acquiescense.

  Broadstreet had barely opened the menu but he said, “Sirloin steak, medium.”

  “Mashed or baked potato, sir?”

  “Baked, with butter and spring onions, and a side of creamed spinach.” He handed the menu to the waiter.

  “Another Irish coffee, sir?” The young man had not written anything down, but he offered a confident-yet-diffident smile.

  “Not just now,” said Broadstreet. “But a cup of strong regular coffee would be welcome.”

  “Right away, sir,” said the waiter.

  All through his solitary lunch, Broadstreet continued to formulate his explanation for his atypical behavior, and by the time he had his dessert—a slice of cheesecake with whipped cream on top—he had a scenario that he was certain would prove sufficient to gain the approval of Channing: someone associated with the marine engineering firm had been leaking the design for these new monitors, and because of that, the effectiveness of the devices might be compromised. He would have to work out how his contact was associated with Bateman & McNally. Something tangential. Maybe he worked for the blueprint company Bateman & McNally used. Broadstreet thought this over for a good ten minutes, then decided that might be too easily checked. He needed something more clandestine, more daring yet secret. He signaled the waiter for more coffee and the check. “And will you bring me some note-paper? I need to leave something for Mister Baxter. If he should happen to show up.”

  “Will do,” said the waiter, and came to retrieve Broadstreet’s large coffee-cup.

  The bill was over fifteen dollars and Broadstreet decided to leave a generous two-dollar tip, which he handed over along with the note he had composed to Mister Baxter. He took a last sip of his coffee, pushed back from the table, gave a last glance at the eight men from Bateman & McNally, and glanced at the window to see the wet, darkening afternoon. It would be dark by the time he got back into Baltimore. As he got up, he caught sight of his watch and was shocked to see that it was nearing four. He went to the front desk and asked if they would call a cab for him, and was assured that they would.

  By the time the cab arrived it was almost four-thirty. Broadstreet hurried out to the cab, got in, and gave the address of his office rather than the nearest intersection, as he had been trained to do.

  “Traffic’s thickening up,” the cabby said as Broadstreet got into the rear seat and slammed the door.

  “Not unusual for this hour,” said Broadstreet, and lit up a cigarette, letting his mind turn its attention to the problem of Mister Baxter, hoping to have this invention fully realized by the time he got back to his office. He would begin by informing Channing that he had a lead on D. G. Atkins, and use that to reveal that he was following up on a tip he had received a few days ago, one that might or might not be worth pursuing. In order to make such a tip credible, Baxter would have to be someone who could listen to Bateman & McNally employees talking and know that what they said had value. He would have to be someone of little importance, someone who had years of experience to draw upon in listening, someone who could—

  Broadstreet sat up straight so quickly that he nearly dropped his cigarette. A cab driver! Now that could be a workable part of the legend. Bateman & McNally must surely use taxis from time to time, probably called the same company for most jobs. He grinned. The cabby could be a failed engineer, a man with bitterness in his heart, a grudge. Average in appearance, the kind of person no one would notice, or remember. It was true that the cabby had to post his chauffeur’s license on his sun-visor, but who bothered to look at the name, unless the picture didn’t match the driver. He told himself he should have thought of this before. It even gave him a plausible explanation why Baxter did not show up for lunch—he had a fare going some distance. That would do it, if he needed it for the right touch. He reminded himself that he couldn’t reveal too much about Baxter in his first report; he would have to draw out his revelations, and be at pains to seek out this contact. The party from Bateman & McNally was an omen, he realized, giving him the chance to turn his work to advantage. He could show his value to Channing, pursuing the nefarious cab-driver and investigating Bateman & McNally in the process, perhaps finally get the promotion he had been denied for six years.

  The taxi turned onto Madison Road, and almost at once braked for a stoplight ahead. “Told you about the traffic,” the cabby said. “This is gonna add ten minutes to the time.”

  “Get there as best you can,” said Br
oadstreet, feeling quite benign now that he had the framework of his plan in place. “Safety over speed.” He was enjoying the afterglow of a good meal and the satisfactory beginning of a new operation that could do much to advance his career. He reminded himself to keep that admonition to the cabby in mind, for considering what he was embarked upon, he would do well to take safety to heart.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM HAROLD TREAT IN NEW ORLEANS TO CHARIS TREAT IN PARIS, SENT AIR MAIL AND DELIVERED FOUR DAYS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.

  December 9 th, 1949

  Dear Charis,

  Christmas will soon be upon us, but it doesn’t feel very Christmasy without you here to share it with the three of us. Mom and Dad have asked us to come to Raleigh for Christmas and New Year’s, and I’m inclined to go, for the boys’ sake. They miss you almost as much as I do, and they don’t understand why you can’t be with us. Arthur is especially fretful, fearing that you are gone because of his polio. I’ve done my best to reassure him on this point, but so far he is unconvinced. David wanted you here for his birthday—turning five is such a milestone—and pouted when you weren’t. I read them every letter you send, but there are times that makes it worse.

  I’m going to get them a dog for Christmas. I think having a pet will help them through your absence. I’ve asked Jake Parmutter to recommend a breed; his brother’s a vet and knows what will be best for Arthur. Nothing too large or too frisky, but enough to keep them engaged. Not a cocker spaniel: Mother can’t abide the breed, and since she’ll have to keep the dog in the house during our visit, I think we’ll manage better if I find something that might make things easier for her as well as the boys.

  Henry Eisley resigned last week. He’s been offered a job with Standard Oil, and will be moving out to California next week just like that. Milly put their house on the market today, and she’s packing up a storm. Bill’s been helping her, and is planning to add UCLA to his list of potential universities he’ll apply to. The pay Henry will be getting is a lot more than anything the university can pay, or a grant. As much as I love my work, that kind of money would tempt me, not just for what it could do for how we live, but it might be possible for you to return without having to jump though hoops or spend weeks answering questions from the HUAC. Standard Oil needs a good geologist, apparently, and Henry doesn’t want to have to spend his time struggling to get grants, especially now that there have been questions asked about him. He was into some pretty Leftist causes while he was a grad student, and it’s coming back to haunt him. So I think he’s being smart about taking the job for a lot of reasons. We had a going-away party for him night before last. Milly came for part of it, said good-bye to all of us, and invited us all to visit them in Los Angeles.

  I’m thinking of taking out the old magnolia tree in the back, and putting in something else, maybe a palm of some sort. The magnolia dropped two limbs last month, and will probably drop more this winter. I’ll ask Mother what she’d recommend—you know how well she keeps up her own garden—and I’ll arrange to have it put in come spring. And I want to trim back some of the honeysuckle; it keeps trying to get into the pantry through the loose window-frame.

  Dr. Nolan says that Arthur is showing some improvement; not a lot, but enough to be encouraging. He’s given me the name of a physical therapist who works with polio patients. He thinks that she may be able to get Arthur to build up his strength a bit, and that could help him do more in spite of his braces. I’m checking up on this woman and what she charges for her services, and I’ll let you know the next time we talk. I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high, but this may be the way to make the best of this bad situation.

  By the way, I fired Priscilla. I caught her taking food—a ham and three jars of pickles—just before Thanksgiving. I’m going to hire Dahlia Crawford to handle the housekeeping while I’m at work. She’s no-nonsense and the boys like her. I’ve arranged a three-month trial period, to be sure that the terms I’m offering are good ones. Since her own kids are in high school, Dahlia has far more flexible time than Priscilla had, which I trust will make things easier around the house. With you gone, I have to take a more active role in the household, and Dahlia is willing to pick the boys up at school once David is in kindergarten, and to sit with him all day if necessary. She’s a tolerable cook, as well, and that will be an improvement on Priscilla.

  I’ve got a project meeting tomorrow morning, so I’ll end this now. Remember that we all miss you and love you, and that we’re praying for your return as soon as your situation is resolved.

  Your adoring husband,

  Harold Treat

  6

  “I’D INVITE you in, but there isn’t much room,” Charis said as Szent-Germain held the door to her apartment open for her to step out of it. “This outward-opening door is just the beginning. The sitting room—you can see a little of it—is about the size of a couple of those red English phone-booths, and the bedroom can barely accommodate the bed and a chest-of-drawers. The closet is a little bit bigger than my spice cabinet back home. And don’t let me get started on the so-called bathroom and kitchen. All six light-bulbs are low wattage, too.” Little as she wanted to admit it, she was embarrassed by the apartment she had found, and was reluctant to invite anyone inside to see how shabbily she was living. She had already promised herself to find something better as soon as she could afford it, for all of this place had an air of dreariness about it, a sadness left over from the war; she was glad to have a chance to get out of it for a while in spite of the cold day. After closing and locking the door, she bundled herself into her leather coat with a fox collar, nodding her thanks to him for helping her. “Looks pretty chilly,” she said as she started down the stairs, two treads behind him. She buttoned the top two buttons of her leather coat—a knee-length country style with a deep pleat in the back to allow her to ride without having to open the coat—and was pleased with herself that she had decided to wear slacks and her sensible gardening shoes; her turtleneck sweater alone now seemed inadequate to the day’s outing, no matter how shattery-bright the sky was, and, she realized, she had not left her building, so the bluster of the wind was still to come.

  “As you like; the Delahaye is parked outside,” he said, keeping his eye on the twist of the staircase. “Does your landlady approve of single men visiting you?” He, too, was dressed for the country in a black hacking-jacket over a cream-colored roll-top pullover, heavy twill hunter’s-slacks tucked into glossy field-boots. He had gloves in his coat-pocket, but no hat.

  “I doubt she approves of anyone visiting me; she complains if any of her tenants brings home company,” Charis said, but quietly and in English, in case Madame Gouffre was listening at her door, as she did from time to time.

  “Have you told her I’m your publisher?” he asked, seeing a slight gap between door and frame on the landing below.

  “No. I don’t think she’d believe me.” She was surprised to hear how angry she sounded; she realized she was tired of being thought a liar. “She likes to think the worst of people.”

  “Is it your lack of a husband that bothers her, or that you’re foreign? Or is it something else?” He spoke without stress, and waited for her answer with interest.

  “I have no idea, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s against me on general principles,” she said brusquely. “She doesn’t say much to me, other than to inform me of what I’m not to do. She claims she doesn’t understand my French; if that’s so, she’s the only person I’ve met in Paris who had so much trouble with my accent.”

  “Has this caused problems?”

  She shook her head. “Not really; more like inconveniences. My better command of the language wouldn’t change her mind about me. She isn’t very fond of Americans. Her other tenants are Europeans of one stripe or another. The couple above me are from Czechoslovakia, and the old man below me and across from Madame is Lithuanian—probably not unusual for Paris, or any other big city in France right now, but nevertheless, I feel a bias from
her. The couple across the landing from me came from Holland; they said their whole house was ruined in the war; we can’t open our doors, they and I, at the same time.” She stepped aside to give him the room to reach the head of the stairs. “The landlady has fourteen tenants. She says that she is having to be selective about renting out her rooms, so as not to turn away someone worthy—that’s her word: merite. Apparently I haven’t enough of it.”

  “What is she looking for: has she told you?” He took a step down the coiling iron staircase. “Does she know what she’s trying to discover, or is she just rooting around in the hope of coming upon—?”

  “A truffle of information?” Charis shook her head. “Nothing so cold-blooded. She’s looking for displaced Europeans, or so I think, though she doesn’t put it that way. She claims that they have suffered the most, but I don’t think that actually means much to her. She usually says that she wants to help those who have nothing to go back to, those who have suffered. She’s told me twice that I am too well-off to need to stay here.”

  “It sounds like she’s trying to find an excuse to evict you, or to pressure you into leaving.”

  “I’ve been afraid of something like that. The last time she asked me to have tea with her, she warned me about my associates, but didn’t mention any names.”

  “Whom do you think she meant?” he asked, and stepped off the narrow landing onto the lowest twisting flight of stairs.

  “I think she means the Coven,” Charis said. “I don’t have any other so-called associates. Madame Gouffre was annoyed that I brought a typewriter with me when I moved in, and she says I’m not to use it, or play the radio after ten. I’ve been thinking about moving, but I don’t know if I can afford anything much better than this, not if Harold doesn’t continue to send along the money he promised.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Lord. I sound like one of those dreadful women in Tennessee Williams, don’t I? I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” The steps clanged as they made their way down to the tiny reception area.