Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Are you sure? Did he offer any explanation?” He was startled by this announcement; he had expected other problems. “Why would he want to do that?” he asked levelly as he hitched his leg over the edge of his desk so that he was nearly touching her.

  “For his work, or that’s what he claimed,” she said. “He’s afraid his corporate sponsor will discontinue funding his work if I’m still in the picture, being a known Communist sympathizer, which I am not—or not the way the Committee means it. Harold told me he wouldn’t ask this if it weren’t so necessary to his research. He tells me he’s sorry, but he’s got so much riding on his project, he’s afraid he won’t be able to find another backer, and without corporate money, the university won’t support his work, either with lab-space or grad students to assist him.” She started to tremble. “If I refuse, he’ll despise me for ruining his career, so we’ll end up apart, no matter what. It’s bad enough that my career is in ruins.”

  He reached out and took her hand; he felt her quiver again, but for different reasons than she had before. “Your career is not in ruins. You may be sure of that. It has changed direction but it hasn’t ended.”

  “Harold doesn’t see it that way. He’s in a panic.”

  Szent-Germain was aware that Charis was trying to hold her agitation at bay. “If he truly needs corporate backing, I can probably arrange something. I have … business associates who sometimes invest in academic projects.” That most of these associates were various aliases he had used over the centuries, he did not bother to tell her.

  “I’m too indebted to you already.” She wadded up her handkerchief and pushed it back into her pocket.

  “Do you mean you want to keep this between you and your husband?” he guessed, knowing the answer.

  She nodded. “Un-huh,” she said.

  “Even though it may end your marriage?” He said it bluntly, knowing she did not want to be treated like a weak-willed female.

  “If I’m not worth more to him than five years’ funding, it’s better to learn it sooner than later,” she said with a forlorn attempt at bravery. “He’s got his parents living with him now, and they’re taking care of the boys, and that leaves me cut out of the family. I don’t like the thought of losing Arthur and David, but”—her voice broke and she clung fiercely to his hand—“I don’t know if he’ll allow me to see them.”

  He studied her while she fought back tears. “Can he do that? Won’t the courts make some provision for access?”

  “They m-might,” she allowed as she stifled a sob. “In some states, but not Louisiana. He could claim I deserted the family, or that I w-was indoctrinating my sons in un-American Activities, and he could probably get an Order of P-protection to keep me away from them.” She seemed not to hear her childhood stutter.

  “Are you certain?” He knew of far more draconian measures taken against unwanted wives, but not in the US, at least not this century. “Did he say so?”

  “Not in so many w-words, no, but I know H-harold, and I know when he’s g-giving me a warning. He has a style h-he uses, and he was using it w-when he phoned me.” She pressed her lips firmly together, then went on more steadily. “If I agree to let him divorce me, without contesting it, he’ll be willing to arrange some kind of visitation with the kids.”

  “Do you think he will?” He spoke gently; he could feel her anguish triggering her need of him, and he chose his words carefully. “Do you have friends in New Orleans who would be willing to work as your intermediary in this?”

  She looked away. “I don’t know. I used to think I had friends who would stand by me, but when push came to shove, no one did. And I ended up here.” She shook her head. “Good lord, I sound like such a ninny!”

  “Not a ninny,” he said, standing up and holding his hand out to her. “You sound alone. There’s a difference.”

  Taking his hand, she rose into the haven of his arms, resting her head on his shoulder, and finally giving way to tears that were drawn as much from anger as they were from pain and frustration. It took almost five minutes to cry herself out, and even after her tears were gone, she remained standing in his embrace, her heart pounding so loudly that she could not hear his pulse at all. When she finally took a step back, he released her, though he did not move away from her. She retrieved her handkerchief and was about to use it when he offered her a square of black silk; she took it, whispering, “Thank you.”

  “Not necessary, but you’re welcome—I believe that’s what they say in the States,” he told her, at last knowing what she needed most from him.

  She nodded. “It is,” she said, and gave an awkward laugh. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he assured her.

  “I thought … I thought I wasn’t so overwrought.”

  “You needn’t apologize; I’m not offended.”

  “Still…” she said, offering him his handkerchief; he waved it away. “We’re doing business together, and it’s not appropriate to … to mix personal and professional.”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, an excellent rule, but these are not ordinary circumstances for you, are they?” As he watched, she shook her head, unwilling to look at him. “What you need now isn’t a publisher, it’s an ally.”

  This caught her attention; she stared at him. “An ally,” she echoed.

  “You have one, if you want one.”

  “An ally,” she repeated, this time as if testing the word for intent and sincerity.

  “If that is what you want,” he said again.

  “I might be here for a long time, if Harold has his way,” she cautioned him. “It could be long and drawn out.”

  “I’ll be your ally as long as you want one,” he told her. “What you decide about your husband is up to you.” He extended his hand.

  She took it with both of hers. “You’re on.”

  TEXT OF A REPORT FROM LYDELL BROADSTREET IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, TO CIA DEPUTY DIRECTOR CHANNING IN WASHINGTON, DC, CARRIED BY INTERNAL MESSENGER.

  EYES ONLY

  March 7, 1950

  Deputy Director Channing,

  Baxter did not appear for our second scheduled meeting, not even in the unusual way in which he presented himself to me at our first encounter; I still want to know how he got into my car and was able to remain hidden for as long as he was. Your men must have looked in the back windows to see if there were any potential problems with the car. Baxter said he crouched on the floor of the backseat for well over two hours I should think your men would have spotted something, though I must admit, I saw nothing amiss as I came up to my Packard after lunch. I wish he had not been so diligent in keeping his face partially concealed. He has rather heavy brows, fairly dark, and hazel eyes. His accent is Midwestern, perhaps Chicago, and he used technical terms correctly and with ease. At least the information he provided as I drove back from the Helmsman made the journey worth the time it took away from the office. All those fomulae for wiring systems can help us to detect piggy-back coding on radio signals. Baxter left a note for me under my windshield wiper; he put it in a Traffic Authority envelope, so that it appeared I had received a parking ticket, but who would be ticketing a restaurant parking lot baffles me.

  The note informed me that he fears being observed, so he has suggested another place that he and I might meet: Branco’s Oyster Beds. It is not quite as remote as the Helmsman, and it is much louder and busier. Even now, when there is an “R” in the month, Branco’s does a great deal of business. Baxter’s note informs me that there is a potential difficulty with the Helmsman: its very remoteness makes individuals more likely to be remembered. Branco’s has a significant turn-over, and single individuals don’t stand out unless they are unruly or loud. I see the advantage of his recommendation: after due consideration, I believe Baxter is right, and so I’m applying to you for a voucher for two meals at Branco’s on the 14 th. Baxter has assured me in his note that he will make an appearance or notify me in the morning th
at he will be delayed.

  I am, of course, continuing my efforts to discover the identity of Baxter. I remain convinced that he is an engineer of some sort—those capital letters interspersed throughout his first and second note are often encountered in the handwriting styles of engineers. It would also explain the information that Baxter has provided us. I see a number of advantages in using Baxter as a resource as long as his information is useful to us, not the least of which is that he came to us, which demonstrates his patriotism and his own loyalty. If his employer is indeed mixed up with questionable persons, this way we can be sure that we are not in the hands of a double-agent. Engineering cannot easily be faked, which makes me fairly confident that we are getting straight goods, as my mother used to say.

  If you are willing to give me a free hand in dealing with Baxter, I know I can establish rapport with him, and perhaps I can find out how Baxter and D. G. Atkins intersect, and where Atkins has gone. A few more lunches is a small price to pay for such necessary information. Let me know when you have decided how much leeway I am to have with Baxter.

  Submitted

  Lydell Broadstreet

  4

  CHARIS’ NEW flat took up the whole of the top floor in a handsome building in the now-passe but very beautiful Art Nouveau style; each window overlooking the street had a balcony with railings ornamented with carved trailing vines. There were stairs up the front and back—the front stairs were interior, the rear were not—and there was an elevator that required a key to reach the top level, which was a large, well-laid-out flat: it had a modern kitchen with a dumbwaiter that connected to the building’s kitchen on the ground floor as well as a chute that led to the dustbin at the back of the building on the alley that gave access to the garage. There were two bedrooms, a living and a dining room, one full bathroom and one guest bathroom, a study, and even a terrace outside the master bedroom, with a number of potted plants providing shade and shelter. The bedrooms and the living room as well as the study had rolled carpets standing up against the wall, and some very simple furniture on the bare floors.

  “I’m waiting for the furniture to be delivered,” she said to Szent-Germain as she held the door to the small elevator lobby open, beckoning him to come in. “I hope you won’t mind sitting on wooden benches. I’ve put pillows on them, to make them easier to sit on.” She was in a simple house-dress, her hair wrapped in a long, peach-colored scarf; she wore no make-up. “As my ally, you won’t be put off by all that needs doing, will you?”

  “Not at all; it is part of an ally’s work to assist when needed in such situations,” said Szent-Germain. “Is there anything you would like me to do while I am here?”

  “If I think of something, I’ll tell you,” she said, touching the scarf holding her hair in place.

  “I trust you to do so,” he said, handing her a medium-sized package wrapped in colored paper and tied with shiny silver ribbon. “Something for a house-warming,” he added as she took it. “If it isn’t to your taste, let me know and I’ll replace it.”

  “I have no doubt it will be fine,” she said, but made no move to admit him.

  “I hope it will,” he said, his dark eyes fixed on hers.

  In order to cover her emotion—it could not possibly be lust, she thought, not the way she felt in his presence; it had to be something cleaner, something untainted—she began to talk about the first thing to come into her mind. “I still can’t believe that Lord Weldon is willing to let me have this place for such a small rent. You didn’t talk him into it, did you?” she asked, holding the package with both hands. Looking down at it, she realized that just touching what he had touched exercised a disquieting flare in sexual need; she took several deep breaths to regain her composure.

  “No; he was glad to have someone reliable living here, who would take good care of the place. An academic appealed to him. The Germans had it while they occupied Paris; they took almost all the carpets and furniture they didn’t ruin, and Lord Weldon would prefer that wouldn’t happen again, or that it not become an attraction for what you would call squatters. He is pleased to get some of his furniture out of storage—he’s found evidence of mice in the upholstery.”

  “That’s … upsetting,” she said, at last giving him room to enter the foyer. “Do you think I’ll have to look out for mice?”

  “Possibly, but not from the stored furniture; everything coming to you is in good repair, he’s explained to me; he had furniture for two other houses among his stored goods, so there is ample for your use,” Szent-Germain told her as he entered the foyer, recalling the time, a quarter century ago, when he had provided the flat to Irina Ohchenova and her new husband, Phillippe Timbres, to occupy until such time as they found a house to their liking; they had lived here for almost three years. This memory brought back a remembrance of Laisha, his ward, whose death still left him shaken; he gave Charis his full attention.

  “But to furnish the flat for only a token additional charge…” She shook her head. “Is he a bit eccentric? So many lords are, aren’t they?” As soon as she realized what she had said, her cheeks reddened. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Grof.”

  “I’m sure there are those who know Lord Weldon who find him eccentric; he’d take no offense at that description,” he said, for he had cultivated a certain well-educated dottiness as part of the Weldon persona. “Sometimes great wealth has that effect.”

  She studied him, trying to decide how much of what he was saying she believed. After a second or two, she asked, “Should I open this now?”

  “Well, it’s not set to explode, but—”

  “Great!” She hugged the package. “It’s been a long time since I had a real present. This is a real present, isn’t it?”

  “I’d like to think so,” he answered.

  She sighed a little. “Thank you, then.” She sat down on the largest of the benches in the living room, and began to remove the paper with meticulous care, folding it carefully once she had all of it, then rolled the silver ribbon on her fingers as if it were embroidery floss. “I hope to have some place to put this in a few days. It’s not fragile, is it?” Inside the paper was a cardboard box; she lifted the lid.

  “I wouldn’t recommend dropping it, but it’s sturdy enough,” he said, though she barely heard him.

  “Oh, good gracious,” she said quietly as she put the box lid aside, then reverently removed the century-old clock from its bed of tissue paper, smiling as she looked over its superb craftsmanship. “How did you know I needed a clock?” She studied the clock. “It’s a coachman’s clock, isn’t it? I’m so glad to have it. Thank you, Grof. Thank you.”

  “I didn’t actually know you needed one, but most people like them, and you may have more than one without appearing vainglorious.” His demeanor softened in response to her obvious pleasure. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  “It’s wonderful,” she said, flushing slightly. “I haven’t had … oh, anything like this since I got here. Every gift since I came to Europe has been useful—practical; I feel like a scullery maid. Harold and the boys sent me what they called a CARE package for Christmas—Halo shampoo, Dr. Lyon’s tooth powder, scouring pads, dish cloths and dish towels, four bars of castile soap, Ivory flakes for laundry, even two large bars of Hershey’s chocolate with almonds. As if I couldn’t get things like that in Paris, and better shampoo and chocolate. They did it to remind me of home, I guess. I didn’t know about Harold’s problems with me then. Now I understand his gifts better.” She got up from the bench and took her new, elegant clock and put it on the mantelpiece. “There. Now it’s a proper living room.”

  “Lord Weldon told me that the telephone should be working by tomorrow, and that he will not require you change the number; he hasn’t used it for himself in more than twenty years, but he’s paid to keep it active.”

  “Tell him thank you, for me. Or I’ll write him a note and you can send it to him, if you would; I gather you know how to reach him.” She stepped back
to admire the clock on the mantel. “Where on earth did you find it?”

  “In Switzerland, of course. Where else does one get clocks?” He smiled to let her know he was being amusing.

  “And so nearby, hardly more than a day away,” she marveled in an exaggerated way, while still gazing at the clock. After a dozen seconds, she went on in a more ordinary manner, “If I get my furniture by the end of this week, I’m hoping to give a party a week later, once the place is fitted out. Most of the Coven is going to help me get the furniture in, and arranged. The least I can do is throw them a party. But only if you can come. I want to invite the Coven, but since I wouldn’t be here without your Lord Weldon, it wouldn’t be right if you weren’t able to attend.”

  “If that is what you want, I will be here. You have only to confirm the time.” He paused. “Have you decided what you want on the walls?”

  “Paint or wallpaper, or do you mean art?” she asked, turning away from the clock at last. “I’ll set it later, I didn’t wind my watch last night—I am still getting used to my new surroundings, and it didn’t occur to me until quite late at night that I hadn’t—so I’m a bit fuzzy on simple things like that.”

  “To answer your first question, I meant art. Or”—he blinked as if to shut out a very bright light—“mirrors.”

  She laughed. “I can’t afford art, and mirrors would only make this place look bigger than it is, and that would disappoint the Coven—it would be too much like showing off my good fortune in finding this wonderful flat.”

  “What is the trouble with that?” Szent-Germain asked, and held up his hand so he could answer. “You don’t want to appear boastful. That would vex the Coven.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “And I know with the divorce looming, I have to be very careful not to make it seem that I am taking advantage of Harold. That’s just the kind of thing that could ruin my position in the case, and making a great display of a place like this could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. You know as well as I that Julia Bjornson would have a lot to say about greedy women using divorce to feather their nests. And who knows what Harold would think.”