Ed was waiting outside the deli but steered her to the upscale Italian place nearby. “It goes on the corporate tab,” he said, not that she asked. “We’ll talk about the Renaissance brochure.” But once they were settled into a booth he brought up Najeed. “Her brother used to own a cafe near the Deux Magots in Paris. I passed it often. Never had the courage to go in. Story of my life, the ‘almosts.’” He laughs. “I almost studied with Nabokov at Cornell. I knew a friend of a friend of Maria Callas. It’s what you might call a peripheral existence.”
He made it sound delightful, not being at the center of things. Perhaps it was better to be on the periphery. Easier to cut loose. That’s the advantage I have—used to have, Amalie corrected herself. Stewart and Charlie were always in the thick of it.
Ed was watching her closely. “Are they hazel or brown?” she asked, giving herself a kick under the table. What are you doing, girl?
“Good question,” he said thoughtfully as though weighing the merits of two contesting theories. “My daughter asks me that every few months.”
Amalie admired his aplomb. “I don’t mean to pry into your life,” she said. But of course she meant to do just that. Why was she so partial to middle-aged men with careworn features and worry lines that doubled as crinkles of humor? He was surely one of those men who had gotten up at 2:00 a.m. to give his child a bottle and also knew the botanical names for plants.
“Here’s my daughter.” The photo showed a sullen teenager with long hair and folded arms, lounging in the doorway of a country house. Come on, Dad, get it over with. “She’s in a ‘program.’ There was a drug problem, then she got in with the Moonies. I think she’s all right now.” He put the picture away carefully, smiling, worry for his child in every line.
Amalie told him about Charlie and how she ended up in Criminal Court. They smiled at each other, partners in pain for their kids. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but there are people—I’m one of them—who aren’t touched by history until it invades their own homes.”
“Has it?”
When he was a teenager, Ed said, his father lost his job as a teacher because someone thought he saw him at a Communist Party meeting. He was blacklisted and never taught again. He died without trying to clear himself. “I suppose I could try and get his file now. For the sake of posterity. We’re probably all in some file.”
I’m clean, Amalie thought. At least I was before I married Stewart. She’d gotten clearance before leaving for her student year abroad. But Stewart had been an enthusiastic contributor to dozens of political and humanitarian organizations. And now, with Charlie’s activities, who knew what lists they were on.
They talked a little about the company, its history, its founding by John Warwick. The company’s name would soon be changed to Berger MicroPubs, with the agreement of the Warwick offspring. Hannelore had seen to the printing of new stationery a month earlier when it was clear that Warwick would be out of the picture.
“It’s not a bad place,” Ed said. “Good for restructuring your life. Making a new version of it so to speak. Marshall’s a good guy. He takes people back…”
Just how much did Ed owe him? How much of a drinking problem did he have?
“Our kids would probably like each other,” Ed said. “We should arrange a match.”
“A play date.”
Ed laughed. “Best way to do it is forbid them to see each other. But maybe they already know each other. Vegetarian circles are small.”
“Yeah, like onion rings.”
“Not worthy of you,” he said, clinking glasses with her. It would be nice, she thought, if Ed conceived an overwhelming passion for her. He never once mentioned his wife.
When she got back from lunch, the production manager, Frank McCullough cornered her in the conference room. “It’s you and me, babe,” he said. “We’re off to Hyde Park tomorrow.” He was going to drive them both up to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Library to look over FDR’s appointment books which were scheduled for filming. Amalie was going to write the captions.
Frank was seldom in the office because he was “on location” most of the time. McCullough was a flushed, gone-to-seed athletic type who looked unshaven and sloppy. “Don’t worry, doll,” he said, noticing how she was looking at his stained tie. “I’ll look like a TV anchor tomorrow.”
I’m nobody’s babe, she thought, irritated, but decided not to say anything. She had to work with the guy. Still, Ed noticed that she was disgruntled.
“What’s up?” he asked when she came into his office looking for a file.
“Nothing. Where did Frank McCullough come from?” Amalie asked cautiously. “Talk about sexist venom…”
Ed laughed. “Relax. Cut him a little slack. You have to have a sense of humor about these things.” Easy for him to say, Amalie thought. He wasn’t being pressed against a conference table and called “babe.”
“Frank plays a mean harmonica,” Ed said. “After hours, when a couple of us are still around. Marshall just melts when he hears those blues. You should stick around some evening.”
Sure. Like I have nothing else to do in my spare time. You think it’s easy dealing with housing agencies and city officials?
Hannelore was clearly not happy to have Amalie pulled from what she considered urgent work but Marshall was the boss and it was his decision.
#
Amalie had been to Hyde Park years earlier and was surprised when Frank headed for the New England Turnpike.
“That’s going to take you to Connecticut,” she said. His response was to step on the accelerator and swerve into the fast lane.
“You let me do the driving, OK?”
The man was sweating and smoking and she was beginning to feel sick. She opened the window on her side as far as it would go.
“Hey! You’re gonna muss my hair,” Frank said and pushed the automatic button to close her window halfway.
“If you don’t want a mess all over the front seat,” she said, “I suggest we leave it down.”
Grudgingly, he let her open it again.
Their appointment was for 3:00 and it was already 2:45. They were nowhere near Hyde Park.
“This is a great road,” he said, tailgating the car in front. Come on, you fuck, get out of the fast lane.”
The man was lunatic. Amalie was terrified. And it was getting later and later. The library at Hyde Park closed at 4:00.
“Where the hell is this place,” Frank said after a while.
“I thought you knew how to get there,” she said.
“You’re the navigator. I’m just the driver.” He pulled into a shoulder and took off his jacket which was drenched with perspiration. “You haven’t been doing your job. Gimme the map.”
“I’ll navigate, OK?” She turned her back on him and cursed. What a fiasco this was going to be. She finally got them onto another road and after another hour and a half they arrived in Hyde Park at 4:30. The gate was locked.
“I knew it,” she said. “This was all for nothing.”
“Just like a female,” he said. “Moan and groan, moan and groan.” He set off across the grounds leaving Amalie standing at the gate. A few minutes later he returned with a guard. He’d become sober and apologetic as he explained the urgency of their visit and the need to meet with the archivist who was still in the building.
A few minutes later they were inside and it fell to her to cajole the archivist into letting them see the materials. None too happily and watching like a hawk that they did not handle the appointment books which had been removed from their glass cases, the archivist answered Amalie’s questions while Frank sniffed around and took a couple of still pictures. At one point he whipped out a tape measure and held it against the display case.
On the way home he followed her directions and didn’t say a word.
Chapter 7
The staff meeting was called for 3:00 on Thursday, two days after the Hyde Park trip, but Amalie would have to miss it. She had an appointment with the lawy
er who was representing Charlie’s group, The Dow Dozen. They wanted to follow in the footsteps of the Chicago Seven and the Gainesville Nine, Charlie explained, as though to impress upon her that he was not a maverick but rather following a hallowed American tradition. Fowler, the lawyer, wanted to “force the issue” he had said when he phoned her but Amalie didn’t know what the issue was. Each parent was being seen individually.
Amalie was nervous about absenting herself from the staff meeting. She knocked on Marshall’s door, ignoring Hannelore who was guarding the premises like a basilisk. “What is it, Amalie,” she asked, frowning.
“Come in,” Marshall called.
“I told her you were very busy,” Hannelore said on her intercom.
“Not any more.” Marshall had been looking out the window and wondering if the trees were turning in Corcoran Park where he used to play ball with the guys. “Ah yes,” Marshall nodded knowingly when Amalie said she had an important appointment and wouldn’t be able to attend the meeting. “I used to have a regular appointment three times a week. Went for five years. It wasn’t easy. Helpful, though. You shouldn’t be ashamed. I know some people look upon it as a stigma. Won’t even put it on their medical claims.”
“I’m not talking about a shrink. This concerns my son.” It was none of Marshall’s business of course.
“Believe me,” he said, reaching over his desk and squeezing her hand, “I respect how hard it must be for you, a single mother. My daughter’s living with my ex. The kid never wants to see me.” He blew his nose. “About the meeting…Ever been to Vermont?”
Amalie shuddered. She never wanted to hear that word again. That’s where she lost Stewart.
Marshall continued to talk, not waiting for her answer. “You’ll have your chance soon. We’re relocating in about half a year.”
Amalie was stunned. Relocating? Would she have to leave the city? Did she have any choice? Maybe she’d have to quit this job and look for another one, but she’d just started here. Was she going to have to go back to those employment agencies where returning homemakers were welcome? A few months here would count for nothing. She remembered Charlie’s friend asking him over the phone, “What can she do?”
“I’m wondering why I wasn’t told about the move when I was hired.” Amalie was trying not to show how outraged she was.
“You don’t have to make any decisions right away,” Marshall said, obviously choosing to ignore her distress. “In the meantime I’ve asked Hannelore to take you along to Washington to see the Library of Congress people. She said there’d been some confusion at their end.”
Slippery guy. Holding out a business trip as an inducement. Well, it was something to look forward to. But then the prospect of having to pull up stakes and move to another state sent a shock through her. “Oh no,” she said softly.
“You’ll do just fine in DC,” Marshall said confidently. “I’m not a bit worried. Look, let’s talk some time. Away from here. Someplace quiet.”
“There’s always the conference room,” Amalie said.
“Not quite what I had in mind.” Marshall pretended to snap a rubber band at her. “We can be friends, can’t we?”
“Friends is a relative term,” she said, getting up. “I’m just quoting you.”
“Amalie Price, I think you will go far.” He smiled appreciatively.
“From your mouth to Her ears…”
She heard him guffaw as she left his office.
#
A Russian émigré driver who should have known east from west eventually deposited Amalie in front of a glass box whose plaza was almost completely taken up by a sculpture of a rolling pin.
“Your taxes and mine,” growled the lawyer, Skip Fowler, when she commented on it as he showed her to a seat. The walls of his office were covered with newspaper articles, awards, and photos. There were fresh flowers everywhere. He must have won a great victory. Amalie’s confidence—a little shaken by the smelly dog nosing around the reception area and then by Fowler’s stockinged feet—was somewhat restored. “We’re going to make them sweat, by God.” He pounded his fist. “Want some coffee? My girl’l bring us some. Elsie!”
A woman of about seventy came in and took the order.
“OK honey, here’s the strategy.” For an hour Amalie listened to the attorney outline procedures and precedents. Her mind wandered. The shelves were filled with copies of books Fowler had written on the American judicial system. There was even a festschrift put together by the American Bar Association in his honor. Fowler was wearing a mangy tweed jacket with built-in air holes for the elbows. His shoes were nowhere in sight. She was trying not to let this affect her opinion of the lawyer. Stewart always used to say she was much too influenced by style (“Even the worst reactionary gets a favorable hearing from you because he can quote from Tacitus”).
“If it’s a question of a fine,” Amalie said, interrupting his peroration, “let’s just pay it.”
“I told you,” Fowler roared, pounding on the desk. “This is a test case. The system has to be shown up even if we go down fighting. That reminds me—hold on a minute.” He swept a pile of papers to the ground. “Where the hell’s that writ of mandamus,” he muttered.
“This is my kid, Mr. Fowler.” Amalie too could pound on a desk. “I’m not interested in your mandamuses or certioraris or res ipsa loquiturs. We’re talking dies irae here—I just want to keep my kid out of jail.”
Fowler’s jaw dropped.
“Bad dog, bad dog,” Elsie was saying in the outer office.
“Are you American?” Fowler looked at Amalie beneath his shaggy brows. “Do you call yourself an American?”
Glancing out to the waiting room, Amalie said quietly, “Your dog has shat all over your carpet.”
“Excellent!” Fowler rubbed his hands. “That’s a good sign. It means we’re going to win. He always knows just from listening to the discussion. Hey Amicus!” The dog came in, panting. “We’re going to win, right? Tell the lady.” Amicus barked. Outside, Elsie was cleaning up the mess.
“Relax Ms. Price.” Now that he knew he was going to win, thanks to his canine oracle, Fowler was calmer. He gave her some articles to read and said that her being a widow would be to their advantage.
#
At home that evening, after Amalie finished briefing Charlie on her meeting with Fowler, she asked him, trying to make it appear as a casual question, “How would you feel if we moved out of the city?” She couldn’t bring herself to say where. The whole idea seemed fantastic. “That’s assuming you’re still living at home. I mean you might elect to go to college somewhere.”
A pitying smile from her son. “Life experience is much more important to me, especially now with our government all screwed up and Mickey Mouse in the White House. Haven’t you been reading about the Contra hearings? Don’t you know what’s happening in America?”
“Funny you should ask, considering that my nationality was questioned just a short time ago. Not only do I know what is happening in America but also in other countries like the Philippines whose location on the map I fear you have never taken the trouble to find out.”
“Mom…” A warning. He gripped her wrist.
“Unhand me, kiddo.”
“Why,” he asked, “do you always refuse to have a civilized discussion?”
“If you look up the meaning of discussion you will see that it’s not a synonym for ‘monologue.’” Amalie was warming up now. “Or maybe you frown on the use of a dictionary as a tool of the oppressive educational system?”
Charlie was struggling to remain calm. If he didn’t let go of her wrist soon she was going to scream. “I understand,” he said, finally letting go. “This is a rough time for you.”
She rubbed her wrist. The kid really hurt her.
“Look, I’m sorry Mom. Charlie kiss and make it well.” An exaggerated smack on her wrist. “What’s this about leaving the city. Where to?”
Amalie told him about the proposed
company move. To Vermont.
“Vermont is a neat state,” he said excitedly. “They have no billboards. Burlington has a socialist mayor. But how can I leave the city and all my friends? And especially with the teenage hotline just starting up?” He and his friends had talked to people at the Spyder Youth Foundation and they were enthusiastic about the idea. Charlie had also left a message with the local city councilman’s assistant. “What about you , Mom? You don’t know anything about rural life. You can’t even drive a nail into a wall.”
“I’m not the issue,” Amalie said, though that was a lie. “You’re the one who’s always talking about settling on the land and growing your own.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Of course by then I’ll be out of the house so it won’t matter to me.” Charlie had been talking about moving out since he was twelve. “On the other hand I might be in jail, so who knows.”
“That would solve your problem, wouldn’t it.”
“I think we’ll just be fined. That’s what happens in these cases. Fowler’s a great guy. He was in Selma.”
Maybe, Amalie thought, Fowler could find temporary work for her as a paralegal. She’d work hard, learning on the job, doing scut work while keeping her eyes open for a better job. Maybe think about going to law school.
“Incidentally,” Amalie said while sprinkling alfalfa sprouts over Charlie’s salad, “who do you think put up the eye-hooks in the kitchen? And repaired the electric mixer?”
Charlie gaped at his mother.
“Yes, none other. There are books you know. How-to and self-help. With pictures. I’m also thinking about a class on automotive engineering.”
He smirked. “Like: ‘Making Friends with Your Combustion Engine’? Come on. We don’t have a car, so it’s all theoretical. Although, if we move to Vermont…”
An inconceivable notion, Amalie thought.
#
“Will you come and visit me in Vermont?” Amalie asked Evan Diaz.
“What’s in Vermont, besides cows and communes?”
They were having coffee at the Central Park boathouse. The night before, Hannelore had phoned all the employees of Warwick & Berger to say that John Warwick had passed away (she was sniffling as she talked) and that a service had been arranged for the following morning at the Ethical Culture Society on Central Park West which everyone was expected to attend. When Amalie found out that she would have the afternoon off after the service, she called Evan hoping he would be free. They hadn’t seen each other since that one time she had gone to his apartment.
Amalie in Orbit Page 8
