“Sweet of you to ask. Am I one of your statistics, one of the newly widowed with no visible means of support, a likely subject for a study by one of your mediocre assistants?”
“Liebchen,” Herbert groaned, “go easy. I’m an old man with not many pleasures and very little to look forward to.”
“Well, here’s something.” This was going to be fun. “You may be on the verge of becoming a great-grandfather.”
Herbert swore in German, reverting to his native language. “This is impossible. How old is the boy.”
Another black mark against him. He didn’t even know Charlie’s age. “Old enough to fuck.”
Her father winced. “There is no need for that kind of language.”
“Okay. Old enough for sexual congress. Come on, Dad, I know you’d rather talk about the latest films but you might try participating in family life as it is lived instead of reducing it to charts and tables.”
Herbert sat back, frowning. “I don’t recognize you at all, Amalie. You used to be such a lady. You’ve changed.”
And a good thing it is too. No longer jelly, no longer to be pushed into a daughter mold, a secretary mold, a wife mold.
“You’ve become so—aggressive.”
“You’re changing the subject, as usual.”
“No, no, I remember what you said. I might be a great-grandfather some day. I would like that.”
“Not some day. Maybe in seven months if all goes badly.” Amalie told him about Charlie and Endive who didn’t know who the father was. In any case, Charlie refused to entertain the idea of an abortion. “If it’s Charlie’s we are up the creek. I am not about to play nanny.”
Herbert patted her hand. “It would not be the end of the world.”
“For Christ’s sake, Daddy!”
“What has happened to freedom of speech?” Herbert looked under his chair.
“For your information, my building is about to be demolished and I may have to move to Vermont if I want a roof over my head. So there.” Amalie was regressing, she could hear it, see it in the way she was twisting her napkin.
“The house is going down? What will Alex do?” Herbert wondered. “He’s not the type for a retirement community, that rascal.”
“Maybe he’ll also move to Vermont,” she said sarcastically.
“Yes, why not? Maybe I will also. Maybe we can all be in one big house.”
“Yeah, Fiona can do the baking.”
Her father blew his nose. “It would be wonderful to have a little baby in the family. You grew up too fast, too fast. Before I knew it you were married. And now, I am old and tired.” He slumped down in his seat.
Amalie was alarmed by his heavy breathing and the pallor of his face. She touched his arm.
“It’s this business of running from one conference to another,” he said. “The film, the slides, the questions. Let’s face it, I made my splash a long time ago. All this is just to keep busy. You know I used to be skeptical of extended families, but there is a society on Ossabaw Island—”
“Vermont is not Ossabaw Island.”
“Ah you catch on, you were always clever. You should have been a social scientist.”
“One per family is enough. Are you really suggesting that we all set up housekeeping in Vermont? You, Alex Dobrin, Fiona, Charlie, the Endive, baby and me?”
“There are many definitions of family in the world. This arrangement does not strike me as unworkable.” Herbert had a gleam in his eye.
“You’re cuckoo, Daddy.” For the first time, Amalie laughed.
“Think about it. There are precedents. I’ll give you a reading list. Consider it seriously before you go killing off your own flesh and blood.” He looked at his watch. “You haven’t really told me how you’re doing.”
“You didn’t really ask. I’ll tell you next time we meet.” Amalie slipped out of his hug and waved at Fiona who was waiting for Herbert at the entrance. She had to dress for her heavy date with Ed.
Chapter 13
About half a mile from the Biblio Haunt is an old wooden bridge connecting two Vermont towns. The bridge is constructed of planks that are lashed together, but many of them have loosened and decayed over the years and there are great gaps between them. When the river swells, which happens with almost every heavy rainfall, the water level rises above the roadway. At one time there was enough play in the structure to allow the bridge to float and move slightly with the motion of the current. There is a sign on both banks advising motorists and walkers to cross only at their own risk.
Driving slowly on the road leading to the bridge, Marshall was thinking that the locals would be won over gradually. He knew how resistant they were to change, especially if initiated by outsiders. This was the cradle of American civilization and Marshall was determined to have a piece of it. If you could bring jobs into the area, that would be a real contribution and you’d be respected.
“Is it okay to cross?” he asked a couple of fishermen in slickers when he reached the bridge. Water was sloshing over the roadway and it was raining hard.
“It’s always wet. Meant to be that way. We cross even when it’s a foot deep. It don’t hurt the car as long as you got good wires.” They leaned their poles against a barrier and crossed their arms. Daring him?
You jokers, he thought. It reminded him of all the those challenges met and unmet in the alleyways of Jersey City. This was going to be his territory soon. He’d gotten it fair and square, all the papers signed. Berger MicroPubs of Bristow, Vermont.
The two guys nodded encouragingly. Another car crossed quickly from the other side, the driver waving to the fishermen when he reached the bank. A couple of boys on bikes zigzagged across, barefoot on their pedals, tires parting the waters, like the Israelites with the Red Sea.
Marshall pressed down on the accelerator, letting those fishermen hear the sweet sound of a Jaguar. No one knew he was here today. Not even Hannelore who would have wanted to come along. He needed to see the land again, alone, unhampered. He wanted to stay in the hotel where he and Amalie had been under the same roof. She seemed to fit in so well with this landscape even though she was, like him, a city kid. Now he was sorry that he’d agreed to send her to the library convention with Ed. They’d surely end up in bed together. What was it about her? Amalie had that quality you can’t name that fills out an empty space, adds color and movement, air.
Marshall began to drive across the bridge, imagining Amalie crossing with him some day, walking, holding hands. The car shook with the movement of the bridge. The water seemed to be rising, as though a sluice gate had been opened. As he reached the midpoint the car shuddered and stalled. On the bank behind him he could see through his rearview mirror the two fishermen shaking their heads and motioning him to move on. He couldn’t tell if those mothers were laughing or not.
Come on, baby. He pumped the gas pedal and tried the ignition several times, but all he got was a nasty whine, like a cranky baby’s. Jesus, what a time to stall. What was he supposed to do, swim across? He wasn’t about to abandon this brand-new beige Jaguar on the bridge. A motorcyclist was revving up on the opposite bank. He was going to try and make it across. But no, he must have changed his mind for he wheeled around and took off. Marshall got out of the car and stepped into six inches of water. Son of a bitch. Too late to take off his shoes. He waded to the front of the car and opened the hood. This would be a distress signal on the highway but this was no highway.
The water continued to rise. A group of people had gathered on the bank he’d just left. They were making swimming motions at him. Why the fuck didn’t any of them come and help? He could swear they were laughing. He’d look like a damn fool if he climbed to the roof of the car and sat there in the rain. He couldn’t see the roadway any more and the water was rising fast. It was almost up to the door handle.
A terrific wind had come up now. This is the country, Marshall thought. This is what you want, the bucolic life. You could drown here and none of those clown
s would try to save you. For the first time he was afraid. He was a poor swimmer, afraid of deep water. He never went in over his head. He always needed to touch bottom.
If he started walking across he could probably make it before the water rose above his head. This was a damn stupid way to build a bridge, with flimsy guard rails on either side. A short person would be swept right underneath and into the river.
The water was up to the side mirror, up to Marshall’s chest. He felt his jacket dragging him down, clamping him to these rotted planks. He arms were paralyzed with cold and his teeth were chattering. Take off something, lighten the weight. Like an idiot he removed his watch and placed it on the roof of the car. He managed to remove his jacket and tossed it on top of the car.
“I can’t swim!” he shouted and waved his arms. The group on the bank turned around and took off, away from him. In a second not a soul was left. They don’t want to see it, not their responsibility. My will is in order, Marshall thought, hanging on to the door handle. Trust fund for the kid, no debts, no regrets. Except that I’ve never really been in love. Then Amalie’s face came into his head. His eyelashes were wet, the wind was blowing rain into his eyes. Amalie, smiling, encouraging, do it, do it…
He cast himself off, pushing against the car with his hands and feet. Then he raised his knees. For a second he was floating. Like the bridge…then he began to swim clumsily toward the shore he’d just left.
With a tremendous effort he kicked off his shoes (loafers, fortunately). Now he could hardly see the shore because of the growing darkness. He was afraid of letting his legs down to test for bottom. He might panic. Now he was maintaining a steady crawl. Amalie, he thought, bring me through it. He said her name each time he gasped for air. Do it for me, bring me through. I will love you, Amalie. I need to make it across. He found himself crying, “God, let her help me.”
A strange prayer, he realized later. Just when he thought his strength had given out altogether he touched the muddy bank and dragged himself up. For a moment he lay on the ground with his eyes closed and rain pouring down on him. When he finally sat up he could no longer see the car.
#
While Marshall was struggling to keep himself from drowning, Amalie was sitting in the revolving restaurant with Ed, drinking scotch and getting dizzier and dizzier. They should build in some stops in the restaurant’s mechanism, she thought. Suppose you had to go to the ladies room. There would be no way to orient yourself by looking out the window, not that there was much distinction between one highway strip and another. Ed seemed glum. “Talk to me,” she said, resigned to hearing about his domestic problems.
“My daughter,” he said. “But you don’t want to hear about that.”
“Is she pregnant?” Amalie asked, thinking of her putative grandchild.
Ed didn’t seem surprised at the question. “It’s drugs,” he said. “We thought she had stopped. But as an ex-alcoholic I know how hard it is to break a habit.”
How come he was being so open with her? If Amalie hadn’t heard it from Marshall she might have reacted with surprise. Now, all she said was, “I understand,” thinking how lucky she was that her child didn’t have a drug problem, as far as she knew.
Ellen had been grounded for a month so Ed didn’t have to go calling all over town to find her. “I never apologized for bothering you that time. We were desperate. But now I feel sorry for my wife who has to deal with her. Sometimes she’s just too hard on the girl.”
Amalie noticed that there were some white hairs in his eyebrows. Very appropriate for a man who saw life in shades of grey. She wanted to distract him from his troubles. They could distract each other.
She took another swallow. “Were those mountains there before?”
Ed laughed softly. Here was a man who surely knew his topography, like Stewart. There was a big king-emperor-sized bed in her room. The wife, think of the wife. Amalie was a wife and did it stop Stewart? She’d never know.
“I may be a grandmother soon,” Amalie said. “That’s why I asked if your daughter was pregnant.”
“You? That would make you the first thirty-year-old grandmother in the microform business.”
Oh the darling man. “I’d hope these kids would avail themselves of modern science and get an abortion,” she said, her stomach lurching.
“Oh no,” Ed said. “If it was my kid, I’d be against it.”
So that’s how it was with him. One would have thought that a person with his views on semiotics and the killing of baby seals would have views compatible with hers. No, Amalie would not go to bed with such a person. She had her principles. Not that he had evinced the slightest interest. Amalie leaned forward, squeezing her elbows against her body and folding her hands, giving him a good view of a cleavage that was invisible under ordinary circumstances.
“Your food is going to get cold,” he said, digging into his monkfish.
She looked at her mussels and gagged. The room was turning at an accelerated rate.
Before she knew it, Ed had his arm around her waist and was leading her into the elevator. How clever of him to stop in front of the door to her room. How did he get her key? Wasn’t there something she was planning to do tonight? Like seduce him? Amalie closed her eyes. “I spoiled it,” she said.
He led her into the room. “Here’s your bed. I’m taking off your shoes.”
“What a screw-up,” she murmured. There was an elevator sliding up her insides.
“There’ll be other opportunities,” he said, kissing her forehead and covering her with the bedspread. “It happens to everybody.”
Opportunities for what? she wondered when she awoke with a horrendous headache. But maybe he had ravished her in her sleep like in that German movie, The Marquise of O. But no, judging from the cheery face that greeted her at the booth, nothing had happened. It probably never even occurred to him. She realized that Ed was one of those people with whom you had to be very explicit. You’d have to say: Let’s do it. He reminded her of one of those mastodons in ice. They look fresh, alive, no parts missing—but impossible to get at. Maybe she’d try again.
#
Hannelore’s first thought on awakening was that Marshall was trying to kill her. It had always been a possibility, ever since he found out about his Hungarian cousins, killed at Bergen-Belsen. She couldn’t imagine a more satisfying way to die than to expire in Marshall’s arms. The feeling seemed to come from the dream she’d had in which someone presses her face down on the glass top of the xerox machine. A light flashes in her eyes, there’s a whirring sound, and a picture emerges from the feeder of a negative face with glowing white holes where the eyes are supposed to be.
There was a lot of rage in Marshall but he was sure to mellow after they moved to Vermont, Hannelore thought. In the country he would lose his bitterness, forget history, and become imbued with the spirit of nature. Like Wagner’s Siegfried, he might even understand the language of the birds. But no—he had enough trouble with German.
He was not going to be pleased this morning when he found out that subversive forces had been at work over the weekend. A complete set of Bulwer-Lytton microfiche was missing from the office. Hannelore had a pretty good idea of who the thief was and planned to unmask the person during the 11:00 staff meeting. Only Ed and Amalie were exempt from suspicion since they had been away. From the way that Najeed was tiptoeing around, ashen-faced, finger on her lips, one would have thought she was the culprit. The place was strangely subdued today. Marshall’s door was closed. He’d apparently had some trouble with his car during his last trip to Vermont.
The office boy was nursing a black eye and the comptroller was brooding about balance sheets and euthanasia. He was eager to move to Bristow where he would find kindred souls, small towners like himself who went to church and owned guns. Only Irina was cheerful as she chattered in Polish over the phone. In a year she would retire and open up a knitwear boutique in Lambertville.
When Amalie arrived, Hannelore thre
w her arms around her. At the same time, Marshall flung open his door.
“What’s happened?” Amalie asked. “Did we finally sell a complete set of Bulwer-Lytton?”
“Not quite.” Marshall rocked on his heels, smiling benignly. The sight of the two women hugging seemed to warm the cockles of his heart.
The volumes had been stolen, Hannelore explained. There was a big hole in the B-U-L section of the stockroom upstairs. She planned to expose the criminal publicly.
Marshall continued to smile. There was a faraway look in his eyes. “And the waters made way…” he murmured.
Had he gotten religion all of a sudden? Amalie wondered.
“Someone is sneaking around ‘borrowing’ our materials,” Hannelore said.
Oh oh, that Gissing book was still on Amalie’s night table, an 1896 edition.
“Don’t worry about the Gissing book,” Hannelore said. “We are not ready to film it. I know you return everything.”
Marshall was looking at Amalie peculiarly. “Of course I’m returning it,” she said. “I didn’t think I had to sign it out.”
“Hey, it’s one of the perks. Forget about it,” Marshall said, motioning her into his office. “Come tell me about the conference. Was the blonde from Norwich College there? They just got a bequest. Did Ed take good care of you?”
What kind of question was that? “He was very good to work with,” Amalie said stiffly. “And no, Norwich College wasn’t there but the guy from Simon’s Rock is ordering the complete Peabody-Trask essays. When did you discover that the fiche were missing?”
“Hannelore says she knows who it is. I don’t know if I like the idea of doing this in public at the meeting.”
“Of course not,” Amalie said. “You’re the president. Do what you think is right. Talk to the person in private. What do you need a hit man for?” Then she caught herself. She’d gone too far. Who was she to give him advice? “Look, I didn’t mean to get carried away.”
Amalie in Orbit Page 15
