Teresa jumped a little in surprise. Then she put on a mom’s oh-look-who’s-here smile he’d seen Abigail use a dozen times when she opened the door and someone like Mrs. Emerson was standing there. It definitely wasn’t a gosh-I’m-so-glad-to-see-you expression. Not at all. But Teresa put down her palette and motioned for him to come to the door. Stretching the telephone wire as far as it would go, she leaned over and unlocked it for him.
Richard stepped inside as she continued her telephone conversation in a low, careful voice. “Nemohu mluvit ted…”
Awkwardly Richard looked around, not at her, as she finished the call. His eyes fell on her worktable, covered with rags and paint bottles and—he did a little double take—a big map that had red marks on it.
“Ano…” Teresa reached out, putting her arm through his, and turned Richard toward the living room as she finished with “…zavolam pristi tyden.” She hung up the receiver. “Vladi is upstairs, Richard. Perhaps you can find out what happened to him at practice today. He will not tell me.” She gracefully extended her hand up toward the staircase. “Please.” She nodded affirmation. “Go on up.” And she walked away before Richard could explain his mom’s invitation.
Slowly, Richard climbed the steps. Vladimir was plunging along the octaves now chromatically, swimming upstream in half-step notes, then cascading back down. To Richard, the music sounded like his friend was desperate to get away from something or hoping to drown it. The door was shut. Richard knocked.
The saxophone squeaked to a halt. “I told you I don’t want to talk about it, Mom!” The scales raced again.
“It’s me. Richard!”
Silence.
“Vlad? You okay, man?”
The door jerked open. Richard gasped. Vladimir’s right eye was red and bruised and swollen half-shut.
“Geez, what happened?”
Vladimir looked at first like he wanted to take a swing at Richard. Then he forced a who-cares swagger. “Got in a fight.” He tapped the keys on his saxophone like he was still playing scales.
“Who with?”
Vladimir snorted. “Everybody.”
“What?”
“They’ve been fouling me constantly at practice. Below-the-belt stuff. Today I just snapped. I gave the guy who did it a knuckle sandwich.” He grinned. “You should see his face.”
“Whose?”
“Whose do you think?”
Of course, Richard thought. “Jimmy?”
Vladimir smirked and nodded.
“Didn’t the coach stop it?”
“Oh, yeah, he broke us up. But not before most of the squad jumped me.”
“What? You’re joking.”
“Wish I were. They’re total morons. They do anything that jackass Jimmy tells them to. Why is that? He’s such a pissant.”
Richard shook his head. “I wish I knew. What happened then?”
“Well, Coach benched Jimmy for our first two games for purposely fouling me so many times.”
“But you still get to play, right?”
“Nope. He benched me, too.”
“What? But, Vlad, that’s not fair. You didn’t start it.”
Vladimir shrugged. “‘Them’s the rules,’ Coach said. It was my swing that he saw. I don’t want to talk about it.” He put his saxophone down. “Let’s go get a milk shake at that ice-cream counter you like so much.”
That night, Richard and Don sat down together to watch I Led 3 Lives. Don had finished reading the afternoon paper and leaned back to light his pipe. “I can’t wait to see what old Philbrick gets into tonight,” he said in between puffs to pull the match flame into the pipe bowl. Richard watched anxiously to see that the pipe worked properly. He’d had a devil of a time getting that one screwed back together straight in his rush to avoid being caught in his father’s closet.
Ever since Don had been so brusque with Ginny, and Abigail had described his losing that Coplon spy lady, Richard had been searching for proof that Don really was as good a G-man as he’d always believed his dad to be. Besides unscrewing the pipes, he’d rifled through Don’s drawers, hoping to find some 007-style paraphernalia. But all Richard had unearthed were a couple of spare buttons rolling around in a sock drawer and big cuff links on top of the dresser. Richard hoped for a second that they were little microphones. But they weren’t.
So now, sitting in front of the television together, Richard watched his dad’s face for some sign to gauge Don’s state of mind—maybe a hint of satisfaction or confidence that would mean Don was doing well with the FBI. On the other hand, a glimmer of smoldering “psycho” stuff or even a lingering shadow of humiliation—like what Richard saw every day when he looked at himself in the mirror—would signal that Don was still under Hoover’s thumb and struggling to redeem himself.
But the only little flare was Don’s pipe catching as he puffed and shook the match out. A plume of sticky-sweet smoke drifted toward Richard, making him sneeze, just as the new episode began with its signature voice-over:
“This is the story—the fantastically true story—of Herbert A. Philbrick, who for nine frightening years did lead three lives….”
The episode opened at a college campus. Philbrick and the band of Communists he faked being part of had broken into a student’s dorm room. Told to find something with which they could blackmail the student, they rummaged through drawers and books. Finally, one of the men pulled out a note and said, “Hey, boss, look at this…” as the screen faded to black.
The program paused for an Alka-Seltzer commercial: Plop-plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is.
During the jingle, Richard’s mind wandered to thinking about Teresa and how oddly she had acted on the phone that afternoon. Did she put her arm through his to distract him from that map? He hadn’t thought about it before this moment. But now, watching Philbrick, her behavior seemed kind of fishy or nervous or guilty or…something. And what about her being friends with those Czech Embassy commie wives?
The program came back on as the TV Philbrick tailed the college student into a drugstore. The kid ordered an ice-cream float. Philbrick sat down beside him and passed him a note his handler had written. The student dropped his spoon and looked at Philbrick with horror on his face.
The scene faded to a commercial of a woman dancing on Christmas morning with a ribbon-wrapped vacuum and singing, “She’ll be happier with a Hoover, a Hoooooover!”
His pipe clenched in his teeth, Don clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “This episode is getting good. That’s exactly how radicalization happens. Agents hoping to undermine the United States target some innocent, idealistic kid. He will just be sitting there, and boom, they sit down and fill his head with nonsense.” Both he and Richard squirmed to the edge of their armchairs as the show came back on.
Now Philbrick sat on a park bench, reporting in with an FBI special agent. The two men ate bagged lunches and pretended not to know each other, looking in opposite directions. “That kid?” the agent asked in surprise when Philbrick told what the student had been convinced to do.
Philbrick answered grimly, “You can’t spot a Red by his face.”
With that, the show ended, the baritone announcer booming:
“Next week, we’ll bring you another story from the files of Herbert A. Philbrick—Citizen…Communist…Counterspy.”
Don applauded, pipe clenched in his teeth. “Woo-eee! That was a good one, wasn’t it, son?”
Richard nodded. Then his mind repeated the episode line: You can’t spot a Red by his face. Just like the Rosenbergs, just like Abigail had said. Wait! Richard gasped. Could Teresa be one, too? Maybe?
“Hey Dad, I need to ask you something.” His voice shook a little with disbelief, with a strange feeling of excitement.
“What’s up?”
“When I went over to Vladimir’s house today, Mrs. White was on the phone and talking some foreign language.”
“Czech, I’d suppose.”
“Yeah, I guess. She also
acted kind of weird when she saw me. And there was a map on her table.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t know her way around DC yet. It’s hard getting oriented when you’ve had to move as much as they have. Maybe Abby needs to give her a little tour.” Don stopped puffing and grinned at Richard. “Wait a sec. Thinking like a G-man, I see. What else did you see? What kind of map?”
“I’m not sure. But it didn’t look like one of Washington.”
“How could you tell?”
“Well…” Richard thought a moment. He closed his eyes to pull the map back up in his memory. “There was a grid of streets on the left and what looked like a lot of green to the right…and a river going through the middle. Which could be DC. But…”
“Analyze what you saw, son. Think.”
Richard got up and paced. “I don’t know. It just didn’t seem the same. And if it were DC, she could have asked me about it, don’t you think?”
“There you go! Always dissect a scene by figuring out the meaning or motivations of people’s behaviors.” Don nodded. “Good man!”
He stood, clapping Richard on the back. “Keep on thinking thataway and you’ll give old Philbrick a run for his money someday! But right now? Let’s sneak a piece of one of your mom’s pumpkin pies.” Don put his arm over Richard’s shoulders. “After all,” he said with a wink, “we FBI agents gotta stay fortified, if we’re going to keep a sharp eye out!”
Richard grinned back at his dad. This was the Don he believed in.
“VITEJTE!”
Teresa threw open her front door, spilling warm light, Christmas music, and the sweet scent of a blazing fireplace into the cold December night.
“Veselé Vánoce!” a bundled-up couple responded cheerily. They were just ahead of Richard and his family, who were coming up the walk with Mrs. Emerson in tow.
“Merry Christmas!” Don shouted, waving his gloved hand after Teresa kissed the cheeks of the couple ahead of them in the doorway.
“Welcome!” Teresa called back. She gestured at them to hurry in. “Please, please come! It is so cold tonight.” She smiled brightly.
“Humph. No maid to answer the door,” Mrs. Emerson murmured and elbowed Abigail. “Odd for a holiday open house, don’t you think?”
But before Abigail could reply, Teresa embraced her and pulled their group through the front door. “Do let me help you.” Teresa held the shoulders of Abigail’s swing coat so she could slip out of the heavy material, static electricity popping. “Natalia will put it upstairs.”
Vladimir’s sister was already piled to her chin with coats and struggling to keep them from cascading to the ground.
“Goodness, let Richard help! He can carry ours!” Abigail nodded for Richard to extend his arms. She plopped her coat on him, followed by Ginny’s, Don’s, and Mrs. Emerson’s.
As Richard staggered along behind Natalia toward the staircase, he heard Mrs. Emerson say to Teresa, “My dear, I have the names of wonderful help you might like to employ next time. There’s a Negro gentleman who butlers at the White House occasionally. He’ll be able to guide you in proper protocol. There is a way of doing things here in the nation’s capital, you know.”
Natalia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Is everyone in Washington such a white snob?” She didn’t even bother to whisper.
“What?” Richard startled.
“Come on, really? You don’t see it? She’s probably one of those bourgeoisie who think anyone who is friends with a Black person or believes Blacks should have equal schooling is a Red. What a bunch of fascists!” She waddled up the steps with her mountain of wraps to unceremoniously dump them on her bed. It was already piled high with bright red-and-green scarves and mink or wool coats glittering with pins of Christmas trees and angels made of jewels. From that jumble wafted up a muddle of perfumes. There would be quite a fishing expedition at the end of the party to sort out individual coats. But following her lead, Richard threw his family’s into the mess.
Natalia was assessing him when he turned. “You’re Vladi’s friend, aren’t you?” She extended her hand to shake his. “Glad to meet you. I felt awful deserting him so soon after we moved here. This sure isn’t London or New York, so I was glad he had a friend right away.” She flopped onto the pile of coats, pulled out a long black straw-like holder from her bedside table, and tucked a cigarette into it.
Richard felt himself gaping at her as she crossed her legs and bobbed her top foot up and down. She wore a tight black sweater and straight black slacks ending above the ankles, wide gold cuff bracelets and gold hoop earrings—like something straight out of Hollywood magazines. Her face really was almost identical to Teresa’s—with keen smoke-gray eyes under thick, arched brows. He forcefully snapped himself out of his stare by asking, “You go to UCLA, right?”
“Uh-hmmm.” She nodded, chewing lightly on the holder without lighting the cigarette.
“Do you like it?”
“Loooooove it,” she sang.
“Home for Christmas?”
“And Hanukkah. It’s the only part of her Jewish background Mother celebrates. Seems kind of hypocritical to me, but…” She smiled mischievously and shrugged. “It means more presents for me and Vladi!”
Richard had no idea what to say to that, it sounded so cynical. He changed the subject. “Ahhh…What are you studying?”
She laughed. “The question to ask a girl when you get to college is ‘What is your major?’ That’s the icebreaker. I need to remember to tell Vladi that.” She smiled at him. “I am going to major in art. I am an artist.”
“Oh, like your mom?”
She nodded. “But I am actually going to make my living at it. Mother’s never been able to do anything other than be a hobbyist. Father has dragged her so many different places. At least she’s got a real studio here on the porch. It’s nice. She has a lot of her own art hanging down there. You should go look. Someone should.” She shrugged, still gnawing on the holder.
“I will, then.” Richard nodded. “What do you paint?”
“Everything!” She laughed lightly. “But mainly I want to illustrate children’s books. Like these.” Natalia swam over the coats to the other side of the bed to haul up a stack of picture books off the floor.
First, she held up Finders Keepers, a bright red book with two orangey-red dogs and a bone on its cover. She leafed through its pages to show Richard the drawings. “They are so simple and bold. Like graphic design, almost. Aren’t they great?”
Richard thought they looked kind of goofy, like cartoons he could draw, but he nodded. “Yeah, they’re swell.”
“It just won the Caldecott Medal for illustration. But some librarians in the Midwest are claiming the book is subversive. I mean, really! The dogs are just figuring out how to share a bone between them. But these women claim”—Natalia flipped to a page that had a big black dog trying to take the bone away from the two little red dogs—“that the white spots on the black dog resemble the outlines of the United States, Great Britain, Germany, Taiwan, and Japan. They claim the picture is suggesting imperialism, that we and our capitalist allies are trying to bully Communist-leaning countries.” She made a face. “I think those librarians must have been smoking some tea.”
Richard squinted at the picture.
When he didn’t say anything, Natalia dropped that book and picked up The Two Reds by the same author and illustrator. That cover featured a red cat and a redheaded boy in front of a city skyline.
Richard did do a double take on that one. If nothing else, the title seemed pretty questionable. But Natalia didn’t seem to notice his expression. “This one won a Caldecott Honor while we were still living in New York. It’s such great modern illustration. A clerk at that marvelous FAO Schwarz on Central Park—You know the store?” she interrupted herself.
Richard didn’t. He’d only been to New York City a couple of times to visit a great-aunt. She always took him to the Met to see the ancient Greek and Roman statuary—which he loved, actual
ly. He shook his head.
“No?” Natalia seemed stunned. “Well, anyway, he’s a friend of ours. He planned a whole window display of the books. But Maurice told us that the store owner nixed his idea because he thought the title was provocative—subversive—and because the illustrator, Nicolas Mordvinoff, is a Russian émigré. And probably Jewish. You’d think after the carnage of World War II that here in the United States we’d have some sense and not be so afraid of people thinking or worshipping differently. But thanks to Senator Low-Blow Joe, the Red Scare has also become about Jews and Blacks.” Natalia shook her head. “What a bunch of fascists.”
Richard did think the idea that the dog’s spots were maps of countries was pretty stupid. But he kind of wondered about a writer who’d name a book The Two Reds. Still, he could tell Natalia wouldn’t much appreciate his opinion. Talking to her felt like standing on a cliff and surveying an exciting, uncharted wilderness. He didn’t want to ruin it. “What else do you have there?” he asked.
“Oh, these illustrations are totally different. Old-school gorgeous.” On top of the coats, she laid out Robinson Crusoe, The Last of the Mohicans, and Kidnapped—all with similarly styled lush, detailed scenes on their covers. “The illustrations are by N. C. Wyeth.” Natalia stretched back over the bed and fished out two other books from underneath it. “These two are my favorite: Treasure Island and Robin Hood.”
“Robin Hood!” Richard couldn’t help exclaiming and reaching for it. He ran his hand lovingly over the cover. He had really wanted to finish reading this story. He remembered some of the illustrations inside—Robin meeting Maid Marian, Robin knocking down a villain with a quarterstaff, Robin’s Merry Men hiding behind trees, their arrows drawn along taut bows. All the scenes had set his own imagination flying.
Reluctantly, he handed the book back to Natalia.
“You can borrow it if you want,” she said.
Richard shook his head. “Can’t. My mom said—” He stopped himself from criticizing Abigail publicly—a big no-no with Don. Besides, he could sense Natalia might make fun of his mom, and he wasn’t sure that he’d like that. So he shifted gears. “People are pulling it from libraries because they think it promotes Communist ideals.”
Suspect Red Page 8
