A Woman of Intelligence

by Karin Tanabe

  “Don’t let her go, Hanna,” he repeated. “If she goes to Russia, she’ll be dead within hours.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “Here,” he said, reaching behind him in the car and handing me an envelope. “Give her this. Save her life.”

  I nodded yes.

  “Don’t forget to save yours, too,” he said, pointing to the door.

  CHAPTER 22

  “He nearly killed us!” I yelled into the pay phone on Lexington Avenue, the first one I’d found after getting off the Queens line subway at the first stop in Manhattan. “He clearly doesn’t care if he dies, or who he takes along with him. In this case, me. He kept repeating, ‘Don’t let Ava go to Russia. Don’t let her go.’”

  I leaned back against the phone booth wall. I could not stop shaking. I felt as if I’d been electrocuted. I let my head hit the glass with a thud.

  “What are you doing?” asked Coldwell.

  “I’m speaking to you on the telephone.”

  “While…”

  “While having a heart attack.”

  “Hang up the phone. Go get a drink.”

  “Max didn’t want to speak to me about Cuban airplanes. He wanted to talk to me about Ava. But Ava had sent him to me to begin with. And then he hands me this envelope. ‘Save her life,’ he said. Her life.”

  “And all that’s in the envelope is a piece of paper with an address on it.”

  “Yes, in Cuba. No name, no map, nothing but a street address.”

  “Read it to me again.”

  With an unsteady voice, I read the address in Havana for the third time.

  “Listen, Mrs. Edgeworth,” Coldwell finally said. “We owe you some remuneration for this kind of work. We pay our informants. That’s what you are now. Forty dollars a week.”

  “That’s your solution?”

  “For now.”

  “Was no one following me? You’ve followed me while I stroll in the park with my children, you’ve watched me cry on park benches, but you don’t have me followed when I’m going to meet a perfect stranger? Or does only the KGB do the following now?”

  “It’s not my place to comment on—”

  “What in hell can you comment on, then? I love America, but no one loves it this much.”

  We both stayed silent, then I heard a very soft, very unfamiliar sound. A woman’s voice. She said “Lee,” and then the phone was silent again. Lee Coldwell was bad with women, but he had one in his house.

  “Should we meet? Would that calm you down?” he asked.

  “I thought you said—”

  “I could have a woman pick you up. She would be very discreet. She could bring you—”

  “No. I don’t want to get in another car today. I don’t want any discretion. I just want to be home with my boys.” I hung up the phone and closed my eyes, until I was jolted by a knock and the face of an impatient man pointing at the telephone.

  I started to open the door to leave, but stopped. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite finished,” I muttered. I fished in my purse for more change. Coldwell answered after one ring.

  “I would indeed like to be paid, Mr. Coldwell. That, I am sure, would make me feel better.”

  “We can do that today. We’ll have the money delivered to you, and one of our men can look at that envelope from Max. Might calm you down.”

  “Who?”

  “Turner Wells.”

  The air around me thickened. Coldwell knew I would accept. Of course it was yes.

  “That sounds fine,” I replied coolly. “I’ll be on the West Side this evening. At the San Remo. Perhaps he can meet me outside. Seven or later.”

  “Consider it done.”

  I hung up the receiver and nodded at the waiting man, now wondering if he was waiting for the phone or waiting for me. “It’s all yours,” I muttered, not looking up at him.

  I took a few hurried steps away from the phone booth and then stopped. I was letting other people decide my whole life. In my own home, my husband had decided my fate since the day I’d delivered Gerrit. And now that I’d worked my way free of Tom without him knowing, I was still being decided for. Lee Coldwell had decided I was his best bet as bait for Jacob. Ava Newman had decided that I was worth following, and handing over to Max, and Max had decided I was close enough to Ava that I was worth warning in his terrifying way.

  I hailed the next cab.

  It didn’t matter that I’d much rather be in a subway car than in the backseat of a taxi. It was Sunday. I had to get Sarah Beach out of my house and pretend I had been in it all day. Then I had to spend an evening at the elder Edgeworths’. I croaked my address to the driver, slid to one side of the backseat, and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see where I was going or what lay in front of me. All I wanted to see, more than I’d ever wanted to, were my children. I wanted to hold them and not share them, happy for the first time in a long time that they were all mine.

  “Eight-twenty Fifth Avenue, home to the stars,” said the driver, winking at me.

  “I think that’s the Apthorp,” I mumbled, handing him two quarters.

  My feet touched the pavement in front of our apartment, ten feet back, and suddenly I stumbled backward until my body hit the cab.

  Tom was walking inside, Sam already had the door open for him. I jumped forward and put my hand over my mouth. Sam saw me and I started shaking my head fast and hard. There was no time for subtlety. I pointed to my husband and shook my head again. I ran as fast as I could to the back of the building, reached for the door used for basement deliveries, and banged on it with both fists. It was opened by a stunned housekeeper.

  I sprinted up seven flights of stairs, threw five dollars at Sarah Beach, and pushed her into the stairwell. I had beat Tom in.

  When the elevator dinged, I was sitting on the couch with the boys, reading Pat the Bunny, and showing Peter how to lovingly touch the fur. I had been smacked in the face with the realization that whatever happened in my strange new universe, I did not want them to grow up without me. What would become of Gerrit if I weren’t there? Reform school, then prison.

  “That Sam can talk,” Tom said, taking off his jacket, barely looking at me. “Can you get the boys ready, Katharina? We have to be at my parents’ in less than an hour, and I’d like to walk.”

  Of course I could. And a walk, what a good idea. The only thing Tom enjoyed more than healing the sick was a brisk walk.

  * * *

  We had been at the Edgeworths’ for an hour, and my nerves and nausea from the day were still paralyzing me, despite our walk through the park. I sat on the leather couch like a statue, afraid that any movement would release pent-up tears. In my purse on the ground next to me was the letter from Max. When Amelia Edgeworth finally joined us, she awakened a sleeping Gerrit. Amelia was a woman who could not move quietly. Her jewelry jingled, her heels clicked, she sang sentences, and she never, ever hid her discontent.

  “Apologies, my darlings,” she trilled as she swept into the living room and kissed the boys. “My little potatoes! How I’ve missed you.”

  I rose, and gave her a polite peck on the cheek as she took Gerrit in hand.

  “I don’t love that dress, Rina,” Amelia said, eyeing me. “That shade of yellow, and the cut. Makes your hips look puffy.”

  I cleared my throat. If anything could get me talking, it was Amelia and her criticism.

  “Funny you say that,” I murmured. “Your son loves that word, too. Puffy.”

  “Well, darling,” she said, taking me in from head to toe, “it’s more polite than saying fat.”

  “She’s not fat,” said William from the opposite couch. “She’s perfect. Your generation just thinks we’re still in the twenties, that girls need to look like boys. Don’t listen to her, Rina, your backside looks great.”

  “Is there a closet I can hide in?” I asked Jilly as she approached with a tray of cocktails.

  “Several,” she murmured as all the Edgeworths laughed.


  “Still that sharp sense of humor,” said William, winking at me and walking over to Jilly. “Glad motherhood hasn’t softened that.”

  “What are these?” I heard Tom ask. He was looking at a stack of pictures on the buffet.

  “Oh, those are from the hospital gala. Jack sent them over since we couldn’t be there. He knows I love to see what everyone was wearing. There are a few of you two.”

  “Come look, Katharina,” Tom called.

  I walked over to Tom and propped myself against the buffet. “I look terrible in every one,” I said, flipping through them.

  Tom took them from me, studying the images. He didn’t say a thing about my appearance, instead pointing to a woman in the background.

  “Helen Fourtou looks very good. Slim.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Helen.” He paused, realizing his gaffe. Tom prided himself on being the opposite of his philandering father, and his comment was pure William. “It’s just that I haven’t seen her in a while. Not since she had the baby,” he backtracked.

  “She looks wonderful,” I replied, because she did. She looked exactly as she had before the baby, as if she’d just grown it in a backpack and slipped the thing right off nine months later, incurring no damage to her dainty frame.

  Tom set the pictures down and moved over to the boys, who were starting to fuss. He took Peter by the hands and tried to get him to walk.

  I sat down in the nearest chair. It was only seven, but it felt like midnight.

  “Did I tell you?” said William, looking at Tom. “Bettina lost her race in London. Arabella is crushed. She said Kip was almost in tears. That man has very active tear ducts. Is there not a medical procedure that can be done?”

  “It’s a product of being from California, darling,” said Amelia from across the room. “The men are raised differently there. They’re allowed to have hearts.”

  “She didn’t lose,” said Tom dryly. “I spoke to Arabella this morning. She came in second place. She had a medal around her neck, not a noose.”

  “Second, seventieth, you know that’s all the same to them,” said Amelia.

  “The Olympics aren’t for two more years. They need to let that girl breathe, or the pressure of it all could just crack her arms right off.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Tom,” William chided. “Bettina’s an Edgeworth more than a Rowe. She’s tough as steel. She thrives on pressure.”

  I thought of the way Max had looked in the car, of how he’d hit the truck tires with his own. There was pressure on him from someone, somewhere. His arms had definitely been about to crack right off. Maybe the same kind of pressure that was on Ava Newman, only she could handle it better. But what if she couldn’t? I had to give her Max’s letter.

  “Are you better then, dear?” Amelia asked, coming to sit near me. “Is Jilly’s help allowing you to rejoin the world a bit?”

  “It is. I’m very grateful to both of you.”

  “It’s really the least I can do. I didn’t realize it was quite so bad for you. We’ve been so busy lately, what with the trip to the Orient and all the fund-raisers and social events that take place in May. Quite demanding to be an Edgeworth this time of year. Easier in the summer, isn’t it, when the city finally closes its eyes.”

  “I imagine it’s a rather punishing schedule.”

  I hadn’t bought into the communists’ teachings, but it wasn’t difficult to see why they were so keen to take money away from people like Amelia Edgeworth to give to the destitute.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I said, getting up. I walked to the kitchen, took the bottom of someone’s discarded martini, and threw it back. I did the same thing with another glass. I couldn’t let the Edgeworths see me drink, but I wasn’t going to get through the afternoon without something. Jilly came in and I put the glass down quickly and slipped out of the kitchen.

  Jilly followed me into the living room with a tray of food, blinis smeared in cream and caviar. She placed the tray on the coffee table, and as soon as she stepped away, Gerrit ran over and stuffed three blinis in his mouth, chewing as fast as he could, as if we might grab them back otherwise. Then he started to choke, spitting everything out on the woven geometric rug.

  “Not the Antonín Kybal!” Amelia shouted. “It just arrived from Prague!”

  I rushed over to the carpet, picking up the food before I picked up my son, but Tom lifted him up and started performing some medical maneuver.

  The baby fell on the rug, crying because he’d been abandoned by Tom, and everyone looked at me, their eyes imploring me to deal with the chaos so they could return to the quiet of their charmed lives.

  “Let me help you, Mrs. Edgeworth,” came a voice as I grabbed the baby and held spit out food in my hand. The voice belonged to Jilly.

  “Come with me,” Amelia said to a still-screaming Gerrit. She pulled him out of Tom’s arms. “Let’s find something to amuse you. You’re like your grandfather. In need of constant entertainment. I will solve this problem in a snap.”

  When she came back five minutes later, Gerrit was not just quiet and smiling, but glowing. In his hand was a large antique pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle.

  “Mother!” Tom shouted, rushing to them.

  “It’s not loaded, Tom. Stop panicking,” she said, shooing him away. “He likes it. Look how happy he is. Elevates that cowboys and Indians game to new heights. I even found you a toy.” She handed Tom a quill pen and then took it right back from him with a smile. She tucked it behind his ear. “Here, darling,” she said, bending down to Gerrit’s level. “Pretend to shoot your father.”

  “She’s not boring, my wife,” said William, laughing and moving close to me. He kissed the baby’s head. “Little potato.”

  I was in urgent need of boredom. I was quickly learning that a brush with death was not best followed by cocktails and the eccentricities of the very rich.

  I carried Peter into the library, trying to distract him by pointing out the windows, not wanting to hear Gerrit delighting in the staged murder of his father.

  Peter hit the pane of glass and smiled.

  “Mama,” he said.

  “Yes, my darling, that’s right. Mama and her windows.”

  Had all this been easier with one baby? Perhaps it had. I didn’t think the clouds of despair had fully descended until I’d had two.

  I held Peter tighter and thought about Max accelerating on the highway. Would I have died if we’d crashed on the expressway? I pressed my face against Peter’s and felt awful and reckless. Maybe women were supposed to stay cooped up in their towers so that we stayed alive for our children. Maybe oppression was just a protective measure. I looked around the apartment. No, it couldn’t be. After all, it was so easy to just slip right out the window of a tower and fall. The outside world was much safer.

  I leaned my forehead against the window, waiting for Turner. I let my eyes take in the sidewalk on the west side of Central Park. There he was standing across the street. Same hat, same stance, same quiver up my spine.

  This time, he was not looking at the sidewalk. He was looking up, waiting for me.

  * * *

  In the other room, Gerrit was screaming again. In Tom’s hand was the revolver. I looked from him to William, who had earmuffs on.

  “Can’t take the sound of your little man, Katharina. I love him, I do, but it helps if I can’t hear him as well.” William pointed to his earmuffs. “Used to do it when my children were small, too. Just ask Tom’s old nanny. What was her name?”

  “Which one? There were over a dozen,” Tom said.

  “That isn’t true,” said William, repositioning his earmuffs. “Your mother did everything for you. You should thank her.”

  “I do,” said Tom, genuinely, because when it came to parenting, Amelia Edgeworth was Maria von Trapp compared to her husband.

  “Picked these up in Gstaad,” William droned on. “Actually, it’s quite cruel that I’ve never bought you a pair, Rina.”

/>   “I’m all right,” I said hurriedly. “Tom, why don’t I take the boys out for some air?” I said. “Run around in the park for a bit.”

  “It’s nearly dark outside,” he said, walking over to the window. Gerrit followed, right on his heels, still sobbing and reaching for the gun.

  “We can catch the tail end of the sun,” I said, grabbing Gerrit and heading to the stroller.

  “Let them go, Tom,” I heard William say. “My ears are hot.”

  Before Tom could say no, I rushed out of the building with the boys. I was, as Tom had pointed out, losing daylight fast. Once on the sidewalk, I turned to check the fifth-floor row of windows that belonged to the Edgeworths, but I didn’t see anyone staring out. Why would they bother? My life with the boys was about as interesting to them as Jilly mopping their floors.

  We waited to cross the street, and I was so out of sorts I missed the crossing signal.

  “Mama go. Green go,” I heard Gerrit say from the stroller, bashing his little hands against the metal bar.

  Turner was nowhere in sight, so I walked toward Tavern on the Green out of habit. Anyone who studied my movements knew it was my likely destination.

  When I was about ten yards from the restaurant’s front door, I saw Turner step out from the shadows. Every suppressed emotion from the day rose to the surface, begging for my attention.

  “Mrs. Edgeworth,” he said quietly as he came next to me. “Rina.” The boys didn’t even seem to notice him, as they were ahead of me in the stroller, and calm in the darkness. “You’ve had a hell of a day.”

  The evening was almost making up for it. “Turner,” I said, my mind and body flooded with the relief of being near him. “It was the strangest thing. Max, or whoever he is, seemed a bit neurotic, but not to the point of nearly killing us. He ordered us venison. Who wants venison as a last meal?”

  “Watch the hole there,” said Turner, reaching for the stroller and pulling it over for me. For the briefest of moments, his hand touched the side of mine.

  “Excuse me,” he said, moving it away. “I’m of course here for the envelope, but outside of that, I wanted to speak to you,” he continued, letting go of the stroller. “I wanted to see you.”