"Yes," Lynne replied. "It's those damn computers. They probably lost his name from one of those little discs. I bet all she did was punch some button. No name, no deal."
"But she looked through books."
"That's what she said. Sam, it's an old story with these college computers. They got all my brother's grades wrong. We'll straighten it out."
"I know that," Samantha answered, trying to shrug off the incident. But inside she was going through a mixture of anger and denial. Not for a second did she believe that Marty had lied about his background. That wasn't Marty, and she knew him inside out. She also knew what she'd do next. She'dcall the dean, not some flunkie in the office. She'd get the information she wanted.
But when she called, she was told the dean was at a meeting. She'd have to call back.
"You want to make some other calls?" Lynne asked. "I've got the number for the Elkhart town hall."
"I want to nail down the college stuff first, before calling his home town," Samantha replied. "Let's talk war plans."
"Sure."
Samantha reached into her table drawer and took out a copy of New York Magazine. She turned to an ad near the rear and handed the magazine to Lynne. "There's a guy here who videotapes birthday parties."
"That's a great idea."
"You think anyone would mind?"
"If they mind," Lynne said, "they can turn away from the camera. We take movies. I think this is better. It's got sound and everything."
"I'll give him a call," Samantha said, jotting down a note. "If Marty knew what this cost, he'd lynch me."
"Sam," Lynne rebutted, "men never lynch when the cash is spent on them. If we spend it on us, the rope comes out. That's a word of wisdom. My brother told me. He's a divorce lawyer."
Samantha and Lynne talked on, getting to the menu. Marty was meat and potatoes, so the menu would be…meat and potatoes, but served elegantly and romantically. Samantha made a few additions to a guest list that was already too large, a tribute to the many friends Marty had made in New York. She wanted a live band too. Now that was expensive, but Marty liked Broadway music, so Samantha phoned a little group from the Juilliard School that entertained at parties, playing anything from classics to pops.
"Why don't you try that dean again?" Lynne asked after an hour.
Samantha reached for the phone, then stopped. She wanted to call that dean. Of course she did. She wanted to get the whole Medill business taken care of. But she also looked into Lynne's eyes, and what she saw made her a little uneasy. There was anticipation in those best friend's eyes, and curiosity. Maybe there was too much curiosity. Was it possible that Lynne thought Marty hadn't attended…? No, Lynne wasn't that way. She was too loyal. But, somehow, Samantha almost wished that Lynne wasn't there for the call. Sure, it was a gigantic mix-up, but it was an embarrassing mix-up as well, and even among friends these things could get awkward. After all, what if the dean couldn't find Marty's name either? What would Lynne think? What would Lynne say to her husband?
"I don't feel like calling now," Samantha said abruptly. "I'll call later."
She needed some ammunition for that second call, and she knew where to get it: from Marty himself. She was sure there was no problem.
2
The only thing Marty worried about was seeing someone he knew. Why was Martin Everett Shaw getting off a subway in Queens at lunchtime on a business day? Of course, Marty would have a quick explanation. Marty Shaw always came up with the right words. But this was one day he didn't want to be noticed.
He walked down the packed street in Forest Hills, the cold wind hitting him in the face. He hated days like this. His mind became a blur of images, memories fueling a growing rage. He noticed a red light just as he was stepping off a curb. He quickly stepped back. He tried to clear his mind, but knew from habit that he couldn't, that this episode would have to run its course. And each time one of these things erupted inside him, he felt tremendous guilt, but the need finally to set things right had begun to grow, to overwhelm him.
He saw Granville's Hardware Store, one of the larger shops on the Boulevard. He had not phoned ahead. He didn't want to call attention to himself, to have someone remember his call later. Marty didn't know if Granville's carried what he wanted, but he assumed a store its size would. It was urgent. There were things he had to have. Automatically he straightened his striped silk tie and ran his right hand through his hair. Look right. Look normal. Look confident. Don't seem anxious. You're only buying things a lot of people buy. Pay by cash. No credit cards. No name on the receipt.
Granville's was one of those hardware stores where a person had to squeeze down each narrow, dark aisle, between hooks bulging with light sockets, bags of screws, and gaudy numerals for front doors. Marty moved slowly down an aisle, noticing that he was one of the few customers. But there were enough others for him not to feel conspicuous. He feigned a look of confusion, drawing a tired salesman with a narrow mustache.
"Lookin' for something?"
"Uh, yes," Marty replied. "I need one of those sockets that you screw in, the kind that takes a bulb."
"Look, I got a million sockets in here. You want one with a pull chain?"
"Yes, that's the kind."
"Right here."
The salesman was slightly hunched and had a strong scent of low-grade tobacco. Marty followed him down the aisle to the electrical-supply section. The salesman pulled a socket from its hook. "This is what you want. Anything else?"
"Uh, let me think," Marty answered.
"Think all you like."
The light socket was a ploy. Marty always bought extra items to hide the ones he really wanted. "I need a Roberts tackhammer," he finally said, fearful that he may have sounded too anxious.
"A what?" the salesman snapped, throwing Marty a look reserved for men who didn't know hardware.
"A Roberts. Tackhammer."
The salesman grunted and shook his head. "I never seen a guy who wanted a brand of hammer. A hammer's a hammer. Look, I got Stanley, I got Skil, I got…what the hell's the name of it? But Roberts? I ain't seen that one in…"
"But you've heard of it." There was an unintended intensity in Marty's large, green eyes.
"Sure I heard of it."
"Where could I get one?"
"You gotta have that kind? Look, fella, the Stanley is better. You read Consumer's? It lasts…"
"I want the Roberts."
The salesman threw up his hands in surrender. "Just helpin'. Try Becker. He's two blocks down. He's got Roberts. Somethin' else?"
"A bicycle chain."
"That I got."
"I want one with a red rubber coating over the links." The salesman took a deep, disgusted breath. "How 'bout flowers on it?"
Marty ignored him.
"Gotta be red?" the salesman asked.
Marty thought back. Yes, it had to be red. "Red," he answered, his voice now its usual assertive self.
"I got one."
The salesman led Marty to the toy and game department and picked out a bicycle chain covered in red rubber. Marty took it from him, curling his strong fingers over the links as if caressing it. It was heavy. It had to be heavy. He wound it around his right hand like a snake, then let it hang down. But he quickly realized he was focusing too much attention on it. "I'll take this," he said. "That's all."
He left the store with the light socket and chain in a brown paper bag, and walked toward Becker's. As he walked, he slipped the bag into his leather attaché case. "This is for you," he whispered, hardly moving his lips, as if talking to someone close by.
But still, nothing showed on the outside. Marty Shaw was just another businessman walking down the street. Not even Samantha had an inkling of the turmoil stirring inside the man she thought ideal.
He glanced at his Rolex Submariner watch. It was 1:46. He was due at his office for an appointment at three. It was important to be on time, important to avoid questions. He walked faster. He found Becker's, a store slightl
y larger than Granville's. Marty walked in, feeling awkward about having been in a competing store, and fearing that he'd be asked to show the contents of his attaché case before leaving. After all, a sign posted at the entrance said, "We reserve the right to inspect all packages." Hiram Becker, tall and elderly, walked over to him.
"Need help?"
"Yes," Marty replied. "I need a tackhammer, a Roberts."
"I carry Roberts."
"It has a light handle and the head is painted black."
"Insist on that model?"
"It's a gift for my son. It matches his other tools."
"I'll look. I'm a franchised dealer. Authorized."
Marty felt the tension well up inside him. What a waste of time if Becker didn't have that hammer.
Becker disappeared into his rear storeroom, then came back carrying the Roberts hammer, sealed in a plastic enclosure glued to a piece of cardboard. "Here, I got it," he said. "Last one."
Relieved, Marty followed Becker down a dusty aisle, paid the $3.98 plus tax and quickly left the store. No one asked him to open his case.
He walked down Queens Boulevard, heading for a subway that would take him back to Manhattan. He knew there were other things to do before December fifth, but they could wait. The trains were no problem. The right set could be picked up in bits and pieces around town. Samantha would accept the explanations about new things being brought into the apartment. Samantha was always so understanding. She was perfect.
Marty boarded the subway, sitting next to an alcoholic old woman in an overheated car for most of the ride. He gripped his case tightly, but, finally realizing his knuckles were turning white, transferred the case to the floor between his feet. As the train rattled towards his stop, Rockefeller Center, his eyes shifted around, exhibiting the wary defensiveness that Samantha so often noticed. He didn't want anyone making a try for that expensive-looking case. Too much had been invested in what was inside.
When the train arrived, he walked up the station steps past shoppers heading toward Fifth Avenue for early Christmas buying.
Shaw Enterprises had four offices on the twelfth floor of 1290 Avenue of the Americas, a modern stone and metal building whose only distinction was having a Sam Goody record store in the lobby. Marty's offices were the artistic reverse of the neat, functional styling of his apartment. Here everything was in lavish, curving French design, more like a museum than a business office. The windows were outlined with heavy drapes, and the prints on the wall were mounted in gold-leaf, ornate frames. He had reasons for the choices, he'd told Samantha, but he never discussed what they were.
Even before he entered, Marty's heavy tread tipped the staff that he had returned. He smiled as he opened the large oak door. Be positive, he kept telling himself. Only the positive get along.
"Afternoon, everyone. Calls?"
Lois Carroll, his twenty-year-old secretary, instantly handed Marty four pink sheets as he stopped at her desk. He gently put his case on the floor and flipped through them.
"What did CBS want?"
"Warner Wolf needs an interview with the girl who's trying out for the new football team," Lois answered. "Since we represent the team…."
"Let's hold off on that," Marty said. "I'll call Warner and offer him something else. I don't like that image for the team." He turned to another call sheet. "Newsweek?"
"Just to say they don't want the story of Rohr-Tech's water-softening process."
"Hell with them. The world's most quoted newsweekly doesn't know pure water when they drink it. I guess this one from Princess Fashions is about our billing."
"Naturally."
Marty ignored it and turned to the last sheet. "What'd Samantha want?"
"Just for you to call back. She was a little…"
"A little what?"
"Tense."
"Sick?"
"No, just not your usual laid-back Samantha."
"My home number please."
Marty rushed into his twenty-by-thirteen office, its light brown walls lined with framed copies of stories he'd placed in magazines and newspapers. As he sat at his desk, Lois made the call. She made it quickly, feeling the pressure of Marty's concern. Everyone in the office knew how Marty protected Samantha, how he watched out for her, how he worried about her in the big city. He would constantly ask Lois's advice on gifts to buy Samantha, and where to get them. It was an old-style devotion, Lois thought, rare for those in the crazed media world. She wished she had a husband like Marty Shaw.
"I have Samantha," she said over the intercom.
Marty picked up. "Sam?"
"Sweet, I called before but you'd just gone out."
"Is something wrong?"
"Oh no. Not at all."
"Sam, you sound a little shaky." Samantha couldn't hide her continued annoyance over the Northwestern flap. "I'm fine, Marty."
"You sure? You usually don't call at midday."
"No, really. You sound like my mother. I'm just a little tired. I actually called because I was getting things together for the great gala. There's a guy who videotapes these things. I think it's terrific, unless you're against it."
"Why should I be against it? How much?"
"That's a private matter, Mr. Shaw."
"Forge on."
"I have to arrange it early. Otherwise, I wouldn't bother you at work."
"Sam, you never bother me."
"Oh, that's so, so good to hear. Say, Martin Everett Shaw, I had another bright idea: framing your college diploma and having it up for the party. You've never done that and…"
"Sam, you know I don't believe in that stuff."
"Yeah, but I do. Marty, I'm proud of you. I want the world to know."
"Can I exercise my veto?" Marty asked, a slight touch of embarrassed laughter in his voice.
Samantha hesitated. "Well, as president of Shaw Enterprises, I guess you have the power. But Marty, you should at least preserve the diploma. Don't ignore those things. I'll take care of it. Where is it?"
There was a long, painful pause. "You know," Marty answered, "I don't even remember where it is."
A chill shot through Samantha's body. That wasn't the reply she wanted. She'd never doubted Marty. She wasn't ready to doubt him, emotionally or rationally. "Think, genius," she told him, trying powerfully to hide her heightened concern.
"Gee, I…"
"Try." In a way, Samantha was almost begging, almost praying that this good man hadn't faked his educational background, as, she knew, so many others had.
Marty snapped his fingers. "Sure," he recalled. "With all that moving I shunted some old documents around. You know that pile of papers in the file drawer of my desk?"
"It's not stuffed in there, is it?" Samantha asked, scoldingly.
"Guilty. My sincere apologies to the Medill School of Journalism, Lawrence S. Krieger, dean and general bore." Marty smiled broadly, exposing an oversized and not entirely straight set of teeth.
"I'll rescue it," Samantha sighed. "Look, you're busy. I'll let you go."
"I'm home by seven."
"Bye, love."
They hung up. Marty was a bit baffled. Why had Samantha called him about the videotape instead of waiting until he got home? Did she really think those camera guys would be busy on a Thursday night in December? And who cared about a sheepskin? Sam was usually so casual, so much the opposite of urgency. Maybe it was the challenge of throwing a big party for the first time.
Marty forgot about it.
Samantha rushed to Marty's desk and rummaged through the papers. Soon she found the large blue folder with the raised seal of Northwestern University. Quickly, but with a reverence mirrored in the gentle touch of her hands, she opened the folder and slid out a piece of stiff parchment protected by tissue paper. She could feel the relief overcoming her. Of course that lady at the school had been wrong. Here was undeniable concrete proof. Samantha examined the diploma carefully, feeling closer to Marty's past simply by holding it.
MARTIN EV
ERETT SHAW
Bachelor of Arts with Honors
June 16, 1966
She slipped the diploma back in its folder and put it in a fireproof cabinet for safekeeping. Now she felt guilty for having asked Marty about the document. She'd never need such reassurance again, she told herself. Never again.
She sat down to do some more party planning, then placed her right hand on her stomach. Samantha tried to restrain her hope that December fifth would bring, not only a great party, but an announcement of even greater joy. How Marty wanted it! There were some signs that it might happen. She'd made an appointment with her doctor. Now she hoped, and prayed.
Martin Everett Shaw slowly dialed the combination on his office wall safe. The dial locked at 18 and he swung open the armored door, which was at eye level. Aside from a brown envelope, the safe was empty. Marty carefully placed the tackhammer and bicycle chain inside, pushing both items toward the back. He recalled how he had put the last hammer and chain inside the year before, and how he had hidden the previous ones in the bottom of an old photographic case.
He gazed at the brown envelope, his eyes and body motionless, as if it contained some holy artifact. He reached in and took it out, placing it on his cluttered desk. Then he walked to the door and locked it, and closed the curtain on the one large picture window. He was alone, completely at one with himself, isolated from a world that he saw differently from others. He walked back to his desk, sat, and opened the envelope. Inside was a set of newspaper clippings, bound with a rubber band, some yellowed, some more recent. They were from all over the country.
Marty snapped on his intercom. "No calls, please," he said. He picked one clipping near the top of the pack. He had read it many times before, but he particularly liked its tone and style. And, through his public-relations work, he knew the reporter. He read the story again, savoring each word:
"Connecticut State Police were baffled today by the discovery, in a patch of grass just off Route I-95 near Greenwich, of a…"
3
Samantha once again put off her second call to Northwestern. Yes, she had the "ammunition" that she needed in the form of Marty's diploma, but she was still offended by the response to her first call, and her very human reaction was to find other things to do. She arranged for the videotaping, walked up to Gartner's Hardware on West 72nd Street to buy a new toaster, and went to the Ansonia post office to get a roll of one hundred stamps. Her plans for the party were big, and getting bigger.
Surprise Party Page 2
