So she went to a few of Marty's social friends, revealing only part of the problem, telling them she'd had trouble finding small things in Marty's past. All she got were shrugs, hints that she'd probably misunderstood Marty's comments about his past, and the distinct impression that no one wanted to get too close to someone else's family puzzle.
Inevitably, she thought of Tom Edwards. She'd called him before, of course, but she'd hedged, not revealing how serious her problem was. She was still reluctant to tell all to Tom. After all that could damage his deep friendship with Marty. But if there were one person who could help, it was Tom Edwards. No one knew more about Marty, the way he ticked, what he thought. Samantha called him and asked him to lunch. It was about Marty, she said, and it was important.
"Is he sick?" Tom asked urgently.
"Possibly," Samantha replied. Be as dramatic as you can, she told herself. Jolt Tom. Get him in the right frame of mind.
"When do you need me?" Tom responded.
They agreed to meet at a small Chinese restaurant near Tom's office. He knew the manager and secured a booth toward the rear, out of the flight path of dashing waiters.
Tom took one look at Samantha and saw trouble. There was a vacant look in her eyes. A flame had gone out. The mellowness, which usually seemed to cover her like a curtain, was replaced by a tightness that made Tom sense the worst. He didn't wait to offer Samantha a drink, didn't even go through the amenities.
"Sam, what's wrong?" he asked. "I want it straight."
"I'm not sure," she answered, still zipped into her winter coat, thawing out from the cold.
"Is Marty dying?"
"No, nothing like that."
"You said he might be sick."
Samantha hesitated. All right, this may be melodramatic, she thought, continuing the tack she had used when calling Tom, but it was all right, it reflected the way she felt. "Another kind of sick," she said. "Tom, before I tell you, you've got to answer some questions."
"Shoot." He waved away a waiter who'd stopped.
"Where did Marty go to college?"
He looked at her as if she were putting him on. "Why, Northwestern. You knew that."
"I thought I knew."
"Come again."
"Where did he go to high school?"
Tom threw her another odd look. "Elkhart, Indiana."
"How do you know?"
"What do you mean, how do I know?"
"Tom, please!"
"He told me, Sam."
"Elementary school?"
"Elkhart again."
"What service was he in?"
"Army."
"You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Sam, you called me a few weeks ago and asked for Marty's old friends. Is this about that?"
"Are you absolutely sure, Tom?"
"Yes!"
"How?"
"The same thing as before. He told me."
"Tom, is there anything about Marty's past that you know directly?"
"Directly?"
"Without him telling you."
"No."
"I see."
"Sam, what is this about? You've got to tell me."
Samantha looked around the dimly lit restaurant, as if any of the anonymous people were actually interested. She leaned forward, almost spilling a glass of water, making sure that Tom would hear every word over the clatter and din. "Tom," she said, a sudden calm coming over her as her personal purging began, "I went back to find people for the party. I called Northwestern, Elkhart, the Army."
"That's great."
"No it isn't. None of it is true, Tom. Marty never went to Northwestern or the Elkhart schools."
Tom was flabbergasted, his eyes almost closing in skepticism. "Come on."
"I checked and doublechecked. There was a Martin Shaw in the Army…but he was killed."
Tom simply stared at Samantha, at first saying nothing, not really knowing how to respond. "I don't believe it" was all he could say.
"Neither did I," Samantha replied. "Tom, I took Marty's diploma to be checked. It's a fake."
Tom took a deep, troubled breath, showing a kind of tension rare for him. "Let's order," he said, buying time to think it over. They ordered some simple dishes, the talk with the waiter reducing the electricity a few volts. Then Tom got to the core of the matter.
"Now," he asked, "is it possible you're overlooking something?"
"Like what?"
"Maybe Marty's diploma is a duplicate. People lose their originals and get copies."
"Tom, there's no record of Marty at Northwestern…or anywhere else. Elkhart had no record of any school pictures in any year. Marty doesn't seem to have a past."
"Sam, you sound like a Hollywood movie."
"They couldn't write one like this, Tom."
"You've checked everything?"
"Everything."
Tom leaned back, finally accepting what Samantha was telling him. "Now I know," he said, "why you thought Marty might be sick. You meant mentally sick."
"Yes," Samantha replied softly.
There was a long, almost ominous pause, but then, incredibly, a wide grin came to Tom's face, a grin that seemed totally out of place.
"You know something," Samantha said, hoping, hoping so hard, that Tom did have the answer.
"No, I really don't," he replied, deflating her. "I'm smiling because I'm sure this'll all be cleared up. Sam, Marty's a straight guy."
"God, I know that," Samantha answered, "more than anyone else."
"If he had to tell you some tales about his past, he must've had a reason. If I know Marty, it was a damned good reason."
Samantha felt the urge to tell Tom about the baby, how it was increasing the pressure on her to resolve her doubts about Marty. But even Marty didn't know about the child. No, it would be wrong, utterly wrong, to have another man know first. But there was something else she had to get out.
"Tom, did Marty ever mention any legal trouble?"
"Why, is he having a problem?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out."
Tom shrugged. "No, he never mentioned anything to me."
"Do you think he might have…a past? You know what I mean?"
"Marty? Boy, I'd sure doubt it. But look, hell, who knows? Maybe he made a mistake once—you know, when he was a young guy."
"We could find out," Samantha said. "We could go to the FBI and people like that."
"Hey," Tom cautioned her, "if Marty did something wrong, what makes you think he didn't change his name?"
"Yes." Lawyer Grimes had said the same thing.
"And something else," Tom continued, "we talked about sickness. Maybe Marty has amnesia, or something psychological."
"Could you find out?"
"Me?" Tom was incredulous.
"Tom, I've tried everything." There was a rare, pleading look in Samantha's eyes. "I've even seen a lawyer."
"But you haven't talked to Marty."
"God, no."
Tom looked sternly at Samantha, ready to give what he thought was a dose of common sense. "You still love him, Sam?" he asked.
"Of course."
"Would you love him even if he had something sour in his past?"
"I really think I would."
"Then you've got two choices—either forget the whole thing…or confront him directly."
The first course came just then, wonton soup for Samantha, egg drop for Tom, spare ribs for both. But Samantha just couldn't eat. "Tom, what would you do?" she asked.
"I don't know," Tom replied as he picked up a soup spoon. "I'm not married, and I'm not a woman…obviously. But…" He hesitated. Samantha sensed that he was not quite ready to commit himself.
"Please tell me," she asked.
"Maybe you'd better not confront him. That could wreck the marriage."
"Tom, I've just got to know."
Tom nodded with the special warmth that was his. "I know what's inside you," he said softly.
They suddenl
y fell silent. Samantha was learning nothing, even from Marty's closest friend; the advice she was getting sounded logical but brought her no closer to a solution. She felt, in a way, that Tom was protecting Marty, as some of Marty's other friends had. Maybe he felt that probing Marty's past was an improper intrusion for a wife. And maybe it was. Maybe there were things she shouldn't know. Didn't she have secrets, embarrassments, things she'd rather not have Marty discover? Her father had told her that in every closet was at least part of a skeleton.
But she wanted to try one more stab with Tom. "Tom," she said, "I asked if you could find out. You danced around it. Could you?"
"Sam," Tom replied, "I wouldn't even know how. I mean, how do you go into a man's past?"
He was right, of course. Just as Grimes had said, this was a job for a private investigator. Samantha was starting to feel a bit foolish. She'd guessed wrong. Tom really didn't know that much about Marty. Now his attitude toward Marty would surely be affected, and his attitude toward her as well. All she'd done, she feared, was reduce herself in Tom's estimation. He did finally volunteer to probe Marty gently about his past, and maybe to do some independent checking. Other than that, the lunch with Tom resulted in nothing.
Yet, Samantha would not relent. Maybe still other friends knew more, or were willing to say more. She called two additional friends of Marty's, explaining the "problem" while assuring each that it was probably just a mix-up. They were cooperative and sympathetic, but could supply no useful information. The pattern of their answers added up to the same refrain Samantha had heard before—that it would all work out, that Marty must have his reasons, that he may have been involved in Government work, that he might be hiding something he has a right to hide. And what does it matter, if he's such a good husband?
Samantha hit a dead end.
December fifth was thirteen days away.
Marty was still concerned. Yes, the plans were made. Almost everything was set. But what about those phone calls? What was this woman up to? Were the calls continuing, and, if so, what did they reveal?
It was four in the afternoon when a bonded messenger arrived at Marty's office with a sealed note. He knew who it was from by the envelope, and was surprised. He immediately closed the door and took it to his desk. Carefully, he tore it open and read a handwritten letter. It was a note he'd feared might someday come. He stared at the big, printed warning at the bottom, scrawled in an angry handwriting that seared across the page. "Wifey knows," it said. "Wifey knows you have no past."
He shredded the letter.
9
Marty didn't panic. He never panicked. Yes, Samantha knew more than he wanted her to know, but she didn't know what he had planned. She couldn't know. She couldn't suspect. So she'd have some questions. That was hardly a dent in so beautiful a plan, so perfect a ritual. His apprehension—now confirmed by the sealed note—turned to an iron resolve. He could handle it—until December fifth.
"I've never tasted such great chicken," Marty exulted to Samantha as he was eating dinner that night. "My lady, you have that special touch."
Samantha hadn't seen Marty this buoyant since the electric trains. He seemed less fatigued. "I'm going to supervise all the cooking for the party," she said.
"No way," he answered. "You may be Supercreature in the kitchen, but you're a guest at my party. That's the only way to do it."
"Marty, I said supervise. I won't touch a pot."
"Come on, I know you. Look, those professionals know what they're doing."
"I'm crushed."
Marty laughed. "All right, supervise. But at least come out and say hello. Is that a deal?"
"It's a deal."
Marty smiled with that large, rugged face that had magnetized Samantha from the first moment. Yet it couldn't be the same for her now. The questions were racing through her mind. How do I probe him? How do I find out? When do I confront him, if ever?
"There's very little more to do for the bash," she said. "All I have to do is select the cake and arrange for flowers. You won't mind flowers, will you?"
"Me? No. Why?"
"Well, I thought that men sometimes…"
"I like flowers. I'm a sentimental guy," Marty said, prompting Samantha to wonder what he was really sentimental about.
"Did you see today's RSVPs?" she asked.
"No."
"Paul, Keith Harris, Fred and Maryann, Seymour Rose. All coming. Read Fred's little note. You'll get a kick. Uh, Hank Burnham from NBC can't make it."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Hank's a good guy. We were at Fort Polk at the same time…but we didn't know each other."
Good God, Samantha thought, how could he do it? How could he keep up that fiction? Or didn't he know it was fiction?
"He's going to Indiana to help cover a football game," she explained. "Oh, by the way, he's sending you a collector's item from a Super Bowl game."
Marty's eyes caught fire. "Yeah? What?"
"He didn't say. It's a secret."
"That's real nice." He looked at his watch. "Say, how about a movie?"
"Tonight?"
"Unless I have to date you months ahead."
Samantha wasn't up to it. Her head was in too much turmoil, and entertainment was the last thing on her priority list. "Could I beg off?" she asked softly.
"You're not feeling well," Marty said. Samantha thought she saw worry crossing his face.
"No, just tired."
"Okay. Can't blame a fellow for trying." He finished the last bit of dinner, got up and crossed behind her. He started stroking her hair, something he hadn't done in months, and which she rather liked. He had done it to the others, in years past, as well. "You know how special you are?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, "but I don't mind a refresher course."
"Okay, where do I begin?" He kept up the stroking. What actors they both were, he thought. She knew he was a fake, and he knew what he was going to do to her. Yet the talk didn't falter, never wavered. What could possibly be going on in the woman's mind? How did she manage to conceal her suspicions so well? In an odd way, Marty was impressed, more impressed than he'd ever been with Samantha. He'd never noticed she was a person before.
But he had a question to answer, a scene to play out. He'd do it with style. He'd always done it with style.
"Well," he said, "you're special because you're thoroughly loving."
"Good," Samantha responded. "And?"
"And beautiful."
"Go on."
"I think I'll reserve the rest."
"You mean you can't come up with anything else?"
"Well, all right," Marty said, "there's loyal, trusty, kind, reverent…?"
"Okay, I'm satisfied," Samantha said. Then a question just poured out, as if Samantha couldn't control it. "Marty, what did you do at Fort Polk?"
Marty tightened, although Samantha couldn't detect it. There she goes, he thought.
"I was a hero," he replied.
"Come on."
"No, really. I was given a special commendation for extreme caution under cover."
"Marty…"
"All right. I'll come clean." He stopped stroking her hair. "Clerk-typist. I typed accident reports for jeeps." He laughed. "Does that lower me in your estimation?"
"No. I wasn't expecting a general."
They talked for a few more minutes about nothing in particular, then Marty glanced at his watch. "Hey, if we're not going to the movies, I think I'll get some work done."
"Sure." Now Samantha sensed the tautness inside Marty. It was there in his voice, in the quick rhythm of his speech. He went to his desk in the bedroom, skipping The CBS Evening News, which he almost always watched, and pretended to examine a pile of reports. And again the words came back, the words permanently etched in his distorted mind.
"Frankie's a good boy. He's waited a long time."
"Don't gimme that. He's a kid. How long can a kid wait?"
"I want him to be happy."
"Him happy? What about me hap
py ?"
"You know I've tried."
"When have you tried? Yesterday or this morning?"
God, what happened that day! Marty remembered, the picture never losing its clarity, its vividness. Now he'd almost arrived at another special day, when remembrance turned to noble deeds. He felt his hand quiver. The memory wouldn't leave him. It was reinforced as he looked around the room, with its odd arrangement, its bizarre picture frame. Did other men have this thing inside? Did anyone else have it?
He found himself staring at the furniture again and again. "Frankie likes it," he whispered to himself. He knew.
Marty lost complete track of time. Finally, Samantha came in. "What's the crisis?" she asked.
"Huh?" Marty's mind wasn't focused on the possibility of answering questions.
"You've been at this for hours, Marty. Something come up in the office?"
Marty shrugged. "No, it's just a lot of baloney. You know, memos and bills. It was a good chance to catch up. No crisis."
"Sure?"
"Sure."
Samantha felt tempted to look through that pile of papers, if she could get the chance. Maybe, just maybe, there was a clue to Marty's past. Maybe he was doing something in business that would put her on track. She dropped the thought. Too risky. She wasn't a pro.
"Coming to bed?" she asked.
"It's a little early. I think I'll stay up awhile. You don't mind, do you?"
She laughed. "I always mind. But I'll forgive you for tonight, as long as I get my share tomorrow."
"I swear," Marty answered. "I'll get the equipment working."
"Well, just don't work it anywhere else." She winked, a charming wink, so thoroughly normal, yet so thoroughly absurd, considering what each of them knew. Here she was, engaged in verbal foreplay with a man who had become the object of her deepest suspicion, whose baby she was carrying, whose life was a mystery. And his responses? Typically Marty, although his mind was on a hammer and chain, and how they would soon be used.
She went to bed.
He gazed at her. She'd live twelve more days.
Surprise Party Page 9
