by Lewis Orde
She finished it a few minutes before Saxon entered the suite. Asked how she had spent the day, Katherine replied that she had taken a walk and read a book. She made no mention of seeing Barnhill.
As Saxon had promised, they had the evening to themselves. After eating an early supper at the hotel, they took a taxi to Broadway’s Winter Garden. “If I’m going to have my name on a building on Forty-second Street, the least we can do is see the show of the same name.”
Katherine enjoyed 42nd Street. So did Saxon. When they came out of the theater, they were both humming the music they’d just heard. “Tired?” Saxon asked.
“No. I’ve beaten jet lag.”
“Good. Let’s eat something.”
They stopped off for a snack at the Café Pierre, then returned to the Sherry-Netherland. To Katherine’s frustration and disappointment, Saxon did not accompany her upstairs to bed. He remained, as on the previous night, in the living room with his briefcaseful of papers, claiming he had to prepare for the following day’s meetings. As she slipped into bed, alone, she puzzled over why he had asked her along. Not to be his bedmate, to spend complete nights with her as she longed to spend them with him. Had he needed her solely as an ornament on his arm for social events? She found herself looking more and more toward her next meeting with Raymond Barnhill.
On Wednesday, Katherine’s glimpse of America included a visit to Bloomingdale’s, a ride on the subway, and a round-trip ticket on the Staten Island Ferry. “The biggest transportation bargain in the world,” Barnhill assured her.
Over lunch, Katherine mentioned that she had read the book. When Barnhill asked her opinion, she told him, truthfully, that it was too dry for her tastes. “Maybe you could add some spice for when the paperback comes out.”
“There hasn’t been a paperback sale. All the big houses turned it down. Now Knight and Robbins are going to the small houses, the ones that don’t pay much.”
“I’m sorry.
In the evening, she accompanied Saxon to Frank Lane’s Westchester home for a dinner party the Saxon-America president had organized in honor of his British chairman. They returned to the Sherry-Netherland just after midnight.
“What time is your show tomorrow?” Saxon asked, as he hung up the tuxedo he had worn for the party.
“Four o’clock. Will you be able to attend?”
“I wish I could, but the lawyers aren’t moving any faster. We won’t get the final signing done until Friday morning. What about your friend Raymond? Won’t he be there?”
Was there a special emphasis, Katherine asked herself, on friend? She shot Saxon a look as he was removing his gold Rolex. “Raymond said he’d try. He has an assignment tomorrow for the Eagle, and he isn’t certain what time he’ll be through.”
“With or without moral support, Katherine, I’m confident that you’ll manage just fine.”
Franz came to Katherine’s mind, the time his business meeting in Chicago had coincided with her first “Satisfaction Guaranteed!” She’d been angry with Franz for not being there to witness her big moment, and she felt that same anger directed toward Saxon now. Were all men so callous, putting their business commitments before anything else? Or was it just the men with whom Katherine fell in love? Was it some fatal flaw that attracted her only to men who were so business-oriented that they could see little beyond the bottom of the balance sheet?
Saxon went to bed ten minutes after Katherine. When he called her name softly, she pretended to be asleep.
At nine the next morning, after Saxon had left the hotel, Katherine telephoned home. Edna reported that the children were well, and missing their mother. Next, Katherine tried Barnhill’s number. She got the answering machine, and assumed that he had already left for his assignment. She spent the morning shopping for gifts for Henry and Joanne. After searching through stores along Fifth Avenue, Katherine settled for souvenirs of New York: a Mets warm-up jacket for Henry, and a miniature New York Knicks jacket — whoever the Knicks were! — for her daughter.
She ate lunch out, and returned to the suite just after two o’clock. The telephone was ringing. Katherine answered, surprised, then instantly worried, to hear Edna’s musical voice. “What’s happened, Edna?”
“It’s Joanne. Nothing to worry about, but Jimmy and I thought you should know. He’s just taken her to hospital.”
“What!”
“She and Henry were chasing each other around the house. She fell down the stairs, and we think she might have broken her arm. Jimmy’s taken her to the hospital for X rays. Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Kassler, we’ll take care of everything.”
Katherine stared stupidly at the receiver for a full minute after Edna had hung up. Don’t worry about a thing! Joanne was her daughter; of course she was going to worry! She put through a call to the Saxon-America office. John Saxon, she was told, was in a meeting and could not be disturbed.
“Tell him this is Mrs. Kassler. He’ll be disturbed for me.”
Saxon came on the line. Katherine explained what had occurred. “I’m going home now. I’ll cancel my appearance on ‘Speak Out’ and take a taxi to the airport.”
“Katherine, will you slow down? A broken arm is not a serious injury.”
“Not to you, it might not be. But to a seven-year-old girl, a hospital can be terrifying. Her mother should be there.”
Saxon’s voice was maddeningly calm. “Canceling your appearance on that show will serve no useful purpose. Go through with it, then fly out tonight. Call British Airways and change your flight. Pack before you leave the hotel for the studio. Afterward, you can take a taxi to the airport.”
“Won’t you be taking me to the airport?”
“Katherine, it is impossible for me to get out of here before six-thirty tonight. We want to sign tomorrow, and there are still plenty of wrinkles.”
Katherine did not give a damn about Saxon’s wrinkles. All she cared about was Joanne’s broken arm, and the hell with anyone who accused her of overreacting. That included Saxon. “John, I have to go. I’ll speak to you over the weekend, when you’re back in London.” Before hanging up, she said, “I hope you sign your contract on time.”
She called Barnhill’s apartment again. The machine was still on. She packed her two cases, and left them on the bed. Next, she telephoned British Airways and made the switch in reservations. That done, she called home. Edna answered to say that Jimmy Phillips had just telephoned from the hospital. Joanne had broken her right arm, and a cast was being applied. The little girl was in good spirits, and asking for her mother.
“Tell her I’ll be there tomorrow, Edna. I’m flying home tonight. British Airways. Have Jimmy meet me, please.”
She dressed in a pink wool suit for the television show. Over it, she wore the silver fox coat. She went downstairs, where the doorman hailed a taxi for her. The television studio was on Seventh Avenue, quite close to Barnhill’s apartment. Katherine entered and asked for Larry Miller, the producer of “Speak Out.” Miller came out to meet her, a slim, curly-haired man with warm brown eyes. She told him what had happened, and Miller promised there would be no delays with the show.
“A friend gave me the rundown on my fellow panelists,” Katherine said. “It sounds as if I’ll be in the middle of a war.”
“Paul Hyde, when he called me from London, said you always carried a sharp pin in case you met a pompous person whose balloon needed bursting. If you feel you want to use it today, be my guest.”
Miller introduced Katherine to her co-panelists. Peg Farraday, the civil-liberties lawyer, was plump and middle-aged, with unruly salt-and-pepper hair. The Reverend James Parker, head of the “Glory to God” ministry, was tall and slim, a perfect hanger for the suit he wore. Katherine knew good tailoring when she saw it, and the silver-haired television preacher with the open trust-me face was wearing a fortune on his back. The third panelist, Lucille Benoit, was a thin-lipped woman in her forties, with bleached hair and a heavily painted face.
After
exchanging greetings with Katherine, the Reverend Mr. Parker and Lucille Benoit talked to each other. Katherine saw that they made a point of ignoring Peg Farraday, and she knew that, once the show started, they would join forces against the lawyer. Katherine decided it was her duty to even up the sides.
Fifteen minutes before the show was due to start, Larry Miller’s secretary approached Katherine. “There’s a gentleman to see you. A Mr. Barnhill.”
Katherine ran to where Barnhill waited in the auditorium. “I had to rush my work to get here on time,” he told Katherine. “If Lawrie Stimkin complains, I’m pointing him in your direction.”
“Am I glad to see you, Raymond!” In half a minute, she told him everything that had happened.
“I’ll take you out to Kennedy,” he promised.
She kissed him in front of everyone.
The host of “Speak Out” was a man named Victor Fisher. He introduced the panelists, who sat in easy chairs around a low glass table, Katherine and Peg Farraday on one side, and Lucille Benoit and the Reverend James Parker on the other. Fisher explained the show’s theme, before throwing it open to the panel with the question “Are we entering the age of a new morality?”
Parker grabbed the initiative. “I pray that we are. If ever a country was in need of a new morality, it is the United States. We have fallen so far from God’s law that we may well be too late in trying to make the return journey.”
As Parker spoke, Katherine found herself being reminded of Jeffrey Dillard’s old squadron leader, Sir Donald Leslie. When he paused, Victor Fisher, the show’s host, turned to Katherine. “Would you say there’s been any noticeable change in British morality since Mrs. Thatcher’s victory last year?”
Katherine shook her head. “I don’t see how a change in government can alter morality. Unless, of course, the incoming government is the Inquisition.”
“Which is precisely,” interjected Peg Farraday, “the kind of government Reverend Parker and Mrs. Benoit would like to inflict upon us. Thought police, spies in the bedroom.”
Katherine looked up at the ceiling. Two minutes old, and the discussion was going exactly the way Barnhill had predicted it would.
The first half of the show developed into a battle between Parker and Peg Farraday. Every so often, as though obeying some unseen cue, Lucille Benoit chipped in a few words of support for Parker. When the show broke for commercials, the producer hurried onto the set.
“Could you get yourself more involved, Katherine?”
“I’m sorry,” she answered, knowing she had been little more than a spectator. “My mind must be on my daughter.”
Miller patted her encouragingly on the arm. “Try using that pomposity-pricking pin. Lord knows,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “you’ve got enough targets here.”
Within seconds of the restart, Lucille Benoit took over the spotlight with a plea for the government to legislate against abortion, “the willful murder of millions of unborn children every year.” The Reverend Mr. Parker nodded his head back and forth in total agreement. Peg Farraday started to speak, but Katherine held up a hand. She had no strong feelings on abortion, believing in individual choice, but she was becoming angry at the way Parker and Lucille Benoit were using the show to push their own hard-line views, instead of openly addressing the question of whether the country was entering into a new era of morality.
“I might be exhibiting ignorance, Lucille,” she said, “but if something is unborn, how can it be murdered?”
“Life begins with conception, not with birth.”
“Why don’t we have conception days instead of birthdays then?” Katherine heard muted applause from the audience, and when she turned to look at Farraday, the attorney gave her a tight-lipped smile.
“Britain’s demise in the world,” Parker chimed in, “can probably be traced directly to the flippancy with which its subjects treat God’s work.”
Katherine’s voice turned icy. “Britain is probably closer to God than America is, because our monarch is Defender of the Faith, and we don’t have a constitution separating church from state. Something else we don’t have are sanctimonious scoundrels on television who hold a crucifix in one hand and a gigantic begging bowl in the other, with the implied threat that you’ll go to hell in a handcart if you don’t cough up!”
This time, there was nothing muted about the applause. Mixed with laughter, it rocked the studio.
Parker turned scarlet, speechless. Lucille Benoit tried to regain some control of the show. “We were talking about abortion. You are deliberately changing the subject because you understand that abortion is indefensible.”
“Indefensible? Not at all. I don’t believe it should be used as a substitute for birth control, but there are situations where it’s the only proper course.”
“Abortion is never the proper course.”
“What about when the mother’s health is at stake? When a woman is made pregnant by a rapist? Or when amniocentesis determines the presence of a diseased embryo?”
“You’re wasting your time, Katherine,” Peg Farraday said. “Mrs. Benoit and her whiter-than-white good Christian friends want amniocentesis banned right along with abortion. That way, if no one knows an embryo is diseased, there’ll be no temptation to have an abortion. Wonderful logic, eh?”
Katherine glared at Benoit and Parker. “Just where does it say that being a good Christian means you have to turn the clock back a thousand years?”
Instead of answering the question, Benoit looked at Victor Fisher, the host. “May I set the record straight? Miss Farraday and Mrs. Kassler are under the misapprehension that only white Christians are against the slaughter of abortion, and the meddling with God’s work by amniocentesis. The pro-life movement is supported by decent people from all groups, from all races, and all religions.”
Katherine had her pin out now, ready to burst every bubble in sight. “In that case, Mrs. Benoit, I hope that every black pro-lifer has a child born with sickle-cell anemia. I hope that every Jewish pro-lifer has a child born with Tay-Sachs. And I hope that every white Catholic and Protestant pro-lifer” — she dreamed up a scenario that would really throw a scare into the likes of Lucille Benoit and the Reverend Mr. Parker — “has a daughter made pregnant through being raped by a black man. Preferably a black man with a disease or a drug dependency that can be passed on to the child. Then let those pro-lifers speak out against the evils of abortion and amniocentesis!”
The show ended in total uproar. Larry Miller grasped her hand and said she’d been fantastic. She found Raymond Barnhill, who got her out of the building and into a taxi.
“What made you come out with a line like that?” he asked.
“It seemed the right thing to say. I couldn’t let them think I was there as a backdrop, could I?”
The taxi took them to the Sherry-Netherland, where Katherine had her suitcases loaded into the trunk, and from there they went to the airport. Barnhill waited at the British Airways terminal until she boarded the flight. At the gate, he held her hands. “Thanks for a great week, Katherine.”
“Raymond . . .” She looked into his light brown eyes. “Don’t get too despondent about the book. The second one will do better, you’ll see. And in the meantime, ‘Glimpses of America’ is making you as well known as Alistair Cooke.”
They kissed, and Katherine walked toward the waiting 747.
*
Pushing a cart that held her two cases, Katherine passed unchecked through customs at Heathrow, and out into the arrivals area. She surveyed the waiting people, seeking Jimmy Phillips’s comfortable face. To her shock, her eyes met those of her father. Joanne was with him, her right arm encased in a white cast that was already covered with signatures.
“Look, Mummy!” Released by Roland, the little girl ran to Katherine. “I’ve got a cast, just like Henry had.”
Amazed that Joanne could remember back so far, Katherine lifted her up, kissed her, and set her on the cart. “Did you leave ro
om for my name?”
“Of course. There.” She pointed to a space on her wrist, “You can write there.”
Katherine pushed baggage and daughter toward her father. She kissed him on the cheek. “I hope you didn’t drive here.”
“Arthur Parsons is waiting outside.” Taking the cart from Katherine, Roland pushed it toward the parking lot. The green Bentley was positioned by the entrance. Roland ushered Joanne into the front with Parsons, before sitting in the back with Katherine. Once the Bentley had cleared the airport, Roland asked, “Do you know why I came to meet you?”
“To show me that Joanne was all right?”
“No.” Roland reached into the door pocket and withdrew that morning’s copy of the Daily Eagle. “What do you have to say about this, Kathy?”
She gulped. Sidney Glassman’s face leaped off the front page. His younger son, Melvin, was also pictured.
“Sidney Glassman resigned his seat in the House of Commons at nine o’clock last night, exactly one hour after ‘Fightback’ did a major exposé on the crooked dealings of his son, Melvin, at the Grosvenor Sporting Club.”
“I don’t know a thing about it,” Katherine protested.
There was anger in Roland’s voice; a dear friend had been hurt, and he wanted to know why. “What do you mean, you don’t know anything? That’s your show, isn’t it? How on earth could something like this happen without your knowledge, Katherine?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated, painfully aware that her father had used her full name. “But I’m bloody well going to find out!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
WHEN THE GREEN BENTLEY pulled into the forecourt of Kate’s Haven, Katherine jumped out and ran into the house. She stayed there just long enough to grab the keys to the Porsche from the key caddy in the downstairs hall. Moments later, she sent the Porsche accelerating out of the forecourt and onto the street, heading for the center of town and the “Fightback” offices.
