William McGivern - The Seven File

“Look, if anything was seriously wrong, Kate would have called you. This isn’t the Congo, honey.”

“I suppose I’m being a complete fool,” she said. “Me, the modem mother, calm and casual. Dr. Spock would send me back to chapter one if he heard about this.”

They were at Thirty-fourth Street now, traveling south on Second Avenue. Only three more blocks, then a right turn... The neighborhood was familiar and comforting, lazy and peaceful in the late afternoon sun. They passed the shops that Mrs. Jarrod ordered from: Bailey’s Meats, Ragoni’s delicatessen. Mercury drugs, and the names were reassuring symbols of the commonplace and ordinary. Nothing could be wrong... this is where we live, Ellie thought, as Dick swung into Thirty-first Street. Kate and Jill walk by these stores and homes every day on their way to the river or the park.

But she couldn’t completely silence the little voice of fear. Jill was too final and precious a goal. They had been married five years when she was born, and the wait had made her seem much more important. All her own life had been made of goals, Ellie thought. She had been poor for much of it, gracious and shabbily poor, the daughter of a general practitioner who had died before wartime demands might have made him worth his weight in gold.

She had worked her way through school — the first big goal. Then she had made the long jump from a job in fashion in Milwaukee to a better job in New York. Always there were small, immediate goals in sight; a new dress, a tightly budgeted vacation, slip covers for one of the half-dozen chic little apartments she had lived in before meeting Dick. Money was important to her and it had been fun earning it; she was happy making lists and accounts, budgeting herself carefully, keeping her balances as neat as her figure.

But the Bradley money was something else again. It was simply there — a solid, unexciting substance surrounding her on all sides. No one earned it on a week-to-week basis, or worried about how long it would last. It was as permanent as the ground beneath their feet. When they wanted something they discussed buying it in terms of quality and convenience, not in dollars and cents. Dick was careful with money, but in a way she didn’t understand; he regarded it in the abstract, as counters put here to accomplish this or that — he didn’t think of dollars in terms of food and clothing and rent.

Dick slowed down as they passed a group of youngsters who were playing ball against the side of a building. “Well, here we are,” he said. “You’ll see, everything will be fine. Jill, sticky with pablum, Kate in her usual sunny mood. Want to bet?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, smiling at him. She was suddenly sure that he was right. The Bradleys had a longterm lease on good luck. The house would be shining and peaceful. Kate and Jill would be romping around in the nursery. The evening would follow a safe, pleasant pattern. Dick would mix martinis, and very probably would mention the time he had drunk four in a row at the Goldstones’ hunt party. They would have Jill to themselves downstairs for an hour or so, and then Mrs. Jarrod would announce dinner...

As Dick stopped in front of their house, she said, “I’ll leave you to cope. Okay?”

“Sure thing. You dash on in.”

Dick stretched gratefully. The hour’s drive after a week end of tennis and sailing had stiffened him up a bit. But it was a pleasant feeling. Coming around the car he glanced up and down the street, savoring its Sunday emptiness. Ellie loved this place, he knew. And he didn’t mind making this concession to her happiness; she wanted to go on working for a while, and living in town made that possible. It I wouldn’t do when Jill was ready for school, of course. Then they’d move out to the country. And Ellie couldn’t commute to a job. He couldn’t see that at all; it wasn’t that he objected to women having careers if they wanted them, but in the country he knew that her time would be taken up completely with running their home, and participating in the activities of the community.

As he went up the stairs he was thinking of her with an especial tenderness and warmth. He was lucky to have her — she had been easily the most attractive woman at the Kimbles’. Frank had shepherded her around like a happy mastiff, and the women had seemed honestly delighted with her... She was a new experience for them, with her funny, humorous slant on things. And, of course, her figure and clothes had set them right back on their heels.

She had turned the key in the lock and was pushing open the door, and his eyes were on a level with her shining black sling-pumps. He smiled appreciateively at the sharp turn on her ankles, the sleek elegance of her legs — he loved the way she walked, each step precise and sure and graceful.

As he went up another step he saw the letter that was lying on the polished floor of the foyer. Something was wrong about that, he thought. Why hadn’t Kate put it in the study?

Ellie hadn’t noticed it; she was looking up toward the nursery, smiling with anticipation and pleasure. “Jill, baby,” she sang out. “We’re home, darling.” She stepped on the letter as she crossed the foyer, and the sharp heel of her pump left its square outline just below the special delivery stamp. “Jill, it’s Mummy,” she called, as she ran quickly up the stairs. “Where’s my big girl?”

Dick bent and picked up the letter, aware of Ellie’s voice echoing flatly throughout the big house. He noted automatically that there was no return address on the envelope, and that the stamp had been cancelled in Manhattan early Saturday morning. It had been lying here all day then. And all day yesterday...

As he ripped open the envelope and removed the single sheet of notepaper, he heard Ellie calling Jill’s name again and again, her voice high and frantic against the echoing silence.

He read the note quickly, and it made no sense to him. Standing in the open doorway with a square of yellow sunshine falling across his legs, he frowned and rubbed the tips of his fingers across his forehead. What the devil is this? he thought. What kind of nonsense?

Then — scanning the note again — the meaning struck him with sickening, physical impact; the paper shook in his hands, and he realized that he was trembling from head to foot. Ellie’s voice sounded louder and louder around him — she was coming down the stairs now, her heels clattering with frantic speed, and she was calling his name desperately and helplessly.

“Dick, Dick, they’re not here!”

“I know— I know.”

She stopped and stared at him, her body tense and rigid in the straining silence. “Dick, what is it?” Her voice trembled and broke as she saw the fear in his face. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He couldn’t speak. He tried, but couldn’t; his throat was dry and tight with pain.

“Tell me, Dick,” she whispered.

He caught her to him, pulling her tightly against his chest. The note was before her eyes, and she read it then, crushed against her husband, standing in the yellow sunlight that poured into the foyer from the street

“We’ve got to do exactly as they tell us,” he said, whispering the words against her cheek in a high, straining voice. The week end color had drained from his face, and his eyes were bright with desperation and fear. “You understand? Exactly as we’re told.”

She was sobbing words against his chest. “No, God, no, no, no—”

“Stop it, stop it!” he said harshly. He stared into the street, sliding his eyes over the familiar sights with pointless, terrible fear. They were exposed, helpless and vulnerable. The sun-splashed sidewalks, the calm façade of the church that faced their house, a shouting boy on a bicycle — all of this was hostile and evil to his eyes. “We must do what they want us to do,” he said, tightening his grip around her shoulders. “I’ll call my father. Please stop, please, please stop,” he said, in a breaking voice. And then he swung the door shut against the bright, menacing world.