Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

Congressman Welles was talking again. “But I suppose once in a while you find time in your busy schedule to shop for yourself?”

“Yes.”

“And you never bought shirts from Miss Cochrane?”

“Was she the salesgirl? I don’t remember.”

“She remembers you, Mr Kotlar. She remembers receiving envelopes from you during these little shopping trips. Does that refresh your memory?”

“She is mistaken.”

“She even remembers your size. Fifteen and a half, thirty-three. Can you at least remember that for the committee? That your size?”

His father smiled. “I prefer a thirty-five,” he said. “A longer sleeve.”

“A longer sleeve,” Welles repeated sarcastically. “Maybe you’re still growing. You’d better watch your nose then. They say it gets longer every time you tell a lie.”

“I’m watching yours too, Congressman.”

More laughter, and this time Nick got the joke. He remembered Pinocchio, the sick feeling in his stomach when the boy went to Donkey Island and couldn’t get back. He felt it now again, that dread, being scared while everyone around him was having a good time. But his father didn’t look scared. His smooth, lean face was calm, as if he knew it was all just a movie.

“And so this week’s round ends in a draw,” the announcer was saying, “as both sides retire to their corners to come back to fight another day.”

But it wasn’t a boxing match, it was a trial, and Welles was the only fighter who came back in the last clip, surrounded by hand-held microphones on the windy Capitol steps.

“I don’t think there can be a doubt in anyone’s mind that this country is under attack,” he said, his face grave, looking straight at the camera. “These people are using lies and tricks the same way their comrades overseas are using tanks and machine guns to undermine the free world. We saw it in the Hiss case and we’re seeing it again here. Walter Kotlar is a Communist and he’s going to lose his shirt-no matter what size he says it is.”

Then all at once the screen brightened, flooded with Florida sun as the newsreel switched to water-skiing formations in Cypress Gardens. Nick blinked in the light. A man and woman in bathing suits were receiving crowns. After a rooster crowed to end the newsreel, the screen went dark. Nick watched the curtain close, then open again to start the feature, but he was no longer paying attention to any of it. Nora laughed at some of the movie, but Nick was thinking about the newsreel and missed the point of the jokes and then had to pretend to laugh when everyone else did. He could still see Welles’s wide linebacker’s face, eyes peering out as if he thought he could make you squirm just by looking hard enough. He was like one of those guys who kept poking you in the chest until you had to fight. But every time Nick’s father hit back, he’d get madder. He’d never stop now. The newsreel must be a few days old. Nick wondered what had happened since.

After the movie, on the street, Nora was uneasy. “Don’t tell your mother. She wouldn’t like it.”

“I won’t.”

“He’s a wicked man, the Senator.”

“He’s not a senator.”

“Well, whatever he is.” She sighed, then brightened. “Still, I’ll say this for your father. He gave as good as he got.”

Nick looked up at her. “No, he didn’t,” he said.

Nick could see the Capitol dome from his window if he craned his head to the left, but when he lay in the bed, facing straight ahead, everything disappeared except the tree branches, thin and brittle now in the cold. In the faint light from the street they quivered when the wind shook them, too stiff to bend. Downstairs the dinner party was still going on. Nick could hear the voices rising up through the floorboards, his mother’s occasional laugh. Earlier she had been nervous, her red fingernails brushing over ashtrays as she rearranged things on tables, moving the flower vase twice before it seemed right. Then the doorbell, Nick helping with the coats in the hall, the cocktails and the clink of ice cubes, his polite farewells as they finally went in to dinner, his mother’s promise to be up later as she touched his cheek goodnight, the air around her warm with smoke and perfume. He had listened on the stairs for a while, straining to make out words in the familiar hum, then come up to bed, lying here watching the branches and waiting. She always looked in while the coffee was being served. But it was his father who came. Nick saw the shadow first against the window, then turned to see him standing in the doorway, taller than he’d been in the newsreel.

“Nicku, you still up?”

“Uh-huh. Where’s Mom?”

His father came over and sat on the edge of the bed, moving the covers up under Nick’s chin. Nick caught the faint whiff of aftershave. “She and Father Tim are going over old times again. You know what that’s like.”

Nick smiled. “They’re not even old.”

“Well, they used to be younger. Anyway, your mother enjoys it. Father Tim’s good for her that way.”

“Does he hear her confession?”

“Tim?” His father laughed. “I don’t think Tim has time for church business. He’s what we call a dinner priest-here’s a story and pass the port.”

“Nora says you don’t like priests. She says you’re anticlerical,” Nick said, trying out the word.

“She’d better watch out or I’ll get anti-Nora.”

“So why does he come here, if you’re-”

“Well, he doesn’t come for me. He and your mother go back a long way. Since they were your age. To tell you the truth, I think he was sweet on her.”

“Dad. He’s a priest.”

“Lucky for us, huh?” his father said, gently brushing the hair off Nick’s forehead. “How about some sleep?”

“When Grandma talks to you sometimes, what language is that?”

“Czech. You know that.”

“Like when you say Nicku?”

“Uh-huh. If you put a u on the end of a name, it’s a way of showing affection. Sort of a Nick-name.”

“Dad.”

“Why do you ask?”

“You told the man you didn’t speak Czech.”

“What man?” he said, his hand stopping on Nick’s forehead.

“The man at the hearing. I saw you in a newsreel today.”

“You did, huh?” But Nick could tell his father was stalling, not sure what to say. “What did you think?”

“ Do you speak it?”

Nick’s father sat up. “Not in the way he meant. A few words. Half the time I don’t know what Grandma’s saying. Why? Did you think I wasn’t telling the truth?”

Nick shrugged. “No.” He paused. “Why did he want to know that, anyway?”

“He wanted to make people think I was foreign. Some people don’t like foreigners. They’re afraid, I guess. But let’s not worry about it, okay? It’s just politics. It’s his way of running for office, that’s all.”

“I hope he loses.”

His father smiled. “So do I, Nick. Maybe we’ll get Father Tim to send up a few prayers, what do you say? If we can get him out the door. Now, how about some sleep?” But he stayed on the bed, looking at Nick. “Does it bother you, all this business?”

“Why did that woman say she knew you if she didn’t?”

“I don’t know, Nick,” his father said, slumping a little so the light caught the shiny waves of his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe she thought she did. Maybe she met me someplace and decided she didn’t like me for some reason. Maybe she’s crazy-you know, the way people make things up? Like when you’re afraid of the dark-you think there’s someone there even when there isn’t. Well, everybody’s afraid of the dark now. So they keep seeing things.”

“Grownups aren’t afraid of the dark.”

“It’s an expression. I mean afraid in general. They’re afraid of all kinds of things, so they keep seeing bogeymen everywhere. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, Nick. Maybe you can’t explain a bogeyman-he’s just there.”