Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

There were more phone calls in the afternoon and Mr Benjamin, the lawyer, came to dinner, so Nick ate in the kitchen, catching only bits of the talk in the dining room. No one had to tell him, however. It was there in Nora’s afternoon paper. WELLES TO RE-CALL COCHRANE. NEW COCHRANE TESTIMONY MONDAY. He’d overheard Mr Benjamin say that it was a typical Welles tactic to tie up the weekend papers in speculation. By the time Monday rolled around, people would think she’d already testified and it would hardly matter what she actually said. But it mattered to Nick. He hoped it would be about the shirt, floating away. When he went to bed that night, his mother told him not to worry about anything and he nodded, as if they’d both forgotten to pretend he didn’t know a thing.

The reporters were out in front again the next morning, even though it was Saturday. Nick’s father went out to tell them he had nothing to say, but they lingered anyway, drinking coffee and looking up at the house, waiting for clues. No one came. Nick’s father was shut in the study on the phone while Nora and his mother fitted her dress for the United Charities that night, because now his mother said they had to go, so Nick was invisible again. It was easy to disappear. When his father came out of the study, his face pale and distracted, he looked right past him, not seeing anything. The phone rang, and like a sleepwalker he turned back into the room. Nick had the odd feeling of not having been there at all. His mother told him to go outside-they were building a snow fort across the street-but he wanted to stay close to his father, ready to help. He knew he couldn’t leave him now, alone despite the phone calls. Someone had to be there.

He was sitting listlessly in the club chair after lunch when he heard his father in the hall, putting on his boots. Where was he going? He looked out the front window, checking the street, then went back down the hall to the kitchen, obviously heading for the back door. Nick didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jacket in the mud room and pulled on his boots without bothering to close the buckles. When he stepped out into the snowy courtyard, he could see his father already turning the alley corner.

He followed about a block behind, not even worrying if his father turned around, trusting his invisibility. His father walked past the Senate Office Building, then turned down the hill, toward Union Station. He wasn’t going out for milk or the afternoon papers. No errand took you to the station. Nick watched the herringbone coat cross D Street, not stopping for the light, then weaving through the moats of clear sidewalks between the banks of snow. Nick picked up his own pace. There were always crowds at the station, and he might lose him.

He darted past the line of taxis and into the great hall, a roar of loudspeaker announcements and newsboys and shoes clicking on marble. Nick moved to the side of the room-a kid alone might be suspicious-and walked quickly past the waiting benches crammed with delayed passengers. His father stopped and looked around, but Nick was lucky, hidden by a swarm of people heading for the track gates. Besides, you never saw what you didn’t expect to see. Then his father went over to the row of telephone booths and, taking off his hat, sat down and closed the folding door. Nick waited by the newsstand, trying to make sense of it. Why come to Union Station to make a phone call when that was all he’d been doing at home? But he hadn’t bought a ticket, that was the main thing. He wasn’t going anywhere. Nick stared blankly at the magazines, warm with relief.

The trip home, up the hill, was longer, and Nick kept his distance, letting the coat stay several blocks ahead. He could probably spin off now, avoiding any risk of being seen, but he wanted to be sure. It was only when his father turned into the alley, back home, that he felt safe again. The sky was darkening for another snowfall, but he couldn’t go in yet. Not so soon. Instead he went around the block to the front and pretended to roll snow with the other kids for the big fort. When they started throwing snow, he was the first to get hit, because he hadn’t seen it coming. He was looking over the reporters’ hats toward the house, protective as a guard dog.

He ate dinner alone again, then went upstairs to watch his parents dress for the ball, his father in a tuxedo with jet cufflinks and shiny shoes, his mother in a tight shoulderless top and a long skirt that swooped out with stiff petticoats. The day was almost over and nothing had happened. Nick kept glancing at his father, wondering if he knew he’d been followed, but he seemed unaware, smoking and fixing his bow tie with some of his old spirit. His mother was wearing her good necklace, the one with the garnet pendant, and she was smiling in the mirror, so that Nick thought maybe their good luck had come back again. It had been like this a hundred times before, the warm busyness before a party, the air rich with powder and aftershave.

The telephone rang.

“Now what?” his mother said, annoyed. “We’ll be late.”

His father answered the phone and listened for a minute without saying a word. Then he put the receiver back gently, as if he were afraid of waking someone, and looked up at them, pale.

“I have to talk to your mother, Nick,” he said simply, and Nick knew that it had come, whatever it was. He glanced at his mother, but her eyes, anxious now, were fixed on his father.

“I’ll be there in a minute, honeybun,” his mother said absently, and Nick, dismissed, went out and closed the door. At first he could hear nothing, then a quiet undertone of voices, a moan. He had to know. He crept back to his room, then through the door of the connecting bathroom, the way he did to fool Nora, watching her vacuum. But now the spy game was real. The door to his parents’ bedroom was open just a crack, and at first he heard only conspiratorial whispers. Then their voices rose, his mother’s a kind of wail.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” his father said. “I couldn’t.”

“ Now?” his mother said, inexplicably.

“I didn’t know it would be tonight. I’m sorry.”

“No, I don’t believe any of it,” his mother said, and Nick could hear a cry beginning in her voice. “What about us? What about us, Walter?”

“I’m sorry,” his father said quietly. Then, more audibly, “Come with me.”

“Are you crazy?” his mother said. “You must be crazy. Everything-” She broke off, sobbing.

“Livia, please,” his father said.

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, and Nick froze.

For a moment he heard nothing, but he didn’t dare push the door open. Then his father was talking, so quietly that Nick missed the next exchange.

He heard his mother take a quick few steps. “No, you can’t,” she said. “It’s all-Walter, this is crazy. You can’t-”

“Livia, I have to,” he said calmly. “Come with me.”

“Go to hell,” she said, almost spitting the words.

“Livia, please,” his father said.

Nick heard a new sound, then realized she was hitting his father’s chest. “Go,” she said. “Go.”

“Believe me, I never thought-”

“Never thought,” she said, her voice unfamiliar with scorn.

“Never. I love you.”

Now his mother was crying.

“I’ll call tomorrow. The way I said.”

“I don’t care,” his mother said faintly.

“Don’t say that.” Nick heard his father move toward the door, then stop. “You are so beautiful,” he said softly.

For a moment there was absolute silence. Then, “I hope you die,” his mother said.

Nick heard the door close. He rushed into the room and saw his mother sink onto the bed, her head drooping, as if the crying had made her limp. His stomach heaved. Once he had seen a man lying on the sidewalk downtown, people surrounding him and calling for an ambulance, and he’d felt this same fear, of life stopping before he could run away. Then he heard his father below, and he bolted from the room, clumping down the stairs and racing along the hall until, breathless, he caught him at the back door, his coat already on.