Blessings (25 page)

George started. His answer came with a quaver. “That’s—I mean, that’s awfully dangerous, isn’t it? If he should find out—”

“There’s always a chance. I can’t tell you otherwise,” Jennie replied seriously. “But it’s also highly unlikely. Very. This sort of thing is done all the time in crime investigations, you know.”

“How’s it done?” The foot was tapping harder now.

“I honestly don’t know the exact mechanisms. We’ll find out when we see the district attorney.”

There was a long wait, during which the old man seemed to be searching Jennie’s face. She met his eyes frankly.

“All right. I trust you, Jennie. I’ll do it. If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t do it.”

She was touched. “Thank you for the trust, George.”

He hesitated. “It’s a matter of principle,” he said. “Being a good citizen. I suppose that sounds corny these days.”

“Not to me, it doesn’t.”

“Well, then, let’s go. What’s my next step?”

“Just this. When he calls again, which he will, you’ll set up an appointment. Meanwhile I’ll see the district attorney. If he okays this, then you’ll go to be wired, and that’s it. That’s the whole thing.”

She saw that George, in spite of his apprehension, was beginning to expand with pride.

“Wired,” he repeated. “It’s like something in the movies.”

“Like the movies and like life.”

George looked at his watch and stood up. “Gosh, I’ve got to get Martha at four, in ten minutes.”

Jennie rose, too, and held out her hand. “Don’t worry too much if you can help it,” she said kindly.

“I’ll try not to. It’s just having too many problems at one time, that’s the hard part.”

“Yes,” she said to herself when the door had closed behind the old man. “I know. Well do I know. Too many problems at one time.”

“I have a strong hunch that it’s our good mayor who put ‘Jones’ on to George Cromwell,” Jay said. “Obviously somebody with a motive told him about George’s problem.”

After the dance recital they had stopped at a delicatessen for corned-beef sandwiches and coffee. The privacy of a back booth, high-walled, was a relief after the recital, which had given Jennie more of a headache than she had already. The pounding music, the jerky, piston thrust of the dancers, all angular jutting knees and elbows, were supposed, she knew, to represent the fragmentation of modern life. But she herself was too fragmented to care.

“Yes,” Jay said, “the more I think of it, the surer I am. It’s Honest Chuck the mayor who’s behind this.”

“There’s so much I’ll never understand. A firm like Barker—would it make so much difference if they lost this one job when they’ve made, and are making, millions elsewhere?”

“So much difference? Seven or eight million difference, I’d estimate. But there’s more to it than money alone, Jennie. It’s a question of not wanting to lose. It’s a power game. They don’t want to be beaten by a handful of jackass nature lovers, which is how they see people like us. These people hang tough.”

“I suppose that’s why they are where they are, isn’t it?”

“That’s why a lot of very gentle, decent people are where they are, too, because their ancestors hung tough.”

Sadness, like a chill, swept over Jennie. For a moment she seemed to see the world as on a map, a maze of intersecting paths, an elaborate board game in which all the players were competing to cut one another off, so that no matter what anyone wanted to accomplish, even the most simple thing, which was just to be let alone, was not possible without fighting for it.

Jay continued thoughtfully. “There’s another angle we could take, you know, through the Environmental Protection Agency. Half the tract is wetlands.”

Called back to the subject, she agreed. “It’s another approach.”

“But it all takes time. Meanwhile we’ve got to stop them in their tracks. Or rather, old George will have to stop them. I’m surprised he’s willing to go ahead with it.”

“He’s scared to death, poor guy. But he feels committed. He said it’s a matter of principle. He’s such a fine old guy.”

“When are you going to see the DA?”

“I’ll call tomorrow and hope to see him in the afternoon.”

“You ought to have my dad along, don’t you think?”

“Of course. George can go later. He’s going to stay here for a day or two while Martha has tests at the hospital.”

Jay shoved the plate away. “I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”

“You’re tired,” Jennie said tenderly.

“To tell you the truth, I am. A bad thing happened today. One of our young men sort of fell apart in my office. His wife walked out on him yesterday, and he had to go to somebody to cry, I suppose, and he picked me.”

“What made her leave?”

“He says she told him she just got tired of being married, wanted an open marriage, all that stuff. But who knows? I wasn’t there, I didn’t live with them. But I’ll tell you, his tears got to me.” Jay reached across the table and grasped both her hands. “Oh, Jennie, what a blessed thing it is to believe in someone absolutely and completely, to know another human being as well as you know yourself! I want to be married to you so badly, I can’t wait.”

What wouldn’t Shirley give, she and all the others, for a man who would say this!

“You don’t answer me,” he said. Two small lines appeared between his eyebrows.

“Do I have to? Darling, you shouldn’t even need an answer. You ought to know.”

“I do, I do. Shall we go back to your place?”

She felt a flood of longing, and of sorrow also, because the longing for him was now diluted, and because his familiar hands, the nails with half-moons, and the cleft in his chin, and the single dark wave that kept falling over the temple were all not perfectly her own anymore. She had such queer feelings sometimes, as though they were about to disappear while she was looking at them.

And Jill, young Jill, was the sole reason for these queer feelings. When her eyes filled yesterday, the tears made a path down her cheeks and rolled inside her collar. Will I dream about her tears tonight? Will I ever see her again? Can I bear never seeing her again? But I don’t think she wants to see me—not on my terms, anyway. And I can’t see her on hers. How can I?

Jay was waiting. “But you said you were so tired,” she told him.

“All right, then. No love tonight.”

They went out to the street. Under a lamp he tilted her face up to his. “So sweet you are. I don’t mind tonight. I can wait. In a few more weeks I’ll never have to wait again, will I?”

I
t was Arthur Wolfe’s authority and name that had impressed young Martin, the district attorney, with the importance of their story. There had, after all, been no actual offer, in so many words, of a bribe, Jennie reflected. And Martin had remarked as much at the beginning.

“Not yet,” Arthur had told him. “But there will be one, make no mistake. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen our mayor and his friends in action here. I’ve been active in township affairs for a good many years, you know.”

The young man had nodded. “And county affairs, Mr. Wolfe.” He had smiled. “I’m remembering that article a while back where they called you ‘the watchdog.”

Arthur had laughed. “And now we have two dogs,” he had said, indicating Jennie, who had added somewhat grimly that the way things looked, they’d be needing a pack before they were finished.

Now Martin was questioning her. Wary and keen, he kept his eyes on hers as his questions and her answers flowed.

“So you really believe there’s a relationship between the man who shouted at the meeting and shoved you on the stairs and the one who telephoned Cromwell?”

“Yes, I do. To begin with, there’s his reputation. And you have only to look at him to feel the anger in him. But there have to be others too. A person or persons in Barker Developers, making connections. I know it’s all still vague, hard to tell where the connections begin or where they may end. But there are connections, I’m positive.”

She looked out of the window, where a worn-out, dark green shade, stopped at the halfway mark, revealed through the lower part of the pane a network of thin black branches and a complex webbing of twigs. A web without beginning or end. The waning wintry light was ominous, and she understood the primary cause of her dark mood.

Martin got up and switched on a fluorescent light that hung above the massive desk so that it could glare upon the stained blotter, scarred chairs, heaped papers, green metal file cabinets, and tan walls. No brightness could cheer this government-issue room. Nevertheless Martin’s tone was brisk.

“And you think this man Cromwell can handle it?”

Arthur looked uncertain. “He’s not a quick thinker, by any means, my old friend. But he’s brave, he’s willing to try, and we have no other choice.”

“You people really care,” Martin said rather gently.

“Somebody has to,” Jennie answered.

Martin tipped back in his chair. He made a steeple with his fingertips and reflected.

“Can he switch lunch places? What I mean is, at a lunch wagon on a country road there’s no way any man I send could make himself invisible. There mightn’t be more than two cars in the parking lot. Can’t Cromwell find a busier place in the center of town?”

Arthur shook his head. “The arrangement’s already made. George can’t ask to change it without arousing suspicion.”

“Well, then he’ll have to chance it all on his own. Without protection.”

“Are you thinking he’ll need any?” Arthur was troubled.

“Hardly likely. Our being there is more moral support than anything else. So he’ll just have to do without it.”

“George will manage,” Jennie said. She had a momentary picture of the old man’s proud stance and his proud words: “It’s a matter of principle. Being a good citizen.”

Martin stood up. “I want you to meet Jerry Brian. I put him on the case when you called.” He pressed a button in his desk, and a moment later another young man, almost a double of Martin himself, entered the room.

Martin made introductions, explaining, “Jerry’s the man who’ll get Cromwell ready.”

Arthur was interested in the mechanics of the procedure.

“Simple,” Brian explained. “There’s a microphone under your shirt, a recorder, some wires not much thicker than a hair, and that’s it. Simple.”

“Jerry will prepare your man early that morning. Have him here and ready by nine at the latest,” Martin directed.

“Tell him there’s nothing to worry about,” Brian added. “Nothing to worry about.”

The two of them are the same type, a reassuring one, Jennie thought. It’s the height, the physical strength,

and the calmness. In a strange way, although they were so different from him, they reminded her of Jay… .

Outside in the parking lot, Arthur gave a sigh of relief.

“Well, step number one is finished. I was afraid they might think we were making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“No, Martin understood. I think he was impressed that we’re doing all this when there’s nothing in it for us.”

“Just the shape of the country’s future. That’s all that’s in it for us.”

“Of course. Nothing personal, is what I meant.”

White hills loomed over the town. The afternoon was still, with the moist feel of snow in the air. Arthur paused.

“Listen to the silence. I love this north country. I hope you’ll come to love it too.”

Jennie just smiled.

“I believe you’re learning to, the way you’re fighting to save it.” They got into the car. “But you do look tired, Jennie. Are you working too hard?”

“Work has a way of piling up. I guess I’ve been doing too much.”

“Well, try to level off if you can. Take time to smell the roses.”

The cliche, which ordinarily in someone else’s mouth could have been irritating, now rang with kindness. It was—the word leapt into Jennie’s mind—fatherly. And a cold-water chill ran through her. He was fatherly to her, and she was lying to him.

“At least,” the old man continued, “you’ll have a break over Thanksgiving weekend, with nothing to do but sleep and eat. Enid’s getting in enough food for an army.”

It was, fortunately, not more than a ten-mile ride to the station where she was to take the train back to the city. All the way Arthur kept talking, so that she had to respond appropriately to his remarks about Barker Developers, the mayor, and George—or to his comments about Jay and Jay’s children—while through it all her internal voice was crying: Jill … what about Jill … ? I’m so afraid . . afraid.

I
was five degrees above zero when Jennie and Jay and the children arrived in the country for the long Thanksgiving weekend, but the air was dry, the sun dazzled the icicles that hung like stalactites* from the eaves, and one didn’t feel how cold it was. Indoors, the house was pleasantly crowded, for Jay’s brother and his grown children had arrived, along with various aunts, uncles, and cousins. Every fire was lit; every room had an arrangement of gold and bronze chrysanthemums; every little table bore a dish of grapes or nuts, of popcorn or chocolate or ginger cookies. Jennie was surrounded and bathed in the warmth of talk and the fragrances of wood smoke, food, and flowers. This was her first real introduction to the extended family, and she understood their natural curiosity. She had taken great pains to look good, and saw, as a result, their frank approval of her new white knit on which Enid’s pearls gleamed so softly.

Mom, after learning of Enid’s gift, had sent a pair of pearl bracelets from Florida. Playing with the bracelets at her cuif, she thought of Mom. A woman needs another woman to confide in. … At this moment Mom was probably boasting a little about her daughter to a circle of widows in the courtyard of the apartment house. Dusty palmettoes, heat and clatter … At this moment, too, in Chicago, Jill and Peter were meeting. Where? How? Jennie’s head spun.

“Well, thank goodness George got through safely yesterday.” Arthur Wolfe spoke into her right ear. “You’ve heard from him, of course.”

“Only that it was definitely an offer of payment, which we expected. He didn’t read the tape on the phone, so Jay and I will go over to his place and listen, if you’ll excuse us.”