Leon Uris (5 page)

“Listen to what he is saying, real good.”

“Daddy, I love you and I respect your judgment. But one thing I know better than you is Thornton
Tomtree. His whole life is like a chess game where he’s four moves ahead of Bobby Fisher. If I let Thornton collar me, I’ll walk behind him with a broom and dust pan.”

“You ready to shut up for a minute?” Mo said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re going to be real good at whatever you do, son. Let’s talk a little black-ass reality. We’re still pushing against the door for equality. No matter how incredible a young black man may be, the road for him is still going to be torture. You’ll become the house nigra and you’ll be forced, all your life, to try to act and live in a white world. No matter what profession you choose and no matter how good you are at it, you’re still going to be thought of by the color of your skin.”

“Maybe the blacks aren’t going to take it anymore, Daddy. I’m talking about the civil rights movement.”

“That’s going to be a long, bloody struggle, and in the end it’s still the white man who’s going to be boss,” Henry answered.

“Thornton Tomtree might not make all the high-and-mighty plans he has. He wants me to be his doodoo bird. I think I’d rather struggle through and have my freedom.”

“Or learn one day how you missed the boat.”

“Why you so high on Thornton, Daddy?”

“Because I’ve never seen a genius like him. It’s the kind of genius that has to be served. If he stays out of trouble, if he learns his right foot from his left, if he learns everything you can teach him, he’s going to end up one of the most powerful men in America. I’ve been watching you young men most of your life, Darnell. If you become indispensable to him, you’re in for a real ride.” Now Daddy Jefferson came down with a pointing finger. “In my opinion, you’ll always have a boss. A boss that you can control is the best one to have.”

For two years Darnell kept a sharp eye on Thornton Tomtree’s invention. The Bulldog was doing spell-binding work. Thornton rebuffed a dozen offers to join the top national electronics companies.

He did not exactly know what he ultimately wanted from the Bulldog. More and more electronic research and product appeared around the country. Thornton concentrated on understanding an overall pulsation of the computer phenomenon.

Darnell was lured in. With the way opened for anything, he started his own collection of data to try to find an indispensable niche where the Bulldog would fit.

Columbia came courting, to no avail. Darnell was now in his corner in the junkyard. Backup point guard for the elegant Providence College team might better suit his future.

For the next couple of years he wanted to collect and analyze every bit of business information he could get his hands on. Providence would serve him well.

“Henry, don’t take the boat out today. I don’t like the direction of the wind. Could kick up some rogue waves.”

“Moses, that hole is full of sea bass, and they’re boiling with lust,” Henry said, tossing his fishing gear into the rear of the pickup.

Mo grabbed his arms. “Don’t go out today. It just don’t feel right.”

“You get the head and tail.”

When the bass were running, the best fishing was at Noah’s Rock with its nasty little riptide that ran between the rock and the beach, a quarter of a mile away. When the incoming tide overpowered the outgoing tide in the rip, fish came in like a blizzard.

But this day the power of the churning and surging sea proved too much for the old converted lobster boat to outrun. A rogue wave a dozen feet high bashed the rock, then sucked the water out of the inlet until one could see the bottom. Behind it came swells that literally hurled the boat into Noah’s Rock, where it burst apart.

Henry Tomtree was so bashed up, he had to be buried in a closed coffin.

Thornton did not weep at the wake or funeral. He did not hear or have a remembrance of Darnell’s entreaties. The numbing pain of his first great loss plunged him deeper into himself where he worked ’round the clock, hunched over his maze of wires. After a month he allowed himself a single groan of pain.

Like new, he showed up at the yard to go over the accounts with Moses.

“The books are a mess, Mo,” Thornton said.

“Those ain’t the books. The books are up here,” Mo answered, pointing a forefinger at his forehead.

“Well, I’ve got to get them in some kind of order. We’re in probate. I don’t just inherit. I inherit what is left. Mo, I’m scared of losing the yard.”

Mo rubbed Thornton’s hair. “You won’t lose the yard, son. Henry was very good to me. I’ve put away a creditable sum for just such an occasion.”

A month later, a very lonely Moses Jefferson took a last look around the kingdom of tortured metal. He stood by the basketball court. “Catch the ball! Throw it to the open man!”

The light was burning in Thornton’s shack. Seemed like it was always burning.

Mo felt he was waiting around these days, just waiting around. He knew he’d be going off to sleep soon.

TROUBLESOME MESA, 2008

Quinn, I told myself, keep it simple. Literature is not appreciated these days. Say your piece and get off the stage. What is this! Only 2:14
A.M.

What would Rita and I and the kids do after the election? If we were defeated on the campaign issues, we’d suck it up and go on with life. To have come within touching distance of the White House and have the door slammed in your face, rejected, is another matter. I could take some solace in the fact that it was Alexander Horowitz who was defeated and not Quinn O’Connell. Reality says this will go with us to our graves and largely dictate the lives of our children.

I scan the speech. Well, it needs some more touching up, but not now.

I feel a glow. Rita is near. I’d know her presence from a half mile away. Driving up to the ranch house, I can tell by the feel of it if she is home or not.

She floated in from the bedroom without me hearing, but I knew she was there, behind me. Her fingers are at my temples. Nobody groans like I groan.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“No matter how I put it to the American people tomorrow, it doesn’t sound real. Winning the Democratic nomination didn’t seem real, either. But this, it’s unabashed madness. Want to wake up Greer,
honey? She’s got to set up the press conference.”

“Greer is in la-la land. I turned it over to Kohlmeyer before I hit the bed.”

Quinn phoned out.

“Kohlmeyer speaking.”

“Pete, it’s Quinn. How are we looking for tomorrow?”

“The saints are marching into Troublesome Mesa, boss. They’re buzzing around like sunset gnats hunting for a piece of dead skin. Quinn, if I can push this into the noon spot in Denver, we’ll break at eleven on the coast right before their noon news and at three in the afternoon on the East Coast, giving us a flying start on the evening news.”

“It will make no difference this time, Pete,” Quinn said.

Peter Kohlmeyer, as everyone else on the staff, wanted to know what Quinn was up to. Pete held his tongue with a gnarl between his teeth.

“Pete, this is largely in the hands of President Tomtree. His reaction could change the entire election.”

“Sonofabitch is too smart to shoot himself now,” Pete said.

Give up, Quinn. Surrender to Rita. She offers everything to comfort you. Lord, I no sooner hit the pillow than I’m streaking through space. Rita knows what is lovely to me. I feel the warmth of protection, and relief in knowing I’ll still have her when all of this is over.

Christ, I can’t sleep, but at least the atmosphere is comfortable.

The details of my birth have eluded me all my life and never fail to grate on me.

I try to remember back, some tiny connection with my infant life, but everything I recall began in Troublesome Mesa.

Dan and Siobhan had gone through a half dozen winters of discontent when I came onto the scene.

TROUBLESOME MESA, 1953

Dan was a Marine, the most tender and loving of men but faced with the most sorrowful of circumtances. Siobhan, equally comfortable in jeans or behind the controls of the Cessna, found Dan’s faith and understanding giving them the power of many.

In the springtime the snowpack in the high mountains melted and let go its cargo, the journey turning it into great, gushing rivers. The roar of it created quivers in the ranch house.

As water poured into the valley, it left little lakes and tiny beaches filled with hungry but wise mountain trout in the high country.

The ranchers read the winds, predicted the rains, knew the value of crop by touch.

In came the hummingbirds, skinny and exhausted from their flight north. Consuelo put up several pieces of red glass to attract them and tell them they had a free handout at the O’Connell ranch. Feeders of sugar water and red dye were set out, and by twilight hundreds of hummers had arrived. A bully, the rufous, larger than the “ruby throats,” spent hours near the feeder chasing off the little ones. They went into WWII dogfights and battled to get to the food.

With little light finding its way up from town at night, the O’Connell ranch sat in darkness, allowing a star-gazing extravaganza. And one would have to wonder if the earth was truly the center of the universe.

Now came the ballet dancers: showers of yellow, red, and purple columbines, each mass filling its own hill or meadow or cliff side to radiate its vibrance and then leave, far too soon. Dan and Siobhan chose their own magic meadow and made love in the grass. And he laughed at the whitecapped
demigods hovering above them.

Dan did whatever a good man had to do to ease the heartache of their life. With Pedro Martinez firmly in control of the operation and Siobhan doing the books, Dan was able to win a seat as state senator.

From Pedro, Dan learned to hunt and fish and canoe, how to survive if lost in the mountains, how to mend fences, drive and buy and sell cattle, read the fast-moving weather fronts roaring down their valley.

The fine warm weather didn’t last long enough, though. It didn’t have to, because stands of millions of aspen trees, propagated through their roots, covered the slopes on both sides of the valley. Their translucent pale green leaves trembled at the slightest breeze. The Mexicans called them “money for the pope.”

In the second or third week of September came the announcement that winter was not far behind as the leaves turned solid gold with the occasional dark green spike of a conifer piquing the stand.

Spring and autumn were muddy and sloppy from snowflakes holding too much water. Around Thanksgiving, as the real cold snapped in, the flakes became so light you could blow them off a branch with the slightest breath.

Father Sean was coming!

For three years he had been in one of those godawful places in Africa where only a Catholic missionary would go. Ravaged by ailments, he had been recalled to the States. The three years in Africa had earned him the respect due a full and sacrificing priest in the eyes of Paul Cardinal Watts, archbishop of Brooklyn. The cardinal sequestered Sean.

The priest needed healing. A light course of duty was set up in which he could spend part of his time at nearby St. John’s in study and teaching.

Cardinal Watts agreed that a month off in Colorado would put some roses back in his cheeks. Father Sean was picked up at the Denver airport and whisked to the small aircraft side of the field. He nearly fainted with fear when his sister, little Siobhan, took the controls of the Cessna. She had waited long for this golden moment and flew it high and down into Troublesome’s dirt runway flawlessly.

Another surprise—an apartment, Sean’s apartment, had been added to the ranch house! It had everything from his own vehicle to a futuristic sound system, to a mighty fireplace, to a veranda which afforded a grand vista.

At the fire, Father Sean’s initial fire, they gathered around. Siobhan unlaced her brother’s shoes and slipped his feet into a pair of woollies. He groaned with delight, and soon the smoke of his pipe danced with the smoke of the fire.

“How’s it going to go?” Dan asked.

“Cardinal Watts is the kind of man you want to work hard for.”

Sean sipped a rare velvety cognac, audible in his contentment, then stared from one to the other.

“Siobhan, you’ve been back to Brooklyn how many times?”

“Eight, ten. I don’t know exactly.”

“Everyone glories in the life you’ve made in Colorado. But that room at the end of the hall stays locked.”

“You know what happened,” Dan said. “For a time I traveled to God knows where to see fertility doctors. I even dropped my pants for Jewish doctors. They all said sterility from mumps is rare, and there is a chance I may become whole again.”

“How long do you plan to wait?”

Dan’s paws fell into his lap, and he lowered his eyes. “We may be ready to adopt,” he said in a whisper.

“We looked into our Catholic agency. Somehow, it seems very risky, getting an ill child, and after months, maybe years, of waiting,” Siobhan said.

Father Sean tapped out his pipe. “I did some investigating of my own,” he said. “Cardinal Watts’ closest aide is a Monsignor Gallico. He is the diocese fixer. When I told the cardinal of your situation, he said, ‘Why don’t you talk it over with the monsignor?’”

Both of them tensed noticeably.

“You don’t have to do much more than meet Monsignor Gallico to realize he is a wheeler-dealer, a real Jesuit. In the past few weeks he showed me a number of infants, but I just couldn’t square any of them in terms of the ranch and the mountains. Just before I was to fly out here, Gallico called me, very excited. One particular baby he had been tracking was found. The child had lived with his birth parents for its first year and was placed in a convent with special attention told to be given. I have a suspicion that the monsignor might have known about this child all along and showed me the others as a straw man. You know the church, we’ve got to play out our mysteries and secrets.”

Siobhan roused herself more than once. Father Sean filled and lit his pipe again.

“What do you know about this child?” Dan asked tentatively.

Sean shrugged. “The church has a massive bureaucracy for handling orphans, welfare, and foster homes. I am sad to report that most of our infants up for adoption are from unwed and often underage mothers. Fathers gone. The trick is,” he went on, “if you don’t take a newly born, you should know as much as possible about the child’s first year.”

“How so?” Dan asked, puzzled.

“In the first year human-to-human touch is paramount. It is nearly always the key to future behavior. I do know that this was a wanted child
and the object of great affection. He trusts the nuns, who do a great deal of fawning over him.”

“Sounds to me like the monsignor might have known this child from the beginning,” Dan said. “Is he the father, Sean?”

“I don’t know. I am barred from asking. However, when Gallico brought this child to see me, there was no further reason to wonder why he is so special. He’s handsome, he’s smart, he’s cuddly. The child is wonderful with the infants at the orphanage, a little gentleman. There is a glow about him I can’t put into words.”

Sean dug into his worn wallet, torn and with green spots from African fungus. Siobhan reminded herself to get him a new one tomorrow. Sean held the billfold up to the light and drew out a photograph.

“Oh, God, he’s beautiful!” Siobhan cried. Dan knew, from her reaction, it was a done deal, beyond his input or personal reaction. He took the photograph and he, too, melted.

“I’m going to have to ask you, Father Sean, are we to know nothing about his parents?”

“Nothing.”

“How was Monsignor Gallico mixed up in this?” Dan wondered aloud. “I love my church. The ranch is filled with shrines. But I don’t fancy getting mixed up in secrets and deceit. Are they covering the child so because it was conceived by a priest or a nun?”

“Dan!” Siobhan snapped. “You know the rules.”

“It will be pretty much the same with any child you adopt,” Father Sean said.

Dan took the photograph again. He never again wanted to see the anguish on Siobhan’s face when she had learned her husband was sterile.

“It may sound cruel, but the more you and a child know of its past, the more you open your doors for strangers to come and live in the house. I’ve been there when children meet a birth parent, and it can shatter a
life. It wrecks dreams that should be left as dreams.”

“And who makes that judgment?”

“Centuries of a priesthood charged with men’s and women’s most sacred and secret problems.”

“Secrets to the grave. Lies to the grave.”

“If you don’t know and tell your son you don’t know, you’ll be telling him the truth.”

“God damned, Gallico’s Jesuit double-talk.”

“Dan,” Siobhan said, “what is tomorrow night and the nights thereafter going to be like if we turn this down?”

“I can’t tell you how many times I passed the fishing hole and saw myself with my son. How many times we were at the ball games together. How many times…these things are always complicated, aren’t they, Father?”

“Life is complicated.”

“All right, Siobhan, we have a son,” Dan said.

“I’m glad, and let his life begin the moment he steps foot on the ranch. I caution you that sometimes a child’s drive to find his birth parents is insatiable. The only thing you can do is raise him with wisdom and love. His life can be made so full, his need to know may simply fade. Make it so he won’t want any parents but you.”

Dan leaned against the fireplace. The mantel, the picture gallery of all Irish homes, was empty.

“God has given us everything,” Dan said. “We can’t take our failings out on the child. What is his name?”

“The sisters call him Patrick.”

“That’s Irish enough.”

“Patrick O’Connell,” Siobhan said three times over.

“You know,” Dan said, “in the Corps we almost entirely knew each other by our last name. Do you suppose we might call our son Quinn Patrick O’Connell?”

“That was in my line of thinking as well,” his wife
said.