The Devil Tree (17 page)

Mr. Borys looked anxious. “Mrs. Whalen had stopped by for a fitting for a new pair of shoes, and I noticed that the heel on one of the shoes she was wearing was slightly crooked. I offered to fix it on the spot, and as I removed the heel I discovered inside a tiny metal object—a cleverly hidden miniature transmitter. Of course I showed it to your mother, and once she realized that someone was spying on her, she became terribly upset.”

“What happened next?” I asked.

“She summoned me to check all her other shoes. Most
of them contained transmitters. And since I also fixed Mrs. Whalen’s handbags once in a while, I checked them as well. Like her shoes, most of them had transmitters hidden in them.”

Mr. Borys and I came to my corner.

“Mrs. Whalen confided in me later,” he said, as if to hand me a final gift of his memory of my mother before parting, “that an electronics expert she hired had removed other such transmitters hidden in her cars, as well as in all her telephones.”

“Did she ever tell you who had installed these listening devices, or why she was kept under surveillance?” I asked.

“One day when she came to my shop, your mother seemed quite ill—almost not herself,” said Mr. Borys, changing his tone. “Forgive me, but I think she might have been drinking. She told me that the surveillance still continued, and that she had found out that the orders to have her followed had come from someone high up in your father’s company—a man who was also your godfather.”

“Did she know why she was being followed?”

“Your mother told me that she was seeing a man she was very fond of—maybe even loved. He was a bit younger than herself, a writer of history and archaeology. Apparently your godfather suspected that this writer was after your mother’s money, and that’s why he put her under surveillance.”

•   •   •

Standing in a bar in Pittsburgh, Whalen ordered a drink. Close by, two men glanced at him and continued talking. Fragments of their conversation reached him above the din of the jukebox and the television set. The bartender
rinsed a glass, filled it with liquor, and pushed it toward Whalen.

Whalen leaned back and looked along the bar.

Resting her elbow on the counter, a young black girl settled herself on a stool, her legs dangling, her eyes fixed on Whalen. She was alone and on the prowl. Her looks and her manner aroused him, and he ordered another drink and moved over beside her.

“I hope you don’t mind my squeezing in here,” he said, putting his hand next to hers on the counter.

“I don’t mind,” she answered.

“I wonder if you might like to go out of town with me for a day or two.”

“What for?” she asked.

He looked straight at her. “I like your looks. A girl like you could make me do things no white woman could.”

She grinned. “Do you always come on as strong as that?”

“Only if I want the girl to come on strong right back.”

“What else did you have in mind?”

“To see a house. It’s in Whalenburg, West Virginia. A nice drive from Pittsburgh,” said Whalen.

The girl listened, sipping her drink. “Why should I go for a ride to some faraway barn with someone I don’t even know? What’s in it for me?”

“Money—and you might also like to see the house. It’s quite a place, with lots of rooms, old furniture, paintings.”

She played with her glass. “Are you going to rip off something there?”

“Just my memories,” said Whalen. “As a kid, I used to live in that house. It’s been closed for years now, but there’s still a lot of my stuff in it. I just don’t feel like walking alone through all those rooms.”

“Let me get this straight. Now, in the middle of the
night, you want to visit a ghost house outside of Shitsburgh?” She laughed.

Whalen smiled. “My mother used the same name for this town.”

“What is it that you want me to do there?” the girl asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Nothing that you haven’t already done, nothing that you don’t know how to do,” said Whalen. “And nothing that will hurt you while you do it.” He paused. “I’ll also make it worth your while. Do you have anything better to do?”

“No,” she said, finishing her drink. “We don’t have ghost houses in my family. And I always need cash. Do you know your way to Whalenburg?”

“That’s all I know,” said Whalen. “Let’s go.”

•   •   •

The blacks in this country make me think of certain birds I saw in Africa. Swooping up and down on air currents, they fly for hours with no effort, but on touchdown they pitch forward, skidding along on their stubby legs, straining to withstand the crash landing. Unable to slow down, they try to dig into the sand with their bellies, necks, and beaks, and when they are thus absorbed they will collide with anything in their path. Often you see one of these birds break its wing, its leg, its beak, or its spine. Unable to fly, the damaged creature will then struggle this way and that on the ground until it reaches its nest in the thicket. Watching these crippled birds, I always wondered whether they envied the freedom of their airborne relatives or whether they were glad to be grounded, with the earth for their only medium and haven, past their trial, never to soar again.

•   •   •

All the walls of the house, those painted with delicate designs as well as those covered with tapestries, portraits, or dim landscapes, had faded and become pastel. The carpets smelled musty, the parquet floor had long gone un-waxed. Whalen lifted the dust covers to look at the chairs; their delicate legs and intricately carved arms were still sharp in his memory. Small tables still stood in familiar places near window nooks and love seats, waiting to be used again, refusing to lose their purpose along with their polish.

•   •   •

In his mother’s bathroom, he quickly found his way to the secret built-in medicine cabinet under the sink. A few scattered vials of drugs, some of them professional samples, littered the shelves. Recalling how easily the family doctor had given her these drugs, Whalen picked up two sample packages and read through all the instructions, indications, and contraindications: “for the relief of symptoms of depression”; “for the reversal of psychotic behavior patterns”; “for management of overt hostility associated with organic brain disease”; “recommended only for patients under close medical supervision”; “to alleviate severe apathy, agitation, psychomotor retardation”; “extreme caution required when given to patients with history of alcoholic consumption”; “overdosage may produce hysteria, stupor, coma, shock, respiratory depression, and death.”

•   •   •

The girl switched off the overhead light in his mother’s bedroom and turned on a smaller one in the walk-in closet. Leaving the closet door open, she eased her stockings down, unhooked her bra and hung it on the doorknob, and stepped out of her underpants. Without a word she walked over to Whalen, reached down, took his hand and raised it to her breast, then pushed it lower and pressed it against her warm, dry flesh. She threw back her head and sat down next to him on the bed, waiting.

In the dim light that came from the closet, Whalen studied her squared-off cheekbones, her slanted eyes, her full-lipped mouth and the way the sharp features of her head contrasted with the smooth contours of her body.

He thought of her as his prey, an African girl whom he, the white hunter from across the sea, might eye in Mombasa. Her life in the slums of Pittsburgh was a jungle to him, and to her he was as out of reach as his childhood in this house now was. That’s why, with her, he could give in to his urges and abandon himself to what he would otherwise dare only in thoughts. By imposing his desire on the girl, he might also arrive at surrendering to her, and in his surrender he might succeed in drawing her into the scheme of his thought. Here, among the relics of his past, he might escape the past with this black girl, who on her own could never have entered this house while there was life in it.

A hunter about to be freed by his prey, he kissed her neck, slid down on the bed, and kissed her mound. She threw her thigh over his head, and poising herself astride his face, she forced herself down, her flesh grinding against
his lips, enveloping him until, as he sought to give her pleasure, he was left scarcely able to breathe, fighting for air that now only she could give him. His pulse raced. Once, skin-diving in Africa, he had come upon a sea snake, the unchallenged ruler of the deep, coiled in the thick coral. In a surge of fright he had moved away, but the snake had followed effortlessly behind him until it spiraled serenely at his side, its lidless eyes watching him. He remembered how quickly he had tired, how defeated he had felt, and how he had hated that creature, which, equipped by nature with only one light lung, could breathe more effectively than he could, for all of the two big tanks he carried on his back. Now, aroused by the girl and no longer able to control himself, he envied the snake’s ability to slow down, to control the pace of its heartbeat even at the peak of its excitement.

•   •   •

He approached the bed and stood quietly beside it. She was asleep, her head on the pillow at the level of his knees. He looked at the remnants of her makeup, cracked by tiny wrinkles under her eyes and matted with perspiration at the base of her nose. As he rested his hand on the blanket, it occurred to him that she was only pretending to be asleep, actually anticipating his touch. He drew his hand back.

•   •   •

Whalen opened a portfolio that contained various letters. Some of them were letters he himself had received in
the past. The first one was written on his father’s business stationery.

Dear Jonathan,

On July 27, I sent back to the summer camp a form indicating that you would be coming home by train, and I enclosed our check for $53.61. The camp’s people will purchase your train ticket and give you $15.00 traveling money to cover meals and other incidentals. To make you comfortable, we are getting you a parlor-car seat in the Pullman. They will serve you lunch and dinner in the same car, and the porter will tell you when to get off. You can give him a dollar tip for the trip to Pittsburgh, and the same to the waiter. Your schedule is as follows: on August 18th, the camp closes at 10
A.M
. The people at the camp will put you on the train at Plymouth, Indiana. Your train’s name is the Fort Pitt. It leaves at 10:56
A.M
. and arrives in Pittsburgh at 7:45
P.M.
You can tell the porter I will be on hand to meet you. I’m sure he knows who I am. Enjoy the rest of your stay at the camp, and come back full of vim and vigor. Have a good trip.

Cordially,
Your father

He picked up another letter neatly typed on the company stationery.

My dear Son,

I have received two letters from you, and they give-me much pleasure because, as you know, I miss you very much and am looking forward to being with you in another eight or nine
days. Your mother and I talk about you every day. Since she is more in touch with your school than I am, she knows how well you are getting along there, which of course I expected. I’m glad that, where you are, the weather is fine because it’s anything but fine here, raining and altogether disagreeable. I assume you are playing tennis and swimming every day, which is good for your health. Keep up the good work and take care of yourself. We look forward to seeing you soon.

With lots of love,
Father

On the letter’s bottom-left corner were traces of a sentence that was typed, then erased, by his father’s secretary: “Dictated but not read.”

Another old letter, this one from the office of the mayor of Pittsburgh, was addressed to Jonathan James Whalen, Esq.

Dear Jonathan,

No words of mine can ease your sorrow at the loss of your father, but I want you to know that my thoughts are with you. There is little else we mortals can do than to remember your father in our prayers.

My warmest regards,
John Lee Overholt,
Mayor

The next letter, from the dean of his college at Yale, Jonathan recalled well; he had received it shortly before going abroad.

The committee has reviewed your record for the spring semester. As you know, you failed English,
political science, history, and anthropology. You also failed to raise your Grade Point Index to the minimum requirement. As your record to date gives no substantive proof that you are capable of academic discipline and achievement, it is the committee’s recommendation that you be dismissed from the college. After due consideration, I have accepted their recommendation and have instructed the registrar that you shall not be permitted to enroll for the coming semester. I regret the necessity of this action and wish you every success in the future.

In the same stack, he found a letter to his father, handwritten on White House stationery and signed by the President.

My Dearest Friend,

As I embark on this campaign of putting my pledges into effect for the benefit of our country, one of my great comforts is the knowledge that our party will not lack the needed funds to bring the message of my electoral crusade to all our fellow Americans. I cannot begin to thank you for your donation—the most generous in our party’s history—but I wish to assure you of my deep gratitude; both as a friend and as a Republican, you have done a magnificent job.

With all best wishes to you, Katherine, and Jonathan—

Next to the President’s letter he came across a Yale University honorary Doctor of Laws citation.

Horace Sumner Whalen, leader of an industry and founder of a city, your career has been
a living example of the American dream. Combining the resources of West Virginia with those of other places, you have caused a riverside to blossom forth as a rich industrial town, which bears your name. You have contributed significantly to your country’s industrial potential—a major factor in maintaining our present uneasy peace, and the foundation for an increasingly high standard of living. Sensitive to the dangerous state of world affairs, you have devoted yourself to understanding the causes of present world tensions and to alerting your countrymen to the need for intelligent action to avoid the tragedy of another world war.