He had arrived home considerably earlier, totally startling the staff who had not expected him till his usual hour. He told them not to fuss, that all he wanted was tea. Miss O’Connor, the biddy who had been with him for more than twenty years, informed him that Mrs. Stewart was resting in her bedroom. Let her rest, Mr. Stewart replied, I don’t mind dining alone. Miss O’Connor fluttered away.
Returning several minutes later’ gesturing for the kitchen staff to hurry. Mr. Stewart drank the tea and ate the tiny crustless sandwiches and, much to his surprise, gorged on the chocolate pastries, all of this under the careful eye of the biddy. She rested like a hummingbird in a corner out of his eyeline, but the instant he appeared to want anything, she pounced, fulfilling his desires.
The tea was the favorite thing Mr. Stewart had taken away from his honeymoon. The days in England were bitter damp, but the teas almost made up for the thoughtless weather.
The honeymoon should never have happened, Mr. Stewart told himself again and again, as he decided which pastry to go after now. He had watched Charlotte Bridgeman grow from her earliest squalling days into the rare teen-aged beauty he had decided on, the thirtyish woman who was now resting upstairs, thinking thoughts he had no desire to invade.
Decided on was really the operative phrase. Charlotte had no choice really, but to wed him. If she’d said no, she would have risked losing her father’s love not to mention a good part of his income, because although he never said as much, Mr. Stewart would never have kept a lawyer who had been so unable to save him from humiliation.
No, Charlotte was not truly to blame for their present untenable situation. Nor was he. No heroines, heroes only in fables, fact was fact.
“Thank you, Miss O’Connor,” Mr. Stewart said as he stood.
“Would you be wanting anything else?” she inquired.
“Confidence I think would be fine,” he replied, leaving her somewhat puzzled, but that was all right, no law against it. He walked to the foyer with the beautiful marble floor, then up the marble staircase to his room. He remembered the night not many nights before when he had crept up these same stairs, had caught them in their games from outside the window, had actually contemplated the violence with his pistol.
Logic was all that was ever truly needed. He went to his room then, sat alone going over and over what he wanted to say.
At ten past two, he decided he knew it as well as he ever would, and with steady step, went to Charlotte’s room, knocked. “Nelson,’’ he said.
From inside. “Home?”
“Evidently.’’
“Come in, come in.’’
He did. She was seated at her vanity, combing her dark hair. She glanced up at him in her mirror, smiled. “Is everything all rightr
“Quite the reverse, and we both know it.”
She turned, faced him now. “Are you ill, Nelson?’’
“Physically, no; but I have not slept much of late.’’
“You fooled me—you’ve seemed so placid since your return from Boston.”
“It comes to this: Our marriage cannot be considered, by any yardstick one might use, a triumph.’’
“But—”
“—you must not cut me off just now, Charlotte, I’ll get all untracked. Please. I promise you time for questions when I’m done.”
She nodded.
“Alternatives. Number one: continue as we are. Two: divorce —” She was about to interrupt again, he could see it in her violet eyes, so he said, “Please!” with great firmness.
Charlotte held her tongue.
“Three: I could continue to live here, but set up another establishment nearby and perhaps people it with women who were rather fonder of me than I fancy you are.’’ He paused. “I find all these unsuitable, totally, and I will have none of them. There is, however, a fourth, which is what I propose to take up with you now…”
It was almost a quarter past two when Charlotte heard her husband speak the word “divorce” and she almost cried out loud in panic.
What could he know, what could he know?
Nothing. They’d been so careful. When he was away in Boston, yes, but other than that, care had been taken.
What could he know, what could he know?
A touch here and there, a flick of eye meeting eye, but my dear Lord, Nelson had never raised his voice to her in great anger, had never been tempted to raise a hand, and now he was saying the unspeakable aloud.
Divorce would totally destroy her. She would be marked. Her father would be shattered, her family tainted. And Theo—my dear Lord, what would a creature like Theo do, a sensitive creator, he would take the guilt of the world on his shoulders and flee. Leave. Her. Alone. Without. Him. - I must have my Theo, Charlotte thought to herself. No matter what else, I must salvage that. She tried to pay attention to his words, but it was difficult.
What did he know, what did he know?
“There is, however, a fourth, which is what I propose to take up with you now.”
Charlotte waited, trying to concentrate on anything, the tips of her fingers, the powder on the vanity, to help her maintain control.
“I would like us to have an ‘understanding’ and here it is: I would like to go to Boston to live: to set up a branch of the company there. Everyone knows my love for the city, no one would question my departure. You would remain here in the house with the boys. I would train down, you could bring them up. Holidays, that kind of thing. Then, soon, when they are old enough, I will enroll them at Andover. Twenty-eight miles from Boston, an excellent school, I doubt they are bright enough to gain entrance on their own, but perhaps I can influence that. The ‘perhaps’ was an attempt at sarcasm; all schools are short of funds. Andover will prepare them for Harvard or Yale, whichever they choose, I don’t want to influence the boys unduly.”
I don’t think he knows anything, Charlotte decided then. It’s all too gentle.
“One other point in the ‘understanding’ would pertain to you. I suggest I have a talk with my lawyer and set up some sort of trust in your name. Since my lawyer happens to be your father, I’m sure we can assume your best interests will be protected. This house, of course, I will put in your name, yours to keep or sell as you wish, it’s probably too big for you, there are lovely places on Fifth that might be more suitable. And several million dollars, perhaps live, perhaps ten, we can wrestle with the numbers in the future if you agree to all this.”
“If?” Charlotte wondered. How is it possible not to agree. I would be well taken care of, I would be alone, I could see the boys.
And I would have my Theo.
“People might talk, I’m sure, but I’m also sure people talk about us anyway, an old fool such as myself, a young beauty such as you are. So there it is, that is my version of an ‘understanding’—we would stay together in name, you would live here, I there, the boys would be in boarding school, which we both agree is where they can best be outfitted to face the world, you would be wealthy by any standards with a life to do precisely what you want. Does that seem fair?”
Careful, Charlotte cautioned. He knows nothing, don’t give him cause. “It’s all too sudden a thing, Nelson; I don’t know what to say. You’re very generous, but I would be alone.”
“I suspect that’s more true than you realize.”
She looked up at him.
“There’s one proviso to it all, Charlotte— One only, but crucial, essential, the core.”
Charlotte didn’t much care what it was, but she felt obliged, out of courtesy to this generous old man, to ask. So she did. “The proviso being?”
“Give him up,” Nelson Stewart said …
It was almost two twenty when Nelson Stewart wondered had he been underestimating this woman all these years. She didn’t pale, she didn’t deny, she didn’t faint or ask “who?” or use any other feminine wile. “Why?” was all she said.
“Because,” he answered, “he is less than a man and I will not have him superseding me in your life. I
will not be publicly humiliated, it’s as simple and as complicated as that.”
“Why are you so frightened of him—because of his talent I think. And because he is more of a man than you can conceive of.”
“I admit, he is talented. Do you remember that poem of his you showed me?—I can’t quote it but it was about lilies folding up, that sort of image. I was most disparaging about it, never mind my exact words.’’
“I remember the poem.”
“I was wrong. It is not a bad poem.”
“No.”
“It’s rather a good poem, actually.”
“Yes.”
“Even more than that, I suppose—it is a poem of incredible beauty.”
“I agree.”
‘‘But alas it was not written by Theo—Alfred Tennyson, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m very much not mistaken. Your Theo may be as much of a man as you claim, my dear, but alas, he is also a plagiarist.”
“I repeat: Why are you so frightened of him?—why do you feel compelled to lie?”
“You think I lie?”
“Of course.”
“Well, let’s get Theo up here and see…”
It was close to two twenty-five when Miss O’Connor appeared in his workroom doorway and said that the master requested him urgently. Theo stood, hurried out to the stairs, took them two at a time. He did not get summoned often by Mr. Stewart and he wondered, as he hurried along, if there was trouble.
When he got to the second floor, he could see them both in Charlotte’s bedroom, so he knocked tentatively, entered as they requested.
“The lily poem was by Tennyson, yes or no?” Mr. Stewart said.
Theo had been dreading this moment, knowing it would come —he had tried so hard to write a great poem for Charlotte, but nothing matched the Tennyson. He had only done it because his love made him so deathly afraid to fail, and he had planned to tell her when the proper moment came. But this moment was many things, none of them proper. “It is mine,” Theo said. “I agonized over it.”
Charlotte came to him then, stood by his side.
“It is madness to lie—I can buy a hundred books by Tennyson tomorrow and prove it in every one—”
Theo turned to Charlotte. “He lies.” He turned back to Mr. Stewart then, and was more than a little surprised to see him raising his fists as if to strike …
W. Nelson Stewart had not engaged in a fight since he was ten in Boston, but rage grabbed him so quickly now that he had no time to reflect on his lack of recent practice. The insanity of the young fool standing there denying what was so evidently true— he hadn’t expected it, hadn’t expected it remotely, didn’t know how to deal with it.
So he struck, crazily.
He had no real intention of hitting Charlotte but she had a half smile on her face and she was moving in front of his tormentor, protecting him, and he hit her more out of instinct than anger, but that didn’t make the blow any the softer. She staggered back and down to the floor and her hand went to her reddening face. Nelson was watching the effects of his actions, so he was taken by surprise when Theo attacked.
Attacked was really overstating it—Theo moved in his direction and bumped him with his shoulder and Nelson, unaware, went stumbling back against the wall by the door, which was where Theo joined the battle again, but this time Nelson was ready.
He was overweight and sixty—he had lied to everyone about his age, always had—but he remembered enough to lash out at Theo’s face, and he missed, but he struck the shoulder, which took Theo’s balance away. Nelson moved forward then, tried another punch, and now there was blood pouring from Theo’s nose.
Theo turned, looked toward Charlotte, turned back, just in time for another punch that cut his lip. He fell back against the door, tripped down, tried to rise but Stewart had him then, had him with one hand, began slapping him with the other, till they both lost their balance and went to the floor, but now Theo, when he regained his feet, was outside the room in the second floor corridor and when Mr. Stewart appeared he was ready, butting the old man hard, sending him down, and when he was down Theo kicked but missed and fell against the banister, got his balance, tried to avoid the punch Stewart aimed for his face, couldn’t quite. Dazed, Theo stayed upright as Stewart grabbed him by the throat, hit him again, again, was about to land a third blow when he stopped, breathing unevenly.
He felt tremendous swelling in his chest, Nelson Stewart did, and dizziness too, so he grabbed the banister and held tight to it, hoping whatever it was that was happening would pass.
Inside the room, Charlotte, back on her feet, heard the ruckus outside and ran toward it. She saw her husband poised by the banister and she was never sure why she shoved him, was it his accusations or her fear that he might be right; in the long run, it didn’t matter, she shoved, and he fell back and over the railing, spinning out of control from the second floor corridor to the foyer floor below, the floor was marble, his skull was bone, no question which was harder…
7
The Storm
“Is Central Park finished?” the bearded man wanted to know.
“Except for the squatters,” his landlady said, after a pause.
“Squatters?”
“Yes, ‘tis a terrible thing, but they can’t seem to get them all out. There were hundreds of families in the beginning; only the hardy survive.”
“I’ve heard so much about it,” the bearded man said.
“You should go, especially you.”
“Especially?”
“I meant considering your accent and all; they’ve planted over five million trees and shrubs, so they say, and many of them came from Scotland.”
The bearded man nodded. He had been in his twenties before he came to America, and his early years in Edinburgh had formed his speech permanently. “I could walk there by dusk,” the bearded man said. “It should be nice then. I like cold weather, the walk itself should prove bracing.”
“Dusk on a sunny winter day,” the landlady said; “you could hardly plan better.”
“I’ll go then.” He stopped. He was a big man, six feet tall and two hundred pounds. The truth was, he had been six feet tall for many years, but only recently had scaled in at one hundred sixty-five. He was not quick, not anymore, and better safe than sorry. “There’s no danger in the park at that hour?”
“Safe as a baby’s smile, Mr. Bell,” the landlady assured him …
Trude took the teat from Billy Boy’s mouth, dropped it with the other toys. Then, quickly, he moved the giant back into the period between creation and birth. After that, he signaled to the control room to bring up the breeze and slow lapping waves.
It was two twenty now. There really wasn’t much time. It was two twenty, the thirteenth of February 1981, and according to his researching the papers of the period, Theo Duncan killed the older man at half-past two, also on the thirteenth of February.
And according to his research on Bell, the Scot had taken a stroll into Central Park on the thirteenth, entering near dusk. Plenty of time for Theo to get there from Gramercy Park.
If Billy Boy could gain control.
And if that point was reached—no, Trude thought, no, not anymore, there were no ifs existing in his universe now, only certainties—so when that point was reached, Trude’s main decision was how much information to burden Billy Boy with at the start—should he know, for instance, that there would be murder in Central Park?
Best not, Trude decided. Give the murder command when Duncan was in the park, not before, don’t make the burden of transmission any greater than need be at the start. Just have Theo go to the place—take a weapon perhaps, no harm in that—just don’t tell him what it will be used for.
Trude leaned close to the giant, spoke his “freedom” speech in all but reverential tones, made assurances that magic was Billy’s and Billy’s alone, spoke in awe of the greatness that was Winslow’s alone, promised William he would be immortalized forever for his genius.
…………………………………………………………………
…………………………………………………………………
…………………………………………………………………
Fuck, Trude almost screamed. Two thirty had come and two thirty had gone and nothing. Trude tried to keep the anxiety from his voice as he preached the greatness of Winslow the traveler.
But in his heart, Trude thought only of Elisha Gray. The great inventor, the great unknown telephone inventor, the man who was forever the pathetic runner-up. Trude knew that feeling. Well. He had done so many brilliant things in his career. But never quite first.
Billy Boy was covered with sweat now. That was something. And he was breathing terribly deeply. And with the perspiration now came pain. Pain was better than “something.” Pain was a wonderful sign. Trude picked up the pace of his preaching, deepening his voice, making his rhythms strong. He was like a minister now, and in fact, he was praying. Praying for control and after that, the glorious death of Alexander Graham Bell. I don’t ask for much, God, Trude thought. Just a little blood. So much has been spilled in Your name, spill some now in mine …
Eric sat watching in the control room. He had no real idea of the actual specifics of what Trude was doing, but he was impressed with the general setup. The sounds were remarkably real and lulling.
He was not alone in the room. There was a nurse, there was a small man who ran the console that made the sounds. And of course, there were The Fruits. As soon as he had been introduced to them back in his apartment, and learned their names were Apple and Berry, he instantly dubbed them The Fruits in Blue Suits. Fruits for short. They were top quality standard government equipment. The kind that guarded the President or started uprisings in Guatemala.