What had happened—as became clear later1—was that a few individuals among those shareholders denied access to both halls had urged others to join them in using force to enter the ballroom. Together they had shoved aside temporary barriers and overwhelmed the security guards and other GSP & L staff.
At virtually the same moment the crowd of demonstrators in the hotel forecourt had rushed the police lines and this time broken them. The demonstrators poured into the hotel, heading for the ballroom, where they reinforced the invading shareholders.
As Nim suspected but could not prove, Davey Birdsong orchestrated all movements, beginning with the tomato throwing, by issuing commands through the walkie-talkie. As well as arranging the forecourt demonstration, the p & lfp had infiltrated the shareholders’ meeting by the simple—and legitimate—device of having a dozen of its members, including Birdsong, purchase single shares of GSP & L stock several months earlier.
In the ensuing turmoil only a few heard J. Eric Humphrey announce over the PA system, “This meeting stands recessed. It will resume in approximately half an hour.”
6
In the living room of her apartment Karen bestowed on Nim the same radiant smile he remembered so well from their previous encounter. Then she said sympathetically, “I know this week has been difficult for you. I read about your company’s annual meeting and saw some of it on television.”
Instinctively Nim grimaced. The TV coverage had concentrated on riotous aspects, ignoring the complex issues aired during five hours of business—questions, discussion, voting on resolutions—which had followed the enforced recess. (To be fair, Nim acknowledged, the television cameras had only external film shots to work with; using hindsight, he realized it would have been better to have allowed them in.) During the half-hour recess, order was restored and the marathon business session ensued. At the end nothing had changed except that all participants were weary, but much that needed to be said had been brought into the open. To Nim’s surprise next day the most comprehensive and balanced view of the proceedings had appeared in the California Examiner under Nancy Molineaux’s by-line.
“If you don’t mind,” he told Karen, “our annual circus is something I’d like to blot out for a while.”
“Consider it blotted, Nimrod. What annual meeting? I never even heard of one.”
He laughed, then said, “I enjoyed your poetry. Have you published any?”
She shook her head and he was reminded again, as she sat in the wheelchair opposite him, that it was the only part of her body she could move.
He had come here today partly because he felt the need to get away, even if briefly, from the turmoil of GSP & L. He had also wanted, very much, to see Karen Sloan, a desire now reinforced by her charm and remarkable beauty. The last was just as he remembered—the shining shoulder-length blonde hair, perfectly proportioned face, full lips and flawless, opalescent skin.
A touch whimsically, Nim speculated on whether he was falling in love. If so, it would involve a reversal, he thought. On plenty of occasions he had experienced sex without love. But with Karen it would be love without sex.
“I write poetry for pleasure,” Karen said. “What I was working on when you came was a speech.”
He had already noticed the electric typewriter behind her. It contained a partially typed sheet. Other papers were spread out on a table alongside.
“A speech to whom? And about what?”
“It will be to a convention of lawyers. A State Bar group is working on a report about laws which apply to disabled persons—those in most states and other countries. There are some laws which work; others don’t. I’ve made a study of them.”
“You’re telling lawyers about the law?”
“Why not? Lawyers get cocooned in theory. They need someone practical to tell them what really happens under laws and regulations. That’s why they’ve asked me; besides, I’ve done it before. Mostly I’ll talk about para- and quadriplegics and also clear up some misconceptions.”
“What kind of misconceptions?”
From the adjoining room, while they talked, kitchen sounds were audible. When Nim had telephoned this morning, Karen invited him for lunch. Now, Josie, the aidecum-housekeeper whom Nim had met on his previous visit, was preparing the meal.
“Before I answer that,” Karen said, “my right leg is getting uncomfortable. Will you move it for me?”
He stood up and approached the wheelchair uncertainly. Karen’s right leg was crossed over her left.
“Just arrange them the other way. Left over right, please.” She said it matter-of-factly and Nim reached out, suddenly aware that her nylon-covered legs were slim and attractive. And they were warm, momentarily exciting, to the touch.
“Thank you,” Karen acknowledged. “You have gentle hands.” When he appeared surprised, she added, “That’s one of the misconceptions.”
“What is?”
“That all paralyzed people are deprived of normal feeling. It’s true that some can’t feel anything any more, but post-polios like me can have all their sensory abilities intact. So although I can’t move my limbs, I have as much physical sensation as anyone else. It’s why a leg or arm can get uncomfortable or ‘fall asleep’ and need its position changed, the way you did just now.”
He admitted, “You’re right. I guess I did think the way you said, subconsciously.”
“I know.” She smiled mischievously. “But I could feel your hands on my legs and, if you want to know, I rather liked it.”
A sudden, startling thought occurred to him, then he dismissed it and said, “Tell me another misconception.”
“That quadriplegics shouldn’t be asked to talk about themselves. You’d be surprised how many people are reluctant or embarrassed to have any contact with us, some even frightened.”
“Does that happen often?”
“All the time. Last week my sister Cynthia took me to a restaurant for lunch. When the waiter came he wrote down Cynthia’s order then, without looking at me, he asked, ‘And what will she have?’ Cynthia, bless her, said, ‘Why don’t you ask her?’ But even then, when I gave my order, he wouldn’t look at me directly.”
Nim was silent, then he reached out, lifted Karen’s hand and held it. “I’m ashamed for all of us.”
“Don’t foe. You’re making up for a lot of others, Nimrod.”
Releasing her hand, he said, “The last time I was here you talked a little about your family.”
“I won’t need to today because you’re going to meet them—at least, my parents. I hope you don’t mind but they’re dropping in right after lunch. It’s my mother’s day off from work and my father is working on a plumbing job not far from here.”
Her parents, Karen explained, were originally from Austrian families and, in their teens during the mid-1950s, were brought to the United States as immigrants while war clouds gathered over Europe. In California they met, married, and had two children—Cynthia and Karen. The family name on the father’s side had been Slonhauser, which was Anglicized to Sloan during naturalization. Karen and Cynthia knew little of their Austrian heritage and were brought up as native American children.
“Then Cynthia is older than you?”
“Three years older and very beautiful. My big sister. I want you to meet her another day.”
The sounds from the kitchen stopped and Josie appeared, wheeling a loaded tea cart. She set a small folding table in front of Nim and fitted a tray to Karen’s wheelchair. From the cart she served lunch—cold salmon with a salad and warm French bread. Josie poured wine into two glasses—a chilled Louis Martini Pinot Chardonnay. “I can’t afford wine every day,” Karen said. “But today is special—because you came back.”
Josie asked her, “Shall I feed you or will Mr. Goldman?”
“Nimrod,” Karen asked, “would you like to?”
“Yes,” he said, “though if I do anything wrong you’ll have to tell me.”
“It’s really not difficult. When I open m
y mouth you pop some food in. You’ll just work twice as hard as you would feeding yourself.”
With a glance at Karen, and a knowing smile, Josie retreated to the kitchen.
“You see,” Karen said while their lunch proceeded, and after a sip of wine, “you’re very good. Will you wipe my lips, please?” He did so with a napkin as she tilted her face toward him.
Continuing to feed Karen, he thought: there was a strange sense of intimacy in what they were doing together, a sharing and closeness unique in his experience. It even had a kind of sensual quality.
Near the end of the meal, their awareness of each other heightened by the wine, she said, “I’ve told you a lot about me. Now tell me more about you.”
He began casually, speaking of his background—boyhood, family, work, marriage to Ruth, his children Leah and Benjy. Then, prompted by questioning from Karen, he revealed his current doubts—about his religious heritage and whether it would be perpetuated through his children, where his own life was headed, the future—if any—of his marriage.
“That’s enough,” he said at length. “I didn’t come here to bore you.”
Smiling, Karen shook her head. “I don’t believe you could ever do that, Nimrod. You’re a complex man and complex people are the most interesting. Besides that, I like you more than anyone I’ve met in a long time.”
He told her, “I have that feeling about you.”
A touch of red suffused Karen’s face. “Nimrod, would you like to kiss me?”
As he rose and crossed the few feet of space dividing them, he answered softly, “I want to very much.”
Her lips were warm and loving; their kiss was lingering. Neither wanted to break away. Nim moved his arms, intending to draw Karen closer to him. Then from outside he heard the sharp note of a buzzer followed by a door opening and voices—Josie’s and two others. Nim let his arms fall back. He moved away.
Karen whispered softly, “Damn! What lousy timing!” Then she called, “Come in!” and a moment later announced, “Nimrod, I’d like you to meet my parents.”
An elderly, dignified man with a thatch of graying, curly hair and a weather-beaten face extended his hand. When he spoke his voice was deep and guttural, the Austrian origin still evident. “I’m Luther Sloan, Mr. Goldman. This is my wife Henrietta. Karen told us about you and we’ve seen you on TV.” The hand Nim accepted was a manual worker’s, rough and calloused, but looking as if it were scrubbed frequently; the fingernails were clean. Though Luther Sloan wore coveralls with traces of the work he had just left, those also showed signs of care and had been neatly patched in several places.
Karen’s mother shook hands. “It’s good of you, Mr. Goldman, to visit our daughter. I know she appreciates it. So do we.” She was a small, neat woman, modestly dressed, with her hair in an old-fashioned bun; she appeared to be older than her husband. Once, Nim thought, she was probably beautiful, which explained Karen’s attractiveness, but now her face was aged, while her eyes betrayed strain and weariness. Nim guessed the signs of the last two had been there a long time.
“I’m here for one simple reason,” he assured her. “I enjoy Karen’s company.”
As Nim returned to his chair and the older Sloans sat down, Josie brought in a pot of coffee and four cups. Mrs. Sloan poured and helped Karen with hers.
“Daddy,” Karen said, “how’s your business going?”
“Not as good as it might.” Luther Sloan sighed. “Materials cost so much—more every day; you will know about that, Mr. Goldman. So when I charge what it costs me, then add on labor, people think I’m cheating.”
“I do know,” Nim said. “At Golden State Power we’re accused of the same thing for identical reasons.”
“But yours is a big company with a broad back. Mine is just a small business. I employ three other people, Mr. Goldman, and work myself, and some days I tell you it is scarcely worth the trouble. Especially with all the government forms—more all the time, and half the things I do not see why they need to know. I spend evenings and weekends filling those forms in, and nobody pays me for that.”
Henrietta Sloan reproved her husband, “Luther, the whole world does not have to hear our problems.”
He shrugged. “I was asked how business was. So I told the truth.”
“Anyway, Karen,” Henrietta said, “none of that makes the slightest difference to you, or to our getting you a van. We have almost enough money for a down payment, then we will borrow the rest.”
“Mother,” Karen protested, “I’ve said before, there isn’t any urgency. I’m managing to get outdoors. Josie goes with me.”
“But not as often as you could, or as far as you’d like to go.” The mother’s mouth set firmly. “There will be a van. I promise you, dear. Soon.”
“I’ve been thinking about that too,” Nim said. “Last time I was here, Karen mentioned wanting a van which would hold the wheelchair, and which Josie could drive.”
Karen said firmly, “Now will all of you stop worrying. Please!”
“I wasn’t worrying. But I did remember that our company—GSP & L—often has small vans which are sold off after they’ve been used a year or two and are replaced by new ones. Many are still in good condition. If you like, I could ask one of our people to look out for something which could be a bargain.”
Luther Sloan brightened. “That would be a large help. Of course, however good the van is, it will need adapting so the wheelchair can go in and be secure.”
“Maybe we can help with that as well,” Nim said. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
“We will give you our telephone number,” Henrietta told him. “Then if there is news, you can call us.”
“Nimrod,” Karen said, “you are truly dear and wonderful.”
They went on talking easily until, glancing at his watch, Nim was startled to see how much time had passed since he arrived. He announced, “I have to go.”
“So do we,” Luther Sloan said. “I am renewing some gas lines in an old building near here—for your gas, Mr. Goldman—and the job must be completed today.”
“And in case you think I’m not busy,” Karen chimed in, “I have a speech to finish.”
Her parents took their leave affectionately. Nim followed them out. Before going, he and Karen were alone briefly and he kissed her for the second time, intending to do so on her cheek, but she turned her head so their lips met. With a dazzling smile she whispered, “Come again soon.”
The Sloans and Nim had the elevator to themselves going down; all three were briefly silent, each occupied with private thoughts. Then Henrietta said in a monotone, “We try to do the best we can for Karen. Sometimes we wish it could be more.” The strain and weariness Nim observed earlier—perhaps nearer to a sense of defeat—were in her eyes again.
He said quietly, “I don’t believe Karen feels that way. From what she’s told me, she appreciates your support and everything you’ve done for her.”
Henrietta shook her head emphatically, the bun of hair at her neck emphasizing the movement. “Whatever we do is the least we can do. Even then it is a poor way to make up for what happened to Karen—because of what we did—long ago.”
Luther put a hand gently on his wife’s arm. “Liebchen, we have been over it all, so many times. Do not do this to yourself. It does no good, only harm to you.”
She turned on him sharply. “You think the same things. You know you do.”
Luther sighed, then abruptly queried Nim. “Karen told you she contracted polio?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Did she tell you how? And why?”
“No. Well, not exactly.”
Henrietta said, “She doesn’t, usually.”
They had reached the street floor and stepped from the elevator, pausing in the small, deserted lobby while Henrietta Sloan continued:
“Karen was fifteen, still in high school. She was a straight-A student; she took part in school athletics. Everything ahead seemed good.”
“The point my wife is making,” Luther said, “is that that summer we ourselves—the two of us—had arranged to go to Europe. It was with others from our Lutheran church—a religious pilgrimage to holy places. We had arranged, while we were gone, that Karen should go to summer camp. We told ourselves that some time in the country would be good for her; also, our daughter Cynthia had been to the same camp two years before.”
“The real truth is,” Henrietta said, “we were thinking more of ourselves than Karen.”
Her husband went on as if he had not been interrupted. “But Karen did not want to go to camp. There was a boy she was seeing; he was not leaving town. Karen wanted to stay at home for the summer and be near him. But Cynthia was already away; Karen would have been alone.”
“Karen argued and argued,” Henrietta said. “She said being alone did not matter and, as to the boy, that we could trust her. She even talked about having a premonition that if she went as we wished something would go wrong. I have never forgotten that. I never will.”
His own experience gave Nim a sense of the scene being described: The Sloans as young parents, Karen barely out of childhood, and the strong and clashing wills—all three so different then from what they had become.
Once more Luther took up the narrative, speaking quickly as if wishing to have it done. “The upshot was, we had a family fight—the two of us taking one side, Karen the other. We insisted she go to camp, and in the end she did. While she was there, and we were in Europe, a polio outbreak happened. Karen was one of the victims.”
“If only she had stayed home,” Henrietta began, “the way she wanted …”
Her husband interrupted. “That’s enough! I’m sure Mr. Goldman has the picture.”
“Yes,” Nim said softly, “I think I do.” He was remembering the verses Karen had written him after Wally Talbot Jr.’s electrocution.
“If only” this or that
On such and such a day
Had varied by an hour or an inch;
Or something neglected had been done
Or something done had been neglected!