The plane roared up out of Heathrow and climbed northward toward Scotland and the Atlantic. Martin had been lucky to get the last seat in economy class. The Concorde had been filled, as apparently was every seat in every class on every westbound plane, and he had spent hours waiting for this lucky cancellation.
It had been years, he could truly not remember how long it had been, since he had ridden in tourist class. He was terribly tired. He had scarcely slept all night in that strange bed, he was that upset about having argued with Connie, and he was tense, too, about the closing. Indeed, when it was all over, when the final signatures had been affixed, there would be triumph and exhilaration, but there was always so much to be gotten through until that moment, so much wrangling over last-minute demands and bothersome minutiae, so many withdrawals into corridors and men’s rooms for whispered conferences among lawyers and accountants, an army of them on either side. He had been through it all so often.
He laid his head back, but he was too cramped to fall asleep, and anyway, his mind was too perturbed. So he ordered a drink to soothe himself, but was still miserable.
He hadn’t said good-bye to Connie that morning. She had been asleep when he had gone into their room to get his clothes. Then he had just had time before running to the airline office to see Thérèse; he’d kissed her on the run and gotten a spot of grape jam on his tie where she’d grabbed it, wanting him to stay. He felt bad about having left them both like that. And, too, he’d said some nasty things to Connie last night, to his good-natured, good-hearted Connie. Well, she had said some pretty nasty things too. Still, they hadn’t been as nasty as what he’d said, about her spending so much, for instance. God, Connie could spend whatever she wanted as far as he was concerned! When you loved a woman, you wanted to give her things, didn’t you? Anyway, admit it, he liked to spend as much as she liked to. They were both caught up in spending. “Expenses rise to meet income.” He’d always said that, and it was the truth.
As to her family, the fact was that he admired their warmth; to their credit they stood fast to each other in a tough, chilly world. But to hear Connie you’d think he had attacked them! It had been queer to see her in agreement with Ben, or Ben in agreement with her.
And it’s funny, too, about Ben, he thought. He can be so hard sometimes, so sure he’s right, and yet he can also be so soft, quoting Papa, remembering the words exactly. He can remember a hundred things that I’ve forgotten or buried someplace, being too busy to keep them in my head: what we ate on those Friday nights when Papa read to us; all those fine singing words, mostly about charity and loving-kindness. Well, nobody can possibly say that Martin Berg doesn’t give! But it’s not just the giving, Ben always says, it’s the accumulation, the first taking that enables the giving. And if the accumulation is all wrong—
Abruptly, Martin became aware that his nervous fingers were drumming on the armrest. He removed his hand and held it on his lap.
It’s a game with you, Ben says. It’s a war. You’re tensed up all the time, waiting to go to war.
And then something made Martin remember that fellow McClintock. Something? Why, those had been McClintock’s words, almost exactly. You guys are playing a game with money, a war game, and most of the money isn’t even yours. And Martin wondered what had become of the man after they kicked him out. Just about a year ago, it was. This kind of high, wide, and handsome financing can’t hold up, and when the day of reckoning comes—He had taken a chance with that kind of talk, McClintock had, and Martin had been as furious as everybody else in the room. Maybe he’d been even more furious because common sense told him—and if you read the signs throughout the country, you had to see—that McClintock was right. One knew it, and one didn’t want to know it.
Maybe that’s what had been bothering him lately, nagging like an ulcer, not so much in the stomach—although here too—as in the head, if that were possible. Just one more big deal, real fireworks, and then quit. Quit in the fullness of power. Celebrity status. I bet half the people on this plane right now would recognize my name if it were called out, he thought.
Now, above the general babble and noise, he caught a snatch of conversation between two grown boys across the aisle.
“My dad hasn’t lost his job after all. So that was great news.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I can’t wait to get home.”
That last time in Ohio, Davey had been more worried about his men losing their jobs than about almost anything else. The original innocent, that was Davey. The innocents of the world. “Nice guys finish last.” What if that kid’s father—and out of the corner of his left eye Martin could see the kid’s nice, eager face and his cheap imitation leather windbreaker—what if that kid’s father had lost his job? When you thought about it like that, really looked at a flesh-and-blood person, not a statistic, it did something to you.
How could he have forgotten? He, a child of the tenements … How could he? Why, it was easy, because he had wanted to, that’s all. Hadn’t things always been like this, as far back as the Roman Empire or farther?
A vague sadness, an unfamiliar pity, filled Martin’s chest. He could not even try to analyze it. Fragments of thought, like dispersing cloud shreds, floated through his head. Thérèse, his little darling. And his Melissa, his heart. The son who hated him because of the divorce. Connie, his joyous Connie. He wished he could turn the plane around, go back to London, and tell her how much he loved her.
“Even with,” he’d say, “even with that troublesome family of yours.” But he’d laugh when he said it.
He had been so angry at Lara, really disgusted, baffled by her stubborn resistance. And yet—he had to admit it—a part of him had been filled with admiration all the time. One had to admire the human being who went down fighting because he believed he was right.
It was funny to think of little Lara Davis, a small-town woman who’d never gone any farther from home than New York, defying the firm of Fraser, DeWitt, Berg. Or, more than that, defying the great Franklin Bennett and his multibillions. Amazing, when you considered the contrasts.
God, what a loathsome thing was Bennett! He was probably flying back from Acapulco right now, licking his chops over the deal, while ordering his cohorts to wait on him. Cohorts like Martin Berg who’d gladly wait on him provided that the fee was big enough. Well, that, too, had probably been no different back under the Roman Empire.
Wouldn’t it be something, though, to turn on him one day and out of a bright, clear sky, tell him to go to hell? Think of those astonished, popping eyes, the jowls gone slack in disbelief, the spluttering fat lips!
And think of being able to say to Connie, “You know what? You’re right. I’m not going to destroy Davey’s work or quench his dreams. I’m not. For what? For Bennett and his kind? No, or for Fraser, DeWitt, Berg either.”
Now Martin let his imagination go free. Suppose he were to walk into that meeting tomorrow and announce that after much thought, he had concluded that he couldn’t approve this buyout? They wouldn’t believe him! And he could see them all sitting around the table with their faces turned to him, staring, thinking that they couldn’t have heard aright, so that he would have to repeat his words. Preston would be speechless. At first they would all think he must be having some sort of nervous breakdown, and then when they finally understood that he was perfectly sane, they would be wild with fury. There would be a battle such as the venerable firm of Fraser, DeWitt, Berg had never seen before. They would search their minds for motives, they would suspect him of some kind of double-cross. They would drive themselves crazy trying to figure him out.
It would be a new kind of battle, one that he might even, in a way, enjoy. He would be fighting this time not for profits, but for people. For Peggy, who had returned to life. And in a curious way, for his own Thérèse; he hoped she would grow into the kind of person who would understand. It would not occur to them that a man could simply and suddenly undergo a sea change.
So, her
e at last he stood with his decision. And an inward chuckle began to bubble to his throat, where a few moments before a lump of sadness had lain. He knew exactly what he was going to do the moment he landed.
“I’ll phone Connie first,” he said to himself. “Then I’ll call Davey and tell him I’m going to buy his firm out from under the syndicate and give it to him. ‘Pay me back whenever you can. I don’t care when,’ I’ll say. Imagine his face, and Ben’s and Connie’s when—”
Pan American flight 103 went down over Scotland in clear weather at three minutes after seven o’clock in the evening.
CHAPTER TWENTY
In those terrible minutes during which one airplane blew apart in the sky, another one headed toward a smooth landing at the airport outside Louisville, Kentucky.
Anyone who had not seen Eddy Osborne for the past few years would have noticed at once as he emerged from this plane that he had altered. His features, obviously, could not have changed, and his vivid eyes were as striking as ever. His hair, too, was still as thick and fair. But there was something remarkably different about his expression, a reserve, a quietness, that one had never associated with Eddy in the past. His posture and his gait were different too; the jaunty step, the almost rollicking sailor’s bounce, was no more. He walked through the airport toward the car-rental counter with the deliberate, measured manner of a thoughtful man.
There was no one to meet him. Having been discharged from the prison a few days earlier than he had expected, he had thought he would surprise his wife, perhaps ring the bell and have her find him at the door, or perhaps be sitting there when she came home.
Under a wide, light sky the mild winter day was utterly beautiful. He thought as he drove that any day, under any kind of open sky, would be beautiful from now on if only because he would be free to come and go in it. No one could possibly feel the full meaning of those words free to come and go who had not once been unfree.
Now, that’s a cliché sure enough, he reflected, laughing as he did so. It had been said a million times before, yet it was nonetheless true for all that, as every cliché was true. And filled with thankfulness he laughed aloud again, clapping himself exuberantly on the knee.
He began to whistle, and stopped. He switched on the radio and turned it right off. It was better to hear the wind rush through the open windows, for he had quite forgotten the sound it made, almost like singing, one long, soft note, sustained. The air was clear and sweet. Having passed from the suburbs and into open country, he became deliciously aware of space, just space. The only confining walls were the rail fences that divided the fields from one another. Among the fields stood clusters and groves of trees, and in the sheltering shade of each of these stood a house, white clapboard or dark red brick, fine houses in a rich countryside. His own home was white; he remembered that they had discussed what color to paint the shutters and wondered now what Pam had finally done about them. His heart began to beat faster at the thought of home and Pam.
By the time he reached the stone pillars and the long graveled drive that led up to his house, his heart was drumming so that he imagined he could hear it. A sud den fear struck him, that he would show tears and seem foolish. He parked the car and looked up at brilliant green shutters. On the second floor on the far side was the room where he would sleep tonight. He blinked and steadied himself. And another fear almost overwhelmed him, that perhaps he was dreaming all this, that he wasn’t really here but was still in Allenwood. Then he counted the five steps up to the front door. He walked up and seized the brass knocker; it was a lion’s head, and warm in the sun.
“Oh, my God,” said Pam when she opened the door.
He stood for a moment, awkward at the sight of her. There flashed before his eyes an impression of long hair lying on her shoulders, of a white shirt and white riding breeches; these flashed, then his eyes filled and he took her in his arms.
“Oh, you shocked me,” she murmured against his cheek. “I didn’t expect you until next week. I’ve been counting the days.”
“Rathbone asked the judge to let me go before Christmas, and since I’ve been a good boy,” he said, mocking himself, “he let me go.”
Kissing, they trembled against each other. “Oh, Eddy. I’m glad,” she said. “I’m glad.”
They held each other apart, examining each other.
“You haven’t changed,” he told her. “What about me? Have I?”
“I can’t tell yet. Come, sit down. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Let me get you something.”
“No, I had stuff on the plane.”
He leaned back against the pillows in the corner of the sofa. All of a sudden there was nothing to say, or rather, there was so much to say, covering two years of their separated lives, that the task was daunting. And he remembered how many hundreds of times he had imagined his homecoming, bounding into the house, seizing and carrying her off to bed, there to quench a bursting, unbearable desire. And now that the moment had come, he wanted only to sit here and look at her.
“You do look different,” she said. “I didn’t notice it so much when you were—up there.”
“A lot happens in two years.”
She said softly, “I know.”
“How different am I, do you think? I haven’t gained or lost any weight.”
She scrutinized him. “It’s something, I can’t say exactly what. But there’s a change.… Tell me, was it awful? I never wanted to ask you. But now that it’s over—”
“Not the way they treated me. You saw. It was more what goes on inside one’s head that’s—that’s—”
He stopped, and she, seeing his struggle, said quickly, “It’s past. Let’s not talk about it. Not ever, unless you want to. For now it’s best to look forward.”
She gave him the encouraging smile that one gives to an invalid or to a troubled child, and he saw how hard this hour was, not only for himself, but for her.
“I’m required to do a year of community service, you remember? So I thought maybe I might work in a hospital here as an orderly or something, according to what they need. I should think that would be acceptable service. But I haven’t been told yet.”
She took his hand and held it between both of hers.
“Whatever you do, darling, whatever, things are going to come right from now on.”
He gave her a smile, a small wan upturning of closed lips.
“You guarantee it?”
“Absolutely! You and I are going to have fun again. We are, Eddy! Oh, I’ve been so sorry about it all, so sad for you … but it’s going to be good again. I know. I promise.”
Her eyes were anxious; she was appealing to him. And understanding that, he assumed a brighter air.
“I believe you. Now tell me things. Anything. Tell me about the horses.”
“Oh, we have some beauties in the stalls! Yesterday we had two foals born, both treasures. And I’ve finally found a perfect man for the stables after having three absolute disasters in a row, one too lazy to get up in the morning, one more often drunk than sober …”
He was only half listening. The exuberance that he had felt while driving had suddenly flattened, as bubbles flatten when the bottle is opened. He tried to analyze his feelings. Was there a trace of some vague fear inside him?
Looking around the room, over her head into the wide hall and beyond it, he saw that the dining room table was set with flowers and candelabra. At this distance it was not possible to see how many places were set, but it was obvious that guests were expected.
Pam, following his glance, explained, “I asked a few people to dinner tonight for a pre-Christmas party, people I’ve been owing. I thought I’d get it over with before you came home. I didn’t think you’d want to have guests right away.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“So I’ll just run to the phone and cancel. I’ll be right back and when I come, I’ll bring a tray of goodies for you. Even though you say you’re not hungry, I don’t believe it. You can’t have had a dec
ent meal since—”
“Since I went to prison, you mean. It’s all right to say it, Pam.”
“We are going to forget it, Eddy Osborne.” She kissed him. “Now, stay there and rest. I won’t be long.”
When she had gone, he closed his eyes again. The room was scented with the pine branches, garlanded for Christmas, that hung from the mantel. There was, besides, a whiff of Shalimar on the shoulder of his jacket. At Christmas he had always put a bottle of it in the toe of her stocking. He could see her now, could see them both, sitting on the floor scattering ribbons and tissue paper as they opened each other’s gifts. They hadn’t had a care. Would it really ever be that way again?
At that he became angry at himself. Life wasn’t over, for heaven’s sake! Pam was right in urging him to look only forward. He had never in his life been moody, and he wasn’t going to succumb to moods now. And he forced himself to stand up and feel energetic, to be glad, glad, as he had been on the drive from the airport.
He began to look around the room again. It was odd how changed an object became when it was transplanted. He had to look twice to recognize some things. For that matter, the house itself was strange to him. He had been in it so briefly, after all, and then it had been in disarray with painters and plumbers coming and going. He walked out into the hall, which was airy, light, and long enough for a man to take a good run in. The staircase curved up to a landing where stood a tall clock from his collection. The Waterford chandelier that had once hung in Pam’s sitting room now descended from a thick silk rope two stories long.
Then he crossed into the dining room, where poinsettias were heaped in Connie’s great epergne at the center of the table. He counted the place settings. There were twelve. He noted that the Royal Crown Derby service plates, which had always been kept for special occasions, were laid out, as was the heavyweight vermeil flatware. The furniture was eighteenth-century English, and he wondered what had happened to the marble-topped French pieces they had used in New York. If she had sold them, they must have brought over half a million dollars, he reflected. But she had not sold his favorite paintings. His Berthe Morisot hung over the fireplace, and the two Mary Cassatts had been placed between the triple windows.