for the phone call. No, it’ll be a meeting, I suppose. Acheson’s office. Just the two of us. Nothing personal. Better under the circumstances-Christ, I’ve already been through it. Why not get something for it? A little peace of mind at least.”
“If you do that now, it’s as good as an admission, Walter. We can’t have that.”
Nick’s father raised his eyebrows in surprise. “We?”
“You’d be a political liability.”
For a moment they stared at each other, a silent conversation, then Nick’s father leaned against the desk again. “I don’t care, Larry. I’m going to resign.”
“No, it’s not going to happen that way,” Larry said, his voice low and steady, as if he were explaining something to a child. “He’s going to shout and you’re going to be polite. Nothing will happen. You’ll be the loyal American you always were-maybe a little foolish and idealistic, but nothing worse. One of the good guys. She-let’s say she was confused, maybe a nut case, anyway confused.”
Larry moved toward the desk, as if he were adjusting the sights of his words, taking aim. “In the spring, two, three months from now, you resign quietly. All that time in the limelight-well, it would make anyone shy. You want the quiet life. The administration regrets. It’s a pity reckless accusations are driving talented men out of public life. Or maybe nothing has to be said-no one notices. They’ve moved on. By the time the elections roll around in the fall, you’re not even a memory and Welles is out on the stump with a different fight on his hands. Nobody’s soft on Communism. Nobody’s been embarrassed.”
Again, an awful stillness in the room.
“It’s been decided, then,” Nick’s father said softly.
“It’s been discussed.”
And then Nick saw, without knowing why, that it was over, like a tennis game.
“They don’t pay you enough, Larry,” his father said finally, now slumped against the desk.
Larry looked at him, and let it pass. “This one’s for free, Walter. I’m on your side, believe me.”
“I do, Larry. That’s the funny part. Well,” he said, standing up and straightening, the way he did when he walked over to the net to shake hands, a good sport, “so I get to make a deal after all. What’s in this one for me?”
“You’ve got to think about your future, Walter. What are you going to do after?”
“With my land of resume, you mean.”
“It never hurts to have friends,” Larry said quietly.
Nick’s father nodded. “Thanks for explaining everything so clearly.”
“Don’t, Walter. I’m not the bad guy. I’m trying to help. It’s a lousy time.”
“I know,” his father said, his voice suddenly deflated. “I know.” He stood for a minute lost in thought. “Maybe there aren’t any bad guys anymore.”
“Yes, there are. They’re in that committee room.” He walked over to the couch and picked up his coat. “Look, I’ve got to go. You all right?” Nick’s father nodded. “Play it smart, Walter, okay?”
His father looked at him, then broke the stare and went over and put a hand on Larry’s shoulder. “Come say hello to Livia.”
“I can’t. I’m late. Give her my love, will you?”
“Late for what?” his father said lightly. “You seeing somebody these days?”
“I’m seeing everybody.”
“Nothing changes, does it?”
Larry shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything. You got the only one worth having.”
His father dropped his hand. “Luck.”
“You’re still lucky,” Larry said, putting on his coat. He stopped and looked at him. “Just play it smart.”
Larry turned toward the door and Nick took a step down the hall, out of sight.
“I’ll see myself out,” Larry said. “You’d better go break up the party before the neighbors start complaining.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” Nick heard his father say.
Larry’s voice was cheerful again, Van Johnson. “Not me,” he said.
He opened the door suddenly, before Nick could race up the stairs, and stood for a second with his hand on the knob, looking at Nick with surprise. Then he winked and pulled the door shut behind him. He put a finger to his lips and motioned with his head for Nick to follow him to the stairs, as if they were hiding together. At the landing he knelt down.
“Hi, sport,” he whispered. “You okay?”
Nick nodded.
“You know what happens to guys who listen at keyholes, don’t you?” he said, smiling.
“What?” Nick whispered back, playing along.
“You’ll end up working for Drew Pearson, that’s what.”
“A legman,” Nick said, his father’s expression.
Larry looked surprised again, then grinned. “Yeah, a legman. Hear anything worth hearing?”
Nick shook his head.
“Well, neither do they, mostly,” he said, still whispering. “Come on, up you go before they catch us both.”
Nick turned to go, then looked back at Larry. “Dad asked you to help him,” he said, a question.
Larry stood up. “I can’t, Nick. Not the way he wants.” Then he smiled and ruffled Nick’s hair. “He’ll be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll all help him.”
They heard the sound of the door opening and Larry made a face of mock alarm, shooing Nick with his hand up the stairs and turning away to start down the other flight. Nick darted up, out of his father’s line of sight, and watched Larry’s red hair bob down the stairs. In a minute his father followed. Over the banister Nick could see him stop at the foot of the stairs, waiting until he heard the front door click shut. Then he turned, straightened his shoulders, and went in to join the party.
No one was going to help. All the rest of it, the confusing jumble of elections and deals and witnesses, still came down to that. No one. Not even Uncle Larry, who had just been trying to make him feel better on the stairs. He’d heard them. His father felt like he was drowning. Nick wondered what that was really like, everything closing around you, choking for air, reaching up for any hand at all. No one. It wasn’t smart anymore. Not even for his father to help himself.
The draft in the hall seeped through his thin pajamas, making him shiver. He felt like leaping into bed, pulling the covers over his head, and curling his body into a ball, as warm as the cabin fire. Instead he went down the hall to his parents’ room. The bedside lamps were on, surrounded by piles of books and Kleenex and alarm clocks. He walked over to his father’s dressing area, a mirror and a tall row of built-in drawers that pulled out on smooth, quiet runners, not like Nick’s, which always stuck. All the shirts were white, stacked in two neat piles. He took one out. Garfinkel’s, all right. But the tag under the laundry mark was 15?-35. Just as he’d said. Nick almost grinned in relief. The next one was the same, and suddenly he caught sight of his pajamas in the mirror and felt ashamed. This wasn’t playing the spy game with Nora; it was wrong, like being a burglar. What if his father noticed?
Nick put back the shirts and evened out the edge of the pile. But he’d already started-why not know for sure? Carefully he flipped through the collars of the shirts, looking for the size tags. Some weren’t even Garfinkel’s. Then, halfway down, he found it. A Garfinkel label, 15?-33. He stared at it, not moving, his finger barely touching the tag. Why had he kept it? Maybe it was a mistake, a present from Nick’s mother. But that wouldn’t matter. Uncle Larry said nothing was innocent now. They’d find it, just as Nick had. There was a laundry mark, too-he’d worn it. Nick tried to think what that meant. No fingerprints. That woman, any trace of her, had been washed away. And all the shirts looked alike. But what if they had other ways? As long as it was here-
He heard the front door slam, voices downstairs saying goodbye, and without thinking snatched the shirt, closed the drawer quietly, and ran back to his room. He looked around for a hiding place, but then the voices seemed to be coming up the stairs so he shoved it under his pillow and got into bed, breathing fast. Outside the snow had finally begun, blowing almost horizontally across the light from the street lamp. When his mother peeked in through the door, he shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He kept them closed as she crossed the room to tuck him in. For a second he was afraid she would fluff his pillow, but she only kissed his forehead and drifted away again in a faint trail of perfume.
