Secrecy (31 page)

W
eary now, Bill repeated, “I’ve told you my reasons. This thing was sprung on us at the last minute, and I don’t like it, that’s all.” Charlotte rested her eyes on the blue-green hills that had been the background of her deepest thoughts, even when, as a child, she had sat at her bedroom window gazing out at them. From behind the terrace where they were sitting came the roar of the vacuum cleaner, this being Emmabrown’s day to clean the house. There were no answers in either of those directions.

At the very moment of arrival she had inquired of Emmabrown whether there was anything wrong with Dad and had learned only that, “Mr. Bill is awfully cranky, not like himself.”

“Are you feeling sick, Dad, and keeping it from us?” she asked gently, appealing at the same time with a look toward Cliff, whom, in her frustration, she had summoned to the house.

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’d feel better hearing that from a doctor. Cliff, will you take him to one?”

“Anytime. Tomorrow morning,” said Cliff, who as the session entered its third hour was beginning to look uncomfortable.

“Does a man have to be ill to have second thoughts about something?” demanded Bill. Large and towering, he stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace to face them. “I will go over my reasons again, and for the last time. I don’t mean to be impatient, but I’m tired and you both must be tired too. So listen. For almost twenty years I’ve worked on the Environmental Commission. It was and still is the most significant thing I’ve ever done with my life, except for being your father, Charlotte. I don’t need to remind you what hell I’ve gone through in this town—you have, too, Cliff—on account of that property, of those crooks with their filthy, decaying trash leaching mercury, arsenic, lead, and God knows what more, while I, the owner, go around the state talking out of the other side of my mouth. Now, thank God, and thanks to a miracle that we’ll never understand, the crooks have cleared out and we’re getting our good reputation back. I’m not going to destroy that reputation again by destroying that wetland. And I can’t understand why you can’t understand that.”

The ball is back in our court again, Charlotte thought. There was a long, tired pause before Cliff answered tentatively, “As a matter of fact, Bill, it could be a healthy thing. That swamp is not so many
acres removed from those poisons you just mentioned. Who knows whether—”

Bill interrupted him. “It is not a swamp. It’s a marsh, a natural marsh, and you know better than to talk such nonsense.”

“Well, suppose you’re right about that, Dad,” Charlotte began, trying another tack.

“No supposing,” Bill said. “I am right.”

He spoke gently to her with the reproving little smile of correction that she had always called his “fatherly” smile. It was devastating to be here quarreling with him!

“Okay,” she responded. “You’re right, it’s a lovely, natural wetland. But the town doesn’t want it. The library doesn’t want it. And the library is the twenty-carat diamond in our crown. What do we do? Throw the diamond away?” Her own smile pleaded.

“Yes,” Bill answered quietly.

“But we have a tremendously advantageous tax deal that makes the difference between day and night for the whole undertaking.”

“We can lower our expectations. The project doesn’t need to be all that big and all that grand.”

“I don’t understand you, Dad. It’s big, but it’s not grand. And anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is that we’ve been working for almost a year, all of us, although seventy percent of the work has been Roger’s. It’s he who went to banks and combed the city for investors, won them with his energy and his enthusiasm.” Her voice rose with the anger of frustration; she was on the verge of furious tears. “You’ll
ruin him! You’re humiliating him and making fools of us all.”

Bill threw up his hands. “My God! Do you think I want to harm you? Or for that matter, harm anyone? Do I want to harm my brother? I’m not asking much, only that you don’t accede to this last condition. Talk of humiliation! This would humiliate me and all I’ve stood for. Can’t you see that, Charlotte? Can’t you, Cliff?”

“No,” Cliff said, “I can’t.”

“Talk to the library board,” Bill urged. “We’ll go together, you and I. We know everyone on the board.”

“Will you do it, Cliff,” asked Charlotte, “even though I’m sure it will be a useless errand? They’ve made their wishes perfectly clear.”

“They have. We’re down at the finish line, final contracts being drawn, people coming up from Boston for the closing, only a month away. Great timing, I must say.”

“Well, try it, anyway,” Bill said, with a long, tired sigh.

“All right, but it won’t work, I tell you.”

“I won’t sign if it doesn’t work, Cliff.”

“I think you’re crazy,” Cliff muttered. “It’s one thing to have convictions, and I’ve always respected yours, but now I think you’re a stubborn damn fool and I’m fed up.”

“Think it over, Dad,” Charlotte urged. “You’ve always been able to see all around a problem. So do it, and we’ll talk again in a few days.”

“You’re not staying? Going back to Boston now? You just got here.”

“Yes, I have things to do.”

She could not get out of there fast enough. What an unspeakable, unheard-of mess! A disaster, unless Dad—but Big Bill had never been known for easily changing his mind.

In the following week Charlotte’s mood went from exasperation to fear and worry.

“Is it possible that something is happening to my father?” she asked Roger when he returned from a hasty, unsuccessful trip to Kingsley. “I don’t understand it. Is he getting sick, or what? He’s always been so involved in the world, so reasonable.”

“You don’t mean Alzheimer’s or something, I hope. No, he’s as
involved
as anybody can be. He was actually quite reasonable as he sees it. A lot of people might agree with him. Lovers of nature, of wildlife, migrating waterfowl—”

“Don’t tell me you agree with him.”

“Of course I don’t. If this were an estuary under a flight path, or a tidal basin of any size or importance, I would. I’d be among the first to say, ‘Hands off.’ Your dad’s just got his proportions wrong, that’s all.”

“And so you got nowhere with him.”

“Well, not very far.”

“That means nowhere. Please don’t spare my feelings. Tell me the whole story.”

“I’ve told it to you,” Roger said patiently. “There’s nothing to add. We went over all the stuff
about the toxic muck around the mill, the contaminated water, dioxins, all the reasons for which the town, including him, had been fighting the disposal company. He insists that this area is too far away to be affected, so we argued back and forth and finally I left.”

It was embarrassing that her father should appear so stubborn, so stupidly stubborn, before Roger, and she said so.

“Let’s not call it stupidity. Let’s call it just a blind spot.”

She knew that while Roger was giving comfort, he himself could be feeling none. He had to be deeply distressed, or maybe close to frantic. The interest he had aroused and the monies raised among his family’s and his own connections—what was he to do about them now? And she felt, although it was not her responsibility, deeply and miserably responsible.

“Well,” Roger said, “let’s give it a rest for a week or two. How about a picnic basket on the Fourth? We could go hear the Boston Pops, if you want. It’ll be our thirteen-month anniversary. Come on, cheer up, we’re not beaten yet.”

“Charlotte, I wish you didn’t look so distressed,” Pauline said gently. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s my father’s fault, though, and that concerns me.”

She had just gotten off the telephone with Bill. A new idea having occurred to her, she had rushed to convey it as a solution: reforestation, creating a bird and wildlife sanctuary. But he had turned it down as
a “disturbance of nature’s balance.” And she had spoken to him in dreadful anger as she had never done in all her life, or had any reason to do. Now, at the drawing board, unable to concentrate, she sat staring into space.

Pauline put her hand on Charlotte’s shoulder and reasoned with her. “Listen to me. I know you plan to be married in late summer. But you’re in no shape to organize even the simple little wedding you want. You know what I think you should do right now? Postpone it by a month. Roger’s told you that he can’t, and it’s obvious that he can’t, go anywhere now. To marry and stay here, wrangling and wrestling with this project, is no way to start life together. A few weeks will make all the difference. I’m sure they’ll straighten this out somehow.”

“You really do believe it?”

“Yes. With all that money at stake and the Heywood prestige, something’s got to give.” Pauline attempted a cheerful laugh. “Even Bill Dawes.”

Maybe. Maybe so. And Charlotte was exhausted.…

“Go to Italy. You can honeymoon someplace else this fall. Go to Italy, see your mother, and—I’ve got a splendid thought. There’s a week’s lecture course in Florence on Renaissance building. You’d love it. I’ve got the announcement in my desk downstairs.”

“Yes,” Roger said, “Pauline’s right. This has upset you far too much. Just leave it to me and Cliff. We’ll work it out.”

Sadly, she acknowledged, “Yes, Cliff’s always approachable.”

Her father was, too, except for those sad, silent spells that she had always attributed to Elena’s leaving him.

In any case, now was no time to go delving into what was not fathomable. How can you see inside another human being if he doesn’t want to let you see?

“Go, darling,” Roger said again. “It’ll do you good. In the fall we’ll go back to Italy together, or anywhere else you’d like.”

“O
nce you get on that plane and head out over the Atlantic, your spirits will rise with it. You’ll see,” Roger had promised.

Charlotte had doubted that a mere change of scene could make much difference. Nevertheless, from the moment the plane had lifted off and she had settled in for the long flight, she had begun to feel a faint enthusiasm. His parting kiss was still fresh on her lips; in her tidy carry-on were two new books, the camera that he had given her for her birthday, and a small box of her favorite chocolates.

By the time she entered Rome, her spirits had definitely lightened. The charm and strangeness of the foreign place produced a sense of adventure, so that slowly she felt a return of confidence and optimism seeping back into her veins. She would find on coming home that order had been restored. Roger would have solved the problem.

Now relaxed, she drove through sun and wind,
with the top down, from Rome toward Venice. The back roads wandered through Umbria’s vivid summer, past vineyards, hills, and the ancient stones of hilltop villages. All history was here. It was enchanting, and she began to sing.

Then, suddenly, she had to laugh. Her mother had not changed! Had she ever really expected Elena to change? Here I’ve come all this way, Charlotte thought, and when I telephone her house in Rome to say I’ve arrived, what do I hear? A servant tells me that she isn’t there. Where is she? I’m given a telephone number; I call and I find that she’s at a villa near Verona. She will join me in Venice. Why in Venice? That’s not important, Elena says. She’s taken hotel rooms for us. It’s an absolutely magnificent place, right on the Grand Canal, and I will adore it. She can’t wait to see me, it’s been so long.

Indeed it has, Charlotte agreed. And as suddenly as she had begun to laugh, was sober.

The bed had a brocaded pink silk canopy to match the walls. Two chairs were covered in rose-colored velvet. On a table stood a bouquet of crimson gladioli and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. Now if Roger were here, she thought, we would really enjoy this champagne and this bed, this sumptuous, extraordinary, this positively royal, bed!

Her posture belied this attempt at good cheer. Actually, she was standing stiffly in the center of the room, both welcoming and dreading the meeting. There was too much emotion in these meetings with
Elena, a summoning back of things that her mind had stored away and wanted to forget.

We meet in passing, in temporary places, she reflected, whether here, or in New York, or all the way back to those rooms in Florida so long ago. We meet in expensive places, always with suitcases ready for departure. Even at home during the years in Kingsley, where now, with after-knowledge, she was able to see so much more clearly, Elena had been in some vague way a temporary presence, unsettled, discontented, poised to leave. Always she had been looking for something.… For what?

And Charlotte, parted from Roger for no more than three days and already longing for him, felt a rush of thankfulness for steadfast love. In every way he had supported her; he was healing her.

But enough of this. She must unpack, hang up some clothes, and take out Elena’s gift. A final watercolor rendering of Dawes Square in a delicately gilded frame—Elena had a penchant for gleaming objects—it was certain to please her.

Presently she looked at her watch. It was time to go down to the lobby. The concierge smiled. They, like waiters in expensive restaurants, knew whom they were looking at and did not waste their smiles. Shrewd eyed and courteous, they were expert at intimidation, so that the unsure—the girl Charlotte had once been—would think immediately that her clothes were unsuitable or that something else was wrong with her.

Now, in her hard-won strength, she sat down, crossed her legs—good legs in smart shoes—held her
polished handbag on her white linen lap, and was sitting so when Elena came rushing through the front entrance.

They embraced, the daughter looming half a head above the mother. Then, following Elena’s custom, they separated to observe each other. There were lines around Elena’s eyes, the faintest threads. Surely those too-luxuriant eyelashes were false. And Charlotte was shocked by the stab of passing time. People like Elena were not supposed to grow old.

“My God, Charlotte, you’re positively fashionable! You look stunning. But where’s the famous Roger?”

“Business. He can’t get away right now.”

“Oh? Everything else all right?”