Spearfield's Daughter (61 page)

The American horse set, Cleo decided, was very much a colonial cousin of the English horse set, though its money was more apparent and the women were far better dressed. But she wasn't here this time to write a tongue-in-cheek piece on how the Maryland silvertails spent their weekends. Here, Jack and she were not Mr. and Mrs. Cruze but Lord Cruze and Miss Spearfield, and if their hosts wondered why they were here together, they were too polite to remark on it.

Jack was a guest competitor and, though he was driving a team with which he had had only half an hour's practice in the morning, in the afternoon he showed he still had all his old skill: he came second in his event. The weather was beautiful and Cleo enjoyed the day, not least Jack's delight in showing off in front of her. She enjoyed the company of their hosts and their friends and once again, as she had in England, thought of the doors that Jack had opened for her. She knew, of course, that doors would be opened for her because she was the editor of a New York newspaper, but the door to the editor's room itself had been opened for her by Jack.

Jack declined to stay on for a dinner party and they drove back to Washington. “I didn't have anything to wear, but I'd liked to have stayed for dinner, Jack. There were some interesting people there.”

“I know I'm being selfish. But I have to fly back tomorrow.”

“You usually stay till Monday. Business?”

“No.” He hesitated, then said, “Rose St. Martin died yesterday. I got the news when I phoned London last night. She's being buried on Monday.”

Cleo instantly felt sad. She had not seen the sisters in almost six years and her correspondence with them had been intermittent; but they had always been clear and warm in her memory. They, in a way had opened the door to Jack himself. “I wish I could come with you.”

“I wish you could, too.” But he didn't press it; he knew the demands of running a daily
newspaper.
“If you like, I'll order flowers for you. Cromwell will see they get there in time.”

“How's Dorothy?”

“I don't really know. I spoke to her on the phone and she sounded all right. But I haven't seen them in years. But I've always been grateful to them. Indirectly, they sent you to me.”

They sent you Emma, too.
“Will Emma be at the funeral?”

He had thought of that and was afraid of the prospect. “I suppose so. She loved them both.”

“So did I, in a way. I'll phone Dorothy at the end of the week. I'll give her time to get over the loss of Rose.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “You really are affectionate, aren't you? I wish I were.”

She didn't flatter him by saying that he was. “Maybe it's because I'm a woman.”

“Bull,” he said. “Men can be just as affectionate as women and you know it. Don't be soft on me, Cleo. I know my faults. I couldn't afford to be affectionate when I was battling my way up. While you're helping a blind man across the street, you've missed the bus you were trying to catch.”

“Helping a blind man across the street isn't affection, that's being kind and considerate.”

“Well, I didn't have time for that, either.” He looked back down the years for missed opportunities to be kind and considerate; but couldn't remember any. He had the clear vision of a non-hypocrite; but he knew no one would ever give him credit for that. He had learned long ago that hypocrisy was a social asset.

They had dinner in their suite, watched television for a while, then went to bed. After they had made love, she went to the bathroom, came back, put on a robe and sat in a chair. He remained in the bed, propped up against the pillows. He still looked as fit as ever and he still made love with the same energetic passion and stamina, as if being with the woman he loved had revived him; but he no longer got out of bed after it and strutted around like a boxer who'd just won the decision in a close-fought match. She wondered if women ever strutted around like that after making love. Maybe women wrestlers did, out of habit.

“Jack, there's a bit of a problem. Roger Brisson is in the running for Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

“That's his problem, not yours.” He had the successful man's opinion that service chiefs should be able to look after themselves. After all, that was what they were trained for, at the taxpayers' expense,
too.

“No, it's my problem, too. As an editor. If he gets the job, there's likely to be a lot of dirty gossip flying around. There is also a distinct chance that the husband of a certain Congress-woman would sue for divorce, naming Roger as co-respondent.”

He saw her editor's viewpoint at once. “You mean if that happened, you'd have to back-pedal on the story?”

“If I didn't, there'd be a hell of a fight with Claudine. She is still the publisher.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?” Then he shook his head. “No, I swore I wouldn't put my oar in when it came to running the paper. If I do it once, she'll expect me to go on doing it. That will only weaken your position.”

She had always thought she was long-sighted, but she wasn't in his class. He not only saw things beyond the horizon, but he had short-focus and peripheral vision.

“How true is the gossip?”

“It's all fact. I have a photo I bought from a snide candid photographer over a year ago, of Roger with his hand down the cleavage of the Congresswoman I've just mentioned. He has several other women on the side.”

“Then you'd better go to him and tell him what you have and what you know. Tell him that if any of the papers run the story, you won't be able to lay off. You couldn't afford to, anyway. People would rush to buy the
Courier
to see how you're handling it. They'd never come back if you funked it.”

“How do I approach him? Being kind and considerate or just protecting our circulation?”

She had meant it as a half-joke, but she should have known he never joked about business. “He doesn't deserve any kindness and consideration. All you have to think about is whether the
Courier
is beaten to the story if it breaks. When does the service job come up?”

“Another couple of months.”

“Righto then, Brisson has a couple of months to clean up his image. Give him the photo and scare the hell out of him, tell him you know at least one other paper has a copy. Don't pussyfoot around with him.”

For a moment she wondered if it had occurred to him there was not much difference between
him
and Roger: both of them were married men going to bed with women other than their wives. Perhaps he felt that, in his case, true love was an absolution.

She didn't love him, but she felt affectionate towards him. He might never stop to help a blind man across a street, but he would stop the traffic on a freeway to help her. She threw off her robe and climbed on top of him. Love-making, among other things, is a gesture of thanks.

IV

Louise had been on jury duty. She had been surprised when she was called; the other eleven members of the jury confessed the same when they all met. All their lives they had been passing judgement on their relatives, friends and fellow citizens; but this was different, one didn't expect to be asked to pass an official opinion on a fellow human being. Backbiting and calumny were reasonable, but jury duty was asking a bit too much.

The jury was a good cross-section. Five men, seven women, one rich, several middle class, four working class, two pensioners, eight whites, four blacks. The defendant, a young woman, looked at them sullenly, recognizing that they were all different from her: they were all innocent, or professed to be.

The girl was charged with murdering her
de facto
husband. All the evidence was against her and Louise sensed after the first hour that at least half the jury were against her on another count: she was young, attractive, and she had been living in sin not only with the man she had allegedly killed but three other men before him. She also had a sullen aggressive personality and the prosecuting attorney knew how to bring out all her aggressiveness. Louise recognized that the jury was going to convict on prejudice as much as anything else; but the fact that the girl had murdered her lover was uncontestable. Louise in her own mind could not dispute that, though she wondered why the girl had killed him if she had had three other lovers with whom she had been able to live. All the girl had in her defence was that she had loved the dead man, but she made no attempt to explain any further. Louise understood her and, though she did not ask, she felt that certain of the women in the jury room also understood. Nevertheless, after only an hour's discussion, the twelve decided on a verdict of guilty.

They filed back into the court and the judge, an elderly man who had given up trying to understand today's generation and its morals, sentenced the girl to thirty years with a non-parole term of
twelve
years. Louise looked at the girl, but there was no expression on her face; she looked sullen and blank, as if she had decided that her intelligence would be of no further use to her. Louise wondered if the girl would have preferred to die instead of spending so many years locked away.

She went back to Sands Point depressed and exhausted by the experience. She felt burdened with a sense of guilt, as if, in some remote way she could not explain to herself or anyone else, she was part of the reason the girl stood in the dock.

She wandered about the big house, her depression growing every minute. Lena, the housekeeper, had gone over to Jackson Heights to spend the night with her sister, so even her company was not available. Louise rang two women friends; both of them were out. She had a moment of aberration: she would call Roger, ask if she could come down to Washington for the night. She could not remember the number of the apartment in Watergate; she had shut her mind against so many things. She had to look it up in an old address book; her hand was shaking by the time she dialled the number. Then a woman answered.

“Yes, General Brisson is here. Who is calling?”

Louise hung up at once. She looked at her watch: it was 10.20. The woman had probably answered from the bedside phone. All at once she wanted to scream, throw things, smash everything that surrounded her, the bric-a-brac that had been the replacement for the children she had never been able to have. Instead she went to bed and writhed all night on a nail-bed of memories. Her clearest memory was the most recent, that of the face of the girl who had killed the man she loved.

Next morning she rang her doctor and went to see him. Dr. Guilfoyle had been seeing her once a month for the past three months.

“Louise, you're heading into the menopause. I sympathize with you. We men never have to go through it, though some of my colleagues, probably closet fags, are trying to say that men
do
go through it. Personally, I think what they're saying is a lot of mullarky, they're just trying to give another name to the seven-year itch. Ever since I first started medicine I've always thought God was a misogynist, the way He's loaded things against you women. I once mentioned that to the Cardinal and he threatened to have me excommunicated if I ever said it in public.”

She looked at him frankly, her lips twisted in a wry smile. He was not good-looking, he was too bony and sallow for that, but he was always beautifully groomed and he
looked
good: there was a difference.
Claudine,
who also came to him, had once said that he looked as if he had graduated from Sulka & Co. rather than from NYU. Louise wondered what he would be like in bed and then wondered why she should have had such a thought. She had never been to bed with anyone but Roger and she was not going to start now.

“How many middle-aged women's hands have you held, Peter?”

“Too many,” he said: and hurt her with what was meant to be sympathy: “It's a pity all you women can't remain young forever. Especially those of you who couldn't have children.”

He gave her some tablets, but she knew that taking them, like taking another lover, was not really going to help her. She left him and went down into Park Avenue. She was only a few blocks from where Claudine lived, but she brushed aside the thought that she might drop in and surprise (no, shock) her sister-in-law. Claudine had phoned several times after her visit to Sands Point, but Louise had not taken the calls nor returned them; they had not seen each other since that afternoon. To drop in now, unannounced, and then announce that she was going down to Washington to kill Roger would only result in Roger's being alerted. She would be met at the airport or at Union Station by him and probably an entire division of Special Strike troops as back-up. Roger was no coward, but he never took risks, except with his love affairs.

She drove home to Long Island in the peak hour traffic; life was doing everything it could to torture her. Her attention wandered and several times she drifted out of her lane on the parkway; horns blared at her and drivers, all men, blasted her with abuse. They made no impact on her except, by threatening driving, to push her back into her own lane. She was closing a door on the world.

Lena was not at the house; there was a note on the kitchen table saying she had gone shopping. Louise went upstairs to what she still thought of as Roger's dressing-room. She went through the drawers and found the old Smith & Wesson .38 and the box of cartridges. She loaded the pistol, went into her own room and put on a new face, got a handbag large enough to carry the gun in and went downstairs and out to her car. She took no luggage because she had no destination in mind after she had killed Roger.

She had paused by the phone on her way out, wondering if she should ring Dr. Guilfoyle. But he could do nothing about the despair in which she was drowning; nor, she reasoned with a sort of fuzzy lucidity, did she want him to. There is a depth of depression like that of a sea, where drowning suddenly becomes welcome. Love pities, she had once read, and pities most when it loves most. She would kill Roger
with
pity, taking him with her.