The Americans (16 page)

He scratched a horizontal line under his name and added a few ornamentations to it. He started to chew the pen again. He heard a floorboard squeak. He jerked the pen out of his mouth, getting a small splinter in his lip as he did so. A shadow fell across the desk. He spat the splinter away and tucked the letter in his pocket, then glanced up. The stocky widow was standing there, her arms folded beneath her breasts as if to emphasize their size. "Done?" "Yes. Just now." "That's good. I can't stay here all day to see that you don't steal anything. I have rooms to clean upstairs." "All right." He pushed the chair back; accidentally brushed against her as he stood up. With a startled breath, she stepped away. He couldn't reconcile her scowl with her strange, searching gaze. Her eyes moved quickly across his shoulders, down to his waist, back to his face. "I'll buy an envelope at the store," he said. "Thanks very much for letting me-was "How old are you?" "What's that?" "How old?" "In another few days I'll be twenty-two." "Why did you stop in North Platte? Do you know anyone here?" He shook his head; smiled that charming smile. "It seemed as good a place as any." That was better than telling the truth-that North Platte looked like a hellhole. "What's your name?" "Kent. Carter Kent." "I'm Mrs. Olga Butts." She extended her hand. They shook. Her palm was moist and warm. She gripped his fingers longer than necessary. Continuing to smile, he felt an ache spread through his midsection. He was alone. He had no way to get along except by using his wits and his one talent. The talent that had come to him from his grandmother, and his father. It was such an ephemeral thing to pin his hopes on, that talent. But he had nothing else. And because of his own impulsive actions, he was desperate. He struggled to make sure the desperation didn't show. "Happy to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Butts. It's a pleasure to see anything resembling a friendly face. I haven't run into many lately-was He sighed, hoping he wasn't overdoing it. He was. She became suspicious: "What kind have you run into? Are you in trouble with the law?" "Mrs. Butts-was "You're old enough to be a thief. A bank robber, a train robber-a man who takes advantage of women." But she didn't move away from him. Her breathing had grown rapid. "Tell me the truth, Mr. Kent. Are you evading the authorities? Is someone chasing you?" "No one would chase me, Mrs. Butts. I'm not worth anything. Nobody'd want me." She denied that with an admiring glance, he noted from a corner of his eye. "Where are you from, Mr. Kent?" "St. Louis." He began to feel exhilarated then. The exhilaration was tinged with danger as he started to spin out a tale, not knowing what was coming until he said it: "I'm an only child. When my father died five years ago, my mother inherited a prosperous livery business. She mourned for a year, then married a man from Minnesota. He ran the business into the ground. He was a drunkard. What's worse, he-infected her with a foul disease he had been carrying for years. For some reason the disease took its toll on my mother more quickly than it did on him. It affected her mind. My stepfather shut her away in an asylum for the insane, intending to let her die there while he spent the last of her money. When I tried to get her out of the asylum, he bribed the sheriff to trump up charges against me. I had to leave St. Louis at night, on a freight car-in a hurry." She seemed close to weeping: "Oh, God, Mr. Kent, that's a terrible story." He thought so too, but not for the same reasons she did. He looked mournful: "Indeed it is. And it was a terrible choice-leaving my poor mother behind in order to save my own skin. But they'd have locked me up, maybe for years, and my stepfather had already ruined her. So I figured Fd make my fortune out west, then go back and settle with him. Provided the disease doesn't get him first. I hope to God it doesn't." It was straight out of a Beadle novel. But the emotions of the widow Butts were so stirred, the absurdity eluded her. She shook her head and dabbed an eye: "It isn't an easy world, is it?" "No, ma'am."" "I lost my husband to influenza last winter. I miss his- comforting presence more than I can say. Since his passing, the hotel has deteriorated even further. He had no head for business, but I'm even more inadequate. Very lonely, too-was She was struggling for words that suddenly burst forth: "I'd be happy to fix you a meal if you're hungry." "That would be wonderful, ma'am. I'm starved." Now, he thought, now. He'd told the tale for one reason coms he wouldn't have to spend anything for a room in North Platte. All at once, he knew he was going to be successful. She said to him: "And if you-if you care to stay overnight, you can have any bed in the hotel." She glanced past him to see whether anyone was watching from the street. Her sun-flecked eyes pierced him as she added in a whisper: "Including mine." IV Despite her age, the widow Butts proved as frisky as a mare in heat. She nearly wore Carter out that night. Finally, around three-thirty, she fell asleep and snored. He lay beside her, exhausted but too jubilant to rest. The experience with the affection-starved woman had renewed his confidence, vindicated the Tightness of his decision to leave the westbound train and restored his faith in the future. Olga Butts had accepted his lies. Of course he didn't think of himself as a liar. Prompted by necessity, he'd merely used the one talent at his disposal. The more he thought about the events of the day, the more delighted he was. His talent would help him survive. His talent would take him anywhere he wanted to go. Out on the prairie, a locomotive hooted. Not a lonesome sound, but an exciting one, symbolic of the world that suddenly lay open to him. Closer at hand, Mrs. Butts let out a loud snore. He chuckled and snuggled down in the warm bed. The past no longer had any hold on him. And the future had never looked brighter. Book Two The Journey Of Will Kent Unhappy Homecoming ON A DISMAL MORNING early in March 1886, the Cunard steamship Excalibur entered New York harbor. Cold wind whipped the water to white foam. Rain threatened to become sleet as tugboats guided the liner toward her berth on the North River. The passengers had withstood gale winds and mountainous waves on the late winter crossing, so the inclement weather didn't prevent hundreds of them from rushing on deck to see the scaffolding and the great blocks of stone already in place on Bed- loe's Island. Among the observers, perhaps the most envious was Gideon Kent. He'd been abroad with Julia and Will most of the winter. They'd toured the museums of London and Paris, Rome and Madrid with Gideon's brother Matthew-and Matt's latest blonde and blue-eyed mistress-as their guides and companions. But he'd kept in touch with business affairs by cable. Thus he knew work was once more going forward on the pedestal for Bartholdi's great Statue of Liberty. Before the resumption of work, the project had languished for months. While the crated sections of the statue remained in storage, Congress had debated and ultimately decided against funding construction of the pedestal. Then Joe Pulitzer had jumped in. The New York World had lashed Congress for failing to do its duty, and for insulting the French people, whose donations had paid for the statue. A five-month campaign supported by articles and editorials had generated the necessary one hundred thousand dollars. School children had contributed their pennies, ordinary people their dollars, tycoons their thousands. It was an incredible outpouring that testified to the immense power of the press. Or was it merely testimony to the power of Pulitzer's sensational brand of journalism? Gideon asked himself as he watched Bedloe's Island glide past in the murk. Gideon knew Pulitzer, of course. He admired the publisher's insistence that his paper never become the captive of any group or political party. "Indegoddampendent," was Pulitzer's unique way of putting it. On the other hand, setting aside the worthiness of many of the causes Pulitzer embraced, Gideon didn't like the way the publisher manipulated the public, and pandered to low tastes by packing the World with accounts of crime and Society scandal. Gideon refused to employ such tactics on the Union, even though the World's circulation was climbing dramatically at the expense of every other daily-including his own. Standing at the rail with the sleet beginning to collect in his beard, he shivered and asked himself whether Pulitzer might one day drive him out of business. Almost at once, he scowled and shook his head. It was wrong for a man to blame anyone else for failure. If the Union was ever forced to suspend publication, it would be the result of his bad judgment. His mistakes. Still, it wouldn't hurt to have a conference with Theo Payne and once again urge him to enliven the paper's news columns. The scaffolding on Bedloe's Island slid astern. Gideon's mood remained as gloomy as the day. On every front, the Kents seemed to be suffering setbacks. Eleanor had abdicated any responsibility for the family's future. She and Leo were only interested in their profession. This winter they were working as members of Mrs. Drew's troupe at the Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia. Carter was roaming the West. Since bolting from the train in North Platte the preceding year, he had communicated with Julia just three times. He'd written the first letter on the unused portion of his train ticket. The other two letters, equally short, had been mailed from small towns in Texas. AU summer long, Julia had kept telling her husband that Carter could take care of himself. He knew she didn't quite believe it. Will had taken the news about Carter badly. Gideon believed that the abrupt changes in Will's behavior last year had come about partly because of Carter and partly because of Dolores Wertman, the red-haired girl who lived farther down Beacon Street. In the spring, right after Carter's departure, Will had seemed to come out of himself. To grow more cheerful; gain new confidence; throw off his dependence on his stepbrother. Not coincidentally, he'd been calling on Dolores Wertman at the time. Gideon and Julia had been pleased to see Will taking interest in a girl. Even the arrival of the letter on the rail ticket hadn't appeared to hit Will very hard; Dolores Wertman occupied all his attention. Then, during a July heat wave, the girl's father had been felled by a stroke. He died two days later. The death immediately plunged caret the family into a financial crisis; Wertman had mortgaged himself heavily to expand his ice business. The Beacon Street house and its furnishings were the first things sold to settle the dead man's debts. Impoverished overnight and ashamed of it, Dolores Wertman had moved away without giving Will a forwarding address. Within a few days, the boy reverted to his old self, hesitant and humorless. He began to talk about nothing but Carter's absence. To speculate endlessly about Carter's whereabouts or state of mind. The summer of '85 had not been a good one for Julia, but it had been even worse for W. Gideon had suggested the European tour as an antidote. But it had done nothing to restore Will's spirits. Now the family was home. Matters held in suspension during the trip had to be taken up again. Will's future, for one. But perhaps discussion of that subject might be just the thing to prod the boy out of his despondency, Gideon thought. Certainly he didn't know where else to begin. Despondent himself, he left the rainy deck in answer to the gong signaling the last breakfast sitting. ii In the first-class dining saloon, Will sat by himself, fiddling with an untasted croissant. At sixteen, he was growing taller, slimming down. He wasn't happy about much these days, but he sup183 posed he was happy to be home. He'd found the European tri" a bore. Except, of course, for the periods when Uncle Matt traveled with them. Uncle Matt was full of racv stories about his colleagues, their misadventures and their mistresses. Many of Uncle Matt's closest friends had been christened "impressionists" after an 1884 exhibition of their work. Will's uncle had gone to some pains to explain that term to his nephew. He drew small, auick sketches to show how a human shoulder-or a cathedral such as Sacre- Coeur on Montmartre-never looked the same from season to season, or even hour to hour. To the eye of the trained observer, different kinds of sunlight-summer and winter, morning and afternoon-created distinctly different visual impressions of any subject. It was this observed reality which was the true reality, Uncle Matt insisted. Reality was not the skeleton and muscle structure, or the architectural design, which your brain told you was always there and always constant beneath the shifting light. In their paintings, he and his friends attempted to capture not a textbook reality, but a higher, purer one-the impression of a sunlit moment forever caught on canvas. But even artistic theory painlessly presented by a laughing, raffish and wondrously likable uncle was no substitute for the things that were suddenly missing from Will Kent's life. First Dolores had moved away and then the fact of Carter's disappearance had hit home. He lost the girl he loved and then he lost the confidence Carter had instilled in him for a time. When he was courting Dolores, he seldom heard Margaret Kent's voice hectoring him from the past. Now he heard it often. - And he fretted constantly about the promise he'd made to Carter. He loved his stepbrother and wanted to keep the promise. But he was listening to Margaret's voice again. He didn't know whether he'd ever amount to- "Good morning, W." Will glanced up. Gideon slipped into the chair opposite him. "Morning, sir." The two table stewards appeared and hovered, all smiles at this last meal. Before the morning was over, they'd receive their tips for service on the crossing. The senior steward inquired about Julia. Gideon said, "She won't be joining us, Guy. She's a bit under the weather." "Very sorry to hear that, sir. May I suggest our kippers this morning?" After Gideon had ordered a large breakfast and sipped some hot tea, he said to Will, "Did they take the trunks out of the stateroom yet?" Will nodded. Drizzly fog pressed against the huge saloon windows. The Cunarder was backing and turning in preparation for entering her slip. Will glanced at his father apprehensively. What was on Gideon's mind? Something of importance, certainly. He recognized the set of his father's mouth, and a certain purposeful glint in his eye. The senior steward served Gideon a thick golden crescent of melon. The dining room was unusually noisy. Buzzing with the conversation of people about to arrive home. Finely dressed people, too, Will observed. The kind of people you saw only in the first