The Chancellor Manuscript (26 page)

“Is anything the matter?” she asked.

“No,” he lied. “I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking.” He could feel her looking at him; he had not fooled her for an instant. “That’s not true,” he continued. “I was remembering when I was here before, when I saw your father and mother.”

“I was thinking about my last visit, too,” she said. “It was this past summer. I came down for a few days. I was supposed to stay a week, but it didn’t work out that way. I upped and left with a number of choice words I wish to God I’d never said.”

“Was that when he told you he was resigning?”

“Had resigned. I think that bothered me as much as
anything. We’d always discussed important things. And then the most important decision of his life arose, and I was cut off. I said terrible things.”

“He made an extraordinary decision without explaining it to you. Your reaction was natural.”

They fell silent; neither said anything of consequence for the final ten miles. The night had come quickly; the moon had risen.

“There it is. The white mailbox,” said Alison.

Chancellor slowed down and turned into the concealed driveway, hidden by the profuse foliage on either side and the low-hanging branches of the trees beyond. Had it not been for the mailbox, the entrance could have easily been missed.

The house stood in eerie isolation, ordinary and alone and still. Moonlight filtered through the trees, speckling the front with shadows. The windows were smaller than Peter remembered, the roof lower. Alison got out of the car and walked slowly up the narrow path to the door. Chancellor followed, carrying the groceries and the whisky from the store in Randolph Hills. She unlocked the door.

They both smelled it at once. It was not overpowering, or even unpleasant, but it pervaded the area. A musklike odor, faintly aromatic, a dying fragrance escaping closed quarters into the night air. Alison squinted her eyes in the moonlight, her head angled in thought Peter watched her; for a moment she seemed to shiver.

“It’s Mother’s,” she said.

“Perfume?”

“Yes. But she died over a month ago.”

Chancellor remembered her words in the car. “You said you were here last summer. Didn’t you come down—”

“For the funeral?”

“Yes.”

“No. Because I didn’t know she’d died. My father called me when everything was over. There was no announcement, no service to speak of. It was a private burial, just he and the woman he remembered as no one else remembered her.” Alison walked into the dark hallway and turned on the light. “Come on, we’ll put the bags in the kitchen.”

They walked through the small dining room to a
swinging door that led to the kitchen. Alison switched on the lights, revealing oddly old-fashioned counters and cabinets in contrast to a modern refrigerator. It was as if a 1930s kitchen had been intruded upon by a futuristic appliance. Peter was struck by his memory of the house. Except for the general’s study, what he had seen of it was old-fashioned, as if deliberately decorated for a different era.

Alison seemed to read his thoughts. “My father reconstructed wherever possible the types of surroundings she associated with her childhood.”

“It’s an extraordinary love story.” It was all he could say.

“It was an extraordinary sacrifice,” she said.

“You resented her, didn’t you?”

She did not flinch from the question. “Yes, I did. He was an exceptional man. He happened to be my father, but that was irrelevant. He was a man of ideas. I read once that an idea was a greater monument than a cathedral, and I believe that. But his cathedral—or cathedrals—never got built. His commitments were always sidetracked. He was never allowed the time to see them through. He had
her
in his footlocker.”

Chancellor did not let her angry eyes waver from his. “You said the men around him were sympathetic. They helped him in every way they could.”

“Of course they did. He wasn’t the only one with a whacked-out woman. It’s pretty standard, according to the West Point underground. But he was different. He had something original to say. And when they didn’t want to hear it, they killed him with kindness. ‘Poor Mac! Look what he has to live with!’ ”

“You were his daughter, not his wife.”

“I
was
his wife! In everything but the bed! And sometimes I wondered whether that—It doesn’t matter. I got out.” She gripped the edge of the counter. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you that well. I don’t know anyone that well.” She bent over the counter, trembling.

Peter resisted the instinct to hold her. “Do you think you’re the only girl in the world who’s felt that way? I don’t think so, Alison,”

“It’s cold.” She pushed herself partially up; still he did not touch her. “I can feel the cold. The furnace must
have gone off.” She stood erect and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. “Do you know anything about furnaces?”

“Gas or oil?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll find out Is that the door to the basement?” He pointed to a door in the right wall.

“Yes.”

He found the light switch and walked down the narrow stairs, pausing at the bottom. The furnace was in the center of a low-ceilinged room; an oil tank was against the left wall. It
was
cold; a damp chill permeated the basement as though an outside door had been left open.

But the outside door was bolted. He checked the oil-tank gauge; it registered half full, but could very well be inaccurate. Why else would the furnace be off? MacAndrew was not the sort of man to leave a house in the country without heat in the winter. He tapped the side of the tank. Hollow above, full lower down. The gauge was accurate.

He lifted the plate of the firing mechanism and saw the cause of the problem. The pilot light had gone out Under normal circumstances it would take a strong gust of wind to extinguish it. Or a blockage in the line. But the furnace had been checked recently. There was a small strip of plastic adhesive dating the last inspection. It was six weeks old.

Peter read the instructions. They were nearly identical to those of his parents’ furnace.

Press red button for sixty seconds. Hold match beneath
 …

He heard a sudden, sharp clattering; the sound caused him to gasp. The muscles of his stomach tensed; he angled his head, frozen by the
rat-tat-tat
somewhere behind him. It stopped.

Then started again! He spun around and moved toward the stairs. He looked up.

On the top of the basement wall a window was open. It was at ground level; the wind outside was hammering against it.

That was the explanation. Wind from the window had extinguished the pilot light. Chancellor walked to the wall, suddenly afraid again.

The pane of glass had been shattered. He could feel
the crunching of glass beneath his feet. Someone had broken into MacAndrew’s home!

It happened too quickly. For an instant, he could not send commands from his mind to his body.

Screams came from upstairs. Again and again! Alison!

He raced up the narrow steps to the kitchen. Alison was not there, but her screams continued, animallike and terrified.

“Alison! Alison!”

He ran into the dining room.

“Alison!”

The screaming subsided abruptly, replaced by low moans and sobs. They came from across the house, through the hallway and the living room. From MacAndrew’s study!

Peter raced through the rooms, kicking one chair out of the way, sending another crashing to the floor. He burst through the study door.

Alison was on her knees, holding a faded, bloodstained nightgown in her hands. All around her were smashed bottles of perfume, the odor overpowering now and sickening.

And on the wall, painted in blood-red enamel, were the words:

MAC THE KNIFE. KILLER OF CHASŎNG
.

The paint on the walls was soft to the touch but not wet. The blood on the tattered nightgown was moist. The general’s study had been searched thoroughly by professionals. The desk had been pried apart, the leather uphofetery carefully slit. The boxed windowsills and weight sashes had been separated and exposed, the bookcase emptied of its contents, the bindings precisely cut.

Peter led Alison back into the kitchen, where he
poured two glasses of straight Scotch. He returned to the basement, started the furnace, and plugged the broken window with rags. Upstairs in the living room he discovered that the fireplace worked; more than a dozen logs were in a large wicker bin to the right of the screen. He built a fire and sat with Alison on the couch in front of it. The horror was fading, but the questions remained.

“What’s Chasǒng?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I think it’s a place in Korea, but I’m not sure.”

“When we find out, we may learn what it was that happened. What it was they were looking for.”

“Anything could have happened. It was war, and—” She stopped, watching the flames.

“And he was a soldier who sent other soldiers into combat. It might be as simple as that. Someone who lost a son or a brother; someone out for vengeance. I’ve heard of such things.”

“But why him? There were hundreds like him. And he was known for leading his men, not staying behind. No one ever questioned any of his commands. Not that way.”

“Someone did,” said Peter. “Someone very sick.”

She looked at him for several moments, not answering. “You know what you’re saying, don’t you? Whether sick or not, whatever the person knows, or thinks he knows, it’s true.”

“I haven’t thought it out that far. I’m not sure it follows.”

“It has to. My father wouldn’t have turned his back on everything he believed in if it were anything eke.” She shuddered. “What could he have
done?”

“It had something to do with your mother.”

“Impossible.”

“Is it? I saw that nightgown the afternoon I was here. She was wearing it then. She’d fallen down. There was broken glass around her.”

“She was always breaking things. She could be very destructive. The gown is a last cruel joke. I suppose it signifies my father’s impotence. That wasn’t a secret.”

“Where was your mother during the Korean War?”

“In Tokyo. We both were.”

“That was in fifty or fifty-oner?”

“Around then, yes. I was very young.”

“About six years old?”

“Yes.”

Peter sipped his Scotch. “Is that when your mother became ill?”

“Yes.”

“Your father said there was an accident. Do you remember what happened?”

“I
know
what happened. She drowned. I mean, really drowned. They brought her back with electric shock, but the loss of oxygen was too prolonged. It was enough to cause the brain damage.”

“How did it happen?”

“She was caught in the undertow at Funabashi Beach. She was swept out. The lifeguards couldn’t reach her in time.”

They were both silent for a while. Chancellor finished his Scotch, got up from the sofa, and poked the fire. “Shall I fix us something to eat? Then afterward we can—?”

“I’m
not
going back in there!” she said harshly, staring at the fire, interrupting him. Then she looked up. “Forgive me. You’re the last person I should yell at.”

“I’m the only one here,” he answered. “If you feel like yelling—?”

“I know,” she broke in, “it’s allowed.”

“I think it is.”

“Are there no limits to your tolerance?” She asked the question softly, gentle humor in her eyes. He could feel her warmth. And vulnerability.

“I don’t think I’m particularly tolerant. It’s not a word often associated with me.”

“I may test that judgment.” Alison rose from the sofa and approached him, putting her hands on his shoulders. With the fingers of her right hand she delicately outlined his left cheek, his eyes, and, finally, his lips. “I’m not a writer. I draw pictures; they’re my words. And I’m not capable of drawing what I think, or feel, right now. So I ask your tolerance, Peter. Will you give it to me?”

She leaned into him, her fingers still on his lips, and pressed her mouth against his, removing her fingers only when her lips widened.

He could feel the trembling in her body as she thrust herself against him. Her needs were born of exhaustion and sudden, overwhelming loneliness, thought Peter. She desperately wanted the expression of love, for a love had
been taken away. Something—anything, perhaps—had to replace it, if only for a while, for a moment.

Oh,
God
, he understood! And because he understood he wanted her. It was in a way a confirmation of his own agonies. They had been born of the same exhaustion, the same manner of loneliness and guilt. It suddenly occurred to him that for months he’d had no one to talk to, no one had been permitted near him.

“I don’t want to go upstairs,” she whispered, her breath coming rapidly against his mouth, her fingers digging into his back as she clung to him.

“We won’t,” he answered softly, reaching for the buttons of her blouse.

She turned partially away from him and brought her right hand to her throat. In one gesture she tore her blouse away; with a second she opened his shirt. Their flesh met.

He was aroused in a way he had not been for months. Since Cathy. He led her to the couch and gently unhooked her brassiere. It fell away, revealing her soft, sloping breasts, the nipples taut, awakened. She pulled his head down, and as his mouth roamed over her skin, she reached for the buckle of his belt. They lay down and the comfort was splendid.

Alison fell into a deep sleep, and Peter knew it was pointless to try to get her upstairs into a bed. Instead, he brought down blankets and pillows. The fire had subsided. He lifted Alison’s head, placing the softest pillow beneath her, and draped a blanket over her naked body. She did not move.

He arranged two blankets on the floor in front of the fireplace, only feet from the couch, and lay down. He had understood a number of things during the past few hours, but not the state of his own exhaustion. He was asleep immediately.

He awoke with a start, unsure for a moment where he was, jolted by the sound of a log settling into its cradle of embers. There was dim light coming from the small front windows; it was early morning. He looked over at Alison on the couch. She was still asleep, the deep breathing had not changed. He lifted his wrist to see his watch. It was twenty to six. He had slept nearly seven hours.