The Prodigal Spy (3 page)

“Nicku, you still up?”

“Uh-huh. Where’s Mom?”

His father came over and sat on the edge of the bed, moving the covers up under Nick’s chin. Nick caught the faint whiff of aftershave. “She and Father Tim are going over old times again. You know what that’s like.”

Nick smiled. “They’re not even old.”

“Well, they used to be younger. Anyway, your mother enjoys it. Father Tim’s good for her that way.”

“Does he hear her confession?”

“Tim?” His father laughed. “I don’t think Tim has time for church business. He’s what we call a dinner priest–here’s a story and pass the port.”

“Nora says you don’t like priests. She says you’re anticlerical,” Nick said, trying out the word.

“She’d better watch out or I’ll get anti-Nora.”

“So why does he come here, if you’re—”

“Well, he doesn’t come for me. He and your mother go back a long way. Since they were your age. To tell you the truth, I think he was sweet on her.”

“Dad. He’s a priest.”

“Lucky for us, huh?” his father said, gently brushing the hair off Nick’s forehead. “How about some sleep?”

“When Grandma talks to you sometimes, what language is that?”

“Czech. You know that.”

“Like when you say Nicku?”

“Uh-huh. If you put a
u
on the end of a name, it’s a way of showing affection. Sort of a Nickname.”

“Dad.”

“Why do you ask?”

“You told the man you didn’t speak Czech.”

“What man?” he said, his hand stopping on Nick’s forehead.

“The man at the hearing. I saw you in a newsreel today.”

“You did, huh?” But Nick could tell his father was stalling, not sure what to say. “What did you think?”

“
Do
you speak it?”

Nick’s father sat up. “Not in the way he meant. A few words. Half the time I don’t know what Grandma’s saying. Why? Did you think I wasn’t telling the truth?”

Nick shrugged. “No.” He paused. “Why did he want to know that, anyway?”

“He wanted to make people think I was foreign. Some people don’t like foreigners. They’re afraid, I guess. But let’s not worry about it, okay? It’s just politics. It’s his way of running for office, that’s all.”

“I hope he loses.”

His father smiled. “So do I, Nick. Maybe we’ll get Father Tim to send up a few prayers, what do you say? If we can get him out the door. Now, how about some sleep?” But he stayed on the bed, looking at Nick. “Does it bother you, all this business?”

“Why did that woman say she knew you if she didn’t?”

“I don’t know, Nick,” his father said, slumping a little so the light caught the shiny waves of his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe she thought she did. Maybe she met me someplace and decided she didn’t like me for some reason. Maybe she’s crazy–you know, the way people make things up? Like when you’re afraid of the dark–you think there’s someone there even when there isn’t. Well, everybody’s afraid of the dark now. So they keep seeing things.”

“Grownups aren’t afraid of the dark.”

“It’s an expression. I mean afraid in general. They’re afraid of all kinds of things, so they keep seeing bogeymen everywhere. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, Nick. Maybe you can’t explain a bogeyman–he’s just there.”

“Communists, you mean.”

His father nodded. “That’s who it is now. Maybe next week it’ll be something else.”

Nick said nothing, thinking.

“Not much help, is it?” his father said. “I don’t have an explanation, Nick.”

“Are they going to stop?”

“They can’t–not yet.” His voice had begun to drift, away from Nick to some private conversation. “Sometimes I think it was the war. We got into the habit of having enemies. That’s a hard habit to break. After a while, you don’t know any other way to think. And one day it’s over and they turn on all the lights again and expect things to go back to the way they were, but nobody knows how to stop. They’re used to it. They have to get new enemies. It’s the way things make sense to them.”

“For always?” Nick said.

His question brought his father back. “No,” he said, “things change. That’s why we need people like you,” he added, his voice lighter now. He pulled up the covers again. “Who weren’t there. Who don’t even remember it. It’ll be different for you. What’s going on now—” His voice lifted, like a verbal wave of the hand. “You’ll forget that too. It’ll just be history.” He paused. “Just a bad dream.”

“It’s not a dream now,” Nick said quietly. “I saw it.”

His father looked at him, stalling again. “No,” he said, “not now.” Then he tapped Nick’s forehead with his finger. “You’re a pragmatist, Nick. That’s what you are.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, someone who keeps his eye on the ball. Feet on the ground. You know. Not like someone else we know, huh?” he said, pointing to himself.

“Mom says I’m like you. Aren’t you a pragmatist?” Nick said, getting it right.

“Sure. Not as good as you, though. You’ll have to help me out, okay? Keep me on my toes.”

Nick nodded, but he knew, with the same dread he’d felt in the movies, there was nothing he could do to help. His father was just trying to make him feel better–a different land of lie, like pretending he wasn’t worried, pretending it was all going to go away.

“That’s the thing about history anyway,” his father said. “You still have to live through it. Before you know how it’s going to come out. So you keep me on my toes. Of course, to do that you have to grow, and to do
that
—”

“I know. Sleep. But Dad—”

“Ssh. No more. We’ll talk tomorrow. It’s supposed to snow, you know. I’ll bet it’s already snowing up at the cabin. Wind blowing it all over the place. Swoosh.” His father leaned over and made a wind sound in his ear, tickling him and making him burrow deeper under the covers. It was their old game, from when he was little. “Here it comes, down the chimney.” He made another wind sound. “But we don’t care, do we? We’ll just stay warm and cozy.” His father always said that.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” Nick said, as he always did.

“That’s right,” his father said softly. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Dad? If it snows, will you have to go to the hearing?”

His father smiled. “I think Mr Welles would insist. No snow days for him.”

“Don’t go,” Nick said, his voice suddenly urgent. “He’s trying to get you. I
saw
him.”

“Ssh. Don’t worry, he won’t. He’s only a bogeyman, and they never get anybody. We make them up, remember?” he said playfully. Then, seeing Nick’s solemn face, he nodded. “I know. I’ll be careful. This one’s really there.” He stood up, smoothing the covers. “He made himself up, I guess. Some world, isn’t it? All he used to be was a dumb cluck from Oklahoma.”

“Walter?” his mother said from the doorway. “Larry’s here. Nick, are you still up?”

“We’ve been going over my defense strategy,” Nick’s father said. “We’re hoping for a snow day.”

“Walter,” his mother said, shooting him a glance.

“Uncle Larry’s here?” Nick said, starting to get up. “Where?”

“Not tonight, kiddo,” his father said. “It’s late.”

Larry wasn’t really his uncle. His father had met him in college — over the serving line in the dining hall, according to the family story, when Nick’s father was dishing out food to work his way through Penn and Larry, nursing a hangover, tipped a tray onto his father’s white jacket without knowing it. His father used to joke that they never changed–he kept working behind the line and Larry kept getting things handed to him on a platter, indifferent to spills. In Washington it had been the dining hall all over again. His father worked long hours in the agencies; Larry moved his tray all the way to the White House, where, his father said, he was one of the fair-haired policy boys. His hair in fact
was
fair, a bright ginger that reminded Nick of Van Johnson, and he had the same open face and easy smile. When he took Nick and his mother to see the White House one day–even upstairs, since the President was away–he moved through the rooms as if they were his, kidding with the secretaries, who waited for his grin, an effortless seduction. It’s easy to be charming, his father said, when your family owns half of Philadelphia, but in fact he couldn’t resist it either. He was different with Larry–easy and comfortable, the way people were when their jokes are too old for anyone else to remember. But Larry hadn’t been to the house for weeks, and it was late to call. Nick wondered what was wrong.

“He’s in the study,” his mother said. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of the others. The Kittredges look as if they’re settling in for the night.” Nick heard the laugh in her voice, the way she used to be at parties. So maybe it was all right. “Night, Nick,” she said, blowing him a kiss. She pulled the door behind her but left it half open, so that Nick could see them starting down the stairs, their heads together.

He didn’t wait. When he heard the click of her heels on the landing, he slid out of bed and darted into the hall. He peered over the banister, watching his mother’s skirt swish down the next flight of stairs, then tiptoed down to the second floor. He waited until his father’s back disappeared into the study before he crept along the wall, angling himself at the open door to see through the crack. Uncle Larry was still wearing his topcoat, as if he didn’t mean to stay.

“Long time no see, Larry.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t get away,” Larry said quickly. “We’re redoing the speech.”

“I didn’t mean the dinner. It’s been a while,” his father said, moving out of Nick’s line of vision. “Want a drink?”

“No. I can’t stay.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody saw you. The reporters don’t show up until morning.”

“For Christ’s sake, Walter.” Larry looked over toward his father, then dropped his hat on the leather couch. “All right. Maybe a short one,” he said, taking off his coat.

Nick heard his father pour the drink at the sideboard. “Good. I thought maybe I’d reached the leper stage. Have I?”

Larry glanced up sharply. “No. But you’re not making any friends in there either, Walter. You’ve got to stop fighting with him.”

“I can’t help it,” his father said, coming back into view and handing Larry a glass. “He’s a moron.”

“He’s a moron who’s getting headlines. He’s got nothing going for him but a district full of dust farms and a bunch of Indians who don’t vote, and you’re making him a national figure. How smart is that? Come on, Walter, you know how it works. You’re not exactly new in town.”

“The town’s changed.”

“The town never changes,” Larry said evenly. “Never. You just got on the wrong side of it.”

“That the view from the East Lawn these days?” his father said. “Okay. Withdrawn. Cheers.” He took a sip of his drink, then paused. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry I missed the party,” Larry said. “How’s Livia?”

“I need your help, Larry,” his father said, ignoring the question.

For a minute neither of them said anything.

“I can’t get involved with the case, Walter. You know that. We don’t go near the Hill these days. Christ, we don’t even cross the street. Everybody’s too busy ducking under the table.”

His father nodded with a small smile. “So I heard. They’re starting to get lonely over at State.”

“State’s like sick bay–everybody’s afraid they’ll catch something. Anyway, you’ve already got Benjamin. He’s the best lawyer in town for this.”

“Devoted as he is to lost causes,” his father said, taking a drink.

“You’re not going to lose. Just stop fighting with Welles. He’s on a fishing expedition and you keep biting. He hasn’t got anything, so he’s trying to nail you for contempt.”

“How do you know he hasn’t got anything?”

Larry looked at him. “Because he never does,” he said, tossing back his drink. “Because I know you. The Mine Workers, for Christ’s sake. What’s next, the fucking Red Cross? He hasn’t got a thing, Walter.” He paused. “If he did we’d have heard about it.” He turned and started walking, a courtroom pace. “One witness who doesn’t even
look
stable. You see the way she twists her handkerchief? If this were a real trial, Benjamin would discredit her in two minutes. Two minutes.”

“Then I guess I don’t have a thing to worry about,” his father said easily. He leaned against the edge of the desk, looking down at his glass. “Nick wonders why she’s saying these things. I’ll bet he’s not the only one.”

Nick started at the sound of his name, as if they’d caught him and were drawing him into the room.

“Who knows?” Larry said. “Maybe Welles is screwing her. She wouldn’t be the first. Maybe she’s doing it for love. She looks the type. The point is, it doesn’t matter. All she’s got is some cockamamie story about shirts. Shirts. Christ, where do they get this stuff? Anyway, forget her. This is about Welles, not her. Welles doesn’t know what to do with her either. Just keep your eye on him.”

His father smiled, still looking down. “That’s what Nick said too.”

Larry stopped, disconcerted, then walked over to the sideboard to put his glass down. “Well, do it then. All you’ve got to do is keep your head, Walter. It’s her word against yours, and yours still counts for something in this town.”

“Let’s not kid ourselves, Larry,” his father said slowly. “I’m finished in this town. That’s why I need your help.”

In the quiet Nick could hear the sounds from downstairs, the indistinct voices and clinks of coffee spoons.

“Walter, I—”

“Don’t worry, it won’t cost you anything. I don’t want a lawyer. Just some advice. Advice used to be cheap.” He got up and walked over to the window, out of Nick’s sight.

“You’re a behind-the-scenes guy. It’s your specialty, isn’t it? I need someone like that now.”

“To do what?”

“To make a deal with the committee.”

“You don’t want to do that,” Larry said carefully.

“I have to. It’s going to get worse.”

The room was quiet again.

“What do you mean?” Larry finally said. “Look, Walter, if you’re trying to tell me something, don’t. I’m not your lawyer. Anything we say–it’s not privileged. You know that.”

His father came back into view, his face slightly surprised. “You don’t have to tell me that, Larry,” he said gently. “What’s the matter? Do you think I’m a Communist? You too?”