This Shared Dream (39 page)

Smoking Woman said, “I guess I am mistaken about the aims of this group. Or at least about who has been included in it. Are you sure you’re just not racist?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Anorexic Woman said, “He has a lot of friends who are black.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Megan, sitting sideways in her chair so she could hear better, was a bit surprised too. Were there people who actually wanted to obstruct what she thought of as progress? But yes, economically speaking. People in some of the biggest, most well-funded think tanks in Washington, people who had ascended to power for the wealth it brought to themselves and their friends, who kept a firm hand on all kinds of reins. Until now, such people had always remained an abstraction for Megan. Except when they interfered with science funding, which, come to think of it, they did fairly often.

Blond Man continued, “We simply must either quash this—this
thing
, or gain complete control of it, with as much fear and care as if it were the plan for the hydrogen bomb. To do that, we have to find it. The U.S. has a lot of secrets—”

“Please do not shout,” said Lev.

“Well, it does, and this needs to be one of them. It shouldn’t be in the hands of one person.” He slammed his fist on the glass-topped wicker table, and Megan heard all the glasses jump and land.

The Frenchman said, “I didn’t have much luck. Her library is terribly disorganized. I don’t see how we can possibly find what we’re looking for. I mean, if anything is actually there.”

Megan snorted, rocking with silent laughter. Luckily, they didn’t seem to hear her.

“I might have found something,” said Blond Man, “but I felt as if I was being closely observed, so I had to put it back. Any other progress?”

“The drawers to the desk are locked,” complained Anorexic Woman.

Hmm. Someone had foresight.
Not me,
thought Megan. She had no idea that keys to that old desk were anywhere to be found.

Lev said, “Let’s get down to business before we can’t see straight anymore. It’s in this house somewhere. You’ve at least been able to make the map?”

The Frenchman said, “This house is very large, and doesn’t make sense, architecturally speaking. I did not get far. A man wearing a fedora followed me up the stairs and told me that the party was downstairs, even after I told him I was interested in period architecture. He seemed … forceful. After that he shadowed me. Is he somewhere behind me now?”

“No,” said Lev. Megan quickly picked up her art book, but no one seemed to think about checking the window.

“I did not want to make a scene. All I saw before he escorted me down the stairs were disorganized rooms full of what looked like unnecessary things. It’s a nightmare.”

Megan’s stomach ached with silent laughter, but then she was angry and wanted to go out and kick every one of them in the face. How dare they snoop around when Abbie was asleep—well, maybe—right upstairs?

“Don’t forget the attic,” pointed out Smoking Woman. “For all we know, there are another five thousand books up there. Look, this house sat empty, by all accounts, for years. We could have done anything then. We could have taken it apart and put it back together ten times. Why now?”

“Sometimes it just takes a long time before information connects,” said Lev. “We’ve all been sleepers for years, and now, something happened. That’s why I called all of you together, here.”

Smoking Woman asked, “What happened? Something that none of us actually know much about. How many of us—here, at that table—have even experienced The Effect?”

The Effect?

Anorexic Woman said, “That’s what I thought. It’s just a chimera. Handed down to us by, well, by our handlers, if you please. Mrs. Bette-Dowdy-Dance was some kind of superagent who totally manipulated world-changing information for her own ends? Have you seen her dossier? Just a nice, middle-class housewife who ran a nursery school in her house. Of which no one remembers a thing and of which there is no sign in city hall about licenses, inspections, or any of that. So even that small detail—her so-called cover—is unverifiable. If there’s more to it, I say, let us know. I think it’s all bullshit. Not to mention that she died twenty years ago.”

“Maybe.”

“But there
is
hard information,” said Lev.

“Then share it with us,” said Anorexic Woman. “You can’t, because it’s just rumors. Like the rumors that the U.S. was making an atomic bomb.”

“Which they were,” the Frenchman pointed out.

“That doesn’t prove these particular rumors are true. What I mean is, there’s this assumption that this Device is more dangerous, more powerful, for some reason, than atomic fission. Absurd. We’re on a wild-goose chase.”

“We owe it to our country to make sure that we track down everything we can about the Device. It does exist, it has something to do with history, mind control, and brain science, and it is something that the U.S. needs to control. That’s all there is to it. Bow out, if you wish, at any time.” Lev’s voice, cultured, self-assured.

Megan was puzzled. Lev, in his Russian accent, seemed to be saying that the U.S. was his country.

Blond Man said, sounding a bit worried, “I’m sure none of us want to do that.”

“Look who’s coming,” said Anorexic Woman. “Meeting adjourned. Hey, Jill. Grand party.”

“Glad you could come, Dr. Koslov.” Jill’s voice.

“How many times do I have to tell you—call me Lev. How’s your job working out?”

“I love it.”

“By the way, I have a new list for you.”

“Q it to me and I’ll order them. Hey, are you guys leaving?”

“I couldn’t get my babysitter to stay after midnight,” croaked Smoking Woman.

“Papers to grade,” said the Frenchman. “Thank you for your kind invitation. It has been a wonderful party.”

“You’re welcome,” said Jill, sounding puzzled.

Lev and Blond Man took their leave as well.

After a moment, Megan heard more distant good-byes, and a few car doors slammed. She got out of the wing chair, opened the blinds, and leaned on the windowsill. Jill was holding up the empty bottle. “Vultures,” she muttered.

“How inhospitable of you,” said Megan. “Listen, I have something to tell you.”

From the direction of the front door, Cindy yelled, “Jill? Oh, good. There you are. You’ve got an old friend over here who wants to talk to you.”

“Jill,” said Megan.

Jill paused and looked at her. Megan tried to organize her thoughts and realized that it might take a long time to talk about all this.

“Well, for now,” Megan said, “watch out for that Koslov guy.”

“I already do,” said Jill.

“Well, more so, then.”

“What is it?” asked Jill.

“Well, evidently, he and all the people at his table are sleepers. As in some kind of secret agents.”

“Really.”

“Yes. They were talking about the possibility—or impossibility—of Mom being some kind of intelligence agent. They were trying to make a map of the house—evidently they want to search it. They were going through some of the books up there.” She waved toward the fireplace wall of books. “And—this is really bizarre—they think you might have something that would transform Africa into an economic powerhouse that will swamp this country.”

“Ah,” said Jill. “That makes sense, I guess. That woman—the skinny one? Clarissa. She works at the Bank and not only does she not seem to get much done, but she’s always nosing into my projects.”

“Who’s the blond guy?”

“Bill Anderson. He’s kind of creepy, actually.”

“Jill,” yelled Cindy, still standing in the doorway. “She says her name is Zora.”

“Zora!” Jill smiled. “She was Mom’s old friend the next block over.”

“Right,” said Megan. She got up. “I’d like to say hi to Zora too.”

*   *   *

At about eleven thirty, after most of the neighbors had left and the party was boiling down to hard-core all-nighters, Brian went out the front door and returned in a few minutes with his sax. Jill, sitting on the stairs chatting with a student, murmured “Save us, dear Lord,” when he walked through the foyer carrying the black case—which, although battered, had been recently polished. He had obviously been inspired by the stellar Lester Young compendium they’d been listening to. She wasn’t sure who was in control of the music, but it was all great jazz from the forties. She itched to grab the case from him—after all, she was by far the better sax player. In her opinion. But that would be so unseemly. Her fingers, though, twitched in unison with the notes played by the backup pianist. Her dad would know exactly who that was by recognizing his style; she did not.

Lester Young, “The Prez,” played recognizable tunes on this tape, unlike Parker and Diz later on. Brian was up and running in the middle of “How High the Moon,” and, after a few dissonant honks, actually created some very sweet harmonies.

“He’s been practicing,” said Jill.

“He’s not bad,” said the student she was talking to. “Who is he?”

“My brother.”

“Who’s the drummer?”

“I don’t know.”

At that point someone began to accompany Brian on the piano, which was out of Jill’s sight. However, she recognized Megan’s decisive phrasings in a few seconds. Soon, Brian called out “Jill, we need you.”

“Sounds like it,” she said, which drew a laugh.

Zoe was in the living room, sitting next to Megan at the piano. Cindy sat next to Brian’s old drum set, which, come to think of it, Jill had seen sitting in the hallway earlier, presumably exhumed from the attic. Cindy said, “Come on over, Jill, you’re our singer. We’ve been practicing. Lots of stuff.”

“Since you’ve been practicing without me,” Jill replied, “I can’t vouch for the results.” But she smiled and joined them, setting her drink on the bookcase.

Megan, a very accomplished pianist, played a suitably swinging intro to “Sweet Georgia Brown.” Zoe slid onto the bench next to her and played as well. Jill listened to the beat and dove in. Brian wove harmonies about her voice, which was uncertain and hoarse at first, but grew stronger by the second verse. He and Megan played a serviceable break, but then Megan dropped out and Jill was amazed at Zoe’s jazzy side, which she’d never heard. Jill had everyone at least trying to sing along by the end. Much laughter and applause; Megan rose from the piano stool and they lined up and bowed together, provoking more of the same.

They tried a request, which went over well, and were on their fourth or fifth tune when another voice chimed in from the direction of the porch, from behind where they were all set up. “If anyone knows ‘White Heat’ I’m in with a cornet.”

Megan, seated at the piano with her back to the man said, “Lunceford, right? I was just looking at the sheet music the other day.” She reached to the top of the piano and pulled out a book from the stack there.

Cindy, who sat angled toward him, said, “We’ve been practicing it at home. Brian really wanted to learn it. Let Zoe do it, Megan, she’s pretty good.” She began a drum intro and the others joined in. The man with the cornet was fabulous. There was no singing part, so Jill, by now sitting on top of the piano, turned around to see who it was, but he was bending over, and in the shadow of the porch, inside the French doors, looking at something on the floor, his face concealed. She turned forward again, and looked toward the foyer.

An exotic-looking woman stood there.

She was quite beautiful. Dark, curly hair, styled in a fashion current in the 1940s, cascaded down her back. Bright red lipstick accentuated the strong lines of her face. She held a classic martini glass, which Jill realized must be one of her grandmother’s, brought down from an upper cupboard where a tarnished silver martini mixer also resided. A tight, red, V-necked dress shimmered in the faint light of the foyer, showed off her voluptuous figure.

Her eyes were closed and she nodded her head to the beat. She had a faint smile on her face.

Jill stared at her. Brian’s family continued to play, lost in their musical world, and Megan, on the bench behind the tall piano, was turning the pages of the music book. The woman opened her eyes, smiled directly at Jill, then turned and walked out the door.

Jill put her splayed hand to her chest, her heart pounding hard. Megan looked up in concern, and nodded to Brian. They brought their piece to a close. Megan stood and smiled at everyone as Jill tried to smile herself. She croaked, “I’m fine—go on!” With surprisingly strong hands, Al Treemain caught her around her waist and helped her slide from the piano. Jill looked around. The man with the cornet was gone too. Everyone applauded and Brian turned up the tape once again. Conversations resumed.

Megan said, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just need some air. Who was that man playing the cornet?”

“I didn’t see him,” said Megan. “I thought he was probably somebody you knew.”

“I couldn’t see his face,” said Jill. “He was wearing an old-fashioned fedora.” She rushed toward the door, though she knew that Gypsy Myra, or whoever she was, would be gone by the time she got there.

Megan was right behind her, and grabbed her shoulder. “What do you mean, a fedora?”

“Just what I said,” Jill replied impatiently, shaking her off. One of her colleagues was lighting a cigarette and Jill said, as she passed, “Can I have that? Thanks,” and grabbed it in passing.

On the table next to the door, beneath a Chinese painting Bette had adored, was the half-drunk martini in the elegant hand-blown green glass. Next to it was a card on fine, light green linen stock.

Jill clamped her cigarette between her lips, then picked up the martini glass with her left hand and the card with her right.

Stepping out onto the porch, she walked down to a lower step, next to a purple hydrangea washed by the light of a moon so bright that it cast shadows, and, after looking up and down the street and seeing no trace of the woman, she read the card.

The beaux arts font read, simply, E
LIANI
H
ADNTZ,
P
H
D.

A small but perfect gift: the name of the woman who had … had done what? All this? Changed the world? Made her parents disappear? Given her a template, in the form of a comic book that she knew a young radical of the 1960s could not resist, and that she knew would literally turn her world upside down? Was she a monster? A savior? Where had she come from? What did she want?