Trevayne (18 page)

They both deserved it.

“You’re almost finished,” said Pamela Trevayne, coming through the bedroom door. She handed her mother the red-stamped envelope and looked around. “You know, Mom, I don’t resent the speed you get things straightened up in, but it doesn’t have to be so organized, too.”

The more she immersed herself, the more she found everything falling into organized place
.

“I’ve had lots of experience, Pam,” said Phyllis, her mind still on her previous thoughts. “It wasn’t always so … tidy.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I said I’ve done a lot of unpacking.” Phyllis looked at her daughter as she rather absently thumbed open the back of the envelope. Pam was growing so tall; the light-brown hair fell loose, framing the sharp young features, the wide brown eyes that were so alive. So eager. Pam’s face was a good face—a very feminine version of her brother’s. Not quite beautiful, but much more, much deeper than pretty. Pam was emerging as a most attractive adult. And beneath the surface exuberance there was a fine intelligence, a questioning mind impatient with unsatisfactory answers.

Whatever the hang-ups of her immediate growth period—boys, transistor radios turned these days to mournful, back-country folk ballads, pop posters, poor marches and Boone’s Apple Farm—Pm Trevayne was part of the vast “now.” And that was fine for everybody, thought Phyllis as she watched her daughter part the curtains over the door of the impractical balcony.

“This is a crazy porch, Mother. With luck you could get a whole folding chair out there.”

Phyllis laughed as she read the letter from Bridgeport. “I don’t think we’ll use it for dinner parties … Oh, Lord, they’ve got me scheduled for Fridays. I asked them not to.”

“The seminars?” asked Pam, turning from the curtains.

“Yes. I said any time from Monday through Thursday, so they assign me Fridays. I want Friday open for weekends.”

“That’s not very dedicated, Madame Professor.”

“One dedicated member of the family is enough right now. Your dad’s going to need the weekends—if he can take them off. I’ll phone them later.”

“Today’s Saturday, Mom.”

“You’re right. Monday, then.”

“When’s Steve getting here?”

“Your father asked him to take the train up to Greenwich and drive the station wagon down. He has a list of things to bring; Lillian said she’d pack the wagon.”

Pam uttered a short cry of disappointment. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have taken the bus home and driven down with him.”

“Because I need you here. Dad’s been living in a half-furnished house with no food and no help while I’ve been at Barnegat. We womenfolk have to put things to rights.” Phyllis shoved the letter back in the envelope and propped it against the bureau mirror.

“I’m against your approach. In principle.” Pam smiled. “Womenfolk are emancipated.”

“Be against, be emancipated; and also go unpack the dishes. The movers put them in the kitchen—the oblong box.”

Pam walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, tracing an imaginary crease on her Levi’s. “Sure, in a minute.… Mom, why didn’t you bring down Lillian? I mean, it would be so much easier. Or hire someone?”

“Perhaps later. We’re not sure what our schedule will be. We’ll be in Connecticut a lot, especially weekends; we don’t want to close the house.… I didn’t realize you were so maid-conscious.” Phyllis gave her daughter a raised eyebrow of mock disapproval.

“Oh, sure. I get uptight when I can’t find my ladies-in-waiting.”

“Then why ask?” Phyllis rearranged some articles on
the bureau and looked casually at her daughter in the mirror.

“I read the article in the Sunday
Times
. It said that Dad had taken on a job that would keep him busy for ten years—with no time off—and then it would only be half-done; that even
his
well-known abilities were up against the impossible.”

“Not impossible; they used the word ‘incredible.’ And the
Times
is prone to exaggerate.”

“They said
you
were a leading authority on the Middle Ages.”

“They don’t always exaggerate.” Phyllis laughed again and lifted an empty suitcase off a chair, “What is it, dear? You’ve got that I-want-to-say-something look.”

Pam leaned back against the headboard; Phyllis was relieved to see that her daughter did not have shoes on. The bedspread was silk. “Not ‘say.’ ‘Ask.’ I’ve read the newspaper stories, the stuff in the magazines; I even saw that TV news thing of Eric Sevareid’s—they called it a commentary. I was very big on campus; he’s grooved these days.… Why is Dad taking this on? Everyone says it’s such a mess.”

“Precisely because it is a mess. Your father’s a talented man. A lot of people think he can do something about it.” She carried the suitcase to the doorway.

“But he can’t, Mom.”

Phyllis looked over at her daughter. She’d been only half-listening, parent-child listening, more concerned with the thousand and one things that needed to get done. “What?”

“He can’t do anything.”

Phyllis walked slowly back to the foot of the bed. “Would you mind explaining that?”

“He can’t change things. No committee, no government hearing or investigation, can make things any different.”

“Why not?”

“Because the government’s investigating itself. It’s like an embezzler being made the bank examiner. No way, Mom.”

“That remark sounds suspiciously out of character, Pam.”

“I admit it isn’t mine, but it says it. We talk a lot you know.”

“I’m sure you do, and that’s good. But I think that kind of statement oversimplifies, to say the least. Since there’s a general agreement that a mess exists, what’s your solution? If you’ve arrived at a criticism you must have an alternative.”

Pam Trevayne sat forward, her elbows on her knees. “That’s what everyone always says, but we’re not’sure it’s so. If you know someone’s sick, but you’re not a doctor, you shouldn’t try to operate.”

“Out of character …”

“No, that’s mine.”

“I apologize.”

“There
is
an alternative. But it’ll probably have to wait; if we’re not too far gone or dead by then.… A whole big change. Top to bottom, a huge replacement. Maybe a
real
third party …”

“Revolution?”

“God, no! That’s a freak-out; that’s the violent-jocks. They’re no better than what we’ve got; they’re
dumb
. They split heads and think they’re solving something.”

“I’m relieved—I’m not condescending, dear. I mean that,” said Phyllis, reacting to her daughter’s sudden questioning look.

“You see, Mom, the people who make all the decisions have to be replaced with people who’ll make other decisions. Who’ll listen to the
real
problems and stop making up fake ones or exaggerating the little ones for their own benefit.”

“Maybe your father can point out … things like that. If he backs them up with facts, they’ll have to listen.”

“Oh, sure. They’ll listen. And nod; and say he’s sure a great guy. Then there’ll be other committees to look into
his
committee, and then a committee to look into
them
. That’s the way it’ll be; it’s the way it always is. In the meantime, nothing changes. Don’t you see, Mom? The
people
up there have to change
first.
”

Phyllis watched her daughter’s excited expression. “That’s very cynical,” she said simply.

“I guess it is. But I’ve got an idea you and Dad don’t feel so differently.”

“What?”

“Well, it seems to me everything’s kind of … impermanent. I mean, Lillian’s not here, this house isn’t exactly the kind of place Dad digs …”

“There are good reasons for the house; there aren’t many available. And Dad hates hotels, you know that.” Phyllis spoke rapidly, offhandedly. She didn’t care to spell out the fact that the small guest cottage in the back was ideally situated for the two Secret Service men assigned to them. The “1600 Patrol” was the name she’d read on a memorandum from Robert Webster.

“You said the place was only half-furnished …”

“We haven’t had time.”

“… you’re still lecturing up in Bridgeport.”

“I made the commitment; it was near home.”

“You even said you weren’t sure of your schedule.”

“Darling, you’re taking isolated, disconnected statements and making them support a preconceived judgment.”

“Come on, Mother, you’re not building a case against somebody’s footnotes.”

“I might as well be. I’ve seen an awful lot just as misleading. And extraneous.… What your father’s doing is very important to him. He’s made some agonizing decisions; they weren’t easy, and they hurt. I don’t like to hear you imply that he’s not serious. Or part of a sham.”

“Oh, wow! I’m sending out the wrong vibes.” Pam rose from the edge of the bed and stammered, embarrassed that she’d so obviously upset her mother. “I’m not saying that, Mom. I’d never say that about Dad. Or you. I mean, you
level.
”

“Then I misunderstood you.” Phyllis walked aimlessly back to the bureau. She was annoyed with herself; there was no reason to pick at Pam for saying what men—and women—far more knowledgeable than her daughter were saying all over Washington. Not the sham; the aspect of futility.

The waste. And Andrew hated waste.

Nothing would change. That’s what they were saying.

“I just meant that Dad maybe wasn’t sure, that’s all …”

“Of course,” said Phyllis turning, showing her daughter
an understanding smile. “And you may be right … about the difficulty of changing things. But I think we ought to give him a crack at it, don’t you?”

The daughter, relieved by her mother’s smile, returned one of her own. “Gosh, yes. I mean, he might switch the whole Navy around, make it a sailing fleet.”

“The ecologists would approve. Go on, now, get those dishes out. When Steve arrives, he’ll be hungry.”

“He’s always hungry.” Pam went to the door.

“Speaking of your father, where is the elusive man? He conveniently disappears when chores are in order.”

“He’s out back. He was looking at that oversized doll house in the south forty. And that nutty driveway that looks like someone goofed with a cement mixer.”

“ ‘Monticellino,’ dear.”

“Mom, what
does
that mean?”

“Monticello got pregnant, I guess.”

“Oh, wow!”

Trevayne closed the door on the small guest cottage, satisfied once again that the equipment for the 1600 Patrol had been properly installed and was functioning. There were two speakers that picked up any sound from the main-house hallway and living room as soon as a switch underneath the living-room rug was stepped on. He had done so, and he’d just heard the front door open and a brief conversation between his daughter and a postman, followed by Pam’s shouting to Phyllis that a special delivery had arrived. Further, he’d placed a book on the ledge of an open window in the downstairs rec room—so that it horizontally broke the vertical space—and noted, again with satisfaction, that a high, piercing hum was emanating from a third speaker beneath a numbered panel when he’d entered the cottage. Every room in the main house had a number that corresponded with one on the panel. No object or person could cross a window space without activating the electronic scanner.

He’d asked the two Secret Service men to wait in their car up the street during the day while the children were down for the weekend. Andy suspected that they had additional materials in their automobiles that were
somehow connected with the guest-cottage equipment, but he didn’t inquire. He’d find a way to tell the kids about the 1600 Patrol, but he didn’t want them alarmed; under no circumstances were they to learn of the reasons for the protection. The two agents had worked out their own schedules with alternate men, and were sympathetic.

His agreement with Robert Webster—with the President—was simple enough. His wife was to be given around-the-clock safety surveillance; he learned that “safety surveillance” was the term, not “protection.” For some reason the former gave “wider latitude” and was more acceptable to the Justice Department. His two children were to receive “spot-check surveillance” on a daily basis provided by local authorities through federal request. The schools were to be informed of the “routine” exercise and asked to cooperate.

It was agreed that Trevayne himself would be allocated the minimum “safety surveillance.” A personal assault against him was considered unlikely, and he refused any formal association with Justice on the basis of conceivable conflict. Bobby Webster told him the President had laughed when informed that he objected to the “wider-latitude” phrase employed by the Justice Department.

A previous Attorney General named Mitchell had left his mark indelibly on such manipulative language.

Trevayne heard the sound of a horn and looked up. The station wagon, driven by his son, had gone partially beyond the entrance and was now in reverse, preparing to turn into the driveway. The back was filled practically to the roof, and Andy wondered how Steve could use the rear-view mirror.

The boy drove to the front path and accurately judged the parallel positioning of the tailgate so the unloading would be made easier. He climbed out of the front seat, and Andy realized—somewhat ruefully, but with amusement—that his son’s long hair was now shaped almost biblically.

“Hi, Dad,” said Steve, smiling, his shirt overlapping his flared trousers, his shoulders equal in height to the roof of the station wagon. “How’s the nemesis of the incredible?”

“The who of the what?” asked Andy, shaking his son’s hand.

“That’s what the
Times
said.”

“They exaggerate.”

The house was “organized”—far more than Andy thought possible by late afternoon. He and his son had unloaded the wagon and then stood around in their shirtsleeves, awaiting the next command from Phyllis, who had them shuffle furniture as though it were chess pieces. Steve announced that the hourly charges of the new moving company of Trevayne and Trevayne were going up rapidly, with double wages every time a heavy piece was moved back into a previous position. At one point he whistled loudly and stated with equal fervor that it was a union break for a can of beer.