MARIE LIVED ON the northern fringes of the city, near Rock Creek Park, in one of a series of three-storey apartment buildings erected just before the Depression hit. She had a long bus ride to work, but she’d explained that the neighbourhood was safe and the school for her little boy Jack was good. Guttman had never been there before, and when he parked outside on the street he found it nicer than he had imagined.
He brought a box of chocolates since it seemed an anodyne gift – booze would have suggested he was presuming an intimacy that didn’t exist. When he pressed the buzzer he heard Marie shout for her son to answer it. The boy answered the door and stood staring at Guttman. He couldn’t have been more than seven years old.
‘Hi,’ said Guttman.
‘Are you Mr G?’
Is that what Marie called him at home? ‘I guess so,’ he said.
‘Where’s your gun then?’
‘If I tell you, will you let me in?’
Marie came down the corridor from the back of the apartment. She had changed for dinner, and wore heels and a navy blue crepe dress half-covered by an apron – she was drying her hands on it as she walked towards him.
‘Jack,’ she exclaimed, ‘invite Mr Guttman in! He’s our guest.’
While Marie took his coat and hung it in the hall closet, Guttman walked into the living room. It was modestly furnished but comfortable, with a three-seater sofa with soft cushions and a couple of decent second-hand chairs. On the mantelpiece there was a line of small china figures, including a little painted Madonna which reminded him that Marie was Catholic. A card table with a mended leg was set for dinner.
‘I bet you could use a drink,’ Marie said, as Jack stared up at Guttman. She went to the kitchen and brought out an ice tray and a pitcher of water, and he poured himself a stiff drink and made Marie a weaker one at her request. They sat down on the sofa, while Jack buzzed around them. She was going to Quebec for Christmas, to see her parents and siblings. Instead of asking him what he was doing then, she asked about Thanksgiving, the following week.
‘Gosh,’ he said, then suddenly thought she might be thinking of asking him over again. ‘I’ll probably be down seeing Mom in New York.’
For dinner, Marie had gone to a lot of effort, giving him three courses, starting with pea soup. Then she brought out a big casserole dish, holding it away from her with oven mitts, while Guttman steadied the table. When she took the lid off, steam rose like a genie’s breath. Jack laughed. Marie served, putting a big chop on each plate, with sauerkraut and potatoes that came from the casserole. She was handing Guttman his plate when suddenly she froze.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry. It’s pork chops. Is that a problem?’
What? He was merely flattered that she’d used her ration cards on him. But then he got it. ‘No, that’s fine, Marie. Isabel made pork all the time.’
‘She did?’ Marie said, looking as though she thought he was just being polite.
‘Sure. She wasn’t Jewish, after all.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
She didn’t? Guttman was surprised. How many times had Marie helped him buy his wife a Christmas present? How many times had he joked about what the nuns who’d brought up Isabel would make of her ‘unsuitable’ marriage? None of which had made a dent on Marie, it seemed.
He said forcefully, ‘I eat anything, believe me. And it smells delicious.’
For dessert Marie had pushed the boat out – to the far shore, thought Guttman. She served grands-pères, sweet dumplings in maple syrup with vanilla ice cream. Marie explained that they reminded her of Canada, where her father had been a logger. With them she passed around a plate of whippet cookies, sweet biscuits topped by marshmallow that had been coated in a hard shell of chocolate. They were impossible to find in Washington, Marie explained, because the pure chocolate didn’t survive the shipping, and she’d brought them down from her last visit home. Guttman nodded, struggling to clean his plate, feeling that if he ate one more spoonful of the sugar-filled dessert he would crystallise.
After dinner Marie put Jack to bed, then made coffee, which she brought out on a tray that held little china cups, two snifters and a pint bottle of brandy. ‘Have a nightcap, Harry,’ she said.
She sat down on the sofa next to him. Not too close, but not very far away. Guttman was starting to feel uncomfortable.
He turned down the offer of brandy, and to shift the mood he asked, ‘How’s your young friend, T.A.?’
She looked bemused. ‘Okay, I guess. Very busy – Mr Tolson sends him all over the place.’
‘I bet he does.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondered. You made it sound like half the gals in typing were sweet on him.’
She shrugged and gave a half-smile. ‘I guess they are. He’s a nice boy.’
‘How about you?’
‘How about me what?’ He saw she didn’t like the question.
‘Are you sweet on him too, Marie? He’s a good-looking kid.’
‘I’m almost old enough to be his mother, Harry,’ she protested.
‘Nah. Big sister maybe.’
‘Flatterer,’ she said and moved almost imperceptibly closer on the couch.
‘I’m sure he’d be interested, Marie. It’s obvious he likes you.’
‘Well, I’m not interested,’ she said firmly. ‘Whatever you say, it would be robbing the cradle. Besides, I don’t think you’re right about him.’
‘What, about being interested in you? Of course he is. No one in typing holds a candle to you.’
‘For goodness’ sake, he lives with his mother.’
‘You can’t tell a lot from that.’ Guttman shrugged benignly. ‘It’s not something I’d have wanted to do at his age. But each to his own, eh?’
‘He’s not really interested. A woman can tell, Harry. I don’t just mean me – the other girls would say the same thing.’ She added slyly, ‘Maybe that’s why he works for Mr Tolson.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry.’
Guttman laughed. ‘That’s okay, Marie. You’re probably right about that.’ He was trying to make sense of this. Just a few hours before, he’d seen evidence to the contrary. The kid was obviously a bit of a ladies’ man, yet that wasn’t the impression he was making at work. If Marie was casting doubts, then Adams must be giving that impression on purpose. Why?
He wasn’t going to find out talking to Marie. Then she said, ‘Did I mention, Harry, that my husband is finally divorcing me?’
‘No, you didn’t. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not. I haven’t seen the bum in five years, so it’s not like it’s going to make a difference. He didn’t even send Jack a birthday card this year.’
‘It is. Especially since I’m not initiating it.’ She gave a laugh that was unlike her usual robust one. ‘I’m a good Catholic girl, after all. I couldn’t do it myself. But I’m glad he is.’
She leaned back now, though her scent lingered like potpourri in a drawer. ‘He was a Wobbly. Worked the lumber mills, which is where he met my dad – and then me. He’s still out there, only now he’s an organiser, travelling all around.’
‘Listen, Marie,’ he said, glad he hadn’t had another beer, ‘why don’t I help you do the dishes before I leave?’
He could see this startled her. She said, ‘I’ll do them in the morning. Don’t go yet, Harry.’ He could smell the scent on her neck. Lemon and sugar; it reminded him of lemonade. It was tempting for all of two seconds. During all the years with Isabel he had never found it hard to stay in line; even had he been tempted to stray, one no-go would have been anyone working for him.
Guttman said now, ‘We’ve both got work in the morning. I’d better get some sleep in case Tolson calls me back again.’ He gave a faint-hearted laugh, and noticed that her movement his way on the couch had stopped.
She said, ‘Are you sure?’
They both knew what she meant. He said quietly, ‘I’m sure, Marie.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Sorry,’ he said. That was as close as he wanted to come to addressing this awkward situation.
‘It’s okay, Harry.’
‘Maybe another time,’ he said gently.
She nodded. ‘Sure, that would be great. I’ll cook something other than pork chops.’ But her smile was doleful; Harry could see she was trying to mask her disappointment. She got up, brushing a crumb off her skirt. ‘I’ll get your coat.’