THREE

 

 

 

 

The Shaefers lived on the seventh floor of a converted warehouse off Connecticut Avenue. Harold maintained it was a very exclusive neighbourhood, which was why there was nobody on foot in the streets. If you went anywhere you got into an automobile.

Mrs Shaefer opened the door to them. She was short and stout and wore a stained apron over a long black dress. Before she said hallo she swore at a man with a ponytail who was standing behind her. She called him a shithead. Rose felt at home. The man with the hair tied back gave Harold a bear hug.

Mrs Shaefer took Rose into a bedroom and told her to throw her raincoat onto the bed. Rose protested it was wet. Mrs Shaefer said she couldn’t care less. ‘What time did you get here?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen anything of the city?’

Rose said that Harold had made her get out of the van to stand at the railings outside the grounds of the White House. He’d explained it was in the Colonial style. She’d liked the magnolia trees. Then he’d taken her to see the Executive buildings.

‘He told me,’ she said, ‘that Mr. Truman thought them inefficient and wanted them pulled down but Mr. Kennedy wouldn’t let him.’

‘Trust Harold,’ said Mrs Shaefer. ‘Always the man for exciting information.’

Drinks were served in a room as large as a hotel lounge. It had three leather settees and green glass doors opening onto a balcony. Rose was given a tall glass of something that looked like lemonade. It tasted fizzy and was colourless save for a piece of lemon that kept getting in the way. There were four other guests, a woman, a boy and two men, Bud and Bob. The woman was called Thora and wore white Bermuda shorts. Mrs Shaefer was addressed as George, her husband as Jesse. The boy didn’t speak to anyone and left before the meal was served. Washington Harold had gone to the same school as all three men and on to university with Shaefer, who was a professor of constitutional law and was apparently often summoned to the President’s office. No one explained why. There was a lot of talk about basketball and a coach named Curtis Parker.

Mr. Shaefer seemed very angry with Lyndon Johnson. He said the man was insane, had turned the American Dream into the American Nightmare. Four days before announcing he wouldn’t accept nomination for a further term, he’d been thinking of invading Laos and sending another 200,000 soldiers to Vietnam.

‘Mad as hell,’ agreed Harold.

The woman in shorts confessed she’d once had terrible sexual problems with men. ‘But then Daddy got me an analyst,’ she confided, ‘and now I’m all right.’ Everybody spoke very loudly so as to be heard above the screech of cars in the street below.

Rose couldn’t take anything in. The journey that morning had been a confusion of flyovers, underpasses, intersections, junctions, toll gates. Yield, the signs instructed in bright yellow. Sometimes there were fields full of cows, once a river, brown and swollen, once a town with a railway track running down the middle of its street. On either side, bursting back from the highway, the trees tossed rainwater. Nothing had stayed fixed in her head. She was an empty box, only dust under the lid. Not finding Dr. Wheeler had upset her, though it had not come as a surprise. Deep down she’d known he wouldn’t be there.

‘Is it wise to go to Wanakena?’ asked Mrs Shaefer; she was talking to Harold. It was the name of the place Dr. Wheeler had given as a forwarding address.

‘I guess not,’ he replied. ‘But what else can I do?’

‘A phone call,’ she suggested, but he shook his head. Rose thought he sounded different among friends, less censorious.

They sat down to dinner in a room circled with bookshelves; an owl in a glass case stood on a stool beside a radiator. There was a cup next to it with a fountain pen sticking out. Rose told Mrs Shaefer that high temperatures weren’t good for stuffed animals. She knew that because Father had told her about his sister Margaret falling into a depression after her pet, preserved in a pouncing position outside the door of the hot-water cupboard, had fallen apart from an infestation of moth.

‘It was a tabby cat,’ she said, ‘called Nigger.’

Harold frowned. Mrs Shaefer smiled; her face, with its dark eyes, white skin and plump lips, appeared luminous.

Rose devoured everything on her plate, even the mess of salad leaves. Earlier, when Harold had decided to eat, she hadn’t dared go with him for fear of diminishing her supply of money. She needed what little she had in case of an emergency, like running out of cigarettes. She’d smoked two while he was inside the café. He hadn’t said he disliked smoking but she could tell he did by the peevish way he’d fluttered his fingers in the air when he got back into the van.

‘You want more food?’ asked Mrs Shaefer.

‘Yes please, Jesse,’ said Rose.

‘George,’ corrected Mrs Shaefer.

Rose said, ‘Thank you so much. You’re very kind.’

‘My, you’re polite,’ said Thora.

There wasn’t a pudding, just more drink and the lighting of cigarettes. Rose felt confident enough to scoop out her hunk of lemon. Mr. Shaefer embarked on a discussion with Bud or Bob to do with the race problem. It grew very heated and at one point Mrs Shaefer got so irate she cuffed her husband over the head. He was going on about how misguided the new reforms would prove to be. It was right in one way, he argued, to give blacks equality, but in the end it wouldn’t work. The educated blacks would climb up, become as successful as whites, but the majority, the under-privileged, reliant on welfare and deprived of the incentive to survive, would forget the few honest ways they’d learned to earn a living and turn to crime. ‘You think we have a problem now,’ he shouted, ‘just wait another thirty years. Remember Dollie’s assessment of the future.’ That’s when Mrs Shaefer gave him a clout.

For a moment no one spoke. Rose sensed the sudden hush had nothing to do with black people. Then Washington Harold wiped his mouth with his hand and said, looking from her to Jesse Shaefer, ‘She’s interested in Martin Luther King Jr. I told her you were there.’

‘I am,’ Rose asserted. ‘I really am. I went to a friend’s house to watch him on the television.’ She was telling the truth. She had watched the televised footage with Polly and Bernard. For some reason Polly had wept.

Jesse Shaefer embarked on a description of the events leading up to the assassination. Dr. King had gone to Memphis in support of a march organised by people wanting the advancement of coloured persons. Poorly organised, it had turned into a riot. The police opened fire; result—one man dead, sixty injured. A committed pacifist, Dr. King had quit Memphis.

Mrs Shaefer yawned loudly and stood up. She said, ‘I’ve heard all this before,’ and left the room. After a moment the others followed, leaving Rose alone at the table with Jesse. He asked, ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’

She said, ‘Only if you don’t mind telling me. I don’t want to be a burden.’

‘It’s an important piece of history,’ he said, ‘a piece that will determine our future. People need to be aware of consequences.’

He was very sure of himself; she watched his hand reaching back to finger his ponytail.

‘He returned to Memphis on April fourth, a Thursday, and checked into the Lorraine Hotel. He’d been criticised for staying only in the best hotels, so he chose one less likely to cause offence. He was in his room, 306, most of the day, talking about his beliefs. I guess he knew what was going to happen.’

‘Gosh,’ breathed Rose.

‘He said he had conquered the fear of death, and that though he would like to live a long life . . . longevity had its grace . . . he wasn’t concerned about that now, he just wanted to do God’s will. God had allowed him to go up the mountain and he’d looked over and seen the promised land.’

Rose kept silent. He sounded very religious.

‘Round about six o’clock he stepped out onto the balcony. Someone pointed out a man in the crowd below who was going to play the organ in the church he was due to speak in that night. King said, “Oh yeah, he’s my man. Tell him to play ‘Precious Lord’, and to play it real pretty.”’

Rose stared at him and didn’t see him. Dr. Wheeler had taken his place, was watching her.

She was eleven years old, crouched down beside the ditch, examining a spent bullet she’d found in the mud. She knew who he was, though he was so ancient he was all but invisible. He lived in the house with a turret beyond the railway crossing. His wife wore a daft panama hat and rode a bicycle; whenever she went to the chip shop in Brows Lane she hooked a basket onto the handlebars, so as not to be seen taking her supper home in a newspaper. He said, ‘If you hold an object that close to your eyes, you shut out the rest of the world.’ She said, ‘Yes, thank you,’ because that’s how you replied to the elderly.

‘King was leaning out over the rail of the balcony. As he straightened up the shot was fired.’

He spoke to her again, a year later, in winter. He wore a duffle coat and a grey trilby hat. She had a stick and was trying to impale a dead frog clamped in the iced-over rain pools below the pine woods.

‘He slumped down, sprawled against the rail,’ said Shaefer.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Stabbing frogs,’ she said. ‘They’re not frogs,’ he corrected. ‘They’re Natterjack toads.’

Harold came into the room. ‘I’m nearly through,’ Shaefer assured him. ‘Everything O.K. out there?’

‘Dandy,’ Harold said. ‘Bud’s going on about the time we went to camp and Mason Junior took a shot at that bear. He left out the part when he screamed and jumped into the river.’

Shaefer sniggered. Harold pocketed a pill bottle beside the salt cellar and went out again. He didn’t look at Rose.

‘He had a fountain pen in his top pocket,’ said Shaefer. He pointed at the cup beside the stuffed owl. ‘When he fell, it flipped out and rolled into a corner.’

The following month she saw him again, though no words passed between them. On impulse, she turned left after the railway crossing and followed the cinder path that led to the coal trucks beside the powerhouse. It was not somewhere she often went. For a while she clambered in and out of the trucks and threw pieces of coal into the tunnel. Then she found an old hammer in the sand and a wooden ammunition box with a splintered lid. She pretended she was in Occupied France, on the run from the Germans and in contact with the Resistance. ‘Tommy Handley . . . Tommy Handley,’ she tapped out, ‘Can I do you now, sir?’ It was a secret code and meant she needed a signal to detonate her bombs. Now it began to rain, first merely a sprinkle, then a downpour. As she was about to run for the tunnel, she tapped, ‘I am alone . . . wait . . . wait . . . danger . . . I am not alone.’

Shaefer said, ‘He was kind of frozen, except for the blood gushing from a massive tear in his neck.’

Afterwards, she stood so long in the open and got so wet that she felt God was cleansing her. The thump of her heart mimicked the forlorn boom of the buoy tossing on the horizon of the glistening sea. When she hurled the hammer from her, it swooped into the sandhills like a bird of prey. She entered the tunnel and began to wobble on tiptoe along the metal rail, and stopped; a figure stood dark against the exit. Then it turned, and for a moment a face was illuminated in apricot light and she recognised Dr. Wheeler. Then he was gone.

Shaefer said, ‘We knew he’d had it.’

She was a yard away from emerging onto the shore when her foot touched an obstruction piled against the rail. Peering closer, she saw it was Billy Rotten, the recluse who lived in a driftwood shack in the pine woods. Black slime slithered from his ear. He looked at her, eyes fearful, and raised a hand to touch her mouth. Then his body sagged. She tasted moisture on her lips and licked away blood. She said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Billy,’ and scurried on.

‘One could tell by his eyes . . .’ Shaefer said.

Because of the First World War, Mr. Billy wasn’t himself and it wasn’t wise to go too near. He suffered from shell shock, an affliction brought on by lumps of earth from the trenches blowing into his brain. In time, so Mother had told her, this had developed into Perversion, a mystery disease which impelled him to get hold of children and stick something inside them which could cause an explosion.

‘. . . they were wide open, but they weren’t seeing anything.’

She ran out of the tunnel and didn’t look back. Now the sea was swallowing the blood-red sun and the world was darkening. In the dying light the marram grasses flickered in silver strips across the shifting dunes. Above the black hulk of the powerhouse appeared the twinkle of a first star. There was no sign of Dr. Wheeler.

‘It was a white man who killed him,’ said Shaefer.

She never told anybody she’d seen Dr. Wheeler that night, not even when the vicar called round to see Mother about the Amateur Dramatics supper night and she’d asked him if the butcher boy was right when he held that Billy Rotten had been the victim of a bayonet stabbing. The vicar said he was not right at all, that he’d been informed by George Rimmer, the coalman, that Mr. Rotten had died from being battered on his head. They’d found a hammer in the sand. Once started, the vicar grew lachrymose; eyes shiny with moisture, he discussed conscience and how whoever was responsible for such a misdemeanour would never find peace, either in this world or the next.

‘It wasn’t a killing based on hatred,’ said Shaefer, ‘simply an attempt to draw attention to the problems of our time.’

‘Of course,’ said Rose.

Shaefer blew his nose before helping her upright. It’s only people who are comfortably off, Rose thought, who can afford to be upset about coloured people. She could smell flowers as he propelled her into the room with the settees. Beyond the glass doors a crimson sunset leaked across the sky. Bud or Bob was parading the floor, shoulders hunched, arm extended. ‘Bang, bang,’ he shouted, voice raised above the hooting turmoil in the street below.

Rose, fighting sleep, found herself slumped beside the woman in the Bermuda shorts; she asked her why Harold took pills.

‘His stomach,’ said Thora. ‘He suffers from gas.’ She put an arm round Rose and shook her. Leaning closer she whispered, ‘I guess it was a blow . . . not finding Fred.’

‘Fred,’ echoed Rose.

‘Wheeler,’ Thora said. Even though the day was fading her plump knees reflected light.

‘You knew him?’ cried Rose.

‘Sssh,’ hissed Thora. She straightened up and smiled vacuously at Harold who had turned to look at them.

It was Jesse Shaefer who suggested that Rose should stay the night. He reckoned Harold wouldn’t care to leave the camper unattended in the underground garage, not if there was stuff on the roof, but there was no need for Rose to lose out on a proper bed. His wife agreed. Harold just nodded.

At some point of darkness candles were lit, sending shadows fleeing across the ceiling. Harold began a story about a man who was responsible for someone’s death, even though his finger hadn’t been on the trigger. Rose couldn’t see his whole face, only his lips spitting words above the fuzz of his beard.

‘Mrs Stanford,’ she interrupted, ‘was very discreet. She never mentioned her dead husband.’

Mrs Shaefer escorted her to a room with a poster on the wall depicting a boy with very little hair playing baseball.

‘I’m not myself,’ Rose confided. ‘It’s being away from home. And Harold’s not easy. I’m not even sure he likes me.’

‘You’ll feel differently in the morning,’ George said. ‘Sleep solves most things.’

‘He’s very bossy,’ Rose insisted. ‘Very sure of himself.’

‘Strange you should think that,’ said George, pushing her on to the bed. ‘A man more unsure of himself would be hard to find.’

‘I can’t undress,’ Rose protested, tugging off her shoes and scrabbling under the sheets. ‘I’m shy with strangers. We never undressed at home.’

‘No problem,’ said Mrs Shaefer.

‘That lady in the short trousers,’ Rose murmured, grazing sleep, ‘she said she knew Dr. Wheeler.’

‘We all did,’ responded Mrs Shaefer, heaving the counterpane into place as though it were a shroud.

 

Harold woke early and took one of his tablets to be on the safe side. His belly pains had miraculously disappeared when he’d met Dollie, and returned once she’d left. His mother, a strong woman, hadn’t believed in stomach disorders. Such malfunctions, she reasoned, originated in the brains of those unwilling to face reality; her first husband had developed colitis after the crash of 1929.

He checked that the tarpaulin hadn’t been tampered with. As a precaution he dug out the cardboard box and, removing it from its pillowcase, thrust it under the driving seat. His hand touched paper; it was the news cutting previously pinned to the back of his bedroom door in Baltimore. Stuffing it into his pocket he went upstairs to the apartment. Rose was still asleep.

Jesse cooked him breakfast. Both he and George voiced concern at what he intended to do. They said it was a pity the confrontation couldn’t take place in Washington, where the two of them might be of help. Three heads were better than one. After all, nearly five years had passed, and it hadn’t all been Wheeler’s fault. There were wrongs on both sides.

‘You could at least stay a couple of nights more,’ said George. ‘It’s my birthday on Thursday.’

‘She’s forty-six again,’ said Jesse.

‘I have to see him,’ Harold protested. ‘There’s things I have to say.’

It wasn’t the truth. There were no words left and even if he could find them they would stick in his throat. Before meeting Dollie he’d been a reasonable sort of man, to the point of dullness. He had no illusions in that regard. As a boy he’d been described as reserved, which was a kinder way of putting it. Dollie’s involvement with him had astonished everybody, himself most of all. They had tried to warn him. Bud had taken him aside that time in the men’s room of Monticello’s restaurant and asked him, tactfully enough, if he knew what he was getting into. He’d shouted he didn’t care and Bud had cautioned that passion was a two-edged sword. It could pierce the mind as well as the heart.

Jesse, planting a plate of fried eggs on the table, said it was odd that Wheeler hadn’t written the girl a proper letter, merely supplied an address. It was as though he was playing a game.

‘When did he ever do anything else?’ remarked George.

Neither of them could fathom Wheeler’s friendship with Rose. She was far from his usual type of female. George thought she was verging on the simple.

‘The British have a different approach to things,’ defended Jesse. ‘I come across it all the time. I guess it has to do with a culture founded on isolation . . . the isolation of an island people.’

‘She told me,’ George said, ‘that her father had ruined her life and that her mother had died from injections usually given to horses.’

Jesse argued it was the gin. And Rose was very young, hardly more than a child.

George said, ‘Her father knew Wheeler and called him a crook. Apparently they lived in the same street. They almost came to fisticuffs once, something to do with a seat on a train. She came out with this cockamamie story in the middle of a discussion with Bob about Johnson ordering more troops to Vietnam.’

‘She’s older than you think,’ said Harold. ‘She’s nearly thirty.’

He discussed the route to Wanakena. It was his intention to make for Jersey City and then follow the line of the Hudson River through Poughkeepsie, Rhinebeck, Ravena; at Corinth he’d stop off to see Chip Webster. Jesse expressed surprise that he was still in touch with Webster. He hadn’t realised they were that friendly.

‘We’re not,’ Harold said.

George thought it a pity he was going to bypass New York. Think of the girl coming all this way and then to miss out on Ellis Island. The British were suckers for the past.

Harold said, ‘I doubt Rose has ever heard of Ellis Island. The only past that interests her is her own.’

When Rose joined them, he was taken aback by her appearance. Though her clothes were even more creased, her face had altered. It wasn’t that she had become pretty, just that he hadn’t noticed until now the arch of dark eyebrows beneath her fluff of pale hair.

She said, addressing George, ‘I want to apologise for the way I behaved last night. I was out of order.’

George waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not as wayward as Bud,’ she said. ‘He threw up in the elevator.’

‘I had a strange dream,’ said Rose, ‘about Dr. Wheeler. He was walking through a cemetery, writing down names.’

There was no response. Jesse fiddled with the coffee percolator. Harold stared down at the road map; he was remembering a morning in high summer, birdsong in the trees, the flicker of insects above a lake glossy under sunlight. ‘I do love you,’ she’d protested and, sick with fear, he’d told her that love was not the problem. Love dropped out of the sky, unsought, unearned. He had loved his mother. It was liking somebody that was difficult.

George asked, ‘Does Wheeler know you’re travelling with Harold?’

‘Not really,’ said Rose. ‘I did write to tell him I’d met a nice American, but I didn’t give a name because Harold never mentioned he knew him, not until much later. And by the time he did, Dr. Wheeler had left Chicago. I don’t think he could have got my next letter.’

‘It’s an interesting fact,’ George said, ‘that if you want to know your real opinion of anyone you should notice the impression made by their handwriting on the envelope.’

‘Time’s getting on,’ Harold interrupted, folding his map.

George asked Rose what she wanted for breakfast. She said, ‘Nothing, thank you, not after last night’s huge meal.’ Jesse handed her an apple, large and red, which she bit into boisterously.

During the goodbyes, Rose kissed George Shaefer’s cheek. Lifting the hem of her apron, George dabbed it away. Jesse, walking his guests to the elevator, urged Harold to keep in touch. ‘Phone any time,’ he insisted, embracing him. Harold hugged him back, which surprised them both. ‘There, there,’ Jesse muttered, patting his shoulder.

Approaching the camper, Rose hurled her half-eaten apple across the garage floor. Its bounce echoed from the concrete walls. Harold clenched his fists but said nothing. He had a picture in his head of abandoning her at midnight on some deserted highway; increasing speed, he’d watch her image dwindle in a mirror bright with moonshine.

Before leaving Washington he drove along Wisconsin Avenue where, years before, he had shared a two-roomed apartment with Chip Webster. The house looked much the same, save that the branches of the once newly planted maple tree now swayed above its roof. He told Rose he had lived on the ground floor, and she asked if he had been happy there. ‘Happy?’ he repeated, as though it was a word in a foreign tongue. Then she explained that she had thrown the apple away as she wasn’t used to fruit, on account of rationing in her childhood. He was taken aback; it amounted to an apology.