“Who was he?”
“You aren’t going to give up?”
Jonnie glanced at the speedometer and eased off the accelerator.
“His name is Peter Andrewson. He and I used to belong to a group, an environmental group. I decided they were too … Anyway, I joined because they promised to do more than just talk about environmental problems. Then Peter started getting ideas, really crazy ideas. So I quit. And he just wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“What is dust-day?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It was one of his ideas, and I wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“He was spoiling for a fight.”
“I’m glad you avoided that.”
“You mean you didn’t want me to display my skills with Okinawan karate?” Jonnie forced a grin.
“Not particularly. Usually unplanned violence just makes things worse.”
“Planned violence makes things better?”
Veronica shrugged and shifted her weight on the vinyl seats. “His violence will get him in trouble before long.”
This time Jonnie frowned. “Is that a general observation or a promise?”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Look.” Jonnie took a deep breath. “This character shows up like a Wild West villain. He threatens you; then he threatens me, and you just want to act like it never happened. He doesn’t look like the kind who’s just going to up and disappear.”
“He really doesn’t have much choice,” Veronica replied.
Jonnie applied the brakes abruptly to avoid the silver sports car that angled in front of them.
“Doesn’t have much choice?”
“No. I’m not playing his game. Neither did you. He won’t actually fight. Besides…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Can we just leave it at that? It’s not your problem. It’s mine. He wants me to keep playing his stupid games, and I won’t.”
“His games sound pretty rough.”
“Jonnie, you’re making more out of it than there is. Can we just enjoy the movies? I’d rather even talk about your dullest work than spend any more time on this. Peter’s history. He just doesn’t know it, and it will take a little time before … anyway … tell me what you know about the movie.”
Jonnie nodded slowly. “All right. It’s about this alcoholic poet who falls in love with…”
54
“DAMN!” MUTTERED MCDARVID as a spruce needle jabbed his finger.
“Father, profanity—”
“I know. Profanity is the last refuge of the inarticulate,” he snapped at Elizabeth, perched on the edge of the couch. “These needles are sharp.”
“That’s because you got a dead tree. A live tree would have been more ecologically sound, and the needles wouldn’t fall out all over the carpet. And they would have been softer.”
McDarvid growled softly and eased another light into place.
“Daddy! Daddy! There’s a package!” called Kirsten.
McDarvid climbed off the kitchen stool, carefully draping the Christmas lights on the armchair. He still had two strings to thread through the sticky branches of the Colorado blue spruce.
“Daddy, the deliveryman is coming up the walk!”
“I’m coming, Kirsten. I’m coming.”
“You have to complete the lighting,” announced Elizabeth from beside the carton of Christmas ornaments. “And you have to dislodge David from the television.”
McDarvid had ignored the play-by-play from the family room. Football bored him, but not his son, who remained glued to any football telecast.
Brinnngggg …
McDarvid winced at the tinny doorbell that he kept thinking he should replace with chimes—or anything that didn’t sound like the 1930s doorbell that it was. He opened the door.
“McDarvid residence?” asked the UPS deliveryman.
“That’s us.” McDarvid eased open the new storm door he had finally replaced the day before. A gust of cold air blew past him and into the entryway as he took the package. “Thank you.”
He shut the door and looked at the label on the heavy package.
Allyson climbed up from the basement, the last small box of Christmas decorations in her arms. “What’s that?”
“I’m not sure,” McDarvid admitted. “It’s from a client.”
“Could it be work?”
McDarvid lifted the heavy oblong package, roughly eight inches high and a foot square. “I don’t see how.”
“Then open it,” Allyson suggested.
“Open it, Daddy. Open it,” Kirsten added more emphatically.
McDarvid carried the package into the kitchen, set it on the breakfast bar, and rummaged through a drawer to come up with scissors and a knife.
Inside the first heavy cardboard box was a second package wrapped in pale silver paper imprinted with stylized evergreen trees. A small envelope was lightly taped to the package. Precise black script proclaimed: “J. McDarvid and family.”
“Maybe we should save it until Christmas.”
“From a client?” asked Allyson. “Christmas is for family, not business.”
“You’re right.” McDarvid removed the envelope, then extracted the card.
“What does it say?”
“Not much. Just ‘Joyeux Noël’ and his name.”
“Can we see what’s in the box?” asked Kirsten.
McDarvid pocketed the card, then slit the paper to reveal a thinner white cardboard box, with an imprint in the corner.
“That’s D’Arques,” Allyson volunteered from his shoulder.
“What’s D’Arques, Mommy?” asked Kirsten.
“It’s French crystal, almost as good as Orrefors.”
“Go ahead, Daddy. Open it,” prompted Kirsten.
McDarvid opened the box and parted the tissue and polystyrene beads. He lifted out a small package of colored crystalline Christmas candies wrapped within a plastic bag and set the package on the counter.
“Is that all?” asked Kirsten.
“Just hang on, squirt.” McDarvid then lifted out the crystal candy dish and set it on the breakfast bar next to the candies.
“It’s beautiful,” murmured Allyson.
“It is pretty,” admitted the littlest redhead.
“Might I see?” asked Elizabeth, finally drawn by the group in the kitchen from her station next to the largest box of Christmas ornaments.
“What is it?” demanded Kirsten. “The shape is funny.”
McDarvid studied the crystal, a rough asymetric ovoid with an extrusion too small and delicate to be a handle emerging from the narrow end of the dish. The shape was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t have said why.
“It is … strange…” acknowledged Allyson.
“Might I see?” persisted Elizabeth.
“Oh, sure.” McDarvid stepped aside.
Elizabeth looked at the dish for a long time. “What’s this?” she finally asked, pointing to the emblem cut in the center of the dish.
“That? That’s the emblem of the company. JAFFE. They’re French.”
“Why is it such a funny shape?” asked Kirsten.
“I don’t know,” McDarvid answered.
“There must be a logical reason.” Elizabeth headed for the study.
“Elizabeth?”
“I will return.”
McDarvid chuckled and shook his head, catching Allyson’s eyes. In turn, she grinned.
“When can we have the candy?” asked Kirsten.
“Not yet.” McDarvid looked around for somewhere to put the dish.
“I believe I have the solution,” announced Elizabeth, lugging the open world atlas into the kitchen.
McDarvid raised his eyebrows and looked at Allyson. She shrugged.
“Yes, Elizabeth?”
The atlas came down on the counter next to the crystal. McDarvid grabbed for the dish to keep it from bouncing off the edge.
“Observe!” commanded the eleven-
year-old.
“Observe what?” McDarvid asked.
“Corsica,” Elizabeth announced matter-of-factly. “Anything that irregular could not have been geometric. You did say it came from France.”
McDarvid followed his daughter’s finger to the map of Corsica. Although the atlas’s image was considerably smaller than the dish, the outlines of the island and the dish appeared identical.
“What an odd shape to make a dish,” Allyson said quietly, “especially one so lovely.”
McDarvid only swallowed, looking out through the kitchen window.
His older daughter picked up and closed the atlas.
McDarvid grabbed for the dish again, retrieving it and looking again for some place to put it out of harm’s way.
“In the china cabinet,” suggested Allyson.
“Can we resume our decorating, Father?” inquired Elizabeth.
“In a minute.” McDarvid eased open the china cabinet and rearranged the wineglasses to make room for the crystal candy dish. Then he returned and grabbed the candies to put them inside the Corsica-shaped dish in the cabinet.
Allyson had carried the last box of decorations into the living room. “David, it’s time to turn off the television.”
“They’re on the ten-yard line!”
“David,” added McDarvid.
“But Dad!”
“Now! One, two…”
“All right, all right.”
“It’s about time,” announced Elizabeth.
McDarvid closed the china cabinet and stepped into the living room, looking at the lights he had still not finished threading through the sharp needles of the blue spruce. The dead, cut, blue spruce.
55
“WE’LL MEET AT THE RENDEZVOUS POINT a week from Friday at seven A.M. A.M. stands for ante meridiem. In other words, morning.”
“So you were an English scholar. We’ve all heard the crap about intellectuals being undervalued, about your hard-earned master’s degree being worthless,” complained the bull-necked young man with the shaved head. “Talk in plain English. What the fuck do you want?”
“All right, fuckhead. I want you to be there on fucking Friday morning. Is that fucking crude enough, Graeme?” Peter glared at Graeme, who stepped back, even though he bulked far larger than Peter. Peter turned, fixing his watery blue eyes on each of the others in turn before speaking. “That’s to give us enough time to get ready before the police and the other protesters arrive. I want everything, and I mean everything, to be set before Saturday. You might want to leave Thursday afternoon so you have time to rest up before the morning. Figure on the trip down taking about five to six hours. I don’t want anyone speeding. The last thing we need is for the cops to know that we’re on our way. Another thing. We all travel separately, including you two.” The speaker’s hoarse voice growled at Mike and Liz.
The two lovers looked about the dingy room guiltily, but their arms remained entwined.
“Don’t worry, Peter dear,” Liz replied. The faint lines streaking back from the corners of her eyes were the only sign on her open, innocent face of how many years she had been civilly disobedient. “However, since we’re going to such great lengths to help the environment, don’t you think you could do something about the local environment? I mean, I don’t mind that this couch is filthy or that you can’t tell the stains on the rug from the pattern, but the air in here stinks. Couldn’t you at least open a window?”
“I’m sorry my quarters aren’t quite up to your standards.” The hoarseness of the voice could not disguise the sneering sarcasm. “Maybe next time we’ll meet at the Plaza. I’ll reserve a suite—something suitable for plotting revolution. I’ll even have room service bring up some champagne. Sommelier, what goes well with radiation, brut or rosé?”
Despite his tirade, Peter moved over to the nearest window and wrenched it all the way open. A gust of cold air threatened to lift the maps off the linoleum-topped table until Graeme dropped a huge hand on the papers.
Peter ignored the rustling. “Tuesday morning I’ll get the dust from Tedor. I’m going to handle that myself.”
Tedor nodded an acknowledgment from a cushion on the floor, his extended drooping mustache almost touching his chest as his head bobbed.
“What about Veronica? Isn’t she still a part of us?” Mike inquired, his long blond hair scarcely shorter than Liz’s. Unlike Liz, his face displayed no lines.
“Veronica’s still a part of us, all right.” Peter gave his first grin of the afternoon, a not particularly flattering expression. “She has a very important role to play in our little operation. It’s just that her mission requires that she stay away from us for a little bit. But I think when this is over, you’ll be hearing quite a bit about Miss Lakas’ role.”
“Why do you keep everything such a fucking secret?”
Peter whirled. “Because you don’t need to know. That’s still the best way to operate.”
“I thought that went out with Stalin.”
“Just cut the wiseass stuff,” growled Peter. “Let’s get on with it. Any questions?”
“We know what we’re supposed to do. You made that clear enough.”
“Then I’ll see you on Friday.”
Liz stood, looking at Peter again. Finally, she nodded without speaking and jerked her head toward the door.
Mike followed her lead.
Tedor, looking like a slender walrus, bounced after them.
Peter did not move until the last of the group had departed, his eyes still following Liz until he closed the door. “Bitches, all of them.”
56
McDARVID SET THE TOOLBOX ON THE STAIRS, looking up at the new door chimes. The 1930s-style doorbell had rung one too many times. Probably he shouldn’t have spent the time on installing the chimes, but … He shrugged. Sometimes it just took less time to do it yourself. While he wished he’d done it sooner—like a lot of things—there always seemed more things to do than time to do them.
He glanced into the study, looking at the year-end business section of the paper. Replacing the doorbell had definitely been more enjoyable than reading the summary of the year’s key business developments—like the report of the closing of the last U.S. copper smelter or the speculation that all the new high-definition televisions would be produced in the third world, using an amalgam of U.S. and Japanese technology. The article on increased eco-terrorism in the redwood forests hadn’t helped, either. He closed his eyes.
“Father?”
“Yes, Elizabeth.” He opened his eyes again and looked out past the computer and over the bare bushes that bordered the walk to the driveway. On the shelf was the borrowed telephoto lens. He still hadn’t had the nerve to use it—another disturbing, but probably necessary, thing yet to do.
“Would it trouble you if I used the computer?”
“For what?” McDarvid asked automatically.
“For a project,” responded his dark-haired daughter, standing in the doorway from the hall.
“For just a little while,” he answered. “Once I take my shower, I’ll need it.”
“For what?”
“For a project.”
“Father!”
McDarvid grinned as he reached for the toolbox. “If you want to use it, you’d better get going.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth did not open the folder she had carried into the study with her.
McDarvid stepped down the hallway toward the kitchen, where he could hear the television from the family room. “David?”
There was no answer.
“David?”
Still no answer.
“David!”
“Yes, Dad?”
“What are you watching?”
“Nothing.”
“Fine. Turn it off.”
“But…”
“You know the rules.”
“I’m bored, and there’s nothing to do.”
“Have you cleaned your closet?”
“Dad…”
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“I’m taking my shower. By the time I’m done, I expect you to have started.”
“It’s not fair. Elizabeth’s closet is a bigger mess than mine.”
McDarvid sighed again. David was right. He trundled back to the study door, toolbox still in hand. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Father.”
“When I get out of the shower and get back here, you are to begin cleaning your closet.”
“Father…”
“Elizabeth…”
“Yes, Father.”
McDarvid carried the toolbox down to the basement storage room and set it on the metal shelf next to the circular saw he hadn’t used since he had repaired the deck.
As he climbed back upstairs, he heard footsteps above him, and, after reaching the upstairs hall, he looked into Kirsten’s room. The littlest redhead had begun to pull clothes and toys from her closet.
McDarvid grinned. “Little Miss Halo.” Then he shook his head as he thought of televisions and smelters, of the metals initiative, and of the telephoto lens.
57
PETER FLICKED ON THE INTERIOR LIGHT and checked the map again. He flicked the light off. Another two miles before the turnoff to the state highway that eventually ran along the side of the facility boundary—not by the main gate. Outside the small blue Chevette, the sky continued to lighten into a predawn gray.
With his foot to the floor, he crept past a red Dodge Colt with the license plate I4C4U. “Fucking fortune-teller, probably. Wish I could have brought the Harley,” Peter mumbled as his eyes flicked from the road, to the odometer, and to the rearview mirror. Except for the Colt, the highway was clear as he swung onto State Route 77.
“Just another couple of miles now. This is what it’s about,” Peter told himself as he shifted the underpowered Chevette back into fourth.
“Writers, artists, musicians—we’re the people who should shape the world, not the brainless industrialists … Liz, Veronica … bitches who give in to any man who has looks and money, especially money. In the crunch, we’ll see who carries through.”
His eyes checked the odometer again.
“Well, they made the rules, the money boys did. All I can do is play by them. And we’ll see how they like it when someone plays as dirty as they do.” He smiled crookedly.
The Green Progression Page 19