The pleasant bubble he inhabited to that moment seemed to shatter around him. What does she mean, “It’s over?” The way she said it… Is she talking about this whole Pilcher ordeal…or is she talking about us? But the way she said it! Oh shit…here we go again!
When he found the words to speak, their tone surprised him. His deepest fears had hedged their bets—and those words came out sounding flippant: “You’re not banishing me again, are you?” He found it impossible to breathe as he awaited her answer.
She set down the coffee cup, rose from the chair and approached him on stocking feet. With one hand, she caressed his face. With the other, she began to unbutton her blouse.
“No, you silly laddie. That’s not what I mean at all,” she said, leading him to the bedroom.
There was nothing wrong with the sniper’s appetite. In a quiet corner booth of a New Jersey diner just across the Hudson from Manhattan, he was downing his second cheeseburger with all the trimmings. Work always left him ravenously hungry. Now, it was time to find work someplace else, far away, where Lou DiNapoli could not find him. Louie ain’t got no use for fuck-ups.
The waitress tried to strike up a conversation as she placed another milkshake before him. “Did you hear? Some lunatic tried to kill that guy running for president. What’s his name? Pilfer, or something like that?”
“Pilcher,” the sniper said, without looking up. “Yeah. I heard.”
“The news is saying he shot the wrong guy…campaign manager or something like that.”
“Heard that, too.”
He had not looked at her, not even once. He went right back to eating, wolfing down the rest of the cheeseburger without saying another word. The waitress took the hint and moved on to another booth, but not before sending an ugly glance his way. That bastard better not be as stingy with the tip as he is with them words.
In a few moments, his plate was clean. He threw a 10-dollar bill on the table and made his way outside, into the diner’s dimly-lit parking lot, which was crowded with cars. The evening air had turned frigid and bracing; the sniper raised the collar of his coat and held it tight to his neck against the cold. It won’t be this nippy in Tucson, he thought as his big Buick rumbled to life.
Foot still on the brake, he put the gearshift into reverse. There was a tap-tap-tap on his window. Even in the shadows of night, he recognized the face of Dino, Lou DiNapoli’s driver—and the muzzle of a pistol’s silencer resting against the glass.
The sniper’s foot slammed the accelerator to the floor, but not before the pop-pop of two silenced gunshots shattered the window and tore paths through the sniper’s skull. The big Buick raced backward at the command of a dead man’s foot. It came to rest only after smashing into two cars parked across the way.
Dino was back behind the wheel of Lou DiNapoli’s Cadillac as it cruised the New Jersey Palisades. Manhattan was aglow across the river. They would be over the George Washington Bridge and back in the Bronx in no time.
In the back seat, Lou’s bandaged hands rested in his lap. The henchman seated by his side fed him a chocolate bar, one bite-sized piece at a time. Pensively gazing on the lights of the city across the Hudson, Lou said, “What a shame. That guy was such a good shot. Too bad he shoots the wrong son of a bitch.”
From the driver’s seat, Dino asked, “So how do you wanna handle this Pilcher thing now, boss?”
Lou savored the piece of chocolate in his mouth before answering. “Gonna bide my time. We’ll get ourselves another chance…real soon.”
Chapter Eighty-Nine
It was Diane’s last swim meet of the season. Joe had made it a point to be back from New York in time. If he had not, he knew his daughter would see it as choosing Pola over her. Pola knew it, too: she was the one who had taken pains to make sure he was on that first morning flight back to Boston. When she shook him awake at the ungodly hour of 4:35 a.m., he found his bag already packed, his clothes laid out, his airline reservation rearranged, and a taxi waiting to whisk him to LaGuardia Airport.
As the late afternoon sun cast its horizontal rays through the pool house’s high windows, Joe climbed to his usual seat at the top of the bleachers. He was uneasy—he could not shake the memory of what had happened the last time he was here; the light-headedness, the nausea he felt as young boy after young boy plunged from the high diving platform toward the water—each dive a replica of David Linker’s death plunge. I don’t remember how, but I managed to flee this place…only to be rescued by Meredith Salinger.
Now it was time for the boys to dive again. As the first climbed the ladder to the top of the high platform, Joe braced himself. The young man prepared himself for his leap; Joe took a deep breath and held it.
The diver launched himself into the air, arms extended, and arched backward. Head and feet exchanged positions; he plunged downward—gracefully downward—and entered the water like a needle, leaving only a small splash to mark his impact. In a moment, he popped to the surface and swam to the ladder, applause ringing in his ears.
Joe let the deep breath out. Another boy left the platform and flew gracefully to the water’s surface. There was more applause, and Joe realized he was among those clapping. He felt no hint of nausea, no danger of blacking out. His breathing was perfectly normal.
On the other side of the pool, Diane’s team had emerged from the locker room, ready to swim. She was smiling and looking his way. When she was sure he had seen her, she waved energetically, both hands high above her head. He returned the wave with his own hopeful smile. When I spoke to her on the phone last night, she was so upbeat…She didn’t even seem negative about Pola’s coming to visit us.
Joe relaxed against the bleacher seat behind him. The high-diving event was finished. No more boys would be falling through the sky—not in this pool house, not in Joe Gelardi’s mind.
The sound of Pola’s voice filled his head. The words she said last night that had left him so confused at first now had a meaning that was crystal clear: It’s over, Joseph.
The telegram from IBM was waiting for Joe when he and Diane returned home from the swim meet. Mrs. Riley had conspicuously placed it on top of today’s mail pile; she pretended to ignore Joe as he stared at the Western Union envelope in his hand, as if debating whether to open it or not. Diane and Mrs. Riley exchanged an anxious glance that kindled fear in the young girl’s heart. The job at IBM—and the unwelcome move to Armonk it entailed—had been the elephant in the room nobody mentioned, shoved into a corner by the more pressing events of the past few weeks. But here was that elephant—front and center—suddenly demanding all their attention. Diane’s penny loafers felt glued to the floor as she watched her father slowly open the envelope.
Joe unfolded the telegram within. It contained a single terse paragraph:
Certain political activities have called into question suitability of your employment offer -(Stop)- Corporate policy prohibits active political campaigning by employees -(Stop)- At direction of senior management offer of employment to you is hereby rescinded -(Stop)- Good luck in your future endeavors -(Stop)-
Diane and Mrs. Riley had slowly drifted toward each other as Joe read, their collective dread pulling them together like some magnetic attraction. Joe was expressionless as his eyes scanned the telegram once, twice, then a third time. Slowly and carefully, he folded the sheet of yellow paper back to envelope size as his expression brightened to a broad grin. Then, eyes twinkling with fiendish delight, he tore the telegram over and over, the pieces floating to the floor like so much confetti.
When the last scraps of torn paper had settled, he turned, still a very happy man, to Diane and Mrs. Riley and said, “We didn’t want to move there, anyway, right?”
It took a second for the good news to be recognized as such. Once the meaning of her father’s words sank in, though, Diane broke into a cyclonic dance that propelled her toward him. Her powerful hug when they met nearly knocked him off his feet. She spun away toward the housekeeper, crying for joy a
s she shouted, “Mrs. Riley! We’re staying! We’re staying!”
Mrs. Riley was crying for joy, too. “Glory be!” she shrieked, linked in embrace with Diane, joining her whirling dance. “I prayed to the Blessed Mother every night he’d come to his senses!”
As the two danced down the hallway, Joe settled into his easy chair and breathed a sigh of relief. It’s all finally come together, he thought. Boy, it’s a damn good thing I had decided not to sign that contract. Otherwise, I’d be pretty pissed off right now, wouldn’t I? Hell, I didn’t belong there anyway. I’m a teacher, plain and simple.
Chapter Ninety
In the den of Leonard Pilcher’s Pittsburgh mansion, it was deathly quiet. Since his return from New York City late last night, Leonard had hidden from the world, alone in this room. No one else had entered. Slouched in an easy chair, he was inebriated and nauseous, having consumed nothing but copious quantities of Scotch whiskey and mixed nuts. The adjoining bathroom reeked of the splattered vomit that had missed the toilet bowl.
A faint knock on the locked door shattered the silence. “Go away,” Pilcher said with a heavy slur.
Another faint knock, followed by the trembling voice of a little girl. “Daddy, I want to talk to you.” The voice belonged to his seven-year-old daughter, Daisy. “Can I come in, Daddy?”
His reply stumbled out and hardly sounded convincing. “Not now, baby. Daddy’s busy.”
There was a click from the door lock. The knob turned. Shit! My goddamn wife gave the kid a key? He straightened up in the chair and tried to appear presentable, but it was a vain effort.
The door swung open and young Daisy swept in, wearing a pretty pink dress and pouting lips. She was on the verge of tears. A few steps behind was her older sister, Amanda, wearing her usual expression of disinterest and annoyance. At 10 years of age, Amanda was the picture of her mother in face and mannerisms, right down to the single strand of pearls around her neck.
Daisy’s tears started to flow. “Daddy…kids at school say you’re a bad man! That you killed somebody!”
Amanda rolled her eyes, an affectation she acquired from her mother at a very early age.
Despite the limitations imposed by the alcohol, Pilcher tried to be comforting. “Oh, baby girl…that’s just politics. People will say all kinds of things to win an election.”
“So you didn’t kill anyone?”
He kissed her forehead. “Of course not, sweetie.”
Daisy threw her arms around her father’s neck as Amanda rolled her eyes once again. “Just do what I do,” the elder sister said. “Tell them when Daddy’s president, he’s going to throw their stupid parents in jail.”
He was not sure when his wife entered the room, but she was standing there now, big as life, in the doorway. As she began to speak, she, too, rolled her eyes. “Leonard, your father’s here to see you.”
Those words were all it took to make Leonard Pilcher throw up all over his daughter’s pretty pink dress.
Once he was alone with his son behind closed doors, it did not take long for Max Pilcher to get right to the point. He was withdrawing financial support for his son’s presidential race. There was no point wasting another nickel on this sinking ship. Without that financial support, there would be no presidential campaign for Leonard Pilcher.
Still sporting flecks of his own vomit, Leonard responded by flinging a whiskey bottle against the wall. Bellowing like a wounded animal, he said, “WHY ARE YOU SHITTING ON ME LIKE THIS? IT AIN’T FAIR!”
Max just glowered in disgust at his drunken son.
Now with a pleading tone, Leonard kept right on talking. “You could get me the vice president’s slot, Daddy…Don’t need a primary for that.” He paused to wait for a response but got only disapproving silence from his father. “Then, once I’m on the ticket,” Leonard continued, “maybe something could happen to him…”
Max laughed, shaking his head in disbelief at the same time. “So we just kill a president, too? Is that your answer to everything now, Lenny?”
“Why not, Daddy?”
Max had stopped laughing. His look of disgust returned. “You lied to me, Lenny. I gave you the world and you shit in my face. You could have just told me the truth about everything. I could have fixed it all. But now…”
Max walked away toward the door. “I can’t trust you, Lenny. I tried…Believe me, I tried. But I just can’t trust you anymore.”
As he opened the door, he stopped and turned back to his son. The tone of his voice now dark and ominous, Max said, “You’re on your own, son. Best of luck.”
The voice in Leonard’s head kept repeating his father’s last words: You’re on your own, son. Best of luck…You’re on your own, son… With each replay, the message grew more menacing. I’ve heard that tone in his voice before, but it was never aimed at me. His booze-addled mind shuddered to a dismal conclusion: It can mean only one thing… The old bastard thinks he’s going to have me killed.
There was a strange, warm sensation between Leonard’s thighs. It took a moment for him to realize that he had pissed himself.
Before he stepped through the door, Max Pilcher uttered the words that put Leonard’s fevered mind at ease. “If you were anyone but my son, Lenny…”
Leonard reveled in the relief those word provided. In his mind, he finished his father’s sentence: If you were anyone but my son, Lenny…you’d be a dead man.
The elder Pilcher slammed the door behind him as he exited, leaving his drunken son alone and grinning like an idiot.
Chapter Ninety-One
The weekend had finally arrived. Pola would be on the morning train to Boston, arriving just before lunchtime. Joe fussed with his tie in front of his bedroom mirror. He did not see Diane leaning sullenly against the door frame, watching him.
“Gee, Daddy, I’ve never seen you wear a tie on Saturday before.”
Startled, Joe turned to his daughter in the doorway. She looked lovely in her newest dress and sparkling patent leather shoes. “I just can’t seem to get this knot right,” he said.
“Here…let me help you.” In a moment, she had him looking perfect.
“We’d better hurry, Daddy. You really don’t want to be late.”
Joe and Diane made the drive to South Station in awkward silence. Joe became increasingly anxious with each passing minute. Finally, as he maneuvered the car into a parking spot near the station, he asked, “You are going to be nice to her, aren’t you, honey?”
Diane, arms defiantly crossed, answered with teenage insouciance. “I’ll try.”
As they hurried through the terminal lobby, Diane asked, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Daddy?”
Joe’s anxiety climbed a few notches higher. “What? What am I forgetting?”
Diane radiated disapproval as she assumed the role of adult scolding a child. “Flowers, Daddy. You should give her flowers when she steps off the train. Come on…there’s a flower stand right over there.”
Pola was just as anxious as Joe as she stepped from the train car to the platform. Like Joe, she, too, desperately wanted this first meeting with Diane to go smoothly. She supposed she checked her tote bag at least a thousand times since the train left New York City to make sure the gift box containing the expensive scarf for Diane was still there.
Mostly, she prayed that any attempt to get close to Joe’s daughter would not be rebuffed with a chilly You’re not my mother, spoken or unspoken.
Pola did not see them at first. She looked around apprehensively—and suddenly, there they were, hurrying toward her along the crowded platform. She forced her face into a smile while trying desperately to read the expression on Diane’s face, a face to this moment she had only known from the photograph in her father’s wallet. She was relieved to find the girl returning a reserved, but pleasant, smile.
Of course, someone could smile while they’re sticking the knife in you, too, Pola thought.
The distance between them along the platform rapidly closed. Joe
and Pola exchanged a chaste kiss over the spray of flowers he clumsily pushed her way.
“Oh, Joseph, thank you! They’re beautiful! And Diane! It’s so wonderful to meet you! You look so pretty!”
“Thank you, Doctor MacLeish,” Diane said while making a barely perceptible curtsy.
Please tell me this young girl is as sweet as she seems…and not just waiting for a chance to sabotage me.
“Oh, child, please call me Pola.”
Perhaps it was just an American teenager’s misunderstanding of a foreign figure of speech, very Scottish and very benign. Or perhaps it was the beginning of the war she feared Joe’s daughter would wage against her. Whatever the reason, Diane’s reply was swift and razor sharp: “I’m not a child, Doctor MacLeish.”
None of them were especially eager for the planned lunch in Cambridge. The drive from the train station had been punctuated only with brief, awkward bursts of small talk between Joe and Pola. Diane stared quietly out the window in the back seat, refusing to participate. She had politely accepted the gift scarf from Pola, glanced at it momentarily, closed the box and pushed it away across the car seat. The prospect of sitting in even more silence around a restaurant table was only making the tension in the car worse.
By chance, Joe had parked the car in front of a Cambridge book store near the Harvard campus. With enthusiasm he hoped would rub off on his two ladies, he said, “You know, there are a few books I need to pick up. Why don’t we all browse around a little before lunch?”
He got no argument—and little enthusiasm in return—from Pola or Diane.
The store was crammed wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling with books. Narrow aisles of old wooden bookshelves stood like dusty phalanxes in the dim light; the three wandered these aisles separately. Diane was keeping an eye on Pola, catching fleeting glimpses of her father’s lover, already with an armful of books for purchase, as she popped in and out of view through the cluttered shelves. Diane prowled, ever searching, although she was not looking for books:
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