The Lost American

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘What’s it to you?’ said Paul, trying to recover the insolence.

  Blair rubbed one hand against the other, to wipe away the urge. ‘OK,’ he said, extending the gesture to put both hands between them, their own physical barrier. ‘OK, so because of what happened between your mother and me, you can’t believe that I have any more feelings for you. Any more feelings for her, even. So answer me this. If I’d been coming in along the Parkway this morning and I’d seen some perfect stranger, someone I’d never seen in my life before, lay themselves down in front of my car, what would you have expected me to do?’

  John looked sideways at his brother and sniggered and Paul sniggered too. ‘Stopped, I guess.’

  ‘Stopped,’ echoed Blair, glad the boy hadn’t suggested swerving, which would which have taken a lot of the point away. ‘I would have stopped, to have prevented their getting killed. Don’t you think I’m going to try to do something – everything – to stop someone who’s not a stranger – someone I love, despite what you think – killing himself. And not just for yourself. For your mother. And for a younger brother who admires and respects you so much that he actually tries to walk like you, halfway across the room.’

  John blushed, at being caught out and sniggered again and Blair wondered desperately if he were penetrating any of the barriers.

  ‘Not trying to kill myself,’ muttered the older boy.

  ‘You’ve laid down in the road and invited everyone to run over you,’ insisted Blair, pleased at the way his impromptu analogy was working. ‘You’re not stupid, Paul. Not really. What you’ve done is stupid but you’ve known that it was. Haven’t you known that it is?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ conceded the boy, reluctantly.

  ‘Suppose so,’ Blair said relentlessly. ‘You don’t suppose so. You know so.’ There’d been training courses on interrogation at Langley, long lectures on when to be soft and when to be hard. But never in circumstances like these. Was he doing it right? he wondered.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Paul.

  Blair realised he wanted to open the door, not smash it into the kid’s face. Switching from hard to soft – actually softening his voice – he said ‘OK. So why?’

  ‘Everyone else was doing it: decided to try it.’ Paul was still reluctant, biting the words out.

  ‘So if anyone else laid down on the Parkway, you’d do it too, to see what it was like?’

  Beside his brother John gave a small laugh. Blair hoped the child was laughing with him and not against him. Just as he hoped the roadway analogy wasn’t getting a bit thin.

  ‘Course not,’ said Paul.

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Lot of difference.’

  ‘Feel good, when you were stealing? And when you were smoking? Good enough to want to go on doing it until the time when a cop didn’t wait to see you were a kid and didn’t have a gun and blew you away? Or was that the next move, after you’d set yourself up as a dealer, get hold of a Saturday Night Special and become a real hotshot?’ Blair was aware of Ruth turning away, unable to face the onslaught.

  ‘Didn’t think about it.’

  ‘What did you think about? Did you think about your mother and breaking her heart? Or me, who loves you? Or John, who looks up to you?’ Blair realised he was risking repetition but he wanted to get more reaction than this out of the kid.

  ‘When did you think of me!’ blurted the boy.

  It had been a long time coming but Blair was glad it finally had. ‘Who are the others, Paul?’ he said.

  ‘Others?’

  ‘Arrested with you.’

  ‘Jimmy Cohn,’ set out the boy, doubtfully. ‘David Hoover… Frank Snaith… Billie Carter.’

  ‘So tell me about Jimmy Cohn and David Hoover and Frank Snaith and Billie Carter. How many of their parents are divorced?’

  ‘David Hoover’s,’ said Paul at once.

  ‘But not Jimmy Cohn and Frank Snaith and Billie Carter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what’s their cop-out?’

  ‘Don’t understand,’ said the boy, who did.

  ‘It won’t do, Paul,’ said Blair. ‘Don’t try to use what happened between your mother and me as the excuse and expect me and your mother and every counsellor and social worker to sit wringing their hands and sympathising with what a raw deal you got. OK, I’m demanding you to be honest with me so I’ll be honest with you, as far as that honesty need go to be honest. You did get a bad shake. So did your mother. So did John. And I’ve never stopped thinking of you. Or your mother. Or John. Or being aware of what I did and feeling sorry for the way it happened. But it did happen. There’s nothing any of us can do now, to turn the clock back. Life isn’t like that, a place for second chances. Not often anyhow. And don’t try to con me or anyone else by pretending that this was some half-assed attempt to bring your mother and me back together, because I’m not buying that either. You didn’t think of anyone when you stole and robbed and smoked grass and shoved shit up your nose. You just thought about yourself. You made yourself a self-pity blanket and wrapped yourself up in it and decided there was no one else in the world more important than Paul Edward Blair.’ Maybe he shouldn’t have sworn and maybe he’d gone on too long but he hoped some of it was getting through.

  Ruth managed to look back into the room. Eddie was being far harsher than she had expected – far harsher than she imagined the juvenile officer would want him to be – but a lot of it needed saying. What had he meant by there not often being an opportunity for second chances? Would he have talked about their getting back together, if he hadn’t obviously thought about it? She stopped herself, guiltily. She and Eddie were not what they were talking about, not directly anyway.

  ‘You haven’t said much, Paul,’ encouraged his father.

  ‘Nothing to say,’ said the boy.

  ‘That’s a kid’s reply,’ said Blair. ‘You a kid?’

  ‘No,’ said Paul.

  ‘No what?’ pressured Blair.

  Momentarily Paul didn’t comprehend. Then he said ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So when are you going to stop behaving like one? When are you going to start thinking of someone other than yourself?’

  The boy made another of his animal head swings. Or was it something like being punch-drunk? wondered Blair. He’d hit the kid hard.

  ‘I’ve been out of the country for a long time,’ said Blair. ‘Expressions change but do you know the expression I remember to describe people like you, Paul? It was punk. And before that it was jerk. They meant the same, really. They described people who were small-time but thought they were big-time and went around screwing up their own lives and the lives of a lot of people all around them. I’m not going to let you do that. To yourself. Or anyone else. We’re going to talk it through and we’re going to bring out all the problems – imagined or otherwise – and we’re going to solve them, imagined or otherwise. And you’re going to grow up and stop thinking you need special favours and special treatment.’

  Ruth interceded, deciding it had gone on long enough, getting the long-ago offered sodas and Blair took the hint and stopped. Realistically acknowledging that to attempt any sort of family gathering on the first night would be impossible she fed the boys first and put them to bed and Blair stood once more at the bedroom door and watched while she kissed them goodnight but didn’t try to kiss them himself because he knew Paul would resent it and John might be confused and he didn’t want either reaction.

  She had steaks and he cooked them outside, remembering his promise to Ann and afterwards he and Ruth sat in the living room where the confrontation had taken place and Blair said, ‘I’m not sure I did it right.’

  ‘I’m not, either,’ she said. She moved quickly to explain what sounded like criticism but wasn’t. ‘Not that I think you said anything wrong. I just don’t know how it should have been done. Who the hell does?’

  ‘He used to be a bright kid, able to express himself!’ said Blair, disbelievingly. He looked at hi
s watch, working out the time difference. It was too late to call Ann now.

  ‘You have to go somewhere?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘It’s good having you here,’ she risked. ‘I agree with everything you said, about the divorce and not being an excuse or a reason or anything like that, but I could never have spoken to them like that. Women can’t kick ass; not this woman, anyway.’

  ‘We just agreed that we’re not sure kicking ass was the right way.’

  Shit, she thought, disappointed at his response. ‘You haven’t said how long you can stay,’ she said.

  ‘As long as it takes,’ he said. It was an exaggeration and he’d better call Langley tomorrow and see someone to make it possible. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to run out on them again, not until everything was sorted out. And call Ann, too. He hoped she was all right.

  Brinkman went back over everything, examining all the clues and all the indicators and then he arranged a meeting with Mark Harrison and offered more from his period as interpreter – glad he’d held something back to bargain with – in the hope of getting from the Canadian some hint of what he might haved missed or overlooked which had taken Blair back to Washington. And found nothing. He’d spent too long ahead of the pack, with the plaintive cries behind him and decided he didn’t like being back there among them, with someone else out in front. He considered making some social approach to Ann before the planned birthday celebrations; not that she would have known anything positive, of course, because that wasn’t the way things were done but there might be a hint of a nuance that would be sufficient to show him where to look. But he decided against it. If she told Blair – which she undoubtedly would – then it would show he was anxious; using the friendship, in fact. Better to wait. It wasn’t long. He’d make it a good celebration, though.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Blair was still disorientated by the time changes and despite the final head-dropping tiredness as he sat with Ruth he awoke early, while it was dark. Seven in Moscow, he calculated: his normal time. Would Ann be awake? He’d have to call her today. He had to call a lot of people today. Blair lay, feeling the familiarity of his former home wrapped about him, thinking about the previous day and trying to decide whether he had handled it correctly. Unsure, too, about some of the things he’d said to the boy. Maybe thousands of kids stayed straight and all right after their parents divorced but could he dismiss it entirely? No, he thought, honestly. Continuing the honesty Blair realised he’d tried to take the divorce out of any discussion as much for his own conscience as to get through to Paul: maybe more so. The acceptance discomfited him, making him feel guilty. He had given the kid a bad shake. He’d given all of them a bad shake. Ruth worst of all because they were only kids but she’d been able to understand it all. He’d behaved like a shit and she’d behaved like a saint. Like she was still doing. He had to do more, determined Blair: not just now – he was doing all he could now – but later, when this had been settled. She deserved it; the kids deserved it. Conscience again? Sure it was. What else could it be? But proper conscience this time.

  Blair reviewed the day ahead, watching the sky gradually lighten outside and listening intently for the sounds of movement elsewhere in the house. When they came, after a further two hours, Blair remained where he was, the earlier feeling of familiarity giving way to another sensation, the awareness that it was no longer his home and that he was a visitor to it and like a polite visitor it was necessary to wait until the people who really lived there got through their established morning routine and cleared bathrooms before he intruded. The boys were at the breakfast bar when he emerged, Ruth cooking the pancakes at the stove. She wore a housecoat but her hair was carefully brushed. The boys appeared tidier than they’d been the previous day; he saw Ruth had cleaned their shoes. The tightness remained between them all but Blair thought it was slightly less strained than yesterday. Awake for so long he had prepared for the encounter. Deciding it was important to create some sort of balance – even if the effort appeared obvious – and not refer constantly to the reason for his being there he asked if there were a team they supported and hesitantly, almost unconvincingly, they said the Orioles and Blair said if there were a game that weekend would they like to go out to Baltimore and take it in? The acceptance was hesitating, too. John made an effort, asking what Moscow was like and Blair snatched at the opening and said it was very different from America and he had a lot to tell them about it and why didn’t they talk about it over dinner? John nodded eagerly, the excitement at having his father again in the house obvious. Paul gave no reaction. Why the hell does he behave all the time like some goddamned dummy! thought Blair, irritably. They were waiting, lunch pails ready and packed, when the car sounded outside. Ruth kissed them both but Blair held back, like he had the previous night. Maybe it would be possible before he finally went back, he thought: but not now.

  With the importance of that in mind he telephoned Langley while Ruth was clearing the boys’ breakfast things and setting places for them. He didn’t know whether the division chief would already be in but was glad when Ray Hubble came on to the line. It was insecure, so the conversation was necessarily general. Hubble had been the supervisor in Rome when Blair had been there and they’d worked together at headquarters before Blair’s London posting, so an acquaintanceship at least existed between them. Hubble said he was sorry to hear Blair had a problem and was there anything he could do and Blair said that was what he wanted to talk about. Hubble offered that day but Blair said tomorrow: he wasn’t going to rush the encounters with the counsellors. Blair had thought about them, in the early hours, wanting to get the maximum out of the meeting so he telephoned them both and suggeted a combined rather than separate encounter. Both agreed. Erickson’s office was decided upon.

  Ruth had brewed fresh coffee by the time he returned to the kitchen, which was all he wanted. He told her about the altered arrangements with the counsellors and the reason and asked, in afterthought, if she wanted to come.

  ‘Would it help?’ said the woman at once. ‘I’ve seen them both, several times. But if it would help of course I’ll come.’

  ‘Maybe better by myself the first time,’ he agreed. He finished his coffee and said, ‘I’d like to make another call.’

  ‘All local calls are free in Washington,’ she reminded him, imagining he had forgotten.

  ‘This isn’t a local call,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, realising. She seemed to spend longer than was necessary with her back to him, getting more coffee, and then she said, ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  ‘Collect calls are difficult in Moscow,’ he said. ‘If you’ll let me know the cost when the bill comes in I’ll send you a cheque.’ Polite visitor, he thought again.

  ‘No problem,’ said Ruth. She looked down at the housecoat, as if surprised to find herself wearing it. ‘I should get dressed,’ she said.

  Blair used the kitchen extension. It was a bad connection and he had to shout over the echo on the line, wishing it hadn’t been necessary. Each agreed they were fine. Ann asked how things were and he said he didn’t know, not yet. He didn’t know, either, when he would be getting back. She told him she was taking Brinkman to the ballet and he agreed it was a good idea.

  ‘I miss you,’ she shouted.

  ‘Me too,’ Blair yelled back.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Me too,’ he yelled again. He supposed Ruth, who would be able to hear every word, would guess but he’d tried. Polite visitor.

  Blair promised to call again and Ann said she hoped everything would turn out all right. She said again that she loved him but Blair didn’t respond this time. He finished the call before Ruth came back into the room.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Seems to be. It was a bad line.’

  ‘So I gathered. Shall I fix lunch?’

  ‘Thought we might eat out.’

  Ruth smiled, imme
diately pleased at the invitation. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Anywhere particular you like?’

  ‘You choose,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘Dominiques used to be good.’

  She smiled again, glad he’d remembered. Dominiques had been important to them, the place where they’d celebrated special occasions like birthdays and wedding anniversaries and news of his promotions and postings. It would be nice to have another special occasion to celebrate there. ‘Dominiques would be lovely.’

  Blair was early for his appointment with the counsellors, at Erickson’s office ahead of the other official. Both men were similar and Blair wondered if it were the job. They dressed uncaringly, pants unpressed and creases concertinaed in the bends of their arms, ties straying from their collars. Kemp was taller and wore spectacles, but both were overweight, stomachs bulging over their belts. Erickson offered coffee which Blair didn’t want but which he took anyway.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me like this,’ said Blair. ‘I thought it was best.’

  ‘Makes our schedules easier,’ said Kemp.

  ‘So you’re busy?’ said Blair, to the school counsellor.

  Erickson smiled, an attempt at reassurance. ‘Believe me, Mr Blair, what you’re going through right now isn’t unusual, for American parents today.’

  Blair recognised the effort but found the man faintly patronising. Would kids feel the same way? He said, ‘It’s unusual for me. I want to get it sorted out.’

  ‘That’s what we all want,’ said Erickson.

  ‘So how do we do it?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ admitted the school official. ‘I’ve got seventy kids I’m trying to help and I’d guess that many again I don’t know about yet.’

  ‘And I’ve stopped bothering to count the number I’m responsible for,’ said Kemp.

  Fuck their problems, thought Blair; all he cared about was his own. ‘You’re the experts,’ he said, holding his irritation, if I can’t get answers then I’m looking for advice.’