Cat slammed the door behind her, but Elizabeth’s words chased her down the darkened front steps of the building. Cat didn’t look back, but she swore she could feel Elizabeth’s gaze hot on her neck.
Stunned and shocked, Cat pulled up her collar against the night’s chill before she broke into a run, needing to outpace the jagged teeth of Elizabeth’s words that nipped at her heels.
They’ll confirm everything I’ve said.
Except, there was more.
They’re the ones who helped me track you down three years ago.
Three years ago? But the first Cat had heard of Elizabeth had been mere days ago, when she read her mother’s letter.
Some of her shock fragmented, its pieces slowly metamorphizing to disbelief. And consternation.
There was more to Elizabeth’s story, Cat knew it.
Just what are you playing at, Elizabeth?
* * *
* * *
Unable to rage at her dead mother or the woman who had birthed her, Cat spent the next three days swinging between angry incredulity toward the Communist spy who had directed the circus that was her life and being mired in fresh waves of grief as America laid President John F. Kennedy to rest. It was too much, all at once: her mother’s death—for no matter what, Joan Gray would always be the mother who hid nickels under her pillow from the tooth fairy and plied her with an endless supply of Mallomars when her high school boyfriend broke her heart—followed by the discovery of her adoption, tracking down Elizabeth, the death of a president . . .
It was more than any one person should be asked to endure. But, just as America and the president’s family were being forced to endure too much, so, too, would Cat. Simply because there was no other choice—she’d already come to the realization that she was no murderer, that she never could have pulled the trigger on either Elizabeth or herself, no matter how much she was hurting.
She’d walked through hell and she’d survived. That was something.
Uncertain about what she should do next, Cat took to listening to the radio—the Beatles’ “Love Me Do” and the Beach Boys’ “Surfin’ U.S.A.” seemed to be every deejay’s latest favorites—while sitting in the plastic shell chair her mother had bought for her last birthday, reading and rereading her mother’s final letter, that lone piece of paper that had started this entire avalanche she’d been powerless to stop.
My darling Cathy,
This is a letter I never wanted to write—I refused to once, in fact—but after telling myself for years that I’d wait until the time was right, well . . . now I’m out of time and I can’t find the courage to have this conversation, not when I’d have to tell you about the cancer too. Maybe if your father were still here, but I’m not strong enough on my own. I hope you can forgive me for that.
Your father and I loved you, Cathy, so very much. We wanted you for so long, prayed for you, moved heaven and earth to have you. You were our miracle.
One minute your father and I were convinced that we’d never have a child, and the next we received a phone call that there was a baby whose mother had died while giving birth and who now needed a family.
Little did I know, the woman who made that phone call—and later placed you in my arms—was a crook and a liar and God only knows what else.
I recognized her—Elizabeth Bentley, down to the very same mole on her cheek—when I saw her in 1948 on a Meet the Press interview, wondered how the hell a Communist spy, and not a social worker as she’d claimed, had facilitated an adoption. You were lying on the living room floor, chin propped in your hands, and your feet in their Mary Janes kicked up behind you while you read Black Beauty, and I had a terrible feeling then that things hadn’t been aboveboard. I never knew the details of where or how Bentley found you—it was cowardly of me, Cathy, but I suspected that this traitor had somehow made a criminal of me, and I didn’t want to know the truth.
When Bentley showed up on my doorstep a few months ago—just after my diagnosis—demanding that you be told the circumstances of your birth, I slammed the door in her face. She kept coming back, but I was so exhausted—I told her to go to hell each time, prayed to Almighty God she wouldn’t contact you herself.
It was selfish of me to keep the truth from you all these years, I know, but you were all I had after your father’s death, and I wasn’t willing to lose you. That’s something I hope you can forgive me for too.
I can’t burden you with watching me die, Cathy, but I realize I’m leaving you alone in this world. Now it’s up to you to decide whether you want to talk to this Bentley woman. She’s the only one who has the answers about your real mother, although I suspect you may not want to hear them.
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
I will always, always love you.
Your mother
Sometimes when she finished, Cat contemplated burning her mother’s letter and pretending Joan Gray had never left her that damned piece of paper so she could just get on with her life. Other times she thought of storming her way back to Elizabeth Bentley’s apartment and demanding the answers to fresh questions that sprouted like poison ivy in her mind.
The New Haven FBI card taunted Cat from where she’d dropped it by her dormitory’s rotary telephone. She had finals to study for, not to mention she still needed to figure out how to pay for her room and the tuition for the last semester of her journalism degree. Given that she had hardly a penny to her name, the very thought should have sent her into a tailspin of panic, but she couldn’t seem to function, couldn’t do anything except stare at that card and replay Elizabeth’s story in her head. Calling the FBI felt like admitting there was a possibility Elizabeth was telling the truth. And that simply wasn’t possible.
So, instead of calling the FBI, Cat did something she’d been putting off for a while. She pulled the rotary phone onto her lap and dialed Shirley, her best friend since they’d Hula-Hooped themselves silly and swooned over Elvis on the radio.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” Shirley answered after the fifth ring. Cat could hear baby Maggie gurgling in the background and suddenly wished she was at Shirley’s cozy house, imagined her wearing a freshly starched apron over her fashionable circle skirt, probably something with cherries or flowers on it. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”
“I wish.”
“What’s going on? You don’t sound like yourself.”
Shirley knows me, Cat thought to herself. She’s the closest thing I have left to family. And I need to tell someone about this entire mess with Elizabeth . . .
First things first.
“Shirley, I called to apologize. I was out of line at the funeral. That wasn’t the right time or place to talk to you about Eddie—”
“You were right, Cat.”
“What?”
Shirley gave a wry sort of chuckle, so Cat could imagine the twist of her lips. “I’m not as smart as you, Cat, but even I know that Eddie shouldn’t treat me the way he does.”
Some of the tension melted from Cat’s shoulders. Thank God. Cat cleared her throat. “So, what does that mean? For you and Eddie?”
“Eddie’s gone to stay with his parents for a while. He’s going to find someone who can help him. With his anger, I mean. The YMCA might have classes that can help.”
Cat wished she could hug Shirley right then, said as much. “I’m glad for you, Shirley, really, I am.” She took a deep breath. “So, can you forgive me?”
This time Shirley’s chuckle was light and airy. “Always. Unless you become a serial killer. Then I’ll pretend I never knew you.” Her voice grew muffled as she said something to little Maggie. “Sorry, the baby was dropping peas on the floor for the dog. It’s their favorite game. So . . .” A long pause. “How are things with you, Cat? And don’t just say fine. I want the truth.”
> Cat had never spent so much time thinking about the truth as she had in the past few days. “Well.” She took a deep breath. “I found out I’m adopted.”
“What?”
Cat found herself spilling the entire sordid story to Shirley. Everything—her mother’s letter, even going to Elizabeth’s house to kill her, and Elizabeth’s entire revelation.
When Cat finished, it was if all the words and emotions had been wrung out of her until she felt hollow. Empty. “Now I don’t know what to do,” she managed to say, fiddling with the New Haven FBI card that had been taunting her.
There was a long silence on Shirley’s end—she’d put baby Maggie down for a nap sometime during Cat’s recitation. “The real question is: When are you going to talk to Elizabeth and find out the rest of your story?”
“It’s not my story,” Cat barely managed to grind out. She set the FBI card on the side table so she wouldn’t shred it out of anger. “Elizabeth Bentley is a consummate liar, has been from the first day I met her. This is all some colossal joke to her.”
“Maybe. But what if it’s not? Don’t you owe it to yourself to find out?”
That was not the answer Cat wanted to hear. And Shirley wasn’t done.
“You need to call the FBI to verify part of Elizabeth’s story,” she commanded. “As soon as you hang up with me. And then you need to talk to Elizabeth again.”
“You’re a good friend, Shirley.”
“Thanks, Kit Kat. So are you.” The old nickname meant Cat knew she’d truly been forgiven. “Let me know how things go, okay?”
“Pinky swear.”
Cat stared at the FBI’s card long enough that she half expected it to burst into flames. She didn’t want to open a new chapter in this sordid story Elizabeth had told her, but knew she’d regret it if she didn’t—the FBI could at least corroborate what Elizabeth had said.
She forced herself to dial, each spinning number on the rotary phone tempting her to hang up.
When the FBI secretary answered, Cat informed her in a level voice that she was seeking to verify Elizabeth Bentley’s claims of her work with the FBI and even her working relationship with J. Edgar Hoover.
“I’ll forward your request, Miss Gray,” the secretary said in a manner that made Cat wonder how many strange telephone calls their field office received every week. “But I’m not sure when an officer will be able to answer your inquiry.”
It’s the best I can do, Cat told herself, save showing up at the New Haven office and demanding answers. Which is precisely something Elizabeth Bentley would do.
Cat wondered if she should borrow a page from Elizabeth’s playbook.
She’d almost convinced herself to do precisely that—while pondering what long-term impacts her interview with Elizabeth Bentley had on not just her entire worldview but also the very marrow of her personality—when the telephone rang.
That was fast.
“Hello, Miss Gray, this is the registrar’s office at Trinity Washington University. I was calling to inform you that, as of today, we processed payment for your final semester. Your balance is now paid in full, for both tuition and housing.”
Cat stood holding the phone, utterly dumbfounded. “Wait . . . What?”
“The payment arrived yesterday via a wire transfer.”
“From whom? Was it a bequest from my mother’s estate?”
Not that there had been an estate, given that her mother had even reverse mortgaged their very home.
“It appears to have been a scholarship. I’m afraid I don’t know more than that.”
Her mind awhirl, Cat hung up, sat dumbstruck with the phone in her lap. Surely, there’s been some mistake? She nearly didn’t answer when it jangled to life a moment later, feared the registrar’s office was calling to confirm her suspicions.
“I’d like to speak with Miss Catherine Gray,” said a gravelly male voice on the other end. “This is J. Edgar Hoover.”
The phone receiver might have become a Burmese python for how fast Cat almost dropped it.
“Excuse me?” she managed to say once the receiver was in hand again.
His chuckle was raspy with decades of cigarette smoke. “The New Haven FBI office has long been instructed to inform me of any queries regarding Miss Bentley.”
Cat could only imagine that Hoover would have wanted to be apprised of Elizabeth’s comings and goings, especially during her rough years. Still, it struck her as incongruous that the director of the FBI would be paying a college student a personal call.
Unless everything Elizabeth said was true. All the important parts, anyway . . .
“It seems that you’re seeking to validate Elizabeth’s story, including her contact with me and also her involvement with the Rosenberg and Remington cases. I can assure you those are factual instances of her loyalty to her country.”
“And what about her assertion that the FBI helped track me down?” The words spilled out before Cat could stop them. “Or that she helped my mother—another Russian spy—arrange for my adoption?”
The pause was longer this time. “If you’re referring to Elizabeth Bentley’s request that we locate one Catherine Louise Gray, biological daughter of Mary Tenney, I authorized that fieldwork myself.”
“And when was that?”
A pause. “Three years ago. Seeing as how the FBI never paid Elizabeth Bentley for her services, that one favor seemed like the least I could do.” Papers rustled on the other end. “Miss Gray, I’m afraid that’s all I have to say on the matter. If you require further verification, my secretary will send you a signed affidavit of what I just told you.”
Cat stared blindly at the Vogue covers she’d taped to the wall back when her life was simpler, when her biggest concern was whether to wear a box dress or an A-line to her journalism class. Now she just felt numb. “That would be acceptable, thank you.”
She was telling the truth. And she’s known where to find me for three years and never lifted a finger. The bitch.
Yet, Hoover wasn’t quite done. “Miss Gray, we both know that Elizabeth Bentley can be an extremely trying individual.” His understatement nearly made Cat snort in disbelief. “However, her motives are generally altruistic. She told me her part in your story to convince me to sign off on tracking you down. I suspect she’d appreciate your forgiveness before it’s too late.”
“What do you mean, too late? It’s already too late—I have no desire to see that meddlesome woman ever again.”
Another pause, longer this time. “I take it she didn’t tell you about the cancer?”
Cancer.
The same disease that killed Cat’s mother.
This was a scene Cat had played before, except this time the director of the FBI was breaking the bad news instead of her mother’s doctor. This time she managed to keep breathing. “No,” she finally said. “She didn’t tell me about any cancer.”
It must have slipped her mind. Just like so many other truths.
“It’s abdominal, I’m afraid. A terribly painful disease that doesn’t often end well.” Hoover’s voice became muffled, and Cat could imagine him covering the receiver on the other end as he spoke to his secretary. Then he was back. “There’s something terribly tragic about a woman who has no one to call about such a diagnosis save an office of FBI agents. Anything you want to say to—or ask—Elizabeth Bentley, I’d suggest you do it soon. Just in case. Good-bye, Miss Gray.”
The line went dead then, leaving Cat staring at the receiver and wondering if she had imagined the entire conversation.
Except the revelation of Elizabeth’s cancer answered so many questions. Including why she felt the need to reveal everything to Cat when she did. Hell, even why she dared to open the door to her in the first place. And why she’d sometimes almost seemed to goad Cat into shooting her—a gunshot was certainly a more merciful way
to go than slowly wasting away from tumors in your belly.
But why did she track me down so long ago and then never contact me? Why, why, why?
Elizabeth Bentley was the last person on earth who had known Mary Tenney. And she was the only one who could answer Cat’s questions.
Cat gave a resigned sigh. That meant Shirley was right. She was going to have to go see the lying old harpy one last time.
* * *
* * *
Cat pounded on Elizabeth’s door so hard the bones in her hand threatened to fracture. There was no way Elizabeth could pretend she simply hadn’t heard Cat.
I want answers, goddammit, Cat wanted to demand. And I want to know why you didn’t tell me that you’re dying from cancer.
Still, no answer.
She tried the door. Locked.
“Elizabeth.” Cat raised her voice. Barring childhood outbursts, this was the only time she could remember raising her voice to an adult, and she was prepared to do it all day. “There’s no point in ignoring me. You owe me answers, and I’m not leaving until I get them.”
And I don’t have a gun, she nearly added. Not this time.
Instead, she’d lugged along the reel-to-reel tape recorder she’d used for interviews in her investigative journalism class. She wondered whether it might be handy in breaking down Elizabeth’s door.
Until the door to the apartment below creaked open.
“Miss?” questioned the frowning neighbor, a snowy-haired elderly woman. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Do you know where Elizabeth Bentley is?” Cat realized she must look like an inmate from Bedlam, did her best to at least smooth the flip of her bob. “I’m an old friend.” It was amazing how easily the lie pirouetted off her tongue. “I need to speak to her.”
“Oh dear. I’m afraid you won’t be able to catch her. It’s a pity, really . . . Harold and I were hoping to invite her to join us for Thanksgiving again this year.”
Ice replaced Cat’s bones. “What do you mean?”
“You know she was ill, dear. Very ill.”
A Most Clever Girl Page 35