Day of Reckoning

by John Katzenbach

  For an instant he was pleased with his understanding. I know Olivia, he thought, better than she thinks. I must use that knowledge. Somehow I’ve got to put her off-balance, just a little, not so much that she panics but just enough so that she begins to realize that this arrangement has two partners, who will have to cooperate to succeed. I must make her recognize that she calls the shots only just so far—and that ultimately we are sharing this thing.

  She must be made to deviate, just a little, from her design. Just enough so she recognizes this is a business deal.

  And then I will have a real advantage, because I know how to make a deal, and she doesn’t. I know how to squeeze her, cut her loose, and finally, cut her out.

  I understand money: How to make it. How to steal it.

  He felt a sudden surge of confidence that evaporated almost as swiftly as it arrived. Sure, he thought, I know about banks and stocks and bonds, playing the float, and all the accessories to money. But she understands the commerce of revenge.

  He shrugged away fear and concentrated on robbing his own bank. It was ironic—if he merely wanted to embezzle money, he would use the bank’s computers, setting up phony accounts and channeling money through them. That’s the way things are done now: a little bit of creative mathematics with a few interest charges from large accounts, slide the money electronically into some dummy account, then retransfer it into a branch of some offshore Bahamas bank. He’d known a competitor who’d been caught in a similar scheme. He’d been caught because he’d made one fundamental mistake: He’d gotten ambitious. Like all things connected with money, success was the father to greed. If you were more modest, if you thought of simply becoming comfortable instead of becoming rich, then it wouldn’t be so hard to avoid detection.

  He had a sudden memory of going into a five-and-dime store as a child, with one of his neighborhood friends. The boy had been a magnet for all the other children; a little older, a little wiser, filled with the runaway sophistication of youth. A wild child. Freckle-faced, red-haired, wiry tough, the son of a local police officer, which gave him a sort of license in the other children’s eyes, he was the one who always rode his bicycle down dead man’s hill, and the first to try to smoke a cigarette. He was the one who walked on the ice on Fisher’s pond first, even when it made little creaking noises beneath his feet. He would be first into the quarry in the summertime, splashing about in the cold black waters, laughing at the other kids, who were troubled by the mundane considerations of the huge NO SWIMMING—DANGER sign posted there by the town fathers. And I was always second, Duncan thought. I always hesitated that one instant that kept me from being first—but I threw myself in, right away. It was as if everything was a dare, once done, to do again. I was always next in line, turning my momentary reluctance into a sort of guilt that drove me to prove myself immediately.

  He remembered the boy had wandered one aisle in the store and up the next, as if searching for something specific, but in reality, as he passed a shelf filled with candy bars, looking only for the right moment. His friend pocketed several, then, with the bravado born of wild youth, walked up to the register and asked the women behind the counter if they had any get-well cards for his sister, who was in the hospital. The woman pointed out the proper aisle, where the boy hesitated only an instant before saying thank you, but those aren’t what I had in mind, and exiting. In the street outside, he showed the others what he’d stolen. Then he had looked at Duncan and said: Now you do it.

  And so Duncan tried.

  He saw the woman behind the counter eyeing him, as he did what his friend had done, walking up and down the aisle. When she turned away, he seized a single candy bar from the shelf and slid it into his pocket.

  Then, as his friend had done, he approached the woman. I suppose you want a card for your sister, too? she asked sarcastically, and Duncan knew, in that moment, that she knew everything, that his friend had gotten away with nothing that the woman had not allowed for whatever reason. Instead of speaking, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, which he slapped down on the counter. Then he started to run, although he’d paid for what he’d thought he was stealing, but the woman called after him, Hey! You’ve got change coming. No, he’d said, no, we owe it, we do, thinking of the candy his friend had taken, and then he ran from the store.

  He had been nine.

  A failure of nerve, but it was a small town and my father would have punished me if he’d learned. Duncan thought of his parents for the first time in many years. They had both been teachers, though his father had risen to administer the junior high school in their upstate New York town before his death. They both died in the midst of their old age, when he was just starting his senior year in college, in a car wreck on a wet fall night.

  A state trooper, all clipped and emotionless, had called him that evening in his dormitory. He had taken the call on the telephone in the hallway, where a half-dozen other students had idly walked by, eavesdropping shamelessly, wondering whether it was a date he was talking with and whether she was pretty and had he gone to bed with her—then doubly curious when they realized it wasn’t.

  Hello, is this Duncan Richards?

  Yes. Who is this?

  This is Trooper Mitchell of the New Paltz barracks. I’m afraid I have some difficult news for you.

  Oh.

  Your folks have been killed in a car wreck on Route 9 near here.

  Oh.

  A tractor-trailer heading the other way jackknifed on some wet leaves in the rain. They were killed instantly.

  Oh.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this.

  Officer, I don’t understand. What do I do now?

  Son, I can’t answer that question.

  Duncan remembered when his uncle called him, an hour later. A flighty man, whom Duncan had known only vaguely, he was near hysterics, calming only when he realized he had to make the arrangements for burial. It had all seemed so hurried, so quick. One instant they were there, the next gone. It was the only time in his life when he truly had wished for a brother or sister. The funeral had seemed so stiff and formal. There were no real tears, no real emotions, just a steady line of acquaintances who showed up out of duty. School officials. Teachers. Local politicians. It wasn’t like when Megan’s mother died. People loved her. But people didn’t know my mother and father, so they had a handshake approach to their death.

  I don’t think I knew them much better, either.

  That was why I decided I would be there for my children. I wasn’t going to put things between them and me. Even if I stole a little time for extra work, or perhaps a tennis game on a summer morning, I repaid it. I always carried markers with me. I understood the debt that parents owe their children. We are like the banking window that never closes, constantly open for withdrawals. It never ends, and it shouldn’t.

  Duncan pictured Tommy again, in the small room. I could lose you, he thought. He saw all the times when he had spoken sharply, or denied him something, and thought: All those times and no way to make them up. All the little robberies where I’ve stolen some pleasure from my son—even if in the guise of teaching him something, or keeping order in the family.

  With Tommy, I gave him things, I took away things, I tried to show him life, I took him when he felt his lowest and tried to restore him. That is what being a father is all about. And now there’s a chance I won’t be able to restore him again.

  I won’t let it happen. I won’t hesitate.

  He saw himself as a child again, always hanging back, just that single instant. Not now, he said to himself. It was as if he was ordering his heart with a precise, military command. I will not hesitate this time. Not for one millisecond.

  Duncan rose, and walked to the doorway to his office. He looked through, out across the bank. It was rapidly approaching quitting time, and he saw the
accelerated energy of the employees as they went through their day’s-end routine.

  Tomorrow, he thought, the bank will stay open late, to accommodate the Friday rush of weekend customers. Evening hours, five to seven P.M.

  Only on this occasion, he knew it was going to stay open a bit later.

  Judge Pearson and his grandson played paper, stone, and scissors in the attic room, trying to pass the time. They counted together, one, two, three, shoot! and thrust forward with closed fist, or spread fingers or flat hand. Paper covers stone. Stone breaks scissors. Scissors cuts paper. Tommy won, the judge won, Tommy won again. Time dissipated slowly. Over and over again, one, two, three, shoot.

  The day had passed in fits and starts. At lunchtime Bill Lewis had promised to try to find them a pack of cards, but he had returned later, apologizing that he couldn’t discover any. He told them he would get some at the store, if Olivia sent him out again, but only if she would allow it. He reluctantly told the judge that Olivia had decided against allowing them any reading material, or bringing a television set up to the room. Tommy had asked if there was a pencil and paper, so that he could draw, or write a letter, but Lewis shook his head. They were simply to occupy themselves as best they could. He was sorry.

  Consequently, the two Tommys had spent as much time as possible playing word-association games. It reminded the judge again of being cooped up in a car for a long time. At one point he had Tommy do some calisthenics, to try to limber the boy up and burn off some of the energy that the judge knew was being stored to the breaking point within him. He joined the boy in the stretching routines, realizing that it would do no good to stiffen and slow himself.

  He hated the boredom probably more than he hated the confine­ment. He despised himself for allowing their circumstance to become so banal, so passive. I must force myself to think, to come alive, he insisted, but he couldn’t rise from the apathy of waiting.

  It felt almost like a physical pain, like the gnawing discomfort of an aching tooth or the steady hurt of a twisted ankle. He realized that he was exhausted, but had done nothing except watch the time drain slowly from the day. It was as if the tension of their situation was, if not diminished, thrust backward. He hated the idea that Olivia or one of the others could walk into the attic room at any point and simply execute them. Then how bitter these last hours would seem, wasted in steady dull boredom. It would be a great evil to die after yawning away one’s final minutes.

  He looked over at Tommy, who had taken the nail they’d dis­covered in their first search of the room and was idly scraping away at the wood slats of the wall. The sound was like a tree branch scratching against a windowpane, thrust there by the wind. He saw Tommy cut his initials into the wood, then add his grandfather’s, which made the old man smile.

  “Put the date, as well.”

  “Okay,” said Tommy. “Anything else?”

  “No,” the judge said. “Yes, wait. Put something down that’s like a message.”

  “For somebody to read?”

  “Yes. Like your mother and father.”

  “Oh,” said Tommy. “That’s easy.”

  He carved away rapidly, yet carefully, with a little boy’s singularity of purpose. After a moment, his grandfather asked, “What did you write?”

  “I put down: We miss you and we love you. Is that okay?”

  “That’s perfect.”

  “It’s sort of like the letter they won’t let me write.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Tommy handed the nail back to his grandfather, who hid it under one of the pillows. He wanted to ask what was going to happen next, but he realized no one knew, and was able to hold back. He looked at his grandfather and thought that the old man’s face seemed paler, his hair whiter, and his skin almost translucent, and he worried that he might be getting weaker somehow. For an instant he shuddered and quickly pushed himself close to the old man.

  “What’s wrong, Tommy?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “Come on, what’s wrong?”

  “I just got scared for a minute. I was scared of being alone.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I know. I was scared that maybe you weren’t.”

  Judge Pearson swept his arms around the child. He laughed a little bit. “Come on, Tommy, I’m not going to disappear on you. I said at the beginning, we’re in this together, and we’ll see it through to the end. Don’t you worry, I’ll bet that pretty soon we’re sitting in your mom and dad’s house eating a pizza and telling them about our adventure.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure. And imagine how much fun it will be to see Lauren and Karen, too. I’ll bet they’ll want to hear everything about what has happened to us.”

  “They will, I know.”

  “So don’t be discouraged. I know it’s hard sitting around here. But it’ll be over soon, and we’ll have some stories to tell.”

  Tommy sighed and relaxed next to his grandfather. After a few seconds he spoke up again:

  “Grandfather, tell me a story, please.”

  “Sure, Tommy. What sort of story?”

  “A story about yourself, when you were young. A story about being brave when you were a Marine.”

  The old man smiled. “Once a Marine, always a Marine,” he said. “That’s the motto of the corps: Semper Fidelis. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.” Tommy smiled. “You’ve told me that before. Always faithful.”

  “I’ve told you that before?” The old man laughed and poked the boy in the ribs. “You mean to say I’ve repeated myself?” He teased and tickled and Tommy squirmed about, finally breaking into a grin.

  “Yes, yes, no, no, please, Grandfather. We shouldn’t be laughing.”

  “Why not?”

  “They might hear us and get angry.”

  “Well, that’s their tough luck. We shouldn’t let them scare us all the time. And anyway, a laugh is good for you. Did I ever tell you about the time laughter saved my life?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Well, it was on Guadalcanal—you know about that place, right?”

  Tommy nodded. “Unhuh.”

  “Well, my platoon was in the forward element. That means we were in the front of the whole battalion, and we were moving through the jungle. We didn’t know where the enemy was, and we weren’t sure whether he was going to attack us, or we were going to attack him. It was dark and scary and hot when we finally stopped for the night. We all dug in and stared out into the nighttime, waiting for orders, trying to get some sleep, worrying about what was going to happen. Did I ever tell you this before?”

  “No, no, what happened?”

  “Well, we all thought for sure we were going to have trouble. We knew the enemy was out there, and we knew he was waiting for just the right moment, so we were pretty nervous. Not so different from you and me up here, and the way we get nervous because we don’t know what’s going to happen at all.”

  “What about the laughter?”

  “Well, I’m coming to that. There was this one man in the platoon, Jerry Larsen from New Jersey, so we called him Jersey Jerry, and whenever he got pretty scared, he would always tell a joke. Same joke, every time—”

  “What was the joke?”

  Judge Pearson had a sudden vision of himself hunkered down behind some sandbags, young, sweaty, covered with the sandy dirt of some island battlefield and hearing about the Lone Ranger and Tonto, and another bunch of wild Indians and Silver the Wonder Horse. And he remembered the punch line: I said posse, not pussy, you dumb horse. He smiled. Posse, not pussy. He looked back at his grandson and wondered whether he knew the word. Maybe, maybe not. It was always hard to tell what children knew and, more, what they understood.

  “Well, it was an adult joke.”

&
nbsp; “A dirty joke?”

  “Yes. Who told you that phrase?”

  “Karen and Lauren.”

  “What else have they told you?”

  “Oh, not that much. They tell me I’m too young.”

  “Well, you are.”

  “Oh, come on, Grandfather, please.”

  “You are.”

  “Will you tell me the joke?”

  “When you’re older.”

  “Oh, Grandfather.”

  “When you’re older. As old as Karen and Lauren.”

  “Okay,” Tommy said reluctantly. “So what happened?”

  “Well, anyway, we’d all heard the joke a million times, because we’d all been scared at least that much. But the really strange thing was, the joke was always funny. Even if we knew the punch line, even if we knew exactly, word for word, every bit of the joke, it was always funny. And it wasn’t such a great joke to begin with, either. But for some reason, I don’t know why, but I guess it had something to do with tension, it always made everybody in the platoon break out in laughter and giggles . . .

  “Anyway, it’s ’round about three in the morning and most of the platoon is trying to sleep, except for Jerry and me and a couple of other guys, who are on guard and right nervous because it always seems like the jungle is moving all around us, no matter what time it is, and it’s really hard to tell whether the sounds are animal sounds or people sounds. It’s hot and we’re tired and suddenly I can hear Jersey Jerry a few feet away start to tell the joke. I’m kinda mad, kinda scared, trying to get him to shush up, but he goes right ahead and tells the joke and I start to laugh. Not real hard, mind you, just a little bit. But it wakes up the man next to me, who rolls over and says: ‘What is it?’ and I say, ‘Jerry told the joke again.’ And he groans, but because he knows the punch line by heart, like everybody else, he kinda laughs too. And that wakes up the lieutenant, and a few others. And within a few seconds we’re all awake and whispering and getting angry with Jersey Jerry for getting everybody up, when I hear something that’s a little different, right in front of the platoon—”