by Jan Coffey
“If that means you’re getting a job, I’m all for it…honey,” he replied in mocking tones. He dropped his hands and stood back. This had always been his winning card in arguments. He earned the money, so he was in charge.
“I’m sure you are. But that’s the easy part in the changes that are going to take place around here. In fact, I already have something in the works.” She stood up. “The new territory for me is in having affairs. You know, the kind where you forget about your marriage vows and your family and go out and screw someone half your age on your anniversary.”
“Martha…”
She tried to push him out of her path, but he didn’t budge. They’d been married on a beautiful June morning thirty-seven years ago today, and for the first time he’d forgotten even to send her some lousy flowers.
“No, I had some tough luck today. Not one deliveryman worth looking at. Even the clerk at the grocery store was a teenage girl.” Her chin quivered a little, but she held it high and started around him. “But starting tomorrow, watch out. I’ll be ordering Chinese take-out and skipping on wearing underwear and—”
“I’m sorry, Martha.” He reached for her. “Happy anniversary, babe.”
She shook loose of him. “Don’t touch me. I don’t need your pity. There are men out there who think I have a few things left. Men who are even worth a tumble.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, this time only able to get hold of a piece of her wrap. The flimsy fabric opened in front.
She was indeed naked underneath, and a spontaneous flash of heat shot through him. She still had the ability to stun him with her beauty. She was his wife. She belonged to him. This was the one woman on earth whose body had been touched only by him. He knew every gentle curve, every sensitive spot. His thumb brushed against her nipple and he watched it extend and grow hard.
He gazed into her face. “Please, Martha. Let me make it up to you.”
“No.” She pushed his hand away. “I’ve made up my mind. I want to be a slut. Just like your latest girlfriend. What’s her name? Cher…or Cheri…or Cherry. I want to live like her. Those women have the best of both worlds. Sex when they want it. Men who dote on them. And no…no…need for the appearance of respectability.”
“I’ll give you everything. All of that. I can change.” Sanford pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth down on her lips, silencing the rest of her complaint. It took a moment, but he felt her come alive against his body. He wanted her, and suddenly Cheri was not even a blip in his memory bank.
Tearing her mouth from his, Martha backed away, wriggling out of the robe as he peeled it off of her. She took hold of his belt and shoved him back against his own desk. Without a shred of gentleness, she lowered his zipper. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and scraped his teeth against her throat.
After thirty-seven years, she was as sexy and hot as the day he married her. And she still wanted him.
Eleven
“What’s with the box of Lucky Charms?”
Ellie looked over her shoulder at Christopher, who was sound asleep on the back seat and cuddled up to the empty box of cereal. He’d been clutching the thing when he first climbed inside the car, and he hadn’t let go of it since.
“A security blanket, I guess. Or maybe a good-luck piece,” she whispered. “Or maybe his only source of food since last Friday.”
Ellie remembered vividly the days when a package of stale cookies had to feed her for three meals. When a doggie bag handed to her by someone leaving a restaurant was Christmas. Her security blanket in those days was an old button-front sweater of Lou’s that she’d been able to snatch out of their apartment before she’d been picked up by the social workers that first time. Navy blue, a button missing. Three moth holes on the right sleeve.
Everywhere Ellie went, she took that sweater. The first foster family knew she’d run off when the sweater was gone. The last family took it away from her as punishment. Ellie got it back and then ran away.
She looked over the seat at the innocent face of the sleeping boy. “Do you think he got enough to eat?”
“I’d say so,” Nate replied.
Chris had refused to get out of the car at a rest stop for dinner, but picking up food at the drive-through was okay with him.
“Two burgers, a large order of fries and a supersize chocolate shake. I don’t know where he put it all.”
Ellie looked at the taillights from the lines of traffic stretching along the congested Schuylkill Parkway leading into Philadelphia. “We’re almost there and still no phone calls from Hawes.” She let out a contented sigh of relief.
“Don’t get too comfortable. I left a message for him to call me. He doesn’t know what we’ve done.”
“He has the power to do as he pleases,” she said confidently. “And after we explain everything to him, he’ll be on our side. I just know it.”
He mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like an obscenity.
“Watch it. There’s a minor in the car,” she warned. “Take this exit. It’s a short cut.”
He pulled off where she pointed, making some quick turns along nameless streets and alleys as Ellie navigated them into Center City.
“I noticed how you’ve strategically avoided telling Chris that he’ll be staying with a bunch of nuns.”
“What’s the difference? He could either camp in the corner of my apartment or sleep in his own room at the convent.” She gave him another quick direction for a turn.
“It would make a huge difference to me.”
Despite the darkness in the car, Ellie saw him grinning. “But you’re an adolescent who will probably never grow up. Chris isn’t.”
“I say it will still make a difference to him. Nuns are serious and scary, especially that one. I went to parochial school. I know.”
“Will you stop?” she scolded in a hushed voice, before looking back again and making sure Chris was asleep. “You’re supposed to set a good example, not terrify the poor child with your old emotional scars.”
“And that comes from a real adult, I suppose. What a great example you set for him since you two met. Lie, run away, don’t take responsibility for your actions, don’t cooperate. Whine, cry some more, and wait until someone comes along and makes it all better.”
“He is only eight years old.”
“Was it any different when you were twelve, or fifteen, or seventeen?”
The stony cop look was back, and Ellie looked out her window. Yes, it had been different for her. She had to take responsibility, not only for herself but for her father, too, before they dragged him off to prison. There was never anyone in her life that could make it better. Not even Ray.
And they hadn’t let her take Lou’s sweater to jail with her.
“Tough one to answer?”
“Have I told you how heartless you can be?”
“Yeah, six hours ago.”
“Good. Take a right. We’re there.”
Louis Littlefield’s living arrangements consisted of one fifteen-by-twenty finished room in the basement of the convent. The place had no windows, but it did have a bathroom with a tiny shower stall. He had no complaints, though. The cell at Graterford Prison was smaller, and the company there far less agreeable. The room in the nun’s basement was much better.
He only wished that the lighting were a little better. He sat back and looked at the canvas he was working on. He needed more touches of blue on the left side.
Lou ate, slept and spent nearly all of his free time in this room. And he had plenty of time. Being a handyman for four nuns was not a demanding job. He didn’t have any friends or social obligations other than his occasional Sunday walk to St. Joe’s, two blocks away. He only went because of Sister Helen’s threats.
Lou minded his own business, and the nuns minded theirs, for the most part, with the exception of Helen barging in from time to time to rattle on about what Ellie was doing. Reconciling the two of them was the nun’s favorite hobby, b
ut as far as Lou was concerned, some storybook ending wasn’t about to happen. The fact that he and Ellie were civil to each other and exchanged a word or two here and there would probably be the extent of their relationship as father and daughter.
Ellie had her own lifestyle. She’d earned it. She could have her rich and important friends. She could travel with the dealmakers and the hustlers. Maybe she’d have better luck avoiding all the traps a person could fall into. No, it was a life that he wanted no part of. His years behind bars had cured him of that. Now Lou had his quiet routines. Maybe they seemed boring to her, but they suited him: painting, a little reading, listening to some old scratched-up Sinatra records. He was content with things as they were. He wanted nothing more.
The past couple of days, though, Helen had been whistling a new tune in his ear, and he couldn’t put it out of his mind. In confidence, she’d told him about the Schuyler flag and about the agents that showed up looking for help finding this other flag Betsy Ross supposedly made. They called it the Robert Morris flag. Like it or not, Helen was involved and so was Ellie. Lou had been watching the news. He knew how important finding this rag would be. Everyone was expecting it. Both politicians and normal everyday folks were talking up this Spirit of America thing, as if a few relics and some flag waving could show the world that the U.S.A. had a lid on its troubles and was still standing united as a country.
Maybe they were right, but that was no guarantee that the right flag would show up in time. Lou had been thinking about that.
Hearing footsteps on the floor above, Lou laid down his palette and brushes and carefully covered the painting with a piece of canvas. He pushed the easel into a corner, facing the wall.
As if being involved with this flag business wasn’t bad enough, Sister Helen told him this afternoon that Ellie was bringing some foster kid here all the way from upstate New York. He glanced at the clock on his bookshelf. This should be them.
Lou cleaned his brushes in the old slate laundry sink in the corner and put them on the drain board. He stretched his shoulder muscles as he put the caps on the containers of turpentine and linseed oil. He wasn’t going to get all wound up about it. This was like everything else Ellie did. She was trying to make a statement. Reminding him one more time how bad things were for her when she’d been left alone. He turned up the volume on the record player a notch and told himself for the umpteenth time that he wasn’t going to get upset.
“Lou?”
He saw the man standing on the landing halfway down the stairs. White shirt, rolled-up sleeves, loosened tie. Lou figured he must be the agent Helen had been talking about—the one who was working with Ellie. He turned the music back down. “Yeah. Do you need something?”
“A place to hang for a few minutes. I’m Nate Murtaugh.” He came down the rest of the way and extended a hand.
“What did the good Sister do, give you the boot?” Lou liked the strong handshake and direct look. Cops didn’t generally greet ex-cons like that.
“Yeah, but she didn’t want me to go too far. So she said, go visit Lou.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking around the room with interest. “You have quite a place down here.”
Lou looked around himself. A patched overstuffed leather recliner, a table and a couple of chairs, tiny fridge and hotplate, an old television set, a twin bed and two bookcases. “It’s home. Come in.”
Nate walked in, stopping by one of the bookshelves.
“I’m just cleaning up.”
“Go ahead.”
As Lou capped his tubes of paint, he noticed that the man’s head nearly brushed against the low dropped ceiling.
Nate turned to him. “Does she do this kind of thing all the time?”
Surprised by the question, Lou wiped his hands with a rag. “It’s part of who she is.”
“I’m afraid in this case, what she’s doing with this kid is going to drive a few people up the wall.”
“She’ll deal with that, too. Once she decides to do something, she does it. Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
“I’ve noticed.” Nate started looking at the couple of frames he had on the upper shelves of his bookshelf. They’d been there so long that he’d almost forgotten about them. “She was a real cute kid.”
The realization that the agent had been talking about Ellie and not Helen brought a smile to Lou’s lips. He threw the rag aside and opened up his small refrigerator. “I could use a beer. How about you?”
“Sounds good.” He accepted the cold can. “How do you keep this stuff in the house with four nuns living upstairs?”
“They don’t drink much.” He pushed one of the battered kitchen chairs at his guest and motioned for Nate to have a seat. Lou sat down in the leather chair. “I know your people are all gung-ho about keeping stuff top secret, but Sister Helen told me about your troubles.”
“I figured she would.” Nate drank some of the beer. “Having you right here, Mr. Littlefield, convinced me that we had some chance of getting this job done.”
“I’d like it a lot better if you called me Lou. But you’re off base. I can’t make a fart of difference about anything anymore.” He pushed up the footrest of the chair and got comfortable.
“Look, I know you’ve been keeping a low profile since you were released. I’m also aware that you’ve cut all of your connections with your previous line of work.” Nate leaned forward. “What I’m hoping for are some ideas—maybe something that we haven’t thought of.”
“Something unconventional?”
“Absolutely,” Nate stressed. “The way this job is coming together—or not coming together—is about to drive me nuts. There’s nothing for me to do but throw some lines out there and sit pretty and wait for a fish to bite. That’s not my way of doing things.”
“Because the fish might not bite, is that it?”
“Exactly,” Nate replied, getting up from his chair and walking back to the bookcase. “The way things stand now, I have no idea if the information I have is even accurate. And even if this mythical flag is out there, I don’t know if this goddamn auction will take place in two weeks or two years.”
“That auction could very well be down the road a ways. Standard procedure is to give time for word to circulate. Build interest. Of course, they’ll want to offer it at the most opportune moment. Generally, though, the longer the lead time, the larger the pot.” Lou took another swig of his beer and stared at the back of the canvas he’d been working on for several weeks now. “How about a duplicate?”
“Do you mean a forgery?” Ellie’s question drew Lou’s gaze to the staircase. She was sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs on the landing.
“How long have you been here?” Nate asked sharply.
“Long enough.” She frowned at him before turning her attention back to Lou. “Do you want them to present a forgery to the American public?”
“I’m suggesting that they should have something out there waving on the Fourth of July. Now, if the real McCoy shows up before that day, that’s great. And if it shows up after the Fourth, then they can go through whatever song and dance is required and make a big deal out of the ‘startling new find’ or something.”
“What do you make it look like?” Sister Helen asked, coming down the stairs and standing behind Ellie. “Do you make it look like the Schuyler flag or what we think the Robert Morris original might have looked like?”
“This place is getting too damn crowded,” Lou grumbled.
“Watch your mouth, old man, and answer the blessed question.”
“Of course you make it look like the Schuyler flag. There’s documentation about that one, right down to the restitching they did on it in the 1800s.” He levered the footrest down with a snap. “How the heck would anyone know what the wear and tear on the other one would be? We have no idea.”
“You’ve been doing some homework on it, Lou,” Sister Helen teased. “Admit it.”
Lou looked away and said nothing.
“Do you know anyone who could do that type of work?” Nate asked, looking definitely interested.
“I used to,” Lou replied. “I could check around and see if any of these guys are still breathing.”
“How close could they get?” the agent asked. “I mean, are we talking about fooling television viewers, or experts?”
“How the hell would I know?” Lou complained.
“Why don’t you tell us what you do know, pleasant one,” Helen encouraged in a mocking tone.
Lou growled at her. Ellie had slipped down the stairs and was now sitting on the bottom step. This was as far into this room as she’d ever come.
“Some of these people used to be very good,” he said. “But that was years ago. To be honest…I don’t know. But I can make a few calls and find out.”
The two of them sat across from each other at a table in the convent’s small kitchen. The hands of the ancient clock on the wall were about to meet at midnight. Sister Helen was still in the basement talking to Ellie’s father. The other nuns were upstairs, settled in for the night. Chris had been taken to the small guest room at the top of the stairs, and when Nate had poked his head in a few minutes ago, the boy appeared to be sound asleep.
“Are you going back to your place tonight?” Nate asked, eating the bowl of cereal Ellie had poured for him. She fiddled with her teacup.
“Definitely. I need a shower and a change of clothes. But I want to be back here before Chris wakes up in the morning.”
“How did he take it, being in the same house as all these nuns?”
“I think he actually liked it.” She shrugged. “He seems a lot more comfortable around women.”
“What’s he going to do during the day?”
“There are a couple of kids whose mothers drop them off here weekdays. Sister Helen will keep him busy with them.”
“You asked me to put it off for today, but I have to question him tomorrow and send the reports up to New York.”
Ellie nodded, absently folding and refolding her tea bag’s paper tag. “He’s already used to you. I think it’d be okay. Did Hawes call you?”