Caswell Zander had an even bigger “hunch” about an automotive stock, and it was that direction Paul had pursued. It was clear—at least to Paul that Caswell Zander had been fed with inside information from not one but several companies. But how to prove it? Reaching dead end after dead end, he tracked back a few years in Caswell Zander’s dealings to look for clues. And there, in 1982, the name DarkStar surfaced again. In February of that year Caswell Zander had bought two million shares of DarkStar stock at four dollars for its clients; in June, ICL Industries filed an official takeover bid for DarkStar and the stock soared; and in August Caswell Zander started unloading their shares at eleven dollars.
Walter Brennan and Chet Canley had not been at DarkStar; they had been corporate officers at ICL Industries.
So, as Paul said over the phone, Cassy and Sam could see why Brennan and Canley were two of the forty-eight corporate executives he was keeping an eye on in connection with Caswell Zander. Paul had checked to see if Caswell Zander had benefited from ICL’s stock swap to bailout Electronika from the El-San Industries takeover attempt—but no, they hadn’t. Paul had interpreted it to mean one of two things: that Brennan and Canley were no longer “playing,” or, with DarkStar to run, their parent company had not seen fit to inform them of its pending stock swap with Electronika. But, from what Sam had told him, Paul thought Brennan and Canley might now be playing again for Caswell Zander.
“They’re counting on me to leak the Pretoria story, aren’t they? To drive the stock down?” Sam said.
“Ten to one,” Paul said. “But Electronika’s back-page news compared to the story I’m after.” He was getting more excited by the second. “Cass, if this pans out, this Electronika angle, I’ll go partners with you. Conolly’s with WST. I get the stands, you get the air. But I need help—now—there’s a million loose ends.”
Sam sat there, perspiring heavily, as he listened to them bargaining over resources. Manpower, computers, legwork, the Securities and Exchange Commission. On and on Cassy and Paul raced, ending by agreement to meet at 7 A.M. at WST.
By the time they hung up, Sam was a basket case. Cassy came flying into the kitchen, face flushed with excitement. Sam was not to worry. Sam was not to say or do anything until he heard from her. If Sam needed to call her, he should use a pay phone. When she needed to get hold of him, she would send a note to his doorman by messenger. Just talk and walk as usual. Walk? Why did she say that? Did Cassy think they had been followed tonight? No, no, don’t worry, but even if they had, look where they had been followed to—they’d hardly think Sam went to an alcoholism center to leak the story. Sam! Sam! Sam! Did he realize the enormity of a story like this? Caswell Zander? Inside trading at one of the most prestigious financial institutions in the world?
Sam got so flustered that he forgot to ask what could happen to him.
It was almost twelve-thirty when Sam walked into the apartment. Harriet was sitting in the living room, still dressed, waiting for him.
“You’re alive,” she noted, rising from the couch. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, “I should have called.” He rubbed his face, dropped his hands, and slowly walked toward her. “I was at Cassy’s.”
Harriet turned away from him, toward the window and crossed her arms, holding herself. “You realize, of course,” she said, voice trembling, “that she’s very vulnerable right now.”
Sam closed his eyes. “Oh, no, Harriet.” He opened his eyes and moved behind her. “No, honey,” he whispered, sliding his arms around her. He lowered his head to speak softly into her ear. “Honey, you couldn’t have thought that.”
She turned around, looking up at him. There were tears in her eyes. “Why couldn’t I?” she asked him. “She’s a very lonely—very beautiful woman.” Her head slowly fell forward, forehead sinking against his chest.
Sam pulled her close, pressing his chin down on the top of her head. “Baby, no,” he murmured. “Cassy’s trying to help me get out of a mess. With E1ectronika.”
Harriet’s head flew back. “E1ectronika?”
He nodded. “Come on,” he said, sliding his arm around her shoulders and steering her toward the kitchen. “I’ve got a lot to explain to you.”
26
AMANDA ACKNOWLEDGES
HOW SHE FEELS
Amanda had not heard a word from Howard and it felt as though it was killing her. Every moment that her attention was not demanded elsewhere, her thoughts veered to Howard and the pain reawakened in an instant—a horrible, yawning ache in her chest, accompanied by an unfulfilled longing to cry.
She was seeing Dr. Vanderkeaton twice a week, if for no other reason than to be told she was not going mad. Whatever these feelings were, they were tearing loose all kinds of memories inside Amanda’s head and heart. And they hurt. Whether it was the image of Nana lying in her coffin, or of Christopher the night she had left him, Amanda would feel an unfamiliar terror run through her and then, afterward, a rolling tide of despair.
She felt finished. Over. She had played her hand in this life and she had lost. It was all she could do to keep one foot in front of the other to get to the hospital to see Mrs. Goldblum. There, in the light of her older friend’s glow, she would feel much better. But then, arriving home, Amanda would collapse on her bed, unable to cry, unable to snap out of it. There was simply no snap left. She wasn’t sleeping; she drifted in half-waking dreams of swirling, unseen perils. Eating was difficult. Very difficult. And her home was haunted. The bed was Howard; the writing room was Howard; Missy the cat was Howard; the river was Howard; the...
Could it be, she kept saying to Dr. Vanderkeaton, that one man, in such a brief time, had obtained the power to destroy her? It felt as though that were the case. Even on those days when Amanda woke up with a slender shoot of hope, the hope that she would feel better, she found herself—as if under someone’s spell, someone’s control—driving a knife through her own heart to kill it. Only yesterday she had been in Shakespeare & Company, buying some Phyllis Whitney novels in large-print editions for Mrs. Goldblum. She had been feeling better, stronger and a bit happy when she thought of how pleased Mrs. Goldblum would be. And so what did she do? Amanda then searched through the recently published titles to find a particular biography, found the book she was looking for and turned to the acknowledgments page: “And my heartfelt thanks to my editor at Gardiner & Grayson, Howard Stewart, whose enthusiasm, guidance and support made this book possible.”
The knife had done its work well.
Her mother had been calling Amanda every night at ten, but what Tinker intended as loving reassurance often felt like more baggage to hasten her drowning. “At a time like this, you need to lean on your friends,” Tinker would say. (Friends? Amanda would think. [How ghastly it was to realize that her mother had her confused with someone else—someone who had friends to fall back on.]) “Darling, you were right. If this young man cannot stand on his own two feet, you would be repeating the same nightmare you endured with Christopher.” (Christopher? Her mother was comparing Howard with Christopher? Didn’t she understand that Howard was nothing like Christopher? That there were thousands and thousands of Christophers, and only one Howard Stewart?) “Amanda, Amanda—listen to me! You are not worthless and you are not hopeless!” (Oh, no? Then why had he not come back?)
“Amanda,” Tinker had finally said last night, her voice edging toward vexation, “go outside. Take a walk. Go riding. Stand on your head, but, darling, do something!”
And so, this morning, Amanda was trying to pull herself together to go and do something. Dressed in her baggiest jeans and a sweat shirt, she ate five grapes and set out for the great outdoors. She walked out of her building and looked across the Drive to the park. It was a bit too vibrant and lovely for Amanda and so she walked up 90th Street, face to the sidewalk, feeling drained already.
I remember when you first laughed. I remember your hand, exactly what it looked like, when I handed you that glass of
wine. I remember looking down at your hair, wondering what it would feel like. I remember your eyes and your lashes and I remember thinking, ‘Why is he so kind?’
Stop it, stop it, STOP IT.
At the corner of West End Avenue she turned left, trudging uptown. After only a block, she sat down on the stairs of a Greek Orthodox church and stared blankly ahead.
She had almost called him a hundred times. But every time she picked up the phone, she thought, To say what? “I told you I was right. Look at how easily you gave up on me.” And then she would grip the phone and her chin would tremble as she could see herself screaming, “I hate you for deceiving me! I hate you!”
She got up and continued walking north on West End Avenue.
I was a fool. I should have taken you when I could. I should have kept you by me night after night, away from Melissa and inside of me. Away from the world, away from hurt, in love with me, and only with me.
How? How could she have done that? How long would it have been before Howard realized his mistake? That he had left the life of his choice for a fantasy that could not exist outside the walls of her home? How long before the charms of her body and their isolation wore off, before Howard yearned for his old life? A month? Six? A year?
“I love you,” he had said. How, how could he have said that to her? Did love, to him, mean to use her as the excuse to walk out on his wife of eight years? To love her meant to burden her with guilt? To be loved by Howard meant to be left by him?
How many times, she wondered, had he told Melissa he loved her?
Love. No. They had been dying of loneliness and had found comfort in one another’s arms. And now—now, the realities behind their loneliness had pulled them apart.
Amanda crossed 95th Street and walked past a large red brick school. Public School 75, it said over the front door. Beneath the door, sitting on a step, was a young girl, perhaps eight or nine. “Hi,” she said to Amanda.
“Hello,” Amanda said.
“I’m looking for summer school,” the girl said. She had curly brown hair and very blue eyes, and was featuring a Madonna T-shirt and red shorts with an elastic waistband.
Amanda glanced at the traffic flying by on West End, and walked over to the girl. “Is it here?”
“I think so, but the door’s locked.”
“Did you knock?”
“Yep. Nobody came.”
“Oh,” Amanda said, stepping over to the door. She peered in the window and, with her fist, pounded on the door. After a minute or two a custodian peered back out at her. “What time does summer school commence?” Amanda asked through the glass.
The custodian frowned and pushed the door open a crack. “What you want?”
“Summer school. When does it start? This young lady—”
“Ain’t nothin’ here for kids. Not now.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded and closed the door.
Amanda sat down next to the girl. “I’m afraid there is no summer school here.”
“Figures,” the girl said cheerfully. “Mommy never gets these things right. Wanna play operator?” Without waiting for an answer, the girl leaned over her knees and unlaced one of her red Keds sneakers. With the plastic end of a lace in each hand, she inserted one into a lacing hole. With her free hand she pinched her nose. “Operator,” she said. She released her nose. “This is Mr. Green,” she said. “I want to talk to Mr. Blue.” She pinched her nose again. “One moment, plee-uzzz.” The second lace was inserted into another hole. “Go ahead, Mr. Green. Mr. Blue is on the line.”
“Ring-ring, ring-ring,” Amanda said, reaching to unlace the girl’s other sneaker. “Ring-ring.”
The girl’s face lit up. She brought her sneakers together, picked up the end of a new lace, and inserted it into the sneaker where Mr. Green was already conversing with Mr. Blue. “Operator.”
“Yes, Operator, this is Ms. Miller. I wish to speak to—Mr. Stewart.”
“One moment, plee-uzzz.” The girl put the call through. “Go ahead—sorry, what’s your name again?”
“Miller. “
“Miss Miller, go ahead, plee-uzzz, your party is on the line.”
“Hello?” Amanda said, holding her hand up to her ear. She frowned, reached out, and clicked the receiver. “Operator,” she said.
“Operator,” the girl said, hand hovering in air, debating whether or not she had to redirect a line on this increasingly complex switchboard in order to take Amanda’s call.
“Operator, you gave me Mr. Red and I wished to speak to Mr. Stewart.”
“Please hold the line,” the girl said, giggling. She reconnected a lace to a new hole. “Hello, is this Mr. Stewart?” She forgot to release her nose and said, “Yes, this is Mr.—” She shrieked in laughter. “Wait!” she cried. She dropped her voice. “Hello?”
“Hello?” Amanda said, hand still at her ear. “Good heavens, I must be on a party line. I’m talking to Mr. Green now!”
The girl whooped with laughter, rolling onto her back, holding her stomach. Amanda was laughing too. Then the girl sat up. “What’s your name?”
“Amanda.”
“I’m Kiki,” the girl said, smiling brightly. “This is a lot more fun than summer school.”
“Hmmm,” Amanda said. “Well, what are you going to do now?”
Kiki shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Do you want me to call your mother?”
“She’s at work,” Kiki said, bending to survey the remains of her communications empire. “Mrs. Hutter will pick me up in a while, I guess.”
“Oh,” Amanda said.
In a few minutes a woman came up the front walk toward them.
“Hi,” Kiki said.
“Hi,” the woman said, pulling keys out of her briefcase.
Kiki scrambled to her feet. “Do you know where summer school is?”
“Better tie those laces before you trip,” the woman said. To Amanda, “There’s no summer school here. There are only adult reading classes.”
“But do you know where summer school is?” Kiki persisted, mashing the toe of one sneaker into the cement with some seriousness.
The woman thought a moment. “I think what you’re looking for is over at P.S. 84 on 92nd, but maybe you should call first to make sure. You can use the phone in my office, if you like,” she said to Amanda.
Amanda stood up. “Thank you,” she said. “Kiki, better tie those laces.”
“Okay,” Kiki said, bouncing once before getting down to it.
The woman unlocked the door and led them down the “spooky” (Kiki) hall to a small, windowless office. The woman looked up the number and placed the call. “What class is your daughter registered for?” she asked Amanda, covering the phone with her hand.
Kiki cackled. “Yeah, Mommy,” she said, yanking on Amanda’s hand.
“I’m not her mother,” Amanda said, smiling. “I’m but a new acquaintance.”
The woman looked to Kiki, arching her eyebrows. “What class?”
“Math,” Kiki said, making gagging motions.
“What grade?”
Deep breath. On the exhale, “Thirrrrrrrrrrrd.”
“Did you hear that? Third.” Back to Kiki. “And your name?”
“Kiki McIntyre.” She commenced walking about on her tiptoes.
Amanda started to read the papers posted on the woman’s bulletin board. They were all variations on one theme: adult reading classes. After the woman got things squared away with Kiki—writing out the address of where Kiki was to report the following morning (she was three weeks late, apparently)—Amanda asked if she was a teacher.
No, she wasn’t; she was a program coordinator. And then her expression shifted, eyes widening. “You wouldn’t be interested in volunteering, would you?”
“Me?” Amanda said, pointing to herself.
“We’re desperate for volunteers,” the woman said, coming around her desk. She held out her hand. “Margaret Whelan.”
; “How do you do? Amanda Miller.”
Margaret Whelan wasted no time in explaining that the evening classes were to teach adults to read and write. Most of their students, she went on to explain, for one reason or another, had failed to receive a proper education. She asked Amanda if she happened to know any foreign languages.
“Only a little Old English, I’m afraid.”
Margaret Whelan laughed and pressed on. Amanda was a writer? What luck! Amanda had majored in English? At Amherst? Did Amanda know that P.S. 75, this very building, was the Emily Dickinson School?
By the time Amanda took Kiki outside to wait for Mrs. Hutter, Margaret Whelan had outfitted her with a notebook, a paperbound textbook, a lesson plan book and a thick folder that contained all kinds of information about the reading program. She had also secured Amanda’s promise to come back at seven to sit in on one of the classes.
Outside, the sun blazing hot, Amanda and Kiki looked up at the very top of the school building. Sure enough, there it was in discreet silver lettering on the brick: EMILY DICKINSON SCHOOL
“They want me to be a teacher,” Amanda said, a bit dazed, to her little companion.
“Maybe you could teach at summer school,” Kiki said hopefully.
Mrs. Hutter—Kiki’s housekeeper, it turned out—came to fetch her at eleven-thirty. After a short conference concerning Kiki’s now infamous summer school, Amanda said farewell. Twisting around to look at Amanda, while crossing 96th Street, Kiki yelled, “If you ever need to talk to Mr. Green...!”
Amanda waved and turned to head for home. She slung her books under one arm, on her hip, and smiled. He would be proud of me.
Her heart. for a moment, swelled with happiness. And in that moment Amanda knew, without a doubt, how very much in love she was with Howard Stewart.
27
HOW HOWARD WAS FARING
The night Howard left Amanda’s, the night of Lady Liberty’s birthday, he walked the streets of New York until morning.
Partly it was because there wasn’t an available hotel room in Manhattan, but mostly because Howard was nearly mad with anger and hurt.
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