Follow Me

by Joanna Scott

  Benny Patterson. Sally had escaped from him twice before, and she should have been thrown into a panic trying to figure out how she’d escape from him again. But she couldn’t summon the strength to panic; she suddenly felt too worn out by the impossible predicament to feel anything with great intensity. After the initial shock, she’d begun to sense the prickling of an enveloping numbness. And deep within the numbness a wearying resentment was beginning to spread. She’d been running all her life, running, running, running from every mistake she’d ever made, and she’d run right into the trap that Benny Patterson had set for her.

  So that pig had found out about Penelope. The game was up, and there was nowhere to hide. She didn’t want to hide. She wanted to spit out the rancid taste in her mouth. She wanted to wake up from the bad dream. No, she didn’t want to wake up — she wanted to trade the bad dream for a good one in which she could rage at Benny, and he couldn’t touch her, and no permanent damage could be done.

  It helped that he wasn’t there in person to react to Sally’s anger. She was free to despise him. He could go to hell for all Sally cared. If he came near her, oh boy, if he dared to show his ugly face around here, he’d be in for it. You tell him, Mr. Griffin Marcus, that Sally Bliss had friends — friends here and in Tuskee and in Fishkill Notch, so that Benny had better watch out and stay clear, if he knew what was good for him.

  “Please, madam,” the lawyer said over the sudden jingling of the phone at the service desk.

  His syrupy tone incensed Sally. She’d let him know what she thought of him, in just a minute, after she answered the phone.

  It was the delivery supervisor informing her that a new box spring was being sent up for a floor display. Fine, she was ready to receive it. She was ready for anything, including Benny Patterson, to whom she had nothing to say but good-bye and good riddance.

  Good riddance to child support? Good riddance to a father willing to contribute on a monthly basis to ensure that his daughter lacked for nothing?

  What was this all really about? Sally couldn’t fathom how the man who had attacked her could reappear in her life this way, through the front of a slick lawyer who was promising her money, if only she’d agree to accept it. She could use a little extra money, but if it came from Benny Patterson, well, you couldn’t pay her to see him ever again.

  The lawyer explained that she wouldn’t have to see Mr. Patterson if she chose not to. Checks would be drawn up and sent to her directly from the firm of Atwell and Stevenson. If she’d please write down her address on page two of the form and sign on the dotted line…

  Oh, this man took her for a fool. She wasn’t signing nothing. Anything. She would appreciate receiving a copy for her own lawyer to look over. Her own lawyer, sure, like she had a lawyer. But what fast thinking to pretend. She was pleased with her cleverness. How easy it proved to act as though she was the kind of woman used to doing business with lawyers, while really she was just an assistant manager who was supposed to be waiting at the service elevator for the men delivering the box spring for display, so if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Marcus…

  He wasn’t daunted by her hesitation. He said he had come prepared with an extra copy, she could have it… here — the document was produced from Mr. Trotter’s briefcase, and if her lawyer would be so kind as to mail it back to the highlighted address with her signature at the X, Mr. Marcus would be grateful.

  Sally was surprised at how readily he conceded to the delay. If he’d been trying to trick her, he should have gone on trying. Instead, he expressed his pleasure at making the acquaintance of Miss Sally Angel —

  “Bliss.”

  “Bliss, yes…” He looked forward to hearing from her lawyer. But now she’d have to find a lawyer, damn it, damn him, damn Benny Patterson for bringing trouble back into her life every time she thought she’d found peace.

  As she watched them wind their way between shelves of glassware, most of it too pricey for her to afford, she thought, good riddance to the men, though it was a halfhearted dismissal, for in truth she longed to accept what they’d come to offer, if only on her daughter’s behalf. Money was money, even when the source was Benny Patterson, who’d gone to great lengths to seek her out. If he was simply hoping to soothe his tortured soul by making amends to Sally in the form of a check in the mail, then why shouldn’t she put up with him, as long as she didn’t have to see him, and as long as he didn’t come anywhere near Penelope?

  She rushed to catch up with the men. All right, she said, she’d sign the form, she didn’t need to consult with her own lawyer first. Why, she was prepared to admit that she couldn’t really afford a lawyer of her own and would welcome whatever counsel these two friendly gentlemen were ready to offer her.

  Fine, here was the pen, thank you, Miss Sally Angel, Bliss rather, and good day — just like that. They sealed themselves inside the elevator and were heading back down to the ground floor, for Mr. Marcus had another appointment to keep. He didn’t have time to provide further advice for a lady who wasn’t his client. Anyway, he’d acquired from her what he’d come for: the mother’s admission that Bennett Patterson of Litchfield, Prospect County, was indeed the child’s father.

  What a colossal mess Benny Patterson would succeed in making, wanting merely, as he claimed, to do what was right, doling out money as a way of demonstrating his interest in the girl and then sideswiping Sally, as soon as she’d cashed the first check, with his demand for shared custody, the specific details of his plan communicated through Mr. Griffin Marcus, along with the warning that he’d take his claim to court — and Sally would want to avoid that at all costs, for she was at risk, according to Mr. Marcus. Having failed to notify the father of the girl’s birth, Sally Bliss could be held liable, and a court might well see fit to award the father with full custody as recompense for the lost time, since he had missed the first eight years of his precious daughter’s life.

  Now that wasn’t the outcome Sally sought, was it?

  But didn’t Sally have any rights? This was America, and a child couldn’t be taken away from the only mother she’d ever known. It was an absurd notion, Sally wanted to believe. But she was wise enough to guess that absurdity was not necessarily illegal. And when she received the proposal detailing where and when the father would visit with his daughter, she decided that she would have to hire a lawyer after all, something she should have done before putting her name on any legal document or cashing Benny’s check.

  In a desperate attempt to find the right lawyer without the benefit of a recommendation, she called the last listing in the Yellow Pages — Zandler, Zeleny and Stilman — and asked to speak to Mr. Stilman. She was informed by the secretary that Mr. Stilman had retired eighteen years ago and was living in Florida. Sally apologized for the mistake and wished the woman a good day. She tried another firm, Youngblood and Springer, but no one answered the phone. She looked farther up the list and decided to call the office of Kennedy and Kennedy simply because of the unlikely chance that they were related to the president. A man answered, announcing the name of the firm in such a whispery voice that she almost lost her nerve and hung up. But when he murmured an inquiring hello into the silence, she blurted out that she needed legal advice regarding, as she said vaguely, a financial transaction. Without pressing her for more information, the man offered an appointment at nine a.m. the following Thursday.

  It was hardly a notable exchange. She had simply dialed a number and set up an appointment. But as she stared at the phone cradled on her kitchen counter, she felt an urge to undo what she’d just done, pack up her belongings, and leave town with Penelope. Yet flight was no longer an option. By accepting Benny’s money, she’d agreed to play by his rules, and now she was in too deep ever to get out.

  It was June 23, 1961, a heat wave had been predicted for the rest of the week, the flat white sky was sealing in the humidity, and oh boy, could Sally Bliss use a drink!

  Did someone suggest a drink?

  Someone was always sug
gesting a drink. Typhoon Sam’s on Ivy Street was the place of choice, and Sally could count on seeing at least a few familiar faces there, Elena and the girls from Sibley’s or acquaintances she’d met in the neighborhood. She didn’t go there often, no more than once a week, and only when her daughter was over at a friend’s house. Even then, she was usually careful to limit herself to a couple of gin daiquiris, for she didn’t want to end up like Gladdy Toffit, who had lost the ability to judge when she’d had enough. Sally preferred to save her money for better uses than to watch it disappear into the cash register at Sam’s. But infrequently, she’d fall into a dark mood, and she’d become convinced that the only way to shake it was to follow the second drink with a third, and then a fourth.

  Cheers.

  And everything would start to look a bit rosier.

  Sun don’t care,

  blue sky won’t mind…

  That’s when she’d remember how good it felt to let go and sing. Singing made it easier to accept her situation. It could have been worse here in Rondo, after all. She could have been trapped in a job she hated, or she could have been too poor to afford stylish clothes for herself and her daughter, much less a console TV. She’d started sending money to her son again. Maybe Benny Patterson was a torment to her, but she was tired of running away. Having come as far as the river would take her, she planned to stay for a while.

  Left and right, day and night…

  That sweet sound of music rising from inside her. The nice, silky coolness of cigarette smoke sliding in the opposite direction, back down her throat. Home from Typhoon Sam’s, she’d sit by the window and think about how strange it was that the sky out there was the same sky above the Jensons’ pasture in Tauntonville.

  Here’s to the stars shining above.

  And the river spilling over the Upper Falls by the brewery was the same river she’d watched flow beneath a crust of ice in Fishkill Notch. Strange…

  Turn around, Lou, just turn around.

  She’d earned the right to relax. Once in a while, alone in the kitchen, she’d open one last beer, and that’s when she’d raise a toast to Mason Jackson for giving Sally her first break. And to Georgie, who probably had more children than she could keep track of by now. And to Swill of the pigsty and Erna of the beehive. To Gladdy Toffit, who had gone to Florida; to Penny, who was a wife; to Buddy Potter, who would never retire; and to her own dear Mole way up in heaven.

  Nothing left of rainy-day love

  But a secret memory…

  Who could blame her for wanting to fill the silence with sound. And remember how they loved her at the Rotary Club?

  It wasn’t over until it was over, and still there were all those beginnings, such as the day she watched her daughter head off to school carrying a book bag — gee, that was something nice. And so much of the world waiting to reveal itself. And the clouds passing in front of the moon with or without anyone’s consent —

  Grinning his grin and fading away,

  Grinning and fading away,

  away

  away…

  She sure liked to sing, and she’d go on singing to keep from talking to herself, though only in the privacy of her own home, with just her daughter, lying awake in her bed, listening to her through the walls, and maybe Mr. and Mrs. Botelia downstairs, who probably wondered what they were hearing until they realized it was Sally, their own Sally Bliss, her tongue loosened by an extra drop. Poor dear. But really, you don’t need to feel sorry for her, it’s only Sally being Sally. And won’t you just listen to that voice.

  She really didn’t intend for them to listen, but the way the sound seeped through dense solidity — why, it would have been considered magical if it weren’t so ordinary.

  So maybe Sally overindulged once in a while. So what? In her daughter’s retelling of these years, she couldn’t count up the many times she lay awake listening to her mother’s drunken singing. It was a sound that would be mixed up in Penelope’s memory, raising feelings of pride, along with plenty of lingering embarrassment. In Sally’s memory, though, it was a rare exception and didn’t mean she wasn’t respectable. Mostly she stayed focused. She never slept through an alarm or forgot to pay a bill. She saved her money and regularly sent a portion to her son. And she never failed to provide her daughter with whatever she might need.

  And since her daughter needed to be protected from her father, on the Thursday of her scheduled appointment with Kennedy and Kennedy, Sally called in late to work and made her way to the office on the seventh floor of the Terminal Building. The reception desk was in the foyer, and beside a bookcase an archway led to a hallway, off of which were several closed doors suggesting that secret proceedings were going on behind them. The man at the desk was the same who had answered the phone. She recognized his whispery voice, and even more, she felt as though she recognized his face, having imagined it with impressive accuracy beforehand. She was right about his age — she’d judged him to be between forty and fifty — and she’d been correct in picturing him with dark hair and graying sideburns, the hairline receding from the temples and the full waves in the center flattened and pasted against the scalp with cream. He was thin, handsome in a way, though his hollow cheeks made him look hungry, and even with a ceiling fan clicking above him, his face shone with sweat.

  He came around the desk to shake her hand, a move that struck Sally as awkward and unnecessary. He introduced himself as Arnold Caddeau and asked how he might assist her. Sally said that she had an appointment with Mr. Kennedy. With Mr. Kennedy — really? The man seemed perplexed, as though he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to meet with Mr. Kennedy. Or with the other Mr. Kennedy, she suggested. There was no other Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Arnold Caddeau offered gently, almost as a question. But if she wanted to meet with the Mr. Kennedy — no relation to the president and his family, as she’d learn later — then right this way, please.

  He led her down the hall, opening one door and then another, unsure, apparently, of Mr. Kennedy’s whereabouts. They finally found him in the farthest room, a small library saturated with smoke from the cigar that the wizened Mr. Kennedy, in a wheelchair, held clamped in his mouth.

  Arnold Caddeau called him sir, and announced that he was pleased to present Mrs. — he glanced toward her left hand — rather, Miss, um…

  “Bliss,” Sally offered. As she approached, the old man put aside the magnifying glass he’d been using to peruse a book. She saw that plastic tubing connected the tank strapped on the chair with the nasal apparatus aiding his breathing. But still he puffed on that fat cigar, the ash pulsing with a glow as he inhaled, the embers mesmerizing her for a moment, so she didn’t notice when Mr. Caddeau left, closing the door behind him.

  The old man squinted through the smoke at her, and with his teeth gripping the cigar, he looked like he was considering whether she’d make a good meal. And when he asked her what she could do, she felt sure that the question was offensive, though she couldn’t tell exactly why.

  She could do lots of things, she said.

  That was so funny to old Mr. Kennedy that he began choking and wheezing with what must have been laughter but was nearly enough to kill him, causing him to spit his cigar onto the floor and double over, spluttering, coughing, hacking, his body contorted by the effort to take in more oxygen than he was getting. He was suffocating, right in front of Sally. He’d be dead in a minute if she didn’t do something.

  She could do a lot of things, she’d already indicated. For example, she could hit an old man on the back to clear his clogged lungs of phlegm. She thumped him hard between his shoulder blades, again, and with the third thump produced from him a loud belch.

  Ah, that was nice, almost as good as a massage. And to the missus who could do a lot of things — would she be so kind as to pick up his Havana, before the whole room exploded in flames?

  She handed it to him, even as she suggested that he should lay off the cigars for a while. He told her to mind her own business, and anyway, there
was nothing like a fine Havana to lift the spirits. But oh, for pete’s sake, he had work to do, he didn’t have time for one more interview, so for that reason she was hired.

  Did he say hired?

  That’s right — hired. And if she thought he was going to pay her more than one hundred dollars per week just to answer phones and put away files, she’d better think again.

  Did he say one hundred dollars per week?

  “Not one penny more,” he insisted. She could start immediately, Arnie would show her the ropes.

  “Now get out of here.” He waved her away and positioned the magnifying glass over the book. Oh, and she should understand, he added, that he would appreciate being left alone. She shouldn’t bother him with trivial matters.

  Back at the reception desk, she cleared her throat. Without looking up at her, Arnold Caddeau asked if she’d had any success with the old man. Well, sure… success… it wasn’t inappropriate, she supposed, to use that word to describe the outcome of her meeting with Mr. Kennedy. In fact, he’d offered her a job on the spot. But he was probably joking, she added. Oh no, the old man never joked, Mr. Caddeau said, meeting Sally’s eye finally, offering her a timid grin.

  Then the salary of one hundred dollars per week, it was a legitimate offer? Entirely legitimate, with benefits in addition. The office was in desperate need of a receptionist, as she could surely see for herself, and if that was suitable to her and Miss Bliss was ready to accept the terms, he’d draw up the formal contract.

  With apologies, Sally reminded him that she’d come to the office not to apply for a job but to ask for advice. She described her predicament in broad terms, without specifics. Mr. Caddeau didn’t need specifics. He’d help her sort through her options and plan a course of action. In fact, though his somewhat sheepish manner suggested that he wasn’t certain he had the authority, he said he’d represent her for free — an extra perk of working at the firm of Kennedy and Kennedy that made the whole offer impossible to refuse.