by Hannah Ross
"Yes, well, I just happened to ring Andrew today…" Aunt Daphne patted her nephew's arm. "…and he mentioned he and Glenda were driving over and there's plenty of room in the car since the children aren't coming, so why not?"
"That was good thinking. Betty, go tell Georgiana to add another setting."
"You look wonderful, Eleanor," Glenda said, kissing her sister-in-law on the cheek. "Well, you always do, of course. Looking at you, I would never think you're dealing with—"
"Glenda!" Andrew's voice imparted a note of warning as he touched his wife's hand. "Let it go. I'm sure Eleanor has enough on her plate lately, without us reminding her of—"
Eleanor cleared her throat. "Why don't we all have a drink before dinner? Alexander will be down in a minute."
"Sherry," Daphne declared, looping her arm through that of her niece. "A nice glass of sherry is just what we need on a cold, damp evening like this."
"A brandy for me," Andrew said.
"If this new girl of yours could mix me a margarita, Eleanor, that would be splendid," said Glenda.
Everyone enjoyed sipping their drinks, but the conversation was disjoined and didn't get livelier when Alexander joined them. He briefly shook hands with Andrew, gave Glenda a cool greeting, and only spared Aunt Daphne one apprehensive glance. It was clear he was surprised at her presence, and did not look at all pleased as he settled down with an evening newspaper and hid behind it until Betty announced dinner.
The general mood remained unchanged as the Dahls and Van Wullens sat down to the dinner table. The first course, a clear consommé with tiny garlicky croutons, was eaten with little discourse except for Glenda telling Eleanor about the new wing she and Andrew added to their house.
"And when I saw the price of the bathroom tiles, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. I mean, it's only a bathroom. And it's not like there were that many tiles, you know, Eleanor? And what are they made of, I'd like to know, that they cost such a fortune? Not that it matters either way. We don't renovate often, and we had to have the very best. Andrew said he wouldn't have minded paying twice as much."
"As if I could have said anything else." He said it under his breath, but his wife had a sharp ear.
"Don't think I didn't hear you, Andrew. Now, tell me, what's the point in having money if we need to scrimp and save on everything? I assure you I haven't had three new outfits this season. I wear the same things over and over again. It's quite embarrassing."
"Only because you make an appearance at some event or another nearly every day, my dear."
"Well, and what would you have me do? People like us have a certain profile to maintain. You might be shut up in the office with your managers, but I cultivate our social connections, Andrew."
"Don't think I don't appreciate what you do, dear," he said, taking a sip of wine.
"Well if you appreciate it, why did you sigh and frown so much over the jeweler's bill last week? I could have bought two bracelets, but I only chose one that would go well with all my evening dresses."
"You bought only one because you knew I was going to get you another for your birthday, as you've hinted so often."
That steered Glenda away from the subject of clothes and jewelry, as she proceeded to tell Eleanor about the pool party she was planning for her birthday.
The fish course was served – trout in a crisp coat of crushed almonds and herbs.
Aunt Daphne was the first to dig into her portion. "Some white wine, girl. Where is Stephanie?" She looked around the table, as if only now realizing that the Dahls' eldest daughter wasn't there.
"Stephy is so busy these days," Eleanor said, feigning a light-hearted air. "She's had engagements with almost every magazine, and she also started seeing Ned Thornton."
"Thornton junior?" Glenda raised her eyebrows with a look of approval. "Really? Well, he's quite a catch! Imagine if something should come out of it!"
"Well," Daphne said, taking a large gulp of wine and dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, "I can't blame her."
Eleanor was perplexed. "What do you mean, Aunt?"
"For wanting to get away a bit." Daphne drained her wineglass and waved the maid over for a refill. "I mean, come on. You can cut the tension with a knife in this house."
Eleanor threw an alarmed glance in her husband's direction. Dahl's plate was untouched and he had his fish fork in an unnecessarily tight grip. "I'm sure we're all doing our best."
"Yes, yes," Daphne said, not listening. She leaned forward in Dahl's direction, placing her fat forearms on the table. "Where is my niece, Alexander? Where is Priscilla? I would have expected the whole country to be in uproar over this story, but instead there's a whole lot of silence in the media and some of your private detectives are snooping around my house, asking stupid questions that won't advance the investigation in a hundred years. What is your plan?"
A muscle was twitching in Dahl's jaw. Andrew looked apprehensive; Glenda faintly amused.
"My people are following their guidelines," Alexander Dahl said, avoiding Daphne's eye.
"Which amount to what? Keep a lid on the whole story until after the elections, and never mind what happens to your daughter?"
"Aunt Daphne!" Eleanor said with alarm.
"What, Eleanor?" Daphne fixed her with an annoyed stare. "I expected better than this from you. I mean, I don't imagine you would stand up to Alexander every time, but this is your child we're talking about."
Whether through shock or guilt, that put an end to conversation until the trout, and the orange-glazed duck filets that followed, were eaten amidst a tense silence. When Betty came to collect the plates, the Dahls' were hardly touched.
"Dessert, ma'am?" Betty asked as she was about to leave for the kitchen. "There's the strawberry soufflé and lemon sherbet on meringue."
"No, Betty, thank you," Eleanor said crisply. "I think we'll just have coffee."
"Wait, girl," Daphne said. "I'll have dessert, if no one else will."
Betty bobbed her head. "Very well, ma'am. The soufflé or ice-cream?"
"Why don't you bring me a bit of both?" Daphne smacked her lips. "And coffee. With a drop of cognac, please."
"I'll have the soufflé," Glenda put in. "I've been working out every day this past month. I think I can reward myself with a nice soufflé."
After the dessert and coffee were consumed with little meaningful conversation, it was time to say goodnight. Eleanor felt the dinner was a fiasco, but despite everything, her aunt's warm crush of a hug was encouraging.
"Hang in there, Eleanor," Daphne murmured in her ear. "And remember. Do what you feel is right. Your instincts are usually good."
Once the guests were gone, Alexander retired to his office without another word, his receding back as stiff as a board. Eleanor went upstairs to the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, removed her clothes and makeup, and crawled under the bedcovers. Despite the pleasant temperature of the air-conditioned space, she felt chilly.
She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen lightly with one finger. I said I would call tomorrow. She isn't expecting me now. She glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly ten at night. Late, but not too late.
Almost without being aware of it, she pressed Dial and, two seconds later, heard the familiar voice.
"Hello?"
"Tilly?"
There was a pause during which, she suspected, Tilly fought the urge to fling the phone away. "Mrs. Dahl?"
"Did Louisa tell you I called?"
"She did, ma'am. I… she said you'd call again, so I didn't—"
"Tilly, I wanted to speak to you. If you know anything, I beg you, please tell me. Why did Prissy run away? Was anything bothering her? Was it anything I did?"
There was another pause, very long and pregnant. "I'm a simple woman, ma'am." Tilly's voice was barely audible on the other side of the line. "I'm not one for criticizing those who give me my daily bread."
"We aren't your employers anymore, Tilly. I can't and won't give yo
u orders. I'm just… just trying to understand. What made her leave? What did we do wrong?"
"Mrs. Dahl." Tilly's voice sounded firmer now. "I worked for you for twenty years. How could I say a word against you… or Mr. President?"
Eleanor's heart missed a beat. "Does this have anything to do with Alexander?"
Even as she spoke, she felt her twenty years of marriage rising up, with everything she ever overheard, smoothed over in her mind, and tried to ignore. They grew up exposed to some of the inner workings of the White Tower, whether we intended it or not. It can't have been easy trying to make sense of it all. Not for someone like Priscilla, with a mind so sharp and critical. Her head shook as she sighed. Someone like Priscilla, who was always apt to ask the wrong question at the wrong time.
"Tilly. Prissy knew her running away at this moment might ruin her father's career, didn't she?"
"You know your daughter better than I do, Mrs. Dahl."
Eleanor closed her eyes. "No," she whispered, "I'm afraid I don't."
16
________________________
Tuesday, April 8
Miguel tapped the desk with a pencil. He was restless, agitated, and frowning as he flipped through the pages of the large file in front of him. He didn't hear Barry's steps as he walked in carrying a small cardboard box of glass tubes packed in foam wrap.
"What's up, Miguelito?" Barry called out, depositing the box in a corner. "You're looking way too tense, you know. You should give yourself a break."
Miguel looked up, annoyed at being startled out of concentration. "In case you haven't noticed, I am on a break. Been at it for the past couple of days, actually. I'm stuck."
Without waiting for Barry to answer, he picked up the phone, dialed a number, waited a minute and hung up. "It's no use. He won't answer."
"Who?"
"The Contact." Miguel snapped the file shut. "He seems to have just vanished off the face of the earth. He hasn't returned my calls or emails, and I've reached the stage when I need the second half of the files. I can't go on without them."
"Oh. You're talking about that guy who had copies of the early drafts of the formula? D'you mean to say he hasn't handed them in yet?"
"Yes, that's the point. The agreement was pretty straightforward. He gives us half the files and gets about one third of the sum, we check that the information is genuine and the White Tower people pay him the rest in return for the second half. Now the rest of the money is waiting for him, but I can't reach him."
"Just out of curiosity, how much would that be?"
"I don't really know, but we're talking millions. Enough money to live like a king for one's entire life."
Barry whistled. "The White Tower sure is being generous about that. Which makes me wonder why you and I are being paid a pittance."
"I'm not complaining."
"Sure you're not. You're our San Miguel, aren't you?"
"You're pretty well off yourself, it seems to me. At least compared to what you had to slug through before."
"Yes, well, you have a point there. I do have a pretty good life here in Tampico. But hey, Miguelito, don't worry. He'll turn up. Nobody in their right mind would pass on an offer like that."
Miguel shook his head. "I'm afraid they paid him too much to begin with. Enough for him to set himself up nicely… too nicely. He doesn't really need the rest of the money."
Barry gave an amused snort. "That isn't how folks' minds work, Miguelito. People don't give up on money just because they don't need it. On the contrary, the more you have, the more you want. That guy's no exception. I guarantee that."
"I certainly hope so. Because if he is, I'm not sure what to do."
"Can't you continue the work on your own?"
"I… I could… maybe. If I had no choice." Miguel's face filled with doubt. "But then things would go much slower, and I would have nothing to lean on but my own understanding. And that isn't something I've been counting on."
"Well, then, how about making this an excuse to call it an early night? You could go someplace nice and have some fun for a change. Come on, I'll take you. My treat."
Miguel gave him a suspicious glance. "I told you. I'm not going to La Roja."
Barry looked almost offended. "Not La Roja. No, it's a nice place. Really. Respectable."
Miguel was sure the two of them had somewhat different notions of what constituted respectable, and didn't find the prospect of going anywhere with Barry particularly tempting, but could find no ready excuse to let himself off the hook.
"Well, alright. But I won't be staying out late. I must be here early tomorrow."
Barry took him to the lower docks of Tampico, where the cheaply flashing neon signs challenged even the most flexible idea of respectable. As they neared one of the entrances, Miguel wrinkled his nose.
"El Marinero? Really? This isn't any better than La Roja."
"How do you know? You've never been to either." Barry took him by the arm and marched him forward. "Relax, Miguelito, I know what I'm saying. El Marinero is just the place for having a drink in peace without a girl jumping into your lap unawares."
It was too late to protest, so Miguel allowed himself to be steered into the dark, smoky atmosphere of the bar. As the door opened to let them in, the plump doe-eyed barmaid looked up, saw Barry, and giggled. "Es el gringo," she told the waitress who stood beside her, loading a tray with drinks.
Miguel looked at his companion, eyebrows raised. "You come here often, Barry?"
"Nip in once in a while. Buenas, Anita. Como va? Una cerveza para mi," Barry said with a terrible accent.
"Y para tu amigo?"
"Nada, gracias," Miguel hastened to say, but Barry elbowed him in the ribs.
"Don't be such a bore, Miguelito. Dos cervezas." Anita nodded, and Barry guided Miguel toward a vacant table at the back.
The place was shabby, with cheap pop music blaring in the background, and Miguel expected no particular enjoyment from the evening. Their beers came, cold and capped with foam, and Barry downed half of his before Miguel took a sip. He then leaned back in the chair and grinned.
"Cheers! This is the life. Drink up, Miguel."
For a while, Miguel watched the foam on top of his beer gradually settle down. Then he took a sip. He watched a couple sitting at the bar, a dark man with a long dangling earring and a red-haired girl in a pair of tight-fitting jeans. The girl laughed loudly at something the man told her, throwing her head back and showing rather large white teeth.
"A pretty little number," Barry observed, following his gaze. "I wouldn't say no to some company myself." He looked around, but there weren't many women in El Marinero, and the few who were there came with their boyfriends.
A gum-chewing waitress sauntered over to their table. She had a slightly pockmarked face, as if she had gone through a stage of severe acne, but her little slender figure was neat and attractive. "Una cerveza mas?" she asked Barry, who had finished his drink.
"No, un whiskey." Barry gave her an ingratiating smile and, as she nodded and turned to leave, attempted to playfully pinch her backside. The girl, however, swerved aside with an ease which made Miguel believe Barry's overtures were well known to the bar staff.
Miguel was getting close to the bottom of his beer mug and, being unaccustomed to alcohol, was beginning to feel a pleasant lightness in his head. "You know what, Barry. Maybe it's not such a bad thing after all."
"What?"
"The Contact not being in touch, I mean. This way, if the project flops, it won't be our fault."
Barry frowned. "Do you want it to flop?"
Miguel met his eyes. "When it all began, I wanted nothing more than to succeed. But now… You do realize that it isn't the Yankees we work for. It isn't even the White Tower. It's Dahl."
"Well… maybe. So?"
"You know, sometimes I'm not sure he really exists. Dahl. He seems like a myth. So far away and powerful and terrible."
Barry waved a hand in front of his eyes. "H
ey, Miguel. You sure you had nothing to drink before we came here? Your eyes look all glazed."
Miguel ignored him. "If this project goes as it's supposed to, we'll be the ones who hand Dahl that formula. No, I will be the one who gives it to him."
"And we'll get a fat slice of pie for it, too. Life isn't bad now, but it has the potential of turning perfectly grand."
Miguel frowned, searching for words. "It's just that…" He shook his head. "Dahl is probably the most powerful man in the world as it is. This formula will make him even more powerful."
"And us too." Barry clapped him on the back. "Don't you forget that, Miguelito."
"Us? We're just hired hands. Tools they're using, Barry. Or don't you understand that?"
Barry wasn't listening. "Oi, muchacha! Uno mas, por favor."
After a few more drinks Barry disappeared into the back room of the bar with the flirty, curvy waitress, and Miguel, knowing he would not be missed, paid his share and went out into the soothing freshness and coolness of the evening.
He strode along the narrow promenade, oblivious to the jeers of drunken dock workers and the calls of unfortunate women sucked down into this dirty pit of life. He looked out into the vast, ominously rippling blackness of the night ocean and allowed his thoughts to take over. Now that his regular laboratory work ground to a halt, for the first time in many months he had time to think not of DNA strands or protein formations, but of what would happen once the project came to its successful conclusion. Can I really be the one who brings eternal life to humankind? But no, I'm not that naïve. I'm not the owner, merely a worker, hired to do, not think. The White Tower will decide what to do with the results of my work and how to distribute it among those they deem worthy. He grunted. Somehow, I don't think the likes of me and Barry will be deemed worthy.
Despite the mildness of the evening, Miguel felt chilly prickles down his spine and pulled his jacket tighter around him. Head bowed, hands in pockets, he made his solitary way home.
17
________________________
Wednesday, April 9
Ben leaned for a moment against the gatepost, watching her work in the garden. She was pulling weeds in faded overalls torn at the knee and there was a smudge of dirt on one of her cheeks, but they did nothing to abate the flutter in his heart as he approached.