In Boston before—also after—the Revolution, a person was slave or free depending on the legal status of the mother. Though you could bear your father’s name and be a slave. Suppose Susanna’s father (or brother—but let’s keep it simple) had a son by an African woman who was enslaved to him; and that this man had children in due course, and a sequence of marriages ensued of the offspring of these unions with persons who were of European background, until there was nothing visible left of the African heritage, only the remnant of the slave name to proclaim a nominal identity to this root. What do I know?
Copley went to England and did well. He had a son, and the son died and his things were sold, including paintings he had inherited from his artist father. Among them—do you know the Copley portrait in the Detroit Museum, called Head of a Negro? It’s the same head, a sketch, and was sold out of the son’s collection in 1864. Here’s how it was described in the sale catalog: “Head of a Favorite Negro. Very Fine.” I think your portrait is of a brother of Copley’s wife, and, who knows, maybe part of her dowry. Isn’t that an awful idea? I think part of the Clarke line stayed in, or came back to, the New World, after the Revolution; and that those women—Alexandra and Ann Clarke—are descended from the man in the portrait, who bequeathed them their slave name: which I fear was wasted on those jokers.
Molly
P.S. Don’t forget your birthday tomorrow.
Fred half-read Molly’s note while using the vestibule’s pay telephone to call Molly’s house. He let it ring until he concluded there was nobody home—though the kids should be there. Alarm percolated in him. He’d hoped the note would tell him where she was, not go on about Clayton’s problems. He tried Ophelia’s number and got Terry. No, her mom was not around, but Ophelia was. Did Fred want to talk with Ophelia?
“Get her.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Terry, just put her on.” Fred drummed his fingers on the wall. Ophelia took the Lincoln end of the line, saying, “I’m holding the fort, Fred. I told Molly I’ll feed the kids and take them to her place, and sit in case she is late, so nobody worries.”
“Where is she?”
“Doing research for me. I decided to change my approach to one of investigative reporting. What I see now is more along the lines of the exposé. Apparently, I have discovered, this group…”
“Don’t fuck around, Ophelia! These people are dangerous. Where’s Molly?”
“She’s getting a look at what they call their safe house. We arranged she would lead them to believe she wants sanctuary, and they bought her act. We’re going to pull the rug out. She’ll call when she can and one of us, you or I, Fred, will pick her up. Where this safe house is nobody knows until I tell the world.”
Fred put his sick fear to one side. He telephoned Kwik-Frame. No answer. Manny, at large somewhere, could be with Molly. He telephoned Cover-Hoover’s secret unlisted number. After three rings her voice answered, “Yes?”
“Put Molly Riley on,” Fred said. His fingers stopped drumming. He felt the silence lengthen.
“I am good at voices,” Cover-Hoover said. “We’ve met. You were looking for a painting. Now, apparently, you have involved yourself with another of my patients. She fears you.”
“Put her on.”
“Mrs. Riley—that is her slave name—has placed herself in my sanctuary. She is safe. She has reached a critical stage. It is especially critical, I would say, now that I know of your … attachment to her.”
Fred said, “You may be surprised how little you know about critical stages.”
“I hear your concern. Thank you for sharing it with me. Mrs. Riley wishes privacy and I may not ethically violate her wish. I can do no more than to assure you, and her loved ones, that she is safe.”
“Ann Clarke is safe too,” Fred said. “And she’s talking.”
He listened to the silence turning colder on the line. “Ah?” Cover-Hoover prompted. “Perhaps we can discuss these feelings in my office.”
Fred said slowly, “Wait there. Feelings aside, if anything happens to Molly, you are dead meat.”
* * *
Fred put the car in the lot under the Charles Hotel and walked to Brattle Street. He took the stairs to Cover-Hoover’s floor and pressed the buzzer.
“Yes?” came Cover-Hoover’s fragrant, patient voice.
“No games,” Fred said into the voice slot.
The door opened to a click. Manny sprang at him with the beginning of an Asiatic roar, very martial arts. Fred met his chin with a head butt that knocked the man out, watched the large mass sliding down, and broke both the bodyguard’s arms back quickly at the elbows. He laid him on the anonymous gray carpet of the waiting room before he closed the door into the hall. Manny snorted the deep snore of the suddenly unconscious. When the big man resurfaced he was not going to be cutting paintings apart for a while, or breaking fingers.
With his arms out, Manny would have no further stomach for cute kicks, though he could still make noise. Fred glanced around the waiting room, noticing the two chairs and the pair of closed doors Molly had described. He thought back to the moment on the street, looking up at the third floor. He recollected where the staircase must fall, and the elevator shaft next to it, and how the windows were laid out. The bank of three in a row would be the office, on the left as you looked up. The single, separated by a space of brick, would have to be the bathroom.
Fred opened the door on his left, discovering an antiseptic john with a Japanese decorative theme, into which he propped the snoring Boardman Templeton. Manny’s black Ninja sweatshirt rode up, exposing a stretch of tummy as well as the mouse smiling on a green field. Fred had worked in silence, even cutting off Manny’s Asiatic roar before it got more than an inch out of his throat. He pushed the privacy lock and closed Manny inside.
Eunice Cover-Hoover was either wondering what had developed in the silence of her waiting room, or she was confident the treasurer of Adult-Rescue, Inc. had accomplished his mission.
Fred opened the second door.
33
Cover-Hoover was at her bank of windows, lowering the blinds, saying, “It will help you feel safe,” to the young woman on the couch who started panting and turning green at Fred’s entrance. “Don’t mind me,” Fred said. “Please continue.” Cover-Hoover continued turning. The young woman continued fainting, falling sideways on the couch, and slipping softly to the floor. Cover-Hoover remained in her window, the blind half closed. She was wearing a green dress of nubby linen, its color matched by a silk scarf that was keeping her hair up.
“You are not safe,” Fred told her. Cover-Hoover’s eyes flicked toward her telephone. “I wouldn’t,” Fred advised. The youngster on the floor moaned. She’d been small sitting, and was much smaller on the gray carpet, in her gray skirt and gray lambswool sweater and gray pallor.
“You are shattering a confidential dyad,” Cover-Hoover said. She raised her eyebrows and asked, “Did you notice my colleague?”
“No.”
Cover-Hoover studied him a moment before she looked down at her patient.
“Let’s go,” Fred said.
“I have a responsibility toward my…”
“Can it.”
“… people,” Cover-Hoover continued evenly. “Many of them are deeply affected by their traumatic disturbances. The abrupt entrance of a stranger into their sanctuary…”
“We don’t have time for the crap.”
“… may cause them to try desperate measures.” This last phrase was spoken with such sweet resignation Fred received it with a chill of worry.
The patient on the floor whispered, “Victim of Darkness, child of Light.”
“That’s right, dear,” Cover-Hoover soothed her. “We have been interrupted by a former patient of mine. His need is pressing. You may go when you are strong enough. I will be here for you tomorrow.” The patient stared at Fred with such a grimace of anxiety Fred wanted to strangle someone. Who had done such damage to this person? Co
ver-Hoover watched him closely.
“I have class at seven,” the patient said. “Boardman will take me?”
“Do you mind waiting in the next room?” Cover-Hoover suggested.
“Better she waits here,” Fred said. “I don’t mind including her in our confidential dyad. Here’s what I have. Your people killed Oona Imry, an antiques dealer from Boston, also a friend of mine, for reasons I have yet to appreciate. You or your people sucked an old man dry before you killed him—you got his house, and somewhere around a million bucks…”
“I accept no payment from my patients,” Cover-Hoover broke in. “Pay no attention, Candace. He is upset.”
“You, Adult-Rescue, Inc.,” Fred said. “Now you claim your patient-adult-victims are prepared to defend their safe house or some damned thing?”
Cover-Hoover spread her hands and sighed.
“You study at Mass Art,” Fred told the student. Her mouth opened with surprise. “What’s your major?”
“Art ed.”
“Contradiction in terms. Never mind. Your family rich?” Fred asked. “How much does your dad make?”
The art education major stammered.
“This woman here,” Fred said, jerking his thumb toward Cover-Hoover, “is going to hit you up, or him, your parents—someone in your family—for a big donation. Not to her. She’s too pure, doing great missionary work. To her foundation. Wait. The expression in your eyes tells me your people already started forking over. Right?”
“Not that much,” the student said. “Dad believes what my uncle did, but Mom … Anyway, fuck them. After what they maybe did…”
“This is a precious confidence you are betraying,” Cover-Hoover said to her patient, administering mild reproof.
“Shut up,” Fred told her. To the student he said, “You live at home or at the safe house?”
“Safe house? I have an apartment.”
“OK. Because the safe house is going to be off-limits. And Cover-Hoover is going to be busy. If you have problems—most people do—go to the clinic at your college. Meanwhile, since you have a class scheduled, go to it. Take the T. You don’t need Boardman. You’ll be fine on the subway. I guarantee it.”
The student got up and left. Fred closed the office door. “People believe what they were already going to believe,” he said. He cracked his knuckles and rubbed his hands. “Now. I assume your office is soundproofed? What’s the story on this safe house?”
A timid tap came at the office door. Fred opened it. “The bathroom door is locked,” the student said.
“It’s hard to find a toilet in Harvard Square. There’s one in the Harvard Coop. Second floor. The Coop’s gonna take care of you,” Fred told her.
“Thanks,” the student said, closing the door again.
“Where was I?” Fred went on. “Oh yes, Manny’s in your crapper.” Cover-Hoover licked her lips and stared. “Let’s go to your safe house,” Fred said. “We’ll take my car.”
“Ann Clarke is not to be trusted,” Cover-Hoover warned. “She suffers from delusions.” Fred moved behind her and pulled her chair back. She rose slowly. “You are impeding an important work,” the doctor said.
“I hope so.”
* * *
Before they left Fred carried Manny into Cover-Hoover’s office and laid him, snoring, on the couch. The doctor of loving-caring looked sick, seeing his arms flop backward at the elbow joints. Fred pulled the shirt and sweatshirt down. “Euro Disney stock was Boardman’s idea?” Fred asked. “Yeah. Right. He likes Mickey.”
“Boardman was horribly abused as a child,” Cover-Hoover said. “He came to me, one of my early—but this is no business of yours. It is a wonder he survived. The mouse, its happy innocence, is part of a therapeutic … What you have done to the boy will add years to his therapy. Our work together … his capacity for trust…”
“After Molly Riley joins us we’ll arrange for someone to scoop the little fellow up,” Fred assured her. They walked down Brattle Street, across the brick no-man’s-land filled with pitfalls and traps for the unwary that some designer had inflicted on an honest corner. Fred kept to Cover-Hoover’s elbow. Anyone who recognized her would see she had switched bodyguards. She said, “I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my patients. Nor can I be required by law to break the doctor-patient bond of confidentiality. What they do is their business. What they say is mine.”
* * *
She looked at Fred’s car with dismay before she got in. As he drove to the tollbooth to buy their way out she said, “I am under duress, because I understand my former patient, now my colleague, is being held by you and is in danger. I am under duress. You are forcing my hand.”
“That’s fair,” Fred said.
Cover-Hoover had not put on her coat, and it was a cold evening. She did not shiver. She crossed her arms and said, “Can you find Walden Street?” Jesus, Fred thought. The place was nearby. He should have found it. “I have been concerned about Boardman Templeton,” his passenger said, looking beautiful. “The dark forces buried within him are powerful. He may yet not escape them.”
Fred cut along to Garden, turned right up Chauncy next to the old Commodore Hotel, now Harvard housing, intending to turn left on Mass. Ave. toward Porter. “You may be placing my patient, Molly Riley, in grave danger,” Cover-Hoover said.
“What are you, talking into a microphone?” Fred asked. “Making evidence? Or is this a threat?”
Cover-Hoover looked out her window at the dull, cold, darkness of the night.
Fred pulled over in front of a health-food store and, looking to any interested observer like an impulsive first date, gave his passenger a quick search and found the device between breasts well-designed to give it shelter. He tossed it into the backseat, where it slid down the wrapped package of stretched cloth representing dogs or kangaroos. Cover-Hoover did not make a move to stop him or look back. She did her wide white buttons up.
“You’ll be more comfortable now,” Fred told her.
“Your argument is force.”
Fred started driving again after a bus opened a place in the stream of traffic. “Your argument is force also,” Fred answered. “Poison is force. What danger is Molly in?”
“She fears you. She fears all men.”
“Fraud and murder. That’s what you should be afraid of. Being indicted for those things.”
“I am a healer. What a patient of mine, outside my knowledge or control…”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Fred said. He turned left on Walden. “Oona Imry was killed here,” he mentioned as they crossed the bridge. She showed no flicker of interest. “Little Boardman has a thing about bridges. Apparently, according to Ann Clarke, she and Manny forced gin into her until she lost control. Then Manny held her under the bridge until he could get her in front of a train. Say anything you want…”
“I am not responsible. I know nothing about this. I am not responsible. Turn right here.” Fred turned on Richdale. “It’s too late. It is out of my hands.” She spoke like someone standing on a mountain and looking down at a rushing sea of mud below her, engulfing everything that lived. Unfortunate as it was, at least it was happening down there. Fred looked ahead of them down the S curve of Richdale Avenue. He passed the office-furniture warehouse and showroom backing this side of the tracks.
“Ann Clarke is the victim of recurrent guilt fantasies,” the zombie’s therapist confided. “I don’t know what she may have said to you…”
“Which house?”
Fred had driven along Richdale last week, prospecting generally. It was as mixed-use as a street in Cambridge could be. Cover-Hoover gestured toward a large lot, vacant except for dismantled brick factory buildings. The lot was fenced, but kids had cut openings so they could get in and hurt themselves. At the far edge was a one-story brick building, boarded up, running the whole length of the lot. Fred saw no residential units in the vicinity. It was isolated and looked abandoned.
Cover-Hoover said,
“A kidnapped witness will say anything. Ann Clarke will say she is Marie Antoinette looking for her lost head. Templeton knows nothing, except the loyalty of the low IQ. I have given these people something to live for, something to die for.”
Fred studied the brick building. They could have it booby trapped and wired. All they’d need was one convert from MIT.
“Let’s go in.” Fred opened his car door. Rain began activating the dark air. Lights were sparse on this street.
“I cannot take responsibility for the consequences.” Cover-Hoover spoke with grave simplicity and understatement. Fred, listening to her mild, sad voice, was invited to imagine ghastly possibilities behind the patchwork facade of the building. A mob of fanatic former victims of Satan stared out from behind the boarded apertures, brandishing weapons.
“We’ll see what’s going on,” Fred said. “According to Sandy Blake you sleep with Manny?” Cover-Hoover glanced at him, her tongue flickering moisture onto her full lower lip. Her eyebrows rose. She asked herself—Fred could see her doing it—if this was a way in, an invitation anted up by Fred’s subconscious unselective lust.
“Contemporary therapeutic practice allows broad latitude, if exercised with discretion, and with due respect to the patient’s needs and progress. Supposing you, for instance, found yourself to be a patient of mine…”
“Thanks for sharing these feelings with me,” Fred said. He walked around the car, opened the door, and took her arm. “Let’s say hi to the dervishes.”
34
They walked in the light rain beside the low building at the edge of the vacant lot. It was an old cement sidewalk underfoot, cracked and soft with weeds. Fred kept slightly behind Cover-Hoover, and on her right; the building was on her left. She was right-handed. She’d provide instant cover if anyone inside had the notion to use firearms. The building paced at forty yards. Fred watched for movement in the boarded windows.
The power of his own experiential memory and fear was growing. Cover-Hoover would rely on that. That was how she worked. She was good enough to smell some of his past. He’d held men while they died screaming. He’d done his own screaming in his day. She’d gotten out of the car with such palpable recognition he wondered, What’s her bluff? What does she have waiting?
Man With a Squirrel Page 22