Blood Ties

by A. J. Quinnell

  The old janitor leaned on his broom and watched as she ripped open the envelope. It was a long letter and before she was half way through he saw the tears form and slide down her cheeks. He put his broom against the wall and moved diffidently towards her. She finished reading. Tears were dripping from her chin. She held the letter by her side.

  “Miss Kirsty. You OK? Is it bad news?”

  She shook her head and smiled through the tears

  “Oh no! It’s Garret. He loves me. He’s coming home.”

  She reached out and grasped the hunched old man, needing contact; sobbing as she hugged him.

  “He loves me, Riley. He’s coming home. Coming home!”

  The old man cried with her.

  A month later and neither the rain nor the prospect of two or three hours overtime affected Kirsty’s mellow mood. It had been raining on and off for a week but a New Yorker learned to live with that during February. She hummed a tune from Oklahoma as the fingers of her left hand automatically worked the calculating machine and, with her right hand, she jotted the totals at the bottom of each column. Occasionally she lifted her head to glance at the calendar on the wall to her left. It was issued by an air freight company and beneath a photograph of a gleaming plane the last week of the month of February 1965 had been circled in black. Earlier days of the month had been firmly crossed off up to the 18th. She decided that never in all her thirty-nine years had a month eked out its time so slowly. It was not the impatience of boredom but that of anticipation. A child waiting for a birthday; a prisoner for his release date; a lover watching for a lover. She glanced at the calendar again, then rebuked herself. A watched kettle was supposed never to boil but she knew with both her head and her heart that it did, just as a month finally passed; even a wet miserable February.

  She was sitting in a glass enclosed cubicle looking out across the general office. The cubicle was tiny but she was glad at least of its aural privacy. The others, the salesmen, shipping clerks and secretaries, all had their desks in what the boss, Mr Goldman, liked to call ‘the democracy of the general office’. He, of course, had a vast, plush office across from her cubicle with a rolled gold nameplate donated by the air freight company which was currently flying in for him tons of sequinned tops from Hong Kong. It was a big year for sequinned tops, matched with long velvet skirts. The air freight companies were on a bonanza. A fleet of Boeings chartered by the US Government were beginning the great logistical build-up of men and material to Vietnam. They flew back empty until a couple of Hong Kong Chinese entrepreneurs saw the possibilities. They chartered the homeward route for $12,000 a plane. Consequently Irving Goldman could buy his hand-sequinned tops in Hong Kong for forty dollars a dozen. Land them in New York days later for ninety dollars a dozen, duty paid, match them with eight-dollar skirts and sell them by the thousands for $400 a dozen to the chain stores. It was why Kirsty was pounding the calculator. As book-keeper for Goldrite Fashions Inc she produced the balance sheet. ‘Sixty-four had been a fabulous year and, knowing well the fickle facets of fashion, Irving Goldman was hot and ready to be acquired, at a P/E ratio of not less than twelve to one. After forty years in the business he was about to become a genuine, hard line, cash millionaire; sign a management contract with the acquiring conglomerate, sell his shares, have a blinding row with the new company president, sell his condominium on East 54th Street, fill up his Cadillac and head south to Palm Beach for a long autumn of golf, leisurely shopping for unneeded luxuries, vistas of the chilliest Martinis and the gut satisfaction of having won the greatest of all rat races. Problem was that he knew from a lifetime’s consumption of antacid pills that sequinned tops matched with velvet skirts could die faster than a rose in the desert. He had three offers on his desk, subject to audit; the most promising from a computer software company mesmerised by mark-ups of two hundred per cent and unaware of the law of returns which figured only in next year’s balance sheet.

  So Kirsty pounded the calculator to produce the magic figures. She had worked for Goldrite Fashions for twenty years, first as a house model at nineteen, then after her marriage and a husband suspicious of that profession, as a sales girl. Finally, with a mutual recognition that she did not have the ‘pazazz’ for selling, Mr Goldman had guided her into the accounts department. With the death of her husband, he had adopted a somewhat maudlin avuncular attitude towards her, always underlaid by a covertly sexual bias. She countered this by constantly enquiring about the wellbeing of Mrs Goldman: a lady justly renowned for her jealousy and possessiveness. A lady who, by ritual and tradition, always tried on the new season’s styles for ‘fit’. She was a generous size 16 but Mr Goldman, either out of compassion or a desire for a quiet life, invariably had a special line on hand, tailored to fit her but tagged size 10. Everyone snickered at the fitting sessions, but it was as good a way as any to cobble together a long marriage.

  Kirsty looked up from the columns of figures to see Gerry Sachs, one of the salesmen, standing on the other side of the partition. He had his large nose pressed against the glass, flat and white. He backed away, held up a plastic cup, pointed at the percolator in the corner and raised an eyebrow. She smiled and shook her head. He shrugged ruefully and shambled back to his desk. Usually at this time of the afternoon he would come in with coffee, perch one large buttock on her desk and spend half an hour regaling her with stories of his love life. She knew they were ninety-nine per cent fiction but she liked him and usually was a good listener. But not today. She had promised Irving to have the books finished by the end of the month but her own schedule was the 21st. She wanted to be free and clear during the last week.

  For the next hour she worked without interruption but then the door to the showroom opened and Tracy, the receptionist, came into the general office followed by a large policeman. He held his cap in his hand and his few strands of hair were steel grey. He wore the uniform of a Captain and as he followed Tracy to the door of Goldman’s office Kirsty thought that he looked vaguely familiar. She wondered what he was doing here. Had the US Customs finally tumbled to the fact that Goldrite Fashions Inc had been under-invoicing its sequinned tops by a third, thereby drastically reducing the mandatory forty-two-and-a-half per cent duty and, during the preceding year, pocketing an additional $235,000 to the detriment of Uncle Sam? If so, Irving would not be shortly retiring to Palm Beach. Tracy ushered the Captain into Irving’s office and walked back to the showroom, glancing at Kirsty and giving a ‘don’t know’ shrug of her shoulders. Kirsty went back to the books and another five minutes passed before her phone rang. It was Irving and the moment she heard the tenseness in his normally light-hearted voice she knew that the policeman represented trouble.

  Would she please step into his office right away? She put the phone down and was engulfed in panic. Was the policeman about to question her? What could she say if he asked her about the invoices? She knew she was an unconvincing liar. Why had Irving done it? She had warned him that other importers were bringing in similar styles and invoicing them at realistic prices. The Customs were not complete fools. Then her panic subsided. Surely in such a case a Customs Officer would be making the visit, not a policeman. Maybe it had something to do with the rash of thefts from the cargo bays of Idlewild Airport. Only last week a truck load of Goldrite tops had been hijacked.

  Even so, it was with trepidation that she walked slowly to Irving’s office, avoiding the curious stares of Gerry and the others.

  She tapped on the door and went in. Irving and the Captain were standing in front of the desk talking in hushed, conspiratorial tones. As they turned she saw their faces: sombre and uncomfortable. She stopped in the open door and Irving crossed over and took her arm and gently propelled her to the grouping of chairs around a low table in the corner, saying as they walked, “This is Captain Buckley, Kirsty. He’s come here to talk to you on a personal matter. I’ll wait outside; call me if you need me.”

  Baffled and frightened she let herself be eased into a chair.


  “What’s it all about, Irving?”

  “The Captain will explain . . . I’ll be right outside.” His discomfort showed. He was anxious to be out of the room and he backed away, nodding at the Captain.

  The Captain put his cap on the table and sat down opposite her. He had a bad scar on his jaw, disfiguring the lower lip and giving at first appearance a menacing look. But his eyes although tired were kindly. Suddenly Kirsty remembered where she had seen him. A month ago she had witnessed a mugging near her apartment and had gone into the precinct station to give a description of the assailant. The Captain had questioned her and had been surprised at the rare expression of civic duty. At that time he had been precise and articulate but at this moment he obviously had a problem finding words. He sat hunched over, his hands on the table flicking a thumbnail against his cap badge.

  “What is it, Captain?”

  He straightened up and took a breath. “I came personally. We met before at the station a few months ago.”

  “I remember.”

  “Yeah, well I went to your apartment – no one there. We had your work address on file so I came up here . . .”

  There was a pause, then he looked into her eyes and said briskly, “I’m real sorry, Mrs Haywood, it’s bad news. It’s about your son . . .”

  “Garret? . . . But he’s on the other side of the world.”

  The Captain sighed. “I know. We had a teletype from the State Department in Washington. They received the news from our Embassy in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. On the 16th a report was made by the master of the motor yacht Jaloud that on February 10th your son was lost overboard in very bad weather conditions approximately three hundred miles off the East African coast . . .”

  Kirsty was staring at him like a small nocturnal animal mesmerised in the headlights of a car. Slowly she started to shake her head and the Captain reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with a blue border down both sides. He put it on to the table and pushed it across in front of her. She recoiled from it and started murmuring: “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

  “I’m real sorry,” the Captain said. “Maybe it would have been better to get that news from someone close to you. But Mr Goldman told me you have no relatives here in New York. He told me about your friend Larry and we called his office but he’s in Chicago till Friday . . .”

  She didn’t appear to hear him; just stared at the blue edged curl of paper, still shaking her head, still repeating the single word “no . . .”

  The Captain had been the bearer of such news many times in his career. He expected that after the initial hammer blow she would collapse into tears. He never got used to it, but some were worse than others. He guessed this would be bad – a young widow – the death of her only son eighteen years old – no other close family. He waited for the tears, wondered whether he should move around the table to comfort her. He tried to compose phrases that would help and not be banal.

  But she surprised him. He watched as she breathed deeply like a diver surfacing. Saw her fingers clench and unclench, her fine jaw firm up, compressing her lips. She had clear, pale skin and widely spaced blue eyes – and they were dry.

  Abruptly she pushed the piece of paper away from her and stood up, automatically smoothing her skirt. She walked over to the window and the Captain turned to watch her: a tall figure looking, even in tragedy, much younger than her years. She stood looking down at the packed traffic on Seventh Avenue; the rain still coming down; the sidewalks, moving mushroom beds of umbrellas.

  “Is there anything I can do, Mrs Haywood?”

  She turned and shook her head, her blonde hair swaying on her shoulders. “No, Captain, unless you can tell me that somehow it’s a mistake or that he’ll be found.” Suddenly her eyes became animated. “You said the 10th . . . that’s only eight days ago. Maybe he’s been found . . . by some other ship . . . maybe.”

  He stood up. “I’m sorry, it’s natural to hope, but there’s really no chance.” He gestured at the piece of paper. “Our Consul interviewed the Captain and the other crew member. They spent three days in the area searching in bad weather. The nearest land was 300 miles away. There were no other ships in the area. It happened far away from shipping lanes . . . I’m sorry . . .”

  The light went out of her eyes and she turned back to the window. Again he expected tears, but there were none. He bent down and picked up his cap and asked: “Have you friends to stay with tonight?”

  “No, it’s OK . . . I’m OK. Thank you.”

  He moved to the door and stood there with uncertainty, then said:

  “We live near to you. Me and the wife. On 17th and 3rd. There’s a spare room; the kids have all grown up and moved out . . . you’d be welcome to visit for a while.”

  She turned and, for a moment seeing the pain in her face, he cursed himself for mentioning kids; but then her lips moved in the trace of a ghostly smile.

  “You’re very kind; thanks, but I’ll be OK. It was good of you to come personally . . . I’ll be OK. Please tell Mr Goldman that I’d like to be alone for a few minutes “

  He was puzzled by her stoicism. It seemed unnatural — too controlled. He looked at the window and had a sudden fear.

  “You won’t do anything stupid?”

  “Stupid?” She looked puzzled and then saw the direction of his gaze, “No, Captain. I doubt I have that courage. Don’t worry.”

  He nodded. “If you need anything, call me at the station. If I’m not there they’ll find me any time . . . OK’”

  “Thank you.”

  He still hesitated for a moment, feeling inadequate, thinking maybe that he should say something about life going on — an attractive woman and so on, but he decided this woman would find such words little comfort so he merely nodded and left her alone.

  As the door closed she went back to the table and sat down. She could not understand herself; it was all happening to a third party, not to her, Kirsty Haywood. She looked around the room: at Irving’s ornate desk with the silver framed photograph of Mrs Goldman flanked by her two sons. At the framed plaques on the wall proclaiming Irving’s membership of Pan-Am’s Clipper Club, TWA’s Ambassador Club and the letters of appreciation for donations received from the B’nai B’rith, the Democratic party and an old one from Mayor La Guardia. A rack of samples glittering in the far corner; a gold putter leaning against the wall. Her mind was detached. Then she looked down at the piece of paper and picked it up and read the precise official words: saw the name of her son, Garret James Haywood, presumed drowned. The stark details made a mockery of the word ‘presumed’: Three day search. No other ships in vicinity. Outside normal shipping lanes; shark infested waters.

  She forced her mind to accept reality, especially at the end when she’d read that his personal effects were being forwarded. Her son’s clothes were coming home. He was not.

  She crumpled the paper and dropped it into the waste basket beneath the table; then she went outside and faced the ordeal of listening to her boss and colleagues utter the clichés of condolence. Some, like Irving, were embarrassed by their inadequacy, others, like Tracy, overwhelming with words and tears. She rejected the many offers to stay awhile and told Irving that she did not want time off. She would carry on with the books-even that night. It would help to concentrate her mind.

  So they left, inadequate, wondering at her strength and puzzled by her lack of emotion.

  Alone, she went back to her cubicle and started to work through the invoices, the credit notes, the return slips and the airway bills.

  After an hour she stopped and poured herself a cup of coffee and sat looking blankly through the glass at the far wall. Eventually she dropped her gaze to her handbag on the corner of the desk. She pulled it towards her and took out a letter and a postcard. The letter postmarked Galle, Sri Lanka. She read Garret’s long, sloping hand telling her that he was coming home. He was low on money but had found a berth on a yacht sailing for the Seychelles and then Dar es Salaam, Tanza
nia. It would take about a month. From there he would try and get a cheap flight home. She was not to send him money or a ticket. He knew her financial situation was tight. Anyway, he was looking forward to the voyage. India had been good and bad, Sri Lanka mostly good. He would tell her all about it when he got home. He missed her and loved her. There was much to talk about. He understood a great deal more now.

  She folded the pages and picked up the postcard. It was postmarked Victoria, Seychelles, and dated February 4th. So far a good voyage. The island is a paradise but they were leaving in a few days for Dar es Salaam with an expected arrival around February 20th. He had just enough money left for an air ticket home. He would be with her sometime during the last week of February. He loved her.

  She turned the postcard over and laid it on the desk. The picture showed a long, curving beach completely deserted. Palm trees arched as if thirsty and reaching for the sea. The caption read ‘Anse Royal, Mahé’.

  She looked down at the picture and finally her eyes filled with tears. They were tears of sorrow and of love and of remorse. They coursed down her cheeks and rhythmically dropped from her chin.

  Irving came back to the office just after eight o’clock. He was meeting his lawyer first thing in the morning and had forgotten some papers. As he opened the door he was surprised to see the light still on. Then, through the glass partition, he saw Kirsty, slumped over her desk. He was at the open door of the cubicle before she lifted her head and turned.

  In his life he had never seen such anguish and sorrow on a human race. Her cheeks and chin were wet. What little make-up she used had smeared and given her a haunted, twisted look. Her red eyes had a puzzled look like a shot animal, dying and not understanding why.