He shrugs. “Give Louisa an ultimatum? Do you really imagine she’d respond to that?”
“She’s scared.”
“If I leave, she’ll be more scared . . .”
“But you’d leave Ava? Lou could keep you from seeing her.”
Henry nods. “It’s why I haven’t left yet.”
“Did something precipitate this?” Rosalind asks.
“A tussle a week ago.”
“About what?”
“Her wanting to move to the suburbs. Her prejudice. It’s just wrong. She won’t give our new neighbors a chance.”
“Maybe she just wants a different life? A fresh start? I know you still love her.”
He nods almost imperceptibly. “And sometimes hate what she says. I hate her bigotry. Her anger at the world.”
“Is saving the marriage in the cards?”
He shrugs.
Rosalind looks at this kind man who came to her rescue when he was very young, and she wavers. Why should he spend his life suffering at someone else’s hand? Maybe he could woo some sweet widow, someone who might appreciate him. Maybe he could find real happiness, even if Louisa never will.
She sighs. “If you want to talk to me anytime, you know where I am,” she says. Walking over to him, she kisses his receding hairline. “Don’t do anything precipitous without warning me, okay?”
“Sure. Hey . . . things going all right with you? I heard Ava talking about Weaver. So he’s back?”
“He is.”
“You handling that okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
“And you mentioned wanting to get back to science. Have you done anything about that?”
“I’m working on it. Anyway, it’s time to worry about yourself for a change.”
“Okay. I don’t want to nag.”
“I love you,” she tells him. “You’ll always be family to me, no matter what you decide. You know that, right? And if you do move out, you’re invited to come over and share in my lousy cooking anytime. And you can bet I’ll visit you at the Allerton.”
“Kid,” he says. He grabs her wrist and kisses the back of her hand. She feels like he wants to say more but can’t put the words together. Men are so bad at declarations of any kind, but she’s always felt safe in his love.
* * *
The phone rings at seven thirty the following Monday morning. Wrapping a towel around her dripping hair, Rosalind runs to answer.
“If you can’t speak freely, just say, ‘There’s no Jane Hart here.’”
She laughs. “There is no Jane Hart here. But I’m alone, Agent Szydlo.”
“Do you have time to speak to me, then?” He sounds almost shy. Again, he strikes her as a nice man, one she wishes she’d met at a party. Last night, lying in bed, longing for Weaver, she was surprised to find herself thinking about what it would be like to kiss Charlie Szydlo. She imagined he would taste of watermelon. Clean, sweet. She whispered his name out loud. “Charlie.” Why is she even thinking these thoughts about the very man who’s gotten her involved again with her old lover? It makes her uneasy.
“I promised I wouldn’t call and I haven’t,” he says. “Did you decide to see Mr. Weaver again?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” He sounds relieved. “Have you learned anything you’re willing to share?”
She likes that he respects her reluctance. Willing to share. “Well, one thing,” she’s surprised to hear herself saying.
“Yes?”
“It hardly makes sense.”
“I know it’s hard to talk on the phone. Would you mind coming to see me on your lunch break? My office isn’t far from Field’s. It’s in the Bankers Building, 105 West Adams at the corner of Clark. I’ll have sandwiches. There’s a photo I want to show you. And you can tell me what Weaver said that doesn’t make sense.”
“All right. Let me write down the address.”
The day is hot and swollen. As Rosalind walks to work, it feels as though her linen dress is growing tighter; her shoes bind. By the time she reaches the Michigan Avenue Bridge, she has to remove her white cotton gloves, picking them off finger by damp finger. She’s seeing spots before her eyes as she steps into Field’s, which isn’t much cooler. The fans spin listlessly over the sales floor. Field’s installed Comfort Air back in the thirties but ripped the whole system out for war-effort scrap metal in ’41. Now they promise they’re going to reinstall it before next summer. Not soon enough.
At the moment, workmen are attaching fluorescent tubes under the counters for cooler lighting. The borers squeal like dentists’ drills. The store has so few customers, Janice has time to leave her perfume counter to walk over and tell Rosalind about the medical student she went out with last night.
As they’re speaking, Janice whispers, “That man over there. I keep seeing him in the store. I think he’s got a pash on you.”
“What?”
“That man.”
Rosalind turns, pretending to straighten her counter. The man looks to be in his fifties, thickly built, with short straw-colored hair—surely it can’t be his own; there’s nothing about it that looks real. His eyes are so pale they appear empty. He has the face of a bum, but he’s surprisingly well dressed: an expensive suit, polished shoes. A pearl stickpin through his tie. There’s nothing flashy about the outfit. It’s elegant, except it doesn’t match his thick, unrefined appearance at all. As soon as he sees Roz sizing him up, he turns his back.
“You’ve seen him before?”
“He came near the end of the day yesterday and I saw him following you later when we went home. I thought I was making it up, but then to see him again today . . . he must be gaga over you. There, he’s gone out the door.”
Is the FBI tailing her with a new man now instead of Charlie? How dare they keep following her! And why come to her job, where they know she’ll be all day?
“Thanks, Jan. I’ll watch out for him.”
“Yeah. He’s kind of creepy, actually. You don’t know him, do you?”
“Lord no!”
At noon, she steps out onto the sidewalk, glancing around to see if the pale man is waiting. There are cars parked all along the curb. Cabs to hide in. He could be anywhere among the thousands of people on State Street. There are police officers in view too. This summer she’s seen them, officers walking two by two, threading through the summer crowds. But no need for the police. She’s pretty sure this fellow is just one of Charlie’s guys, keeping tabs on her. Then, half a block down, she spots him standing between two coffee carts, an unrefined man in refined clothes staring with those awful empty eyes. She’s alongside Wieboldt’s department store so she ducks into its revolving door, and, rushing past the displays of thin cotton dresses and cheap men’s slacks, she exits two doors south. Hurrying toward Dearborn, she keeps glancing back to make sure he’s gone. She doesn’t know why she’s so intent on losing him, except she’s disturbed by the way he looks, and it feels like a game. She relishes the idea of telling Charlie she shook his guy. The Bankers Building feels farther away than she expected. By the time she gets there, her dress is damp in every place it touches her skin. She announces herself to the man behind the desk, and while she waits for Szydlo to come down, she scans the lobby for her pursuer, expecting him to walk in any minute.
“Miss Porter?” Szydlo says softly. “You okay?”
“Why are you still having me followed?” she whispers.
“Pardon?”
“You know someone’s following me.”
Charlie’s lips part; he looks puzzled.
“Is he here now?”
“No. I shook him.”
“Let’s get out of the lobby.” He sternly grabs her arm. “I shouldn’t have had you come here. It didn’t occur to me they’d have you followed.”
The perspir
ation on her neck turns icy and goose bumps rise all down her arms. In the elevator she asks, “They? Who?” No one else is in the car, yet she only mouths the words “A Soviet operative?” He nods. She read that word in the paper: “operative.” It sounds so threatening somehow. Invasive.
“That man was a Soviet agent . . . ?” She says it to herself more than to him. To help herself understand. To believe it. The man with eyes so pale they seemed utterly empty . . .
They don’t say anything else as the elevator rises. It’s one of those modern elevators with no elevator man, and they’re alone. Charlie is watching the numbers on the indicator. She notes his face. Kind. Sad. Serious. She feels protected in his presence. But out on the street, back at work, will she feel the same?
The FBI offices are blessedly cool. They have air conditioning and she’s craved it. But now she’s shivering.
“Why would they follow me?” she asks.
“To understand who Weaver’s spending his time with. Just like I did. You coming here could have compromised him.”
“Put Weaver in danger?”
“Hopefully you shook the fellow like you said and he didn’t discover you were on your way to the FBI. As for Weaver, I imagine he’s been putting himself in danger for quite a while.”
Agitated, she follows Charlie past a bullpen of men talking on telephones, discussing things in small clusters, and then into a large wood-paneled room with three circular ceiling vents shooting out more cool air.
“I thought a conference room would be a nicer place to share lunch.” Charlie shuts the door. “Without a bunch of wolves howling.” He smiles and pulls out a chair for her.
“Should I be worried?” she asks.
“About the wolves?” She can see he’s trying to lighten the mood.
“Now I’m kind of scared. You following me scared me. And this guy is even creepier.”
“Even creepier than me, huh?” he asks. She can see color coming to his cheeks.
“Sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
“We’ll try and find out who he is,” he says. He has a soothing voice. “Don’t worry too much. Even if you didn’t shake him, it’s a big building. There are all sorts of offices here. Not just the FBI. Doctors. Lawyers. And I bet you did get rid of him. You didn’t see him in the lobby, did you?”
Roz shakes her head. Settling into the large swivel chair he pulled out for her, she fishes a handkerchief from her purse to catch the perspiration coursing down her forehead. She doesn’t know if she’s hot or cold.
“I didn’t know what kind of lunch you’d like, so I gave you a choice.” Out of a brown paper bag, Szydlo pulls various sandwiches and, pointing to them, tells her what’s inside. She’s having trouble concentrating.
“I think I’ll wait a minute. Until I cool off . . .”
She shoves back the hair on her forehead, twists the rest of her mane into a knot, and blots her neck. She must look a mess.
“Want a Royal Crown?” He pushes a dripping bottle toward her. Before he lets her take the bottle, he pops the top with his thumb. The burning-cold froth hits her mouth with a sweet shock. Lifting a folder, he gallantly fans her, watches with concern.
“Describe the man,” he says. “If you can.”
She recounts the stolid body, his empty eyes, the pale thatch of hair that doesn’t look quite real. The expensive clothes. The shining shoes.
He writes down what she tells him.
“You should eat,” he says. “We don’t have much time until you need to go back.”
She reaches for the sandwich marked CHICKEN SALAD in blue ink. He’s laid out the lunch nicely, even managed to find plates. Along the rim, the china is stamped with a green circle. The top of the circle reads DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE; the bottom, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION. She unwraps the sandwich. It’s surprisingly delicious, cold, creamy, and crunchy with fresh celery. She watches Szydlo unwrap his with a single hand. How hard would it be to have only one hand? A challenge to do the simplest things. As he eats, politely, neatly, she feels him watching her, waiting.
“You want to tell me about Weaver?” he asks at last. “Anything.”
“I thought you had something to show me.”
“You first,” he says.
She doesn’t want to talk about Weaver. “Weaver’s told me only one thing: that breaking up with me wasn’t his choice.”
Charlie squints at her. “Wasn’t his choice?”
“He says someone forced him to be with Clemence, the woman he married.”
“He didn’t say who?”
“No.” There’s more to tell Charlie. Weaver told her he was a Communist in college. But lots of people were Communists in the thirties. She’s not going to share it yet. Besides, Weaver says he’s trying to extricate himself. She’s surprised to find herself wanting to protect him.
“Did he say anything else about his wife?”
“He said, ‘Nothing you think you know about my marriage is true.’ Whatever that means.”
Charlie looks up from his notes. “Miss Porter, she’s missing.”
“Who?”
“His wife. That’s what I wanted to tell you. She was renting a room in the suburbs. I went out there. She’s disappeared. Her clothes, a purse, her passport, are all still there. But no one’s seen her.”
Every follicle on Rosalind’s head tightens. She sets down her sandwich and feels dizzy—like she did this morning in the heat. Clemence Weaver—who stood for all she isn’t and will never be—is missing.
“You don’t think . . . you’re not suggesting Weaver . . . he wouldn’t.”
“Probably not.” She distrusts the smooth tone of his voice and his choice of words: “probably.”
“You think he’s somehow implicated, though, don’t you?”
“We don’t know anything yet. That’s something you learn in the FBI. Never assume. Look at this photo. Is this Clemence Weaver?”
He hands it to her. It appears to be a blown-up passport photo. The face is unmistakable: the woman who ruined her life. For months after Weaver left her, Rosalind fixated on this woman. He’d chosen Clemence over her and she needed to know why. So she catalogued all she knew: Clemence was older, more sure of herself, more exotic, taller, more slender. She held those superlatives against herself. Seeing the face again brings pain.
“Yes, that’s his ex-wife.”
The parted hair pulled back to reveal those planes of her face, those sharp cheekbones. Those piercing dark eyes lined in kohl.
“Oh, and . . . as far as we can tell, despite what Weaver may have told you, she’s not his ex-wife.”
“They weren’t married after all?” Rosalind is surprised by how happy that makes her. Sunlight reaching her heart. Maybe that’s what Weaver meant when he said nothing she knew about the marriage was true.
“No, we see no evidence they’ve divorced. As far as we can see, they’re still married.”
“Oh . . .” Her disappointment is precipitous. But then Weaver never said anything about divorce, did he? She’s merely wished it were so. Every time Weaver steps into the picture, she fools herself.
“What name did he call her?” Charlie asks.
“Clemence. Clemence Weaver.”
He nods.
“I already told you that.”
“You did. He didn’t use any other name?”
“Like a nickname?”
“Any name.”
She shakes her head at him. “I only found out her name from other people. Once she came along, I was sent packing.”
Rosalind can say that now with a sarcastic ring. But why does her heart still ache at the words? This morning she lifted the little manila envelope Weaver gave her from beneath the Scandinavian sweater at the bottom of her sweater drawer and slid it into her purse. The leather under her fingertips puls
es now like a beating heart. Should she take it out and share it with Charlie? She absolutely should if she really is doing this for the FBI. But she thinks of Weaver making love to her, his new tenderness. And that confounding new vulnerability. Until she knows more, she doesn’t feel ready to tell Charlie any of that. Weaver said his life depended on it. Life and death, he said. Why does he wield such power over her?
“You’ll be cautious with Weaver, won’t you?” Charlie says. “You’ll call me if you need help or—”
“He’s not dangerous. Weaver’s lots of things. A liar for one. But he’s not dangerous.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Charlie says. “Especially when it comes to Weaver, I don’t think we can assume anything.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
She’s already too late to return to Marshall Field’s on time, but instead of rushing, she ducks into the phone booth in the lobby of the Bankers Building and telephones Adele at her counter.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, feigning a mix of contriteness and annoyance, “but you may have to stay at my counter a bit longer. I’m at the doctor’s and he’s taking his sweet time with another patient.” She’s much better at lying than she ever imagined. “I really hate to put you out. That’s why I told them I needed to use their phone. Thank heavens they let me.”
“Why are you at the doctor?” Oh, that dry voice. That accusatory tone. Leave it to Adele to pry.
“I have a cyst,” she says. “Needs to be lanced. Trust me, you don’t want details.” She hasn’t formulated any. She hopes that if she disgusts Adele enough, the questions will stop.
“All right. But get here as soon as possible, cyst or not.”
The only cyst Rosalind needs lancing is the desire to get rid of Weaver’s little envelope. Continental Bank, where she’s always had her checking account, is just a block from the Bankers Building, on LaSalle. What relief she feels stepping up to Continental’s front desk and requesting the smallest possible safe-deposit box. After signing three sheets of paper, she’s ushered into a little echoing room lined in rows of brass doors, each opened by two keys at the same time. Turning her key in rhythm with the manager’s releases a rectangular coffin far too big for the little manila envelope. Nevertheless, she drops it in with a sigh. That envelope has been a scorching potato. It makes her too curious. And makes her feel guilty for not sharing it with Charlie. At the same time, what might be revealed about Weaver if she opened his safe-deposit box and read the letter inside? Even if it costs her four dollars and fifty cents a month for access to her own box, it’s worth having Weaver’s key out of her hands. Back at Field’s, she slips her own safe-deposit key into the backing fabric of a black velvet cushion that holds big unattractive brooches that few people ever ask to see. Done, she thinks. Good-bye, hot potato.
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