A Fierce Radiance (27 page)

“I don’t want to stand on the receiving line,” she said to her father.

“That’s fine, dear,” he replied, looking at her closely and with concern. Rutherford was worried. Claire seemed uncharacteristically passive. “You’ll be seeing Jamie later anyway, won’t you?” He wanted to make certain she’d be looked after.

“Yes. I just don’t want to shake his hand.”

He heard the pain in her voice. “I understand.” Rutherford hadn’t found much consolation in the Quaker service. He was raised in Roman Catholicism with a Croatian bent, and even though he wasn’t a believer, he had to hand it to the church: once you sat through a funeral mass, listened to the choir and the prayers (even if they were in Latin and you didn’t understand them), with the organ soaring at the beginning and the end, you wound up feeling better. With a pang he wondered what kind of funeral his dear granddaughter Emily had. He found himself loving and missing Emily without ever knowing her, and he didn’t understand how or why. As he grew older, so much of life was becoming a mystery to him, his certainties dissolving.

Walking around those waiting on line, they reached the entry gallery in time to see Rockefeller holding both of Jamie’s hands within his, as a minister might, and speaking words of reassurance. The tall entry doors of the Meetinghouse were thrown open to the sweet spring breeze. Nick Catalano joined Rockefeller, and they, too, shook hands and exchanged a few words.

To the boom of photographers’ flashbulbs, Rockefeller went down the path and through the wrought-iron gate, looking neither left nor right. His waiting driver opened the back door of a black car, and Rockefeller slipped in. Thus the richest man in the world was whisked away, flashbulbs popping all the while. For once Claire saw the cameras from the other side. She felt sorry for him. How awful, to be always on view, guaranteed privacy only within the confines of a closely guarded estate or apartment.

“I need to get downtown,” Rutherford said. “You okay here?”

She forced herself to smile for him. “Yes, Dad, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’m just tired.” How odd it felt, to find herself reassuring him about her well-being.

“All right then, we’ll talk later.” Again they quickly hugged, and he left.

Claire went to the reception room, plain and bare, its dull green paint peeling. The windows overlooked the courtyard that the school next door, Friends Seminary, used for recess. The students were on break now. Shouts, taunts, and the steady beat of a jump rope reached Claire as she went to the refreshment table. Lemonade and fruit punch were ladled out by several of the kindly white-haired ladies who’d been sitting near the front. The ladies also refilled the platters of cookies, oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip, by the look of them. Claire didn’t feel like eating cookies. Sergei Oretsky stood before the cookies, seeming to study them, intent on choosing the right one.

Among the men in military uniforms and business suits talking in tight groups, Claire felt an urge to escape. To take Lucas for a walk
across the island of Manhattan. To visit the Metropolitan Museum and lose herself amid the paintings of Rembrandt and Vermeer. She’d say good-bye to Jamie and then she’d slip away. He had to attend a memorial luncheon at the Institute for his and Tia’s colleagues, but he would be coming to Grove Street afterward.

“A sad day.” Nick Catalano stood beside her. She hadn’t spoken to him since the evening at her father’s. She felt an instinctive, visceral attraction toward him. His lean body, the bad-boy edge to his attitude, the blond hair and brown eyes. Six months ago, before becoming involved with Jamie, she would have acted on it, taken a chance, why not. Now she felt the need to maintain a distance from him. Maybe Nick felt a similar attraction and a similar need: he stood beside her rather than in front of her, so that they were facing the crowd without obviously being together, two strangers waiting for friends to arrive.

“Yes,” she said simply. And yet…Jamie had told her about Nick’s reaction at the morgue. Maybe he’d loved Tia, or had some understanding with her. Claire owed Nick kindness today. Where to begin?

“Did you think about standing up to talk?”

“No, I’m not public about things. Memories, I mean.” He laughed ruefully. “Feelings.”

“I understand.”

“All this seems a little foreign.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Left me wishing for communion and the collection plate, and the incense.”

Now it was Claire’s turn to laugh ruefully, the Episcopal prayers for the dead still running through her mind. “I agree.”

“Is your father still here? I saw him sitting next to you.”

“No, he had to get to his office.”

“I enjoyed meeting him, that night. After the Chinese costume party.”

“He’s very hospitable.” Claire remembered that night, of course. Remembered dropping Nick off at the Institute, and how they’d com
mented on the light visible in Tia’s lab. Had Nick gone to visit her? Claire paused, trying to reach for the proper words to approach him, and to console him if that was what he needed. “Look, Nick, I know you and Tia were friends. I want to say, I’m sorry for your loss.”

He was silent for a few beats too long. Then he said gruffly, “Don’t worry. Thank you. What I mean is…” He seemed on the verge of saying more, of making a confession. Claire felt an urge to touch him on the shoulder to encourage him, and simultaneously she sensed him pulling back from her. “Well, I’m trying to make sure Jamie’s okay.” They caught a glimpse of Jamie through the crowd. He was holding the hands of a frail, elderly woman who leaned toward him, as if she couldn’t support her own weight. “I’m sure you are, too. That’s what’s important now. To think about the people who are still alive. Don’t you agree?”

“I—” But before she could respond, Dr. Rivers came over and, ignoring Claire, pulled Nick into a private conversation. A standard photograph in wartime: men in military uniforms whispering to each other, pursuing their own priorities as they determine the fates of millions.

She was ready to leave. Yes, she would go to the Metropolitan Museum. She hadn’t been in years. She longed to go. She wanted to visit her favorite Rembrandt portrait,
Woman with a Pink
. A pink was a carnation, a symbol of love and fidelity. Of marriage. Claire wanted to give a pink to Jamie. The woman in the painting seemed, to Claire, to stare at the viewer, and her gaze riveted Claire. What was the woman thinking as she held her pink carnation?

Claire slipped away, moving toward the perimeter of the crowd. Jamie was still greeting people on the receiving line, and she didn’t want to push her way through to him. She couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to him, but she had to get away. She’d take a walk in Stuyvesant Square, she resolved, and then return to say good-bye.

Claire didn’t know that Jamie had been surreptitiously tracking her
presence despite his receiving-line duties. As he spotted her moving through the crowd, he found himself yet again spellbound: she was the most striking woman he’d ever encountered. He wanted to follow her, but he couldn’t: Jenny Murphy, the stout, red-haired Irishwoman who cleaned the lab according to Tia’s eccentric specifications, was gripping his sleeve and reminiscing about the time Tia asked her, as a special favor…. He couldn’t bear to listen. In the past half hour, he’d heard more stories about Tia than he could process. He craved these stories, but he was overwhelmed. He pretended to listen to Jenny, then laughed when she laughed. Her laughter was big and deep. Suddenly Jenny was crying. Now he was consoling someone who’d come here to console him. This happened over and over. Claire was lost to his view.

Claire reached the doorway and stepped outside onto the flagstone path and into the heady scent of lilacs. Breathing deeply, she walked down the path. The news photographers had departed; John D. Rockefeller Jr. had been their big catch for the day.

“Mrs. Shipley?” a man called from behind her. “Mrs. Shipley, isn’t it?” the man called again.

She turned. A man pushed his way through the crowd to catch up with her. He appeared about her age and was of moderate height. His hair was dark, thick, and carefully groomed. He was well built and square shouldered, with the appearance of an athlete in top shape. He wore a finely cut, carefully pressed dark blue pinstriped suit with a red and blue bow tie. He held a panama hat. His appearance touched on the foppish. He clasped her right hand in both of his and greeted her like a long-lost friend, although she couldn’t place him.

“How wonderful to see you again, even on this sad occasion. Are you heading out? Me, too.” He spoke a bit too loudly, as if for the benefit of those standing nearby. “Whatever have you been doing with yourself?” Putting on his hat, he took her arm and began leading her down the path toward the front gate.

Ordinarily Claire would shake such a person off and demand an
explanation, but her senses had been dulled and she could only look at this man in surprise.

“I was hoping to find you here today,” he announced as they passed, just outside the front gates, a group of six men in dark suits leaning toward one another in a circle, as if sharing secrets. The group was especially noteworthy because none of the men was in uniform. What were they discussing? The stock market? This year’s prospects for the New York Yankees or the Brooklyn Dodgers? The death of Tia Stanton?

Once they were on the city sidewalk, Claire gathered her strength. “You’d better explain yourself or I’m liable to make a scene.”

“Forgive me.” He dropped her arm. “Listeners all around, I’ve noticed.” He glanced back at the men in their clutch. “Would you walk with me in the square for five minutes? I’d like to speak to you.”

“I don’t mean to sound like a prude, but I don’t generally walk with men I don’t know, even if they claim to know me.”

“Forgive me again.” He put a hand over his heart. “Andrew Barnett. Andy. Please don’t shake my hand. I’d like to maintain the pretense that we’ve met before.”

“Why?”

He laughed. “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Shipley.” He gave a half-bow. “I’m fairly new at my job, and I’m afraid I’m still not especially good at it.” He said this with a full measure of self-confidence. “It’s not very much like the movies, I’ve discovered.”

“I shouldn’t think so. Not much is. What’s your new job?”

He evaluated the question. “I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time, without having to resort to coercion.”

“You want to tell me your intentions before we contemplate coercion?”

“I understand your feelings and possibly I can assuage them by saying that your son is growing into quite a handsome boy. Seems to enjoy school, too. His teachers like him, from what I understand. Too bad about that bout with scarlet fever last year. All too common, alas.
How curious that attempts to cure scarlet fever, among other fevers, are exactly what brought us together today.”

She stared at him. He looked into the distance. A car horn honked and honked again. The sound hurt her ears. She felt pressure behind her eyes, a headache coming on.

“This neighborhood is nice, isn’t it?” he said.

In the park, the branches arched over to touch the grass. The cherry and crab apple trees were just past. Pink and white blossoms blown off the trees lay in a carpet upon the lawns and walkways. In the noontime sunlight, the fountains threw flashing rainbows into the air.

“I’ll walk with you, Mr. Barnett.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

And so they began to walk through an exquisite late-spring day. A light breeze blew around them. Their footsteps crushed the pink flower petals that covered their path. The petals clung to the soles of their shoes. Their shoes were slippery with flower petals. The implied threat against Charlie gave Claire a heightened sense of reality. The edges of the leaves looked razor sharp, cutting at her eyes. The birdsong exploded in her ears. She tried to stay calm.

“Are you from New York, Mr. Barnett?”

“Alas, no.”

“Whereabouts, then?”

“I grew up in Chicago, but I live in California now. Or at least I did. Palo Alto.”

“Stanford.”

“Indeed. I was a professor of economics at Stanford until, well, until recently.”

“Until you got your new job. The one which is nothing like the movies.”

“Exactly.” He sounded grateful for her understanding.

Claire felt far distant from him, as if she were staring at him through the opposite end of a telescope. She breathed deeply. She’d
heard rumors about upper-level professors being recruited for espionage work. To Claire, professors didn’t seem like the most competent or promising candidates, but apparently those in charge, products of the Ivy League and the social elite themselves, tended to trust their own.

“I’m withholding judgment on you, Mr. Barnett.”

“And I on you. Since I already know a good deal about you, perhaps it’s fair to tell you that until winter break, I was teaching economics at Stanford. I’m an expert in the theory of the automatic reabsorption of displaced labor, particularly in regard to issues of technological progress. Well, that seems like a long time ago,” he said wistfully. “I was tapped, I suppose is the way to describe it, to go to Washington to do some government work.”

Just as she suspected. “Sounds better than the infantry. Or a ship in the Pacific.”

“My thoughts exactly, Mrs. Shipley. I gladly accepted this offer to do government work. I didn’t think the Pacific would suit me. Too damp. Nor the deserts of North Africa. Too dry. I’m glad we understand each other. Anyway, after a pitifully small amount of training and a great deal of bureaucratic rigmarole, I wound up under the jurisdiction of the Office of Scientific Research and Development.”

Jamie’s department, she realized—although Jamie had never mentioned this man to her. “That must be interesting,” she said blandly.

“In fact, extremely interesting. A new challenge every day. I believe that would be many people’s definition of an interesting job. I’ve often thought that a job like yours, for example, would achieve the standard of interesting.”

She said nothing. They crossed Second Avenue, which divided Stuyvesant Square. The park’s gardens smelled of rich, churned-up soil. Claire imagined Tia here, gathering samples for her jam jars. Tulips burst in colors of apricot and white.