By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda (7 page)

But then, this is America. It's what they
do.

Geoff drove on, impressed anew by the sheer
pulsing can-do spirit of the country and oddly dissatisfied with
the slower, more traditional pace of his own. When he came to an
open stretch of smooth road, he even found himself wishing he were
behind the wheel of Amanda's souped-up, eight-cylinder Submarine
Speedster instead of the more sedate but reassuring four-cylinder
vehicle he had agreed to deliver for Matt.

My God, what's happening to me? I'm turning
into a thrill-seeker.

As if he hadn't had thrills enough during
the war.

He pushed viciously against thoughts of the
war the way he'd taught himself to do. Sometimes that worked;
sometimes it didn't. This time it did, partly because he was
distracted by a road sign for New London in Connecticut. On a whim,
he detoured off Route 1 at the New London exit and got directions
to the Fain Ironworks.

It would never have occurred to Geoff to
open up an index card on Amanda Fain, but he was curious about the
"family holdings" nonetheless: the lure of a shipyard for some men
was strong.

He arrived at the gate and found himself
face to face with a scruffy band of sign-carrying protesters. There
were a dozen of them—not enough to make an impact, just enough to
make a nuisance. The pacifists among them carried placards saying,
"The War Is Over—No More Ships" and "Stop the Killing—Stop the
Navy." The more practical ones bore signs saying, "More Wages for
More Work" and "Shipyard Workers Unite." Something about them set
his nerves humming. When the tallest one turned around and marched
toward his car, he knew why: it was Lajos, from the Café Budapest.
In broad daylight he looked less threatening, more surly, as if
he'd been dragged back home by his mother from a softball game to
practice the violin.

Geoff had no idea what proper protocol was
in such a case but was spared the awkwardness of making small talk
through the car window when Lajos turned abruptly on his heel and
marched north with his placard. In a moment Geoff was cleared for a
visit to Jim Fain and shortly after was having a box of Cuban
cigars nudged into his ribs by Amanda's harried, angry father.

"Have a smoke. Good to see you, by God. I
don't suppose you know anything about mob control?" he demanded,
obviously alluding to the protesters.

"You could always try firing over their
heads," answered Geoff with a droll smile.

"Ha. In a shipyard doing government work?
But I'll tell you what: I'd like to pack all those little Bolshies
into a leaky freighter and send 'em back where they came from. By
God." He bit off the tip of a cigar and torpedoed it through his
teeth into a metal waste can. "But never mind. The
Courier
hasn't paid them no mind for the last three weeks; I don't see why
we should. Sooner or later they'll find a bigger fish to
picket."

"You don't do much for the military here,
then?" asked Geoff.

"A few destroyers is all. The Bethlehem and
Bath yards between them will have built fifty destroyers by the end
of the year, and twenty-three subs—never mind the contract they've
got for a battle cruiser. But who gets picketed? The yard that's
closest to the Bolshies' New York den, that's who. It makes
absolutely no difference that most of our contracts are for
building merchant ships. It's a matter of geography. But never
mind. What can I do for you?"

"To be honest, I'm heading back to New York
and you're right on the way," Geoff answered, aware that he was
thinking not unlike a Bolshevik. "My uncle has a boatyard in the
Isle of Wight; I used to work there during summer recess. No matter
what country I visit, I seem to end up on its coast and in its
yards."

"Ever thought of getting a job in one?"

"As I said, I used to work summers—"

"I don't mean that dilettante stuff. I mean
eight-thirty to five, six days a week."

"I don't think my uncle—"

"I don't
mean
your uncle. Come with
me."

Over Geoff's protests that he was taking up
Fain's time, Jim Fain hauled him from building to building on a
whirlwind tour of the shipyard's facilities.

Over the clang of steel and the hiss of the
welder's rod, Fain gave Geoff the lowdown on U.S. shipbuilding.
"Two years ago American flag-vessels carried only about a fifth of
our foreign trade," he shouted over the din. "This year the figure
ought to be closer to fifty percent. It's about time. We're the
richest country in the world, and we need a merchant fleet worthy
of its name. But then, I don't have to tell you that. You're a
Brit, and 'Britannia rules the waves.' Ain't that how the song
goes?"

Geoff smiled modestly, awed by the furious
activity around them. Britannia wouldn't be ruling those waves for
long.

"Well, I'll say this, by God," warned Fain.
"Before long the U.S. will be the world's greatest shipbuilder, and
I mean to be there when we reach the top. Merchant ships or naval
ships, it's all the same to me; I'll take whatever the U.S.
Shipping Board throws my way."

"You look capable of hitting any pitch,"
agreed Geoff. What an astonishing amount of enthusiasm the man had,
and yet he was sixty if he was a day.

"'Course, we can't turn out a destroyer in a
month and a half like that damned Squantum yard used to; but then
again, we're not at war. Anyway, it's all a matter of getting
organized. When I took over the yard from my ex-partner, it wasn't
much more than a junkyard: scrap everywhere, rotting bulkheads,
silted over railways. We've dredged and rebuilt and expanded, and I
don't mind admitting I didn't know the first thing about
shipbuilding. But with a little bit of working capital, and a
little bit of expert help—well, you see the possibilities. I've
just bought a chunk of shoreline west of here, for a second yard.
And I suppose you know how high International Mercantile Marine
stock is flying nowadays. Yes indeed; the future looks bright."

Jim Fain was bursting with pride, the
unmistakable sign of a self-made man. He behaved totally unlike
those whose fortunes have been handed to them, who tended to react
in either of two ways: either they were comfortable with the
notion, like Matt Stevenson, or they went into agonies of
conscience over it. Amanda Fain, for instance, probably
agonized.

They were in shed number four, looking over
a small wood freighter that had seen better days and was now being
overhauled and refurbished, when they ran into David Fain. He was
looking a little harried himself and seemed to be bullying the shed
foreman about something. When he saw his father and Geoff, he ended
the conversation abruptly and came over to them.

"Problem?" asked Jim Fain.

"Frank says the garboard's rotten and has to
be replaced. I say it's not and doesn't. He'd like to take the
summer and bring the ship back to new condition. The fool doesn't
understand that we'd have to charter it for the next hundred years
to get our money back." David brought out a handkerchief and mopped
his wet brow. He was visibly upset by the run-in.

"My son has made a great leap forward this
week on the road to success," said his father, beaming. "He's hit
on the idea of buying neglected but salvageable ships, fixing them
up, and putting them into service for us."

"You haven't seen Amanda, have you?" David
asked them, ignoring the compliments his father was heaping on his
head. "She was supposed to meet me here at noon."

Fain's mood sharpened abruptly. "I've told
her not to set foot in the yard or I'll have her arrested. She can
stay outside on the picket line with the rest of her pals."

"She never told me that," said David,
surprised.

"She probably didn't tell you the name of
her latest project in bronze, either: she plans to call it 'Ship.'
I suppose she's going to show some destroyer fallen off the ways
onto its side and squashing some yardhand underneath. Or maybe
mowing down a mother and her babes rowing a skiff at sea. Well,
she's not going to draw her inspiration from Fain's Ironworks if I
have anything to say about it!"

"Don't take her so seriously, Dad. No one
else does. She's a
sculptress,
for crissake!"

"Yeah, well she's also a damned
rabble-rouser. All I need is a strike, and I promise you I'll
throttle your sister with my own bare hands."

His face was beet-red angry. Geoff found
himself hoping fervently that Amanda was nowhere on the premises;
he wanted to believe his days of witnessing bloodshed were behind
him. He wandered away a step or two from the conversation,
wondering how it was that the Fain family managed with such
alacrity to make him feel like one of the servants, as if he wasn't
there. In a minute David took his leave, nodding brusquely to Geoff
on his way out, and Fain began at last to return his attention to
his guest.

"Never have children," he warned Geoff.
"Breed cockatoos, collect stamps, but never, ever allow the little
time bombs to come ticking into your life. They will blow up in
your face when you least expect it."

"It's something to think about, certainly,"
answered Geoff.

"Aah, I don't really mean that. After all,
you've got to pass it all on to someone, otherwise what's the
point?" He sighed heavily, sounding more like a sixty-year-old man
than he had half an hour before. "Anyway, the little buggers tend
to turn around when you least expect it. Look at David. A month ago
I thought there was no hope for him. Always getting into scrapes,
showing up at the brokerage office when he felt like it. Then
suddenly here he is with a plan to make some dough, a plan
I
never even thought of. Kids. You just never know."

They were outside the shed now, and two or
three men in the yard lined up immediately with questions for Fain.
Geoff took his leave, and Fain, distracted, said, "Uh,
yeah—anytime." Geoff hadn't got too far when he called him
back.

"Hey, Geoff—come to dinner tonight! We never
got to talk."

Geoff, not all that fond of driving in
circles, began to demur, but Fain cut him off. "Eight o'clock. Be
there."

In Geoff's set one did not press. "It's very
kind, but—"

"You can stay the night and go in to the
City tomorrow. But today have a swim, relax, whatever. I'll be home
by six or seven. Just tell Martha who you are." He waved a brisk
goodbye and stalked off with one of the yardmen.

Geoff was left to stare bemused at the back
of the powerfully built man.
Fear God. Honor the King,
he
reminded himself, and shrugged. Besides, he had nothing better to
do. Why not a swim?

Four hours later Geoff was pulling into the
cobblestone drive of Jim Fain's estate and wondering why he was
letting himself be dragged around like a friendly puppy by
different members of the Fain family. Since the war he'd lost his
ability to exert himself, he knew, but lately he was beginning to
feel as if part of his brain had been blown away along with part of
his right side. Absolutely nothing stimulated him anymore. He found
no thrill in sports, in poetry, in music—in the few things which
gave him an occasional spark of pleasure after his injury. There
was the very sexy interlude aboard the liner with Lotsy; for a day
or two his juices flowed and he began to have hope. But by now he'd
forgotten what all the fuss was about. There were no Lotsy's in
Newport. He stood at the beautifully polished oak door waiting to
be admitted, uttering a silent prayer that Jim Fain had called
ahead.

No such luck. Mrs. Fain wasn't even in,
which made his position even more awkward. Geoff began immediately
to backpedal before the housemaid, but she laughed and said, "Mr.
Fain does this all the time. We never know who's corning next. I
think a robber could wander in off the street and we'd treat him
just the same—stick him in a bedroom and show him all the silver.
Do you have a bag in your car? I'll send someone after it."

Not long after that Geoff had dipped into
the kidney-shaped pool that lay adjacent to the house. His temper
had cooled along with his body temperature; the prohibited martini
tasted as close to the English version—straight vermouth—as he
could hope and finished off the job of mellowing his foul mood.
Mergate was a dandy place, and the nicest thing about it was that
there was no one in it but him. He sighed happily and closed his
eyes.

He must have dozed off, because the water
that was sprinkled on him felt joltingly cold on his sun-warmed
body. He jumped and his eyes opened.

"Ah. Miss Fain."

Who else?

"Afternoon, Mr. Seton. I looked out my
studio window and there you were. Thought I'd come by and be
neighborly."

Amanda was wearing a kind of smock, and he
thought she did look rather arty: no makeup, hair pinned back away
from her face, dirty fingernails. She had freckles, which surprised
him, and her lips were not as full as when they were painted. Her
square jaw looked squarer than ever, but it was her gypsy eyes that
held his attention most: as dark as the pupils were, that's how
white the whites were. He thought of the pale, bloodshot eyes of
her brother David and wondered which of the two siblings belonged
to the milkman. No one in the Fain family looked like anyone
else.

"That's your studio?" he asked, nodding
toward the handsome carriage house close by.

"One of them. I only do gas-welding here,
and clay work. The bigger pieces are done in a studio in Greenwich
Village, which has a furnace. My father thinks I'm a fire
hazard."

"I did get the impression he wasn't too keen
on the line of work you chose. Maybe he's concerned for your
safety."

"That's one way of looking at it. The truth
is, Mother would prefer me to work with watercolors, because
they're not smelly. Dad wants me to paint in oils, because he'd
like his portrait done. Neither one of them wants me to run around
wearing a welder's mask and asbestos gloves, obviously. They have
this obsessive idea that it doesn't look feminine," she said with a
straight face.