The Redhunter (43 page)

Dorothy Bontecou had told him she’d rather not meet with him in her house.

Alex understood. “Where, then?”

“I’ll make a reservation at Astaire’s. I know the people there, and I can get a little table at the far end of the dining
room. It’s Eighty-first and Columbus. Seven o’clock.”

“Thanks, Dorothy. I’ll be there.”

He lingered outside the door. Astaire’s was a utilitarian restaurant. Its front was a thick matted glass on which the restaurant’s
name showed gold leaf in rococo script. To the right of the window on the inlaid white column a trim green felt frame featured
that day’s menu. Alex looked through the glass hoping that the table reserved might be visible, however thick the glass through
which he had to peer; at least he’d have an idea of Dorothy. He could not dislodge the picture of her in his memory, the striking
brunette with the demure and inquisitive expression. He saw her, in memory, lying in bed, her breasts only partly shielded
by the bed sheets. He wondered if he would recognize her immediately. She wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing him; he knew
that from the careful study of his mirror image three weeks ago. He was the same Alex Herrendon she knew.

He entered the restaurant. It was doing brisk Saturday night business. He was dismayed by the noise and bustle but was led
not into the main room, but to the left. He passed the cashier, on to what was really a large upholstered booth. Dorothy Bontecou
sat at the far corner, opposite. She wore a light blue V-neck dress and pearls. Her hair was gray, but otherwise as before,
the simple, feathered curls, the forehead clear. She had been reading a paperback, which now she drew away, extending her
hand. He took it and sat down across from her.

The waiter stood by. “Aperitif?”

Alex looked at her. “Still go with sherry on the rocks?”

She nodded.

“And for me, whiskey and soda. Scotch and soda.”

They talked about the day’s headlines, which spoke of Red China’s demand on the UN that it should pull U.S. forces out of
Taiwan. “You would think the GIs were an occupying power.”

“Yes, it’s very strange,” Dorothy said. “Who is welcome where. Whose presences are demanded. Did you know that Harry, in the
last months of service, was part of the army assigned to guard and repatriate the Russian soldiers and POWs? I haven’t talked
to Harry, but I know he’d wish there had been a Syngman Rhee in Germany in 1945.”

“Yes,” Alex said, repressing his own feeling on the matter. President Syngham Rhee of South Korea, ordered by the UN to send
back to North Korea the POWs who did not want to return to the Communist north, solved his problem by simply instructing his
guards to release the prisoners—just let them go.

“I didn’t know that about Harry.”

“You know that Harry works for Senator McCarthy?”

“Yes. I do know that. He is mentioned quite often in the press. He travels a lot with the senator.”

“I don’t like it that Harry is so close to the senator. The whole thing’s a mixed-up situation. I am one hundred percent on
the senator’s side on the broad picture, and that’s why Harry went down there, on the anti-Communist enterprise. But it seems
to me he’s been going wild a lot of the time. You knew Harry was the editor of the
Spectator?”

Alex nodded. “I competed to join the staff as a sophomore, in 1925, but gave up after two weeks, too much else to do. I didn’t
make it.”

“I remember you competed. You talked to Jesse about pulling out. Yes. Harry’s commitment is very strong, on the Communist
problem. He fought the Henry Wallace people very hard and studied under Willmoore Sherrill. Do you know about
him?”

“Again—I’ve heard about him. The anti-Communist
fons et origo
at Columbia. Remember the term Jesse and I used back then, to describe Nicholas Murray Butler?”

She laughed. “ ‘Thomas Aquinas,
fons et origo
of scholasticism.’ I can’t remember, did you teach
me
that, or did I teach
you
that? You were more learned than I, even as a sophomore. On the other hand, I had graduated from a Catholic college, was
married to an intellectual, and had four years of Latin. I wouldn’t have had any trouble on Aquinas being pushed as the ‘fountain
and origin’ of scholasticism.”

The drinks came in. They delayed ordering dinner.

“So Harry is communicating Sherrill’s Laws to Senator McCarthy. Well, it’s hard to know who is instructing McCarthy, except
his rampant ego—”

“Alex. Let’s not argue McCarthy.” They spoke instead of Jesse and his poetry. Alex took courage, draining his glass: Listen:
He recited a sonnet.

“That’s his most famous, I’d say. It’s in a couple of anthologies. By the way, when Jesse spoke those lines he ran the last
couplet together: ‘Inlaid then with glassed eyes/The movement stilled, the sunlit skies.’ No pause.”

“I’ll remember.” He caught the eye of the waiter. He ordered another round of drinks and the menu.

“Alex. Why are you here? It can’t be for the pleasure of seeing me after twenty-five years. We made a pretty firm decision
back then. I’ve observed it, zero communications with you—about me, about Jesse, about … Harry. And you did the same thing.
Though Jesse did hear that you married. I’m glad. Children?”

Alex’s throat clutched. “We had a daughter. Judith—my wife—died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. Jesse died in 1943.”

“I knew that. I was at the funeral.”

“You
were at the funeral?”

“Yes. At St. Ignatius. I was in the rear. I saw you, of course. I also saw Harry.”

“Divine, wasn’t he—isn’t he?”

“A very handsome young man.” He looked down at the menu. “I knew his age, of course. He must have gone off to war just about
that time?”

“One year later, 1944.”

They paused. The waiter was hovering over them. They gave him the order for their meal. Dorothy Bontecou ordered the grilled
salmon; Alex ordered sweetbreads. Both asked for garlic soup.

“So, Alex, why now?”

“Because our son, Harry, is sleeping with my daughter, Robin.”

Dorothy Bontecou turned pale.

Reaching for her purse, she knocked over her cocktail glass. Alex brought out his napkin and caught the liquid before it reached
her lap. The waiter appeared. Dorothy mumbled an apology.

“No matter, ma’am, no matter, we have
lots
of tablecloths.” He removed the other glasses, the knives, spoons, and forks, the candle, then the tablecloth. Humming a
tune, he wiped the table clean, reached in the drawer opposite the cashier for a fresh cloth and napkin, placed the cloth
over the table, gave the napkin to Alex, returned the knives, spoons, and forks, the candle, and, finally, Alex’s glass. “I
will come back with a fresh sherry.”

“Thank you, I don’t want another drink.”

“Okay, ma’am. I’ll be along with the soup.”

She looked down at the napkin, fiddling with it with both hands.

“I won’t say, Are you sure? You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t sure. Has Robin spoken of any—plans?”

“No. But what you’re thinking about can’t be ruled out. My opposition, when I learned who she was going out with, was so—explosive—there’s
the awful possibility they’d—”

“Elope?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, God, Alex.” Dorothy looked down and spoke with difficulty. “So she has to be told.”

“So she has to know about Harry, yes, Dorothy. … Does he know—you never told him—his father was … somebody else?”

“No.”

“He—that would be obvious—never found out about Jesse’s problem?”

“How could he?
I
never told him.”

“Dorothy, I never showed you this.” He reached into the pocket of his coat.

Dorothy put on her glasses. “What is it?”

“A letter from Jesse. Written the day Harry was born. It’s not long.”

She took the envelope and pulled out a single sheet. She recognized instantly the script. It read,

Dear Alex:

I knew it had happened. I didn’t raise my voice. Dorothy wanted a child so desperately, and I couldn’t give her one. You have
made her very happy. Made us very happy. I am grateful. We will not be in touch again.

Ever, Jesse

Alex spoke to her. “I have to do something about Robin. You have to do something about Harry.”

Dorothy got up from her seat. “I really can’t have anything to eat. I have to go home. It’s not your fault, Alex. I don’t
blame you … for anything.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

“No, Alex. I’ll go. I’ll … take care of Harry. Good night.”

The waiter arrived at that moment with the two bowls of soup. He stopped short. Dorothy Bontecou brushed by him on her way
out.

“The … lady is not feeling too well. Bring me the check, please.”

Harry wondered at the telegram from his mother. She was temperamentally averse to melodrama, but here she had wired him, “
PLEASE COME IMMEDIATELY. HEALTH ALL RIGHT. DO NOT PHONE. JUST COME. MOM
.”

He was tempted to disregard her instructions and call her anyway, if only to establish the authenticity of the telegram. But
he must guard against being suspicious, he reminded himself: Just because you work for Joe McCarthy, don’t start off by doubting
that two and two make four. He called Mary Haskell. All he’d need, with Mary, was to say those few words. “Mother needs me.”

He was on the train at two and arrived at Pennsylvania Station at seven. He had wired back, “
COMING APPROX 7:30. LOVE HARRY.
”

She opened the door for him, took his coat, and offered him a glass of wine. He took it, closely observing her, apparently
unchanged since his last visit a month ago.

She sat down opposite him in the living room.

“Darling Harry, let’s start with this. Your father, after we had been married a few years, was disappointed we had no children—”

Harry would put a quick end to the excruciating snail pace.

“Mother. I know about Dad. When I went through his trunk for the insurance information I read the letter from his doctor.”

Dorothy stared. “All this time you knew?”

“Yes. What was the point in telling you I knew?”

She paused. “I see. I see. No point. No point. Then you knew, of course, that I had a lover.”

“Obviously I had to know that.”

“Harry, the first thing I want you to know is that … my Jesse and your … father were friends.”

“That’s nice.”

The moment he said it he regretted it.

His mother simply went on. “And when your father—when Jesse—found out I was going to have the baby I so terribly wanted—oh,
Harry, how I longed for a child—Jesse knew right away who it was.”

She turned her head to one side.

“He told me two things. The first was, I must promise never to see him again. The second—”now she broke into sobs—“was that
he was very happy, for my sake—and for his.”

Harry, got up, went to her, and put his arms around his mother. She wept on, but finally drew breath.

“I can’t even imagine,” she managed through her tears, “what it would have been like without you, Harry.” He soothed her,
brushing back her hair, and, in a while, she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. She brought it down and gripped the arms
of her chair. She turned her head again. And pronounced the words metallically.

“He is Alex Herrendon.”

Harry turned slowly. He walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He sat there for a long time, looking every now and then at the
telephone. Finally his mother knocked.

“You must have something to eat. And you must know that Alex agreed to speak to Robin at the same time I spoke with you. It’s
nine o’clock. She knows now.”

It was when he heard this that Harry collapsed on the bed. His mother stayed outside the closed door. It was an hour before
the convulsive sobs died down. She opened the door enough to see Harry, on the bed, fully dressed, face down. She prayed he
was asleep. She didn’t want to find out.

HANBERRY, 1991

It was the tenth day of their collaboration. Alex Herrendon and Harry Bontecou worked every day, Alex working out his passion
to put his finger on what he thought the great question raised by the twentieth century: the capacity of totalitarian movements
to capture the loyalty not only of multitudes of people, but of intellectuals. And Harry, the historian, wanted to tell the
story of the most prominent American figure in the anti-Communist scene in America in the early fifties.

Alex and Harry worked together in the same library, the sometime Red and the sometime Redhunter. They were reaching a level
of investigative conviviality that began to affect the nature of their feelings toward one another. It was after a substantial
dinner by the fire that Alex brought it up.

“It’s becoming a little weary—wouldn’t you agree, Harry?—our joint inhibition, our … coping with great questions side by side
with our refusal to touch on the personal questions?”

He looked over at Harry, whose hand was on the side table, his fingers playing with the coffee cup’s handle. Harry said nothing.