Breeding Ground (15 page)

“Long enough, I will say, for her to stop cleaning her room or helping with household chores.” Grace smiled without looking at Jo and paused before she spoke again. “It was as we talked during those early weeks that I began to notice discrepancies in the stories she told of her past.

“One of the most telling examples was at the very center of her narrative – that she had been left penniless with nowhere to live. That she had been seduced by an unscrupulous older man and left with no way to recover her child, though she'd searched for her as best she could.

“And yet, I never saw the first indication that she was searching for her daughter. When she received a call from the child's father—”

“How would he know where to call her?”

“He'd phoned an army friend of his in Louisville with whom Tara had kept in touch.”

“Ah.”

“When the father called, I answered the telephone in the living room where I was working. The father told me he was phoning to tell Tara, as he said he had several times before, that her daughter was very well, and that an experienced babysitter cared for her when he was at work. He said he wanted to make sure that the money he'd left her had seen her through. And he also claimed to have paid six months' rent in advance. Which led him to ask why she'd moved.”

“That's interesting.”

“Yes. So I told Tara she had a call, and gathered up my papers with the intention of leaving her alone. The phone in the living room was the only one we possessed. And since I was a university instructor then and had term papers scattered hither and yon, it took me a moment to collect them. She spoke to him only briefly and didn't ask about the child or when she could see her. He may have volunteered the answers to such questions, but all I heard Tara say was she still hadn't gotten over how badly he'd treated her, and she expected him to send more money. She hung up as I left the room, so no more was exchanged.”

“That's illuminating.”

“Perhaps. Though he might have been deliberately misleading me. Going out of his way to tell me he'd paid the rent and left Tara money, and that the daughter was being well cared for. When it might or might not have been true.

“But
then
I discovered Tara still possessed the apartment and had actually sublet it, and was putting away the income while living with us at our expense. The young woman renting it got our number from the father's army friend, whom I met later. She phoned and left a message with me saying she was trying to determine Tara's intentions, for she wanted to stay there for a year or more instead of renting on a monthly basis, and was also interested in buying Tara's furniture.”

Jo said, “Why am I not surprised?” as she reached for another lemon tart.

“It was shortly after that that I began to notice Tara was going out of her way to solicit the attentions of my husband's associate minister. He was a very kind fellow, still quite young, and unhappily single, and very inexperienced in the ways of the world. One could see he was becoming quite enamored. And once I saw the way the wind was blowing, I tried to put him on his guard.

“As a result, he began to notice how forward her behavior toward him was. And how increasingly frequent were the demands she made upon his time. She'd begun acting as though she had a right to expect to be catered to by him. And he subsequently asked more probing questions concerning her past. Eventually, he started to avoid her. And she accused me of interfering and ruining her life. She created a scene in the nave of the church, screaming very unsuitable remarks, until my husband took her by the arm and propelled her out of the church.

“She immediately phoned a young man of her acquaintance, the soldier who had been a friend of her daughter's father, the young man I mentioned before, asking him to come right away and help her move out. He was a shy young man I thought, and clearly solicitous of Tara, though he remained perfectly courteous to us and thanked us for what we'd done.

“She may have moved in with the young woman subletting her apartment, or she may have moved in with the young man. In either case, it would only have been for a matter of weeks. For the young man was shortly to be stationed in Germany, and within the blink of an eye they had married, and she had accompanied him to Europe.

“He visited us again before they departed and brought us household goods that may have been his or Tara's, for us to sell in our rummage sale. He was a very kind person, I thought, and protective of her, and very unaware of what I took to be her manipulation.”

Jo said, “When the Tara I knew didn't get what she wanted she'd get very nasty.”

“Yes, sad, isn't it? And such a terribly unfortunate way of perceiving compassion, and friendship, and love as well. As though they're simply to be used in achieving one's personal ends. I've often thought how unhappy she must be. No one and nothing will satisfy her. She'll never garner enough attention or love or security to fill the emptiness that torments her. Or so it seemed to me.”

“I guess I feel sorrier for the people she hurts.”

“I understand that, yes, I do too. But I should imagine there's psychological disturbance involved that plays a part in her behavior as well.”

“She was diagnosed with some sort of mental illness when she was a teenager. Her aunt says she refused treatment and wouldn't believe the diagnosis.”

“I don't imagine that's unusual. Though I'm certainly no authority.”

“I do know she deliberately slammed the doctor's hand in his door when she left the last time.”

“Oh, my.” Grace Willoughby's broad face, etched with crosshatching wrinkles, looked shocked then and appalled.

“Tara's marriage to the soldier ended badly too, by the way, from what her aunt says. And now she has custody of a second daughter and is raising her in Lexington.”

“That would be a concern too, wouldn't it? How does she appear to be treating her?”

“Her aunt thinks she cares about her in her own way. More than she ever has anyone else. But she's setting a disturbing example.”

“One can only pray that the child won't be damaged.”

“Yes. So would it be okay for me to give your name and telephone number to Spencer Franklin, her fiancé? And let him get in touch if he wants to?” Jo sat up straighter in her chair, her dark pony tail falling forward across one shoulder, her blue eyes searching the soft, still face. “I'll make notes of our conversation, but if you'd—”

“I'd be willing to speak with him, yes. Though I would like to think Tara has learned to treat people better than she once did. Or will, at least, in the future.”

“You think she will, do you?”

Grace Willoughby didn't say anything for a moment. She folded her napkin and laid it beside her teacup on the marble-topped table and settled her hands in her lap. “No, my dear. I don't. But I hope I'm wrong. Like all of us, in different ways, and in varying degrees, she's made herself and her own desires the center of her universe, in the very place God should be given. She's chosen darkness. One small choice after another. And choosing to turn away from the dark can become harder over time. And of course, there is the illness itself and whatever effects that may have.”

“I'd be very surprised if she changed for the better.”

“But should we allow ourselves to relish that possibility? To feel superior and contemptuous if she doesn't? You and I are honor bound to hope she chooses to change for the better.”

“I agree. Theoretically. But I'm not able to feel that yet. Though I do know what you mean.”

“My husband used to say that when he considered how he treated himself, he saw that he wished himself well, and was saddened when he behaved badly and pleased when he behaved rightly. And that trying to emulate that attitude to himself in his response to others might be a practical approach to loving one's neighbor as oneself.”

Jo nodded, feeling slightly ill at ease, and found herself changing the subject. “I think you'll enjoy talking to Spencer. He's a very nice guy.”

“You have no personal interest in him, do you? You're not involving yourself because you wish he would turn his attentions toward you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. He was a friend of my brother's, and mine too when we were growing up. But no, I have no romantic interest in him at all.”

“Good.” Grace Willoughby smiled and then laughed at Jo, apparently at the surprise and embarrassment that had swept across her face. “I'm sorry, my dear, to have startled you so. I do believe you. In fact, the strength of your reaction leads me to believe your interests may lie somewhere else entirely.”

Jo looked even more taken aback, and then she laughed too. “I can't say that they do at the moment. But I think interests like that can sneak up on us when we least expect them. Anyway, thank you so much for talking with me, and for the tea and the lemon tarts.”

“You're very welcome. I hope your efforts will help. And I do hope you'll come again. Since my retirement, I don't spend time with young people nearly as much as I would like.”

As soon as Alan got home from work, he pulled on his leathers and helmet, and drove his Bonneville from one climbing, winding, twisting road to the next.

They were roads made for motorcycles. For leaning over hard around curves, trying to shoot the apex; for feeling the cool of the valleys wash over him and the heat of the hilltops lick it away; for tasting the scents of damp woods and wildflowers streaming in through his helmet; for feeling the whine and rumble and vibration run through his blood and bone, making him feel alive.

And yet Alan didn't take chances. He was still riding, after starting as a kid, because he clamped his boots on the ground at stop signs, and slowed for every intersection, and drove as though no one else could see him and he had to think for them.

Though he didn't think while he rode, exactly. Not the way he did in a car. Not about work, or what he was reading, or what was happening with Kennedy and Khrushchev. He didn't dwell on Jo, or Jack, or how to deal with Brad. He lived right then, inside his body. Part machine, part road, part wind hitting him hard as though it could blow right through him. Forgetting the past and the future – and what he'd choose for both.

He set the kickstand and pulled on the cover while Jack took steaks off the grill. They sat on the screened-in porch in the back and ate as the sun slipped down behind the hill, washing blue sky with waves of salmon from a burning merthiolate core.

They started with what the doctors were saying, and how much better Jack was doing, and that he felt he was ready to start looking for a job. Alan told him about Blue Grass Horse Vans possibly needing maintenance help. And that Jo had said that when Jack got a job, she'd let him drive her pick-up as long as Toss was laid up, and she could drive his.

Alan had been looking for an opening for days, and when Jack told him about living in Paris, running up and down the Tuileries as a child, Alan said, “Maybe we should talk about what happened in Tours. I don't mean to rush you. If this doesn't seem like a good time, that's fine with me.”

Jack was quiet, as he stacked their plates, and pulled out his Camels. “Would you mind if I smoke out here? I won't, of course, in the house, as you know, but—”

“No, it's up to you.” Alan finished the last of his salad and set the bowl on the plates.

Jack lit his cigarette with a kitchen match and stared toward the white rope hammock hanging between two trees just beyond the porch. “I told you in the hospital that Jean Claude Lebel was the leader of the F.F.I. in and around Tours. Correct? The Forces Françaises de L'Intérieur.

“You told me there was an effective leader, but you didn't mention his name.”

“And you know that the F.F.I. were the moderates who supported DeGaulle before '44?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Lebel was the only person in the Resistance in that region who could've held the factions together. The Communists and the Rightists were at each others' throats, and no one else in the F.F.I. had the leadership abilities or had earned the general trust to direct the sabotage and intelligence gathering carried out by the Resistance.”

Jack settled a metal ashtray on his knee and rolled the ashes off the end of his cigarette before he spoke again. “When an organizational meeting was to be held, none of those attending knew where it would take place. Couriers would be informed the day of the meeting and told where to meet the people they'd escort. Those asked to the meeting would be told where to meet the couriers that same day.

“Each courier escorted one person. And contact procedures always differed, just as new signs and passwords would be used in every case. A woman courier might come up to the man she was escorting, slip her arm in his, and walk with him several blocks, then kiss him goodbye in front of a building, indicating thereby that this was the meeting place.

“Another courier might only walk by an attendee on a street corner and let himself be followed, after passwords or signals had been exchanged. Once the location was reached, the courier might indicate the building by bending over and tying a shoelace, or slipping a newspaper from one pocket to another, if that was the pre-established sign. The passwords and signals used were only communicated the day of the meeting, so as little opportunity as possible existed for betrayal.”

Alan nodded, as he poured himself coffee. “It sounds like a good approach.”

“Yes.” Jack was playing with his cigarette, circling the crushed end in the ashtray, tracing a path through the ashes. “The night we were rounded up by the Gestapo, we were to meet in a café on the Rue Jules Favré, not far from the opera house on the Rue de la Scellerie. We were to order and eat, either alone or with others, and study the room for indications that any of us had been watched or followed. If and when we were convinced all was well, and Lebel gave us the signal, we would then assemble upstairs in a rented bedroom, ostensibly to play cards.