Stillwatch (27 page)

Eleanor was timid . . . she never chewed gum in classor talked when the teacher was out of the room . . .she loved her job in the Senator ’ office . . . she hadjust been promoted . . . she was taking art classes . . .she was going to Baltimore that day to sketch. . . .

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Pat read and reread her notes. A girl doing well at a responsiblejob who had just been given a promotion, but so stupid she had hiddenstolen money in her own storage room.
Some
stolen money. The bulk of it—$70,000—was never found.A girl as timid as that would be a poor witness in her own defense.Eleanor had had a nervous breakdown in prison. She would have hadto be a consummate actress to fake that. But she had violated her parole.And what about Toby? He had been the witness who contradictedEleanor ’s story. He had sworn he never phoned her that morning.Senator Jennings had confirmed that Toby was driving her at the timeof the alleged call.Would Senator Jennings deliberately lie for Toby, deliberately allowan innocent girl to go to prison?But suppose someone who
sounded
like Toby had phoned Eleanor?In that case all three—Eleanor, Toby and the Senator—had been tellingthe truth. Who else would have known about Eleanor ’s storage spacein her apartment building? What about the person who had made thethreats, broken in here, left the doll? Could he be the
x
factor in thedisappearance of the campaign funds?The doll. Pat pushed back her chair and reached for the cartonjammed under the library table, then changed her mind. There wasnothing to be gained by looking at the doll now. The sight of thatweeping face was too unsettling. After the program was aired, if therewere no more threats, she’d throw it away. If there were any moreletters or phone calls or attempted break-ins, she’d have to show thedoll to the police.On the next page in her pad she wrote
Toby,
then fished throughthe desk drawer for the cassettes of her interviews.She had recorded Toby in the car that first afternoon. He hadn’trealized she was taping him, and his voice was somewhat muffled.She turned the sound as high as possible, pushed the “play” buttonand began to take notes.

Maybe Abby stuck her neck out for me . . . I wasworking for a bookie in New York and almost got introuble . . . I used to drive Abby and Willard Jenningsto that house for parties . . . cute little kid, Kerry.

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She was glad to switch to the interview with the waitress, EthelStubbins, and her husband, Ernie. They had said something aboutToby. She found the segment, Ernie saying, “Say hello to him for me.Ask him if he’s still losing money on the horses.”Jeremy Saunders had discussed Toby. She listened to his derisiveremarks about the joyriding incident. his story about his father ’sbuying off Abigail: “I always thought Toby had a hand in it.”After hearing the last of the cassettes, Pat read and reread hertranscriptions. She knew what she had to do. If Eleanor turned herselfin and was sent back to prison, Pat vowed she would stay with thecase until she had satisfied herself as to Eleanor ’s guilt or innocence.And if it turns out I believe her story, Pat thought, I’ll do everythingI can to help her. Let the chips fall where they may—including AbigailJennings’ chips.Pat wandered from the library into the foyer, and then to thestaircase. She glanced up, then hesitated.
The step above the turn.That’s where I used to sit.
Impulsively she hurried up the stairs, saton that step, leaned her head against the baluster and closed her eyes.
Her father was in the foyer. She had shrunk deeper into theshadows, knowing that he was angry, that this time he would not jokeabout finding her here. She had run back to bed.
She hurried up the rest of the staircase. Her old room was past theguest room, across the back of the house, overlooking the garden. Itwas empty now.She’d walked in here that first morning as the moving men werescurrying through the house, but it had evoked absolutely nomemories. Now it seemed she could remember the bed with the frillywhite canopy, the small rocking chair near the window with the musicbox, the shelves of toys.I came back to bed that night. I was frightened because Daddywas so angry. The living room is right underneath this room. I couldhear voices; they were shouting at each other. Then the loud noiseand Mother screaming, “No . . . No!”
Mother screaming. After the loud noise. Had she been able toscream after she was shot or had she screamed when she realizedshe had shot her husband?
Pat felt her body begin to shake. She grasped the door for support,

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felt the dampness in her palms and forehead. Her breath was comingin short, hard gasps. She thought, I am afraid. But it’s over. It was solong ago.She turned and realized she was running down the hall; she wasrushing down the staircase. I am back there, she thought. I am goingto remember.
“Daddy, Daddy,”
she called softly. At the foot of thestairs, she turned and began to stumble through the foyer, her armsoutstretched.
Daddy . . . Daddy!
At the living-room door she crumpled to her knees Vague shadowswere around her but would not take form. Burying her face in herhands, she began to sob . . .” Mother, Daddy, come home.”
She had awakened and there had been a strange baby-sitter.Mother. Daddy. I want my mother. I want my daddy. And they hadcome. Mother rocking her. Kerry, Kerry it’s all right Daddy pattingher hair; his arms around both of them Shhh, Kerry, we’re here.
After a while Pat slid into a sitting position and leaned against thewall, staring into the room. Another memory had broken through.She was sure it was accurate. No matter which one was guilty thatlast night, she thought fiercely, I know that both of them loved me. . . .

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There was a movie theater on Wisconsin Avenue that opened at ten.Arthur went into a cafeteria near it and dawdled over coffee, thenwalked around the neighborhood until the box office opened.Whenever he was upset, he liked to go to the movies. He wouldchoose a seat near the back and against the wall. And he’d buy thetallest bag of popcorn and sit and eat and watch unseeingly as thefigures moved on the screen.He liked the feeling of people near him but not conscious of him,the voices and music on the soundtrack, the anonymity of the darkenedauditorium. It gave him a place to think. Now he settled in and staredblankly at the screen.It had been a mistake to set the fire. There had been no mention ofit in the newspaper. When he got off the Metro, he’d phoned thenursing home and the operator had answered at once. He’d muffledhis voice: “I’m Mrs. Harnick’s son. How serious was the fire?”“Oh, sir, it was discovered almost at once. A smoldering cigarettein the trash bag. We didn’t know any of the guests were even awareof it.”That meant they must have seen the overturned can of turpentine.No one would believe it had tipped accidentally.If only he hadn’t mentioned the monastery. Of course, the officethere might simply say: “Yes, our records indicate Arthur Stevenswas with us for a short time.”Suppose they were pressed for details? “He left at the suggestionof his spiritual director.”“May we speak to the spiritual director?”“He died some years ago.”Would they tell why he had been asked to leave?Would they study the records of the nursing home and see which

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patients had died in these few years and how many of them he hadhelped to nurse? He was sure they wouldn’t understand that he wasonly being kind, only alleviating suffering.Twice before he’d been questioned when patients he had cared forhad slipped away to the Lord.“Were you glad to see them die, Arthur?”“I was glad to see them at peace. I did everything possible to helpthem get well or at least be comfortable.”When there was no hope, no relief from pain, when old peoplebecame too weak to even whisper or moan, when the doctors andrelatives agreed it would be a blessing if God took them, then, andonly then, did he help them slip away.If he had known that Anita Gillespie was looking forward to seeingher daughter, he would have waited. It would have given him so muchjoy to know Mrs. Gillespie died happy.That was the problem. She had been fighting death, not reconciledto it. That was why she had been too frightened to understand he wasonly trying to help her.It was his concern for Glory that had made him so careless. Hecould remember the night the worry had begun. They were havingdinner at home together, each reading a section of the newspaper,and Glory had cried, “Oh, dear God!” She was looking at the televisionpage of the
Tribune
and had seen the announcement of the SenatorJennings program. It would include the highlights of her career. Hehad begged Glory not to be upset; he was sure it would be all right.But she hadn’t listened. She’d started to sob. “Maybe it’s better toface it,” she’d said. “I don’t want to live my life like this any longer.”Right then her attitude began to change. He stared ahead, heedlesslychewing on the popcorn. He had not been given the privilege offormally taking his vows. Instead, he had sworn them privately.Poverty, chastity, and obedience. Never once had he broken them—but he used to get so lonely. . . .Then nine years ago he’d met Glory. She’d been sitting in the drearywaiting room of the clinic, clutching the Raggedy Ann doll and waitingher turn to see the psychiatrist. The doll was what had caught hisattention. Something made him wait around outside for her.

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They’d started walking toward the bus stop together. He’dexplained he was a priest but had left parish work to work directlywith the sick. She’d told him all about herself, how she’d been inprison for a crime she didn’t commit and she was on parole and livedin a furnished room. “I’m not allowed to smoke in my room,” shetold him, “or even have a hot plate so I can fix coffee or soup when Idon’t want to go out to the drugstore to eat.”They went for ice cream and it began to get dark. She said she waslate and the woman where she lived would be angry. Then she startedto cry and said she’d rather be dead than go back there. And he hadtaken her home with him. “You will be a child in my care,” he’d toldher. And she was like a helpless child. He gave her his bedroom andslept on the couch, and in the beginning she would just lie in bed andcry. For a few weeks the cops came around the clinic to see if she’dshown up again, but then they lost interest.They’d gone to Baltimore. That was when he told her he was goingto tell everyone that she was his daughter. “You call me Fatheranyhow,” he said. And he had named her Gloria.Slowly she had started to get better. But for nearly seven years shehad left the apartment only at night; she was so sure that a policemanwould recognize her. He’d worked in different nursing homes aroundBaltimore, and then two years ago it was necessary to leave and they’dcome to Alexandria. Glory loved being near Washington, but shewas afraid she might run into people who knew her. He convincedher that was foolish. “None of the people from the Senator ’s officewould ever come near this neighborhood.” Even so, whenever Glorywent out, she wore dark glasses. Gradually her spells of depressionbegan to ease. She needed less and less of the medicine he broughtfrom the nursing home, and she’d gotten the typing job.Arthur finished the popcorn. He would not leave Washington untiltomorrow night, after he’d seen the program about Senator Jennings.He never helped people slip away until there was absolutely nothingthe doctors could do for them, until his voices directed him that theirtime had come. Neither would he condemn Patricia Traymore withoutevidence. If she did not talk about Glory on the program or show herpicture, Glory would be safe. He would arrange to meet her and they’dgo away together.

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But if Glory was exposed to the world as a thief, she would giveherself up. This time she would die in prison. He was sure of it. Hehad seen enough people who had lost the will to live. But if ithappened, Patricia Traymore would be punished for that terrible sin!He would go to the house where she lived and mete out justice to her.Three Thousand N Street. Even the house where Patricia Traymorelived was a symbol of suffering and death.The movie was ending. Where could he go now?

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