“Immediate revelation being a much easier way for men to establish their opinions and regulate their conduct than the tedious and not always successful labor of strict reasoning, it is no wonder that some have been very apt to pretend to revelation, and to persuade themselves that they are under the peculiar guidance of heaven in their actions and opinions …”
As she recited, obviously from memory, Martin regarded her with astonishment. Observing him, she stopped, blushed slightly, then continued.
“Their minds being thus prepared, whatever groundless opinion comes to settle itself strongly upon their fancies is an illumination from the Spirit of God and presently of divine authority; and whatsoever odd action they find in themselves a strong inclination to do, that impulse is concluded to be a call or direction from heaven …”
Yvonne stopped, giggled, then said with embarrassment, “That’s enough.”
“No, no!” Martin urged, “Go on, please! If you can.”
She said doubtfully, “You’re making fun of me.”
“Not in any slightest way.”
“All right.” She recited again.
“… enthusiasm, which, though founded neither on reason nor divine revelation, but rising from the conceits of a warmed or overweening brain … men being most forwardly obedient to the impulses they receive from themselves … For strong conceit, like a new principle, carries all easily with it, when got above common sense, and freed from all restraint of reason …”
Yvonne concluded the passage, then stopped, those blue, innocent-appearing eyes fixed on Martin, making clear she was still wondering about his reaction, doubtful of herself.
He said, his tone incredulous, “I do recall that quotation now. And I don’t believe you got a single word wrong. How did you do it?”
“Well … I remember things.”
“Anything? And always in such detail?”
“I suppose so.”
It reminded Martin that even when reporting trivial gossip, Yvonne always seemed to have the details right—names, dates, places, sources, background facts. He had noted that subconsciously, but without significance until now.
He asked, “How many times do you have to read something until you’ve memorized it?”
“Once, mostly. But with Locke it was twice.” Yvonne still looked uncomfortable, as if Martin had uncovered a guilty secret.
He said, “I want to try something.”
Going to another room, he found a book he was sure Yvonne had not seen before. It was Locke’s The Conduct of the Understanding. Opening it to a page he had once marked, he told her, “Read this. From here to here.”
“Can I read it twice?”
“Of course.”
She put her head down, her long blond hair tumbling forward while she frowned in concentration, then she lowered the book. Martin took it from her and instructed, “Now tell me what you read.”
He followed the words as she repeated them.
“There are fundamental truths that lie at the bottom, the basis upon which a great many others rest, and in which they have their consistency. These are teeming truths, rich in store, with which they furnish the mind, and, like the lights of heaven, are not only beautiful and entertaining in themselves, but give light and evidence to other things, that without them could not be seen or known. Such is that admirable discovery of Mr. Newton that all bodies gravitate …”
She went on for several paragraphs more, Martin finding each word exactly as printed in the book he held.
At the end, Yvonne pronounced, “That piece is beautiful.”
“So are you,” he told her. “And so is what you have. Do you know what it is?”
Again that unease, the hesitation. “You tell me.”
“You’ve a photographic memory. It’s something special and unique. Surely you must have known.”
“In a way. But I never wanted to be different. Not a circus freak.” There was a break in Yvonne’s voice. For the first time since he had known her, Martin sensed tears not far away.
“Who, in God’s name, ever said you were a freak?”
“A teacher at school.”
Under Martin’s tender questioning the story came out.
She had written an examination and, because of that photographic memory, many of her answers were identical with material in textbooks. The woman teacher who marked the paper accused Yvonne of cheating. Later, Yvonne’s denial was disbelieved. In desperation she had given an example of memorizing similar to the one Martin just witnessed.
The teacher, angry at being proved wrong, had scoffed at Yvonne’s ability, describing her as a “circus freak” and her kind of learning as “worthless.”
Martin interrupted. “It isn’t worthless if you understand what you’ve learned.”
“Oh, I did understand.”
“I believe that,” he assured her. “You’ve a good brain. I’ve seen it function.”
But after her clash with the teacher, Yvonne not only concealed her gift, she attempted to discard it. When studying, she consciously tried not to memorize sentences and phrases and, in part, succeeded. But doing so also lessened her understanding of what she was required to learn, with the result that she did poorly in examinations and failed the one that might have got her into veterinary college.
“Teachers can do a lot that’s good,” Martin said. “But stupid ones can do great harm.”
Yvonne, looking sad as she remembered, said nothing, and a silence followed during which Martin concentrated, thinking.
At length he said, “You’ve done so much for me. Maybe, for a change, I can do something for you. Would you still like to be a vet?”
The question took her by surprise. “Is it possible?”
“Many things are possible. The point is: do you want it?”
“Of course. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“Then let me make some inquiries,” Martin said. “Let’s see what I find out.”
It did not take long.
Two days later, after dinner at home which Yvonne prepared, Martin said, “Let’s sit and talk. I have things to tell you.”
In the small living room, he relaxed in his leather armchair while Yvonne curled up on the rug in front. Despite her good intentions, she still had not shed her surplus weight, though Martin made clear it didn’t bother him; he liked the fullness of Yvonne’s body and its curves, which he regarded fondly at this moment.
He told her, “You can apply to veterinary college, and the chances are good that you’ll get in. Also, some financial aid, which you’ll need to live reasonably, is possible, even probable, with help from the institute. But if you don’t get helped financially, I’m sure I could work something out.”
She said, “But I’d have to do other work first and pass exams.”
“Yes, and I’ve found out what you need. You’ll have to pass three ‘A’ levels—one in chemistry, another in physics, a third in zoology, biology or botany. With your experience, zoology makes most sense.”
“Yes, it does.” A note of doubt crept in. “Would it mean giving up my job?”
“Not necessarily, while you’re preparing for the ‘A’ levels. You can study during evenings and weekends. I’ll help you. We’ll work together.”
Yvonne said breathlessly, “I can hardly believe it.”
“You’ll believe it when you find out how much there is to do.”
“Oh, I’ll work hard. I promise. I really will.”
Martin smiled. “I know. And with that memorizing mind of yours, you’ll sail through it all, and you’ll pass the exams without trouble.” He paused, considering. “One thing you’ll have to learn is to change the textbook language so it isn’t identical when you sit the exams. No sense in making examiners suspicious the way your teacher was. But you can practice that beforehand. And there are techniques to passing exams. I can show you those too.”
Yvonne jumped up and threw her arms around him, “Oh, my love, you’re wonderful, and the idea
is so exciting. This has to be the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Well,” he said, “since you mention it, I’ve been feeling the same way about you.”
8
At Felding-Roth, New Jersey, the mood of mild euphoria which developed soon after Celia’s rejoining the company did not last long.
The animal-raid news from Britain, reported by Martin Peat-Smith, first shattered it. Then, closer to home, a sudden, dramatic tragedy cast an overhanging pall of gloom.
It was an accident—at least, “accident” was how the Boonton police eventually classified it—and it happened on a workday, three weeks exactly after Celia’s return.
A few minutes before 9 A.M., Celia’s chauffeured company car brought her to the catwalk level of the Felding-Roth parking garage, near the entrance to the glassed-in ramp that led to the main office building. Celia’s driver had pulled in close to the ramp, on the left, because—as he told it later—he had observed in his rearview mirror, while at street level, Mr. Hawthorne’s Rolls-Bentley a short distance behind. Knowing that the company president would be driving to his normal parking slot, which was against an outer wall and to the right of where Celia’s car had stopped, the driver left access to it clear.
Celia did not see Sam’s car until she got out of her own, with the chauffeur holding the door open. At that time she saw first the distinctive hood cresting the top of the ramp from the parking floor below, then the rest of the car as it reached the catwalk level.
Expecting to walk with Sam across to the executive elevator, as on other days, Celia paused while the handsome automobile—for many years Sam’s pride and joy—moved forward at a safe, slow speed.
Then it happened.
With a sudden roar from the powerful Rolls-Royce engine, accompanied by a screech of tires, the heavy car shot forward, attaining high speed instantly as no lesser vehicle ever could. It passed Celia and her driver in a blur of silver-gray, went through the parking slot assigned to Sam, and without stopping smashed into the wall directly ahead. The shoulder-high wall, open at the top, was the only separation between the parking floor and the outside air, with the ground some fifty feet below.
With a reverberating crash, the wall crumbled and the car went through it, disappearing.
Immediately after, and for what seemed to Celia the longest time, there was a silence. Then from below, and out of sight, came a heavy thud, and a tortured rending of metal and a shattering of glass.
The chauffeur raced to the ragged opening in the wall, and Celia’s first impulse was to follow him. She curbed it. Instead, thinking quickly, she got back inside her car, which had a mobile telephone, and used it to call police emergency. She gave the address and asked for police officers, a fire truck, and an ambulance to be sent to the scene urgently. Then, making a second call to Felding-Roth’s switchboard, she instructed that any medical doctors available—the company employed several—were to hurry to the west side ground level of the parking garage. Only after that did Celia go to the gaping hole through which Sam’s car had crashed, and look downward.
What she saw horrified her.
The once-handsome automobile was upside down and totally wrecked. Clearly, it had fallen first on its front end which, from the force of impact after the fifty-foot fall, had been thrust back into the main body of the car. The concertinaed whole had then rolled over onto the roof, which collapsed too. Smoke was rising from the wreckage, though it had not caught fire. A twisted wheel was spinning crazily.
Fortunately, where the car had fallen was part of a vacant lot. No one had been below. There was nothing to damage but some shrubs and grass.
Several people were now running toward the demolished vehicle, and Celia could hear approaching sirens. It seemed impossible, however, that anyone inside what was left of the Rolls-Bentley could have survived.
And that was how it was.
It took more than an hour to pry Sam’s body loose, a grisly task over which the fire department rescue squad did not hurry since a doctor, reaching inside, had confirmed the obvious—Sam was dead.
Celia, taking charge, had telephoned Lilian, breaking the news as gently as she could, though urging Lilian not to go to the scene.
“If you like,” Celia volunteered, “I’ll come over now.”
There was a silence, then Lilian said, “No. Let me stay here for a while. I need to be alone.” Her voice sounded remote and disembodied, as if coming from another planet. She had suffered already and now would suffer more. What women have to bear, Celia thought.
Lilian said, “After a while I’ll go to Sam. You’ll let me know where he’s been taken, Celia?”
“Yes. And I’ll either come to get you or meet you there.”
“Thank you.”
Celia attempted to phone Juliet, then Juliet’s husband, Dwight, but could not reach either.
Next she summoned Julian Hammond, the public affairs vice president, to her office and instructed, “Issue a press statement immediately about Sam’s death. Describe it as a tragic accident. I want the word ‘accident’ stressed, to head off other speculation. You might say something about the probability that his accelerator jammed, causing the car to go out of control.”
Hammond protested, “No one will believe that.”
Wanting to weep, controlling her emotions by a thread, Celia snapped, “Don’t argue! Do it the way I say. And now.”
The last service she would do for Sam, she thought as Hammond left, was—if she could—to save him the indignity of being labeled a suicide.
But to those closest to him, suicide it plainly was.
What seemed most likely was that Sam, finally overwhelmed by his burden of despair and guilt about Montayne, had seen the parking garage wall ahead, thought suddenly of a way to end his life, and floored the accelerator pedal, steering for the relatively fragile wall. It would be typical of Sam, his friends said privately, to have remembered the vacant lot below and therefore the absence of danger to anyone else.
Celia had some questions and guilt feelings of her own. Had Sam, she wondered, contemplated on previous occasions doing what he did, but allowed sanity to prevail? Then, seeing Celia that day as his car topped the ramp—Celia confident and in control, wielding authority which would have remained his had circumstances not reversed their roles so drastically—had Sam then …? She could not bring herself to complete the question, the answer to which she would never know.
One other thought kept coming back to her: The occasion in Sam’s office, the first day of Celia’s return, when he had said, “… there’s something else. Something you don’t know.” And a moment later, “I’ll never tell you.”
What was Sam’s other secret? Celia tried to guess, but failed. Whatever it was must have died with him.
At the family’s request, Sam’s funeral was private. Celia was the only company representative. Andrew accompanied her.
Seated on an uncomfortable folding chair in an undertaker’s chapel, while an unctuous clergyman who had not known Sam intoned religious platitudes, Celia tried to blot out the present and recall the richer past.
Twenty-two years ago—Sam hiring her as a detail woman … Sam at her wedding … Her selection of him as the one to follow on the company ladder … At the New York sales meeting, risking his job in her defense: “I’m standing up here to be counted. If we let Mrs. Jordan leave this way, we’re all shortsighted fools” … Sam, overcoming opposition, placing her on the fast track … promoting her to O-T-C, later to Latin-American Director: “International is where the future is.” … Sam, on his own promotion and his two secretaries: “I think they dictate letters to each other.” … Sam the Anglophile, who was farseeing about a British research institute: “Celia, I want you as my right hand.” … Sam, who had paid for a judgmental error with his reputation, and now his life.
She felt Andrew move beside her. He passed a folded handkerchief. Only then did Celia realize that tears were streaming down her face.
; Again at their request, only Lilian and Juliet accompanied the coffin to the graveside. Celia spoke to both briefly before leaving. Lilian was pale; there seemed little life left in her. Juliet’s face and eyes were hard; she appeared not to have cried during the service. Dwight was conspicuously absent.
In the days that followed, Celia persisted in her effort to have Sam’s death officially declared an accident. She succeeded, mainly because—as she explained to Andrew—“No one seemed to have the heart to argue otherwise. Sam didn’t carry life insurance, so financially it didn’t matter.”
After a decent interval of two weeks, the Felding-Roth board of directors met to elect a new president. Within the company it was assumed this was a formality only, and that Celia would be appointed.
Seth Feingold came to her office a few minutes after the directors’ meeting ended. His expression was grim.
“I’ve been deputed to tell you this,” he said, “and I hate doing it. But you aren’t going to be president.”
When Celia failed to react, he went on, “You may not believe this and, by God, it isn’t fair, but there are still some men on the board who don’t like the idea of a woman heading the company.”
“I believe it,” Celia said. “Some women have spent their lives discovering it.”
“There was a long argument, heated at times,” Seth said. “The board was split, and there were several who spoke out strongly in your favor. But the objectors wouldn’t budge. In the end, we had to compromise.”
A president pro tempore had been appointed, Seth revealed. He was Preston O’Halloran, a retired bank president who for many years had been a member of the Felding-Roth board. He was seventy-eight and nowadays walked with the aid of a cane. While respected and a financial expert, the new president’s knowledge of the pharmaceutical business was limited and largely confined to what he learned at board meetings.
Celia had met O’Halloran several times, though without knowing him well.
She asked, “What’s with the pro tem?”
“O’Halloran has agreed to serve for six months at the most. Sometime between then and now the board will make a permanent appointment.” Seth grimaced. “I may as well tell you there’s talk of looking for someone outside the company.”