Where had the ability come from? She had no idea.
She had never excelled in school. During her sketchy high school education in New York, she seldom achieved more than a low average in most subjects. Even in mathematics she had no real grasp of principles, merely an ability to calculate with lightning speed and carry figures in her head.
At last the bus arrived with an uneven roar and diesel stink. With others who were waiting, Juanita climbed aboard. No seats were available and standing space was crowded. She managed to grab a handhold and continued thinking, straining to remember as the bus swayed through the city streets.
What would happen tomorrow? Miles had told her that FBI men were coming. The thought filled her with fresh dread and her face set tensely in a bleakness of anxiety—the same expression which Edwina D’Orsey and Nolan Wainwright had mistaken for hostility.
She would say as little as possible, just as she had done today after she found that no one was believing.
As to the machine, the lie detector, she would refuse. She knew nothing of how such a machine worked, but when no one else would understand, believe, or help her, why would a machine—the bank’s machine—be different?
It was a three-block walk from the bus to the nursery school where she had left Estela this morning on her way to work. Juanita hurried, knowing she was late.
The little girl ran toward her as she entered the small school playroom in the basement of a private house. Though the house, like others in the area, was old and dilapidated, the school rooms were clean and cheerful—the reason Juanita had chosen the school in preference to others, though the cost was higher and a strain for her to pay.
Estela was excited, as full of joy as always.
“Mommy! Mommy! See my painting. It’s a train.” She pointed with a paint-covered finger. “There’s a bagoose. That’s a man inside.”
She was a small child, even for three, dark like Juanita, with large liquid eyes reflecting her wonder at each new interest, at the fresh discoveries she made every day.
Juanita hugged her and corrected her gently. “Caboose, amorcito.”
It was obvious from the stillness that the other children were all gone.
Miss Ferroe, who owned and ran the school, came in primly, frowning. She looked pointedly at her watch.
“Mrs. Núñez, as a special favor I agreed that Estela could stay after the others, but this is far too late …”
“I really am sorry, Miss Ferroe. Something happened at the bank.”
“I have private responsibilities also. And other parents observe the school’s closing time.”
“It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“Very well. But since you are here, Mrs. Núñez, may I remind you that last month’s bill for Estela has not been paid.”
“It will be on Friday. I’ll have my paycheck then.”
“I’m sorry to have to mention it, you understand. Estela is a sweet little girl and we’re glad to have her. But I have bills to pay …”
“I do understand. It will be Friday for sure. I promise.”
“That’s two promises, Mrs. Núñez.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Good night then. Good night, Estela dear.”
Despite her starchiness, the Ferroe woman ran an excellent nursery school and Estela was happy there. The money owing to the school, Juanita decided, would have to come out of her pay this week, as she had said, and somehow she must manage until the payday after that. She wasn’t sure how. Her wage as a teller was $98 weekly; after taxes and Social Security deductions, her take-home pay was $83. Out of that there was food to buy for the two of them, Estela’s school fees, plus rent of the tiny walk-up flat they lived in at Forum East; also the finance company would demand a payment since she had missed the last.
Before Carlos left her, simply walking out and disappearing a year ago, Juanita had been naive enough to sign finance papers jointly with her husband. He had bought suits, a used car, a color TV, all of which he took with him. Juanita, however, was still paying, the installments seeming to stretch on into a limitless future.
She would have to visit the finance company office, she thought, and offer them less. They would undoubtedly be nasty, as they were before, but it would have to be endured.
On the way home, Estela skipped happily along, one small hand in Juanita’s. In her other hand Juanita carried Estela’s painting, carefully rolled up. In a little while, in the apartment, they would have their evening meal and afterward they usually played and laughed together. But Juanita would find it difficult to laugh tonight.
Her earlier terror deepened as she considered for the first time what might happen if she lost her job. The probability, she realized, was strong.
She knew, too, that it would be hard to find work elsewhere. No other bank would hire her and other employers would want to know where she had worked before, then would find out about the missing money and reject her.
Without a job, what would she do? How could she support Estela?
Abruptly, stopping on the street, Juanita reached down and clasped her daughter to her.
She prayed that tomorrow someone would believe her, would recognize the truth.
Someone, someone.
But who?
9
Alex Vandervoort, also, was abroad in the city.
Earlier in the afternoon, returning from the session with Nolan Wainwright, Alex had paced his office suite, seeking to place recent events in true perspective. Yesterday’s announcement by Ben Rosselli was a major cause for reflection. So was the resultant situation in the bank. So, too, were developments, within recent months, in Alex’s personal life.
Pacing back and forth—twelve strides one way, twelve the other–was an old established habit. Once or twice he had stopped, re-examining the counterfeit Keycharge credit cards which the security chief had allowed Alex to bring away. Credit and credit cards were additionally a part of his preoccupation—not only fraudulent cards, but genuine ones, too.
The genuine variety was represented by a series of advertising proofs, also on the desk, and now spread out. They had been prepared by the Austin Advertising Agency and the purpose was to encourage Keycharge holders to use their credit and their cards increasingly.
One announcement urged:
WHY WORRY ABOUT MONEY?
USE YOUR KEYCHARGE CARD
AND
LET US WORRY FOR YOU!
Another claimed:
BILLS ARE PAINLESS
WHEN YOU SAY
“PUT IT ON MY KEYCHARGE!”
A third advised:
WHY WAIT?
YOU CAN AFFORD TOMORROW’S DREAM
TODAY!
USE YOUR KEYCHARGE
-NOW!
A half dozen others were on similar themes.
Alex Vandervoort was uneasy about them all.
His unease did not have to be translated into action. The advertising, already approved by the bank’s Keycharge division, had merely been sent to Alex for general information. Also, the over-all approach had been agreed on several weeks ago by the bank’s board of directors as a means to increase the profitability of Keycharge which—like all credit-card programs—sustained losses in its initial, launching years.
But Alex wondered: Had the board envisaged a promotional campaign quite so blatantly aggressive?
He shuffled the advertising proofs together and returned them to the folder they had arrived in. At home tonight he would reconsider them and he would hear a second opinion, he realized—probably a strong one—from Margot.
Margot.
The thought of her melded with the memory of Ben Rosselli’s disclosure yesterday. What had been said then was a reminder to Alex of life’s fragility, the brevity of time remaining, the inevitability of endings, a pointer to the unexpected always close at hand. He had been moved and saddened for Ben himself; but also, without intending to, the old man had revived once more an oft-recurring question: Should Alex mak
e a fresh life for himself and Margot? Or should he wait? And wait for what?
For Celia?
That question, too, he had asked himself a thousand times.
Alex looked out across the city toward where he knew Celia to be. He wondered what she was doing, how she was.
There was a simple way to find out.
He returned to his desk and dialed a number which he knew by heart.
A woman’s voice answered, “Remedial Center.”
He identified himself and said, “I’d like to talk with Dr. McCartney.”
After a moment or two a male voice, quietly firm, inquired, “Where are you, Alex?”
“In my office. I was sitting here wondering about my wife.”
“I asked because I intended to call you today and suggest you come in to visit Celia.”
“The last time we talked you said you didn’t want me to.”
The psychiatrist corrected him gently. “I said I thought any more visits inadvisable for a while. The previous few, you’ll remember, seemed to unsettle your wife rather than help.”
“I remember.” Alex hesitated, then asked, “There’s been some change?”
“Yes, there is a change. I wish I could say it was for the better.”
There had been so many changes, he had become dulled to them. “What kind of change?”
“Your wife is becoming even more withdrawn. Her escape from reality is almost total. It’s why I think a visit from you might do some good.” The psychiatrist corrected himself, “At least it should do no harm.”
“All right. I’ll come this evening.”
“Any time, Alex; and drop in to see me when you do. As you know, we’ve no set visiting hours here and a minimum of rules.”
“Yes, I know.”
The absence of formality, he reflected, as he replaced the telephone, was a reason he had chosen the Remedial Center when faced with his despairing decision about Celia nearly four years ago. The atmosphere was deliberately non-institutional. The nurses did not wear uniforms. As far as was practical, patients moved around freely and were encouraged to make decisions of their own. With occasional exceptions, friends and families were welcome at any time. Even the name Remedial Center had been chosen intentionally in preference to the more forbidding “mental hospital.” Another reason was that Dr. Timothy McCartney, young, brilliant, and innovative, headed a specialist team which achieved cures of mental illnesses where more conventional treatments failed.
The Center was small. Patients never exceeded a hundred and fifty though, by comparison, the staff was large. In a way, it was like a school with small classes where students received personal attention they could not have gained elsewhere.
A modern building and spacious gardens were as pleasing as money and imagination could make them.
The clinic was private. It was also horrendously expensive but Alex had been determined, and still was, that whatever else happened, Celia would have the best of care. It was, he reasoned, the very least that he could do.
Through the remainder of the afternoon he occupied himself with bank business. Soon after 6 P.M. he left FMA Headquarters, giving his driver the Remedial Center address, and read the evening paper while they crawled through traffic. A limousine and chauffeur, available at any time from the bank’s pool of cars, were perquisites of the executive vice-president’s job and Alex enjoyed them.
Typically, the Remedial Center had the façade of a large private home with nothing outside, other than a street number, to identify it.
An attractive blonde, wearing a colorful print dress, let him in. He recognized her as a nurse from a small insignia pin near her left shoulder. It was the only permitted dress distinction between staff and patients.
“Doctor told us you’d be coming, Mr. Vandervoort. I’ll take you to your wife.”
He walked with her along a pleasant corridor. Yellows and greens predominated. Fresh flowers were in niches along the walls.
“I understand,” he said, “that my wife has been no better.”
“Not really, I’m afraid.” The nurse shot him a sideways glance; he sensed pity in her eyes. But for whom? As always, when he came here, he felt his natural ebullience desert him.
They were in a wing, one of three running outward from the central reception area. The nurse stopped at a door.
“Your wife is in her room, Mr. Vandervoort. She had a bad day today. Try to remember that, if she shouldn’t …” She left the sentence unfinished, touched his arm lightly, then preceded him in.
The Remedial Center placed patients in shared or single rooms according to the effect which the company of others had on their condition. When Celia first came she was in a double room, but it hadn’t worked; now she was in a private one. Though small, Celia’s room was cozily comfortable and individual. It contained a studio couch, a deep armchair and ottoman, a games table and bookshelves. Impressionist prints adorned the walls.
“Mrs. Vandervoort,” the nurse said gently, “your husband is here to visit you.”
There was no acknowledgment, neither movement nor spoken response, from the figure in the room.
It had been a month and a half since Alex had seen Celia and, though he had been expecting some deterioration, her present appearance chilled him.
She was seated—if her posture could be called that—on the studio couch. She had positioned herself sideways, facing away from the outer door. Her shoulders were hunched down, her head lowered, arms crossed in front, with each hand clasping the opposite shoulder. Her body, too, was curled upon itself and her legs drawn up with knees together. She was absolutely still.
He went to her and put a hand gently on one shoulder. “Hullo, Celia. It’s me—Alex. I’ve been thinking about you, so I came to see you.”
She said, low-voiced, without expression, “Yes.” She did not move.
He increased the pressure on the shoulder. “Won’t you turn around to look at me? Then we can sit together and talk.”
The only response was a perceptible rigidity, a tightening of the position in which Celia was huddled.
Her skin texture, Alex saw, was mottled and her fair hair only roughly combed. Even now her gentle, fragile beauty had not entirely vanished, though clearly it would not be long before it did.
“Has she been like this long?” he asked the nurse quietly.
“All of today and part of yesterday; some other days as well.” The girl added matter-of-factly, “She feels more comfortable that way, so it’s best if you take no notice, just sit down and talk.”
Alex nodded. As he went to the single armchair and settled himself, the nurse tiptoed out, closing the door gently.
“I went to the ballet last week, Celia,” Alex said. “It was Coppélia. Natalia Makarova danced the lead and Ivan Nagy was Frantz. They were magnificent together and, of course, the music was wonderful. It reminded me of how you loved Coppélia, that it was one of your favorites. Do you remember that night, soon after we were married, when you and I …”
He could call back in memory clearly, even now, the way Celia had looked that evening—in a long, pale green chiffon gown, tiny sequins glittering with reflected light. As usual, she had been ethereally beautiful, slim and gossamer-like, as if a breeze might steal her if he looked away. In those days he seldom did. They had been married six months and she was still shy at meeting Alex’s friends, so that sometimes in a group she clung tightly to his arm. Because she was ten years younger than himself, he hadn’t minded. Celia’s shyness, at the beginning, had been one of the reasons why he fell in love with her, and he was proud of her reliance on him. Only long after, when she continued to be diffident and unsure—foolishly, it seemed to him—had his impatience surfaced, and eventually anger.
How little, how tragically little, he had understood! With more perception he would have realized that Celia’s background before they met was so totally different from his own that nothing had prepared her for the active social and domestic life he accepted mat
ter-of-factly. It was all new and bewildering to Celia, at times alarming. She was the only child of reclusive parents of modest means, had attended convent schools, had never known the leavening propinquity of college living. Before Celia met Alex she had had no responsibilities, her social experience was nil. Marriage increased her natural nervousness; at the same time, self-doubts and tensions grew until eventually—as psychiatrists explained it—a burden of guilt at failing snapped something in her mind. With hindsight, Alex blamed himself. He could, he afterwards believed, have helped Celia so easily, could have given advice, eased tensions, offered reassurance. But when it mattered most he never had. He had been too thoughtless, busy, ambitious.
“… so last week’s performance, Celia, made me sorry we weren’t seeing it together …”
In fact, he had been to Coppélia with Margot, whom Alex had known now for a year and a half, and who zestfully filled a gap in his life which had been empty for so long. Margot, or someone else, had been necessary if Alex—a flesh and blood man—were not to become a mental case, too, he sometimes told himself. Or was that a self-delusion, conveniently assuaging guilt?
Either way, this was no time or place to introduce Margot’s name.
“Oh, yes, and not long ago, Celia, I saw the Harringtons. You remember John and Elise. Anyway, they told me they had been to Scandinavia to see Elise’s parents.”
“Yes,” Celia said tonelessly.
She had still not stirred from the huddled position, but evidently was listening, so he continued talking, using only half his mind while the other half asked: How did it happen? Why?
“We’ve been busy at the bank lately, Celia.”
One reason, he assumed, had been his preoccupation with his work, the long hours during which—as their marriage deteriorated—he had left Celia alone. That, as he now saw it, was when she had needed him most. As it was, Celia accepted his absences without complaint but grew increasingly reserved and timid, burying herself in books or looking interminably at plants and flowers, appearing to watch them grow, though occasionally—in contrast and without apparent reason—she became animated, talking incessantly and sometimes incoherently. Those were periods in which Celia seemed to have exceptional energy. Then, with equal suddenness, the energy would disappear, leaving her depressed and withdrawn once more. And all the while their communication and companionship diminished.