Текст книги "The Prodigal Spy"

Автор книги: Joseph Kanon

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“Grownups aren’t afraid of the dark.”

“It’s an expression. I mean afraid in general. They’re afraid of all kinds of things, so they keep seeing bogeymen everywhere. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, Nick. Maybe you can’t explain a bogeyman–he’s just there.”

“Communists, you mean.”

His father nodded. “That’s who it is now. Maybe next week it’ll be something else.”

Nick said nothing, thinking.

“Not much help, is it?” his father said. “I don’t have an explanation, Nick.”

“Are they going to stop?”

“They can’t–not yet.” His voice had begun to drift, away from Nick to some private conversation. “Sometimes I think it was the war. We got into the habit of having enemies. That’s a hard habit to break. After a while, you don’t know any other way to think. And one day it’s over and they turn on all the lights again and expect things to go back to the way they were, but nobody knows how to stop. They’re used to it. They have to get new enemies. It’s the way things make sense to them.”

“For always?” Nick said.

His question brought his father back. “No,” he said, “things change. That’s why we need people like you,” he added, his voice lighter now. He pulled up the covers again. “Who weren’t there. Who don’t even remember it. It’ll be different for you. What’s going on now—” His voice lifted, like a verbal wave of the hand. “You’ll forget that too. It’ll just be history.” He paused. “Just a bad dream.”

“It’s not a dream now,” Nick said quietly. “I saw it.”

His father looked at him, stalling again. “No,” he said, “not now.” Then he tapped Nick’s forehead with his finger. “You’re a pragmatist, Nick. That’s what you are.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, someone who keeps his eye on the ball. Feet on the ground. You know. Not like someone else we know, huh?” he said, pointing to himself.

“Mom says I’m like you. Aren’t you a pragmatist?” Nick said, getting it right.

“Sure. Not as good as you, though. You’ll have to help me out, okay? Keep me on my toes.”

Nick nodded, but he knew, with the same dread he’d felt in the movies, there was nothing he could do to help. His father was just trying to make him feel better–a different land of lie, like pretending he wasn’t worried, pretending it was all going to go away.

“That’s the thing about history anyway,” his father said. “You still have to live through it. Before you know how it’s going to come out. So you keep me on my toes. Of course, to do that you have to grow, and to do that—”

“I know. Sleep. But Dad—”

“Ssh. No more. We’ll talk tomorrow. It’s supposed to snow, you know. I’ll bet it’s already snowing up at the cabin. Wind blowing it all over the place. Swoosh.” His father leaned over and made a wind sound in his ear, tickling him and making him burrow deeper under the covers. It was their old game, from when he was little. “Here it comes, down the chimney.” He made another wind sound. “But we don’t care, do we? We’ll just stay warm and cozy.” His father always said that.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” Nick said, as he always did.

“That’s right,” his father said softly. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Dad? If it snows, will you have to go to the hearing?”

His father smiled. “I think Mr Welles would insist. No snow days for him.”

“Don’t go,” Nick said, his voice suddenly urgent. “He’s trying to get you. I saw him.”

“Ssh. Don’t worry, he won’t. He’s only a bogeyman, and they never get anybody. We make them up, remember?” he said playfully. Then, seeing Nick’s solemn face, he nodded. “I know. I’ll be careful. This one’s really there.” He stood up, smoothing the covers. “He made himself up, I guess. Some world, isn’t it? All he used to be was a dumb cluck from Oklahoma.”

“Walter?” his mother said from the doorway. “Larry’s here. Nick, are you still up?”

“We’ve been going over my defense strategy,” Nick’s father said. “We’re hoping for a snow day.”

“Walter,” his mother said, shooting him a glance.

“Uncle Larry’s here?” Nick said, starting to get up. “Where?”

“Not tonight, kiddo,” his father said. “It’s late.”

Larry wasn’t really his uncle. His father had met him in college – over the serving line in the dining hall, according to the family story, when Nick’s father was dishing out food to work his way through Penn and Larry, nursing a hangover, tipped a tray onto his father’s white jacket without knowing it. His father used to joke that they never changed–he kept working behind the line and Larry kept getting things handed to him on a platter, indifferent to spills. In Washington it had been the dining hall all over again. His father worked long hours in the agencies; Larry moved his tray all the way to the White House, where, his father said, he was one of the fair-haired policy boys. His hair in fact was fair, a bright ginger that reminded Nick of Van Johnson, and he had the same open face and easy smile. When he took Nick and his mother to see the White House one day–even upstairs, since the President was away–he moved through the rooms as if they were his, kidding with the secretaries, who waited for his grin, an effortless seduction. It’s easy to be charming, his father said, when your family owns half of Philadelphia, but in fact he couldn’t resist it either. He was different with Larry–easy and comfortable, the way people were when their jokes are too old for anyone else to remember. But Larry hadn’t been to the house for weeks, and it was late to call. Nick wondered what was wrong.

“He’s in the study,” his mother said. “Go ahead. I’ll take care of the others. The Kittredges look as if they’re settling in for the night.” Nick heard the laugh in her voice, the way she used to be at parties. So maybe it was all right. “Night, Nick,” she said, blowing him a kiss. She pulled the door behind her but left it half open, so that Nick could see them starting down the stairs, their heads together.

He didn’t wait. When he heard the click of her heels on the landing, he slid out of bed and darted into the hall. He peered over the banister, watching his mother’s skirt swish down the next flight of stairs, then tiptoed down to the second floor. He waited until his father’s back disappeared into the study before he crept along the wall, angling himself at the open door to see through the crack. Uncle Larry was still wearing his topcoat, as if he didn’t mean to stay.

“Long time no see, Larry.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t get away,” Larry said quickly. “We’re redoing the speech.”

“I didn’t mean the dinner. It’s been a while,” his father said, moving out of Nick’s line of vision. “Want a drink?”

“No. I can’t stay.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody saw you. The reporters don’t show up until morning.”

“For Christ’s sake, Walter.” Larry looked over toward his father, then dropped his hat on the leather couch. “All right. Maybe a short one,” he said, taking off his coat.

Nick heard his father pour the drink at the sideboard. “Good. I thought maybe I’d reached the leper stage. Have I?”

Larry glanced up sharply. “No. But you’re not making any friends in there either, Walter. You’ve got to stop fighting with him.”

“I can’t help it,” his father said, coming back into view and handing Larry a glass. “He’s a moron.”

“He’s a moron who’s getting headlines. He’s got nothing going for him but a district full of dust farms and a bunch of Indians who don’t vote, and you’re making him a national figure. How smart is that? Come on, Walter, you know how it works. You’re not exactly new in town.”

“The town’s changed.”

“The town never changes,” Larry said evenly. “Never. You just got on the wrong side of it.”

“That the view from the East Lawn these days?” his father said. “Okay. Withdrawn. Cheers.” He took a sip of his drink, then paused. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry I missed the party,” Larry said. “How’s Livia?”

“I need your help, Larry,” his father said, ignoring the question.

For a minute neither of them said anything.

“I can’t get involved with the case, Walter. You know that. We don’t go near the Hill these days. Christ, we don’t even cross the street. Everybody’s too busy ducking under the table.”

His father nodded with a small smile. “So I heard. They’re starting to get lonely over at State.”

“State’s like sick bay–everybody’s afraid they’ll catch something. Anyway, you’ve already got Benjamin. He’s the best lawyer in town for this.”

“Devoted as he is to lost causes,” his father said, taking a drink.

“You’re not going to lose. Just stop fighting with Welles. He’s on a fishing expedition and you keep biting. He hasn’t got anything, so he’s trying to nail you for contempt.”

“How do you know he hasn’t got anything?”

Larry looked at him. “Because he never does,” he said, tossing back his drink. “Because I know you. The Mine Workers, for Christ’s sake. What’s next, the fucking Red Cross? He hasn’t got a thing, Walter.” He paused. “If he did we’d have heard about it.” He turned and started walking, a courtroom pace. “One witness who doesn’t even look stable. You see the way she twists her handkerchief? If this were a real trial, Benjamin would discredit her in two minutes. Two minutes.”

“Then I guess I don’t have a thing to worry about,” his father said easily. He leaned against the edge of the desk, looking down at his glass. “Nick wonders why she’s saying these things. I’ll bet he’s not the only one.”

Nick started at the sound of his name, as if they’d caught him and were drawing him into the room.

“Who knows?” Larry said. “Maybe Welles is screwing her. She wouldn’t be the first. Maybe she’s doing it for love. She looks the type. The point is, it doesn’t matter. All she’s got is some cockamamie story about shirts. Shirts. Christ, where do they get this stuff? Anyway, forget her. This is about Welles, not her. Welles doesn’t know what to do with her either. Just keep your eye on him.”

His father smiled, still looking down. “That’s what Nick said too.”

Larry stopped, disconcerted, then walked over to the sideboard to put his glass down. “Well, do it then. All you’ve got to do is keep your head, Walter. It’s her word against yours, and yours still counts for something in this town.”

“Let’s not kid ourselves, Larry,” his father said slowly. “I’m finished in this town. That’s why I need your help.”

In the quiet Nick could hear the sounds from downstairs, the indistinct voices and clinks of coffee spoons.

“Walter, I—”

“Don’t worry, it won’t cost you anything. I don’t want a lawyer. Just some advice. Advice used to be cheap.” He got up and walked over to the window, out of Nick’s sight.

“You’re a behind-the-scenes guy. It’s your specialty, isn’t it? I need someone like that now.”

“To do what?”

“To make a deal with the committee.”

“You don’t want to do that,” Larry said carefully.

“I have to. It’s going to get worse.”

The room was quiet again.

“What do you mean?” Larry finally said. “Look, Walter, if you’re trying to tell me something, don’t. I’m not your lawyer. Anything we say–it’s not privileged. You know that.”

His father came back into view, his face slightly surprised. “You don’t have to tell me that, Larry,” he said gently. “What’s the matter? Do you think I’m a Communist? You too?”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know. I mean it. Not any of it. I don’t want to know what you joined or who your pals were.”

“Larry—”

Larry held up his hand. “No. Listen to me. I don’t care if you organized the whole goddam dining hall or had a drink with Uncle Joe at Yalta. Things were different then. Was it innocent? There is no such thing now. They can twist anything. I can’t know. What if they call me too? They could. I’m an old friend. I don’t want to be used against you.”

“No,” his father said after a minute, nodding to himself. “Not to mention tarred with the same brush.”

“That’s right,” Larry said quickly, embarrassed. “Not to mention. This isn’t just happening to you.”

His father looked up. “You don’t have to tell me that either, Larry. You don’t have a wife who wonders why nobody calls her anymore or a kid who can’t go to school without hearing his father’s a criminal. I know it’s happening to all of us. But I’m the one getting beaten up every day. This isn’t a trial–I’m already guilty. I’m a Communist whether I am or not. What’s the point of going on with it? How do I win?”

“You don’t win. You just don’t lose it.”

“No, they lose. Everybody who comes near me. Just by being around. Even old friends,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “It’s enough. I don’t want to go on being a punching bag just to get Welles elected.”

“You don’t have a choice, Walter,” Larry said slowly. “And if you handle this right, he won’t get elected. He thinks he’s Nixon, but he’s not that good. He’s still looking for a pumpkin, and he’s not going to find one. All you have to do is let it play itself out.”

“Forget the politics for a minute, will you? This isn’t about politics.”

“Yes it is,” Larry said calmly.

“My God, how you love all this,” his father said, then turned away.

Larry looked up to answer, then seemed to change his mind and took out a cigarette. “Nobody loves this. Not this. It’s getting in the way.”

“Of what? Business as usual?” Nick’s father said, still sarcastic, handing Larry a lighter.

Larry nodded. “Nothing moves now. We’re paralyzed until we get him to run out of steam. Maybe it stops with you, Walter. Who knows?”

“Well, that would be nice. Meanwhile, I’m the one being run out of town.” A roar of laughter came up from the first floor, a party sound, and his father smiled involuntarily. “All evidence to the contrary aside.”

Larry smiled back and raised his glass appreciatively. His father, seeming agitated, started pacing across the room. “Look, do you think I like asking for help? I’m drowning. That’s what it feels like. Sometimes I think we’re all going to go under if it doesn’t stop.” He paused. “I’m not asking you to lie for me. Or tell the truth, for that matter. I don’t want you to testify. I just want you to run a little interference, that’s all.”

“We don’t make deals with the committee, Walter.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Everyone’s ducking under the table.”

Larry shrugged. “Anyway, what have you got to trade? Twenty names at State? That’s about the going price these days, if you had them. Which you don’t.”

“Marked down from twenty pieces of silver,” his father said.

Larry said nothing.

“I’m going to resign. That’s what Welles wants–let’s give it to him. He can take credit for hounding another Red out of the State Department. Cleaning out the stables. Without having to go to the bother of proving anything. Since he can’t, that should put him ahead. I’ll deny it, but it won’t matter. Even the people who don’t believe it believe it a little. We finish out the hearing in closed session–no more cameras. I don’t want my kid seeing me in the movies again, ever. Not a bad cover for the committee either. People will think they really had something. The republic’ll be safe and I’ll be out of this. End of the drama.”

Outside the door, Nick stood still in disbelief. His father always told him never to give up. Why would he walk away from a fight? He wanted to push the door wide open, tell him that he didn’t mind the newsreel or what people said, any of it. Instead, there was only the prickling feeling of dread again. Where would they go?

For a minute Larry was quiet. “You’re out of your mind,” he said finally.

“No, I’m not. It’s the way it makes sense.”

“Do you think Welles gives a rat’s ass whether you’re a Communist or not? The only Red he’s ever seen had feathers coming out of his head. No cameras. That’s what he’s doing this for. Once they turn the lights off, he’s gone. And right now, all he’s got is you. No one else to call. The girl didn’t give them any names. How they tricked her into naming you, I don’t know, but it won’t work again. You’ve seen her up there–she never expected any of this to happen. She’s not the Bentley type. You’re the end of the road as far as Welles is concerned. He’s not going to trade you for some musical chairs over at State. You’re all he’s got.”

“Do you know this?”

Larry shrugged. “Nobody keeps a secret in this town. Believe me, his in-box is empty. She’s not giving him anything. She can’t even prove what she said about herself. At this point, he’d be lucky to make the charges stick against her.”

“She confessed.”

“If you believe her. Maybe she did Judge Crater too. People confess to anything–they like the spotlight. That doesn’t make it true. Even Welles is nervous about her. The louder he gets, the less he has to say.”

“Then he ought to jump at this.”

“He won’t. Listen to me, Walter. There is no deal here. Welles is too dumb to make one and you’re too smart. You don’t have to give him anything–you just have to stop fighting with him. If he can’t cite you for contempt, he’ll walk away with nothing.”

Nick heard his father sigh. “What’s the difference, Larry? I’m going to have to resign anyway. I keep waiting for the phone call. No, it’ll be a meeting, I suppose. Acheson’s office. Just the two of us. Nothing personal. Better under the circumstances–Christ, I’ve already been through it. Why not get something for it? A little peace of mind at least.”

“If you do that now, it’s as good as an admission, Walter. We can’t have that.”

Nick’s father raised his eyebrows in surprise. “We?”

“You’d be a political liability.”

For a moment they stared at each other, a silent conversation, then Nick’s father leaned against the desk again. “I don’t care, Larry. I’m going to resign.”

“No, it’s not going to happen that way,” Larry said, his voice low and steady, as if he were explaining something to a child. “He’s going to shout and you’re going to be polite. Nothing will happen. You’ll be the loyal American you always were–maybe a little foolish and idealistic, but nothing worse. One of the good guys. She–let’s say she was confused, maybe a nut case, anyway confused.”

Larry moved toward the desk, as if he were adjusting the sights of his words, taking aim. “In the spring, two, three months from now, you resign quietly. All that time in the limelight–well, it would make anyone shy. You want the quiet life. The administration regrets. It’s a pity reckless accusations are driving talented men out of public life. Or maybe nothing has to be said–no one notices. They’ve moved on. By the time the elections roll around in the fall, you’re not even a memory and Welles is out on the stump with a different fight on his hands. Nobody’s soft on Communism. Nobody’s been embarrassed.”

Again, an awful stillness in the room.

“It’s been decided, then,” Nick’s father said softly.

“It’s been discussed.”

And then Nick saw, without knowing why, that it was over, like a tennis game.

“They don’t pay you enough, Larry,” his father said finally, now slumped against the desk.

Larry looked at him, and let it pass. “This one’s for free, Walter. I’m on your side, believe me.”

“I do, Larry. That’s the funny part. Well,” he said, standing up and straightening, the way he did when he walked over to the net to shake hands, a good sport, “so I get to make a deal after all. What’s in this one for me?”

“You’ve got to think about your future, Walter. What are you going to do after?”

“With my land of resume, you mean.”

“It never hurts to have friends,” Larry said quietly.

Nick’s father nodded. “Thanks for explaining everything so clearly.”

“Don’t, Walter. I’m not the bad guy. I’m trying to help. It’s a lousy time.”

“I know,” his father said, his voice suddenly deflated. “I know.” He stood for a minute lost in thought. “Maybe there aren’t any bad guys anymore.”

“Yes, there are. They’re in that committee room.” He walked over to the couch and picked up his coat. “Look, I’ve got to go. You all right?” Nick’s father nodded. “Play it smart, Walter, okay?”

His father looked at him, then broke the stare and went over and put a hand on Larry’s shoulder. “Come say hello to Livia.”

“I can’t. I’m late. Give her my love, will you?”

“Late for what?” his father said lightly. “You seeing somebody these days?”

“I’m seeing everybody.”

“Nothing changes, does it?”

Larry shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything. You got the only one worth having.”

His father dropped his hand. “Luck.”

“You’re still lucky,” Larry said, putting on his coat. He stopped and looked at him. “Just play it smart.”

Larry turned toward the door and Nick took a step down the hall, out of sight.

“I’ll see myself out,” Larry said. “You’d better go break up the party before the neighbors start complaining.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” Nick heard his father say.

Larry’s voice was cheerful again, Van Johnson. “Not me,” he said.

He opened the door suddenly, before Nick could race up the stairs, and stood for a second with his hand on the knob, looking at Nick with surprise. Then he winked and pulled the door shut behind him. He put a finger to his lips and motioned with his head for Nick to follow him to the stairs, as if they were hiding together. At the landing he knelt down.

“Hi, sport,” he whispered. “You okay?”

Nick nodded.

“You know what happens to guys who listen at keyholes, don’t you?” he said, smiling.

“What?” Nick whispered back, playing along.

“You’ll end up working for Drew Pearson, that’s what.”

“A legman,” Nick said, his father’s expression.

Larry looked surprised again, then grinned. “Yeah, a legman. Hear anything worth hearing?”

Nick shook his head.

“Well, neither do they, mostly,” he said, still whispering. “Come on, up you go before they catch us both.”

Nick turned to go, then looked back at Larry. “Dad asked you to help him,” he said, a question.

Larry stood up. “I can’t, Nick. Not the way he wants.” Then he smiled and ruffled Nick’s hair. “He’ll be all right. Don’t worry. We’ll all help him.”

They heard the sound of the door opening and Larry made a face of mock alarm, shooing Nick with his hand up the stairs and turning away to start down the other flight. Nick darted up, out of his father’s line of sight, and watched Larry’s red hair bob down the stairs. In a minute his father followed. Over the banister Nick could see him stop at the foot of the stairs, waiting until he heard the front door click shut. Then he turned, straightened his shoulders, and went in to join the party.

No one was going to help. All the rest of it, the confusing jumble of elections and deals and witnesses, still came down to that. No one. Not even Uncle Larry, who had just been trying to make him feel better on the stairs. He’d heard them. His father felt like he was drowning. Nick wondered what that was really like, everything closing around you, choking for air, reaching up for any hand at all. No one. It wasn’t smart anymore. Not even for his father to help himself.

The draft in the hall seeped through his thin pajamas, making him shiver. He felt like leaping into bed, pulling the covers over his head, and curling his body into a ball, as warm as the cabin fire. Instead he went down the hall to his parents’ room. The bedside lamps were on, surrounded by piles of books and Kleenex and alarm clocks. He walked over to his father’s dressing area, a mirror and a tall row of built-in drawers that pulled out on smooth, quiet runners, not like Nick’s, which always stuck. All the shirts were white, stacked in two neat piles. He took one out. Garfinkel’s, all right. But the tag under the laundry mark was 15½-35. Just as he’d said. Nick almost grinned in relief. The next one was the same, and suddenly he caught sight of his pajamas in the mirror and felt ashamed. This wasn’t playing the spy game with Nora; it was wrong, like being a burglar. What if his father noticed?

Nick put back the shirts and evened out the edge of the pile. But he’d already started–why not know for sure? Carefully he flipped through the collars of the shirts, looking for the size tags. Some weren’t even Garfinkel’s. Then, halfway down, he found it. A Garfinkel label, 15½-33. He stared at it, not moving, his finger barely touching the tag. Why had he kept it? Maybe it was a mistake, a present from Nick’s mother. But that wouldn’t matter. Uncle Larry said nothing was innocent now. They’d find it, just as Nick had. There was a laundry mark, too–he’d worn it. Nick tried to think what that meant. No fingerprints. That woman, any trace of her, had been washed away. And all the shirts looked alike. But what if they had other ways? As long as it was here—

He heard the front door slam, voices downstairs saying goodbye, and without thinking snatched the shirt, closed the drawer quietly, and ran back to his room. He looked around for a hiding place, but then the voices seemed to be coming up the stairs so he shoved it under his pillow and got into bed, breathing fast. Outside the snow had finally begun, blowing almost horizontally across the light from the street lamp. When his mother peeked in through the door, he shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He kept them closed as she crossed the room to tuck him in. For a second he was afraid she would fluff his pillow, but she only kissed his forehead and drifted away again in a faint trail of perfume.

Tomorrow he would find someplace to get rid of it–a trash can, not too near the house–and then his father would be safe again. Then he thought of the laundry mark. He’d have to cut that out. No trace. He turned on his side and put one hand under the pillow, anchoring the shirt. He tried to imagine himself at the cabin again, snug, but the room stayed cold and awake, as if someone had left a window open. His grandmother once told him that people in Europe thought the night air was poison, so they sealed everything tight. But now it came in anyway, blowing through the cracks, making his thoughts dart like flurries, poisoning shelter.

His father was wrong about one thing: Welles did have to delay the hearing. The next day, a Friday, snow covered Washington in a white silence, trapping congressmen in Chevy Chase, swirling around Capitol Hill until the dome looked like an igloo poking through the drifts. In the streets nothing moved but the plows and a few impatient cars, their heavy snow chains clanking like Marley’s ghost. By midmorning everyone on Nick’s block began digging out, a holiday party of scraping shovels and the grind of cars spinning wheels in deepening ruts. Nick’s father helped the other men spread ashes around the tires, then push from behind until the cars lurched into the street, shuddering with exhaust. At the curbs, snow was piled into mounds, perfect for jumping. Even Mrs Bryant next door came out, tramping up and down the street in her galoshes and mink coat, dispensing cups of chocolate, mistress to the field hands. Afterward Nick and his father knocked the heavy snow off the magnolias with brooms to save the branches, and it fell on their heads, seeping under their collars until they were finally forced inside to dry out. They had soup beside the fire, the way they did at the cabin, and Nick hoped the snow would never stop. The shirt, stuffed now behind a row of books, could wait.

“They’ll cancel the dance,” his mother said, glancing out the window. “Poor old Miriam. Her first year as chairwoman, too.” She giggled. “What do they do with the flowers, do you think? God, she’ll be furious.”

“It’ll be gone by tomorrow night,” his father said. “Anyway, a little snow won’t stop her. She can fly in on her broom.” This to Nick, who laughed.

“Walter.”

“It snowed last year too, remember?”

“Yes, and half the people didn’t show. Poor Miriam.”

Nick leaned back against the club chair hassock, warm from the fire, and watched his parents. It was the sort of easy conversation they used to have, before the troubles. Her new dress. Where the United Charities money went anyway. Whether the President would come this year. When the phone rang it jolted him, as if he’d been half asleep.

His father had barely said ‘Hello’ before his expression changed. He glanced up at Nick’s mother, then, seeing Nick, retreated to a series of noncommittal ‘Yes’ and ’I see’s. When the call was finished, he went up to the study without saying a word. Nick could hear him dialing, then the low tones of another conversation. His mother, nervous again, followed him, standing outside the study door with her hand against the frame, braced for bad news. Then she went in, closing the door behind her so their voices were no louder than the muffled sounds in the street.

Nick knew they were not going to tell him, whatever it was, and he wondered in a kind of quiet panic whether he’d waited too long to get rid of the shirt. The storm had lulled him into thinking there was time, but now it was starting again. He got up from the floor and headed out into the hall, grabbing his winter jacket from the closet before racing up to his room. The shirt was still there, folded behind the books, and he stuffed it under his sweater, then put on the jacket, buckling the belt to keep the shirt from falling out. His boots were in the back mud room, drying out, so he’d have to go that way, through the kitchen.

“And where might you be going?” Nora said when she saw him.

But he was prepared. “The hill. With the sled. Mom said I could.”

“And your boots still wet.”

“I don’t care. Everybody’ll be there,” he said, pulling them on in a rush.

“Who’s everybody?”

But Nick was already opening the back door. “Everybody.”

And then he was free, crossing the back alley courtyard, where all the garages were. The snow was deep here–no one had bothered to shovel in back yet–and it took him a minute or two to reach the garage and find the sled, crammed in a corner with rakes and shovels. Any moment now his mother might appear at the window, calling him back. But she didn’t, and after he turned the corner into the alley, he knew it was going to be all right.

The problem was where to dump it. The snow had covered the trash cans along with everything else. He couldn’t just bury it in the snow. They’d find it after the melt, like a body. A mailbox would be ideal, but his father had told him it was illegal to put things there. Somebody would report it. Pulling the sled behind him, he walked as far as Massachusetts Avenue, where the plows had been. But it was crowded here, store owners shoveling sidewalks, people carrying paper bags of groceries, so he turned onto A Street, back toward the Capitol.