The Lacuna
Page 117
“I know that you were in Mexico,” he said. “We have this information. You worked for a painter in Mexico City, a very well-known Red. I can’t recall his name, but it’s in the files. I came here today to question you about this. In all of this mess, this kind of weather, in North Carolina. I don’t even have chains on the tires.” He sighed.
“To question me about working for a painter in Mexico?”
“That’s about the extent of it. You could deny it, most of them deny. To begin with. But I’ll be honest with you, it doesn’t usually help.”
“Why would I deny it?”
“This information alone is reason for dismissing you from your government post. That’s what happens now, if you choose not to deny the associations. In time there may be more. I think you’re probably going to get a McFarland letter.”
“Who is McFarland?”
“McFarland is nobody. But this letter is bad news, it would contain the actual charges. The higher-ups have intimated they are accumulating some pretty shocking evidence against you.”
“I see. Who is supplying this shocking evidence?”
“Mr. Shepherd, be reasonable. You know we can’t tell you that. If we allowed all the accused to confront their accusers, we would have no informants left. It would infringe on our ability to investigate.”
“Your ability to investigate. That’s the important thing.”
“Correct. In this day and age, we have a duty to protect the citizen. It’s a precarious business. People have no idea, they should be very grateful. You should be grateful, Mr. Shepherd.”
“It’s a difficult point you make, Mr. Myers. I felt pretty cozy here today, before you came knocking.” I got up to put more wood on the fire, a piece of cedar shingle that sent a little shower of sparks onto the floor. I dusted up the ash, no harm done. But I seemed to have gotten up the dander of Myers, as far as it went.
“The mental world of the Communist is secretive,” he said. “The Soviet Fatherland has to be preserved at any cost, and its enemies confounded.” He seemed to be quoting a handbook, speaking in the general direction of the bookcase. Maybe he was trying to read titles: Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Dreiser, the suspect will alphabetize his books at any cost. Mrs. Brown, largely to blame.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. I stayed where I was, feet to the fire. This was some sort of Jacson Mornard who’d arrived at my door, hat in hand, blade beneath the coat. I had let him in, brought the coffee. As Lev always said, you won’t see it coming.
He shifted himself around to face me. “The thinking of the Communist is that no one who opposes him can possibly have any merit whatsoever. It’s a psychological illness. The Communist cannot adjust himself to logic.”
“That’s a point of view. But I was thinking of what you said about confronting my accuser. I thought the Constitution gave me the right to know the charges against me. And who was bringing them.”
Myers drained his coffee cup and leaned forward with a little grunt to set the cup on the table. We were nearly finished, I could tell.
“Whenever I hear this kind of thing,” he said, “a person speaking about constitutional rights, free speech, and so forth, I think, ‘How can he be such a sap? Now I can be sure that man is a Red.’ A word to the wise, Mr. Shepherd. We just do not hear a real American speaking in that manner.”
November 2
Mrs. Brown left early to go to the polls. She says the Elementary down the block would be my voting place, if I could be troubled to use it. I have promised her I’ll get my voting card before the next go-round. Meanwhile the neighborhood children are having the day off, out fighting their snow wars, building forts and goggle-eyed men. The one in the next yard looks like Agent Myers, rotund and slump-shouldered, a potato for his nose, peering at my window wearing the old fedora I gave Romulus.
November 3
She came in at nine with the mail and daily papers, all claiming Dewey had won the presidency, in the largest typeface imaginable. Poor Tommy: that toothbrush moustache does loom large, above the fold. But Mrs. Brown’s eyes were ablaze. She did a little dance stomping the snow off her boots in the doorway, unwinding her scarf. I haven’t seen such fire in her since Mexico.
“You look like you’ve had the canary for breakfast.”
“Here it is, Mr. Shepherd. Dewey hasn’t won it. Turn on the radio.”
At first the news was about airlifts into Berlin, those desperate people now six months under siege. The American flyers are getting in more food than ever, thousands of tons, and now also coal so the Berliners won’t freeze. The interview was an air force man who said next month they plan to drop candy and toys from the planes, with little parachutes. “Those German kiddies will have Santa Claus, whether Joe Stalin wants them to or not,” he vowed.
“Mr. Shepherd, how be ye?” she asked suddenly. I must have looked unwell.
I blew my nose to preserve dignity. I’d been close to tears, for the most ridiculous reason. “I was thinking of my old boss, Lev Trotsky,” I confessed. “He would have loved that report. The triumph of compassion over Stalin’s iron fist. The people prevail, with candy and parachutes.”
“It’s our boys helping them do it,” she said, and I said yes, it is, and wanted to dance with Mrs. Brown, stomp my feet at the doorsill. My country ‘tis of thee.
At half past, the election news came back. Truman had been awakened and rolled out of bed in Missouri, informed he might not be on vacation yet. He didn’t stay up last night to listen to the returns; the Democratic campaign had not rented a suite or organized any party for that. They saw no need. While Dewey’s men popped the champagne in New York, Harry put on his pajamas, ate a ham sandwich, and went to bed early.
Now the race was neck and neck, with many states still counting. By mid-morning it was Harry ahead by a nose. We didn’t move from the radio.
Shortly before noon they called it. Harry Truman won.
“Oh, Mr. Shepherd, it’s a day to remember. Those news men could not make a thing true just by saying so. It’s only living makes life.”
I knew what she meant. The cold spell on us is deep, but however bitter the day might appear, winter will pass. I made a fire for us in the living room. A neighbor across the way has torn down his old carriage house and piled the scrap wood by the street.
“To question me about working for a painter in Mexico?”
“That’s about the extent of it. You could deny it, most of them deny. To begin with. But I’ll be honest with you, it doesn’t usually help.”
“Why would I deny it?”
“This information alone is reason for dismissing you from your government post. That’s what happens now, if you choose not to deny the associations. In time there may be more. I think you’re probably going to get a McFarland letter.”
“Who is McFarland?”
“McFarland is nobody. But this letter is bad news, it would contain the actual charges. The higher-ups have intimated they are accumulating some pretty shocking evidence against you.”
“I see. Who is supplying this shocking evidence?”
“Mr. Shepherd, be reasonable. You know we can’t tell you that. If we allowed all the accused to confront their accusers, we would have no informants left. It would infringe on our ability to investigate.”
“Your ability to investigate. That’s the important thing.”
“Correct. In this day and age, we have a duty to protect the citizen. It’s a precarious business. People have no idea, they should be very grateful. You should be grateful, Mr. Shepherd.”
“It’s a difficult point you make, Mr. Myers. I felt pretty cozy here today, before you came knocking.” I got up to put more wood on the fire, a piece of cedar shingle that sent a little shower of sparks onto the floor. I dusted up the ash, no harm done. But I seemed to have gotten up the dander of Myers, as far as it went.
“The mental world of the Communist is secretive,” he said. “The Soviet Fatherland has to be preserved at any cost, and its enemies confounded.” He seemed to be quoting a handbook, speaking in the general direction of the bookcase. Maybe he was trying to read titles: Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Dreiser, the suspect will alphabetize his books at any cost. Mrs. Brown, largely to blame.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. I stayed where I was, feet to the fire. This was some sort of Jacson Mornard who’d arrived at my door, hat in hand, blade beneath the coat. I had let him in, brought the coffee. As Lev always said, you won’t see it coming.
He shifted himself around to face me. “The thinking of the Communist is that no one who opposes him can possibly have any merit whatsoever. It’s a psychological illness. The Communist cannot adjust himself to logic.”
“That’s a point of view. But I was thinking of what you said about confronting my accuser. I thought the Constitution gave me the right to know the charges against me. And who was bringing them.”
Myers drained his coffee cup and leaned forward with a little grunt to set the cup on the table. We were nearly finished, I could tell.
“Whenever I hear this kind of thing,” he said, “a person speaking about constitutional rights, free speech, and so forth, I think, ‘How can he be such a sap? Now I can be sure that man is a Red.’ A word to the wise, Mr. Shepherd. We just do not hear a real American speaking in that manner.”
November 2
Mrs. Brown left early to go to the polls. She says the Elementary down the block would be my voting place, if I could be troubled to use it. I have promised her I’ll get my voting card before the next go-round. Meanwhile the neighborhood children are having the day off, out fighting their snow wars, building forts and goggle-eyed men. The one in the next yard looks like Agent Myers, rotund and slump-shouldered, a potato for his nose, peering at my window wearing the old fedora I gave Romulus.
November 3
She came in at nine with the mail and daily papers, all claiming Dewey had won the presidency, in the largest typeface imaginable. Poor Tommy: that toothbrush moustache does loom large, above the fold. But Mrs. Brown’s eyes were ablaze. She did a little dance stomping the snow off her boots in the doorway, unwinding her scarf. I haven’t seen such fire in her since Mexico.
“You look like you’ve had the canary for breakfast.”
“Here it is, Mr. Shepherd. Dewey hasn’t won it. Turn on the radio.”
At first the news was about airlifts into Berlin, those desperate people now six months under siege. The American flyers are getting in more food than ever, thousands of tons, and now also coal so the Berliners won’t freeze. The interview was an air force man who said next month they plan to drop candy and toys from the planes, with little parachutes. “Those German kiddies will have Santa Claus, whether Joe Stalin wants them to or not,” he vowed.
“Mr. Shepherd, how be ye?” she asked suddenly. I must have looked unwell.
I blew my nose to preserve dignity. I’d been close to tears, for the most ridiculous reason. “I was thinking of my old boss, Lev Trotsky,” I confessed. “He would have loved that report. The triumph of compassion over Stalin’s iron fist. The people prevail, with candy and parachutes.”
“It’s our boys helping them do it,” she said, and I said yes, it is, and wanted to dance with Mrs. Brown, stomp my feet at the doorsill. My country ‘tis of thee.
At half past, the election news came back. Truman had been awakened and rolled out of bed in Missouri, informed he might not be on vacation yet. He didn’t stay up last night to listen to the returns; the Democratic campaign had not rented a suite or organized any party for that. They saw no need. While Dewey’s men popped the champagne in New York, Harry put on his pajamas, ate a ham sandwich, and went to bed early.
Now the race was neck and neck, with many states still counting. By mid-morning it was Harry ahead by a nose. We didn’t move from the radio.
Shortly before noon they called it. Harry Truman won.
“Oh, Mr. Shepherd, it’s a day to remember. Those news men could not make a thing true just by saying so. It’s only living makes life.”
I knew what she meant. The cold spell on us is deep, but however bitter the day might appear, winter will pass. I made a fire for us in the living room. A neighbor across the way has torn down his old carriage house and piled the scrap wood by the street.
