Eden Burning (50 page)

He meant it, Francis saw, murmuring his thanks.

“Yes, losing a man like you is a great loss for this place.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Francis replied, feeling embarrassment.

“Not lately,” Fawcett said steadily, “but you could again.”

Old Whittaker interjected, “Listen to me, Luther, and don’t pay attention to what anybody tells you. You’re doing the smart thing. Half of these people—I don’t mean you, Fawcett, you’ve got your own way of looking at things—but half of these people would quit tomorrow if they could find a buyer. They’d sell out like that!” He snapped his fingers. “They just haven’t been as lucky as you, that’s all.”

These remarks were unusually lengthy for Whittaker, whose small pink mouth was usually pursed, as if to open it were an effort not worth attempting. His wife makes up for his silence, Francis thought with some distaste, not welcoming his unexpected ally.

“My wife tells me,” Whittaker continued, “you’re planning a New York apartment and a country place on Long Island.”

“I couldn’t stand being cooped up in the city all year.”

Now his depression settled as if someone had placed a shawl on his shoulders. Limbo, yes, that’s where he was. At home there were cartons and boxes in the hallways. Marjorie had already begun to drag things out of attics and closets, to sort and give away. He supposed, or rather knew, it was foolish to impart life to inanimate objects, yet it hurt him to discard his schoolbooks—which no one would ever use—or Megan’s crib, which they would never use again, either, or so many dear old possessions.

“We simply can’t drag all this stuff back with us,” Marjorie declared. “It would cost a fortune, and where would we put it?”

He was too sentimental, by far.

And accepting from a silver tray a drink and canapés, he sat down among the men, to let their conversation wash over and past while he only half heard. The talk was the same talk that had been circling through the clubs and the great houses for months past.

“The burglaries in Covetown are not to be believed, especially in the hotels. They don’t put them all in the papers, you know.”

“The tourists bring it on themselves, flaunting their money and their jewelry. What do you expect?”

True, Francis thought, but not all that simple, either.

A large, bald man on the other side of the table—Barnstable, his name was, from the south end of the island—was telling a story amid much laughter.

“So when my cook’s father died I went to pay a condolence call. Way the hell and gone out in the country it was. But good Lord, Sally’s been with us eighteen years! They sit up all night at the wake, of course, but what I didn’t know was, they tell jokes and drink and dance, a regular party! They even poured rum down the dead man’s throat. He was sitting up in a chair—”

“Who was?”

“The corpse!”

“I don’t believe it!”

“True, though, I swear it. What do you expect of these people, anyway?”

The waiter was passing a mushroom quiche. Francis, wincing acutely, glanced up at the man’s face, but the face was bland. I wonder what they tell about us? he thought.

And he looked back at the large, bald man, who was still laughing, pleased with his contribution to the entertainment; then he watched as a covey of butterflies, attracted by the lights, went fluttering into the bougainvillaea and clung there, like black velvet bows pinned to a veil.

“So you were at one of Courzon’s rallies,” someone remarked to Rob Fawcett.

“Yes, I wanted to hear him for myself. The newspapers don’t dare print it all.”

“You were impressed, your wife says.”

“Yes, I was. I’m not going again, though. I’m too tall a target for a bottle or a brick.”

“They’ve gone utterly mad. A kid was stabbed not two blocks off Wharf Street a couple of days ago in some political brawl.”

“I didn’t see that anywhere.”

“I told you, they don’t dare put half of it in the papers.”

“I give us ten more years on this island at the outside.”

“Too generous, by far. I’d say four or five, more likely.”

“No, no, not with Mebane running things. I’m not that pessimistic.”

“Ultimately some crazy will throw him out and take everything over. It’ll be like Cuba, mark my words.”

“The next three days will tell the story. If Mebane wins the election we’ll be all right. He’ll quiet things down.”

“I doubt it. The pot’s boiling too fast.”

“Give the man a chance! How much time has he had?”

“Enough to fill the jails with his fancied enemies.”

This, outside of the host’s, was the first dissident voice of the evening. Issuing as it did from a newcomer to the island, it produced, in domino effect, a series of surprised and disapproving frowns.

“Aren’t you exaggerating, Mr. Trumbull?”

“On the contrary, I’ve not said a fraction of what could be said.”

Mr. Trumbull, being of that breed of lawyers known as liberal, wore an emotional expression. He was very young and had, for some reason probably connected with his liberal sympathies, recently opened a practice in Covetown. His somewhat babyish blue eyes looked startled, as though he had suddenly realized he stood almost alone.

A second later, though, he had an ally.

“Mebane’s a brute, a canny, cultured brute.”

This voice came from Whittaker’s nephew, the musician. More disapproving faces were turned toward him, but there was no immediate protest, for the Whittakers were one of the wealthiest families on the island and they were pleased to humor their “odd” nephew. And, Francis recalled, there was oil money on the young man’s mother’s side.

Their host spoke quietly. “I couldn’t agree more. What the rest of you call straightening out, what you call law and order, are only euphemisms for a police state.”

Whittaker opened his little pink mouth. “You’re entitled to your opinion, Rob, and so is my nephew, but I would advise you both to be careful of what you say. This is no time for loose talk.”

“Mr. Whittaker is right.” Francis spoke up clearly. He hadn’t intended to speak at all, had deliberately closed his mind to all affairs except his own. Now he surprised himself with his own positive reaction. “Even you who favor this government are admitting, aren’t you, that you don’t feel safe?”

“Do we understand then,” someone asked, “that you’re voting for Courzon?” There was malice in the question, for Francis’ feelings toward Courzon, as well as the reason for them, were well known.

“I don’t intend to vote at all,” he answered curtly. “What I’m thinking is, A plague on both your houses.”

“Well, of course, you’re leaving. But for those of us who want to stay, who have to stay, it’s no pretty prospect. Personally, I believe Courzon would pauperize us all. He may mean well and sound good, but in the end we’d have nothing.”

“What have you got now?” asked Whittaker’s nephew.

The senior Da Cunha, sumptuously suited as befitted a merchant of his class, came over now and took a vacant chair. He was obviously excited.

“I’ve just come from town. Here, look at this.” He held up a newspaper. “A special edition of the
Trumpet
just out this afternoon. I’ll read it to you. Listen, it’s an editorial by Kate Tarbox.

“‘For many months now and through various means we have been gathering information about the men who run what they are pleased to call our government. Now, on the eve of a decisive election, the time has come to reveal who and what this government really is.

“‘To begin with, it is not a government at all. It is a private enterprise of gentleman-criminals, defended by a secret police, a band of swaggering thugs, well paid out of your taxes, earned by your labor. Our country has become a safe harbor for shady enterprises, where narcotics and weapons are traded and dirty money laundered. Public monies have been directed to the pockets of the prime minister and his friends; safely hidden as they now are in as many as nineteen different banks as far afield as Switzerland, it would take a legion of lawyers and untold years to recover them for the people to whom they belong.’”

“Good God!” said Whittaker.

Da Cunha resumed. “‘These men make themselves heard almost daily on the subject of communist subversion, Cuban style. The truth is never mentioned: that communism was able to take over in Cuba because the mobsters had first laid the country in ruins.’ There’s more,” Da Cunha said. “Here, I’ll pass it around.”

“She didn’t sign her name to that?”

“She certainly did! Here, look, in big, black letters. Here’s the windup. ‘If you care about your country, if you care about yourselves, you will go to the polls on Thursday and vote them out. You will vote for Patrick Courzon.’”

“Fool of a woman!”

“Why? That’s what I call guts!”

“Sure, if you call it guts to commit suicide.”

Grudgingly, “Well, she does stand up for what she thinks. You have to hand her that.”

“She won’t be standing up long at all, I’m afraid. Not after this.”

“Too bad Lionel’s gone to England. Divorced or not, he’d have stopped her. He was always fond of her, even after the divorce.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to stop her. You don’t know Kate Tarbox. She does what she wants to do.”

“I wonder whether somebody should ride into town and—” Rob Fawcett began, when his wife came running in.

“Rob! Rob! I’ve just heard, Emmy had the radio on, and she just heard they’ve called off the election!”

“They’ve
what
?”

“Called off the election! No election on Thursday! For reasons of national security, it said.”

The Whittaker nephew smote the table. “Of course! Because Courzon is winning, don’t you see?”

“But they say, they say, one of the waiters just came late and he’s terrified, he says things are frightful in Covetown! They’ve got police everywhere, arresting people. They’ve confiscated every piece of the
Trumpet
they can lay their hands on. And he saw”—Mrs. Fawcett trembled—“a man beaten up. They smashed his head in, right near the telephone building, it was—”

All of a sudden the party was over. The candles, no longer festive, glimmered wanly in the looming darkness. Everything is in the eyes of the beholder, Francis thought queerly. All, all had become in these few moments vulnerable, the house with its music, its crystal and silk, its orderly men and women gathered, all breakable, destructible and powerless.

Rob Fawcett made a vigorous effort, saying cheerfully, “There’s nothing any of us can do tonight. We might as well have our dinner. My wife tells me it’s going to be a good one, too.”

Something seized Francis.
They’ve confiscated every issue
of the Trumpet … smashed his head in
… And I shall sit at table holding a lobster fork and a wine glass, while she—Blood rushed to his head, not thought, just blood and strength, so potent, so compelling that his legs moved and his mouth spoke before he had commanded any of them.

He caught Marjorie’s arm. “Make any excuses. The Whittakers will drop you home on their way. I’ve got to go to town.”

“What are you thinking of? Covetown, now?”

“I have to. Please. I’m in a hurry.”

“Francis! Francis! Have you gone out of your mind?” Marjorie’s voice was a long, scared wail. “Francis, come back here!”

But he had already leaped into the car and gone down the driveway, out of hearing, out of sight.

   Lights were on in the villages. Knots of people stood before the general stores and the rum shops as if they were waiting to be told what to do. Fear lurked among the trees beyond the headlights of the car. Doom rode the night air. He pressed the accelerator to the floor. There was one thought in his head, one purpose, and nothing could have stopped him. He knew, he knew. It was a good thing that neither police nor militia stood in his path, for he would have driven straight through them. He sped. If he could have flown, he would have.

Down the hill toward the town he came careening, and in the outskirts wheeled with screeching brakes around the corner of the street which he had not entered in so long. He jerked the car to a jolting stop before her house and jumped out.

The house was dark, but the front door was open. He rushed in, switched on the light and raced through the rooms. Kate’s dogs were lying on the kitchen floor. The poodle was dead and the yellow mongrel had been piteously, brutally wounded. Lying in its blood, it opened its eyes toward Franeis,
as if to plead, then turned them toward his bowl and his ball, his dear familiar things, as if to question, and sank back and closed his eyes.

Now Francis was sure of what he would find. In a frenzy he called her name—“Kate! Kate!”—and bounded up the stairs. In anguish he slammed doors wide. The rooms were empty. Then something made him open a closet in the hall—and there he found her.

Face down in a pile of shoes and tumbled clothing, she lay naked, tied and gagged. Crying, sick with horror, he picked her up.

“Oh, my God!” he heard himself say over and over.

Without moving, she lay on her bed. He looked at her in despair. He was outraged, he was helpless, he didn’t know what to do. At least she was alive…. But no doctor would come out tonight. Could she be dying? Then he bestirred himself. He went downstairs and found brandy. Which would be better, brandy or water? In the bathroom he got water and a wet cloth with which to bathe her forehead. And sitting on the edge of the bed, he covered her lightly, decently, with a sheet, then soothed and soothed with the cloth, thinking, Kate, oh my Kate, what have they done to you?

She opened her eyes. For a long minute she looked at him. “I knew you would come,” she whispered.

“How could you know?”

“I had a premonition that this would be our day. I even called you this evening before everything happened, but they said you weren’t home. They said you had gone to a party.”

Things joyous and painful moved at the same time in his chest.

“You called me?”

“Yes, I was so terribly afraid! I thought I might be needing you … so to hell with all my pride.”

“Ah, God,” Francis said.

She whispered. “My back hurts awfully.”

When, carefully, he turned her over, he saw why. Three
raw stripes lay across her back. The flesh had been savagely slit open by a whip. Droplets of dried black blood clung to the edges of the torn flesh.