Part 9 (1/2)

When Catherine finally left Helen's, it was evening, time for dinner, but she was not hungry. She wanted to walk. She needed to move. It was early September, so night closed down faster on the city, and the subtle fading of the sky, the luminous streaks of color as the sun sank low, were blocked and blurred here by all the skysc.r.a.pers. Already there was the false daylight from storefronts, marquees, and headlights. It was neither dark nor day. People rushed instead of strolling, even though the air was mild.

Catherine was remembering her conversation with Ned.

”Perhaps you'll come to the States someday and visit the American Everly,” Catherine had said to him as they lay together, naked in each other's arms.

”Perhaps. Probably not.”

”Why not?”

”We don't have money for traveling. Everly looks grand, but only because the four of us slave for it and put all our money into it.”

”Do you resent that?”

”No. Not at all. On the contrary, I'm rather proud to be part of such a place, such a family. I'm the man of the house, you know. Everyone relies on me. It's up to me to take care of my sisters and my mother, and this house.”

”That doesn't make you feel trapped?”

”Trapped? Oh, you Americans! Always ready to move. No. I feel that I'm exactly where I belong, and lucky to be here.”

”What will happen when you fall in love?”

”Well, I'll have to fall in love with a woman who's willing to live here and get along with the rest of the family, won't I?”

”What if you fall in love with someone who doesn't want to live here?”

Ned had shrugged. ”I won't.”

For Ned, Catherine thought, it was all so clear. Family first. And he would be able to pull it off, she thought. Ned would be able to break off with a woman he loved if she wouldn't move to Everly, or not get involved with such a woman in the first place. Look at what Kit had done, breaking off with her in order to marry the woman his family had chosen.

It would be nice, Catherine thought as she strode down Park Avenue, the hard pavement hitting against her feet like a hammer pounding sense into her body, if she had an older brother. An older, protective brother, like Ned, who would take care of her. But she was the oldest in her family, and though she didn't even want to be part of that d.a.m.ned family, she didn't know how to escape. She could turn her back on her parents, but not on her brother, and especially not on Ann.

Catherine had always known her life would not be normal or easy. Her life hadn't come to her in a gentle unfolding of years, like the gradually opening petals of a rose. Her life came at her in waves. So much had happened this summer-meeting Kit and falling in love with him. Going to Everly. Sleeping with Ned. And now discovering that her family was on the edge of financial ruin.

For years the waves of life had just rolled in easily, then all at once they'd arisen, pounding down on her with a great and unfair blow. She had to fight against them, stand up to them, or surrender and be swept away.

Well, she would fight. She would always choose to fight.

The next morning Catherine spent a few minutes showing Mrs. V the pictures she'd taken of Everly's gardens. Then she went to look for Piet; she found him in the bas.e.m.e.nt, unpacking a s.h.i.+pment of containers. It was cool down there, dim and cluttered. Scrolled wrought-iron pedestal stands lay on their sides among chicken wire and discarded boxes. Sweat from the summer humidity beaded and dripped from the overhead exposed pipes. The air smelled sour. An appropriate place, Catherine thought, for this particular conversation.

Piet was bent over a cardboard box with his switchblade in his hand.

”Piet. Could we talk for a moment?”

”Sure.” Piet stood up, hitching up his jeans, which had slipped down his narrow hips.

Catherine moved closer to him, wanting him, and only him, to hear. She could feel the warmth of his body.

”There's something I'd like to discuss with you,” she said. ”But before I tell you what, I'd like you to promise that you won't tell anyone else. What I'm going to say has to be a secret, whether you agree to it or not.”

”Such mystery.” Piet smiled, but his black tulip eyes remained impenetrable.

”Will you promise?”

”I promise.”

His solemnity was intense, and wasn't that what she wanted? Catherine s.h.i.+vered as she looked at Piet, as if she were the hunted with the hunter closing in. His black eyes, his leaf-dense skin, his smell of musky sweat, flowers, and some spice she couldn't quite place, all seemed to wrap around her like the cloak of a vampire or an angel. This was not a man ever to take lightly.

”It's about making some money. Quite a lot of money. Piet, it's illegal, it's immoral, but it's foolproof. My friend and I have it all planned out, but I need your help. For which, of course, you'd be paid.” Her voice was quiet and blunt.

”Catherine.” Piet grinned. ”You surprise me.”

His grin broke the spell. She moved away from him, toward the soapstone sinks. ”To be honest, I surprise myself.” Suddenly she felt ill-at-ease. ”Look. I can't talk about the details here, when the Vandervelds could interrupt us at any moment. Can you meet me at the bar on the corner after work? If you're interested, that is.”

”Oh, I'm interested.”

The bar was crowded at six o'clock; Catherine was glad, because the laughter and chatter of the patrons made her certain no one could overhear them.

”What I want you to do is this,” Catherine said, and explained her plan. He would get one-third of the money.

Piet smiled slowly as she spoke. And then he said yes. It didn't surprise her. What did surprise her was that he asked so few questions. For instance, ”Why would a nice girl like you get herself involved in blackmail?”

The next day after work, she took a bus down to Forty-seventh Street. At a cutrate shop on Forty-seventh and Sixth, she spent some of her savings on a small black Leica 35-millimeter camera, which, the salesman promised her, had the softest shutter in the business, and several rolls of 400 speed film. She took a bus back uptown and hurried to Vanderveld Flowers. It was after seven now, and the older Vandervelds had gone home. The shop was dark. She went to the back door off the alley, where Piet was waiting. Once inside, she gave him the loaded camera.

”Good luck,” she said.

”See you tomorrow,” he replied. They left the shop together but parted at the cross street.

All Catherine could do now was wait. She sat in Leslie's apartment, a plate of fruit and cheese in front of her, a gla.s.s of wine in her hand. She drank the wine, and then another gla.s.s, but she was too nervous to eat. Helen had promised to call when it was over. Until then all Catherine could do was to imagine what was happening now, at Helen's place.

When he left Catherine, Piet would have headed to Helen's apartment, and Helen would have hidden him inside her bedroom closet. She had showed Catherine how easy it would be for someone to hide there; the closet was stuffed with filmy evening gowns, and the sliding doors were louvered.

Helen was planning to wear a flamboyant red-and-black negligee with see-through net and lots of makeup. Puritanical old P. J. Willington's cold blood always got hot with ”Malaguena” and ”Bolero” playing on the stereo. And the music would mask any sounds the camera shutter made. Fortunately P. J. liked the lights on, the better to see Helen.

Helen told Catherine that P. J. always arrived between nine and ten. At nine-thirty Catherine let herself imagine the next step. The old man would enter. He would drink some whiskey. Helen would put on music, then lead P. J. into the bedroom as she had so many times before. And all the while, Piet would be hidden away taking pictures that would cost Willington a fortune.

Helen had promised to call Catherine when it was all over. By ten-thirty the phone still hadn't rung. By eleven Catherine picked up the receiver to be sure the phone wasn't broken. When, at eleven-thirty, it rang, Catherine almost screamed.

”Hi, honey,” Helen said. ”It's all over. It went off perfectly.”

Catherine began to shake. She couldn't speak.

”Your friend said he'll give you the camera tomorrow, and you'll take care of the rest. I'm going to start packing. The day you call him, I'm leaving this place. How long do you think it will take to get the photos developed?”

”Oh, just a few days,” she said, hoping it was true. ”I'll call you as soon as I've got them.”