them down deeper.
Now it was important to know. His eyes scanned the surrounding blocks of type, trying to reconstruct what had happened. A room on the sixteenth floor of the Mayflower Hotel. She had checked in that afternoon under a different name. Why go to a hotel? Her apartment was a few blocks away, off Dupont Circle. But a three-story house–too low. So she had planned it. And the newspaper speculated that in the Mayflower she’d found more than just height. All of Washington was in the ballroom below, for the United Charities ball. If she wanted a dramatic final appearance, she’d picked the right stage. Nick imagined her at the window, the cabs and hired black Packards pulling up under the awning, watching all the people who’d tormented her. Welles had been there, everybody. Nick stopped for a moment. His father was supposed to have been there too. Was that it? A final strike against him, in front of everybody? Larry had said she liked the spotlight. There would even be photographers on the street, to record the evening and its unexpected climax. She was dressed to go out.
The other details were sketchy, lost in long paragraphs of people’s responses. Welles, still in black tie in his photo, was shocked and saddened and reserved further comment pending an investigation. She had jumped at 9:35, according to the doorman who’d heard the crash. The ball had been in full swing. She had fallen wide of the sidewalk, hitting the roof of a waiting car and injuring the driver, who had needed treatment. According to the front desk there had been no visitors and according to the District police no signs of struggle in her room–this was a new idea to Nick–but she had ordered liquor from room service and it was assumed she had been drinking. She had made no calls. There was no note. She was survived by a sister, living in New York.
And that was all. Nick read through the reports again, then went back to the picture of her body, staring so hard that he saw the grains of ink. What had she been like? For an instant he hated her. Why had she done this to them? Drawn them into this personal mystery that spread, touching everything, like a spill. It wasn’t just politics anymore. Now someone was dead. And his father wasn’t here. Nick could hear the phone again. What would happen when they found out he was gone? Larry said they could twist anything. Nick looked at the woman, peaceful and inert. They’d blame his father somehow. She’d only sold him a shirt and look what they’d made of that. Nick felt a pricking along his scalp. She hadn’t lied about the shirt. His father had. But only Nick knew that. Had his father seen her at the hotel? There would have been time–he had left the house before the ball started. But no one knew that either. No one would ever know, if he came back.
Nick thought over everything that had happened the night before, remembering the words, the desperate hug, sifting for clues, but none of it seemed to have anything to do with the woman at the Mayflower. Nothing to connect his father with her. Unless she had been the call at Union Station. Nick looked up from the paper. No one, not even his mother, could know about that. Then his father would be safe. No connections at all. It was only his being away that could make things worse now, make people wonder why he was hiding. He had to come back.
Nick grabbed the newspaper and ran upstairs to dress.
Through the bathroom door he could hear running water and knew his mother was soaking in the tub, hiding in a cloud of steam. They were all hiding. But they couldn’t, now. He threw on some clothes and went down to his father’s study, closing the door behind him. When he picked up the phone he heard Nora’s voice, polite and normal. “No, he’s out. Would you like to leave a message or try back later?” He waited for the click, then pressed the receiver button again to get the operator to place a call to the cabin. There were a few more
Now it was important to know. His eyes scanned the surrounding blocks of type, trying to reconstruct what had happened. A room on the sixteenth floor of the Mayflower Hotel. She had checked in that afternoon under a different name. Why go to a hotel? Her apartment was a few blocks away, off Dupont Circle. But a three-story house–too low. So she had planned it. And the newspaper speculated that in the Mayflower she’d found more than just height. All of Washington was in the ballroom below, for the United Charities ball. If she wanted a dramatic final appearance, she’d picked the right stage. Nick imagined her at the window, the cabs and hired black Packards pulling up under the awning, watching all the people who’d tormented her. Welles had been there, everybody. Nick stopped for a moment. His father was supposed to have been there too. Was that it? A final strike against him, in front of everybody? Larry had said she liked the spotlight. There would even be photographers on the street, to record the evening and its unexpected climax. She was dressed to go out.
The other details were sketchy, lost in long paragraphs of people’s responses. Welles, still in black tie in his photo, was shocked and saddened and reserved further comment pending an investigation. She had jumped at 9:35, according to the doorman who’d heard the crash. The ball had been in full swing. She had fallen wide of the sidewalk, hitting the roof of a waiting car and injuring the driver, who had needed treatment. According to the front desk there had been no visitors and according to the District police no signs of struggle in her room–this was a new idea to Nick–but she had ordered liquor from room service and it was assumed she had been drinking. She had made no calls. There was no note. She was survived by a sister, living in New York.
And that was all. Nick read through the reports again, then went back to the picture of her body, staring so hard that he saw the grains of ink. What had she been like? For an instant he hated her. Why had she done this to them? Drawn them into this personal mystery that spread, touching everything, like a spill. It wasn’t just politics anymore. Now someone was dead. And his father wasn’t here. Nick could hear the phone again. What would happen when they found out he was gone? Larry said they could twist anything. Nick looked at the woman, peaceful and inert. They’d blame his father somehow. She’d only sold him a shirt and look what they’d made of that. Nick felt a pricking along his scalp. She hadn’t lied about the shirt. His father had. But only Nick knew that. Had his father seen her at the hotel? There would have been time–he had left the house before the ball started. But no one knew that either. No one would ever know, if he came back.
Nick thought over everything that had happened the night before, remembering the words, the desperate hug, sifting for clues, but none of it seemed to have anything to do with the woman at the Mayflower. Nothing to connect his father with her. Unless she had been the call at Union Station. Nick looked up from the paper. No one, not even his mother, could know about that. Then his father would be safe. No connections at all. It was only his being away that could make things worse now, make people wonder why he was hiding. He had to come back.
Nick grabbed the newspaper and ran upstairs to dress.
Through the bathroom door he could hear running water and knew his mother was soaking in the tub, hiding in a cloud of steam. They were all hiding. But they couldn’t, now. He threw on some clothes and went down to his father’s study, closing the door behind him. When he picked up the phone he heard Nora’s voice, polite and normal. “No, he’s out. Would you like to leave a message or try back later?” He waited for the click, then pressed the receiver button again to get the operator to place a call to the cabin. There were a few more
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