Venom and the River Page 2
Lucky man, Leigh thought. Mine frighten me.
*
Terrance Bancroft swayed from side to side as he hovered over piles of papers and photographs spread across a large table in a spacious dining room. Three gooseneck floor lamps were placed around the room, each aimed at the table.
His blue dress shirt was crisply ironed, the silk tie expertly knotted, the cuffs of his sharply pressed gray flannel trousers lightly touched soft leather loafers. But you can’t dress up ninety-year-old hands, Leigh thought as one slowly rose from the old man’s side, moved through the air over the table, then slapped down on a manila folder.
He looked up and smiled. “I liked your revisions of the outline I made, but I think we should start with this instead of the incident at the UN. This will make a perfect first chapter. Krakow Accords.”
“Terry, this is Leigh, but you obviously guessed that.” Geneva handed the baby to him. “I’ll get coffee ready and take it to the study. You two can get acquainted there.”
He expertly set the boy on his hip and positioned an arm around his back. “How about some of those butterscotch scones, Geneva? We’ve got company, after all.”
“She can have some, but you can’t. You had three for breakfast.” Geneva pushed a swinging door with her foot and slipped around it and disappeared.
“What the hell, let me die young,” he called after her. Tucker laughed and shouted, an infant echo of the old man’s yell. As he crowed, he arched his back and nearly tumbled out of the arm. Leigh reached forward. The baby spotted her movement and curled back securely.
“Did you read the last batch of books I sent?” Terrance Bancroft asked.
Leigh nodded. “I brought them with me. When I unpack I’ll—”
He swatted the air with his free hand. “Keep ’em. I won’t reread them. McNamara’s was the worst of the lot, don’t you think? I put up with all their bullshit for fifty years and it was all I could do to read it again in their memoirs. Apologies and lies, that’s all any of their books were. Not mine, Leigh. We’re writing an honest book. Like my first one was. No apologies. No lies.” He sat down heavily in a chair. Tucker immediately lunged for a roll of stamps that had uncurled on the table. The man blew softly across the boy’s head as he extracted stamps from Tucker’s fist.
The baby stared into the old face. Terrance Bancroft looked down, his own wide blue eyes locked on the boy’s. “This is Tucker,” he said. “One of those last-name names. Quite a few of those at prep school when I was young. St. Paul’s. It’s in Connecticut.”
New Hampshire, Leigh thought. You went to college in Connecticut.
“St. Paul’s,” he murmured. “Then Yale. We used to take the train. Rob and Timmy and me. George and Ted would join us in Chicago. Oh, what a party those trips were.” He closed his eyes and returned to a long-ago train ride. The arm around the baby loosened. Tucker instantly sensed the sudden freedom and lunged toward a red pen. Leigh quickly stepped around the table and caught the baby as he tumbled off the lap. Tucker gave her a resigned look as she secured him in her arms.
Geneva pushed through the door. “Coffee’s in the study. Why don’t you two go talk there.”
The former vice president scooped up papers and folders from the table. “Good. We’ll get down to work.”
“Could I freshen up first?” Leigh said. “I’ll be right there.” He nodded and disappeared.
“Bathroom’s this way,” Geneva said, pushing the pantry door again. “Sorry. I should have asked before.”
“I’m fine, actually. I really just wanted to talk for a minute,” Leigh said. “He almost dropped the baby, Geneva. He drifted away and forgot he had him, and Tucker nearly fell off his lap.”
The young woman took her son from Leigh and rested her head on his. She closed her eyes briefly. “Okay,” Geneva whispered. “It’s good you told me.”
Her host didn’t seem to notice when Leigh entered the study. He stood before a massive bookcase that covered a long wall. He pulled out a book and then lowered himself stiffly into a worn easy chair that was clearly the center of his nest. Leigh grimaced as he settled uneasily. Not that many years had passed since his picture would occasionally appear in magazines—a photograph almost always taken on tennis courts or in a rugged outdoor setting with a movie star or model a third his age at his side.
Damn, she thought, noticing the book in his hand. “Mr. Vice President—”
“None of that, Leigh,” he said. “By the time we’re done you’ll know everything about me from the names of my lovers to the smell of my farts. I think that calls for first names, don’t you? Mine’s Terry. And this book you ghosted for my old pal,” he said as he held it aloft, “is a splendid pack of lies.”
It’s what I now do best, she thought.
“Marvelous, every bit of it. Like I said, we don’t want lies in mine, of course. Well, except for the big one: that you’re the writer, not me.”
“You will do the writing, Mr. Vice President. I’ll just—”
He pointed at a chair and she sat down.
“You’ll just what? Channel me?” He shook his head. “When I read this leather-bound load of shit I knew old George Simmons had found himself a first-rate writer to do his lying. It sounds just like him! It was an even better job than what you did with Timmy’s autobiography.”
“I guess I have a way.”
“With rich old men and their egos?” He set the book on a small table beside the chair. “So why do you do it, Leigh?”
Breath and blood ceased to flow for a moment until she realized he’d spoken in present tense. Not, Why did you do it? “Money and security, I guess. I’m a freelance writer; we can’t be too choosy.”
“So you ghost self-published autobiographies for vain old men. There’s nothing better out there?”
He leaned forward, intent, waiting. Suddenly she knew why those models and actresses had looked so happy at his side: The man listened.
“Last month I grossed four thousand, Terry. That’s a really good month for me. I sold the same sermon to thirteen lazy ministers, four knock-off children’s books on national parks I’ve never visited, and three thousand words on the virtues of some bogus food supplements for an online newsletter. That’s what’s out there.” She looked down at her hands. “I enjoy the vain old men I’ve worked with. And now those books have led me here. Your memoir is a real job. One I’ll be proud of.”
“Even if your name isn’t on it?”
We should both hope my name is never anywhere near it, she thought, otherwise your publisher won’t touch it. She said, “Meaningful work and decent money is more than enough for me. It’s time I buy a house. I need a place my daughter will want to visit. She lives with her father.” Leigh closed her eyes. “Stop it,” she whispered under her breath. Giving away too much.
“Won’t come to see you, hey? Don’t be ashamed about having issues with a child. I have them, three times over. We’ll address all my domestic affairs in the book, of course, but, perhaps elliptically, don’t you think? No need to go into my kids’ lives.”
“It’s a political memoir,” Leigh said.
He nodded. “Exactly. They’re worried, though. You should know that and know that they might give you trouble. I told them I hired a ghost this time, and they’re afraid you won’t have scruples about trampling on their privacy. I won’t deny that I like worrying them with it because it keeps them calling and talking to me.” He rubbed his eyes with the butt of his palms and yawned.
“You told them you have a ghost? Was that wise?”
“Why keep it from my kids?”
“Word can get out, Terry. And if it does your publisher might want someone else on the job.”
“The secret’s safe. My kids won’t tell because they’re hoping I give up on it. Leigh, I don’t apologize for my vanity about the writing credit. I wrote the first one, every damn word. This will be the last thing I do and…” He stared out the window. His hand rose and dipped.
“It’s the last chance I have to leave something behind,” he said. “The money men have ruined everything. Bought every set of balls in Congress and erased all the good things we did. Mental health. Arts. Veterans.” He rested his head on a hand and closed his eyes. Within moments his breathing was coming in noisy, even puffs.
Leigh reached over to the coffee service and poured a cup, then took a scone and settled in to wait.
3.
“Get anything done?” Geneva said. She motioned to a counter, and Leigh set the tray down.
“Not really. First he got me to talk way too much about myself, then he fell asleep. He’s still out. I thought I may as well sneak away and settle into my room.”
Geneva speed-sliced through an onion and then tossed the knife into the sink. She wiped her hands on a towel that was draped through the handle of the oven door. “He’s so good at that. The listening, I mean. I grew up in Red Wing, upriver? I moved away to go to school, but then I went back and was living there with my mom after I dropped out of college. Anyway, one day about three years ago I came down here to the shoe outlet and he was in there buying socks. An ex-vice president of the United States buying his own socks! The outlet sells really good ones, by the way. I recognized him and didn’t see any reason not to say hi so I did and I swear that within ninety seconds I was telling him the story of my life and when I was done with that he offered me this job. Did you notice how he looks at you like you were some sort of miracle?”
“He’s curious, that’s obvious. And a talented sleeper. He went out so fast, I almost wondered if something had happened.”
Geneva nodded. “That’s how it goes. He can fall asleep like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I should warn you that except for an hour or so every morning and during meals and cocktail hour, he’s mostly sleeping. So you’re pretty much on your own with this book you’re not ghostwriting. He won’t be awake enough to be much help.” She reached for the handset of a baby monitor and wedged it into a pocket. “C’mon, I’ll show you to your place.”
*
“Everyone calls it the cottage. I call it a pain in the ass, mostly because it took me forever to clean. I’m not blaming you, sorry. It hadn’t been opened or used in years. When I have my own house, it will be new construction, I’ll tell you that. He had the electrician and plumber in, so all that’s good to go. The phone works, which you’ll need because for some reason this house is a cellphone dead zone. Cable hook-ups went in there behind the desk, so you’ve got TV and broadband. He thought you’d need the Internet for research. It’s so dark in here. All the trees. I couldn’t stand staying in this place, I know that; I need sunshine.”
“I thought he doesn’t like spending money on repairs.”
Geneva made a face. “Not on the big house, he doesn’t. But he got all excited about opening this place. There are two bedrooms. One with a view of trees and one with a view of different trees. Screens are new, which will save you from being eaten alive when the mosquitoes hatch, which will be any minute. You’ve come too late for the mayfly invasion; be grateful for that. Fridge is new. He had me get a few things like coffee and juice and a couple bottles of Glenlivet, which he found out from his friend Mr. Thompson was your brand. You’ll want to go shopping. Not that I bet you’ll do much cooking because the gas stove would have been old when my grandma was born, and let me tell you it is a pain to light the oven. I always have plenty of food up in the big house, though, so you don’t have to worry about that. I’d be happy for the company. Which I suppose is obvious from the way I’m going on.” Geneva made a face and pressed her stomach.
“Are you okay?”
“Just getting kicked. Do you have kids?”
“A daughter, sixteen. She lives with her father.”
Geneva paused like most people did when they heard that. Leigh could see the inevitable question on her face: A teenaged girl, living with the father—what’s the story behind that? The young woman held her question though. She just nodded and then led the way out of the kitchen back to the small living room. “Like most of the furniture and things in here, this desk is original to the house. It was built for a woman, so maybe you’ll be comfortable working at it. The lamp’s new, and so is the wiring. And—”
Leigh laid a hand on Geneva’s shoulder as she brushed past her, eyes fixed on a painting that hung over the desk that stood in a narrow alcove just off the living room. Her index finger hovered in the air inches from the name in the corner of the canvas. Matisse.
“Don’t worry,” Geneva said. “It’s a copy. He owns the original, though; it’s in his oldest daughter’s apartment in New York. I guess it used to be in here, right in that spot. His granddad got it in Paris even before Terry was born. Terry had the copy done last spring. Some New York artist did it.”
“It’s beautiful,” Leigh murmured, her eyes fixed on the painting. “He didn’t have to do all this. I could have stayed in the big house or gotten an apartment. If I’d known, I’d have told him not to bother. I’m sorry you’ve had so much extra to do.”
“Oh, I bitch, but it’s been a nice change.” Geneva smiled. “Some of the worker guys have been pretty cute, so that’s been fun.” She patted her stomach. “Not that I’m doing anything but window shopping these days.” She pulled out the desk chair and sat down. “River’s that way,” she pointed. “You can walk there from here. I’ve heard that there used to be a path, but I wouldn’t try to find it because there’s a nasty razor wire fence going all the way around the woods to stop people from wandering in.”
Leigh touched a blue vase on the mantel. “You said this cottage was built for a woman. Housekeeper?”
Geneva fiddled with the intercom. “I guess you’ve got some family history to learn before you start writing.” She smiled. “Oops. Before you start filing papers. Terry’s granddad, the one who got the painting in Paris? He built the cottage for a mistress. He left all the trees so she’d be out of sight from the wife. No one was fooled, of course. But at least that way the family could pretend the lover didn’t exist. There used to be a separate drive that the mistress would use, but it got overgrown. Now you have to park by the big house and walk in. That wouldn’t have worked for her, of course, to be so close to the house and the wife. The mistress was a doctor and she was always coming and going to see patients. Well, that’s how it goes in the books, the part about visiting patients, that is. There’s nothing about lovers and wives, of course.”
“The books?”
Geneva stretched her legs out and rested her hands on her belly. “Holy moly. You really haven’t learned the story about this cottage? You don’t even know that much about this place and the family?”
Leigh shook her head. “I’ve been reading about the vice president, but I’ve focused on the last part of his career.”
Geneva laughed. “That sweet son of a bitch; I guess he’s having some fun with you. Damn, the baby’s awake; see you later.”
Leigh slumped in a chair and closed her eyes, letting the quiet seep in and overspread the lingering echo of the young housekeeper’s raucous cheer.
What was the story about this cottage? Was it haunted by the spirit of the mistress? The betrayed wife? Nothing in his first memoir had mentioned the cottage, much less the grandfather’s doctor-mistress. So much for his claims of honesty for his book.
She went to the kitchen and opened cupboards until she found the Glenlivet. It was barely noon, true. But here she was in Pepin, Minnesota, about to start on the vain-glorious memoir for yet another rich old man. Why be cautious?
She and Timmy Thompson had always started the normal working day with a short one, a detail she was pretty certain Timmy had shared with his old friend Terry as well as the name of her brand of Scotch. What else had he told his old friend? Had he mentioned how Mrs. Thompson’s initial delight in Leigh’s presence had s
oured to a consuming jealousy that might have been a good part of the reason her Thanksgiving stroke two years ago was an instant knockout?
Had Timmy told his old pal that Leigh had always rebuffed his still-smooth moves? Had Timmy Thompson, that relentless liar, been truthful about that?
She might have met Terry the day of Mrs. Thompson’s funeral, but the children had asked her to not attend the lunch after the service.
“We know there was nothing going on,” Timmy Junior had mumbled as his four sisters stood behind him and glared, “but it would be best if you weren’t there. And now that mother’s not in the house, perhaps you shouldn’t be either. Surely you can work with him over the phone?”
So she’d packed up, gone home to her apartment in Eau Claire, Wisconsin and finished the book. Then Timmy passed her on to his friend George Hutton, who’d recommend her to Harry Towne. Each of those jobs had been completed under the watchful eye of a suspicious wife. So yes, Leigh thought as she pulled a tumbler out of the cupboard, Timmy probably had lied about getting her into bed.
Terry Bancroft had called often when she was working with Timmy and the others on their books. They’d all called each other frequently. Timmy and George and Harry and Rob and one or two others—old friends who’d survived together, each one now pushing or pulling ninety. She had always listened carefully to the one side of the conversation that she could hear, enjoying the banter, the arguing that always ended in laughter, the mellow sadness that accompanied the sharing of news and complaints about health.
Who would she call when there was little time left and not much to do but recall and relive and reshape the past?
“Fuck the pity party,” she said aloud and poured three fingers of Scotch; not exactly a short one, but, clearly, this was not a normal working day.
4.
Leigh poked a finger through the groceries spilling out of the thin plastic bags, searching for the five-dollar bar of imported dark chocolate she’d tossed into the cart as she’d waited in the check-out line. “There you are,” Leigh muttered as she spotted the foil-wrapped extravagance in one of the bags she’d put on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Just as she pulled the broken rectangle out from under a jug of drinking water the Toyota slammed forward and rocked. Leigh’s shoulder hit the steering wheel, and the chocolate bar flew out of her hand as glass sprayed through the car.