“Thank you,” Pittman said.
“But if it turns out that you are here to make trouble, I’ll have George summon the police.”
The threat caused a further surge of adrenaline to roil Pittman’s stomach. He fought not to show his concern.
As the servant shut the door behind them, the woman led Pittman and Jill toward Denning. They went through the doorway on the left.
Pittman had expected antiques and a Colonial atmosphere. On the contrary, the large room was furnished in a glinting glass-and-chrome modern style. Abstract Expressionist paintings hung on the walls, splotches of colors communicating a welter of emotions. Pittman thought he recognized a Jackson Pollock.
“May I offer you anything?” the woman asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Jack Daniel’s,” Denning said.
“Bradford, you reeked of alcohol when you arrived. You know how I feel about overindulgence. You’ve had enough.”
Denning continued to wipe his flushed, glistening face.
“Since none of the rest of us wants anything, why don’t we sit down and discuss why the three of you came here?”
“Yes,” Pittman said, “I’d like to hear Bradford’s version of the conversation we had with him. If that’s all right with you, Mrs.…?”
“Page.”
The name meant nothing to Pittman. His lack of appreciation must have shown on his face.
“Mrs. Page is one of Washington’s leading socialites,” Denning said, his boastful tone suggesting that he thought he gained stature by knowing her.
“Obviously our guests still don’t recognize the name,” Mrs. Page said. “Or else they have the wisdom not to be impressed by society.” Her lips formed a tight, bitter smile. “But perhaps another name will be significant to them. It’s the only reason Bradford ever comes to see me, so I assume that your visit has some connection with it. I’m Eustace Gable’s daughter.”
2
The woman’s announcement that she was a daughter of one of the grand counselors was so surprising that Pittman inhaled sharply. He sensed Jill become tense beside him.
“I didn’t realize,” Pittman said.
“Obviously. But now that you know, do you intend to continue the conversation?”
“That’s up to you, Mrs. Page,” Jill said. “Some of what we need to talk about may be indelicate.”
Pittman frowned toward Denning, wondering why the man had felt compelled to come here. Was Denning’s claim to hate the grand counselors merely a ploy that allowed him to gain the confidence of their enemies? Was Denning a spy for the grand counselors and the first person he’d decided to report to was Eustace Gable’s daughter?
“When it comes to my father,” Mrs. Page said, “every subject is indelicate.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” Pittman said.
“I’ll speak freely if you speak freely.”
Still confused, Pittman nodded.
“I hate my father.”
Again, Pittman was caught off guard.
“Loathe him,” Mrs. Page continued. “If it was in my power to hurt him… truly and seriously hurt him… destroy him… I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. He’s repugnant.” The ferocity in her eyes was appalling. “Is that clear? Have I communicated my attitude?”
“Perfectly.”
“I assume that what you and Bradford spoke about tonight is something that he believes I can use as a weapon against my father,” Mrs. Page said. “That’s why I invited you in. Am I correct? Do you have biases as a reporter? Do you regard my father as an adversary?”
Pittman nodded again, not sure whether he was being set up.
“Good.” Mrs. Page turned to Denning. “Bradford, I’m disappointed in you. If you felt that these people could help me, why did you tell me to turn them away? Did you want all the credit, is that it? After so many years, are you still behaving as if you’re in the State Department?”
Denning fidgeted and didn’t answer.
Despite Mrs. Page’s earlier invitation to sit, they had all remained standing. Now Pittman eased down onto an unusual-looking chair that had severe angles and edges and was made from wood embedded in shiny metal. It reminded him of experimental furniture that he had seen in New York at the Museum of Modern Art. Unexpectedly, he found that the chair was comfortable.
The others sat also.
“How did…?” Pittman felt awkward, not sure how to ask the question. “What made you…?”
“Speak directly. My father taught me always to get to the point,” Mrs. Page said bitterly. “Why do I hate my father? He killed my mother.”
Pittman was conscious of his heart beating.
“Since you’ve started, tell them, Vivian,” Denning said. “Tell them everything.”
Mrs. Page narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s not something that outsiders can regard with sympathy, perhaps. You see a house of this magnitude-my mother’s was even more grand-and you ask yourself how can anyone possibly be unhappy living in such luxury. Someone working on the assembly line at an automobile factory in Detroit would be more than pleased to trade places. But every circumstance has its unique liability. My mother was beautiful. She came from a traditional southern family that still remembered and retained affectations of genteel society from before the Civil War. In that world, a woman wasn’t meant to do anything. My mother was taught that she gained her value simply by existing. She was raised as if she were an orchid, to be admired. Then she met my father on one of the last ocean cruises to Europe before the outbreak of the Second World War. The surroundings were romantic. She foolishly fell in love with him. The match was approved. They were married. And to her surprise, she discovered that she was indeed expected to do something-to be perfect in every regard. To give the most perfect dinner parties. To provide the most perfect conversation. To be perfectly dressed. To create the most perfect impression.”
Mrs. Page’s voice quavered. She hesitated, then continued. “Again, that hypothetical factory worker I mentioned wouldn’t have any sympathy for a society woman who claimed to be suffering while living in splendor. But what if that factory worker had a foreman who criticized every task he did, day after day, month after month, year after year? What if that foreman had a way of getting into the worker’s heart, of making every insult feel like the cut of a knife? The worker’s nerves would be affected. His dignity would be wounded. His spirit would be destroyed. Oh, you might say that the worker would have the option of resigning and finding another job. But what if that option wasn’t available to him? What if he had to endure that foreman’s abuse forever?”
Mrs. Page swallowed dryly. “My father is the cruelest man I have ever encountered. His need to dominate was so excessive that he browbeat my mother at every opportunity. He ridiculed. He demeaned. He degraded. I grew up in constant terror of him. Nothing I could do was good enough for him. And certainly nothing my mother could do was good enough. I used to cry myself to sleep out of pity for my mother. Divorce? For a career diplomat with immense ambitions? In those days? Unthinkable. My mother raised the subject only once, and my father’s reaction so terrified her that she never mentioned it again.”
Mrs. Page thought for a long moment. Her perfectly poised shoulders weakened. “So my mother began to drink. Neither my father nor I realized that she had a problem with alcohol until her addiction was far advanced. At the start, she evidently did most of her drinking when my father was out of the house and I was at school. She drank vodka, so the alcohol would be less detectable on her breath. A vicious cycle developed. Her drinking impaired her ability to strive for the perfect standards that my father required. Dinner parties weren’t organized to his satisfaction. My mother’s behavior became indifferent. She no longer helped organize, let alone appeared at, required society charity events. At diplomatic receptions, she showed the boredom she’d been hiding. Naturally my father criticized her. The more he criticized, the more she drank, and that of course further affected her performance, causing him to be more furious with her, and in turn causing her to drink more.