Frank was looking at a nice severance package and yet another mysterious new job. Jim Upjohn said it was in weapons manufacture. Weapons were booming now. Frank felt a little nostalgia for his life at Iowa State, that job he’d had for three years, those fruitless attempts to make gunpowder out of cornstalks. He expected to enjoy weapons, and he did truly wonder what all those weapons manufacturers had learned from the trove of German papers and patents he had spent two years after the war sorting and translating. Perhaps weapons had always been his destiny.
Frank went into his private bathroom and looked in the mirror. He was forty-five. He looked a little like Grandpa Otto, though taller, thinner, and colder. He kept his hair short, and because he was graying, there was no distinct contrast between his hairline and his hair; anyway, he knew how to buy a hat and how to wear one. His jawline had sharpened, and his cheekbones, too. All he had left were the blue eyes. Lydia, whose own eyes were brown, often stared at them as if they amazed her. Frank straightened his tie.
The deal, so long in the making, was done by Friday, and Frank was out of his office by five. He felt a little startled by the speed of it. All he carried out was his briefcase, and that was nearly empty. The Sun people told him to leave his files and his secretary. His secretary, happy to still have a job, promised to send his other things home in a box — a picture of Andy and the kids, a raincoat, an umbrella. That was all.
Frank got in a taxi and went straight to the Belvedere Hotel. He hadn’t seen Lydia in a month. Of course, he hadn’t called her or warned her. They did not communicate in that way. Once in a while, they left messages for one another at the Belvedere, but what Frank really counted on was walking into the bar there and seeing her across the room. They had gone a month before — most recently when Olivier took her to France in August. One of the pleasures of their romance, for Frank, was treating these unexpected separations as if they were disappearances, replays of that first disappearance followed by the exhilarating, predestined reunion. She was not at the Belvedere, and there was no message. The bartender offered, without being asked, that he hadn’t seen her in two, three weeks.
Frank hailed another cab and went to 158 Front Street, her apartment building. When he got out, he looked up immediately; he knew which windows were hers, though he had never been inside. The windows were dark, and they stayed that way all evening. Frank didn’t head home until ten, and didn’t get home until after eleven. He had no driver anymore — he had to make his own way. It didn’t escape his notice that his own windows were dark, too. Not even the front-porch light was on.
He made his way in through the garage. Nedra’s door was closed; the kitchen was dark; the family room and the living room were dark. Richie’s door was cracked — Frank closed it. Michael’s door was closed. Janny’s door was open because she was away at school. Andy’s hall door was closed. He went into his own room. The connecting door to Andy’s room was also closed. This was the way rich people lived, and Frank liked it. Jim Upjohn told him that he and Frances both had their own suites — his modern and hers more Art Nouveau.
But he was lonely, and he was quite certain already of what on Monday he discovered had indeed come to pass — Olivier and Lydia had moved, leaving no forwarding address with the building superintendent. Nor could Information find their phone number — not in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, or the Bronx. For two weeks after that, he left home as usual, pretending that he was going to work (yes, he told Andy, the deal had gone through; he’d been given two weeks’ notice) and roamed New York City in widening circles, knowing that if Lydia was there he would see her. His eyesight was as good as or better than ever, since he was getting farsighted and had had to buy reading glasses. But he didn’t see her, not even once.
—
CLAIRE PERSUADED Joe and Lois to bring Minnie, Rosanna, and the kids to their house in West Des Moines for Christmas dinner. Henry agreed to come, too, and spend the night, since it was a six-hour drive from Chicago. Rosanna hadn’t gone anywhere for Christmas in her entire life, if you didn’t count Joe’s house. She would bring a green-bean casserole, and Lois was going to bring the fruitcake and the Parkerhouse rolls. That meant that Claire was responsible for the turkey and dressing, the mashed potatoes, the salad, and, Paul insisted that morning, the eggnog. Claire said, “Mama is going to ask if there’s liquor in it.”
“Say yes.”
“If there is, she won’t let Joe drive home, even if he doesn’t have any.”
“Minnie will drive home. Minnie is the biggest stick-in-the-mud I ever met.”
“I love Minnie,” said Claire.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t love her. It means she can drive home.”
Paul sat down next to the Christmas tree with the morning paper, and she went into the kitchen.
At two, when she was peeling the potatoes, Henry walked in the back door. He was carrying boxes wrapped in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer paper, and behind him was Jacob Palmer, and the first thought that came into her mind was an expression of her father’s, “black as the ace of spades”; then she blushed and said, “Hello, Jacob! Do you remember me?”
“Of course I do,” said Jacob in his almost British accent, very musical, and Claire saw that they were in for an interesting Christmas dinner. Henry gave her a hug and a kiss and a Merry Christmas and walked through to the living room. He came back a second later, saying, “Where’s that boy?”
“He’s napping.”
“Poor thing.”
“He’s not a poor thing. He’s a good boy, and we will all be glad he’s had a nice nap. Are you two hungry?”
Henry said, “Jacob decided not to go home for Christmas, so I invited him; is that okay?”
“Of course,” said Claire. “It’s a twenty-pounder. You look nice.” Henry had on a gray suit with narrow pants, pointy-toed shoes, a white shirt, and a narrow dark tie. Claire looked him up and down and said, “You look like a Beatle now.”
“Which one?”
“Stuart Sutcliffe.”
“The sexy one!” said Henry.
Jacob was in a medium-brown glen plaid, blue shirt, regular shoes. He looked better, and richer, than Henry. He said, “Who do I look like?”
Claire said, “No one in Des Moines.”
He laughed.
Paul came in. Claire saw his eyebrows shoot up and then down; then he smiled and said, “Jacob! Didn’t know you were in this country.”
“I’m at Wisconsin.”
“Go, Badgers,” said Paul.
Joe, Lois, Minnie, and the kids bustled in ten minutes later, followed by Rosanna, who was already talking as she came through the door. “Well, after all that wet weather the last few days, I was sure the roads would be frozen solid with the cold snap, but Joe—” She caught sight of Jacob and stopped dead. Then she looked around to make sure she was in the right house.
Henry stepped in, put his arms around her, and said, “Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas.” He kissed her firmly on both cheeks, and, Claire saw, he held her rather tightly, as if restraining her. She said, “My goodness.”
Henry spoke smoothly and brightly. “I want you to meet Jacob Palmer. He’s a friend of mine from England. Remember when I worked on that dig in Yorkshire? Now he’s getting his doctorate at Wisconsin.”
Jacob smiled and held out his hand. They all saw Rosanna hesitate, and they all saw Henry lean toward her slightly. She held out her hand rather limply, and Jacob grasped it. As he said, “I’ve heard all about you, Mrs. Langdon,” in a crisp and jolly way, Rosanna seemed to remember herself, and participate in the hand shaking. But when it was over, she stepped back, went around everyone, and said to Claire, “How’s the turkey?”