“I don’t know,” Evelyn said, frowning in true bewilderment. A four-hundred-mile pipeline really wasn’t a practical solution to the problem, and she couldn’t understand Bradford’s having mentioned it at all, much less sticking to it as the one and only answer. No wonder Harrison was so upset, no wonder he was beginning to believe Bradford had chosen this way to brush him off, that this time Bradford had decided not to help him out of his jam after all.
But that couldn’t be the case. Evelyn knew Bradford had not been happy about Harrison’s latest disaster, but he had surely been resigned from the outset to play his usual role, stepping in at the last minute to save Harrison from the results of his actions. So this pipeline idea couldn’t be merely a not-too-subtle way to refuse to take part, since Evelyn was certain Bradford had never for an instant considered not taking part.
But the pipeline suggestion couldn’t be serious, either. Bradford’s great strength was his practicality, it was his awareness of the possible that made him not only the acknowledged head of the family but for four years had made him the acknowledged head of the entire United States and by extension a good third of the population of the world. “Politics is the doctrine of the possible,” Bismarck had said, and it was his unswerving devotion to this doctrine that had made Bradford the great politician he had been and the strong family leader he still remained. So he couldn’t really intend Harrison to leave here the day after tomorrow and go build a four-hundred-mile pipeline.
Harrison was saying, “He won’t talk to Herb at all, he won’t even acknowledge his existence, so there’s nothing poor Herb can do to find out what’s going on and you can imagine how that’s driving him crazy. I’m not excusing him for going after the maid, but you can see where he might not be himself right now.”
It wasn’t that Herbert was not himself that Evelyn had objected to, but that he was so much more himself than ever before. She felt she’d already established the point, however, and didn’t want to distract the conversation from Bradford and the pipeline, so she said nothing.
Harrison said, “Patricia’s tried to talk to him, of course, you know Patricia, but he won’t say a word to her either. Oh, he’ll talk to her, but not about this mess, not a word about that. She’ll ask him a question, and it’s as if he didn’t even hear it. I’m the only one he’ll talk to, and all he’ll say to me is pipeline pipeline pipeline.”
Could Bradford be punishing him? Evelyn studied that possibility, and though it too seemed doubtful it was at least possible. Possible that Bradford had decided this time to teach Harrison a lesson, to give him nothing but this impractical suggestion until the last minute, until Saturday, day after tomorrow. Then, an hour or two before they were to leave, Bradford would call in Harrison and Herbert — and perhaps even Patricia — and then he would outline something sensible and practical they could do to wriggle themselves out of this mess.
It was a possibility, Bradford was surely angry enough this time and had the additional spur of the Paris fiasco to keep him on the boil, but Evelyn hoped it wasn’t true, because it was really very cruel. Of a piece with sending the bus. Harrison was too easy a target, it wasn’t like Bradford to engage in overkill like this.
She would have to find out, one way or the other. And stop Bradford, if she could. “I’ll talk to him,” she promised. “As soon as we get back.”
“Thank you, Evelyn.” He reached out and took her hand and held it for a moment in both of his. She was sure the gesture began naturally, but he became almost at once self-conscious, and prolonged it theatrically, spoiling it. Still holding her hand, he said, “And I’ll talk to Herbert. I’ll read him the riot act.”
“The rape act would be more like it,” Evelyn said.
They walked on through a brown path, sun-dappled and surrounded by thick-trunked trees. They walked in silence now, Evelyn going over and over the pipeline suggestion in her mind, trying to find some other explanation for it, and soon she heard the high-pitched squeals of children ahead.
It was the Simcoe girls, going for a swim in the pond, a natural body of water in a small meadow surrounded by woods but still relatively close to the house. All five were present, in bathing suits, like an illustrated lecture in female pubescence, ranging from skinny eight-year-old Jackie to lithe but well-developed sixteen-year-old Pam, with all stages in between. They were fighting over two objects at the moment, a blue-and-gold beach ball and an inflated inner tube.
Sitting in a folding chair well back from the water, wearing his inevitable suit but with the jacket open, a newspaper spread between his spread hands and a cigar stuck in his mouth, was the girls’ father, Maurice. He glanced across at Evelyn and Harrison as they followed the path in its skirting of the pond, and when Evelyn called, “Beautiful day,” he nodded soberly and went back to his paper.
There was a narrow strip of woods on the other side, separating pond from house, narrow enough to permit glimpses of the house through it. Once inside and among those trees, Harrison said softly, “Do you suppose God will forgive me for hoping at least one of them drowns?”
“God may wonder, as I do,” Evelyn said, “why you set your sights so low.”
They smiled at one another in an almost unprecedented moment of rapport, and walked on together to the house.
vii
Bradford was in the back library, reading G. A. Lipsky’s John Quincy Adams, His Theory and Ideas. Evelyn said, “Bradford? May I interrupt you?”
He glanced up at her, and she was surprised at the mildness in his eyes. The time spent up here apparently really did do him good, because right now there was nothing in his face at all to show the strain he’d been under recently or the crisis they were all currently living through. He said, “Of course, come in. Everything all right in the kitchen?”
“As long as we can keep Martha out,” she said. She shut the door and walked across the room toward him, saying, “You can tell me this is none of my business, if you want, but I want to talk to you about Uncle Harrison.”
He frowned slightly, but the mild expression remained and he made no objection.
“He’s really frightened,” she said. He was in one of the leather chairs near the windows. There was no direct sun, since these windows faced south, but the room was bright without artificial light. Evelyn sat in the other leather chair, so that when Bradford looked at her the left side of his face was in daylight and the right side was in semi-shadow. She said, “He’s afraid you’ve abandoned him this time.”
“He simply refuses to understand,” Bradford said softly. “I’ve never given him bad advice before. Why should I begin now?”
“He told me all you’ve suggested was some sort of four-hundred-mile pipeline.”
“Of course.” If he was surprised, it was only mildly so. Still soft-voiced, he said, “Those people need water, Evelyn.”
She looked at him, trying to understand. “You mean you’re serious? You really think that’s the thing for him to do?”
“I think it’s the thing for all of them to do,” Bradford said gently. “All of the speculators who made money from this operation.”
“But they won’t,” she said. “You know that, Bradford, you know what kind of men they are, they won’t agree to a thing like that.”
“Harrison must persuade them.”