“But if you’re going to sneak away, against the government’s wishes, if you’re going to have to stay in Communist China for the rest of your life—”
“It’s a sacrifice worth making, if I can bring about world peace.”
Evelyn stared at Bradford, trying to understand him, trying to find the words to say to him, and it seemed to her his expression was suddenly colder, more impersonal — somehow, more messianic — than she’d ever seen it before. She said, “But people will think you’ve defected, they’ll say you’ve defected, so what good could it do?”
“I’ll get the public eye,” Bradford said. “Once I’ve made the move, once I’m actually in Red China, I’ll have the whole world’s eye. The drama of the situation alone will assure that. There won’t be anything like that interview with George any more, they won’t be able to ignore me.”
“Bradford — I don’t know, I just don’t know what to say.”
“Because the idea is new to you. When it was new to me, I too was afraid of it. But think about it, think what it would really mean. And think about the title I’ve chosen for it. The Final Glory. Because that’s what it would be, you know, an accomplishment to dwarf everything I’ve ever done in my life. If my efforts could result in world peace, that would be a bequest to leave my posterity. And the Albert J. Rutherfords would think twice about Bradford Lockridge being nothing in his life but a politician. You know, there was one sentence in his review that fit right in with my thinking. He said, ‘The moments in life when something more than political skill is needed are rare, but they are critical.’ And he was absolutely right. And I’m at such a moment right now.”
“I don’t know, Bradford. I have to think about this.”
“Yes, you do, Evelyn. Because I have one more thing to say, and I want you to think very very carefully before you give me your answer.”
She felt she was braced for anything, but how could she be sure? What else would he say, what else was left?
He said, “If you will agree to, I want very much for you to come with me.”
The Closing Door
1
Robert stepped out on his bare front porch shortly after noon to check the mailbox, and found, amid the bills and supermarket circulars, a letter from the Japs (nickname of The Journal of American Political Studies), the quarterly to whom he’d sent Fuehrer from the Left. Stuffing the rest of the mail back into the box to get it out of the way, he slit open the envelope and leaned against the porch railing to read:
Dear Mr. Pratt:
Your Fuehrer created something of a furor here, as you no doubt anticipated it would. Scratch an intellectual these days and you will find an unreconstructed McCarthy man underneath nine times out of ten. Most of us, in fact, still speak privately of a kind of Second Coming, into which your quiet pebble of theory dropped like an avalanche.
Needless to say, there is a great division of opinion concerning your ideas, but we were all agreed that they deserve publication. In fact, we are all interested to see how they will hold up once the intellectual community gets its teeth into them.
Currently, we plan to schedule Fuehrer from the Left for our Spring issue, and should be sending you copies by the first of February. All dependent, of course, on printer’s schedules, etc.
Please sign both copies of the enclosed release form and send them to me in the envelope provided.
We would be most interested to see further thoughts from you on this or related subjects.
Yours sincerely,
Walter W. Brownlow
Editor-in-Chief
The Journal of American Political Studies
Robert smiled as he read the letter, but his smile was a bit grim. Writing on contemporary political manifestations was not going to be exactly as quiet and placid an occupation as, say, doing pieces on the war aims of Andrew Johnson, was it? No, it was not.
He refolded the letter and its enclosures, reached to take the rest of the mail back out of the box, and heard a car pull to the curb out front. He turned, mildly curious, and was surprised to see Evelyn’s dark green Mustang there, and Evelyn herself getting out of the car and coming up the walk toward him.
“Hello!” he called, coming to the head of the stoop to greet her, smiling because he assumed (after yesterday) that her reason for coming here would have something to do with bed.
But one look at her expression as she came up the steps told him he was wrong. “I had to talk to you,” she said. “There was nobody else I could turn to.”
His hands were encumbered by mail. “Well, sure,” he said. “Who else would you — of course you’ll come to me. Is it Bradford?”
“Yes. Can we go inside? May I make you coffee?”
“Whatever you want,” he said, gesturing vaguely with the handful of letters.
She led the way, holding the door for him and then walking on directly to the kitchen while he paused to drop the mail on a chair in the living room. When he got to the kitchen she was already opening cabinet doors, assembling things for coffee. He said, “Evelyn? What is it?”
She kept moving around the kitchen as she talked, saying, “I don’t even know how to say it. It sounds so stupid, it sounds ridiculous.” She stopped and turned to look at him. “I don’t know if it’s really serious or not,” she said. “All I know is, it scares me.”
“What scares you?”
She hesitated, as though looking for the words, and then shrugged and said, with an odd flatness in her voice, “Bradford says he wants to go to Red China.”
“Red China? Travel all the way—”
“That isn’t the point,” she said, and in the sudden harshness in her voice he first realized just how close she was to the edge. “Travel isn’t the thing,” she said, “he can stand to travel. But he’d have to — this sounds so silly, saying it this way — he’d have to sneak away, that’s the thing. They wouldn’t let him go, if they knew, our government wouldn’t.”
“Wait a second,” Robert said. “I’m not following this. How could Bradford Lockridge sneak out of the United States? He couldn’t do it.”
“Whether it’s possible or not,” she said desperately, “he wants to do it. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, this is too fast for me.”
Not answering him, following her own train of thought, she said, “Besides, it is possible. The Chinese will help him.”
“Evelyn,” he said, “you better sit down for a minute. Let me make the coffee, you sit and organize yourself.”
“I just don’t know what to do,” she said helplessly. “Is it his mind? Or is it just nonsense, and he’ll forget about it in a day or two? Or maybe he’s right, maybe he knows best after all.”
Robert took her by both forearms and walked her backward till her legs hit a kitchen chair. “Sit down,” he said, and she obediently dropped into the chair. He released her and said, “Don’t talk. Let me make coffee, and you just sit and think for a couple of minutes. Now, don’t say anything, you can take two minutes to get yourself together, and then we’ll talk.”
“Robert,” she said, frowning up at him, “I just don’t know what to do, I feel as though I should do something but I don’t know what.”
“Sit there,” he said. He cupped a palm against her cheek and said, “We’ll decide what to do, don’t worry. In a minute.”