An Undisturbed Peace (25 page)

The central table hosted a man who was obviously the great light of the afternoon. His tablemates fawned upon him, leaning forward in rapt unison whenever he opened his mouth, if only to belch or yawn. Waiters placed silver domed dishes in front of him with bowed heads. They removed the domes with a flourish, then held their breath until the man smiled or frowned at the delicacy revealed. A secretary stood behind him, bending to whisper in his ear and place documents for signature to the left of his plate. Unlike his plump tablemates, the man himself was unexpectedly thin, his face on the gaunt side, his brilliant blue eyes marred by the deep shadows and bags beneath them. Despite the richness of his clothes, the shine of his boots, and the elegance of his surrounds, he looked a simple man with all the world resting upon his shoulders.

On seeing him, Abe's guests, Judson and Parker, nudged each other excitedly. The great light was, they whispered urgently to Abe, none other than Commissioner Herring himself. “What luck!” cried Mr. Parker, sotto voce. “While the others clamor outside his door we find ourselves neck to jowl w'him right here in this choice spot!” Not missing a beat, Abe hastily pressed a twenty-dollar bill in the palm of the maître d'hôtel and gave the man a pointed nod in the direction of the commissioner's table. The maître d' then executed a sharp turn from the far table to which he'd begun to lead them toward one adjacent to the Man Himself. As they settled down to their menus, Judson and Parker used them for shields and, wide-eyed and unobserved, listened to Commissioner Herring announce his intention to tighten the reins of Indian trade now that the Removal Act was in effect.

“Oh my, oh my,” Judson whispered to Abe. “Do you know what this means? Very soon gents from Maine to Florida, from South Carolina to Mississippi will scramble to Washington to retain their positions and salvage what they can of a dwindling industry! Look who's there, Mr. Parker! Simpson from Boston, Harrow of New York! A hand's breadth away from us!”

How lucky they were, he continued, to be in a position to somehow pick up their leavings, to learn by eavesdropping whatever the commissioner felt most important in issuing the licenses that remained.

“Oh, we can do better than that, Mr. Judson,” Parker said, winking broadly.

By the time Abe's companions finished their soup, Herring rose to leave his table, shaking hands all around. Parker stuck out his foot just as the commissioner's secretary, struggling with an armful of disordered documents, made a move to follow his superior, thereby causing the man to stumble. Papers flew all about. “My dear sir,” Parker exclaimed, “what an oaf I am! Allow me to assist you.” In an instant, he was on his hands and knees, scooping up papers from the floor. On rising, he put an arm around the shoulders of the commissioner's secretary and spoke into his ear. Just as they disappeared from view, Abe saw the agent's hand reach into his trousers and withdraw a money clip. A quarter hour later, he returned, shaking a scrolled document in the air in triumph. “We have an appointment, Mr. Judson! Tomorrow at ten of the clock to make our case for relicensing, a mere formality I am assured, a mere formality!” Judson applauded his fellow, then turned to Abe. “But you must come with us,” he said. “Were it not for you, we'd spend the day tomorrow cooling our heels outside Herring's office like all the rest.”

Abe equivocated. He told the men he had no desire for a standard agency license, that he was only interested in a temporary one to serve the removal. In doing so, he could take the burden off men so privileged. That the two before him felt burdened was obvious, he pointed out. Earlier in the day, he'd listened to complaints of bad weather, lame horses, endless wilderness, impertinent Indians, and skinflint farmers. “Yes, it is quite the burden, you know. There are times I think it's not worth the trouble anymore,” said Judson after his second dish of prawns. Parker agreed. “Well, then here's an idea,” Abe quickly offered. “Might I not serve as subagent for you? You could delegate trade to me both during and after removal and so expand your influence. No need to supply me. All I'm after would be the right to trade my own goods. I'd do it for, oh, sixty percent and the rest in your pockets for the privilege. I like the frontier you seem so weary of,” he told them, working up a good blush to underscore his persona of greenhorn rube. “I'm something of a nature buff. Have you ever seen the rolling hills of Wales? Ah! Magnificent, I tell you. The Blue Ridge puts me in mind of them.”

In the morning, when Abe and his new mates arrived bleary-eyed at the lobby of the commissioner of Indian Affairs, they were met first with curiosity and then with great interest, once the story of their night of indulgence and proximity to power made the rounds. Abe found himself with numerous quick friends.

For the next week, he dined with as many agents as his stomach and liver could tolerate, sometimes dining twice a night at tables of ten or more, paying tabs at hotels and restaurants across the city. He was the master of the glad hand, the high commander of the delicate bribe. After ten days in Washington, he returned home not only with a subcontract to supply the army in the second phase of Choctaw removal but with a fistful of limited licenses to trade with Indians under the new restrictions and regulations. He had bribe money left over unspent too.

All the way home, he sang songs to Hart, happy songs, songs of security, songs of comfort restored to his wife and daughter, songs for which Hart seemed to keep time, bobbing his head right to left, jogging in rhythm to his tunes as if they were dancing. Within the year, Abe imagined, his family could move back into a home of their own and none too soon either. Raquel grew by the minute and ran riot around Isadore and Susanah's place, ever threatening to topple furniture, sentimental knickknacks, and glassware. Isadore's house was close to the street. Abe wanted a place with an expanse of yard, front and back, for his little jewel to play in. Maybe, he dared dream, there would be more children in due time. True, the turn business looked to take meant he would be on the road more than Hannah was bound to like, at least until he could recruit drivers. He wondered how many peddlers were still up to snuff in the old camp town versus how many lived there in penury, drinking the last of their days away, swapping stories of the glory days before one too many settlers came to farm, before the roads were built and the old trails improved. He knew the arrival of a man with a pack on his back no longer engendered a village worth of excitement but caused the more cautious farmers to lock their doors and shutter the windows quick as you please. He halted Hart long enough to jot down a reminder to sit down with O'Hanlon for an honest view of what was what, an assessment of whom he could trust to take care of new business in the upper towns, and who could manage the procurement of army supplies.

He arrived in Greensborough in the early morning. The sun had just come up, gold and red, streaming light. Abe entered Isadore's house bathed in its rays, his bright, shining face, bursting with happiness. His daughter turned a corner, screamed out, “Papa!” and nearly knocked him over as she slammed into him to wrap her little arms around both his legs, her smiling face pressed into his knees. Isadore and Susanah came out from the kitchen, where they had been eating breakfast with the child. Their faces lit up when they saw him. “My parents,” he said, “I have returned with a wondrous tale to tell!” It was obvious from his demeanor that he had been successful, that their troubles were over. They joined Raquel in hugging him welcome. Then Hannah came out of the kitchen, her hands wringing a dishtowel as if it were an enemy's neck. The three who embraced him immediately tensed.

“So. You're back.”

Her tone was ominous. Her mouth was set in a straight, grim line. Her eyes were drawn 'til they were nearly closed, the brows above them scrunched together to form a solemn wave of displeasure. Shrinking back from her mother, Raquel let go of his knees to hide behind them. She huddled against the back of his thighs, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and twisted her hair. Isadore backed away from the scene in mincing steps. Susanah remained at his side as a mother always stands by when her child is in peril. She pinched the back of his neck hard to warn him that he must be alert in the face of impending doom.

“What is it, my love?” he asked his wife. “What's wrong?” He held out his arms. “Are you not happy to see me?”

“Huh,” Hannah muttered, and gave him her back. She went to their room off the kitchen and sat on the bed, waiting.

Confused, he followed his wife, wondering what he could have done to upset her in absentia. His Hannah, his sweet Hannah, had never been angry with him before. Never. When they'd parted, she'd been as loving and affectionate as ever. It was a mystery, a conundrum. As soon as he entered the bedroom, however, the mystery was solved, the conundrum cracked. Hannah sat in the middle of the smooth, crisp bedclothes, their borders stitched with sunflowers by her own hand. Her shoulders curled inward, her face was red, her eyes brimmed tears, her lips were clenched to still their tremble, and at her side, spread out flat to cover a good portion of the bed, lay Lord Geoffrey's portrait of Marian, her family, Jacob, and Lulu. She waved a shaking hand over it.

“This is your great love, I hear,” she said. Her voice was high pitched and wavered with upset although she spoke quickly, with determination, as if she'd practiced her speech a hundred times. “I've discovered from your very reluctant mother this is a woman you loved to near ruin once. Perhaps you still do. Perhaps you see her during your travels, for all I know. You're certainly gone often and long enough. Why would you keep this hidden from me unless you cared for her still, perhaps more than you care for Raquel and me?”

Abe fell on his knees, grasped her hands, and bowed his head to kiss her knuckles. They felt hard and cold beneath his lips, which terrified him. He spoke in a rush of words, uttering the first phrases that came to mind as he instantly and fortuitously intuited that to hesitate would be disastrous.

“My darling! How can you say it? This painting is a relic of the past, that's all. Yes, yes, it's a woman I knew long ago as Marian of the foothills, a woman who was once kind to me and who earned my gratitude and affection. But all this happened before we loved. …” He chose not to mention how very briefly before and plowed on. “Never, never would I betray you and our daughter for her memory or her person in life. I assure you I did not see her this summer past nor did I look for her. She is in any case a woman in company. She has a lover of very long standing to whom she is passionately devoted. I'm barely an afterthought in her life. I know this well. How I pray you will know it too.”

He stopped speaking, breathing heavily from the outpour of feeling that accompanied his speech. His wife straightened her back and lifted her chin. He dared look up at her, making his features open and sincere to inspire mercy. Feverishly composing fresh argument in his mind should he need it, he watched her lips twitch as she examined his explanations under the harsh light of wifely judgment. But her heart proved kind, subjecting him to only the slightest of tortures before embracing him with forgiveness. “You allowed me to be in ignorance of your friendship with her, a woman so important to you that you would keep mementos,” she said, though in a milder tone than her original accusations. “And then you hid the painting from me. By most women's reckoning, that would be a guilty act.” Her gaze was steady, searching his expression for any hint of mendacity. He decided discretion was in order and gave her the truth but the smallest possible portion of it. “I was unsure how you felt about the Cherokee,” he said. “God knows, your father reviles them. Our love was so new I dared not speak of it.” Her back went straighter still. “You thought me unloving toward any of God's creatures? Abrahan, this is a fresh wound.” His heart leapt. When she used his full name, it was always in affection. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, kissing her face and neck all over, “forgive me for being in such terrible fear of ever losing you, my beloved, my darling, my sweetheart, my bride.”

His petition had the desired effect. Putting her arms around him, Hannah raised him up, then coyly fell back on the bed to submerge him in a frenzy of absolution. Hoping his parents had done the sensible thing and taken Raquel on a long walk, he succumbed happily to marital pardon and strove with all the imagination he had in him to express to her through his hands, his mouth, the strength of his back, and the ardent need of his sex that she was all of those things to him—that is, beloved, darling, sweetheart, and bride. Though the morning was yet chill, they threw their clothes off into a heap on the floor and kicked off the sweetly embroidered comforter along with Lord Geoffrey's portrait as well. In the midst of the most intimate embrace, they moaned loudly in tandem, then heard through a fog of passion and as if from very far away, the hurried patter of feet. In the next heartbeat, the front door opened and shut. They laughed and kissed and continued what they'd been doing until they were done.

Afterward, they lolled about in the bed, drawing the comforter back up around their shoulders so that only their feet stuck out its end. Abe made good on his protestations of love by continuing to stroke and pet her under the covers while murmuring endearments. “How could you doubt my fidelity to you, Hannah?” he said after a time. She stretched out in the sensual way satisfied women have, with confidence, with generosity, flirting with the idea of another go. Her skin glowed. Her hair had come undone. It framed her face in a mass of charming curls and love knots. She turned a bit and reached down to the floor, picking up the painting, then holding it up over her chest with two hands. “Well, you have to admit this Marian is quite beautiful.” Abe took the canvas and tossed it back on the floor with bravado to prevent her from recognizing Edward Redhand's likeness, which would surely reanimate her doubts. He also wished to prove a point. “It's a very old work,” he said. “She must be in her forties now.” Knowing that Hannah considered any woman remotely near Susanah's age to be ancient and thus unable to rival her, he nuzzled the sweet hollow between her clavicle and throat with warm content when her next words hit him like a hammer aimed directly at his temple.