Joseph Kanon - The prodigal spy

February 1950

He was not allowed to attend the hearing. There was his age, for one thing, but he knew it was really the reporters. From his bedroom window he could see them every morning when his father left the house. Mr Benjamin, his fathers lawyer, would come for him-it was somehow unthinkable that he should make the short walk down 2nd Street to the Capitol alone-and the minute they were down the steps Nick would see the clusters of hats swooping toward them like birds. There was even a kind of ritual about it now. No one stood in front of the house. Usually they were across the street, or on the corner, drinking coffee from paper cups, exhaling little puffs of steam in the cold February air. Then the front door would open and they would stamp out their cigarettes, suddenly on duty, and surround his father, falling into step with him and Mr Benjamin as if they were joining them for a stroll.

In the beginning there had been photographers, their hats pushed back on their heads as they popped flashbulbs, but now there were just the reporters. No one yelled or pushed. The ritual had turned polite. He could see his father in his long herringbone coat drawing the pack with him as he moved down the street, Mr Benjamin, terrier-like, hurrying to keep up. His father never ignored the reporters. Nick could see him talking-but what did he say? and nodding his head. Once Nick saw one of them laugh. His father had said the whole thing was a goddam circus, but from up here in the window, watching the hats, it seemed friendly, a gang of boys heading for school. It wasnt, though. At night, alone in the study, smoking in the light of the desk lamp, his father looked worried.

His mother always left separately. She would busy herself with Nora, arranging the day, then stand in front of the hall mirror, touching her hair, smoothing out her wool skirt, while a cigarette burned in the ashtray on the table where they put the mail. When Nick came downstairs she would look surprised, as if she had forgotten he was in the house, then nervously pick up her lipstick to get ready. Her new dress, with its tight cinched waist and fitted top, seemed designed to hold her upright, every piece of her in place.

Have they gone? she said, putting on the lipstick.

Uh-huh. Dad made one of them laugh.

Her hand stopped for a minute, then the red tube continued along her lip. Did he, she said, blotting her lips, but it wasnt a question. Well, Ill give them another five minutes.

They never wait for you, you know, Nick said. It was one of the things that puzzled him. His mother walked to the hearings alone every day, not even a single straggler from the pack of hats waiting behind to catch her. How did they think she got there?

They will one day, she said, picking up her hat. Right now all they can think about is your father. And his jokes. She caught the edge in her voice and glanced at him, embarrassed, then went back to the hat.

There was only one, Nick said.

I know, she said quietly. I didnt mean- Check the window again, would you? And shouldnt you be getting ready for school?

I am ready, he said, going over to the window. I dont see why I cant go to the trial.

Not again, Nicky, please. And its not a trial. For the hundredth time. Its a hearing. Thats all. A congressional hearing.

Whats the difference?

Your fathers not a criminal, thats the difference. Hes not on trial for anything.

Everybody acts like he is.

What do you mean? Has anyone said anything to you at school?

Nick shrugged.

Have they?

They said hes on trial for being a Communist.

His mother stopped fixing the hat and lowered her hands. Well, hes not on trial and hes not a Communist. So much for what they know. Just dont listen, okay? It only makes it worse. Theyre looking for Communists, so they have to talk to a lot of people in the government, thats all.

Nick came back to the mirror, studying them both, as if the world reflected would be his mothers cheerful dream of before, when all they had to worry about was school gossip.

They want to hear what he has to say. Thats why its called a hearing. There, she said, pressing the hat like a protective shell. How do I look?

Nick smiled. Beautiful.

Oh, you always say that, she said lightly, glancing at the mirror again and leaning forward. Nick loved to watch her dress, disappearing to the edge of her careful absorption. It was the harmless vanity of a pretty girl whod been taught that how you looked mattered, that appearance could somehow determine events. She blotted her lips one last time, then noticed his expression. Honeybun, whats wrong?

Why cant I hear him too? Im not a little kid anymore.

No, she said softly, touching the side of his head. Maybe just to me. But ten isnt very old either, is it? You dont want to grow up too fast.

Is he going to go to jail?

She knelt down to face him, holding his shoulders. No. Look, I know all of this seems confusing. But its not about you, do you understand? Just-grownups. Your dads fine. You dont want him to have to worry about you too, do you? Its-its a bad time, thats all.

A bad time. Nora, for whom Ireland was always just a memory away, called it troubles. Before your fathers troubles started, she would say, as if everything that was happening to them was beyond their control, like the weather. But no one would tell him what it actually was.

You go, he said stubbornly.

Its different for me. Youre just a child-it has nothing to do with you. Its not going to, either. Im not going to let that happen, she said, holding his shoulders tightly. Do you understand?

He didnt, but he nodded, surprised at the force of her hands.

Youll be late, Nora said, coming into the hall.

His mother looked up, distracted. Yes, all right. Come on, honeybun, time for school. Itll be all right. Youll see.

This wont last much longer, I promise. Then well go up to the cabin and forget all about it. Just us. Would you like that?

Nick nodded. You mean out of school?

Well, in the spring.

Dont forget youve got Father Tim coming over later, Nora said. Youll want to be back. Last time he was halfway through the bottle before you were through the door.

Nora, his mother said, pretending to scold but laughing in spite of herself. Listen to you. Hes not a drinker.

No, the poor are drinkers. The rich just dont mind if they do.

Hes not rich anymore. Hes a priest, for heavens sake, she said, putting on her coat.

The rich dont change. Someone elses bottle, thats what they like. Maybe thats why theyre rich. Still, its your bottle, and if you dont mind Im sure I-

Nora, stop babbling. Ill be back. Coast clear? She nodded her head toward the window. How about a kiss, then? She leaned down to let Nick graze her cheek. Oh, thats better. Im ready for anything now.

At the door she put on her gloves. You remember what I said, okay? Dont listen to the other kids if they start saying things. They dont know what theyre talking about anyway.

It wasnt the other kids. About Dad. It was Miss Smith.

Oh. His mother stopped, flustered, her shoulders sagging. Oh, honeybun, she said, and then, as if she had finally run out of answers, she turned and went out the door.

After that, he didnt go to school. At least for a while, his mother said, still pretending that things were normal. Now, after his parents left, the house would grow still, so quiet that he would tiptoe, listening for the sharp whistle of Noras kettle in the kitchen, then the rustle of newspaper as she pored over his fathers troubles with one of her cups of tea. He was supposed to be reading Kidnapped. His mother said he was the right age for it, but after the wicked uncle and the broken stairs in the dark it all got confusing-Whigs and Jacobites, and you didnt know whose side you were supposed to be on. It made no more sense than the papers. His father was a New Dealer but not a Communist, and not a Republican either, according to Nora. Then why was he on trial? Some terrible woman had said he was a spy, but you only had to look at her, all made up the way she was, to know she was lying. And a Catholic too, which made things worse. It was the Jews who loved Russia, not people like his father, even though shed hate to think how long it had been since hed seen the inside of a church. Still. And the things they said. But when Nick asked her to see the newspapers himself, shed refuse. His mother wouldnt like it.