Acts of Mercy

Fourteen

Inside the study Augustine sat in front of the train board and stared at a 1927 Ives locomotive dragging a string of tankers and coal gondolas around the tracks. I should have gone into railroading instead of politics, he thought. I should have become a highballing engineer on the last of the steam locomotives on the Southern Pacific or the AT amp;SF. The smell of cinders and burning coal and hot cylinder oil; the pound of the 2-10-4s and the 4-6-2s and 2-8-0s; the roundhouses and the freight yards, the high mountain runs and the desert crossings, the close-knit fraternity of railroaders. To hell with trying to shape the destiny of the world. To hell with the thankless futile eviscerating world of politics. Give me anonymity and freedom and dignity. Give me a little joy.

The toy locomotive was just entering the tunnel cut into a green-painted “mountain” on the left side of the board. Augustine reached out a hand, ran fingertips over the rough papier-mache surface-and the throbbing melody of “John Henry” began to play again inside his head.

John Henry was hammerin’ on the mountain

And his hammer it was strikin’ fire;

He drove so hard till he broke his poor heart,

And he laid down his hammer and he died,

Lawd, Lawd, he laid down his hammer and he died.

Well they took John Henry to the graveyard,

And they buried him in the sand,

And ev‘ry locomotive that comes roarin’ by,

Says, “There lies a steel-drivin’ man,

Lawd, Lawd,” says, “There lies a steel-drivin’ man.”

Outside the window a voice called out abruptly, “Mr. President? It’s Christopher Justice, sir. I’d like to speak with you.”

Augustine raised his head and looked over at the drawn curtains. But he did not say anything; he had no desire to talk to Justice tonight. More nonsense about a homicidal maniac, probably. He had enough things preying on his mind as it was, not the least of which was Maxwell Harper.

“Mr. President?”

No, the only person he wanted to talk to was Claire, and he had been putting it off since five o’clock. But what was the point in continuing to put it off? He would have to discuss it with her sooner or later; he might as well get it over with. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, after all; there was no doubt of that. How could there be any doubt of that?

Augustine got to his feet and went out of the study without bothering to shut off the train board. Most of the lights were on, but the house was quiet except for the faint creeks and groans of settling timbers. Almost like the White House, he thought. Almost as if there were ghosts here too-the ghosts of his father and all the years of his life, whispering to him unintelligibly in the night.

Claire was not in the master bedroom, not in the library or the parlor. He heard crackling noises in the family room, and when he entered he saw her bending before the hearth, feeding pine logs heavy with pitch into a blazing fire.

She straightened around as she heard the sound of his footsteps, the orange firelight dancing on her face. She had changed clothes since he’d last seen her: wearing a blue sheath dress now, blonde hair combed out and brushed into waves that clung to her shoulders. When he came up to her he saw that her eyes were solemn-and the illusion that he could plunge into them, become absorbed by them, came over him again. But it was neither an uneasy sensation nor a sexual one this time; it was one of longing, because in absorption there would be escape.

He said, “That’s a nice fire,” but he was only making words.

A wan smile. “Yes. Are you hungry, Nicholas? I can have Mrs. Peterson fix you something-”

“No,” Augustine said. He had skipped dinner because he had no appetite and because he hadn’t wanted to talk to her; he still had no appetite, the thought of food made him ill. “I want to ask you something, Claire.”

“All right.”

He took a breath. “I saw you with Maxwell this afternoon,” he said. “The two of you in the south garden.”

Her face paled. “You… saw us?” in a whisper.

“Yes. I came out for a little air and I saw him touching you, I saw you run away from him. I want to know what happened out there.”

Moistness glistened in her eyes. Tears? She didn’t speak. “Tell me what happened, Claire. Why was he touching you? What did he say to you?”

“He said… Nicholas, I don’t want to-”

“Tell me!”

“He said he had deeper feelings than any of us imagined, that he was a human being and not a machine.” Her throat worked. “He acted… strange, different; it frightened me and I ran.”

Dully Augustine said, “There’s more to it than that.”

“No…”

“Yes. Yes there is. He said something else, didn’t he.”

“All right. All right. He said he… he said he was in love with me.”

Augustine flinched. Betrayal-again and again and again. Even Maxwell Harper, of all people. Even him. But there was no anger in him; he was beyond the capacity for any emotion as intense as rage. “I see,” he said. “Was that the first time he told you how he felt?”

“Yes.”

“You had no idea of it before today?”

“I can’t lie to you. I… suspected.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There was no point in it. Nothing ever happened.”

Nothing ever happened, Augustine thought. “Is that why you’ve been reluctant to talk about him lately?”

She nodded. “Nicholas, what are you going to do?”

“Do?”

“About Maxwell. About the incident in the garden.”

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

Claire said abruptly, “Fire him.”

“What?”

“Fire him. Get him away from here right now, tonight.”

He was silent for a time; then he said, “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore. Nicholas, I-”

She broke off again. And reached up, touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. And then almost convulsively pushed past him and hurried across the room.

Augustine stood looking after her, watching her hips move under the blue dress, the blue dress John Henry had a little woman,

And the dress she wore it was blue;

She went walkin’ down the track and never looked back,

Said, “John Henry I’ve been true to you,

Lawd, Lawd, John Henry I’ve been true to you.”