The Carpetbaggers

3

HARRISON MARLOWE COULD SEE HIS WIFE'S HEAD bent over her embroidery from the doorway. He crossed the room quietly, and bending over the back of her chair, quickly kissed her cheek. His wife's voice held the usual delightful shock. "Oh, Harry! What if the servants are watching?"

"Not tonight." He laughed. "They're all thinking about their party. I see Mary's all dressed up."

A tone of reproach came into his wife's voice. "You know it's not a party they're having."

He crossed in front of her, still smiling. "That's not what they call it," he said. "But leave it to the Irish to make a party out of anything." He walked over to the sideboard. "A little sherry before dinner?"

"I think I’d like a Martini tonight, if you don't mind, dear," Geraldine said hesitantly.

He turned in half surprise. When they had been in Europe on their honeymoon a bartender in Paris had introduced them to the new drink and ever since, it had served as a sort of signal between them.

"Of course, my dear," he said. He pulled at the bell rope. Mary appeared in the doorway. "Some cracked ice, please, Mary."

The girl curtseyed and disappeared. He turned back to the sideboard and took down a bottle of gin, the French vermouth and a tiny bottle of orange bitters. Using a measuring jigger, he carefully poured three jiggers of gin into the cocktail shaker and one of vermouth. Then ceremoniously he allowed four drops of bitters to trickle into the shaker. By this time, the ice was already on the sideboard beside him and he filled the shaker to the brim with ice. Carefully he put the top on the shaker and began to shake vigorously.

At last, the drink was cold enough. He unscrewed the cap and carefully poured the contents into glasses. The shaker empty, he dropped a green olive into each glass, then stood back and surveyed them with approval. Each glass was filled to the brim – one more drop and it would overflow, one drop less and it would not be full.

Geraldine Marlowe lifted hers to her lips. She wrinkled her nose in approval. "It's delicious."

"Thank you," he said, lifting his own glass. "Your good health, my dear."

He put his glass down wonderingly and looked at his wife. Perhaps what he had heard was true – that women didn't really bloom until they were older, and then their desire increased. He calculated swiftly. He was thirty-four; that made Geraldine thirty-one. They had been married seven years and with the exception of their honeymoon, their life had assumed a pattern of regularity. But now, twice in less than a week. Perhaps it was true.

If it was, it was all right with him. He loved his wife. That was the only reason he went down to that house on South Street. To spare her the humiliation of having to endure him more than she wanted. He lifted his drink again.

"Did you find out anything about Bertha's family today?" she asked.

Harrison Marlowe shook his head. "There's no family anywhere. Perhaps in Europe, but we don't even know what town she came from."

Geraldine looked down at her drink. Its pale golden color glowed in the glass. "How terrible," she said quietly. "What will happen to the child now?"

Harrison shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. I suppose I'll have to notify the authorities. She'll probably go to the county orphanage."

"We can't let that happen!" The words burst from Geraldine's lips involuntarily.

Harrison stared at her in surprise. "Why not?" he asked. "I don't see what else we can do."

"Why can't we just keep her?"

"You just can't," he said. "There are certain legalities involved. An orphaned child isn't like a chattel. You can't keep her because she happens to be left at your house."

"You can speak to the authorities," Geraldine said. "I'm sure they would prefer to leave her with us rather than have her become a public charge."

"I don't know," Harrison said. "They might want us to adopt her to make sure that she doesn't become a charge."

"Harry, what a wonderful idea!" Geraldine smiled and got out of her chair, then walked to her husband. "Now, why didn't I think of that?"

"Think of what?"

"Adopting Rina," Geraldine said. "I’m so proud of you. You have such a wonderful mind. You think of everything."

He stared at her speechlessly.

She placed her arms around his neck. "But then you always wanted a little girl around the house, didn't you? And Laddie would be so happy to have a little sister."

He felt the soft press of her body against him and the answering surge of warmth well up inside him.

She kissed him quickly on the lips, then, as quickly, turned her face away from him almost shyly as she felt his immediate response.

"Suddenly, I'm so excited," she whispered meaningfully, her face half hidden against his shoulder. "Do you think it would be all right if we had another Martini?"

Dandy Jim Callahan stood in the middle of his office, looking at them. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said slowly. "It's a difficult thing you ask."

"But, surely, Mr. Mayor," Geraldine Marlowe said quickly, "you can do it."

The mayor shook his head. "It's not so easy as you think, my dear lady. You forget the church has something to say about this, too. After all, the mother was Catholic and you just can't take a Catholic child and turn it over to a Protestant family. At least, not in Boston. They'd never stand for it."

Geraldine turned away, the disappointment showing clearly in her face. It was then for the first time that she saw her husband as something other than the nice young Harvard boy she had married.

He stepped forward and there appeared in his voice a quality of strength that she had never heard before. "The church would like it even less if I were to prove that the mother was never a Catholic. They'd look pretty foolish then, wouldn't they?"

The mayor turned to him. "You have such proof?"

"I have," Marlowe said. He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket. "The mother's passport and the child's birth certificate. Both clearly state they were Protestant."

Dandy Jim took the papers from him and studied them. "If you had these, why didn't you stop them?"

"How could I?" Marlowe asked. "I didn't receive them until today. The servants and Father Nolan made all the arrangements last night. Besides, what difference does it make to the poor woman? She's getting a Christian burial."

Dandy Jim nodded and gave the papers back. "This will be very embarrassing to Father Nolan," he said. "A young priest with his first church making a mistake like that. The Bishop won't like it at all."

"The Bishop need never know," Marlowe said.

Dandy Jim stared at him thoughtfully but didn't speak.

Marlowe pressed. "There's an election coming up next year."

Dandy Jim nodded, "There's always an election."

"That's true," Marlowe said. "There will be other elections and campaigns. A candidate needs contributions almost as much as he needs votes."

Dandy Jim smiled. "Did I ever tell you I met your father?"

Marlowe smiled back. "No, you didn't. But my father often mentioned it. He told me many times how he threw you out of his office."

Dandy Jim nodded. "That's true. Your father has a wild temper. One would almost take him for an Irishman. And all I did was ask him for a small campaign contribution. That was about twenty years ago. I was running for City Council then. Do you know what he said to me then?"

Marlowe shook his head.

"He swore that if ever I was so much as elected to the post of dog-catcher, he'd take his family and move out." Dandy Jim was smiling. "He won't like it when he hears you've contributed to my campaign fund."

Marlowe stood his ground. "My father is my father and I respect him very much," he said, "but what I do with my money and my politics is my concern, not his."

"You have other children?" Dandy Jim asked.

"A boy," Geraldine answered quickly. "Laddie is eight."

Dandy Jim smiled. "I don't know," he said. "Someday women will have the vote and if that little girl is brought up on the hill, that's one vote I may never get."

"I promise you this, Mr. Mayor," Geraldine said quickly. "If that day ever comes, the women of my household will always vote for you!"

Dandy Jim's smile grew broader. He made a courtly bow. "It is a weakness of politicians to always be making deals."

The next day, Timothy Kelly, the mayor's secretary, appeared at Marlowe's office in the bank and picked up a check for five hundred dollars. He suggested that Marlowe talk to a certain judge in the municipal court.

It was there the adoption was made. Quickly, quietly and legally. When Marlowe departed the judge's chambers, he left with the judge a birth certificate for one white female child named Katrina Osterlaag.

In his pocket was a birth certificate in the name of his daughter, Rina Marlowe.