Cult Page 11

  From years of experience, Naomi knew the signs of a placating response. Long ago, Naomi had rejected confiding in her mother. The generational gap had become a chasm.

  “I had a spare moment.”

  “From a conference or a man?” Her mother larded her disapprovals with wiseacre accusations. Mostly, the spears fell on a strong shield, but sometimes they hit the mark. Naomi reminded herself of the reason she had called.

  “There was something I wanted to ask.” Even to herself, she sounded wispy and tentative. Then an idea emerged.

  “As long as everything is fine, you can ask. As long as there are no arguments,” her mother said. It was merely banter. They had little in common. Her mother’s widowhood was a closed world of games and charity work, predictable opinions, an old Jewish mentality. She lived embedded in her roots.

  “Were we ever religious?” she asked.

  “Religious? You were bat mitzvah. Your father went to shul when he was alive. I light yozeit candles. Of course, we were religious. We’re still religious. We’re Jewish.”

  “I mean really religious. I mean about God.”

  “Naomi? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “It’s important, mother. Think for a moment. I want a serious answer. Were we religious? When I was growing up, did we believe in God?”

  “Where is the question? We’re Jewish. Read the Bible.”

  Naomi was doing badly. The problem was that she was not exactly sure what she was asking.

  Then her mother said, “Naomi, no matter what, you’ll always be Jewish. No matter how many scutches you go with, although I don’t hold my breath. No matter if you marry one. No matter if you convert to the goyim. God knows who is Jewish and who is not. No matter how topsy-turvy the world gets.”

  She felt how fiercely the sense of belonging lived in her mother.

  “You are what you are, girlie.”

  “And no one can take that away, make you different?” She almost felt foolish. Worse, Naomi was asking it of someone inert and narrow-minded.

  “Different? Who can make you different?” Her mother paused. “You called me from California to ask these questions?”

  “I think that if I believed in God….” Naomi faltered.

  “Not believe in God?” her mother responded indignantly. “That’s a sin. That’s only words. Of course you do. I told you. You’re Jewish. That’s the problem with you young people. You’re all confused.”

  “You can say that again.”

  It was one of her mother’s generalizations.

  In her mother’s circle there were absolute truths. Belonging, Naomi thought suddenly. Was that what she wanted to ask about? Everybody was thirsty to belong, to be part of something bigger than one’s self.

  “But I did not have a choice in that,” Naomi protested. “I was simply born into it. I’m Jewish because you and dad were Jewish.” Her words sounded simplistic and naïve, and it frightened her.

  “From Washington, the state, you’re calling? Are you smoking that potsy?”

  “Pot.” She paused. “No, mother. I’m not stoned.”

  “I love you, my darling. I don’t understand you. But I love you.”

  Tears welled in Naomi’s eyes.

  “And I love you, mom,” she said.

  Why? she wondered. Sometimes she would dismiss her love for her mother as merely sentimental, a biological imperative that superseded reason.

  I love her because she’s mine, Naomi thought.

  When she hung up she felt better. Applying her makeup carefully, she went to the lobby, bought a newspaper, and read it over a drink in a coffee shop. Injustice was everywhere. It was like a wasting virus, spread over the carcass of the world. Nests of them were everywhere.

  In the coffee shop, she ate part of a club sandwich, then came back to her room and turned on the television. Her spirit was soaring. She had put principle before self. She had faced the problems of the world head on.

  She had left Barney because his world was too narrow, too earthbound. What he called home and hearth meant stagnation, control, boredom. In her world, there was room to grow. His world was a hothouse, stultifying, pedestrian, dedicated to the pursuit of money, things. She felt pride again in the decision to leave that she had taken years ago, a young girl with a purpose. It had taken courage and guts to do what she had done.

  She felt strong again. In control.

  No, she concluded. I will not participate in the travesty that Barney is concocting. However detestable the Glories were, Charlotte had every right to her life, as she chose to live it. Above all, she must stand by her principles.

  For a long time, she looked at the telephone. Then she called Sheriff Moore.

  Chapter 10

  An objective frame of mind is an act of will, Sheriff T. Clausen Moore thought, as he sped towards the motel. At that moment, he had many reasons to be subjective. The call had interrupted his weekly poker game in the middle of a winning streak.

  “She just won’t talk to anyone but you, Sheriff,” Perry, his most trusted deputy, who was on night duty, had told him. The Sheriff had written down the number but had not called back immediately. Nevertheless, it disturbed his concentration and he began to lose heavily. His recollection of Naomi was surprisingly clear although she had said little.

  “She said it was urgent,” Perry had told him, causing unneeded speculation at a time when business matters were supposed to run on idle. He was, after all, entitled to a little relaxation.

  Of course in the end duty prevailed. It always did. He wished others would have his sense of responsibility. Naturally, Gladys thought he was too rigid on that point. He attributed his zeal to the fact that he was dirt poor as a child. Hard times had conditioned him to responsibility, and it deeply disturbed him that he could not convey this ethic to everyone. The way to success was diligence. He had kicked the asses of all three of his boys to get them to understand.

  When he had called her back finally, 300 dollars lighter, his sense of diligence had frayed very thin.

  “I will not talk about this on the telephone, Sheriff.”

  “I can assure you it’s not tapped,” he told her testily.

  “It’s not only that,” she said. “It is too important to be trivialized by a mere telephone call.”

  That sounded haughty. He hated conditions, especially when dealing with anything that had to do with the Glories. He had enough of it from them.

  “I promise you won’t be wasting your time,” Naomi said with just the slightest slur of derision. Before leaving, he had had another beer.

  “What is it, Tee?” one of his friends asked.

  “Glories.”

  “Shit.”

  When he arrived at the motel parking lot, he had not yet reached a plateau of objectivity. As they had agreed, Naomi was waiting in the shadows at the edge of the lot.

  “I thought you had gone home,” he said.

  “I should have,” Naomi said as he turned off the headlights. She came into the car and sat beside him. “I should never have come.”

  “Oh, shit. I drove two hours to hear this.”

  There was a long silence and he wondered if she could detect the smell of beer. He had run out of mints. Turning to face her, he waited as the oval of her face became clearer. He could not see her eyes, lost in black pockets of shadow, but he could sniff the odor of betrayal. It was all too familiar.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Naomi began tentatively, pausing, groping for words in the silence. They always began this way. He waited, absorbing her nervousness. From years of experience, he had learned the value of silence. It was not yet the moment for reassurance.

  “Can I be hypothetical?”

  “It’s your dime,” he said, sighing. He was beginning to feel tired.

  “All right then. If
you interdicted… stopped a crime before it began, does it become an official arrest?”

  “What kind of crime?”

  “Let’s say any kind.”

  “You can’t be more specific?”

  “No.”

  “Then we have nothing to talk about.”

  “I’m doing this very badly,” Naomi said. “What I’m trying to say….”

  “You don’t want him hurt. You don’t want him to be in any trouble.” He smiled, although he knew she did not see it. “Do you seriously believe that what you’re about to tell me is unique?”

  No sense beating around the bush. It was too late for games.

  “He’s going to try and kidnap her,” she blurted. “He’s got this idea that if she sees her child, she will go quietly. If not, they’re going to kidnap her. I want you to stop it and I don’t….”

  He joined her in finishing the sentence. “…want him hurt.”

  “Exactly.”

  The fact was that the Sheriff didn’t want him hurt either.

  “And you don’t want him to know that it was you who blew the whistle?”

  “It’s not that I’m cowardly,” she snapped. “Or thinking of myself.”

  “Has he got a deprogrammer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “A man by the name of O’Hara.”

  “That one. He’s tough. I knew him when he was on their side. Nothing like a reformed addict. Actually, they say he knows his stuff.”

  “Then you’re in favor of their practice?”

  He paused. I have to be more cautious, he rebuked himself. He was too tired.

  “How are they going to do it?”

  “The deal is to get her out of the county, out of your jurisdiction.”

  So that’s it, he thought. He speculated that money was changing hands. If that was the case, he didn’t want to know. He’d leave that part alone. If they connected him they’d probably think he’s also on the take. There was some logic in that, he knew.

  “Figures,” he muttered.

  “It’s complicated to explain. There are wheels within wheels. You said you have close contact with them. Just warn them and tell them to keep the woman in the camp. It’s that simple.”

  “Nothing is that simple.”

  “I think what Harrigan and O’Hara want to do is deplorable.”

  “Even if it works?”

  “Yes. Even if it works. It’s wrong.”

  He had to test her now, to know where she was coming from.

  “You want his wife to stay with them?” he said. “Is that your agenda?”

  “I resent that inference,” she snapped, fuming.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Good. My motives have nothing to do with anything but principle.” There was a slight tremor in her voice.

  He was alert now, his mind fully awake, his sense of objectivity steady and strong. He had heard that before. Principle! Whatever the motive for her betrayal, it was immaterial. He represented the forces of law and order. It was enough to tamp down the glob of disgust growing in his gut. It didn’t matter at all that he would do the same if it were his wife, his kid.

  “All I can say is thanks for the tip. You have done your duty as a good citizen.”

  Did she detect a dollop of sarcasm?

  “I’m betraying them,” she mused aloud.

  “You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

  “Sheriff,” Naomi said. “Are you a man of feeling, a man of compassion?”

  He hadn’t expected that. There was the hint of judgment about it, which rattled him.

  “Considering what I do,” he said slowly, “yes.” In his heart, he knew he had long ago buried compassion and hardened himself to pity. Real feeling was not in the province of his business life. He was a professional. I am not paid to feel. Perhaps it was the darkness, the woman’s invocation of private principles, true or not, that made him feel inferior to her moral standard. This woman, he knew, was a sucker for that, a bleeding heart that really bled.

  “What that woman, Mrs. Harrigan, thinks and feels is her business, her life,” Naomi said.

  “You don’t believe she was coerced? Brainwashed?” This could be some kind of trick, he told himself, a new ploy. He’d have to be on the lookout for that.

  “Everybody who believes in something strongly is, in a way, brainwashed. She gave herself to them. That’s her right.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

  “I’m convinced. That’s why I want her left alone.”

  “And her husband not hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  He considered her offer carefully. Sheriff T. Clausen Moore lived by his word. It had been the slogan of his last campaign, and he had come to believe that it really might be close to the truth. He had never lied to Gladys, had always kept his word to the boys. Maybe he wasn’t perfect, but he was not dishonest. “A man of his word.” Sometimes he wished he had the stomach for corruption. He’d have been a lot richer.

  Stalling, he pressed the automatic button that brought the window down, letting in the cool air. Like her, he too, had constructed a facade of principle around himself. Sometimes it seemed imposed on him.

  Since he was a boy growing up in West Virginia, he had personified a certain kind of rough leadership, whose main value was fairness. It was a mysterious quality, he acknowledged to himself. “What does Tee think? Let Tee decide. If Tee does it, I will.” Not the stuff of officers and gentlemen. More like a sergeant or foreman. Knowing the limits of this mysterious talent had kept his aspirations sensible. One thing about Tee, people said, he’s a fair man.

  The Glories had tested his veracity. From the moment they appeared in the county, they had imposed on his fairness, stretching it to its outer limits. He was a family man, a Christian churchgoer, a faithful husband, a strict father, a reasonably good man. In his heart, he held no truck for the Glories. In fact, he detested their sinister practices, their abuse of real religion, their way of proselytizing young people. But just as long as they stayed within the law, he had to be fair. And he was. Maybe even a little fairer now that they controlled a bloc of votes. That consideration was being fair to himself and his family.

  “Let’s suppose….” It annoyed him to be hypothetical, but if he was going to make this deal, he’d better damn sight get some assurances in return. “…we abort this one. What are the guarantees that they won’t try again? The Glories hate trouble.”

  “They’ll keep trying, Sheriff. We both know that. Barney… Harrigan… is very determined. I’m also very worried about his son.”

  “And your conscience?”

  “Sheriff,” Naomi said firmly. “I have to live with this. It may be principled, but it won’t do much for my conscience. I’m betraying their trust. Fact is I’m very worried about Barney and his son.”

  “Suppose you just tell him that you told me all about it and that’s that?”

  “I’ve thought about that. You can’t imagine how big a step this is for me.” She seemed to want to say more, but she held her silence.

  “All right,” he said, after mulling it over. “But I can’t guarantee that they, the Glories, won’t take some action.”

  “I’m betting that they won’t,” Naomi said.

  “Me too.”

  “So we have a deal?” she asked.

  He hated the word and its implication.

  “I’ll deal only on Harrigan. I’m afraid I’ll have to be rougher on O’Hara. He got past me a couple of times. Besides, Jeremiah will press the point.”

  “I don’t care about O’Hara,” Naomi snapped.

  “Good.”

  “As long as Harrigan is safe. And his son.” She hesitated, showing her concern.

  “Leave that to
me,” the Sheriff said, waiting for a response. When none came, he asked: “Now tell me what the plan is.”

  Naomi’s voice came at him haltingly at first, then in a torrent. She had undoubtedly rehearsed it first in her mind.

  Chapter 11

  The body of Charlotte Harrigan lay beside the rushing waters of the deep creek. Barney Harrigan, body stiff, head bowed, stood beside it, staring down at the open-eyed, inert face. It was illuminated in a puddle of yellow light thrown from a flashlight carried by one of the Sheriff’s men. Naomi had turned away. Her face was buried in her hands as her body shook with quiet sobs.

  “I’m sorry,” the Sheriff said. He hadn’t bargained for this. Outside of the circle of light, he made out the phantom figures of Jeremiah and Holmes, the lawyer. Deeper in the shadows there were two other barely defined figures.

  In the distance, the barracks-like buildings of the camp were dark and calm. Obviously, great pains had been taken not to disturb the slumbering inmates. Inside of himself, the Sheriff felt the acid pain eating at his resolve.

  He wished that Barney had made it easier by collapsing in grief. He could understand grief. It had a predictable momentum and could simplify the interrogation process.

  When the news of the woman’s demise had been reported, his job was to bring Barney the news. It was awful. He had Kevin with him now. Thankfully Gladys had taken him and was caring for the boy at home. Poor little guy. He hadn’t a clue about what was happening.

  “Sorry, are you?” Barney said, lifting tearless eyes. “They had already killed her mind. Might as well kill the rest of her while they’re at it.”

  Debating a response, the Sheriff held back. No point in exacerbating the situation. An ambulance was parked behind him on a bridge. Technicians waited with a stretcher. The young doctor who had officially ascertained Charlotte’s death stood a few steps behind them, fingering his stethoscope. Three of the Sheriff’s deputies stood around observing the scene.

  Kneeling, the Sheriff studied Charlotte’s face. Her eyes were open, as glazed and empty as they were in life. The old nightmare of the dreaded eyes flashed across his mind, forcing him to turn away. He was conscious of the silent audience watching his performance and coughed to mask the movement, making it seem like an involuntary spasm of revulsion. He felt nauseous and was afraid to stand up. He wished he had the authority to close the dead woman’s eyelids, divert their accusation.