Read Online Half World: A Novel by Scott O'Connor - Free Book Online
Authors: Scott O'Connor
Ads: Link
tumbler.
He had stripped himself on the walk down the hall, following the sounds of the party, leaving his clothes behind in a trail stretching back to his office door. Shirt, undershirt, slacks, underpants, socks, shoes. Even his glasses. The world before him a soft blurred whirl.
Roy Pritchard approached, looked Henry in the eye, and when he saw no one there that he recognized, led Henry by the elbow back up the hall. A few titters from some of the tipsier secretaries, openmouthed surprise from the others. Similar reactions from the officers. Henry March standing naked before them, a pale ghost, there and then gone. Marist stood in the farthest corner of the room, stopped in midconversation, watching without an immediately readable expression.
Roy took Henry back to the office, collecting clothes as they went. Once inside, he closed the door and turned Henry to look at him again.
“I have nothing to hide,” Henry said. His voice all the more disturbing to Roy for its measured tone. Henry’s normal, everyday voice, calm and even.
“You see?” he said, looking at Roy, his face steady, his eyes steady. “I have nothing.”
16
San Francisco, Spring 1956
The second girl arrived. She was tall and strongly built, a few years older than Elizabeth. She said her name was Emma. Dorn rolled his eyes at this. They gave her the briefing in the living room. She sat alone on the sofa with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, listening with her face set as if she didn’t quite believe them either. She had many of the same questions as Elizabeth: how she would be paid, if she would be working alone or with another girl. She had a low, deep voice, a southern accent, country rather than city. Henry was surprised that Dorn quoted her the same rate as Elizabeth. He had assumed Dorn would pay her less because she was a Negro.
She walked through the apartment, inspecting the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. She flipped through the crate of records, unimpressed, and Dorn gave her some money to buy new ones, anything but Benny Goodman. She looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language, like she had no idea who Benny Goodman was.
“You can drink in here,” Dorn said. “But no drugs. Not in the apartment.”
Emma smoothed the front of her dress. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not in the apartment. Understood?”
She turned to Henry. “Is he a cop, too?”
“He’s not a cop,” Dorn said.
“He doesn’t look like a cop.”
Dorn lit a cigarette, passed it to Emma. “What does he look like?”
She stared at Henry through the smoke. “He looks like a teacher or something. A professor.”
Dorn laughed.
“I don’t know what he looks like.” Emma took a pull on her cigarette. “He just looks like a regular guy.”
17
Arlington, Winter 1955
Henry was unwell, that was what the voice on the phone said. It was a day not long after Henry’s official questioning had ended. Thomas was napping, Ginnie was finishing her lunch when the phone rang. The man on the other end of the line spoke with a smooth timbre, a hint of the affected Brahmin tone she heard from many of Henry’s colleagues. He introduced himself as Paul Marist.
Henry is unwell, Marist said. He’ll be coming home soon.
A half hour later she heard a car door closing, the sharp bark of metal in the cold. She looked out the kitchen window to see Roy Pritchard’s beetle-black Ford idling at the curb, exhaust billowing in the December air. Linebacker Roy, seemingly Henry’s only friend left in Washington. Roy came around to the passenger side and opened the door, hunched by the raw wind, holding his gloved hands at the buttons of his coat. Henry stepped out onto the sidewalk, head down, coat open, his face obscured by the brim of his hat. Ginnie stood in the doorway, trying to see Henry’s face as he made his way up the walk. She was one of the only people who could read his expressions. If she could see his face, then
He had stripped himself on the walk down the hall, following the sounds of the party, leaving his clothes behind in a trail stretching back to his office door. Shirt, undershirt, slacks, underpants, socks, shoes. Even his glasses. The world before him a soft blurred whirl.
Roy Pritchard approached, looked Henry in the eye, and when he saw no one there that he recognized, led Henry by the elbow back up the hall. A few titters from some of the tipsier secretaries, openmouthed surprise from the others. Similar reactions from the officers. Henry March standing naked before them, a pale ghost, there and then gone. Marist stood in the farthest corner of the room, stopped in midconversation, watching without an immediately readable expression.
Roy took Henry back to the office, collecting clothes as they went. Once inside, he closed the door and turned Henry to look at him again.
“I have nothing to hide,” Henry said. His voice all the more disturbing to Roy for its measured tone. Henry’s normal, everyday voice, calm and even.
“You see?” he said, looking at Roy, his face steady, his eyes steady. “I have nothing.”
16
San Francisco, Spring 1956
The second girl arrived. She was tall and strongly built, a few years older than Elizabeth. She said her name was Emma. Dorn rolled his eyes at this. They gave her the briefing in the living room. She sat alone on the sofa with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, listening with her face set as if she didn’t quite believe them either. She had many of the same questions as Elizabeth: how she would be paid, if she would be working alone or with another girl. She had a low, deep voice, a southern accent, country rather than city. Henry was surprised that Dorn quoted her the same rate as Elizabeth. He had assumed Dorn would pay her less because she was a Negro.
She walked through the apartment, inspecting the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. She flipped through the crate of records, unimpressed, and Dorn gave her some money to buy new ones, anything but Benny Goodman. She looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language, like she had no idea who Benny Goodman was.
“You can drink in here,” Dorn said. “But no drugs. Not in the apartment.”
Emma smoothed the front of her dress. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not in the apartment. Understood?”
She turned to Henry. “Is he a cop, too?”
“He’s not a cop,” Dorn said.
“He doesn’t look like a cop.”
Dorn lit a cigarette, passed it to Emma. “What does he look like?”
She stared at Henry through the smoke. “He looks like a teacher or something. A professor.”
Dorn laughed.
“I don’t know what he looks like.” Emma took a pull on her cigarette. “He just looks like a regular guy.”
17
Arlington, Winter 1955
Henry was unwell, that was what the voice on the phone said. It was a day not long after Henry’s official questioning had ended. Thomas was napping, Ginnie was finishing her lunch when the phone rang. The man on the other end of the line spoke with a smooth timbre, a hint of the affected Brahmin tone she heard from many of Henry’s colleagues. He introduced himself as Paul Marist.
Henry is unwell, Marist said. He’ll be coming home soon.
A half hour later she heard a car door closing, the sharp bark of metal in the cold. She looked out the kitchen window to see Roy Pritchard’s beetle-black Ford idling at the curb, exhaust billowing in the December air. Linebacker Roy, seemingly Henry’s only friend left in Washington. Roy came around to the passenger side and opened the door, hunched by the raw wind, holding his gloved hands at the buttons of his coat. Henry stepped out onto the sidewalk, head down, coat open, his face obscured by the brim of his hat. Ginnie stood in the doorway, trying to see Henry’s face as he made his way up the walk. She was one of the only people who could read his expressions. If she could see his face, then
Similar Books
