I do have an offer, Wilkie said. Your path is narrow: there is only one good option. If Hannah allows her hearing to go forward, the ramifications will be wide and deep, starting with her termination or suspension, vilification in the papers, et cetera. Those consequences are merely personal. It’s the other, collateral damage that you may not be aware of. If and when Hannah’s Party membership becomes public—no matter how brief your participation—Billy will be fired from the bank immediately. That is not an opinion; it is a fact. It is possible that Jim Hillsinger will be fired from his job as well. But the most serious impact, Hannah—and, really, the one that brings me out here tonight—will be on your father. He has the farthest to fall. The chairman of the board of Chemical Bank, we happen to know, is under consideration for Secretary of the Treasury, if and when Johnson wins the election in November. The chairman will be forced to take strong measures against anyone at the bank with Communist ties, meaning that, should this news become public, Mr. Blackwell will be summarily expelled from the Chemical Bank Board. He will then be prosecuted by Chemical Bank for something, anything, in order to make the separation more vivid. Again, this is not my opinion—contingency plans already exist. The charge in these cases is usually misappropriation of funds. Mr. Blackwell will then be removed from all directorships, club memberships, everything. He and your mother will be completely isolated.
Hannah’s lovely equilibrium had now vanished. She did not have Lila’s beauty or sheer presence, nor the sense of outrageous holiday that Lila could sometimes command, but just now Hannah had a quality, an absolute contempt for the world, that, for obvious reasons, he had not seen at the round of engagement parties or the wedding or the silly lunches. He liked this version better.
As you know, Wilkie continued, Peregrine Wilkie is also a member of the Chemical Bank Board. He is, in fact, the head of the Standards Committee, and in that role it would fall to him to prosecute Mr. Blackwell. My father does not want to do this.
In your opinion, John, Hannah said, is any of this is reasonable?
No, Wilkie said. It’s an abomination. But the Supreme Court has affirmed the Feinberg Law, which is the basis for all this unpleasantness. The law may change at some point, but not before tomorrow.
What if I make a strong stand? Hannah said.
There is no stand to make, Wilkie said. You’re already guilty in the eyes of the law. This is not a trial, nor is it an investigation, and least of all is it a debate. It’s a public hanging. There is exactly one outcome that we can still prevent, and that is keeping Hannah’s name off their docket. Once her name is printed, nothing else matters.
What are you proposing? Billy said.
My father, Wilkie said, has directed me to tell you that he is prepared to make a sizable personal investment into a new fund created under Billy’s sole direction, and he will further recruit no less than five other substantial investors, including your soon-to-be-former employer. In short, my father will guarantee the following things: first, Billy’s graceful exit from his current post; second, your family’s immediate financial security, as well as the fund-raising and legal work to set up Billy’s fund; and, third, the safeguarding of Mr. Blackwell’s position both in the bank and in society, insofar as that’s possible. He will do all of this only if Hannah officially resigns from her teaching post tomorrow—the hearing docket goes to the printer the day after that, and the newspapers are in the habit of stealing proofs from the printer’s garbage cans.
Does my family know you’re here? Hannah said.
No, Wilkie said.
Who else knows you’re here?
The bare minimum.
All I do every day, John, Hannah said, is show children how to write in cursive.
Exactly, Wilkie said, rising from his chair. Only a dangerous and determined Communist—only the most committed revolutionary intent on the violent overthrow of the government of the United States—only that person would be willing and able to do such a mundane thing as to teach cursive for as long as you’ve done it, and in such an unforgiving place. That is what the prosecutor and the papers will say. And if you listen to nothing else I say, please understand that these people have already won.
22
Hillsinger entered the house through the kitchen door and climbed the back staircase. He needed time, and the children’s play area, which was at the top of the stairs, would be empty now. Two small bedrooms were attached to it, and Hillsinger shut himself into one of them and sat down on the floor. That Cyrus knew about Lila’s night in the New House was disturbing, but really it only pointed toward the much larger problem of whether or not Billy Quick knew.
It was uncomfortable to be vulnerable to Billy Quick in any way, but especially so now. Hillsinger had known Billy since they were boys, from the Cottage on Seven, and he had always thought Billy was vague, insubstantial, lacking in depth. As far as Hillsinger recalled their overlap on Seven, Billy usually opted out of the Indian Game, and the result of that abdication was that he had no allies and no enemies. He was Switzerland, and nobody trusts the Swiss. Billy was graceful in a physical way, sort of, so one did sometimes remember things that he did—the way he played tennis, for example, or how he smoked—but his mind was third-rate at best. One could never recall what Billy said. He had grown up in several different places before his family settled in New York during the War, and whether one chose to view his particular type of sophistication as attractive or irritating depended on whether or not Billy was in a position to hurt you. For a long time, he was not.
The Blackwells had taken the four of them—Billy, Hannah, Lila, and himself—to Round Hill for a few days during that brief, sunlit period after he and Lila were engaged but before Hannah had cut ties with the family. Per usual, Jim rose early and played tennis badly; he sat on the bleachers afterward, while Billy went on the court with a man they had all met at dinner the night before. The man’s name was Montague. Billy was a remarkably elegant tennis player, but Montague looked as though he could have played professionally. He was on another level. Each of Montague’s shots, however, that was clearly in but within an inch or two of the line, Billy called out. He did this repeatedly, and Jim watched them for twenty more minutes, just to be sure. It was appalling, and, worse, it made no sense, since even with the unfair advantage Billy had no chance.
You cheat at tennis, Hillsinger had said to him at lunch that day, before the others arrived. He made it into a joke.
Hardly, Billy had said, matching his tone. I’m nearsighted. It was a quirk of Billy’s normal speaking voice that he could sound both serious and ironic at the same time, so Hillsinger was left with no idea whether or not Billy was denying the charges.