The Hellfire Club(23)
“Including the alligators in the sewer?”
She grinned. “No alligators, sadly. I had to debunk that myth in the summer of 1950. No, no alligators, but quite a few sewer rats and even some sad colonies of people under there.”
“Well, I’m crushed,” Gwinnett said. “You’re very special. We’ll miss you when you have to leave.”
Margaret was irritated. She was having a baby, not retiring, and she was certainly not ready to mourn for her career. She started to assure him of this when something in the distance caught her eye.
“Look,” she said, pointing toward the western horizon. Gwinnett turned to see a pony. Margaret picked herself up off the ground and slowly, quietly, deliberately began heading toward the pony, slogging through the wet marsh, the weeds squishing beneath her feet. In her hurry she accidentally dropped her binoculars into the swamp, but she was too preoccupied to stop to retrieve them.
Gwinnett followed her. Margaret was twenty feet away when the pony turned and, it seemed to Margaret, looked directly into her eyes. It was Teardrop.
“Hi there, beauty,” Margaret said, approaching prudently.
The pony snorted and looked down, splashing his forelegs in the marshy shallows. Margaret took another cautious step forward, one hand outstretched, barely able to breathe. Very few people ever got this close to one of these ponies—for all she knew, she was the first human he’d ever encountered. She was desperate to touch him, to pat the soft side of his stocky neck. Again he looked at her and she felt a shudder of connection.
Gwinnett stood behind her, silent, as she slowly moved toward Teardrop, murmuring in low tones she hoped would reassure him, never taking her gaze from his. Her heart was pounding; her mouth was dry. She reached the beast and slowly put her hand on his forehead, then softly patted him down to his muzzle. He leaned into her and closed his eyes. And then, abruptly, Teardrop tossed his head and pawed the water before turning and galloping into the distance.
Margaret stood watching him, trying to understand what had just happened. Gwinnett’s voice broke the spell.
“Wow,” said Gwinnett, coming up to stand next to her. “That was incredible.”
Margaret nodded mutely.
“We should go back to camp and write up our notes. Annabelle will be jealous when she hears how close you got.”
Margaret felt a sharp pang of loneliness. The person she most wanted to tell was Charlie, who was a hundred miles away. She missed him deeply. She looked one last time at the spot where Teardrop had just stood, then turned and followed Gwinnett back to see if she could find her binoculars in the swamp.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, January 23, 1954
Georgetown, Washington, DC
Margaret had been home from Nanticoke Island for only an hour when, still unshowered and exhausted, she answered the town-house doorbell and was greeted by a pretty, college-age woman holding Charlie’s dry-cleaned tuxedo.
“Hello, Mrs. Marder! I’m Sheryl Ann Bernstein, the congressman’s intern. Miss Leopold asked me to deliver this—I hope I’m not intruding.” She handed over the garment and smiled so brightly Margaret almost wanted to shield her eyes. “Thank you!” she said. “I hope you and the congressman have a good weekend.”
The intern was halfway down the town-house steps when she turned around. “Oh! Mrs. Marder!” she cried. “Please tell the congressman I made some progress on my homework assignment!” She smiled yet again and then bounced away, a vision of perky youth that made Margaret feel ancient.
Charlie was tucked away in his first-floor study, surrounded by tall stacks of thick reference books.
“Some Debbie Reynolds look-alike just dropped this off,” she said, hanging the tuxedo on the doorknob.
“Oh, crud,” Charlie said. “I forgot to tell you, I have to go to a dinner this evening. The Alfalfa Club.”
“Alfalfa like from the Little Rascals?”
“No, Alfalfa like the plant,” he said distractedly. “The roots of which will apparently do anything to find a drink. That’s the conceit of the name, at any rate. Har-har.”
“Yes, I get it, Charlie,” Margaret said drily. “You’re spending too much time educating infatuated interns, perhaps. Assigning them homework.”
Preoccupied by the book in his hand, Charlie raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing. Anyway, I’m filthy and I need to shower.” She headed upstairs, and Charlie decided to let her comment dissolve in the ether, returning his attention to the Funk and Wagnalls New World Encyclopedia. He’d been looking for more information about Chairman Carlin when he’d stumbled on the entry for the University of Chicago; recalling the odd note he’d found in his desk, he read more in hopes of learning what the school might have had to do with cereal grains or broadleaf crops. Messrs. Funk and Wagnalls offered no help. No matter. Charlie turned instead to entries on Kefauver and others whom he thought he might encounter that evening.
The Alfalfa Club was among the most elite social organizations in Washington, DC, its membership consisting of two hundred business leaders, politicians, sometimes even presidents. Charlie’s invitation was obviously an afterthought, but that didn’t diminish his anticipation. Yesterday he had been having lunch in the private Senate Dining Room with Senator Margaret Chase Smith, Republican of Maine, when Kefauver stopped by their table.