Over and Over

California, 1957

Thomas Davenport checked his watch. A quarter to ten. Right on schedule, John came strolling through the morning light and sat across from him at the café table. When they’d become acquainted years before, he had introduced himself to Thomas as John Smith. This clearly wasn’t his real name, but Thomas wasn’t allowed to ask questions. Nor did he wish to. Besides, he doubted John even remembered his real name anymore.

The man tossed his fedora onto the polished wood and took a drink of the coffee Thomas had just ordered for him. Just as he did every Thursday morning. Then Thomas slid an envelope over to him, just as he had on many Thursday mornings.

“Were you able to look into what you mentioned last week?”

Thomas looked at him with a stony glare that did not phase John in the slightest. “Everything I have for you is in the envelope. Like always.”

John smiled, which was customary when Thomas let his irritation show. “I’d honestly expected you to be used to all this by now, Davenport. Or even to have embraced it.” He drank some more coffee and set the mug down a bit too firmly. “You might actually enjoy it if you’d let yourself.”

Thomas took a healthy swig of his tea – which was mostly whiskey. He’d never let on as much to John, but he was certain that this well-pressed man probably knew. These people knew everything. He had learned that lesson well.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Smith,” it was his customary response to that kind of talk. “Now if there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way.” A sliver of him dared to hope he’d get away with ending the meeting like that. But he hadn’t learned his lesson about hope quite as well.

“Mr. Davenport,” Thomas was already several steps away when he heard this and did not turn around. “It wouldn’t do for any of us to think you were…ungrateful. Not after all we’ve done for you. Surely you understand how little we require of you in exchange.” Again, Thomas said nothing. “Until next Thursday then.”

Thomas hated the way San Francisco felt in the morning. In general, he hated the way any place felt in the morning. But especially San Francisco. It was too bright in a way that felt dingy. As if it were tarnished in some irreparable way and trying far too hard to appear otherwise. For this reason, Thomas tried to avoid ever going out before the early afternoon. But on Thursdays, it couldn’t be helped. He doubted that would ever change, no matter what tales John spun on particularly dark days.

But now Thomas found himself heading back to his home in Pacific Heights. Usually, his housekeeper would have strong black coffee and fresh peaches waiting for him on the back terrace. But today he only wanted the seclusion of his study and the comfort of a fresh bottle.

“You shouldn’t drink so early, Mr. Davenport. Or so much.” His housekeeper said this quietly as he stopped at the hall cabinet for one of the better bottles.

“Thank you, Miriam.” It was a conversation they had had many times.

His study was cool and dark, with just a bit of light leaking in around the curtains. He found himself sitting at his desk, though the papers piled there were the last thing he wanted to see. Not business. That would’ve been so much easier. Money like his existed and multiplied almost by itself. The matters he did have to attend to were simple, methodical. No, the papers scattered before him now were all related to the envelope he had just given to John. Codes, scribbled notes, and guesses all glared at him from the pages.

He took a long drink right from the bottle, and then shoved all the papers to the floor before taking another. He was contemplating the various ways he wished he could get rid of them when a spare scrap on the desk caught his eye. He was about to crumple it and toss it at its companions when he realized what it was.

A newspaper clipping, a few years old. It was the kind of thing that he couldn’t fathom why he kept. And yet couldn’t bear to throw away. He remembered the day that the newspaper had come to the door. He had never regretted more that he still sent for newspapers from Newport. He had no idea why, or why he bothered to read them. News from there wasn’t really news at all. Just gossip in writing. A remnant of a whisper of a summer he had spent in Rhode Island three years before.

But this clipping was no remnant. No whisper. It was an announcement of engagement. The happy couple smiled up at him from the photo. The man was vaguely familiar, with a smile of sheer delight on his face. The woman, both a stranger and the most familiar face he knew, was positively glowing. He didn’t have to read the text below their photo. He had memorized it long ago.

“Rosemary Covington, the eldest daughter of Arthur and June Covington, of New York City and Newport, is recently engaged to Mr. Donald Jones of Ohio. The couple will marry in London, England in November of this year. Congratulations and regards may be sent to the couple via the bride’s parents.” It was dated in the early summer of 1955. That had been two years ago. And still, this clipping lived in the recesses of his desk, and the information it contained lived in the back of his mind.

The truth of it all was that he very rarely thought about Rosemary. But that fact was itself an indication of what the whole experience with her had been to him. Thomas knew, though hardly acknowledged, that the things that meant the most to him rarely entered his conscious mind. But there was one image: a blue summer night, her amber eyes gleaming with tears that never fell. It was a memory that lived just under his skin. He never allowed it to play in front of his eyes. The result would be an empty liquor cabinet.

Thomas pushed the clipping back out of sight and took another swig of whiskey. Then he turned his attention to the papers on the floor, hating that the information they contained was so important, necessary actually, to his life. At the beginning of it all, they had told him he wouldn’t have to do it forever. But he doubted that more and more with the passage of time. Part of him believed that he didn’t have the right to wish for an ending, not with the damage that had been done. Try as he might, Thomas didn’t think that any amount of time spent in this particular capacity would ever truly atone for the sins of his mother.

At half-past nine that night, Thomas arrived at the home of Miss Mabel Wright – a newspaper heiress who was somewhat shrill and more than somewhat careless. She had phoned Thomas earlier in the day to remind him of the party.

“Nine o’clock sharp, darling, or I will be very cross.” He’d forced a smile into his voice and made all kinds of promises, and then purposely showed up half an hour late. He doubted she would be truly cross, but what she would be was even more willing to talk with him. Which was exactly what he needed.

He lit a cigarette before going inside, flicking it away after one long drag. There was no need to knock on the large front door. The sound of music and loud laughter was pouring out into the night air from the windows thrown wide open.

“Oh, there you are!” Mabel came pushing her way through the crowd and draped herself over him, kissing him square on the lips. “I was afraid you had forgotten all about me.”

“You, my dear? Not a chance.” He tucked her curls behind her ear and led her towards the bar, though he could tell she’d already had her fair share of drinks that evening.

He didn’t want her too drunk, or he’d never get what he needed. However, there was a slight edge of something around her eyes, and he could tell she’d been truly worried he wouldn’t make it. He avoided a visible grimace and instead felt his insides twist in knots. She was clearly falling in love with him. And not only could he not afford to care, but even if he could, he doubted he would. It was simply the kind of man he was. He’d realized it and accepted it all in the same moment, years before.

“One vodka martini, stirred, and a double scotch.” He ordered their drinks all while feeling her pulling on his arm. She hadn’t stopped hanging on him from the moment he’d walked in the door. Despite the huge crowd of people in the house, so many that it was nearly suffocating, Mabel seemed to think they were the only ones there. And unfortunately for his purposes, he needed her to think that.

“Is your father here tonight?” He asked it casually as he sipped at his drink, noticing how she finished hers completely before answering.

“Oh, no. I invited him, of course, but he’s always busy with something or other. You know the newspaper business.”

“No, not really.” He tucked her curls away again. They were limp with how tightly her heart clung to what she couldn’t have. “Why don’t you tell me?”

His voice came out softly, caressing every need inside her. It worked perfectly. Too perfectly. But he’d have to hate himself for it later. Within a few moments, she’d pulled him through the mass of smoke and brazen laughter to a dark room at the back of the house. Perhaps the only room in the house nobody was in. Who were all these people? He doubted she knew most of them.

Thomas couldn’t decide whether or not he was surprised by what happened next. Mabel didn’t turn on any of the lights, leaving the lights on the exterior of the house to filter through thin curtains. She kicked off her kitten heels and walked across the room to a shadow on the floor – the space between the two windows where the light couldn’t reach – and sat down slowly there with a sigh. As if she’d been waiting for that the entire night. And it was most likely that she had.

“Will you sit with me, Thomas?” He’d never heard her voice sound so small and quiet. Later he would tell himself that he sat across from her on the floor out of genuine concern. Whether or not it was true, he would never be able to know. But all of those thoughts flooded in the next day. For now, he met her eyes in the shadowed darkness and allowed her to hold his hands. He even squeezed them in reassurance.

“Talk to me, Mabel.”

And she did. He had no idea how long she talked. She talked about many things: a lonely childhood, her various stepmothers, and living with her father who was mostly absent. He urged her to talk more about her father, and she seemed all too ready to do so. In the back of his mind, he wondered if anybody had ever listened to her.

“Father always had meetings with strange people. Men who he didn’t really do business with for the papers.”

“Do you remember their names? What kinds of meetings?” He tried very hard not to press her, not to seem too suspicious with his questions. But she was too far into the story of her life to suspect anything at all. She told him the names of three different men, names he had heard before. Names that he wasn’t surprised to hear in this context. He made a mental note of them, imagined himself writing them up in the report for next Thursday.

“I never knew exactly what they talked about. I listened at the door a few times. Out of curiosity, I suppose, but mostly to try and be a part of things.”

“What did you hear?”

“A lot of foreign-sounding words and names. Russian, I think. Maybe some German. I’m not exactly sure. Mentions of different meetings and packages. Enough to scare me.” He felt her hands shaking in his own. “Enough to let me know that I’d never be as important as whatever plots he was hatching.”

Thomas wished he could ask more questions, write some things down. But her small shoulders were shaking, and a falling tear caught the half-light. His own hand shook as he reached up to wipe her tears, only steadying when he took her face in his hands to kiss her. He knew where it would lead, had known, in fact, since the moment she called earlier. And he had decided then that he couldn’t allow himself to think, otherwise he might not be able to do it. He had no heart of gold, but it wasn’t still and lifeless either.

The truth was that Mabel Wright didn’t deserve any of this. Even so, he allowed her to push her hands into his hair and climb into his arms. She fit perfectly with her legs wrapped around him, but so had many others. As soon as his hands touched her back, she breathed out a moan against his lips.

“Thomas.” It was the last coherent thing she said before pulling at his clothes and tugging at his hands. From that moment forward, he allowed his instincts to take over. Pull on her hair, caress her bare skin. And in the midst of it all, the only conscious thought he allowed was to thank God she wasn’t a virgin. Had that been the case, he was sure he’d have stopped right then and there. Or at least he hoped so.

He didn’t stop until her soft cries covered his skin and she kissed him again with a desperation that was somehow harder to bear than any of it. He kissed her forehead and smoothed back her damp hair.

“Are you cold?” She only nodded in response, still holding onto him as he reached over to the nearest sofa for a light blanket and pillows. He propped her head up with the soft cushions and wrapped the blanket around the both of them. He knew if he left now, she’d never recover. In the back of his mind, he knew he wasn’t doing her any real favors by staying. But one look in her swimming eyes told him he couldn’t leave. Not just yet.

After some time of weeping softly, Thomas stroking slow circles over her back, Mabel fell asleep. He must have dozed off, too, with his head against hers. He woke up only a few hours later, still in the dead of night, and looked down to see her staring up at him. She stroked his cheek and kissed him again.

“You can go, Thomas. You’re so kind to stay this long.” She said these words but looking at her then he was convinced he’d never seen anybody look more vulnerable.

“Mabel, I…” He had to leave, part of him couldn’t wait to. He didn’t exactly know what he wanted to say, but he stopped before the sentence could form itself. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes.” She tried to make her voice strong, and it was the first time he realized how brave she was. It made everything that much worse.

She watched him disentangle himself from her embrace and pull on his clothes from their various positions on the floor. It wasn’t until he was fully dressed that she stood, the blanket wrapped around her and tucked under her arms and as she methodically tied his tie. She pressed it firmly into place, whimpering a bit when he kissed her one last time. He shouldn’t have.

“Get some rest, Mabel. And don’t have any more parties like this. You’re better than that.” She smiled weakly and nodded, and he was sure she watched him until he closed the door behind him.

He took a bath as soon as he got home, but it didn’t help him feel any better about what he’d just done. He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that Mabel had asked him to leave. Thomas knew that if any genuine feelings for her beyond common concern actually lived inside him, he’d still be there. And she knew it, too. He would have left her eventually, would have had to. But her realizing all of these truths, on this of all nights, felt unnecessarily cruel.

He pulled on clean pajamas that Miriam had set out. She always did that, even when she knew he might not be home for bed at all. She was rather like a mother that way. Or at least what he imagined a mother acted like. His never had.

These thoughts led him from his bedroom and through the door to his study, where all of his papers were reorganized and neatly stacked. He’d done it absentmindedly earlier that day, and now sitting back down in front of them he couldn’t make any sense of the piles he’d made. He gave up trying and shuffled through the pile to find a blank piece of paper, where he jotted down the names Mabel had told him as well as the little information she’d been able to provide. Coupled with what he already knew about the names, it would luckily be enough for the report.

He ran a hand through his clean hair, pulling at it in hatred of everything he had always been and everything he was now becoming. Tiredly, he scribbled out a few more notes before pushing the paper away to be dealt with later. That was when he saw it again: the newspaper clipping. He studied it in the light of his desk lamp as if he’d never seen it before, wondering what it would be like to deserve that kind of happiness.

Before he realized what he was doing, Thomas had set the clipping aside and reached for the telephone. What happened then was a strange, out-of-body experience. He was conscious of speaking to several operators and waiting long stretches of time, of saying who he was trying to reach and where. But it wasn’t until he heard her voice on the other end that he truly understood what he’d just done.

“Hello?” her voice was light and airy. It was early there, and he imagined that perhaps she was sitting at the table with her morning tea.

“Rosemary?” he would never know how she recognized his voice, as cracked and choked as it was trying to form her name.

“…Thomas?” her response could only be described as incredulous. And he didn’t blame her. “Thomas? Is that you?”

“Yes, Rosemary. It’s me.” There was a long silence from her end, and he’d have worried that the line was dead if he hadn’t been able to feel her attempting to read him. He’d forgotten what that felt like.

“What’s wrong?” The palpable concern in her voice made his throat burn. “Where are you? Are you safe?”

“Yes… I’m safe.” He loathed that his bottom lip trembled and that a tear dared to fall down his face. He hadn’t cried since he was a boy. “I’m in San Francisco.” He had to speak again or he was sure he’d break into uncontrollable sobs. “I’ve been meaning to call, to wish you congratulations on your marriage. I’m a bit late now.” She laughed lightly; it was a beautiful sound he couldn’t believe he had forgotten. But he’d made himself forget so many things.

“Thank you.” she answered, “That’s very kind.” She paused again, and he could tell she was whispering a bit. Her husband must still be at home, listening in on all of Thomas’ shame. And for whatever reason, it didn’t bother him. “Are you well? Is everything alright?”

“Are you happy, Rosemary?” he asked it because he couldn’t bear to answer her question, even if he’d been allowed to do so honestly.

“Oh, yes,” he heard an edge of something in her voice that sounded like tears. It made him feel slightly better that she could cry tears of joy. “Donald and I are very happy. We… we’re expecting a baby. In just a few months, actually.”

“That’s wonderful.” The news made him genuinely happy, and perhaps that was the point of the phone call in the first place. If Rosemary was happy, maybe nothing else mattered. “I’m so happy for you. For the both of you. You’ll be a great mother.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” her voice was softer now as if she was trying very hard to gather her thoughts and feelings. It took a moment. “It is so… good to hear from you. I’m sure San Francisco agrees with you.” She seemed to trail off again because she was genuinely concerned for him. And he knew it wasn’t fair to call her like this and not give her any kind of explanation. He’d already left her once without one. She didn’t need more of that from him.

“It isn’t my favorite town, I’ll admit it.” He was grateful that his voice was steadier. “But it’s not bad. I’ve been here about a year. It was Chicago before. At least California is warm.” She laughed at that, and it made him feel better. “I’m glad to know you’re well, Rosemary. I’ve often wondered.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Things have been… complicated. I guess I called you to… try and ground myself. Maybe that sounds insane.”

“No.” she responded before he was even finished with the sentence, “No, it doesn’t. I understand. Really, I do.”

“You always did,” he answered, “thank you for that.” She was silent, but he was sure she was biting her lip and nodding.

“Do you need anything? Can I help?”

“No. Nobody can help. But I promise I’m okay.” He gripped the phone hard. “It is so good to talk to you. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” She let out a little sniffle. “Good luck.”

He sat at his desk until the early morning light began creeping into the room. It was a soft periwinkle. He replayed the conversation over and over in his mind. The sound of her voice, how happy she was. And in the back of his mind, his self-loathing only grew. He had hurt Rosemary before, destroyed Mabel and many others. He didn’t deserve the kindness that Rosemary had just shown him, and yet he knew she had meant all those things she’d said. She had always been good that way.

Finally, he forced himself to stand and leave his study. He stumbled back into his room and collapsed into bed with Rosemary’s voice playing on a loop in his mind.

Thomas hadn’t truly slept in weeks, and it finally caught up to him as soon as he fell into a deep slumber. He didn’t wake up until the very late afternoon. After dragging himself downstairs to the kitchen, where the cook produced a meal seemingly out of thin air, he returned a few calls and fell back into bed. Vaguely he registered that Mabel hadn’t called, though he certainly wasn’t going to call her. He suspected that they’d said their goodbyes.

He was woken up the next morning by a knock at his bedroom door. He checked the time to find that it was ten o’clock. How he’d slept so long he didn’t know. Perhaps it was his way of avoiding all the damage he was doing.

“What is it, Miriam?” he groggily met her gaze as he opened his door.

“I’m happy to see you’re finally getting some rest, Mr. Davenport.” She meant that, and it was why he’d hired her. “But you have a visitor downstairs.”

“A visitor?” he rubbed his eyes, “I’m not expecting anybody, am I?”

“No, sir. He says it was a last-minute trip.” And suddenly Thomas knew who it was, and though he was shocked he was not surprised.

“Get a room ready for him and give him some breakfast on the back terrace. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

After a wash, a quick shave, and fresh clothes, Thomas hurried downstairs and out into the morning light. It was a warm morning, but better in the shade of the house. His eyes quickly adjusted to the sunshine as well as the picture of Donald Jones eating breakfast outside his home. He stopped when he saw Thomas and stood, accepting a handshake.

“Good morning, Thomas.”

“Good morning, Mr. Jones.” He sat down across from his guest and piled his own plate high with food. “You arrived rather quickly.” He put the serving spoon down and met Donald’s dark eyes across the table. “To be honest, I’m shocked you’re here. I wouldn’t have thought you cared much about my life.”

Donald leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. The truth of the matter was that Thomas hardly remembered him. There were only a few memories of a man existing on the edges of society, connected to Ophelia Baxter in some business dealing. But now he saw him, knowing he was Rosemary’s husband, and he felt more insignificant than he ever had.

“To be honest, I don’t much care.” At least he was honest. “But my wife does. And your call caused her a great deal of concern. She wanted to come herself, but with the baby so close I didn’t like the idea of her going on such a long trip. So, I came instead. It’s important for you to understand that that’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Listen, Mr. Jones…”

“Donald will do.”

“Donald.” Thomas took a gulp of his black coffee. “You didn’t have to come. But I appreciate it very much. I know that… I know I hurt Rosemary when I left. You have no reason to like me or respect me.”

“Stop right there, Thomas.” Donald leaned forward now. “I left her, too. And hurt her far worse than you ever did or ever could.” There was pain in his eyes that Thomas was shocked to see. “So, again, I’m not here to settle any kind of score or lecture you in any way. I am here because Rosemary is worried about you and wanted me to make sure you were alright. And I do anything and everything I can to make her happy or ease her worries. So, we’re going to finish our breakfast, and then you’re going to tell me what you’ve been doing, and I’ll see if I can help.”

And that was exactly what they did. After finishing their mounds of hashbrowns and bacon with buttered toast and black coffee, Thomas led Donald upstairs to his study.

“It’s all right there.”

Donald sat in Thomas’ chair and adjusted his glasses, pouring over all of the scribbled notes and codes and names and drafted reports. Thomas sat across from him and felt as though it took a hundred years for him to finish studying each paper. But finally, he set down the last of them and looked at him from across the table.

“How long have you been spying on your peers for the government?”

“A few years now.” Thomas felt tired again. He’d never said it out loud or heard it said out loud the way Donald had just said it. “They contacted me right after I left Newport. One of the men there apparently watched me while I was there, and wanted to approach me about it, but I left in a hurry and went to Chicago. They found me there.”

Donald leaned back in his chair, “Why are you doing this? You clearly don’t want to. What have they got on you that makes this necessary?”

Thomas stood and walked across his study to a shadowed bookshelf that held the only family photo that existed of him and his parents. He handed it to Donald and sat down again heavily.

“My parents divorced when I was a boy, right after the war. My mother disappeared. I never saw her again. I never understood why she didn’t even want partial custody. My dad did his best, of course, but I had no clue what he was up against until I asked him about it years later.” He sighed deeply. “My mother is German. She was a spy for her government during the war. My father lived in Washington D.C when they met and she never wanted to move, he couldn’t understand why. She was a secretary at the State Department. She fed valuable information to the Germans all through the war. She was found out and left the country - divorced my father - before she was arrested. Nobody has seen or heard from her since. I suppose she went back to Germany.” Thomas wanted a drink desperately, but he forced himself to finish the story. “When they approached me about it, they made it seem as though I had to do this in order to make up for all the damage she did. And perhaps they are right. Perhaps I owe this to my country.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“If I don’t do it, I guess there isn’t much they can do. Financially, at least. My father still owns most of our business and he certainly didn’t do anything wrong. But he loved my mother. And if any of this came out, I think he’d be devastated. He underwent extensive questioning back then. They were certain he’d been a part of it. They threatened to do it again. To throw him in prison. They say somebody has to pay.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I figured it might as well be me.”

“So, in order to pay for the deeds of your Nazi mother’s spying, and to avoid having your innocent father imprisoned for it, you spy on your peers and feed the government names of potential Communists?”

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”

Donald nodded and folded his arms, sitting there thoughtfully for a long time. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Surely you know somebody who could help. You have friends. We have friends. Ophelia could help.”

“I know.” Thomas sighed. “I know all of that. And they’ve even told me many times that I won’t have to do it forever. At first, it was for one year, then another. Now I think this is just the way things have to be. Even if I know people who could help me. Doesn’t somebody have to do work like this? At first, I thought it was somehow making up for all the wrong my mother did, and all the wrong I’ve done. But if you only knew, Donald, if you…” Flashes of his time with Mabel appeared before his eyes. “Sometimes I think I’m doing more harm than good.”

“But you’ll keep doing it anyway.” It wasn’t a question. Donald had a knowing look in his eyes.

“Yes, I will. Because I don’t know what else to do.”

“I suppose you told Rosemary the truth, then. Nobody can fix this. Mostly because you believe you deserve it.”

Donald stayed for two more days. He bought gifts for Rosemary and the baby. He said Rosemary was convinced it was a boy, and if so, they would name him Isaac. He took Thomas on drives, made sure he ate, and kept the key to the liquor cabinet in his pocket. In short, he helped in any way he could, because he couldn’t fix the main problem. He had been right about it, though. Thomas knew there must be a way for all of this to end. But he took one look at that family photo, at his mother’s smiling face and the secrets she’d been hiding, and he knew he had to keep doing this until he no longer could, or until they set him free. It was just as he’d told Donald: somebody had to do this work. And he’d been successful, as far as closed cases and numbers went. The collateral damage, the Mabels, were his own demons to deal with. This was the way it had to be.

He drove Donald to the airport on a morning much cooler than the one that had brought him to California, and shook his hand at the gate.

“Thank you for coming.” He felt suddenly awkward, as if he owed Donald the world. “Thank Rosemary. Give her my regards. Congratulations on becoming a father. If it isn’t too much trouble I…” his voice became unexpectedly tight. “I hope the baby gets here safely. I know you’ll take care of both of them.”

A beautiful, almost sacred pride crept over Donald’s face and into his eyes. “Yes, I will. Always. We’ll send you a card.” He clapped him on the shoulder, “Take care of yourself.”

Thomas Davenport watched Donald Jones walk away, towards the airplane that would take him home. Home to Rosemary. He smiled at the thought, grateful for her happiness, and walked back to his car. He had a report to write for Thursday morning.