Chapter 24 Isadore
“Thank you,” Izzy said, retrieving her daughter from Professor Farrow’s arms.
“Our little angel did wonderfully.” The professor stood slowly from his parlor chair. “She just woke up from a nap.”
Greta stroked Izzy’s face. “Mama.”
“I’m here, sweetheart.” Izzy nuzzled her tiny hand and then smiled at the professor. “Thank you again for watching her.”
A brisk nod in return as if he had a dozen other pressing tasks to attend. While he continued to be gruff with Simon, the professor enjoyed every moment spent with Greta, and Izzy was quite certain that he’d do anything possible to protect his now one-year-old granddaughter from harm.
“I found this.” He handed Greta the prettiest rattle, the bulb softened by rose flannel, its silver handle reflecting the lamplight.
“You spoil her,” Izzy said, the bells inside jingling when Greta shook it.
“A little spoiling won’t hurt.”
“Perhaps not.” Like the professor, her mom and dad doted on Greta whenever Izzy took her to Elms. Never to stay—her parents simply couldn’t care for all of them unless Izzy worked at the mill—but some days she was so homesick that it pained her to remain in Winfield.
Some days she fantasized about working the night shift just so she had something to do outside the house.
The professor glanced toward the hallway. “Where’s Simon?”
“He had an urgent call to place.” She no longer asked who he spoke with behind the closed office door.
His answer was always the same: a business associate.
He didn’t bother her with the particulars of his business.
Once she’d asked to visit the stable where he bought and sold horses, but Simon laughed so hard that she thought he might injure himself.
To this day, she didn’t know what amused him.
He still traveled often to Cleveland, but at least he brought back cash now for her and Greta’s basic needs along with a few extras like their night out at the theater.
He’d also managed to obtain enough money for a new car to replace the dented one.
A Packard Darrin convertible, leprechaun green.
Even better, he’d purchased a new buggy for Greta.
They still didn’t have enough to hire a sitter for the baby, but the professor often rocked Greta in the evenings and the housekeeper, while not as fond of children, was willing to watch Greta in a pinch.
The professor trailed her into the kitchen. “What movie did you see?”
Izzy sighed. “Black Dragons.”
“Was it worth the fifty cents?”
“Heavens, no.” In fact, it was probably the worst movie she’d ever seen.
The main character’s mission was to kill off members of a spy network, and his behavior kept changing, depending on who he was meeting with.
Even now, after watching the whole film, she didn’t know if Dr. Melcher was meant to be a hero or villain.
And how could one cheer for the villain?
A waste of two perfectly good quarters, in her opinion. Money they could have saved for a better film.
She filled a bottle with evaporated milk before adding water and a spoonful of dark Karo syrup for Greta’s last feeding tonight. While she wouldn’t tell her husband, she’d begun to appreciate the older man’s company. At least he, on occasion, was willing to converse.
“Who was the black dragon?” Professor Farrow asked.
“The doctor.” She shivered at the memory. “He changed the faces of spies so no one would recognize them, but then he started killing his former patients and I’m still not sure why.”
As much as she liked a good mystery and even a little intrigue, she hated watching any film noir. Now she’d probably have nightmares about dragons.
Why would anyone pay to watch a movie that stole their sleep?
He glanced down the hall, the office door closed. “Simon probably liked it.”
“I suppose he did,” she said, not wanting the professor to think she was criticizing his son.
“When he was younger, he always wanted to be a spy.”
She held the bottle to Greta’s lips, and as her daughter drank, she studied the professor.
It had never occurred to her before, perhaps because he’d been her professor at Winfield and then her enemy at home, that he was also a parent.
A father who probably cared at one time for his sons.
Perhaps fed them their bottles and rocked them when Ruthie was away.
What had split their family?
Simon rarely spoke about his older brother, and the professor never mentioned him. She didn’t know much of anything about Clarence except Simon was trying to keep him from pilfering their mother’s estate.
Perhaps Clarence had children of his own. More grandchildren for the old professor.
“What about your other son?” she dared ask.
“My other son?”
She winced, fearing again that his memory was slipping. “Simon’s brother,” she clarified. “Clarence. What did he want to be when he grew up?”
When the professor shook his head, a shadow of sadness darkened his gaze. “Simon is my only child.”
Had Ruthie been married before? If she’d had a son from a previous marriage, that could explain some of the turmoil.
He nodded toward Greta. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
On the second floor, across from her and Simon’s bedroom, was a guest room they’d converted into a nursery. When Greta finished her bottle, Izzy tucked her into a wooden crib, singing until she slept.
By the time Simon came to bed, a tumbler of whiskey in hand, Izzy had already slipped between the covers. He’d treated her well tonight. Bought her popcorn and a cherry soda. Perhaps they were rounding a corner to something better.
“Was it an espionage call?” she asked, trying to make light after the dreadful spy scenes.
“You shouldn’t joke about things you don’t understand.”
She stiffened. “I understand plenty.”
“Then you should know when to stop talking.”
Izzy bit her bottom lip as he rolled to face the wall. He thought her a simpleton, that much was clear, even though she’d attended Winfield on a full scholarship. Just because she didn’t tell him all her thoughts, didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention.
While Louie hadn’t reappeared, at least when Izzy was home, Simon’s telephone calls were more frequent now. Instead of arguing, he and the professor barely spoke, Simon often skipping their Sunday dinners. At times, she thought the professor even seemed to be afraid of his son.
A year ago, she’d wanted to know what Simon did in Cleveland, who he saw, why he wouldn’t take her and Greta with him, but these days, she just wanted him to leave his horses behind and buy some reputable property near Winfield.
“We should take a trip together,” she proposed. “Now that we have money, we could visit someplace warm like South Carolina or Georgia. We could even bring Greta with us.”
“Good night, Izzy.”
“We need a vacation,” she whispered.
“The only thing we need tonight is sleep.”
Her eyes closed, but instead of rest, a dreary road of never-ending days stretched before her, the scenery rarely changing. Each and every day that Simon was gone. Same. Same. Same.
She was only twenty-two. How was she going to survive in this house, with this moody man, for the rest of her life with nothing to do but care for a baby who would grow up soon enough? Everything inside her felt as if it was about to explode.
She’d tried to step out several times, but Simon didn’t want her to join a ladies’ group.
And she certainly couldn’t take lunch with a friend.
Even if she could afford those luxuries, even if she had actual friends left in Winfield, who would watch Greta?
The professor worked at the college all week, and the housekeeper would say that socials were not considered urgent.
Whether she slept or not, Izzy didn’t know, but sometime during the night, she heard the faint ringing of the telephone.
She tried to ignore it, but the ringing persisted.
Simon didn’t wake, so she finally reached for her robe, and oh so carefully, inched open the door.
Ten rings and then fifteen, beckoning her to hurry as she padded down the dark hall and stairs.
Inside the office, the clanging sound seemed to grow more urgent.
She eyed the telephone on the professor’s desk, then looked up at the clock. A quarter past one. It must be an emergency for someone to call at this hour.
With a quick clearing of her throat, she lifted the receiver.
“I have a call for Simon Farrow,” the operator said.
“This is Mrs. Farrow.”
“I need to speak with Simon,” a man barked over the operator’s voice. “Now.”
Was Louie on the other line? She didn’t appreciate the man’s tone, but at least it wasn’t another female colleague. “I’m glad to take a message.”
“Where is Simon?”
“He’s not—”
“I’ll take that,” Simon snapped, yanking her arm.
She tried to shake off his grasp. “You’re hurting me—”
“Then give me the phone.”
The phone clattered on the desk, and he pointed at the door. “Privacy, Isadore.”
Stumbling back toward the hall, she clutched her arm where he had surely bruised it.
“Shut the door!” he shouted.
She obeyed, but his words bled through the wood.
“I understand,” Simon said on the other side. “You have to be patient. I promise . . .”
When his voice dipped, she leaned toward the door. What exactly was Simon promising?
His voice strengthened again. “We’ll both be swimming in cash,” he told the caller. “It won’t be long before I can cut loose from this rathole.”
Rathole? Was Simon talking about this house he’d inherited or wherever he stayed in Cleveland?
“I’ll have the money to you by Friday,” he promised.
Two days from now.
Izzy clenched her fists. Why didn’t Simon tell this man and the others to stop calling? She didn’t want Louie or anyone else getting their hands on what little he managed to bring home.
Her ear pressed against the door, all she heard was silence. She returned quickly to their room and tucked herself under the covers.
“Don’t answer the telephone again,” he said, standing in their doorway, holding a freshly poured glass of whiskey.
Izzy pulled her arms around her chest, protecting the bruise. “Someone has to answer it.”
“If the professor and I aren’t here, let the housekeeper do her job.”
“She doesn’t work at one in the morning.”
“Then wake me up.” He circled around the bed and stretched his long legs out on the comforter like he might need to rush back to the office for another call. “And for all Pete’s sake, stop calling yourself Mrs. Farrow. It’s not fashionable at our age to refer to ourselves as Mr. and Mrs.”
“It seems like the proper thing to do.”
“When we’re fifty, maybe. Which of your starlets goes by Mrs.?”
She thought for a moment about the women in her magazines before conceding. “None of them, I suppose.”
“Then grow up, please. You’re embarrassing us both.”
And she felt so small, like an insect on the wall, something he wouldn’t even notice if she wasn’t buzzing in his face.
“Simon?”
He grunted in response.
“Will Theodore be coming to visit us soon?”
“Who?”
“Your brother.” The man he’d called Clarence when she’d asked if he would join them for Christmas.
“Last time we talked, Theo said he was never returning home.”
So there was no brother. Clarence or Theodore or any other name. Why did he keep lying to her? And then telling her that the professor was losing his mind.
One day, maybe, he would care for her again like he’d done in the early months, but in the meantime, she thought it best to have some time apart.
She didn’t try to tease him again, her voice quiet but strong. “Greta and I are going to Elms for a few weeks.”
She’d gladly work nights now in the paper mill to support them.
Simon elbowed his way back up on the pillow. “You’re leaving me here alone?”
In the rathole, she thought, that he was trying to break free from. But she didn’t dare let him know she’d heard his conversation. She already knew so little, and he’d be even more cautious with his words.
“You’re hardly ever home, Simon. And if you begin to miss us, you can visit anytime.”
“I will miss you, love. You and the baby. You’re the reason I’m working so hard.” The anger in his voice washed away, replaced by a kindness that she hadn’t heard in a long time. But it sounded sticky-sweet to her ears. Like the stepmother in Cinderella.
No, that wasn’t right. Like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, trying to lure the children with treats.
“Get some rest,” she said as he turned off the lamp, but she didn’t close her eyes.
What if Professor Farrow wasn’t the enemy after all? What if he actually saw things clearly when she’d been the one trapped in Simon’s lies?
She trembled under the bedspread, at the thought of being alone in this room with a man she no longer knew.
Dear God . . .
What if Simon was the dragon?