It was uncharacteristic, Nim realized, for him merely to "go along" and let things drift. By nature he was accustomed to make decisions promptly and to plan ahead: that ability, applied to his work, had earned him recognition and advancement. But where his marriage was concerned he still had a curious reluctance to move, perhaps to face reality. He was leaving it all to Ruth. If she chose to leave permanently and afterward seek a divorce, which seemed the natural sequence, he would be disinclined to fight or even try to dissuade her. However, he would not take the step himself. Not yet.
He had asked Ruth only yesterday if she was ready to discuss their situation, remembering her words: ". . . you and I have only been going through the motions of being married. We haven't talked about it. But I think we should. . . Perhaps when I come back."
Why wait? Nim reasoned.
But she had answered in a businesslike tone, "No, I'll tell you when I'm ready." And that had been the end of it.
Leah and Benjy entered frequently into Nim's thoughts along with the possibility of divorce. Both children, he knew, would be devastated by the idea, and he was saddened at the thought of them being hurt. But the fact was, children survived divorces and Nim had observed many who accepted a divorce in the family as a simple facet of life. Nor would there be difficulty about Nim and Leah and Benjy spending time together. He might even end up seeing more of both children than he did now. It had happened to other estranged fathers.
But all that must await Ruth's return, he reflected, as he roamed the empty house on Friday evening.
A half hour ago he had telephoned Leah and Benjy, plowing through the objections of Aaron Neuberger, who didn't like his telephone to be used, except for emergencies, on the Sabbath. Nim had let the phone ring and ring until his father-in-law gave in and answered. "I want to talk to my kids," Nim insisted bluntly, "and I don't care if it's Mickey Mouse Tuesday."
When Leah came on the line a few minutes later she reproached him gently.
"Daddy, you've upset Grandfather."
Nim had felt like saying Good! but wisely didn't, and they talked about school, a forthcoming swim meet and ballet class. No mention of Ruth. He sensed that Leah knew something was wrong but was uneasy about asking or knowing.
His conversation with Benjy, which followed, revived the irritation Nim frequently felt about his in-laws.
"Dad," Benjy had said, "am I going to have a bar mitzvah? Grandfather said I have to. And Grandmother says if I don't I'll never be a real Jewish man."
Confound those interfering Neubergers! Couldn't they just be loving grandparents, taking care of Leah and Benjy for a couple of weeks, without grabbing the chance to inject propaganda into the children? It was almost indecent to start working on them with such baste, as well as intruding on the rights of Nim and Ruth as parents. Nim had wanted to bring up that subject himself with Benjy, talking it over quietly, intelligently, man-to-man, not have it sprung on him suddenly like this.
Well, an inner voice inquired, why didn't you do it? there's been plenty of time. If you had, you wouldn't be wondering right now how to respond to Benjy's question.
Nim said sharply, "No one has to have a bar mitzvah. I didn't. And what your grandmother said is nonsense."
"Grandfather says there's a lot I'll have to learn." Benjy still sounded doubtful. "He said I ought to have started a long time ago."
Was there an accusation in Benjy's small precise voice? It was entirely possible-in fact, probable-Nim thought, that Benjy at ten understood a great deal more than his elders assumed. Therefore did Benjy's questions now reflect the same instinctive search for identification with his ancestry which Nim had been aware of in himself, and had subdued, though not entirely? He wasn't sure. Nothing, however, lessened Nim's anger at the way all this had surfaced, though he curbed another sharp answer, knowing it would do harm, -not good.
"Look, son, what you said just now simply isn't true. If we decide you should be barmitzvahed there's plenty of time. You have to realize your grandparents have some views which your mother and I don't agree with."
Nim wasn't sure how true that was of Ruth, but she wasn't around to contradict. He went on, "As soon as your mother is back, and you come home, we'll talk all this over. Okay?"
Benjy had said "okay" a touch reluctantly and Nim realized he must keep his promise or lose credibility with his son. He considered the idea of flying his father in from New York and having him stay for a while, which would expose Benjy to a counterbalancing influence. Old Isaac Goldman, while frail and in his eighties, was still acid, cynical and biting about Judaism and enjoyed slamming haymakers into Orthodox Jewish arguments.
But no, Nim decided. That would be just as unfair as the Neubergers were being now.
After the phone call, and while mixing himself a scotch and water, Nim caught sight of a portrait of Ruth; it was in oils, painted several years ago. The artist had caught, with remarkable fidelity, Ruth's graceful beauty and serenity. He crossed to the painting and studied it. The face, especially the soft gray eyes, was exceptionally good; so was the hair-shiny black, neatly and impeccably arranged, as always. For the sittings Ruth had worn a strapless evening gown; the flesh tones of her graceful shoulders were uncannily real. There was even, on one shoulder, the small dark mole which she had had removed surgically soon after the portrait was done.
Nim's thoughts returned to Ruth's serenity; it was what the painting showed best. I could use some of that serenity right now, he thought, and wished he could talk to Ruth about Benjy and a bar mitzvah. Dammit! Where in hell has she gone for two weeks and who is the man? Nim was sure the Neubergers would have some idea. At the very least they would know where Ruth could be contacted; Nim knew his wife too well to believe she would cut herself off completely from the children. Equally certain: Her parents would be closemouthed about the arrangement. Tbe thought refueled the anger at his in-laws.
Following a second scotch and more perambulating, be returned to the telephone and dialed Harry London's home number. They hadn't talked in a week, which was unusual.
When London answered, Nim asked him, "Want to drive out to my house and booze a little?"
"Sorry, Nim; I'd like to, but I can't. Got a dinner date. Leaving here soon. Did you hear about the latest bombing?"
"No. When?"
"Happened an hour ago."
"Anyone hurt?"
"Not this time-but that's the only good part."
Two powerful bombs had been planted at a GSP & L suburban substation, Harry London reported. As a result more than six thousand homes in the area were now without electric power. Mobile transformers, mounted on flatbed trucks, were being rushed in, but it was unlikely that full service would be restored until tomorrow.
"'These crazies are getting smart," London said. “They're learning where we're vulnerable, and where to put their firecrackers to do the most damage."
"Do we know yet if it's the same group?"
"Yep. Friends of Freedom. They phoned Channel 5 News just before it happened, saying where it would happen. Too late to do anything, though. That makes eleven bombings we've had in two months. I just added up."
Knowing that London, while not directly intervened in the investigation, still had pipelines of information, Nim asked, "Have the police or FBI made any progress?"
"Nil. I said the people doing it are getting smart; so they are. It's a safe bet they study the targets before they hit, then decide where they can get in and out fast, unnoticed, and do the most damage. This Friends of Freedom mob know, just as we do, that we'd need an army to guard everything."
"And there haven't been clues?"
"Nil again. Remember what I said before? If the cops solve this one it'll be through a lucky break or because somebody got careless. Nim, it ain't the way it is on TV or in novels where crimes always get solved. In the real police world they often don't."
"I know that," Nim said, mildly irritated that London was slipping into his lecturer's role again.
“There is one thing, though," the Property Protection chief said thoughtfully.
"What's that?"
"For a while the bombings slowed down, almost stopped. Now suddenly they've perked up, making it look as if the people doing them have got a new source of explosives, or money, or both."
Nim pondered, then changed the subject. "What's new with theft of service?"