Another Homecoming (5 page)

Beside him was the magnifying glass Dr. Austin, his parents’ friend, had given him for his last birthday. Save his eyes from squinting over those tiny lines, was what the doctor had said. And now he had a brand-new tube of epoxy glue that was from Grandma. And a new razor blade in the little metal holder that his father had brought him from the tool shop. His mother always left the room when he started working with the blade. She was back in the kitchen now, preparing his tenth birthday dinner. Which meant he only had a few minutes left to look over the plans.

Joel’s father sat on the other side of the small front parlor in their Riverdale home. Joel had been born in Baltimore, but the family had moved the fifteen miles south soon after. This was the only home Joel had ever known. He sat on the floor and watched his father listening to news over the radio. The announcer was talking about something called the Cold War. And some man called Nikita Kruschev. Whenever the news started on about those things, his father would always clam up and lean over, his face so tight he looked hungry.

His father was quiet most of the time. He would come home from work, sit there in the front room, and say hardly a word. His distant gaze suggested he saw another world, one that really was just for him, one where Joel had no part at all. It made him feel so small, being in the room with his father and knowing that the man did not see him or even realize he was there.

There was something which lurked deep inside his father, something frightening. Joel had seen it surface that very morning when his father had stomped out on the back porch and argued with the milkman. The veins had stood out on his father’s forehead and neck like whipcords. His voice had sounded like an angry lash. All over a missing pint of milk. Joel had sat with his breakfast cereal and known with wisdom far beyond his ten years that it was more than milk that made his father so angry.

Sometimes, though, his father roused himself, and he would look at Joel and say something. Joel’s whole world seemed to light up when it happened.

The announcer started talking about baseball, and his father cut off the radio. Washington’s baseball team, the Senators, was at the bottom of the rankings, and Baltimore wasn’t doing much better. The only time his father was interested in baseball was when the Yankees or the Red Sox were in town.

His father turned to him, watching him cut the first balsam piece free of the wood strip. “What you got there, sport?”

“A B-29 Superfortress,” Joel replied with a grin. His father knew that. An illustration of the plane in all its glory was on the box front, flying through a sky filled with dark gray flak clouds, its machine guns spouting flames.

“Ain’t that something,” his father said calmly. “How many does that make now?”

“Eleven.” The gift had been from both his parents, but Joel knew his mother had saved from her household money to buy it. Even so, his father recognized the plane. His father knew all about planes. He worked as a mechanic at the Baltimore airport. It was one of the few subjects that would occasionally light up his eyes, especially if he was talking about military planes.

“I had two more,” Joel explained, “but I messed them up and so they don’t count. But that was when I was little.”

“Listen to this guy. Ten years old and he’s not little anymore.” His face’s deep creases tightened slightly, as close as Harry Grimes ever came to a smile. “Can you understand the instructions, son?”

“I think so.” It was so rare to have his father actually say the word “son,” that Joel knew a little thrill. In a sudden rush of insight, he picked up the plans and crossed the room. “I’ve read them, but I’m not sure I get what to do first.” The large sheet rustled as he spread it on the small table by his father’s chair. He pointed at a paragraph above the first drawing and asked, “Will you explain that to me?”

“Why, sure.” Harry spread the plans smooth, squinted, and slowly began to read and comment. Joel listened carefully, but in truth he didn’t need help. Joel wanted a reason to stand near his father. Most of the time it seemed as though his father had an invisible barrier around him, keeping everyone from coming close, even his own son. Joel hesitated, then reached up and put his hand on his father’s shoulder. It felt hard as a rock. He moved a little closer so he could lean against his father’s arm.

His mother chose that moment to walk into the room. When Joel looked over at her, she appeared to be holding her breath. Her face ran as if it were made of wax, just melting into soft, sad lines. It was so strange to stand there, leaning against his father, feeling so happy and so sad at the same time. His mother struggled to make a little smile for him, then turned and silently left the room.

When his father stopped his explanation of the paragraph, he sat and examined the plans for a while. Joel remained content to stand there and lean against him. Harry pointed at the turrets appearing on the drawing’s underside and tail and asked, “How are you supposed to make these?”

Eagerly Joel leaped for the box, pulled aside the balsam strips intended to form the plane itself, and came up with an oddly shaped piece. It looked like a slender tree sprouting rigid gray fruit. “They made them out of plastic, Pop.”

“Well, ain’t that something. Here, let me have a look.” Harry’s strong fingers moved across the pieces, comparing them to the scale drawings. “Getting more complicated all the time, aren’t they?”

“Sure are.”

“Good training for a mechanic. You aiming on coming over, working on the planes with your old man?”

“That sounds great, Pop.” But in truth, Joel had no idea what he wanted to do when he grew up. Whenever he thought about the future, it all felt flat to him, as though there was something important he was missing. It was the same way his family was. Everything seeming to be in order, but something was missing. He knew it in his heart.

Harry let the plans slide from his lap. Joel knelt and began the folding process. Then Harry said, “Yeah, the Superfortress and the B-17, they made all the difference. We ruled the skies after that. Had ’em on the run.” He was silent a moment longer, then asked, “You heard about the new one?”

“You told me about it, remember?” The other night, the paper had printed an article on the new army bomber. “The YB-52 Stratosphere. That’s what they called it.”

“You sure got some memory, sport.” Harry reached over and tousled his son’s hair. “Mind like that, you’ll go a long way.”

The moment was so special, Joel decided to risk it. He kept his head bowed over the plans as he asked, “Pop, can I get me a puppy? Bobby Benson’s spaniel, she had six pups. Please, Pop. They’re the cutest—”

“No pets,” Harry Grimes said. More than the words cut off Joel’s pleadings. The cold grating sound was back in his father’s voice.

Joel felt his heart fall to his stomach in fear that he had ruined the rest of his birthday. That his father would sit over to one side of the table, staring out the back window, saying nothing to anybody the whole time. Meals like that were excruciating.

Steps scraped up their front porch, and a heavy voice said through the doorway, “Are we late? We better not be. I get cranky if I don’t get my share of the birthday cake.”

“Haven’t even got started,” Harry replied. “Come on in, Howard.”

Dr. Howard Austin stepped through the door, followed by his wife, Carol. The Austins had also moved down from Baltimore, and Dr. Austin ran a very successful family practice. Joel found himself thinking as always how incredible it was, the similarity between Carol Austin and his own mother. They could have been sisters. They even had the same soft, sad smile. Dr. Austin demanded, “Hey, it’s the birthday boy. What you got there?”

“A model of the Superfortress,” Harry replied for him. To Joel’s enormous relief, the coldness was gone from Harry’s voice as he rose and limped over. Favoring his left leg, Harry picked up the model box and showed it to the doctor. “Get a load of all those pieces. Some are made of plastic. It even says how many on the front cover. Look at that—two hundred and seventy-three pieces. Worse than the real thing.”

“And he puts them together with the precision of a surgeon,” Howard agreed. “I’ve seen those others he’s got strung up in his room. They look like they’re ready to take off and fly away, all on their own. How you doing, Joel?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Happy birthday, Joel,” Carol said. Even her voice had the quietly resigned tones of his mother. She handed over a smaller box. “I hope we got what you wanted.”

“Gee, thanks, Mrs. Austin.” Joel made swift work of the wrapping. “An acrylic paint set. It’s perfect. Thanks a lot.”

“Thank your mom. She’s the one who told Carol what to get.” Howard shifted his bulk as Joel’s mother entered the room. “And here’s the little lady now.”

Martha Grimes stood for a moment in the doorway, her face soft and unreadable as her eyes drifted over the scene. Joel seemed to be able to stand there beside her and see what she was observing. Her husband stood smiling, the model box in his hands, her best friends smiling in return. They looked like a regular family. It happened so seldom, it was worth remembering. Finally his mother said, “To the table, everybody. The food is getting cold.”

4
 

Kyle stole down the servants’ stairwell
at the back of the Rothmore mansion. She had been ordered to appear for her mother’s inspection, but first she felt the need to check with Maggie. Quietly she pushed open the door and waited for Maggie’s head to lift. “How do I look?”

Maggie offered her a small, wistful smile but did not speak. Kyle prompted, “Well?”

“I was just wishing you didn’t have to grow up so fast, is all.”

“Oh, Maggie.” Kyle moved quickly to hug the older woman. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Look at what you’ve done now—you’ve gotten flour on your pretty dress front. Brush it off. There, that’s better.” Maggie’s eyes were as quietly happy as her voice. “I can scarcely believe my little darling Kyle is already fifteen years old.”

“Sixteen in eight months. Say it that way. It sounds better.”

“Just look at you, standing there in your lovely blue silk dress, high-heel pumps, and with your grandmother’s pearls.”

“It scares me to wear the pearls. I’m so afraid they’ll break and spill all over the floor,” Kyle confessed quietly. She cast a rapid glance at the door to the front rooms, then added, “But Mother wants me to wear them tonight.”

“Then there’s no use complaining, now, is there?” Maggie’s voice turned brisk. “Besides, this is a formal do, and you might as well get used to dressing the part.”

“Emily Crawley is coming tonight,” Kyle sighed. “Mother invited her. She told Randolf the invitation came from me, but Emily knows how likely that is,” she added darkly.

“That’s quite enough, Kyle.”

“Anyway, Mother says I could learn a lot from Emily. I don’t see what.”

“Miss Emily is a . . . a very lovely young lady,” Maggie replied carefully.

“But she’s not very nice. At least not to anybody who doesn’t have as much money as she does. And she only speaks to me when she wants something.”

Maggie coughed discreetly, then reminded her, “The Crawleys are an important family, and Emily’s brother sits on your father’s board now that his father has retired.”

“I know, I know. Mother’s telling me that every time I turn around. But that’s
business
. What has business to do with friendships?” She looked appealingly at the older woman. “Mother keeps bringing Randolf’s name up and encouraging me to be friendly with him. But what on earth for?”

“There are some answers that you will simply have to obtain from your mother,” Maggie replied firmly.

But Kyle was too distracted to notice the warning. She lowered her voice and whispered, “It scares me.”

“Who, young Mr. Randolf?”

“No—well, yes . . . sort of, I guess.”

“Which is it, young lady?”

Kyle leaned back and settled her hands on the big kitchen’s wood-block central table, then remembered how she was dressed. Hastily she dusted the flour off her hands, checked the back of her dress, and said quietly, “I’m frightened by how Mother won’t tell me what she means. It’s like she’s planning something about . . . about me. And Randolf knows, and maybe Daddy, but nobody will tell me.”

“Oh, child,” Maggie sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. “I love you like I do my own, and that’s the honest truth. But all I can advise you about such things as this is to pray for strength, pray for protection, and pray for God’s will.”

“That’s the same thing Bertie told me,” Kyle said, searching Maggie’s face.

“My husband is a wise man and a good Christian, if I do say so myself.”

“I try to pray. Sometimes, anyway.”

“And have you been reading the Bible I gave you?”

“I tried. But I don’t think I understood very much of it. Mother says that the pastor will explain such things at church and not to worry about it.”

Maggie’s chin jutted out and she took a deep breath. “How about coming back to my little sitting room and reading there? Maybe I can help you with some parts you don’t understand.”

“Thank you, Maggie.” But the offer did not brighten Kyle’s mood. “It still doesn’t help me know what they’ve got planned.”

“Talking to God and reading His word to us will bring you peace,” Maggie replied stoutly. “Try it and see.”

Kyle avoided replying by leaning forward and kissing Maggie’s cheek. Then she turned and quietly left the kitchen.

Abigail Rothmore frowned as she stood before the antique mahogany sideboard at the library’s entrance. On the wall rose a full-length portrait of her in a gilded frame, wearing a ball gown by the nation’s most famous artist. At least he had been the most popular society artist when the portrait was done. Now that his star was waning, she had wanted to move the portrait to the back stairway, but naturally Lawrence would not hear of it. He was so provincial when it came to such matters.

Idly she rearranged a spray of pink roses arrayed in a silver tureen. But her thoughts were not on the flowers, nor the painting, nor even the coming party. Her thoughts were on Kyle.

The girl was growing up, at least in some respects. Physically she was becoming quite a fetching young lady, though at times Abigail had difficulty admitting it, even to herself. The presence of a daughter approaching womanhood only accentuated Abigail’s own age. Just the other day, one of her charity friends remarked on how well Abigail was managing to hide the years.

But why couldn’t Kyle grow up emotionally, Abigail fumed. She was such a child when it came to things that mattered. She made friends with the servants, of all things! Kyle smiled and charmed everyone who did not matter, and avoided even speaking to those who did. She cared nothing about clothes. She hated attending charity functions. She yawned through her classes in etiquette. She—

Stifling back a cry, Abigail dropped the rose. She had been so caught up in her concerns about Kyle that she did not realize how hard she had been gripping the thorny stem. Abigail turned and inspected her reflection in the tall side mirror. Her own smooth, blond, patrician beauty had enough characteristics mirrored in Kyle that no one had ever questioned their relationship. And Lawrence and Abigail had traveled enough during those early years of marriage that the appearance of the little baby fifteen years ago had not caused questions or comment.

Abigail sighed and impatiently turned away from the mirror. Emily Crawley, now, she would have been the perfect daughter.
She looks, acts, and thinks like I do
was Abigail’s bittersweet conclusion. Which was hardly surprising, given the fact that Emily’s and Abigail’s grandfathers had been brothers. Which made them second cousins—such a cold way to describe a bond that went far beyond mere ancestral ties. If only she could mold Kyle into the proper kind of daughter.

It was a good thing that Abigail had inherited her grandfather’s ambition. Lawrence had not made such a bad job of his insurance company, but he did not have that nearly ruthless instinct required to transform his middling-size business into a national power. No, her husband unfortunately shared his daughter’s softness, which was remarkable, given their utterly unconnected backgrounds.

Abigail was all too familiar with the threat of softness. Her own father had been a weak, ineffectual man. Kind to his family, but weak. And it had cost their family everything. Her father had taken over a thriving business established by her grandfather and driven it into the dust.

Abigail moved closer to the sideboard and picked up the little silver bell. There was one in every room of the house, and all the servants knew the immediate summons of its ring. The bells were available for all the family, but Abigail was the only one who ever rang them. Lawrence preferred to call out his requests, and Kyle . . . well, Kyle would just do the task herself. As though the silly girl was concerned not to trouble the servants with extra work.

The doors to the main hall opened, and the maid curtsied. “You rang, ma’am?”

“Has my daughter finished dressing?”

The woman hesitated an instant before replying. “I haven’t seen her, ma’am.”

Which was probably a safe way for the maid to avoid saying that Kyle was back in the kitchen, against Abigail’s express orders, talking with that chef again. It was only because Lawrence had put his foot down that the woman and her know-it-all husband were still in the household. “Never mind that now,” she said crossly, speaking her thoughts out loud. “Go tell my husband I need to speak with him. Privately. And at once, before the guests arrive.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The maid quietly shut the door behind her.

Randolf Crawley. Yes. Here was a man who shared her ambition and her drive. Pity he was twenty years younger than she. The two of them would have made a formidable team. But that was impossible. No, what needed to be done was to make the proper arrangements, so that at least the next generation would rise to the ranks of
true
power. It was not that Abigail was after more money. She already had more than she would ever be able to spend. It was the power to shape and control people’s lives, to bend them to her will, to see them bow and scrape and acknowledge her as the leader she had been born to be.

It was her destiny to rule.

Kyle entered the grand formal hallway at the front of the house, then stopped. Voices resounded in the distance. Loud voices. Hesitantly she walked forward, not because she wanted to, but because of her mother’s orders to present herself before the guests arrived.

The closer she drew to the tall double doors leading to the library, the more it seemed as though the entire house was holding its breath. Even through the stout oak portals, Abigail’s voice sounded very angry. “I simply cannot fathom why on earth you would invite that—that
boy
into our home!”

“Kenneth Adams is twenty-five years old, hardly a boy. As a matter of fact, he’s only two years younger than Crawley.” Lawrence Rothmore’s voice sounded both tired and stubborn. “And he is more mature than some men twice his age.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Abigail. I am simply trying to end this silly discussion.”

“Silly, is it? You are choosing to bring a common office worker into my house, and you call it silly?”

“His father is a respected pastor. Ken graduated with honors from Princeton at the age of twenty, played quarterback on their varsity squad, and has been an exemplary employee of ours for almost five years now. I hardly call that common. To be honest, I am amazed that my choice of an assistant can leave you feeling so . . . so threatened.”

“Threatened? Me?” Abigail’s laugh sounded brittle. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Like it or not, he is my new personal assistant. You’re always telling me I need to slow—”

“What’s the matter with Randolf?”

“Young Crawley? You know quite well, Abigail, Crawley’s father has retired. Randolf has been appointed to take his seat on the board. I can hardly expect our newest board member to run my errands, now, can I?”

There was a moment’s hesitation before Abigail changed tack with, “In any case, you must admit this Kenneth person is a poor substitute for the real thing.”

Kyle knew her mother, should she open the door, would be furious to find her listening there. But she could not move. She felt glued to the spot. Though her name had not been mentioned even once, she had the feeling that this entire quarrel had something to do with her. Something bad.