Cold Spring Harbor (15 page)

“Well, good,” Evan said. “That does sound good. Listen, though, dear: you haven’t told me anything about school yet. How’s school?”

Small, tidy puckers of exasperation appeared in her forehead.
“Dad, it’s summer vacation,” she said. “This is July and it’s practically August and there won’t even be any school again until—”

“I
know
that,” he interrupted, trying for a quick save. “Don’t you think I even know a thing like that? What do you take me for, some dumb, ignorant slob of a father or something? The kind of father you’d be embarrassed to introduce to your friends?”

And she was laughing now, with a sparkle in her eyes that was almost incredibly nice, but he knew better than to trust this momentary advantage. He would have to come through with something substantial and serious for her soon, or her laughter might fade into the blank, lost, bewildered look that he never knew how to interpret.

“I mean, of
course
I knew that, Kathy,” he said. “All I meant, you see, is how do you feel about starting third grade? Because I know there were certain things you didn’t like about second grade—a few other children you didn’t much care for, and things like that—so I’ve been wondering how the prospect of another year of school is shaping up for you, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Kathleen said, and she set her heaped paper plate carefully aside in the manner of someone getting down to business. “Well, I think it’ll be okay most of the time—I mean, most of the other kids are perfectly nice and everything—but there’s this one horrible boy.”

And Evan knew at once that he was back in charge of the interview. All he had to do now was nod or frown in appropriate places while she told about the horrible boy; then he’d be expected to offer some wise-sounding advice (he could already tell how easy that part of it would be), and the two of them would be ready for the next activity of the day.

The horrible boy’s name was Sonny Esposito, and he was very ugly and much too big for his age: he was so big and strong that all the other boys were afraid of him—oh, some
of them might act as if they weren’t, but they were—and he always laughed very loud at things that weren’t even funny. Ever since way back last fall he’d done one awful thing after another to Kathleen: he had pushed her into puddles in the schoolyard; he had grabbed her best knitted hat and stuffed it far out of reach inside the ventilating system; once he had taken the classroom window pole and chased her down the hall with it until she’d had to run into the girls’ room to hide from him.

“So anyway,” she concluded, “on the last day of school he followed me almost all the way home, just to be mean; then he stood there in the street sort of laughing, and he said ‘I haven’t even started on you yet, Shepard. Just wait’ll next year.’ ”

And for the space of at least a breath or two, Evan couldn’t bring his attention into focus on anything but the boy’s having called her “Shepard.” Years ago, soon after the divorce, the Donovans had tactfully let him know of Mary’s decision to resume the use of her maiden name, for college and for any other personal or legal requirements likely to arise; since then he had always assumed that his daughter’s name must be Donovan, too, and so this came as a revelation. Son of a bitch: Kathleen Shepard.

“Well, Kathy,” he began, “I don’t think that’s necessarily anything to worry about. Maybe all this boy’s been trying to do is tell you he likes you a whole lot. Ever think of that?”

But her quick, sour expression made clear that the very idea was preposterous. “Oh,
Dad,
” she said.

“No, I’m serious,” he told her. “I’m serious. Listen: when I was a boy I was always horrible to the girls I liked best. And what I think it amounted to was—”

“You were?”

“I sure was. And what I think it amounted to was this: I figured if I could make an impression on a girl—any kind of impression—then that would be better than no impression
at all. So. Know what you might try doing with this Sonny Esposito?”

“What?”

“You might try being sort of nice to him. Oh, not too nice—I’m not saying that—and not even
very
nice, for that matter; just sort of courteous, in a quiet way. Like on the first day of school you might say ‘Hello, Sonny,’ and see what happens. I wouldn’t be surprised if he starts being courteous to you, too, from then on. See how that could work out?”

Kathleen appeared to be thinking it over. “Well—maybe,” she said at last, though she didn’t sound at all persuaded, and there was a forgiving tolerance in her hesitant smile. She seemed to be saying she should have known how useless his advice would be in a matter like this, but that she didn’t really mind because he was a father well worth having in other ways.

It took him a moment to remember where else he had seen a smile like that: it was Mary’s own way of looking at him, in the best of their early times, whenever he’d solemnly spoken his mind on some complicated question without coming close to the heart of it—and that touch of forgiveness in her eyes had always been a lovely, shining thing.

Now, though, he was afraid he’d taken too soft a line on Sonny Esposito. His own most vivid memories of being horrible to girls were of a much later time in childhood, of the sixth and seventh and eighth grades and beyond; he couldn’t honestly say what his behavior had been like at Kathleen’s age, and shouldn’t have pretended he could. Besides, what if Sonny Esposito really was some menacing, overgrown Italian whelp that any other girl’s father would instantly detest?

“I think that’s worth a try anyway, dear,” he said, “don’t you? Being sort of nice to him? But if he still goes on giving
you trouble I want you to tell me about it right away. Okay? You promise?”

“Well, okay,” she said uncertainly.

“Because then I’ll call the principal and arrange for this boy to be given a very sharp reprimand. Or,” he said, warming to his own voice, “I might just pay a visit to that classroom of yours myself, and I’d find him there and take him out in the hall, and I’d say ‘Look, Esposito: You better leave my little girl alone or you’re gonna be in trouble, understand? Bad trouble.’ ”

“Oh,
Dad.
”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just silly, is all. Nobody’s father ever does things like that.”

“So what does anybody’s father ever do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, but I mean what was the point of telling me about this boy, Kathy, if you didn’t want a few suggestions?”

“I don’t know.” She was gazing off into the distance of the highway now, watching the cars, and he could see just enough of her face to tell it had taken on its lost, bewildered look.

“Talk about silly,” he said. “Seems to me you can be pretty silly yourself sometimes.” And then, clearly, it was time to change the subject. “Feel like getting back on the road again?” he asked her. “And maybe find some things to do along the way?”

“ ‘Kay.”

He didn’t quite know what he meant by “things to do along the way” except a roadside game of miniature golf that they’d both grown bored with in previous outings; still, as a last resort they could always visit a big, cut-rate toy store not far from her home.

When she said goodbye to him at last and turned away to the dim face of her grandparents’ house, conspicuously
using both arms to carry the few cheap things he’d bought for her, Evan watched for the slow arm wave behind the screen and answered it with a jauntier, more youthful wave of his own; then he walked back to the car.

There was always a great sadness on these homeward drives; sometimes too there were feelings of inadequacy (“So what does anybody’s father ever do?”) and of failure. Oh, Jesus, divorce could sure as hell leave a lot to be desired.

For a while he just drove north toward Cold Spring Harbor, putting on a little speed because he’d be late for dinner if he didn’t, but soon an unaccustomed thought occurred to him: the hell with dinner. The Drakes could eat without him for once; they might even be happier, in fact, if he didn’t show up.

He skillfully found his way to Route Twelve, made the turn, and began driving east in what anyone would have said was no particular hurry. But he wouldn’t have tried to kid anyone about where he was headed now, and he sure as God wasn’t trying to kid himself. When the long bright structure of Bill Bailey’s emerged from a clutter of other commercial ventures, under a darkening sky, he saw at once that Kathleen had been right: it was a far more impressive business than the simple place he’d remembered. Mary must have pretty nice working conditions here, if being “assistant night manager” kept her well enough away from the heat and bustle of service personnel out in front where the quick snacks and the money changed hands.

He was slowing down to make the turn with other hungry customers when it struck him that he’d better not do this: it wouldn’t be a good idea. She worked only at night and it wasn’t even night yet; somebody would tell him either to come back later or to wait—and if he decided to wait, in some spotless, airless alcove, he’d be as tense and jumpy as a nervous wreck by the time she came walking in and discovered
him there. No, the better plan would be to find some other place along the road for waiting—or, if he continued to feel the almost crippling doubts at work in him now, to turn around right here and go home. He could always come again some other night, after dark, when he had a better grip on his courage.

So he went all the way home, where Rachel had kept his dinner warm. And he allowed three or four more days and nights to pass—patience was important in a thing like this—before he felt brave enough to make another try.

“Are you going out, darling?” Rachel asked when she came upstairs that night and found him fresh from the shower, putting on a clean shirt; and her large-eyed, small-mouthed face showed she wasn’t even trying to hide her uneasiness.

“Well, just to get away from the house for a while,” he said. “Just to be by myself for a little while, is all. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

She assured him there was nothing wrong with it at all, which seemed to lend a certain sanction to his escapade, and twenty minutes later, as he hummed along toward the lights of Route Twelve, he vowed that this time there would be no turning back.

Each of the hurrying boys and girls who worked at the take-out section of Bill Bailey’s wore an overseas cap of starched white gauze, so flimsy a thing that the girls had to attach it to their hair with bobby pins, and they all looked much too busy to be approached with any questions other than those in the line of business. But then Evan saw a middle-aged woman hovering behind them in a way that suggested she was their supervisor, so he edged in, leaned a little over the counter, and called to her in a polite shout.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you know where I can find Miss Donovan? Mary Donovan?”

“No, I don’t know of anyone by that name. Sorry.”

“Or maybe,” he said, “maybe she’s called Mary Shepard here.”

“Oh, Mary
Shep
ard,” the woman said. “Well, certainly. Mary’s up on the second floor. Will you step around to the side door then? So I can let you in?”

It felt funny to be welcomed into the management side of a customer-service counter, like being allowed behind the tellers’ windows of a bank, and funny to be shown up a lighted plank staircase that smelled of fresh lumber and looked as raw and finger-smudged as it must have been the day the carpenters hammered it together. Then he was at the partly open door of a little office with unpainted beaverboard walls, and he could see Mary alone in there, standing at a file cabinet. She was facing away from him, but he recognized her at once by the bright, loose hair and the legs; all he had to do was give the door a shove to open it all the way.

“Well,
Ev
an,” she said. “Well, I—What’re you—Well, what a surprise.”

It was a surprise, all right. He was surprised at how steady and self-confident he felt when she sat down at a desk and offered him the chair beside it; he was surprised too at the ease and friendliness in the first few exchanges of their talk. As if to prove how much they still had in common, they had fallen at once into discussing Kathleen and agreeing on what a nice, smart little girl she was turning out to be.

“And she really does enjoy the time she spends with you, Evan,” Mary told him. “She talks about you quite a lot.”

“Well, good,” he said. “That’s really—that’s very good to hear.”

When he asked her out for a drink she examined her wristwatch—he’d forgotten what shapely forearms she had—and said “Well, I won’t be through here for another hour, but sure. I mean I really would like to have a drink then, if you don’t mind waiting.”

And he didn’t mind at all. Downstairs and outdoors and alone again, back in the trampled dust in front of the place, he pitied the drab supervisor and all her quick, harried, frowning children because none of them looked as though they had anything worth waiting for, tonight or ever.

Smoking more cigarettes than he wanted, he killed most of the hour in his parked car with the engine running, trying to get a halfway decent sound or even a resonant buzz out of the dashboard radio. It had never worked for him, this cramped, crappy little radio set; it probably hadn’t worked for most of this car’s previous owners either, though it must once have been the pride of whoever first drove the damned car away from a dealer’s showroom, only a couple of years ago.

By the end of the hour he was nervously alert, watching the door at this end of Bill Bailey’s, and when Mary finally did appear there he cut the engine and sprang from the car to greet her.

“My God,” she said. “Is this really your car? Is it new?”

“Oh, it’s a ’forty,” he said bashfully, “but it was practically a wreck when I picked it up; had to do an awful lot of work on it, front end and back. Got it running pretty good now, though.”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” she said, and there was a subtle suggestion of teasing in her eyes. “You’ve always been something of a genius with cars, haven’t you.”

She told him there was a fairly nice place called Oliver’s a mile or two up the road; the only problem was that she’d have to take her car there, too, so she could drive it home later and have it for work tomorrow. Could he sort of follow her, then, in this lovely great machine of his?