Her Father's House (12 page)

“Yes. What else?”

“Does it matter?” Ed asked gently.

There was really no point in hiding one's fears any longer, especially from a friend, from one's closest friend. So Donald spoke out.

“I am afraid Buzley will leave her if she doesn't behave herself. In this short time, I've come to rely on his steadiness, and isn't that strange? He's given Bettina a home, he's fond of the child, and the arrangement is a lot better than having the child's mother go adrift. That's why I'm worried and that's why I need to hear anything you can tell me.”

“Okay. Arthur Storm is a good-looking guy, about forty, they say, or maybe not even that. He has a wife and four young sons, thirteen or fourteen and younger. When he met Lillian, he went wild over her.”

“I understand.”

Neither spoke until Donald asked whether Storm's wife knew about it.

“Yes. She's left him.”

“Was it Storm's party that she went to last Saturday?”

“No, Storm's gone to France temporarily to see to the house that he owns there.”

“I see.” This was a perfunctory remark, since he was not seeing anything at all other than an ugly muddle.

“If only I could get total custody . . .”

“Very, very difficult,” Ed replied, shaking his head. “That you know.”

Yes, that he knew.

   

On the following Saturday afternoon, Maria arrived at the apartment with Bettina all dressed up in something yellow that, when it was removed, revealed a prestigious Paris label. Lillian had taste; you certainly had to give her credit for that.

Donald had prepared for the visit by removing whatever was reachable and breakable. He had provided a fluffy cat that meowed when it was squeezed, a wooden game with wooden balls that rattled through a maze when it was shaken, a large, plush ball to be rolled around the floor, and vanilla ice cream for refreshment.

“And for you and me, Maria, a cup of coffee and cake from the French bakery. Wait till you taste it.”

The day was cloudy, so that the light that lay upon the little table at the window was a gentle one, muting the lovely colors in the room and on the carpet, where Bettina sat concentrating on the wooden balls.

“So nice, so quiet here,” Maria murmured. “I'd like to stay.”

“Not quiet at your place?”

“Oh yes, sometimes. A lot of times. But you never know. Mr. Buzley was so—oh, oh, so oh, oh angry, Mr. Wolfe! The accident, you know, with Cookie in the car, and why she went to the party. Sneaked out, you know. But he found out. Oh yes, he found out!”

It seemed then, as Maria continued, that Lillian, upon learning that Buzley was coming back two days earlier than planned, had been in a rush to get home before he did. Apparently, the couple who had driven her to the party were in no hurry to leave it, so that she had accepted a ride from this young man whom she had never met before.

Maria became emotional. “It was terrible, so sad. I wanted to cry. Mrs. Buzley cried. Her arm hurts, I think. Then he felt sorry. First he yelled, then he felt sorry, and yesterday he was very nice to her, bought her a present, some jewelry, I think. I saw the box, and she was nice to him then, too.”

He doesn't yet know about Arthur Storm, thought Donald.

“You know, Mr. Wolfe, she is a funny woman. Always nice to me, laughs all the time, is nice. At the party she says people played with baby, and she was very glad because Cookie is so beautiful.”

Because Cookie is so beautiful.

He was outraged. So beautiful, she says. Yes, and so close to death, literally by inches, in a car driven by an irresponsible stranger when she should have been home in bed. Suddenly Donald stood and picked up his child, along with a toy which he set on the table before her.

“Daddy!” Squealing in delight, she reached down to his plate. “Cake! Cake!”

Apologizing with a laugh to Maria, he gave it to her. “I know she's not supposed to have it. But a little chocolate whipped cream once in a while won't hurt.”

“You never will hurt her, Mr. Wolfe. Not you. But Mrs. Buzley, yes, she is a funny woman. Very nice—but still not
good
for child. You understand?” And sadly, Maria shook her head. “Very smart, but foolish too. Not
good
for child.”

Oversimplified, Donald thought. “Mixed up” would be more accurate. Damaged goods, either born or made that way. But what difference? She was what she was, no matter why. He looked down at the little hands, now smudged with chocolate. Those hands, their future, were everything.

Maria said soon, “She needs her nap. I'll put her on your bed in there, all right?”

“Will she go to sleep in a strange place?”

“Oh, Cookie is easy child. Easy nature. She sleeps a little, then we go back.”

In the living room, he sat where he could see the bed. Maria had picked up a magazine. With obvious difficulty, she read, her lips shaping each word. This woman, Donald thought as he observed her, this kindly stranger, was his only link with the child asleep on that bed. If ever he wanted the truth, she was the only one who would give it. This was his situation.

His impulse was to pick up the telephone and give Lillian a piece of his mind. But the reasonable part of that mind knew better. How often had he not done that before and received nothing more than a slammed receiver?

“Maria,” he blurted, “will you always stay with Cookie? Always?”

“Always, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Yes, because—” There was no dignity, no decency even in saying what he wanted to say about a woman who had once been his wife and always would be his child's mother; everything in him rebelled against washing this particular linen, so he said only, “There is no one like you, Maria. Cookie needs you. Do you understand?”

“I love Cookie, Mr. Wolfe. I carry her home from the hospital, two days old. And Cookie loves me, more than mother, that's true, you know?”

“I'll give you more money, Maria. Whatever Mr. Buzley gives you, I'll give you more.”

“No, no, I think you're not rich like Mr. Buzley. I don't want that, Mr. Wolfe.”

“You won't go soon, will you, Maria? Not without telling me?”

“No, no. Maybe sometime. Not soon. I tell you everything, Mr. Wolfe.”

Later, when Donald closed the door upon Maria and on Cookie, in her yellow coat with the white plush cat in her arms, he stood for a moment quite still.
Maybe sometime.
A kind of sadness crept through the quiet rooms, heavy and gray as a fog on a winter night.

   

Donald's friends at the office told him what he, as a litigator, already knew, that he would never get sole custody of his child. The divorce was past and agreed upon. And once the child was in a foreign country? It didn't bear thinking about.

I wouldn't even recognize the man the next morning
. . . Anyway, would that be grounds enough for removal of the child? One never knew.

His friends, chiefly Ed Wills, also told him some things he did not know: that Arthur Storm's wife had filed last week for divorce, that Arthur Storm was famed for his collection of modern art, chiefly kept at his house in France.

When I am rich, I shall collect great art.
Ah yes, it all fits. . . .

   

One evening Maria came back. Her familiar green hat was lopsided, and she was gasping, out of breath.

“Mr. Buzley gone! Took his clothes, everything, closets empty, all his things gone. He was so angry, I never saw, Mr. Wolfe. Terrible, terrible! Said to me, ‘Take care of baby.' He kiss baby, and go.”

“Where is the baby?” Donald cried.

“Home, sleeping. You think I leave her? Cook is there tonight. Mrs. is out. Some friends come for her, I don't know. It's terrible, Mr. Wolfe.”

Before Donald's eyes, there appeared an instant picture of that apartment, seen once so briefly, but not forgotten: the vista of great rooms, things now heaped and jumbled, the faces of curious, astonished onlookers, and again, Lillian's face as it must be now, her pale skin red with tears or rage.

He looked at the trembling woman, the innocent bystander, and gently removing her coat, made her sit down.

“Have you had any dinner, Maria? Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“I'm not hungry. Nothing, please.”

So Buzley had left! Now possibilities, or probabilities, must be considered, questions about the apartment, whether owned or leased; if leased, the term of the lease. If divorce was to follow this upheaval, where was Lillian—meaning of course the baby—going to go? And then there was that other man, the likely cause of this mess.

“Took furniture, too,” Maria said. “His desk. Big desk he loved. Big chairs and pictures, his family, children, that's all.”

Then it was to be permanent, this upheaval. An angry man may take his clothes, but he doesn't move his favorite furniture without knowing that he's not coming back.

Maria reflected for a few minutes as if to make sure of her conclusions and continued, “You know, Mr. Wolfe, I think she has different man, no boy—big man this time. Yes, yes, she has. She ask me to go with her to France, because Cookie love me. Beautiful house in France, beautiful picture. Me! I just come to New York. I say no. Sorry, Mrs. Buzley, no.”

It was an enormous effort over the leaping of Donald's heart to speak quietly. “Did she say when?”

“Soon. A couple of months. He have business here first, then they go.”

He had business indeed, did Arthur Storm: the divorce and the four young sons, whom he was trading in for Lillian Buzley, formerly Lillian Wolfe, formerly— And so forcibly did Donald strike his fist on the table beside his chair that Maria jumped.

“Mr. Wolfe, don't worry! I stay with Cookie until she go. Maybe they will not go. Maybe she just talk. Mrs. Buzley, she like to talk.”

   

Donald knew better than to believe “just talk.” To begin with, he knew Lillian, her drive, her impatience, and her successes. Second, he had his contacts, the chief of them being Ed Wills, who through June made a helpful effort to learn what was going on in the Arthur Storm situation. Maria, of course, was his other contact; through her, he kept track of the French connection.

As one tense week followed the other, it became clear that Lillian was not even trying to conceal her plans from Donald. Surely she was not relying on Maria to keep silent on those Sunday afternoons in the park! No, she was only too aware that Donald had no real power to stop her from taking her child anywhere she pleased.

He berated himself for having had no foresight. It was true that on the day he willingly signed those papers he had seen the baby only twice. His feelings, now hard to describe, had been a mixture of sadness, rage at Lillian, bewilderment, a certain odd sense of detachment, along with a sense of moral obligation—all of these, and nothing yet of real love.

Yes, that was true. But still, no excuse for having been a fool, he a lawyer with a distinguished reputation. For love had come, as he should have known it would, when at the age of four months, his child had smiled at him. And what besides his love could he give back to her other than the considerable sums of money he had invested in her name? Could he give her a home or any life apart from the kind of life that Lillian had to offer?

Never mind what had made or not made Lillian what she was. This baby has a right, he told himself again and again, a right to be molded and become somebody whole and good.

Sometimes, as he sat at work, he caught himself muttering as if Lillian were sitting opposite: You are not fit to mother a child! You destroy whatever you touch. No, that's not altogether true. You were kind to Cindy. Perhaps she was Dr. Jekyll to your Mr. Hyde? But I'm no psychologist. I can't fathom it. And in any case, it doesn't matter now.

One day he remembered what Maria had told him about Buzley's departure, that he had kissed Bettina before he left. And suddenly Donald felt sorry for Buzley, the generous, foolish old man. For all his shrewd New York–Hollywood sophistication, he had been deluded and tricked. Was there a moral in this? he asked himself. And with bitter irony replied: Yes. Be lucky.

For the past two years, or even longer, ever since Lillian had been making an appearance in some social column or other, he had been reading these announcements. So it was that he came across a mention, in connection with a report on an art exhibit, of Arthur Storm's decision to move permanently to France. “In order,” it read, “to take care of his business concerns there.” Six weeks had already gone by since Maria's revelations, six weeks during which Donald ought to have been taking some action. But what action? Asking his friends, asking Augustus Pratt, he received no helpful advice, for the simple reason that they had none to give.

Despair,
he told himself, is a fearful word. He went about his days—how many days were left?—with a picture of an airplane bearing Bettina-Cookie away over the Atlantic. To whom, to what? he cried to himself, and lost his appetite and did not sleep.

Through his mind there flitted odd recollections of crises from his past: the day he read the War Department telegram that had been sent to his mother in 1944, the morning when his dog was run over, and the day of the cyclone when, on the farm where he worked, the horses all went berserk.

Hurry, hurry, hurry! There is no time. It may already be too late
. On Sunday afternoon, he took his baby's hand, and they walked, her small, soft hand secure in his. Secure for now it was, but what of tomorrow?

More days passed. The strain was visible on his face. He knew it because of the way people looked at him. His dreams were hideous: One night he was in a courtroom with his argument perfectly prepared; yet when he rose to speak, the argument fled from him, so that he stood with nothing to say while the entire courtroom stared in horrified amazement. He woke up sweating. And more weeks passed.

   

Then on another day, and for no real reason, something occurred to him on his way to work: People, if they will it, can make a fresh start. They can turn their lives around. Hadn't he done so once when he came to this place, New York? There were so many, many places . . . And he was free! He owed no man. He had wronged no man. Yes, he was free. I can go anywhere, he thought, repeating the words and surprising himself.