Her Father's House (14 page)

“Off again, Mr. Wolfe?” inquired the doorman, as Donald had expected he would.

“Yes, see you in a couple of weeks. Can you get me a taxi? I'm meeting a friend at his house and riding with him to the airport.”

After riding in the taxi as far as an apartment building near the garage where he kept his packed-up car, he got out and stood with his luggage as if he were waiting for someone. When the taxi had left and was out of sight, he walked to a barbershop where he had his thick, somewhat unruly hair reshaped into a crew cut. In his pocket were the eyeglasses that would soon replace his contacts. Then he walked to the garage, drove to a street not far from Central Park, and left the car.

His plan had been to work the conversation around to a suggestion that he take Cookie in the stroller to see the lake, thus giving Maria a rest. But unexpectedly, she made things easier by having a very obvious head cold.

“Everybody out for the afternoon?” he asked.

“Out? Gone. Mrs. Buzley and Mr. Storm gone visit his brother someplace. Back late tonight. Maybe they stay till tomorrow, too.”

“Well, why don't you go home and take a long nap, Maria? Take care of your cold. I'll be at the front door with Cookie by five o'clock. The doorman will call upstairs for you to come down.”

“Oh, I do need to lie down. You're a good man, Mr. Wolfe, you are.”

He thought as she walked away that this was the last time, barring any disaster, that anybody would address him as “Mr. Wolfe.”
This is the moment I leap off the bridge. I swim, or I sink.

When he had collapsed the stroller and put it into the car—for leaving it on the sidewalk would seem very, very strange to anybody who might be looking out of a window—he settled Laura in the car seat with a pink teddy bear and started the engine. The journey had officially begun.

“Where's Mia?” She was dangerously close to tears. “Where's Mia?”

“Mia's taking a nap. You and I are having a nice ride.”

“No! I want Mia!”

“Mia's taking a nap. Be a good girl,” Donald soothed. “You're such a good girl.”

“No.”

How on earth was he going to manage if this were to keep up for the next thousand miles? Against all the rules, he reached into the glove compartment, broke a chocolate bar in two, and handed it back over his shoulder. Immediate silence followed; now he could concentrate on getting out of the city.

Heading west toward the Hudson River, he took a last glance at what he was leaving. Behind him, when at a red light he turned to look, was the standard postcard scene of Central Park surrounded by towers. In one of the towers were the offices of Orton and Pratt, of Mr. Pratt, who was expecting him early on Monday morning to discuss the new case, of Mr. Pratt to whom he owed so much, of Mr. Pratt whom Mr. Wolfe was now rewarding for all the goodness he had bestowed by—doing what Mr. Wolfe had to do. Would Mr. Pratt perhaps understand?

The car rolled northward along the river. Since his destination was in the South, it made sense to head north and mislead the searchers. An eerie feeling that they were being followed sent a chill through Donald. But that was absurd; Maria must still be asleep, so he had two or even three hours leeway before she would give an alarm. In the windshield before him he saw her plain, puzzled face when he failed to appear. . . . He must steady himself.

Laura, having smeared her cheeks and hands with chocolate, was drowsing. Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult to get through this journey if a piece of chocolate was enough to keep her contented. Thinking so, his spirits, and with them his nimble wits, revived. He would cross the river at the Tappan Zee Bridge, fill the tank with gas, and ask for directions to Albany. They would naturally direct him to the Thruway, a route that he had traveled many times; he would pretend to take it and continue northward on back roads where there were no toll booth attendants who might remember a man traveling with a tiny girl.

Narrow country roads curved through the Catskill Mountains. On a flat stretch of ground he stopped the car and spread a picnic cloth, congratulating himself for having been brilliant enough to think of bringing such a thing. But he had not been brilliant enough to allow for exercise. Luckily, the car's motion had lulled the child to sleep, or she would have been miserable. Nor had he thought that she might have need of a bathroom. Indeed, she had needed one, as he soon found out when he pulled off her training pants. Having done that, he took a plush ball from the trunk and gave her twenty minutes of hearty exercise.

Then he spread out the supper of chicken sandwich, banana, and milk. It was a pleasure to him to watch her eat. At least she wasn't going to be squeamish about food, he thought. She was really adorable, munching so solemnly. And she was clever, too, the little devil, for she had noticed where the chocolate bars were kept, and now, pointing to the car, very noisily demanded another piece.

Back in the car, and aware again that he ought not to do it, he gave her a piece and drove on, seeking a place to sleep. As they passed a resort hotel, he was tempted by the thought of the comfort it would provide, but prudently chose instead a dreary-looking motel in an obscure spot.

It was, as he was later to recall, a night to be remembered. Laura—he
must
keep that name in his head—was terrified of the bed he made for her on the floor and kept calling for Mia. Nothing he said would quiet her. At midnight, the agitated proprietor knocked somewhat angrily at the door, but as soon as Donald explained that the little girl's mother had died a few weeks ago, that they were on their way to the grandparents and had been riding all day, the man's face changed on the instant to deep sympathy.

“I'll get my wife,” he said. “She'll help you.”

And indeed she did. A stout, warm woman, perhaps she reminded Laura of Maria when she picked her up and gave her milk in a baby's bottle.

Donald was puzzled. “But she drinks from a cup,” he said.

“Two-year-olds still like their bottle now and then when they're upset,” the woman explained. “Now, mister, you hold her and walk with her until she falls asleep. Poor lamb, she'll be all right.”

Perhaps, he thought as he lay awake until morning, I have made a terrible mistake. How am I going to keep going from here to wherever we do end up? Have I frightened her too badly, harmed her by doing this? Have I aroused suspicion tonight?

But he reasoned that he was not, after all, a national figure, and that thousands of children, every year, are taken away from the custodial parent. He thought, too, of Arthur Storm, of France, of Buzley, and all the long train of events going back to the day he had met this child's mother. . . .

In the morning he left the motel, had breakfast at a diner next door, and made sure that he was seen traveling toward Albany. After covering five miles or more, he made a wide circle toward the south. Now having learned something from yesterday's errors, he was prepared to travel by easy stages, to stop for necessities, for exercise and games, and even a ride in a supermarket cart. If any alarm had already been given, he reasoned, no one would be looking for a father out marketing, taking the time to admire a baby in arms and passing more time chatting with a man at the checkout counter. Back in the car his spirits rose so much that he began to sing, which amused Laura and raised his spirits even higher.

Between one small town and the next, past strip malls and once a playground where he stopped to let her enjoy the swings, the day passed without event.

Then, in the late afternoon, after driving through rural New Jersey past apple orchards and dairy farms, he went in to eat at a roadside diner close to an intersection. He had barely gotten past the door when he felt he had made a mistake, walking in here with a two-year-old baby in this week of all weeks. What if there was something on television? For surely people would be watching it while they ate.

Sure enough, it was blaring the news! Three-car crash, two dead in shoot-out, four-alarm fire, eighty-year-old woman mugged, wife says ex-husband stole two-year-old girl in New York.

The waitress, paying no attention to it, brought Donald's order and even lingered.

“Got a kid myself. Three-year-old boy. What's this one, two?”

Donald nodded. “Past two. Going on middle age. I swear she reads my mind,” he said, speaking with casual cheer.

“Pretty kid. What's your name, little lady?”

“She doesn't know you, so she won't talk. We're in such a rush anyway. My sister-in-law's waiting for us.”

Get out of here before she says her name is “Cookie.”

It seemed to Donald that the woman was scrutinizing him. My nerves, he thought. Just when I begin to feel a little easier this afternoon they have to spark like crossed wires.

The police must be harassing poor Maria with a thousand questions. Still, she was very smart, so she almost certainly must have surmised the truth. Mr. Pratt must have guessed it, too; why would I otherwise have failed to appear at the office today? And as for Lillian, this must be agony for her, except that she knows the baby is in loving hands. Yet it must be agony, and I'm sorry about that. I never wanted to hurt you, Lillian, yet I had to.

That evening, lying awake in another motel, he decided that he must make a record of each day on the road. Memory, especially when one is caught in conversation as he had just been caught, was not dependable, and he must be sure to remember everything in case of disaster, and not contradict himself. So he began.

Tuesday.
Unseasonably warm. Still heading south, we made a detour to a beach for a little rest and recreation that Laura badly needed. Half a dozen local families. Nice woman, a Mrs. Day, with older children who played with Laura as if she were a puppy. Recommended a bed-and-breakfast in Maryland.

He had told the same story, automatic by now, about the dead mother. The day had gone well, but the night in yet another motel had been a hard one, with Laura crying, not for her mother, but for “Mia.”

Wednesday
.
Crossed the river into Maryland. I am afraid and terribly tired.

By midmorning, they arrived at Mrs. Maguire's bed-and-breakfast. The house was clean and bright; the owner, having heard from Mrs. Day, was very friendly. Although Donald was sure he had not revealed his mood, she must have sensed it, for almost at once she took charge of Laura.

“I understand that you've recently lost your wife, Mr. Fuller. My friend told me over the phone that you're driving to a relative in Ohio. It must be hard to go all that way with a baby.”

“It's not exactly easy,” he admitted. “I have a lot to learn about two-year-olds.”

“Let me help you. She's such a darling. Let me give her a bath and a shampoo.”

Laura had not had a bath since Sunday, the reason being that he had not known how to go about it, how hot the water should be and how to avoid getting soap in her eyes. Very embarrassed, and also very grateful, he handed Laura over and went out to sit in the yard.

It was so safe here, sheltered behind these trees! The open road was filled with dangers. What if he were stopped for speeding, as could happen even when you had not been speeding? What of a fender-bender, your fault or not?

But safe as it was here, they dared not stay. So after a good breakfast the next morning, they took to the road again.

The old lady, gently teasing, called after the car, “Don't forget, Ohio is west.”

“West it is,” Donald replied, and took the road from which he would turn off at the first intersection.

Thursday
.
It happened. I don't need to write down his name because I'll never forget it: Ron Reynold, six-feet-eight, and nasty.

Donald had driven out of a gas station just as the other man in his light delivery truck was entering it. The two vehicles touched each other in passing and left on each one's fender a scratch. Who was at fault? That could be argued, and was, or would have been if Donald had not quickly taken the blame.

Ron Reynold, of Ron Reynold Heating & Cooling, strolled over, poked his face up to Donald's, and roared through the window, “Where the hell do you think you're going? Look what you've done to my truck.”

All Donald wanted was to get safely out of that place with no names, addresses, or display of papers. “I'm really sorry,” he said. “I'll be glad to pay for the scratch.”

“You're damn right you will. It'll cost you a hundred bucks.”

“No problem. Here it is.”

“And I want to see your license and your address.”

“Why do you need them?” Donald asked mildly.

“How do I know this here bill ain't counterfeit?”

“Hold it up to the light, and you'll see it isn't.”

“Quit stalling, will you? Get out the license.”

The man was a primitive thug or else a maniac, or both. You didn't hesitate with such people; you obeyed. And with trembling fingers, he complied.

At any rate, the matter was settled, and Donald drove away toward Virginia, still trembling. Imagine if there had been real damage done, and lawyers had written to the house in Philadelphia, a house with a nonexistent number and no record of anybody named James Fuller!

In the backseat, Laura was talking. “I want wollipop. I want wollipop, Daddy.”

On top of everything, he was ruining the child, giving her chocolate and lollipops on demand simply because it wasn't possible to drive and entertain her at the same time.

Was he going to spend the rest of his life in fear like this?

Friday.
This is the sixth day since we left New York. The Shenandoah Valley is said to be very beautiful, but I saw nothing because the windshield wipers could scarcely compete with the hard, driving rain. Nothing to do but stop at another dreary motel and try to entertain Laura with every toy in the box. I am going to give her a good life. I don't yet know where, but I know I will, if only our luck holds out.