Her Father's House (27 page)

Once in the room, he locked the door and lay down on the bed. After a moment he got up and went to the window, where a golden evening lay spread above the university's trees. A highway curved into the distance. If you followed it in no matter what direction, you would reach an ocean. When you crossed the ocean, there would be more land, mountains, plains, great inland seas, then more oceans, a vast world. Yet not vast enough.

Drawing the curtains, he cast the room into shadow and lay down again.
Donald Wolfe.
The voice roared into his ears. But Donald Wolfe died a long time ago, don't you know? I'm Jim Fuller. Kate will come back and tell me this was a chance in a—in a what?—in a million, she'll say, as people say about airplane crashes, or cancer of the brain, or giving birth to sextuplets, or winning the lottery, or any other crazy thing that people talk about, gabbing, just gabbing without knowing the first thing about tomorrow or next year or the next hour, for that matter—oh my God, we know nothing.

Softly the door was opened, and softly Kate entered. When she sat down on the edge of the bed, she laid her hand over his, not speaking. Her wedding ring grazed his, metal sliding on metal. She's blaming herself, he thought, for making me come here and assuring me that there was no reason to fear.

“I had to come,” he told her. “What would Laura have thought if I had not been here. It's not your fault.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Did I look odd? Shocked or anything?”

“No, except for a flush. But that could be from having been startled, or from the wine.”

“It's thirty-five years since we were in high school, since he saw me. I thought I had changed. Glasses, some graying hair, ten pounds heavier, or close to it. What's he going to do next, do you think?”

“I really believe he'll do nothing. He'll realize that he made a mistake.”

“But I recognized
him,
Kate! I made no mistake!”

“Well, even so. He won't know how to begin looking for you if he does want to.”

“What if he happens to read one of those notices that years and years later come on a milk carton or in the mail:
‘Have you seen them?'
”

“So he goes to the authorities with information that he's seen you in a hotel restaurant. That's all he knows. What good is that?”

“He'll probably be leaving here in the morning. We can't let him see me a second time. This place is filled with people come for the commencement.”

This was a state university town, only a few hundred miles from where he had grown up, so there might well be somebody else here who would recognize him. Thoughts came rushing now, pictures fleeting in front of his eyes: the lobby, the elevator stopping at every floor, the airport . . .

“The airport,” he said. “There'll be people from all over the country going home after the commencement.”

“It's so unlikely, almost impossible with all these crowds—rushing—”

“But you can't say it's impossible, can you?”

“I know.” And Kate fell silent.

More grim thoughts came to Jim: a familiar recollection of the tax evader who, after being sought for nine years, was finally run to ground in Indonesia; the serial killer tracked down after leaving a bloody trail a thousand miles long. He was neither of them, and yet—

“We have to rent a car,” he said, “and get home.”

“We're supposed to have breakfast with Richard and Laura, then fly back with them.”

“All right, you've all been harping on the fact that I never take a vacation. So now I want one. I want to see where my great-grandmother came from in Louisiana, in the Cajun country. Does that make sense?”

“It's eccentric, and absolutely not your style. Better blame it on me if you want to use that for an excuse.”

“I haven't been this terrified in years, Kate. I'm ashamed of myself.”

“That's the macho business. You have a right to be afraid.”

When the phone rang, Kate picked it up and spoke briskly. “Oh, he's a little better, Laura. It's a bad sick stomach, that's all, with a little fever to go with it. Goodness knows the lobster bisque probably didn't help it. We certainly won't be flying back with you and Richard tomorrow, though.”

Jim went into the bathroom, and shutting the door, closed out the sound of Kate's excuses. He looked at himself in the mirror. This last hour had added ten years of age to his face.

“Jim? Open the door. Are you all right?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. Did you tell her about Louisiana?”

“No, that's no good. It sounded foolish. I simply said we'd stay here for another day or two before flying home. I said we'd call a doctor in the morning if you weren't feeling any better. That we'd get him here early to leave time for them because I know if you were really sick they wouldn't leave without you, although I am sure you aren't really that sick. I said that right now you were asleep.” Kate stopped, hesitated, and then resumed. “Gil's mother suggested that we should all get together when Laura starts medical school in August. Then Laura said that you never travel, and that we should all make you do it because it would be good for you. And Richard really surprised me because he argued that we should leave you alone—oh, argued in a very nice way, of course—because you're happy the way you are. Haven't you noticed how he always takes your part? Men stick together, don't they?”

That last remark, whether exaggerated or true, was meant to warm the atmosphere for him. She was hiding her own fright, too.

There was no time to waste, and he spoke fast. “Listen to me. After they've left tomorrow morning, you go rent a car and drive it back here. I am not going to fool around with any airports. Meanwhile, I'll have packed our stuff. You phone up to this room and tell me where you've parked the car down the street. Then I'll walk downstairs with the suitcases. It's only five flights, and I'll take no chance on meeting that fellow in the elevator. And we'll drive toward home on a straight line. In two days we'll be there. And believe me, Kate, once I go down Main Street and out onto our road, I'm never going to leave it again. Call it neurotic, call it whatever you want, but I never will. Never.”

Chapter 25

T
hey stood above the waterfall, that unspoken destination of their evening walks. Below them rushed the living water, making a distant music, while behind them lay the quiet land, alive with spring. Without a turn of his head, Jim saw those acres as if their map were imprinted on his brain. He saw the twenty years of proud growth swaying in the wind, and the seedlings, row upon prim row. Even as he took pride and pleasure in all these, he was able also to recall the droughts, the fungi, and the winter's floods. Here was life. Here were trials and achievement, and over all, abiding peace.

Kate said suddenly, “Laura writes such marvelous letters.”

“I think you miss her more than I do, if that's possible.”

“I doubt that. Can you believe she's almost finished with her first year of medical school, Jim? She's changed. It's as if she had grown ten years in one, I thought when I visited last month. Well, you can tell by her letters, can't you? Sometimes they sound almost like poetry. Do you know what I mean?”

He knew what she meant.

“They thought I might faint or be sick. I know they thought I shouldn't be invited to watch, but I was fascinated. It was perfect, the way the instruments were used. It was like a mathematical problem, so calm and purposeful, and you know that the result is going to be exactly what it turns out to be. I thought it was a little bit like bringing a jet plane down from five miles in the sky, the way the wheels touch, bump a little, and stop in the right place. Maybe you could think it was like a symphony, eighty or ninety instruments under the conductor's baton, each coming down at exactly the correct second. In time. In place. Perfection. Last week it was a man's red heart that I was seeing, his red heart exposed. And this week when I saw him, he was sitting up reading the newspaper and having a good breakfast. When I looked at him, my own heart was speeding.”

“I hope she's having some fun, too,” Jim said.

“Oh, that she is! She has Gil, and he likes his good times, you remember. He took us to dinner at the top of some tower on Fifth Avenue. I couldn't believe the prices. But the view was marvelous. On Saturday and Sunday afternoon we went to the museum. I couldn't believe the art, the paintings, Jim, things from all over the world that I've only known in books. There was the Chinese section, absolutely beautiful, all those delicate branches and blossoms. Laura can't understand why you won't take a little time off and see New York again, Jim. She wants you to come. She must have mentioned it every day while I was there.”

“I can't believe you're saying these things to me,” he said, feeling the rise of anger.

“All right. I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt.”

For a while they were silent. Into their silence the waterfall resounded like a distant thunder. This talk of Kate's, these memories of a past life went swirling through Jim's head: He did not need or want these reminders to intrude upon the present peace.

“Can you guess what Laura did with your birthday check? Spent almost all of it on an illustrated history of medicine, beginning with the Egyptians. They did cataract surgery, I think.”

She was making up for her remarks about visiting New York. And she continued, “Isn't it typical of her, when she's usually so careful with money, to spend extravagantly for a book?”

“Yes, typical.” And he thought of his leather-bound
Jefferson,
bought on Fifth Avenue so long ago. How like himself she was! Jim's child, but luckily for her, with Lillian's face, those incredibly blue eyes, and that alluring, yet faintly wistful smile.

“Has Richard told you he's going to New York next week? Actually, there's a meeting in Boston of that wilderness preservation group, but he's going to stay over in New York one night to visit Laura.”

“Yes, he said he might.”

Kate's glance met his.
Wouldn't it be a marvel if those two were to become a couple and settle nearby,
it said. Laura could practice medicine right here in town, maybe there in the hospital's new wing, for which Jim Fuller was partially responsible. Oh, it was much to ask for, in these days when young people, exercising their rights, went roving across the country and families were split among half a dozen states.

“It'll be dark soon,” Kate said. “We'd better go down.”

At the bottom of the hill, Richard, crossing the yard, hailed Jim. “I've just been in the north field past the creek. I think we've beaten that fungus, Jim. I examined ten trees and didn't find a sign of anything.”

“Good work! Great. That's a worry off our minds. Come on in and let's have a drink on it.”

“Bring it outside,” Kate said. “Jim likes to hear the tree frogs.”

She knew. She always knew what he liked. Well, almost always she did.

So the tree frogs drilled and sang, and the evening air was sweet.

Chapter 26

L
aura's room, in the light of a single desk lamp, was filled with forest shadows, while the streetlight one floor below was a full white moon that really belonged above. Only the sounds of passing cars, very few now so late in the night, were proof that she was not home at Foothills Farm.

Part of me will always be there, she thought. But the larger part of me knows that here where I am is where I belong. And drawing toward her the diary, still bound in red leather, number six since the first one was begun thirteen years ago, she began to write.

I'm still wide awake and my mind is crowded. Probably it's because the day was so full: all morning at lectures taking notes like mad, with finals coming along in six weeks. After that Dr. Lambert invited me to visit a few patients with her. She reminds me of the doctors who, when I was still in college, sometimes let me watch a procedure and were surprised when I didn't get sick at the sight of raw flesh and blood. People have been so nice to me, so encouraging, even in high school, and I am very grateful when I think about it.

Dr. Lambert says medical school is different now from what it used to be in her early years. We go directly from books to the reality much sooner now. I think that's a very good thing. You might say it gets from your head to your heart right away.

I spent this afternoon in the emergency room for the first time, and there I saw somebody die. It is the first time I've seen death actually when it is happening, and it is surely not like the descriptions in a novel, even a very well-written novel. The man had been hurt in a car crash. Something in me felt disaster when I looked at him, although I don't know what made me feel it because he didn't look as bad as one might expect. I wonder whether he felt disaster the way I did. He was wide awake. . . .

And now I wonder: If a person is very ill because of something that cannot be cured, but doesn't know it, does a doctor tell him the truth? And if so, how does the doctor find the right words? Perhaps I should be an obstetrician. That's probably ninety-nine percent cheerful work.

On the other hand, perhaps I should not cringe from the sorrowful. My life has been so easy and protected that I almost think I owe a debt to a good fairy. I have never had a real problem, except sometimes when I was younger, a long time ago, and used to wonder too much about my mother; I suppose, though, that that was only natural.

Yes, definitely, I should aim for the harder things and pay my debt to that good fairy. Yes, I should.

I had another new experience after dinner. On the way back to my apartment, we happened to pass one of those famous auction houses, where you can get a nice little painting for as low as half a million or as high as thirty million. Or heaven only knows how many millions. So being curious, the three of us, Gil and Richard and I, went in. Some of the things were marvelous. I can imagine how it might feel to come home, open the front door, and be greeted by something as beautiful as one of those Provençal landscapes. Some of the most expensive ones, though, I wouldn't take as a gift. Granted, art is not my forte.

We watched for a while, and then when we left, another man, an acquaintance of Gil's, joined our walk home. He was a big talker, another lawyer with an endless story about somebody's divorce case and an art auction. I would hate to be married to anybody like him. He looked shrewd and tough.

Gil tells me I am sometimes too serious. Not heavy or dull, he says, to the extent that anybody would mind, but too thoughtful for my own good. Maybe, but I don't really think so. I'm never unhappy, just thoughtful. And if your life is going to be about treating the sick, you have to be a thoughtful person, don't you?

Our minds, his and mine, work differently. His is much quicker. I guess it has to be because law seems to be about not letting anyone outwit you. He calls it a kind of intellectual game, and he loves it. A great part of his charm, I think, are his own sharp wits and his humor.

I had a good time tonight, although I'm sure Gil wasn't pleased to meet Richard here in New York, and I'm fairly sure Richard would have preferred a quiet dinner without him, too. As for me, I wore my flowered silk and enjoyed being out in a fancy restaurant with two men. A new experience!

So Gil felt cheated out of a night with me. I've been so busy studying for exams that he hasn't had one in a week. But probably he wouldn't have wanted to make it all so public in front of Richard, anyway. I don't know why, but somehow I don't like to
emphasize
Gil in front of Richard. I have no reason to think he would mind—I'm sure he must know about us—and yet perhaps he would mind. Richard and I have a very unusual relationship, loving but yet not quite loving, if that makes any sense.

Enough for tonight. It's almost another day.

   

The three dogs, who were racing down the path ahead of the two hikers, were the first to see the strange car near the house.

“That car! Were you expecting anybody this evening, Jim?”

“Not a soul. Look, the kitchen door's open.”

“Who could have gotten in?”

“Don't worry. Prince wouldn't be wagging his tail unless he knew everything was all right. But who—”

“It's Rick! What's he doing here?”

He was waving, so there couldn't be anything too wrong. He even had what looked like a sandwich in his hand.

“What's up?” Jim cried. “You're supposed to be in Boston, aren't you?” And as always, an alarm bell rang in his head. “Laura? Is Laura—”

“She's just fine, couldn't be better. We, she and Gil and I, had a great dinner last night. She had two helpings of dessert, her own and half of mine. Come in. I opened a can of soup and in another minute, it'll boil over.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Questions shot across the kitchen table. “What happened in Boston? What changed your mind?”

“Oh, a mix-up, a last-minute thing. The head man, the speaker, couldn't come. And since he was the person I wanted to hear, it didn't seem worthwhile to make the trip, so I rented this car at the airport. This is pretty good soup to come out of a can.”

Vaguely irritated by such a careless attitude toward what had been a mission with a purpose, Jim contradicted Richard.

“I'm sorry, but you're not making any sense. The entire three-day conference on land preservation doesn't depend upon one man, no matter who he is.”

“Well, maybe I made a mistake in judgment. If I did, I'm sorry. Down, Prince. Go eat your own food that your doctor ordered for you. That's the good boy.”

Kate, speaking even more softly than usual, had a question. “There's something else. What really brought you home, Rick? Come out with it.”

“Well, there are a couple of things, but let me finish my soup and sandwich first.”

“It's got to be something about Laura, and you can't bring yourself to tell us,” Jim said.

“No. No, Jim, I swear it isn't. Laura is absolutely fine. Healthy and happy as ever.”

Yet the alarm bell in Jim's head was still ringing. A few minutes passed during which the only sounds in the kitchen were small familiar ones: dogs crunched their hard kibble; the teakettle whistled until Kate got up to turn it off; Rick's spoon struck the side of the soup bowl.

But the hand that held the soup spoon was shaking, dribbling the soup over the table. Finally, at the sight of this unmistakable agitation, Jim could wait no longer.

“Out with it,” he commanded. “Don't spare us. Don't tease us. What's wrong?”

Rick pushed his chair back and raised eyes so troubled that they seemed to be making a plea for understanding and mercy.

“Perhaps we should go where the chairs are more comfortable,” he said. “I have a long story. Then again, maybe I'll make it short.”

In the room called the “den” and sometimes the “library,” where Kate's books and his own had long been commingled, Jim glanced up to where, in the third row from the top, stood his leather-bound
Jefferson
. He would remember later how he had had a totally irrational premonition that this simple object would in some way have a connection with what Rick was about to say.

“After dinner the three of us went for a walk and stopped in at one of those art auctions, museum arts, tycoon stuff you know, worth millions. Of course, neither Laura nor I had ever seen anything like it, but Gil had, and he told us a great deal about it.

“Walking home, we met another man, a lawyer who works in the same building as Gil does, but not in the same firm. It was late, so we dropped Laura off at her place first. This man then told Gil and me that one of the paintings had just been withdrawn from the sale by court order, and he had simply stopped by to check whether the order had been carried out this afternoon. The piece is in litigation between a divorced couple, both of whom claim it.”

Rick stopped and sighed, as if speech was exhausting him. He shifted his chair, and there was a long pause.

“Go on,” Jim said.

“The woman, a client of this man's firm, has an interesting history. There was no real reason for him to mention it, so it turned out, except that he found it interesting. One of her ex-husbands had kidnapped their two-year-old daughter some twenty years ago or more, and there has been no trace of her, or of him, ever since. No trace, none at all, he said. It was long before his time, of course, but he also had heard plenty of talk about it at the office. The man's name began with a ‘D,' Douglas or Donald something, he wasn't sure. And the last name began with a ‘V' or maybe a ‘W,' he thought.”

Once more, Jim stopped to draw his breath, and again said, “Go on.”

Kate's hand, reaching over the arm of the chair, was laid upon Jim's. And Richard's eyes, now meeting Jim's, were suddenly as compassionate as was that hand.

“The odd thing is that the man is—was—well-known, a top-drawer lawyer, a big shot. You could write a book about something like that, couldn't you?” he said.

What is silence other than the absence of sound? It is an awful hush. It stuns. It is like death.

After a minute or two, Jim broke the silence. “What else?”

“That's all,” Richard answered.

“How long have you known about me before last night?”

“A long time, Jim.”

“And how long is that?”

“Since I was seventeen. Does it matter?”

“Yes. I want to know.”

So Richard, staring down at the floor, out the window, and at the cat asleep on the rag rug, in any direction except toward Jim or his mother, began.

“It was the day after Thanksgiving. There was an extra pumpkin pie, supposed to be saved for the freezer. And I had such an appetite for it . . . you remember. So I went down the back stairs on bare feet and sneaked into the kitchen. And you two were talking. Hushed, but still loud enough for me to hear through the kitchen door that was ajar. I could tell by your voices that you were very frightened about something, and I couldn't help listening, simply because you were so frightened, and it scared me, too. You were talking about something in the newspaper, about people looking for Jim because he had stolen Laura. Before I went downstairs, I remember, I had been thinking that our lives were going to end in some awful way.

“But they didn't, so I went to school and tried all day not to think any more about it. After a few days, I stopped being terrified. I only knew that I must never let you know I had overheard you, because then you would be afraid that I might tell somebody, even let it slip out by accident, and it would be terrible for you to live with that fear for the rest of your life. I knew I could trust myself not to speak. But how could you know that I would never speak? So I buried it. I had to pretend I had never heard it. I had to.”

Kate began to cry, and Jim said, “Come here. The chair is big enough for us both.”

Through their two thin sweaters, he felt her heartbeat. What had he done to her? For his disaster would now be hers, as he had always known it would be, as he had warned her once that it would be.

Steady. Steady. This is it. This time it really is.

He looked toward Richard. Poor boy. Seventeen, he had been, no longer a child, but not an adult, either. Poor boy.

When he could speak, he spoke to Richard. “What can you have thought about me?”

“That it couldn't have been your fault.” Richard's eyes were filled with tears. “That you must have had a good reason. I remembered how you had treated my dad, how kind you are to Mom, to all of us, and to everybody. But I was—I am—so afraid for you.”

Afraid for me? Ah no, for Laura, who has never known and should never need to know. Laura, his little girl. What of her? And the silence flowed back. It was as though everything had been said.

The springtime sun, now low in the sky, cast its last gleam where the bare floor met the rug. In the middle distance beyond the windowpane where Jim was sitting, the old, old pony, Laura's first mount, grazed in his fenced yard. The sweetness, the simple, unchanging innocence of it all . . .

“I'm thinking that maybe you and Mom should go away, leave the country before anything happens.”

“No. Running away is never an answer.”

“I'm not saying that something is bound to happen, but it could.”

“You haven't given me the whole story, have you? Tell me every word that was spoken, if you can recall. Every word is important. I need the whole story.”

“Gilbert said he had a feeling he had heard something someplace. Names and incidents leave impressions in his head that often bother him, he said, because while he knows they are there, he can't place them. The funny thing is that days, even months later they can come back to him while he's brushing his teeth, maybe, or listening to the news. Then suddenly everything is there again. The other fellow laughed and warned him not to call up at one
A
.
M
. if that should ever happen because he didn't need the information, anyway. He called Gil a typical nitpicker.”