Her Father's House (28 page)

“Gil will remember it. Mark my words.”

“What makes you so sure, Jim?”

“Because Gil has a very, very sharp mind. He's orderly, he's ambitious, and he
is
a nitpicker.”

Now Kate, recovering her courage, gave a caution. “Jim, darling, you're a super-worrier, you know you are. You worry when one of us has a cold. You're afraid it's pneumonia. You worry when the dog's paw is infected. The only thing you don't worry about is yourself. Am I right, Rick?” She was trying to soothe him, and soothe herself, too. “Isn't he a super-worrier, Rick?” she persisted.

“I can't say, Mom. That name may pop into Gil's head, or it may not. If it doesn't pop, then nothing will happen. How will we find out?”

“We'll find out,” Jim said.

“Tell me,” Kate begged, clasping his hand. “You think you're sparing me. Tell me what you really think.”

“I think we'll know if and when anything happens. And in the meantime, we'll live just as we've been doing all these years.”

   

So the seasons passed at their accustomed, normal pace. Laura came home for a brief summer stay. The countryside sizzled through a heat wave, and the town held its usual Fourth of July parade, after which the Fullers invited their friends to a grand barbecue; the Scofields, of course, and others like them, were there, all the busy people on the council, in the schools and the hospital, the energetic, good people whom Jim had collected through the years. “Movers and shakers,” Kate called them. The Fullers, the Fuller family, fell back into its old routine of lake swims and six-mile hikes into the coolness of the hills. Richard put down a first payment on a twenty-five-acre piece of land, thus “rounding out the property into a perfect square,” as he liked to say. Orders for early fall planting came in so fast that Kate hired a part-time secretary to keep up with the paperwork. And Jim worked so hard as overseer of Foothills Farm that he had little time to think about anything else.

Surprisingly rare was any mention of the event that Richard had reported. Only once, when Laura came for Thanksgiving with her lively talk of work and play in New York, as well as her store of comical reminiscences, was a real jolt felt.

“Ah, pumpkin pie,” she said with a mock sigh. “I used to think you'd kill yourself with it, Rick. The portions you stole! Two at the dinner table, and a third one you'd sneak afterward while we were cleaning up the kitchen or asleep.”

Three pairs of eyes flickered for an instant, met, and parted. Perhaps, Jim thought, we have all, without admitting it, been succumbing to some kind of superstitious feeling that if you don't think or talk much about a bad thing, it will go away. Or perhaps we are simply behaving like fairly intelligent people who refuse to waste precious today in fear of tomorrow.

Still, at random moments in disjointed fashion, a thought would stab him. Really, there had been no need for Kate to hear what Richard had heard in New York. Since there was nothing that she or anyone could do about this, why should she have to carry this dark thought with her? And then he would marvel at Richard, at his courage and his decency, hiding for so many years what must be his fears for his mother, for Laura, and for them all.

A rain-soaked winter passed, followed by another fragrant spring, and it would soon be a year since the shock. So Gilbert apparently had not associated the name of Donald Wolfe with James Fuller.

Then one day in midspring, Kate brought home a fashion magazine that she had read at the hairdresser's.

“I thought maybe you'd want to see this,” she told him, “or maybe you don't want to?”

“This” was a page full of fashionable people at a fashionable event held in some tropical place. And there was Lillian again, wearing some designer's dress with that vivid smile on her face, standing beside a new man.

“He is a new man, isn't he? The last one looked half her age, if I remember. This one looks twice her age.”

Kate spoke with scorn, while Jim was merely reading rapidly and calculating. The caption described Lillian's new man as her “devoted companion, who rarely visits the United States, but has been staying here for the past two months because she has urgent business to take care of.”

That painting, perhaps?
If I ever am rich, I will collect great art.

But then again, it might be something else that was “urgent business,” might it not? On the other hand, it's been two years since that man appeared at Laura's commencement, and nothing had come of it.

“Now I've spoiled your evening,” Kate lamented. “Your expression tells me what you're thinking. I shouldn't have shown you this.”

“I'm fine,” he said lightly, “just amused at the sight of her holding those tiny dogs on a leash. She never liked dogs. She couldn't stand them around, as a matter of fact.”

“These are the current fashion, though.”

“Ah, so that's it. Now I understand,” he replied, as though the whole thing were a joke.

When the magazine went into the wastebasket, the subject was dropped—or only dropped between Jim and Kate. For on the next day, it came to light again between Jim and Richard.

“Mom's worried. She told me about that stuff in the magazine, about—about
her
being in New York on business. What do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“But if Gil remembered the name, you surely would have heard from him, wouldn't you?” Richard hesitated. “I'm sure he wouldn't delay if he knew. Or maybe that other guy's law firm would have reported something to the police.”

“It doesn't work like that. It can take a couple of weeks, or even a couple of months, to get a case properly put together. The New York district attorney has to get in touch with the local D.A. here, and show evidence. It probably seems quick and simple to you, and I can understand why. But there are procedures to be gotten through before you can make an arrest. And Laura is not a little child who could be in danger, so there's no risk, no hurry, in this case.”

“Well, I'm no lawyer, that's sure, but still it seems to me that Gil can't have recalled the name. I've been thinking that he wouldn't believe it possible, even if he could recall it. He'd tell himself he was making a mistake.”

Jim gazed out over the placid landscape. The corn was poking through the earth in the vegetable garden, and the dogs were stretched out asleep in the shade.

“I'm not so sure of that,” he murmured, thinking that no lawyer worth his salt wouldn't believe it possible.

“No, Rick, it will come like a thunderclap on a sunny day if it comes.”

Chapter 27

O
n a happy morning in Laura's pretty room, where the April sun bathed the windowsill, where her smart patent-leather loafers were brand new, her assignments for the week were already finished, and she was ready for her Saturday workout at the gym, there came the startling, shrill sound of the doorbell. Now who on earth could be so impatient at a quarter to eight?

She opened the door. Before her stood two men, one with some sort of elaborate camera that he thrust toward her face.

“Bettina Wolfe?” one shouted.

“No! What do you think you're doing?” For the one with the camera had put his foot past the door.

“What do you want? Get away, or I'll call the police.”

“There's nothing to be afraid of, miss. You're in the news, that's all. It's about your mother.”

“My mother? For God's sake, what's happened? Where is she?”

“Right now? Somewhere in Europe. Nothing's happened to her. She'll be coming back now that she's heard. Listen, we only—”

The elevator door had barely opened when Gil came rushing down the hall. “What are you guys doing here?” he shouted. “You're bothering this woman. Get away, and hurry up!”

“No harm, mister. We're not bothering her. This is news, that's all. We're from the paper.”

“No, no! Get away! Let her alone.”

Gil shoved his way into the apartment, closed and locked the door, and put both hands on Laura's shoulders.

“You're scared to death, and I don't blame you. The fools! Fools!”

“But what's this all about? What are you doing here?”

“I have an appointment near your gym, so I thought we might walk over there together.”

“Tell me the truth,” she said, “because I don't believe you. Did you know those men were coming? And who's on the plane flying back from Europe? What's he talking about?”

“I'm not sure . . . I heard . . .”

“Will you please stop stammering?”

“I don't know. There's some mix-up.” Gil made a small, helpless gesture. “I think you should speak to your father.”

“Why? Is anything wrong with Dad?”

“No, no. It's just that he can answer your questions better than I can. Really, darling. It's something to do with him, his affairs. But he's not sick. Don't worry. Just call him.”

“Oh, this is crazy! Haven't people got anything better to do than send able-bodied men around to annoy ordinary citizens with nonsense? What can my father know about it? You don't answer me. . . . What's the matter?”

“I'm still thinking that you ought to talk to your father. He'll explain. I don't know about it.”

“All right, I will. This is ridiculous.”

The telephone rang and rang at every extension, Kate's office, Dad's office, upstairs, and the kitchen. Where could they all be? Yes, something had happened, maybe to Rick. He drove too fast. They were always lecturing him about it. Please let it not be Rick, or anybody. Please not—

“Hello?” said Jennie.

“Jennie? What are you doing over there? Is everybody all right? What's happened?”

“They're—they're all in town. They had business there. Some errands. So I came over to answer phone calls for them.”

The voice was strange, with a sudden, unnatural brightness, as when one speaks to a person who's very ill, or when one is dodging a subject.

“What are you hiding, Jennie?”

“I? Hiding? Why, nothing, dear. But I'm sorry I have to hang up. There's a pot boiling on the stove. I'll tell them you called.”

When Laura replaced the receiver, she looked at Gil. He was fidgeting with a pencil that had been lying on a table, pushing the lead in and out.

“This game of secrecy is not fair to me,” Laura said angrily. “First you, and now Jennie.”

“Jennie?”

“You've met her. The nursery school down the road. Oh, do put that pencil away and talk to me, will you?”

When he came close to draw her to him, she retreated. “You had better talk to me,” she said fiercely.

Gil did not answer. He was looking at his fingernails.

After a moment, he said slowly, “I really think you should go home. If you had people at your door, your dad may have had them, too.”

All through her blood and bones there surged an awful nameless fright.

“Yes. Yes, of course I have to go.”

“I'll go with you.”

   

When she laid her head back with her cheek on a pillow, she heard the throb of her heartbeat in her ears. The sky flew past the window. She was in a hurry to reach home, and at the same time afraid to reach it because of what must be waiting for her there. Perhaps there would only be some oddity, nothing to fear? Gil held her hand, and with his other hand, held a book that he had not read since he had taken it out of the carry-on. Neither had he spoken.

Late in the afternoon, they landed and rented a car. “You'll have to guide me over these roads,” he said.

“Gil, I'm terribly afraid of what I'll find.”

“It won't be the end of the world, whatever it is. Try to remember that.”

Houses, villages, highways, and scattered farms were unchanged. At a crossroads they came to a small sign with an arrow pointing the way to Foothills Farm. Someone had spilled a load of gravel; the car crunched over it and stopped in front of the house, which looked unchanged. So perhaps there was nothing wrong after all.

One of the old workmen, Bob, came to the door. He had tended the cows for Richard's grandfather and although he wasn't quite “all there,” still did small jobs around the place.

“Hey, how're you, Laura? Didn't know you were coming. Nobody told me. Nobody told me nothin'. All topsy-turvy here. Bad day. Bad days. Never thought I'd live to see anything like it. I said to myself, I—”

“Like what?”

But Laura's intended interruption was itself interrupted. “Took poor Mister Jim away this morning. Never thought I'd live to see such a thing, him dressed up in his good suit—”

“Took him where, Bob? Where?”

“Why, jail, Laura. Captain Ferris come from the police in town, and I know it hurt him plenty to haul off Mister Jim, but—”

Before she could make a sound, Gil led her to the sofa. “Sit down, sit down. Your dad'll be okay. It's just some kind of what you might call a formality. He'll be back here and he'll tell you about it himself. Please. Believe me. He's okay.”

“Here,” Bob said, “look here. It's all in the paper, county news, come this morning. Read what happened.”

Jim Fuller is Donald Wolfe, long sought as kidnapper.

Reached by telephone at her home in France, Lillian Storm, a tearful mother, described her agonized yearning for her baby, Bettina Wolfe, stolen from her more than twenty years ago by the baby's father, a prominent New York lawyer turned farmer.

The words blurred, the room revolved, and Laura read on.

Mr. Wolfe, known to this community as Jim Fuller, proprietor of Foothills Farm, has been active in local affairs in this community as a generous benefactor, an advisor to the Board of Education, St. Clare's Hospital administration, and . . .

She screamed. The paper fell to the floor. The room was filled with her eerie screams. Even as she heard them, she was able to understand that this was hysteria. It could push you over the edge and down, down, with your own appalling voice in your ears.

“Give her a drink,” Bob said. “Mister Jim keeps brandy in the cupboard over there. I seen where he keeps it, time I run a saw over my finger.”

Laura was clinging to the arm of the sofa. Oh God, oh God, she was going to be sick. She was sick. She wanted to die. It wasn't true. Dad wouldn't do that. It couldn't be true.

“Is it true, Gil? No, it's not true. You knew, Gil. You knew, and you didn't tell me.”

“Ah, Laura, don't blame me. What can I do for you? It wasn't my story to tell. I didn't know it all, anyway. Oh, don't cry. No, do cry. Cry it out, it's better—”

“She needs a drink. Make her take it. Here, let me—”

“No, no, Bob, it's too strong for her. She's not used to it. She won't keep it down. Ah, darling, you always wondered so much about your mother. Now you can have her. You'll be all right. You'll be fine again, you'll see.”

“All my life, the lies, the lies! Even my name isn't my own! Read the rest of it to me. Is it true? Yes, it has to be. They wouldn't print a long story like that if it wasn't.”

Lillian Storm, recently divorced from Arthur Storm, the financier, divides her time between New York and her home abroad. Well known in social circles, she is renowned for her charities, as well as for her art collection. Bettina, who is her only child, grew up on Foothills Farm and is now a medical student in New York. Her many friends in this area have long known her as Laura Fuller, a top student, swimmer, and basketball star—

“How could he have done this to me and my mother? I want to see her! My mother! Oh my God, how can a man do such a thing?”

“They're home,” Gil said, “and Rick just drove in. Somebody's with him.”

“Oh, poor Kate! He lied to her, too. Poor Mom!” Laura cried, and stretched out her arms as Rick and Kate came into the room.

“No, darling, not ‘poor Kate.' It's ‘poor Jim.' Oh, how brave. My heart's breaking for my Jim. So you heard so soon? And you flew here to be with him? God bless you.”

A few seconds passed before these words arranged themselves into some comprehensible shape: “came to be with him” . . . “how brave” . . . “poor Jim” . . . And Laura sprang up, almost throwing Kate off balance. A volcano erupted and scorched her chest.

“What are you saying? I came to be with him? A fraud. A liar. Destroyer of—of a whole world, my world and yours, and you tell me how brave he is? I am going insane. Yes, I'm losing my mind, I'm dreaming this, why don't I wake up? And if it's only a nightmare, why am I having it? Yes, I'm sick. I'm sick. Who am I? What's my name? Bettina Wolfe, it said. Yes, I'm losing my mind.”

There they stood, all of them looking at her, shocked and helpless with their foolish, staring faces, the old man scared, Kate's cheeks wet with tears, Gil numb, and Richard, standing with Dr. Scofield in the rear, like two statues.

Dr. Scofield moved his hand across his forehead. “You are not going to lose your mind,” he said steadily. “You are understandably in shock.”

“Yes, shock.” She turned to Kate. “Is it for him you feel sorry? What's wrong with you? He lied to you, turned your whole life into a lie, and you—”

“No,” Kate said very low, as if it was a tremendous effort to speak. “No, no, your father told me the truth.”

“Are you saying that you've known this about my mother and me?”

Kate's despairing eyes looked straight into Laura's. “Yes.”

“You! Whom can one ever believe? And you, Rick? Have you known, too?”

“Yes.”

“Gil?”

“Not really. Just something vague—unreliable. A couple of days ago I didn't know what to believe.”

“Dr. Scofield?”

“No.”

Scanning the silent room, Laura felt only hatred. A prisoner must feel such hatred for his captors; all the triumph and strength belonged to them. Could Richard and Kate ever be made to take back the wrong they had done her? Could they undo this humiliation, these blank years?

And suddenly before anybody could stop her, Laura ran into the hall where old Bob had sought refuge, and raced, stumbling, up the stairs into the room where the pretty woman smiled from her pretty frame. She seized it, ran back downstairs, and thrust it before Kate.

“This! Is this my mother? Or is this another lie? Tell me the truth, if you can.”

“It is as close as I could find to your father's description of her. He had no photo, and you needed one.”

Frantic in her rage, Laura raised the picture overhead and flung it into the fireplace.

“Then everything you people ever told me or did for me was a fake and false. How can I ever trust anybody in the world again, if you could do this to a child?” She sobbed. “How can a man, a father, do this to his child? And to the child's mother, too—how she must have suffered! Things come back to me, that man at my graduation, I never suspected he could be right. Why should I suspect? Why would anyone? But now . . . No wonder we never went anywhere, just stayed here, hiding—oh, now I see, I see it all. I know.”

“All this didn't just happen of itself,” Richard said quietly. “You need to listen to the other side, talk to your father, it's only right, and then—”

“Fine. I will. Take me to him now. Gil, you drive me. Let's go. Yes, I want to hear what he can possibly have to say.”

Richard put his hand out as if to stop her. “Not now, Laura. It's not allowed.”

Ah, yes. In jail. Her father. And she said aloud, not asking a question, but making a statement: “In jail.”

“He will be arraigned on Monday before a magistrate,” Richard explained. “It was too late today. Tomorrow's Sunday, so we can't do anything before Monday. But we do already have a lawyer. In fact, one offered himself, Harold McLaughlin. He knows Jim and wants to represent him.”

Dr. Scofield asked, “What will happen on Monday?”

“He'll plead guilty and be released on bail. Mom and I will provide it with the farm. Naturally, the trial will be held in New York.”

“Does it have to be?” Kate pleaded.

“Mom, it all happened in New York.”

Dr. Scofield sighed. “They're saying he was a big-shot lawyer there.”

“Jim never called himself big-shot anything,” Kate said. “He was always simple in his ways.” And she sat down with her hands over her face.

“Yes, simple,” Richard said, “and wise. Anytime I had a problem, or there were decisions—”

Laura's cry interrupted him. “You're forgetting the real victim. The mother.
My mother!
Gil, take me to her. If there's no plane, we can drive. I feel so sick. . . . I can't stand up. I'll lie down on the backseat. Start now. You'll do this for me. Please, Gil?”