Call My Name (8 page)

To arise with such agitation was foreign to her. Disgusted with herself for being so affected by her encounter with Drew Charles, she showered, breakfasted, then, dressed in a halter top and shorts, made her way to the garden to work off her distress in the cool clumps of moist earth to be overturned. The spring air held a lingering chill. Gradually, with the vehemence of her work, her goose-bumps disappeared as did the worst of her temper. In an instant of renewal she pushed all thought of the senator from her mind, forcing attention to the more urgent matters facing her on Monday. In this she was only partly successful. For, with the predictability of a pre-set alarm, the phone rang promptly at ten.

A wan smile broke at the corners of her mouth. Every Sunday morning it came, as sure as the fist-thick wad of
Hartford Courant
atop her doorstep. In anticipation she had plugged in the patio extension. Now, soil-dusted bare feet covered the smooth flagstone to answer the shrill ring that contrasted so sharply with the sweet song of the red-winged blackbird whose serenade it had interrupted.

“Hello?” She could have as easily begun with a simple “Yes, Mother,” for all the question there was as to the caller. When the deeply mature female voice filtered back across the miles to her, she smiled more broadly. Despite the many differences she had had with her mother over the years, her affection was undeniable.

“Daran, sweetheart! How are you?” Mary Abbott missed her only child. And, seasoned as she was at disguising her emotions, the subtle lilt in her voice—though it rarely lasted past the initial interchange between the two—was a giveaway.

“I’m fine, Mother. And you?”

“Not bad, for an old lady,” she quipped in usual form. For a woman of just fifty, she was as young and energetic as they came.

As always, and as was expected, Daran rebuked her. “Mother, you are certainly
not
an old lady.” Then, with the dutiful response having been offered, she went on. “How is Hugh?”

“Busy, as always. But, Daran—” her mother broke quickly into what must have been uppermost in her mind, idle greeting having now been forsaken “—it sounds as though
you
are the one who is really busy. Muriel sent us the clippings from the
Courant.” Thank you, Muriel Baker
, Daran mused in silent sarcasm. “You are getting quite some attention there. I hadn’t realized you were as involved in the case of children’s rights.”

Calmly and deliberately Daran answered her. “It’s my line of work, Mother. The Child Advocacy Project has begun to attract a following. We’ve just gotten two grants, one from the state, one from a private foundation. It’s only natural that the papers should pay us more heed.”

“But,
you
.
You
are their spokeswoman, Daran,” the older woman persisted. “The articles portray you well. I knew you couldn’t stay out of the fray for long!” It was, on the surface, an innocent statement. Yet the pain of its implication dug into her daughter sharply.

Denial quickly followed the sigh of exasperation on Daran’s lips. “Don’t be silly, Mother.” Her exaggeration of the appellation told of her impatience. Sinking with a tired slump into a nearby deck chair, she elaborated. “I’ve never been involved in anything like this before. It was never
my
name that reached the papers.”

“But you were by his side, supporting him.” The soft excitement in her mother’s voice hardened Daran even more.

Her grimace shaped her words. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“You know, dear—” the other voice lowered slightly “—Hugh is still hoping that you and Bill will get back together. It wasn’t all
that
bad, was it?”

That her own mother remained indifferent to the full extent of the suffering her daughter had endured was a great irritant. “It was a hell I hope never to repeat, Mother. I’ll be very happy if I never see Bill again.” Wasn’t that a major reason for shunning Washington? “Listen,” she began, struggling for evenness, “I love Hugh. He has been a wonderful husband to you and was a good father to me—”
perhaps a bit pushy and hard-nosed at times
Daran thought “—during the years of my childhood, but I simply can’t lead the kind of life that he has chosen for the two of you. You may enjoy the endless dinners and fundraisers and rallies, but I did not.”

“You certainly carried it off well,” her mother chided, “for someone who supposedly didn’t like it.”

Had it not been for the happenings of the past twenty-four hours, Daran’s patience might have held. As it was, she was tired and edgy. Bitterness was thick on her tongue when she lashed out against her mother’s faint accusation. “But, of course! I was trained for years to fit into the political arena. Wasn’t that the purpose of dancing school and poise class and all those dinners I was dragged to, not to mention a boarding school of the caliber of Miss Dunham’s?”

Stunned momentarily by the force behind her daughter’s thoughts, Mary Abbott lapsed into silence, but only momentarily. “Are you never going to marry again?” Wasn’t this another of those supposed ideals in life?

“Six months of marriage to Bill Longley was enough to keep me for the next twenty years, Mother.” The bad taste in her mouth had nothing to do with the bits of dirt which had settled on her lip as Daran chewed unconsciously on a fingernail. As a child she had bitten her nails with a fury, resistant to all demands that the habit was both unclean and unladylike. Only in moments of stress, particularly ones involving the past, did the practice recur. Looking down now at the tiny chip on the tip of the longest of her well-shaped nails, Daran was furious. “I’m perfectly happy with my life, for a change.” She spoke purposefully, ignoring the half-truth that recent events had made of her words. “And I don’t see any need to get married,” Daran continued. “It can’t offer me anything I don’t already have.” Periodically her mother went off on this vein; as always, Daran overreacted. If she were to be truthful with herself, there
was
something her life lacked. Love. It was a quantity with which she dealt every day in her work, for the source of so much mental anguish, both in the children with whom she worked, or in adults with whom she did not, was love, its misuse, misinterpretation, even absence. It was this very factor that made her so astute a psychologist; she poured the love into her work which her personal life spared, devoting herself to patients and students with the strength of that undiluted quality. For the time being, at least, she was content with the arrangement. She was her own woman; that seemed to be all that mattered.

Again her mother was oblivious to the depth of her feelings on the subject, choosing to attribute her feistiness to an instinct for self-defense. Boldly she persisted, reminding Daran of precisely why she had, herself, chosen to leave Cleveland so many years ago. “Do you hear from him at all?”

“Bill?”

“Yes, dear. Have you heard from him?”

“No.” Unequivocably and mercifully,
no
.

Blithely her mother babbled on. “He hasn’t remarried either, you know. We did see him several weeks ago at a party at the Hilton.” Wondering if this information was supposed to hold any significance for Daran, she gazed off at the maples skirting the yard, their buds mere hints of lime. Had her mother been before her, she might have yawned for effect. But the other proceeded on a tempting note, as though holding a Hershey bar before a chocolate addict. “He looked very handsome. And he asked for you. I hadn’t received these clippings then, but I did tell him a little about your work.”

“Mother, you didn’t!” Dismay brought Daran up from her feigned lethargy. As a finger moved reflexively to her mouth, she thrust it angrily behind her back.

“It’s no harm, dear. He was interested.”

“I’ll bet.” It had been the supreme blow to Bill’s overinflated ego when Daran had left him, then, horror of horrors, filed for divorce. If for no other reason than that abysmal pride, he would take her back in a minute.

Then her mother paused as a new thought crossed her mind with fleeting urgency. “He’s still sending you money, isn’t he?” Whether it was maternal concern or the hope that some small link still existed between the two that prompted Mary Abbott’s question, Daran couldn’t say. Not that it mattered; the question had a very simple answer.

“I suppose he is. The lawyers handle that lovely matter.” For an instant, the months of bickering until, ironically, her stepfather, Hugh, had interceded to settle the matter of alimony, returned with all their unpleasantness. Bill had fought the divorce to the end—quietly, of course, and in the total confidence of the lawyer’s offices. It had only been Hugh’s final plea, framed in terms of Bill’s own political career, that had turned the tide. Everything had been hushed, as it was to this day.

“What do you mean, you suppose he is. It’s your bank account, isn’t it?” There had been times when, as exemplified by this protectiveness now, Daran had suspected that, had it not been for her mother’s supreme devotion to her husband and the limelight they shared, she would have sided wholeheartedly with her daughter in this ugly matter. But those times had been too few and far between to give them full credence.

“Mother,” she explained a final time, “I do not keep track of it. I am not interested. In the five years we’ve been apart, I have not touched one cent of that money. I told you I wouldn’t, and I meant it. Fortunately, thanks to the money that came to me from Father’s trust when I turned twenty-one, I have never needed anything. Now I can support myself.” Suddenly the conversation was more than Daran wanted to handle on this Sunday morning. “And speaking of which, I have a meeting in an hour or so.” She lied. “So I’d better go and get dressed. I’ll talk with you next week?” The pattern repeated itself all too often. When the give-and-take with her mother reached a dead end, Daran feigned an excuse to sever it. Inevitably she was swamped with guilt soon after.

Miraculously Mary Abbott took the hint. “Of course, dear,” she murmured with an unusually genuine sigh. “Take care of yourself, now, and, Daran—” She hesitated, suddenly unsure of herself.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Do call me if you feel like talking. It gets very … lonesome … out here sometimes.”

Taken totally off guard by the poignant plea, Daran could only muster a soft, “I will,” before she hung up the phone. Then, to her dismay, she burst into tears. It was the first truly spontaneous confession, indirect as it was, that her mother had ever made to her. Perhaps Daran was the selfish one. Perhaps her mother, despite all pretenses, did have some needs that were unfulfilled. Daran was her only child; they were so far from each other both physically and emotionally. Would things ever be different? Now that Daran was a mature woman in her own right, perhaps the two could find some common ground on which to unite. Sniffing, she stopped to ponder how she would handle her own children one day—then the true emptiness set in. Would there ever be any children upon whom Daran could shower that intuitive mother-love which was a part of her? Would there ever be a man for whom she could feel a very different, but equally as all-abiding love? It seemed an open-ended question, one which she could in no way come close to answering. Rather, with a vow to take the initiative and phone her mother herself, perhaps later in the week when her own emotions had steadied, she returned to the garden and its therapeutic demands.

*   *   *

“The same fellow has just called again, Dr. Patterson.” The soft voice of MaryAnne Steubings filtered through Daran’s preoccupation with a problem posed by one of the students in her morning seminar. Halting, then retracing several steps to the secretary’s desk, she looked down at the pink call slip which the young student had just written out.

A puzzled frown curved down lips whose gloss had faded through the morning’s lecture. “I haven’t been in all morning. Were there other calls from this—” she studied the handwritten name closely, its sound unfamiliar—“Mr. Morrow?”

“Oh, yes,” MaryAnne affirmed, her eyes widening dramatically. “I got in no more than an hour ago, and there had already been three calls. And that was at eleven! He’s called twice since then.”

Morrow. Morrow. The name had a familiar ring as she said it once more, yet she could not place it. With a sigh, she crammed the thin slip of paper between her books and her blazer, then paused as MaryAnne leaned closer, a conspiratorial glint in her eye.

“His name is Stanley Morrow … and he’s from Senator Charles’s Hartford office. It’s written in large print all over the other messages,” she offered in quiet explanation and subtle apology for having caught sight of them, “so I didn’t think I needed to repeat it here. He was quite vehement that you should know where to find him.” The good humor in her eyes remained there; she had sufficient respect for her employer to know when to be still.

Whatever it was that passed through Daran’s features in the interim remained a mystery to MaryAnne. For when the professor turned back to her, there was nothing but composure. “Were there any other messages for me?”

The younger woman shook her head. “Oh, Mrs. Melanson did ask me, before she left to go to lunch, to remind you about that final exam for the seniors. It has to be in for typing by the end of the week.”

Thought of the work which had been thwarted on Saturday glimmered in memory. With a sigh, Daran straightened. “Thanks, MaryAnne. I’ll get it to her.”

Moments later, the efficient Dr. Patterson was behind her desk, nibbling absently at the tuna on whole wheat she had picked up on the run in the cafeteria moments earlier. Twice she cleared her throat and reached for the telephone. Twice she hesitated, then returned to the sandwich. Finally, disgusted at her lack of courage, she thrust the half-eaten lunch to the side of the desk, stormed to the long metal bookshelf which held her hospital notebooks, grasped one angrily, and slammed it on the desk. What did they want now? The senator had already left his orders; what did the henchman want? If she was lucky, the only person other than MaryAnne, Mrs. Melanson, the regular department secretary, knew of the calls. But that was too optimistic a prospect, knowing as she did the kindly woman’s propensity for gossip. Surely the entire department knew of the calls, not to mention the secretaries from other departments; it was only a matter of time before the entire school knew that Daran Patterson was to be working with the state’s junior senator.