Follow Me (34 page)

Sally Mole, formerly Sally Angel, and currently, as the lawyer for Atwell and Stevenson discovered, Sally Bliss.

So the slippery item who kept changing her name on a whim was the mother of Benny’s daughter. Well, Benny surprised everyone
who knew him by caring about the little girl. It mattered to him that he was her father. It mattered that the child didn’t
have any decent influences in her life, what with that dumb broad for a mother. He had to fix that.

He figured he could choose his role. But surely it was ridiculous for a man to presume that he could appear out of nowhere
and take his place as the father of a child he’d never met, demanding a share of custody along with a say over her upbringing,
her education, her future. Whether or not he really was the father — a point impossible to verify without the mother’s help
— Bennett Patterson had only ever proved himself a lout. That was his reputation, at least, and he’d never before evinced
any interest in the consequences of his actions.

Yet a reputation wasn’t the same thing as a purpose in life, and after the family farm was sold out from under him, Benny
needed something to think about. A daughter was enough of a something. He was looking forward to being her father. And he
was used to getting whatever he wanted.

He wanted to be a father to the girl, was all — or so his lawyer would go on to explain to Sally, having found her arranging
martini glasses in rows on a shelf she’d just dusted. It was Monday morning, normally the quietest period of the week, and
the employees were expected to take advantage of the time and put things back in order after the weekend rush. Sally, as assistant
manager, could have ordered a salesgirl to dust the shelf, but she preferred this chore to others and was experienced in handling
the glassware — though not experienced enough to keep her hand from sweeping three glasses to the floor as she turned in surprise
at the sound of the lawyer’s voice.

Miss Sally Angel?

While she couldn’t have understood it at the time, the lawyer’s tactic of approaching her from behind and using the name he
knew she’d given up would herald a strategy of sneaky maneuverings. Catching her off guard, he would manage to manipulate
from her concessions that only later would she recognize were unreasonable. From the start, with the three glasses lying broken
on the floor, the triangular bowls snapped from their delicate stems, she would be too confused to defend herself against
him.

And she was too busy gathering the pieces of glass to explain that she was Sally Bliss, not Sally Angel. All she could think
to say as she pulled the wastebasket close was “Can I help you?”
Can,
she heard herself saying — not
may.
She closed her lips over her teeth.

She sure could help him, thanks very much. He introduced himself as Griffin Marcus, Esquire. Sally noticed that he was wearing
a Dobbs Gamebird, the expensive hat she’d seen advertised in the paper. And here was his assistant, a young man, or a man
whose real age was disguised by an abundant mustache, a head of black hair, and a wiry, short build — this was Mr. Melvin
Trotter, who took off his tweed cap as he stepped forward, nodded, and then stepped back again into the shadow cast by his
superior.

Mr. Marcus intended to get straight to the point. Time was too precious ever willfully to waste, he said. Indeed, he’d based
his recent presentation on this point when he went to Albany to argue — successfully, he might add, perhaps Miss Angel had
read about him in the news — in support of a proposal to raise the speed limit on state highways.

No, she hadn’t read about him, but he didn’t give her the opportunity to say so, for he was proceeding without further delay
to the point of his visit. She heard the hum of his voice without hearing the words. And yet somehow she comprehended what
he was saying. He’d come on behalf of Mr. Bennett Patterson of Litchfield, Prospect County, to inquire about his daughter
and to communicate Mr. Patterson’s concern to Miss Angel —

“Bliss.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Sally Bliss.”

Yes, of course, Sally Bliss, formerly Sally Mole, and before that, Sally Angel. The lawyer apologized for his mistake. But
surely she would be pleased to hear that Mr. Patterson was interested in the welfare of the child,
their
child, after all he was the father, of course he was the father… wasn’t he? Please forgive Mr. Marcus for raising the possibility
that such a sacred bond could be cast in doubt, though for the record, and with immense humility, it was necessary to confirm
that Mr. Patterson of Litchfield, Prospect County, was indeed the father of Penelope.

Benny Patterson. Sally had escaped from him twice before, and she should have been thrown into a panic trying to figure out
how she’d escape from him again. But she couldn’t summon the strength to panic; she suddenly felt too worn out by the impossible
predicament to feel anything with great intensity. After the initial shock, she’d begun to sense the prickling of an enveloping
numbness. And deep within the numbness a wearying resentment was beginning to spread. She’d been running all her life, running,
running, running from every mistake she’d ever made, and she’d run right into the trap that Benny Patterson had set for her.

So that pig had found out about Penelope. The game was up, and there was nowhere to hide. She didn’t want to hide. She wanted
to spit out the rancid taste in her mouth. She wanted to wake up from the bad dream. No, she didn’t want to wake up — she
wanted to trade the bad dream for a good one in which she could rage at Benny, and he couldn’t touch her, and no permanent
damage could be done.

It helped that he wasn’t there in person to react to Sally’s anger. She was free to despise him. He could go to hell for all
Sally cared. If he came near her, oh boy, if he dared to show his ugly face around here, he’d be in for it. You tell him,
Mr. Griffin Marcus, that Sally Bliss had friends — friends here and in Tuskee and in Fishkill Notch, so that Benny had better
watch out and stay clear, if he knew what was good for him.

“Please, madam,” the lawyer said over the sudden jingling of the phone at the service desk.

His syrupy tone incensed Sally. She’d let him know what she thought of him, in just a minute, after she answered the phone.

It was the delivery supervisor informing her that a new box spring was being sent up for a floor display. Fine, she was ready
to receive it. She was ready for anything, including Benny Patterson, to whom she had nothing to say but good-bye and good
riddance.

Good riddance to child support? Good riddance to a father willing to contribute on a monthly basis to ensure that his daughter
lacked for nothing?

What was this all really about? Sally couldn’t fathom how the man who had attacked her could reappear in her life this way,
through the front of a slick lawyer who was promising her money, if only she’d agree to accept it. She could use a little
extra money, but if it came from Benny Patterson, well, you couldn’t pay her to see him ever again.

The lawyer explained that she wouldn’t have to see Mr. Patterson if she chose not to. Checks would be drawn up and sent to
her directly from the firm of Atwell and Stevenson. If she’d please write down her address on page two of the form and sign
on the dotted line…

Oh, this man took her for a fool. She wasn’t signing nothing. Anything. She would appreciate receiving a copy for her own
lawyer to look over.
Her own lawyer, sure,
like she had a lawyer. But what fast thinking to pretend. She was pleased with her cleverness. How easy it proved to act
as though she was the kind of woman used to doing business with lawyers, while really she was just an assistant manager who
was supposed to be waiting at the service elevator for the men delivering the box spring for display, so
if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Marcus…

He wasn’t daunted by her hesitation. He said he had come prepared with an extra copy, she could have it… here — the document
was produced from Mr. Trotter’s briefcase, and if her lawyer would be so kind as to mail it back to the highlighted address
with her signature at the X, Mr. Marcus would be grateful.

Sally was surprised at how readily he conceded to the delay. If he’d been trying to trick her, he should have gone on trying.
Instead, he expressed his pleasure at making the acquaintance of Miss Sally Angel —

“Bliss.”

“Bliss, yes…” He looked forward to hearing from her lawyer. But now she’d have to find a lawyer, damn it, damn him, damn Benny
Patterson for bringing trouble back into her life every time she thought she’d found peace.

As she watched them wind their way between shelves of glassware, most of it too pricey for her to afford, she thought,
good riddance
to the men, though it was a halfhearted dismissal, for in truth she longed to accept what they’d come to offer, if only on
her daughter’s behalf. Money was money, even when the source was Benny Patterson, who’d gone to great lengths to seek her
out. If he was simply hoping to soothe his tortured soul by making amends to Sally in the form of a check in the mail, then
why shouldn’t she put up with him, as long as she didn’t have to see him, and as long as he didn’t come anywhere near Penelope?

She rushed to catch up with the men. All right, she said, she’d sign the form, she didn’t need to consult with her own lawyer
first. Why, she was prepared to admit that she couldn’t really afford a lawyer of her own and would welcome whatever counsel
these two friendly gentlemen were ready to offer her.

Fine, here was the pen, thank you, Miss Sally Angel, Bliss rather, and good day — just like that. They sealed themselves inside
the elevator and were heading back down to the ground floor, for Mr. Marcus had another appointment to keep. He didn’t have
time to provide further advice for a lady who wasn’t his client. Anyway, he’d acquired from her what he’d come for: the mother’s
admission that Bennett Patterson of Litchfield, Prospect County, was indeed the child’s father.

What a colossal mess Benny Patterson would succeed in making, wanting merely, as he claimed, to do what was right, doling
out money as a way of demonstrating his interest in the girl and then sideswiping Sally, as soon as she’d cashed the first
check, with his demand for shared custody, the specific details of his plan communicated through Mr. Griffin Marcus, along
with the warning that he’d take his claim to court — and Sally would want to avoid that at all costs, for she was at risk,
according to Mr. Marcus. Having failed to notify the father of the girl’s birth, Sally Bliss could be held liable, and a court
might well see fit to award the father with full custody as recompense for the lost time, since he had missed the first eight
years of his precious daughter’s life.

Now that wasn’t the outcome Sally sought, was it?

But didn’t Sally have any rights? This was America, and a child couldn’t be taken away from the only mother she’d ever known.
It was an absurd notion, Sally wanted to believe. But she was wise enough to guess that absurdity was not necessarily illegal.
And when she received the proposal detailing where and when the father would visit with his daughter, she decided that she
would have to hire a lawyer after all, something she should have done before putting her name on any legal document or cashing
Benny’s check.

In a desperate attempt to find the right lawyer without the benefit of a recommendation, she called the last listing in the
Yellow Pages — Zandler, Zeleny and Stilman — and asked to speak to Mr. Stilman. She was informed by the secretary that Mr.
Stilman had retired eighteen years ago and was living in Florida. Sally apologized for the mistake and wished the woman a
good day. She tried another firm, Youngblood and Springer, but no one answered the phone. She looked farther up the list and
decided to call the office of Kennedy and Kennedy simply because of the unlikely chance that they were related to the president.
A man answered, announcing the name of the firm in such a whispery voice that she almost lost her nerve and hung up. But when
he murmured an inquiring hello into the silence, she blurted out that she needed legal advice regarding, as she said vaguely,
a financial transaction. Without pressing her for more information, the man offered an appointment at nine a.m. the following
Thursday.

It was hardly a notable exchange. She had simply dialed a number and set up an appointment. But as she stared at the phone
cradled on her kitchen counter, she felt an urge to undo what she’d just done, pack up her belongings, and leave town with
Penelope. Yet flight was no longer an option. By accepting Benny’s money, she’d agreed to play by his rules, and now she was
in too deep ever to get out.

It was June 23, 1961, a heat wave had been predicted for the rest of the week, the flat white sky was sealing in the humidity,
and oh boy, could Sally Bliss use a drink!

Did someone suggest a drink?

Someone was always suggesting a drink. Typhoon Sam’s on Ivy Street was the place of choice, and Sally could count on seeing
at least a few familiar faces there, Elena and the girls from Sibley’s or acquaintances she’d met in the neighborhood. She
didn’t go there often, no more than once a week, and only when her daughter was over at a friend’s house. Even then, she was
usually careful to limit herself to a couple of gin daiquiris, for she didn’t want to end up like Gladdy Toffit, who had lost
the ability to judge when she’d had enough. Sally preferred to save her money for better uses than to watch it disappear into
the cash register at Sam’s. But infrequently, she’d fall into a dark mood, and she’d become convinced that the only way to
shake it was to follow the second drink with a third, and then a fourth.

Cheers.

And everything would start to look a bit rosier.

Sun don’t care,

blue sky won’t mind…

That’s when she’d remember how good it felt to let go and sing. Singing made it easier to accept her situation. It could have
been worse here in Rondo, after all. She could have been trapped in a job she hated, or she could have been too poor to afford
stylish clothes for herself and her daughter, much less a console TV. She’d started sending money to her son again. Maybe
Benny Patterson was a torment to her, but she was tired of running away. Having come as far as the river would take her, she
planned to stay for a while.