For All Their Lives (33 page)

His hands in his pockets, Mac descended the steps to the second floor. He had to remember to get the box of books he'd brought into Sadie, which his mother had left him. They would fit into the guest house the way he fit in. It was all he had.

He saw it all at once, the frilly, beribboned room, the nanny sitting in a stout wooden rocker, the child in a wooden-slat playpen. She was just sitting, slapping at her pudgy knees with her pudgy hands. She had golden curls just like Alice's. In the room was every toy ever made, he thought. Rocking horses of various heights, little plastic trikes, and a real one with fat rubber wheels. Three toy boxes were filled to overflowing. Shelves with stuffed animals covered every wall. The closet door was open, revealing hundreds of outfits on little hangers.

He recollected Lily and her baby and the mean little apartment. Their belongings wouldn't fill a paper sack.

The nanny saw him at the same time the child became aware of his presence. Mac stumbled then, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Those same eyes questioned the nanny, who looked at him inquiringly. For a single startled moment he was back in Vietnam, on the trail, and seeing for the first time the bamboo cages hanging from trees with half-dead GI's inside—the VC's way of keeping prisoners. His eyes swiveled from the playpen to the crib, which had the same kind of slats. In the far corner there was a youth bed with rails, rather like a child's small hospital bed. He thought of Lily again and the futon she and Eric slept on. His throat constricted.

“Mr. Carlin, is something wrong?” the nanny said, rising to her feet.

He ignored her and dropped to his haunches to stare at the child. She wasn't his, he had to keep remembering that. “She's . . . a . . . Mongoloid,” he said in a cracked voice he barely recognized as his own.

“Yes, Jenny has Down's syndrome. You didn't know?” the nanny said, her eyes filled with horror.

“No, no, I . . . I didn't . . . know.”

The nanny sniffed as though to say she thought as much. Mac continued to stare at the child, trying to fathom what he was seeing. He was sterile, three doctors told him so. Yet . . . he'd had an aunt who was severely retarded, his father's sister, whom the family had kept institutionalized. He'd seen her once. It was a memory of pure horror. Later, his mother had explained who the woman was and why she did the things she did. He couldn't remember her name. She'd spit on him and slapped him. She'd slobbered all over herself. He remembered that and he remembered how she'd tried to hug his father, her brother, and the way his father had shoved her away, revulsion on his face. His mother had cried. He'd cried too, not understanding. People had carried her out the door, kicking and screaming. She'd never come back. He had to remember her name. Peggy, that was it, but his father had called her Margaret. Aunt Margaret.

Mac leaned over the playpen. His arms reached out, but the child backed away from him, sliding into the corner.

“You're strange. She doesn't know you,” the nanny said quietly. “She's very lovable, Mr. Carlin. She responds well to affection, and she certainly gets enough of that, between Mrs. Carlin and myself. Mrs. Carlin plays with her for hours at a time. She won't let anyone bathe her but herself. It's lovely to see them together. Your wife is a devoted mother.”

M
ARCH BLEW IN
and out, then the April rains came, and Mac, for all his intentions, did nothing more than eat, sleep, and ride the fields with Jeopardy, while Fred and Gus ran alongside. He read in the afternoons, spoke to Sadie and Benny on the phone, and when he was finished with what he called his busy hours, he walked to the house to see baby Jenny. She knew him now and held out her arms to be picked up. He played with her on the floor, building blocks made from sponge and colorful cardboard. He played horsey with the little girl on his back, and she held on to his neck for dear life. Her squeals were full of joy. Jenny made him smile.

On a rainy, gray day at the end of April, Alice walked into the nursery and smiled. She dropped to the floor, her face full of something Mac had never seen before. He almost toppled backward when he saw Jenny tug on her mother's hair and ears. “I love her so much, Mac. I've been to every top doctor in the country, and she'll always be what she is now. We take it one day at a time. But I will never,
never
put her in an institution. She's bright. Every day I work with her. She's still a baby, but she responds so well. I truly believe she's educable. I don't know if it's wishful thinking on my part or not. If she's not, then I will have to live with that. Do you have any feelings on the matter?” she asked carefully.

He realized he too loved the little girl, even though he was certain in his heart she wasn't his flesh and blood. He couldn't turn his back on a retarded child. A child was a child, and it didn't matter if she was whole or not. These days he needed all the love and affection he could get. It was so easy to return love to the chubby little girl with the round face.

“Do you, Mac?” Alice asked quietly.

“We need to talk, Alice. Let's go downstairs.”

“Very well,” Alice said, handing her daughter over to the nanny, “but I have to be back here in half an hour to give Jenny her bath. I like to do it at the same time every day. We have a routine,” she said proudly.

Downstairs in
her
chrome and glass room, Alice reverted to the old Alice, her hair smoothed down, her voice snide and cool. “Are you comfortable in the guest house?”

“Very comfortable. I'm not coming back here, if that's your next question.”

“But Jenny . . . I thought . . . you seem to . . . what is it with you, Mac? Did something happen to your brain when you were in Vietnam? You're not the same person. You aren't working. You don't appear to be interested in anything but your dogs and that damn horse. You don't call your father, you don't talk to me.” She lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward his face. “The only thing that makes any sense at all is that there must be someone else. That's it, isn't it?” she said spitefully. “And another thing . . . that . . . that person who works for you . . . Where does she get off telling me I can't go into the guest house? She looks like a convict. Where
did
you get her? She told Olga what you pay her, and now Olga wants a raise. Damn you, Mac,” she said, blowing a second jet of smoke in Mac's direction.

Mac held up his hand. One by one he ticked off the answers to the questions she asked. “Nothing happened to my brain in Vietnam. You're right, I'm not the same person. I am a better person. You're right about me not working too. I may never work again. Fortunately, thanks to my mother's side of the family, which is where all the money comes from, I don't have to work. I love my animals, they love me unconditionally, and they're loyal, which happens to be a word you know very little about. I don't call my father because I have nothing to say to him. I do not like my father. I have never liked my father. You, Alice, backed the wrong horse. As for talking to you—what is there to say to a woman who at one time professed to love me, when it was all a lie? You see, Alice, I don't love you either. Jenny is not my daughter, as much as you would like me to believe that she is. Shhh, don't sputter like that. It's unbecoming. I'll tell you how I know she isn't my daughter. I'm sterile. I have been since the age of fourteen when I had the mumps. I have three different medical reports that will bear this out. I know I misled you. And I'm not proud of that. It was vanity on my part because I thought it made me less than a man. I always told you to use your diaphragm because I didn't want you to know. Now it doesn't make any difference. You've given your child my name, and I won't take that away from her. I'm fond of her. Her disability makes me love her all the more. As for my housekeeper, the less you say the better, or you will find yourself without Olga to boss around. I pay the bills around here, and I suggest you remember that. Yody is not a convict and she doesn't look like a convict. She is a warm, loving, compassionate woman who has worked hard all her life. She's taken over in the care department, and I will be eternally grateful. Besides, she plays a hell of a game of gin rummy. There is no one else in my life but Benny and Sadie. No one,” he said coldly. “Did I leave anything out? Yes, yes, I did,” Mac said mockingly. “The family money is
all
mine, not my father's. Oh, he has a handsome salary and a few stocks and bonds. He gets dividends. He owns a few properties. But the
real
money is mine—left to me by my aunt Rita, my mother, and my uncle Harry. No one,” he said savagely, “bothered to write and tell me Uncle Harry died! That was your job, Alice, and you didn't do it. That money is tied up six ways to Sunday, so you weren't quite accurate when you said I've been doing nothing. Taking care of one's money is a full-time job. There is no way you will get your hands on any of it. I'll take that one step further—there's no way my father will get his hands on it either. I'm going to use it to set up a foundation for children with Down's syndrome and another one for Amerasian children. What do you think of that, Alice?”

“I think you've lost your mind,” Alice snarled. “Jenny is your child. She has . . . has your ears.”

Mac laughed. “No, she isn't mine. I can show you the medical reports any time you want to see them. Now, shall we talk about a divorce?”

“I'll never give you a divorce. You can't do this to me. Your father won't allow it. Why are you doing this?” Alice asked imploringly.

“And if you think you can threaten me with a scandal, don't bother. I personally don't give a good rat's ass about anything you do. Do you get it, Alice? I don't care!”

“This was supposed to be a wonderful new beginning for us, and look what you've done, you've gone and spoiled it with your lies about Jenny. Damn you to hell, Mac!” she shouted. She was still shouting when Mac let himself out the front door.

The rain was cold, but he barely noticed it. What he did notice was the cheerful lights shining out from the guest house. He knew there would be a fire to take the dampness out of the house, and delicious, tantalizing smells would waft from the kitchen. He continued on to the back of the house. When he was abreast of the kitchen door he whistled sharply and was rewarded with two taffy-colored streaks heading straight for him. It had been Yody's suggestion to have a doggie door cut into the kitchen entrance so the dogs could let themselves in and out. One of the little secrets of her training, he supposed.

Mac walked, his hands stuck into the deep pockets of his shearling jacket. He was oblivious to the rain as the retrievers trotted alongside him. The pain at his circumstances was so overwhelming, he stopped in his tracks, his face raised to the pelting downpour. The dogs growled softly as they nuzzled his legs. “What do I do? Point me in the right direction,” he begged. There was no bolt of lightning, no lessening of the rain, no clout on the head. The rain continued, the dogs kept growling, and he kept walking until he came to an eight-foot drainage ditch, at which he turned around to retrace his steps. Delighted, the dogs ran ahead, stopping from time to time to see if their master was following.

“You can always find your way home, fellas, if someone cares enough to put a light in the window. In our case the back porch light is on, so we'll make it,” Mac mumbled as he slogged in his wet sneakers up to the back porch.

Yody's chocolate-dark eyes showed concern. “A hot bath,” she said sternly, “two aspirins, and a glass of juice. If you don't care about yourself, Señor Mac, think of these two soaking-wet dogs. You at least had on a heavy jacket.” She clucked her tongue while she toweled the dogs briskly. “Go, señor, quickly, before you catch a chill. Sickness bothers me. I am no good with ther-momb-beters.”

“I'm gone,” Mac said, delighted with the concern in her voice. She was right, a hot bath and some aspirins would make him feel better. “What's for dinner? It smells wonderful.”

“Chicken noodle soup, roast chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, and a salad. Fresh dinner rolls and a peach cobbler. Go, go,” she admonished. “One hour till dinner.”

When Mac entered the den forty minutes later, he burst out laughing. Both dogs were wrapped like newborn babies in fluffy yellow towels. They woofed softly from their position by the fire. He laughed harder when he saw the two empty bowls. Yody had given them chicken soup. He also noticed his own glass of juice and three aspirins on the little table next to his chair. He swallowed them dutifully. “I think,” he said, dropping to his haunches, “we're all going to get real used to this kind of care and attention.” The dogs woofed but made no move to get up. Yody put them here, and here they would stay. Mac swore he saw steam coming out of the yellow towels.

“Dinner, Señor Mac, is ready.”

There were flowers on the table, Mac noticed. He asked what kind they were.

“Spring flowers. Daffodils, tulips, and the purple ones are iris. I thought they would cheer you up. Spring, señor, is a beautiful time of the year. Everything comes to life at this time. It will be a beautiful life again for you. Time does not stand still for any of us. I do not wish to know,” she said, when she thought Mac was about to explain his feelings. “My cousins tell me I am in-toot-tiv. I know it is possible for one's heart to break. I also know it is possible for one's heart to mend. There will be a scar, but that is life. Now, eat, Señor Mac, for I have cooked all day.”

He ate. More than he should have, but he didn't care. The coffee, when Yody served it, was so delicious Mac asked for a second cup. “What did you put in this?”

“Vanilla, Señor Mac. Sometimes it is better than a dessert.”

Mac tipped back in his chair, coffee cup to his lips, when Yody clapped her hands softly. Seconds later the dogs were in the kitchen, each dragging a towel. She set down two plates loaded with the same food Mac had eaten. They wolfed it down in minutes. “Ah, they think I am a good cook too. I am,” she said imperiously.

“How is it you aren't married, Yody?”

“Oh, but I was, Señor Mac, four times. I buried all four husbands. I don't wish to marry again. Funerals are too expensive.”

“Oh.” It was all Mac could think of to say. He stared at her. She wasn't beautiful, but she wasn't ugly either. Her best feature, Mac thought, was her huge dark eyes. Her skin was the color of molasses, and she had the whitest teeth Mac had ever seen. She also had more teeth than he'd ever seen, and he saw them a lot because Yody wore a constant smile. The only time he'd ever seen shoes on her feet was the day she'd arrived. She refused to wear an apron, saying she paid a lot of money for her skirts and blouses and she didn't want to hide them. Her hair, he knew, was down past her buttocks, but he only knew this because she told him so. For the most part she wore it tied in a huge knot at the back of her head. He laughed, remembering the day Alice came to the door and opened it. For a large woman, Yody moved like greased lightning, and met Alice at the door, her huge arms crossed over her breast.

“No visitors,” she'd said, showing every one of her teeth.

Alice had insisted on entering. Yody insisted that she would not. Yody had finally picked Alice up and turned her around to face the walkway.

“No visitors unless Señor Mac invites you,” she repeated.

Alice had retaliated by shrieking that Yody's trailer was a rusty eyesore and tacky to boot. Yody had slammed the door, muttering obscenities Mac had never heard before. He grinned. By God, it was time someone put Alice in her place.

A few days later his father had tried the same thing. The minute the door opened his father had said, “I'm Justice Marcus Carlin and I'd like to see my son.”

To which Yody replied, “I am Yolanda Angelique Magdalena Consuela Chavez. No visitors unless invited.” Bam, the door was shut in the judge's face. Mac had hooted his glee in the kitchen, where he was having apple pie and coffee.

When the phone rang, it was Yody's job to answer it. He was in to anyone but his father and Alice. When they called, which they did almost on an hourly basis, her answer was always the same. “We will call you when we wish to speak. No calls.”

He knew he was carrying the thing with his father too far. He'd settled Alice for the time being. He was going to give himself one more week before he started to make decisions. For now he needed time to himself. He'd earned it, and no one was going to take it away from him.

Tonight he was going to write letters to every organization he knew of to ask for help in finding Lily's baby. He'd already placed two calls to Eric Savorone, Lily's lover, but neither had been returned. A letter was called for now. He had to give careful thought to what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. He also wanted to spend some time thinking about his uncle Harry and the trust Harry had left him, along with the Charleston mansion.