For All Their Lives (42 page)

Now my feet are going to get cold and wet, Alan thought as they gingerly walked down the steps of the brownstone. He had galoshes, but he had no idea where they were. Galoshes were something old, feeble people wore. People who were careful about their health.

Their caroling lasted two full hours. Both Casey and Alan were hoarse when they retraced their steps for home, declining four offers of hot cocoa.

Inside the warm brownstone Casey headed for the upstairs bathroom. Alan marched on cold, numb feet to the bar alongside his desk. He gulped two fingers of Jack Daniels in two swallows. For a split second he thought his chest was going to rupture. His watch told him it was ten minutes past ten.

“Look,” Casey said, holding up socks and his slippers, lined with shearling wool. “If your feet are as cold as mine, you need these. Sit down and I'll undo the laces,” she ordered. It didn't occur to Alan to protest.

When at last they were snuggling on the comfortable couch, their feet stretched toward the fire, Alan drifted off to sleep. Casey closed her eyes wearily. Both of them were trying so hard. Why? It hit her like a bolt of lightning then. Alan hadn't accepted her proposal. Waiting till after midnight meant he was going to say no. She'd expected an exuberant yes, had expected to make immediate plans. She inched away from her kindly benefactor. She felt shame at her blatant proposal. First Mac and now Alan. Let's not forget your father while we're doing this soul-searching, an inner voice taunted.

Tears scalded her eyes and trickled down her cheeks, smearing the medicinal makeup. She didn't care. If her intuition was right and Alan rejected her, what was she going to do? He'd taken care of her so long, made all her decisions, that she no longer knew what she was capable of doing. What a fool she'd been, thinking this would go on forever. Fool, fool, her mind shrieked.

Alan stirred, a strange grimace on his face. Casey wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. Poor dear, he probably had indigestion. The tears trickled again. He'd suffered through dinner, eating things she loved just to please her.

Christmas Eve. Where was Mac? What was he doing right now, this very minute? Decorating the tree with his wife so their daughter would think Santa did it when she awoke in the morning. What sort of gift would he give to his wife? Diamonds? Gems of some kind? Perhaps a bracelet with matching earrings. And the little girl, what would Santa give her? Dolls, picture books, toys that made noise and music? Mac's wife, what would she give Mac? A cashmere jacket, gold cuff links. Something monogrammed. Mac said he played the piano. They were probably singing carols around the piano now and drinking Christmas cheer. Mac would be tall enough to hang the Christmas angel on top of the tree.

“Merry Christmas, Mac,” she whispered.

M
AC
C
ARLIN LOOKED
at the calendar on his desk. December 23. Two days until Christmas. Hands jammed into his pockets, he got up and walked over to the window. The day was bleak and gray, with weather forecasters predicting snow for Christmas. He didn't believe a word of it. He hated Christmas. Hated it with a passion. Somehow, he'd managed to get through the holidays in the past, mainly by sleeping through them. The memory of his last Christmas in Vietnam was still with him. He'd been able to live with it during the year, but the moment the season arrived, he was unable to concentrate.

He hadn't even shopped this year, nor had he in past years. Benny's wife, busy as she was, said she would do his shopping for him. Alice had requested a shearling jacket. He'd been surprised at her simple request. She'd explained that she needed to be warm when she tramped the fields with Jenny. Jenny, she'd said, wanted a stand-up doll that was supposed to be lifelike and as tall as she was. For his father there was a humidor he hadn't bothered to even look at. Carol, bless her heart, had wrapped the presents in bright red paper with huge silver bows. All three presents were locked in the trunk of his car.

He was antsy, every nerve in his body twanging. He wandered aimlessly around the office, touching the flag, staring at a fern whose tips were brown. The coffeepot was clean. Everyone was gone—but him. The offices looked empty even though they were filled with furniture.

As he walked down the long corridor of the Rayburn Building, he thought of himself as the loneliest man in the world. And the unhappiest.

God, how he hated Christmas.

He drove expertly, his eyes keen, his shoulders taut, his mouth grim. Holiday traffic was terrible, the worst he'd ever seen. Everywhere he looked he saw smiling faces and brightly colored shopping bags. Mostly women, shopping for their families. Alice ordered from catalogues these days. The queen of the shoppers had fallen off her pedestal.

A long time later, hours really, Mac pulled his car to the curb. Jesus, what in the fucking hell was he doing at the airport? He gave himself a mental shrug and climbed out of the car. He turned once to look back at it. How long would it take before it was towed? He remembered the Christmas presents in the trunk.
What was he doing here? What was this consuming anger coursing through him?

“Hey, do you have a minute?” Mac called to a gangly youth with a backpack. “You going or coming?”

The young man laughed. “Depends. I'm waiting for a buddy of mine to come over here with fifty bucks. The ticket was more than I expected. Had a few too many parking tickets to settle up at school before I left. Why?” he asked curiously.

“I'm Senator Mac Carlin and I . . . I need someone to park my car in the lot and arrange to have some presents in the trunk delivered. It's worth three hundred bucks to me. You can put the key under the mat. I have a spare. What do you say?”

“I'm your man, Senator. Cash?”

Mac was already peeling bills from a money clip. “Leave a note at the information desk telling me where you parked the car. Have a nice holiday, son.”

“You too, Senator!” the young man said, exuberant over the sheaf of bills in his hand.

Mac walked slowly to the ticket counter and got into line.

 

I
T WAS EIGHT
o'clock when the DC-10 set down at Orly Airport. An hour was used up going through customs, a second was required for a car rental and the Christmas Eve highway rush. Mac's watch said it was twenty minutes after ten when he knocked on Nicole Dupre's bright blue door. The girl, who was every bit as tiny as Casey had said she was, spoke in rapid-fire French. Mac understood none of it, but when he introduced himself, he saw tears glisten in her eyes.

“What took you so long, Monsieur Mac?” she said in stilted English.

“I couldn't . . . I wasn't ready. I don't know if I'm ready now or not,” he whispered hoarsely. “I need to know where . . .”

“St. Gabriel's. You can walk from here if you wish. I cannot go with you. I have a house full of guests. Are you sure, monsieur, that you want to go now? The morning—”

“I need to go now. I'm sorry for taking you from your guests. I'll find it. Casey . . . Casey spoke of you often. She loved . . . the blue dress. She never got to wear it.”

“One moment, monsieur.” She was back a moment later with a long-handled flashlight. “It is to the right of the third walkway. The stone is simple, one Casey would have approved of. When I can, I take fresh flowers. So does Danele. We have not forgotten her. Good evening, Monsieur Mac.” The blue door closed quietly.

Mac walked slowly, his hands jammed deeply into his pockets. It felt, he thought crazily, as though he'd been here before. He looked upward to the gray steeples. Casey had gone to church here, been raised in the orphanage. It looked cold and austere. How was it possible, he wondered, for such a place to give comfort?

It didn't take him long to find the grave. Anger rose in his chest at the simplicity of the stone. Casey deserved something better, larger. She should have something . . .
noticeable.
He said so, aloud.

Mac dropped to his knees. He was holding his breath and didn't know why. “I'm here,” he whispered. “A day doesn't go by that I don't think of you. I fill up my days. I got the dogs, and I live in the kind of house we said we would have someday. It's the guest cottage, and I have a housekeeper. I would have gotten a divorce. It was in the works. I didn't betray you. I'll never stop loving you. Never.” He talked then, slowly at first, his voice gentle, and then the words tumbled out. He spoke of Jenny, tried his best to explain about the child and Alice.

“The thing I'm most proud of is this idea I have to set up a foundation for Vietnam vets. I can do it too. It's going to take awhile. Every time I try to do something, I get stonewalled. But I'm going to do it. I wish I could say I like politics, but I don't. I'm not going to quit though, at least not for a while. The day I realize I can't do anything positive for people is when I'll pack it in.”

He was on his haunches now, more comfortable, as he continued. “I've been trying to get information about Lily's son. I've written so many letters, I've lost count. I've come to the conclusion Lily is dead, but that her child is alive. I feel that. I won't give up on it either. I made a promise to Lily, and I intend to keep it.”

He spoke then of his trip to the little apartment and finding the blue dress, and the Cracker Jack ring. “It's in my pocket, on my key ring. It's all I have left. Sometimes when I can't sleep, which is most of the time, I take it off the ring and hold it in my hand. In the morning the palm of my hand is green.”

Mac's breathing grew harsh, his eyes wild, as he leaped to his feet. “I don't
feel
like you're here. I should feel something. Comfort perhaps. A feeling of peace. But it doesn't feel like your spirit . . .” He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

He was cold, his feet numb, but he didn't move. He was finally at Casey's final resting place. Perhaps it was good that she was here. If she'd been buried in Arlington or California, he'd spend all his time buying flowers and visiting. Before he walked away, he promised himself to return once a year. He looked back once, and waved. “Wait for me,” he whispered in a choked voice. He swiveled and ran back, vapor puffing from his mouth when he said, “Merry Christmas, my darling.”

As Mac walked along the path, he was aware of small groups of people and the sound of carols coming from the church. He looked at his watch. Midnight mass. He took a seat at the back of the church just as a line of nuns filed down the center aisle. Mac's eyes narrowed. Which one was Sister Ann Elizabeth? As soon as this mass was over he was damn well going to find out. He counted them. Twenty in all, two of the sisters in wheelchairs.

It was a pretty church, he thought, looking around. Larger than it looked from the outside.

He was warm now, his feet thawed, his hands back to normal. He looked around at the small families, their children half asleep at this late hour, probably daydreaming about what they would find under the Christmas tree when they awoke in the morning. He thought of Jenny and the life-size doll. He was half asleep himself, remembering his visit to the cemetery. Did Casey ever sit in this particular pew? His eyes popped open as he counted the pews, both sides and then the center pew. Maybe later, after he spoke to Sister Ann Elizabeth, he would come back here and sit in each and every pew until he felt something.

After the last carol had been sung, the last parishoner had gone, and the robed priest was no longer visible, Mac approached the first nun in the parade to leave the church.

“Can you tell me, Sister, which one is Sister Ann Elizabeth?” Mac asked quietly.

“Why do you wish to know, monsieur?” the old nun asked softly.

“I must talk with her about a student, one of the children who resided at the orphanage. Please, may I? It's very important. I've come all the way from Washington, D.C.”

“Very well, monsieur, it is Christmas Eve so I will permit it. Do not be long. Sister isn't well. She suffers from cataracts and heart seizures. We will wait in the vestibule for you.”

Mac approached the nun in the wheelchair. Even in the yellowish light of the church he could see the thick white film in her eyes. She must be blind, Mac thought. He wondered exactly what a heart seizure was. Was a seizure the same as a heart attack? He realized he didn't care what it was.

“Sister, my name is Malcom Carlin. I'm a senator from Washington, D.C. I came over here today to . . . to pay my respects to a former student of yours. Casey Adams. Do you remember her?”

The voice was feeble-sounding, fretful and yet defensive. She understood him and replied in English, spoken without hesitation, but with a soft accent. “Yes, I remember her very well. Did I hear you correctly when you said you came to pay your respects? Is the child . . . ?”

“Dead?” Mac said coldly. “Yes, Sister, she is.”

The nun blessed herself. Mac noticed how crippled and deformed her hands were. “I'm very sorry, monsieur. It is always sad when a young person dies. God should have taken me instead.”

“Why didn't he?” Mac blurted.

“One never questions the Lord,” Sister said quietly. “What is it you wanted to ask me?

“Did you ever . . . hug or kiss Casey? Did you ever pat her on the head or sing her a lullaby? Were you ever
truly kind
to her?”

It was several seconds before the sister could marshal her response. “I tried to explain to Casey the day she came to see me, and I thought she understood, but to answer your questions, monsieur, no. It was not permitted.”

“Permitted!” Mac was outraged, his voice ringing in the quiet, still church. “Are you, a woman of God, going to sit here, in this church, and tell me you weren't allowed to show affection and love to a child?” he thundered.

Tears gathered in the old nun's eyes. “It was for their own good. Mother Superior said so. I didn't always agree, but I had to obey my orders. She was a scrapper, a defender of the underdog. When she was ten, she told me to my face—mind you, to my face—that she was going to be a nurse someday, and if I ever came into her hospital she would refuse to nurse me. At the time she meant every word of it. But the time did come when I had to have surgery and Casey
was
my nurse. I think she was the finest nurse the hospital ever had. It isn't easy for the children here. It's harder when they leave. We have to prepare them for how hard it is. Mother says we build character here and that's how the children survive in the outside world.”

“Oh yeah, well what about the goldfish in the cracked cup?” Mac said belligerently.

“The fish was dead, monsieur. It already smelled. I had to get rid of it. A child doesn't know . . . she thought because it was floating on top of the water that it was still alive. The cup was cracked. She could have cut herself.”

“You have an answer for everything, don't you?” His tone was still belligerent.

“No, monsieur, I don't. Is Casey buried here at St. Gabriel's?”

Mac's rage was total. “Do you expect me to believe you don't . . . how could you not know? Of course she's buried here. Nicole, one of your other less fortunates, saw to it. Now I suppose you're going to tell me no one goes there to pray for her.”

“I was ill for a very long time, monsieur, and in the hospital. Perhaps Mother thought I would be unduly upset if they told me. I did not know.”

“And would you have been upset?” Mac roared so loud, the Mother Superior came on the run, her black habit floating behind her in the draft she created.

“Monsieur, what is going on here? Why are you upsetting Sister? Why are you here, what is it you want?”

“Want? Want? It's too late to want anything. I hope, Sister, if you ever get to Heaven, that you have a suitable explanation for . . . the way you . . . for your . . . you make me sick, the lot of you, and if your God is going to punish me for my tongue, so be it. At least I can live with myself. I do have one more question though. Just one. How many children have ever come back here after they left?”

“Casey was the only one who ever came back,” Sister Ann Elizabeth said spiritedly. “The only one. They hated us. Why would they come back?”

“Sister!” the Mother Superior said virtuously.

“You should have told me the child is buried here. I had a right to know. Why did you keep that from me? I wish to go there now. This very minute.”