For All Their Lives (49 page)

As he dressed he could hear music. “As Time Goes By.” He didn't like the title any better than he liked the word fling. It was the music box. Was she trying to tell him something? His insecurity started to eat at him. What they had . . . what they shared was a moment. Mac Carlin, no matter what she said, would always be between them.

His jeans were so worn they felt like soft cotton. He did a hop and a skip, settled his rear end into the back, then zipped them up. His sweatshirt, which was just as worn and soft, felt as comfortable as a security blanket. He wondered what he would do when they finally wore out. Some things could never be replaced, he thought sadly. Just like some people could never be replaced. Christ, he was stupid. Come to think of it, he'd always been stupid. “What you gotta do, Farrell, is get your shit all in one sock and . . . Fuck it,” he mumbled, as he pulled on his socks.

The day was wonderful, the evening better, the night stupendous. “I have to go back today, Casey. I'm giving a speech at the Rotary tomorrow. It's one of those brunch things. I can't get out of it.”

“I understand. Can you come back? I don't mean right away, but sometime soon. Or I can come and visit Squirrel Hill.”

“Well, sure. Whenever you want. I'm not going anywhere.” He could feel her draw away from him, grow rigid. “Ma Bell is a wonderful thing, Casey. Even in Squirrel Hill we have telephones. I want us both to think real seriously about what went on here. Speaking strictly for myself, I've never been happier. . .”

“But . . . What's the but, Luke?” Casey asked coolly. She'd known it. God, how could she have been so stupid? First Mac, then Alan, and now this . . . this doctor who said he didn't care about her scars. Like hell he didn't.

Luke leaned up on one elbow. “There is no but. What's wrong? What the hell did I say?”

“It's what you didn't say. This was all . . . all therapy. Well, I don't need it, and I don't need you either,” Casey said, leaping out of the bed.

“Wait just a damn minute. Therapy? Where did you get that notion? I don't get it. Is this your way of booting me out of here? Jesus, all you had to say was go and I'd have gone. I thought . . . Come back here,” he said. “That's an order, Casey.”

She was in her robe now, her scars invisible when she perched on the side of the bed. “Look, maybe I am touchy, a bit insecure, but I have good reason to be. I asked you if you would come back here. I offered to visit you. ‘Well, sure.'
That
was your response?”

“Listen to me, goddamnit. I'm not up on the social ways of lovers. It's been a long time for me. The plain damn truth is I don't know how to act. I've been afraid of saying the wrong thing. You're vulnerable, and so am I. This might be hard for you to believe, but I've never been in love before. If I screwed up, I'm sorry. And furthermore, I won't be a stand-in for Mac Carlin, no matter how much I respect the guy. Yeah, what he did was shabby, but you're forgetting I saw him and witnessed what he went through that Christmas when you were sick. He loved you, Casey. He's not out of your system, and by going on with this . . . this new identity thing, you can never resolve it. Both of us need time to think about all this. I meant it when I said I loved you. However,” his voice turned cool and aloof, “I didn't hear you say the same thing to me. No, no, don't say it now. Get my point. There's a possibility that somewhere down the road we might be able to salvage this in some way, but not now. I think I should leave and give you some breathing room. Call me a cab, Mary Ashley.”

“You're disappointed in me. I can see it in your face. Can't you at least try to understand why I did it?”

“It takes guts,
Mary
.”

“That's all I've heard for two long years. Guts. Guts and then more guts. I'm a person. I hurt, I cry, I feel things. I did what I thought was best for me at the time,” Casey said bitterly.

Luke gripped her by the shoulders and drew her to her feet. “How in the hell did something so wonderful turn so sour in a matter of minutes?” he demanded. “I love you. You care for me. We were both spooked, and by mutual agreement we joined together. Now I'm getting dressed and I'm going back home. I'll always be here for you. All you have to do is call me the way you did the other day. And the reason is that I've loved you from the first. This is the end of it. Keep in touch.”

Fifteen minutes later he was gone.

M
AC
C
ARLIN LOOKED
at the small calendar on his desk. He crossed off the date. April 30, 1972. It was spring again. He tried, but he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing at this time last year. Existing. He opened a drawer to pull out last year's calendar to see if he'd made any notes. He was disappointed. There were none.

He'd had four invitations to various brunches and dinners today, but, as always, he had declined. He preferred to spend his weekends in his guest cottage going over his mail, taking care of his investments, riding, and hiking with the dogs. It was a shitful life, he told himself over and over again, and he was no closer now to finding Lily's son than he had been when he first started. If there was one thing he hated in life, it was dealing with a foreign government.

Outside in the crisp spring air he could hear Jenny laughing as her mother held her on a bicycle held up with training wheels. He leaned closer to the window. He didn't see much of Alice these days. In fact he'd hardly said more than a dozen words to her in as many months. She'd been so grateful when he turned over the records to the foundation he'd set up for children like Jenny. That's where she and Jenny now spent most of their time. It was good for both of them. He knew his mother would have been pleased at the way he'd been using her legacy.

Mac's pencil tapped on the desktop. Sundays, he thought, were days of reflection, not that there was much to reflect upon, but he did it anyway. He thought of his father and how they'd grown even farther apart. Just this past week he'd heard a rumor that Marcus was retiring. He didn't believe it for a minute. The rumor circulated periodically when something didn't go his father's way. The old man would hang in there till the day he died.

Thoughts of Sadie and Bill always made him smile. He hadn't seen either of them for several months. They were busy handling the bar during the week, and spending weekends in Perth Amboy, where they worked in the bait and tackle shop. Sadie admitted that she wore a bib coverall, but it was a silky blue creation bearing a designer label. They were delightfully happy, as were Benny and his little family. Which left only him. He wasn't
unhappy.
He'd managed to have several discreet affairs that meant nothing but sexual release for both himself and his partner.

Mac's arm shot out to remove the screen from the window next to his desk. He called to Alice, who waved cheerfully. Jenny squealed, pedaling as fast as she could. It looked to Mac as if they were having a good time. He watched as Alice helped Jenny from the bicycle and, holding her hand, walked over to his open window.

“It's too stuffy to be indoors today, Mac.”

“How would you and Jenny like to have dinner with me tonight?” Mac asked.

“I think that would be nice. Do you mean going out . . . or up at—”

“Here. In my kitchen. Spaghetti,” he said, pointing to Jenny, who giggled.

“Like lots,” the little girl said, smiling widely.

“She does. That and jelly sandwiches. Maybe one for dessert. What time?” she asked.

“I know Jenny likes to eat early. Six is okay with me.”

“All right. Thanks, Mac. Jenny will enjoy it, I'm sure. She's always asking if she can come over.”

“You never told me that,” Mac accused.

“What was the point? You said no one could come here unless they were invited. It's all right, really it is. Jenny is easily distracted. Ah, Mac, I think I should tell you she makes up stories about this little house to the aide who works with her at the foundation. She thinks you have rooms full of balloons and all kinds of all-day suckers in red jars. She tells the aide you have butterflies on the walls and that you color pictures for her of happy-faced clowns. They think she has a wonderful imagination. She can cut pictures out of books now and paste them in other books. It's such a wonderful place, Mac. She's made friends with the other children, and there are days when she doesn't want to go home. I was going to talk to you about . . . is there any possibility that we could add another wing?”

“Whenever you want, Alice. You're in charge. Do whatever you think should be done.”

“Really, Mac, it will be all right?” Alice beamed. How pretty she is, Mac thought. So womanly, and she smelled wonderful. His wife. “Thank you, thank you very much. I guess I'll see you at dinner then.”

“Six o'clock. Don't get dressed up, okay?”

“Okay,” Alice called over her shoulder.

Mac's shoulders slumped when he closed the screen. They had their own life now, he thought with a tinge of jealousy. The only thing either Jenny or his wife needed from him was his money, which he gave gladly and willingly.

Mac's thoughts took him to Lily's son, Eric, who would now be four years old. Jenny was five. Where had the years gone? His eyes went to the special box he kept on the edge of his desk. In it he kept all his correspondence concerning Lily and her son. Last Christmas he'd received his first real news about the child in a letter written to him by a nun in Thailand. He'd stuffed it into his suit pocket back in the summer, and Yody had found it a week or so after New Year's. He'd written right away, but the letter had come back on Valentine's Day. The orphanage or the nuns had moved on. For months now he'd been sending letters all over Thailand and Vietnam trying to track down Sister Anna Marie. She had to be easier to find than one small boy among thousands. Yesterday a letter had finally arrived from Sister Anna Marie saying she knew where the boy was and that he was well. She said that when it was possible, she would see about having his picture taken and would send it on to Mac. He wasn't certain the boy had been in Thailand to begin with. One letter had said yes, another had said no. The American embassy said he'd been airlifted with his mother, but a letter months later had claimed that Lily Gia was dead. He no longer knew what to believe, what was real, what was pure guesswork. It seemed inconceivable that a nun would lie. Mix-ups occurred. All infants looked alike. What would make Lily's son stand out and be remembered? Think positive and believe, he cautioned himself. Always believe.

The dogs followed Mac as he made his way to the kitchen. Yody was stirring a bubbling pot of red sauce on the stove, and tantalizing smells circled the room. “We're going to have two guests for dinner, Yody,” Mac said, clearing his throat. “Ah, is there any way we can have some balloons and a few . . . some other kinds of decorations?”

“That would depend, Señor Mac, on what you have in mind. I myself can go to the drugstore and buy balloons. Today is Sunday,” she said quietly.

“Well, Jenny seems to think this house is . . . magical. I know it sounds kind of silly, but she's just a child. Her mother casually mentioned that Jenny . . . has made up these little stories, and she doesn't want her to be disappointed.” He realized he was speaking a lie the minute the words were out of his mouth.
He
was the one who didn't want to disappoint the little girl.

“Very well, Señor Mac, I will see what I can do. Who is to blow up these balloons, señor?” she asked, untying her apron and reaching for her purse, which she kept on a shelf over the sink. It was a straw affair, with colored flowers woven in it, and huge as a satchel. It also appeared quite heavy. As always, he was curious about its contents. Jenny would love it. Alice said she had fourteen different “purses,” which she daily stuffed with treasures.

“Sometimes,” Alice had said, “she can play for hours just taking things out and putting them back. I think,” she'd gone on to say, “it's the same principle as a child playing with the cardboard box instead of the toy.”

Today, Mac decided, was a good time to vent his curiosity in regard to the purse Yody carried. “It looks heavy,” he said, handing Yody a ten-dollar bill. “If I'm not being too nosy, what do you carry in there?”

Yody looked at Mac for a long moment. “Yes, señor, you are being nosy, but I do not mind.
My things
are in there. If I am not back in one hour, stir the sauce so it doesn't stick to the bottom of the pot.”

Mac nodded. He popped a bottle of beer before he returned to his study and the piled-up mail he had to contend with. He spent the next hour going through everything, writing two letters—one to Sister Anna Marie, the second to Phil Pender.

He fished a letter from the box, the last one he had to respond to. He'd received it at the office more than two weeks ago. He'd postponed answering it because it meant he would have to speak to Alice and get her views. It was personal and yet not personal. He looked at the return address on the crisp gray envelope. Tri State News, 440 Park Avenue South, New York, New York. The letter was from the executive producer of the
Noonday News
and addressed to Senator and Mrs. Malcolm Carlin. He'd heard about Steve Harper's “Show-and-Tell” segment. In fact he'd caught it a time or two when he was in New York. He rather liked the show. At first, when he had read the letter, he'd been annoyed, but the annoyance turned to flattery when he realized Harper wasn't interested in his senatorial politics, but in the foundation he'd set up for children with Down's syndrome and his Vietnam Veterans Foundation. He wondered how the producer got wind of his plans to turn his mother's old home into a summer camp for children like Jenny. His other camp, as he now thought of it, would also be in the South. It would be for vets with no place else to go, and staffed with doctors. It was a monstrous undertaking, but he was damn well going to do it. Today he was going to discuss the children's summer camp with Alice. He thought she would be all for it, but the problem of who would operate the facility and see to the renovations was something he himself had no time for. He would be busy with his plans for the Vietnam vets. Alice, he knew, had very little free time. It was something he needed to explore very carefully before he made any concrete decisions.

Mac read the letter again. Six minutes of airtime for the Down's Syndrome Foundation, and a second segment for his Vietnam Foundation. Clips of him, Alice, and Jenny at home; one at the foundation; one with the children, whom the foundation helped; and one at his mother's home. The last shot was to be of himself, Alice, and Jenny walking into the Senate gallery. Good copy.

This was like manna from heaven. Thank God for people like Steve Harper. Jenny and the children would be well taken care of, thanks to Alice. Just the thought of what he could do for all the vets excited him. He felt alive and in control. He was goddamn well going to pull this off, and he didn't care what it cost. He was tired of batting his head against the stone wall of the Senate, tired of wading through bullshit. If you want something done, do it yourself, was the motto to which he now subscribed.

Mac was satisfied with himself these days. He'd rolled forward his project for the vets. Alice had beamed with pride when he had first told her about it. They now had something in common, she told him. They were each doing something worthwhile and worth caring about. “If I can help in any way, just ask,” she had offered. By God, she'd meant it too. Alice was . . . Alice . . . was
okay.

He had decided he would not get any more involved with his wife and her daughter than he already was. Still, the sound of their shrill, joyful laughter ate at him. He should be out there with them. He'd promised to take Jenny down to the stable and harness a docile pony, named Pee Wee, to the bright red and blue pony cart. Jenny liked the cart but was scared of the pony. Jenny's explanation was that Pee Wee had too many feet. Perhaps they could do it after dinner. No, that wouldn't work either, Jenny was afraid of the dark.
She wasn't his daughter,
he told himself again. She was Alice's daughter; let Alice work on the pony cart. Today he'd promised himself he was finally going to go through the box of his mother's books that his uncle Harry had given him.

He'd brought the cardboard box down this morning from his room. Before he made a final decision to turn his mother's old home over to the foundation, he needed to tie up this last loose end from that old life.

When he opened the box, it smelled old and musty inside. He sneezed. His hands, he noticed, trembled as he reached for the first book. There were five of them, and they weren't merely books. They were diaries. They were all alike in size, with soft burgundy Moroccan leather covers embossed with the word DIARY in gold letters in the center of each book. Down at the bottom, in gold script, was his mother's name. Patches of ugly charcoal mildew spotted them. He was almost afraid to open them, for fear the brittle pages would disintegrate at his touch. He wondered if he had a
right
to read them.

The books seemed to be in order, commencing with the first, written when his mother was ten, in square, boxy letters. The second and third were written with a smoother hand, the fourth and last in beautiful flowing script. The pen had been fine, the writing slanted and tiny. He was going to need his reading glasses. As much as he didn't want to do this, he felt he had to. He carried the box over to his easy chair and fixed his reading glasses on the end of his nose in preparation.

The first two diaries made him chuckle. They dealt mostly with Maddy, the old Negress, and various animals on the plantation. He laughed aloud when he read one section that dealt with his mother sneaking out of bed to catch Saint Nick on Christmas Eve. “Just because Maddy has a belly like Saint Nick,” she wrote, “they must think me a fool not to recognize her dark face. I pretended not to notice. P.S. Dear Diary, Maddy told me on Christmas Day she wasn't supposed to turn around because Daddy knew I was on the staircase. They all think they fooled me.” Mac rubbed at his throat to ease the lump he felt building.