For All Their Lives (50 page)

The third and fourth diaries dealt with wistful looks taken from under bonnets at young boys in church. Tea parties under the angel oaks, secrets among friends. “Today, Cassie told all of us in the azalea garden she let Billy Asher kiss her on the cheek. She said she's never going to wash her face again. I'm jealous. All the girls are jealous. Cassie said she's going to let Billy kiss her again and again, and maybe next year let him kiss her on the mouth. Ohhh, we're all so jealous. I like Adam Ellis. He looks at me all the time. Tomorrow I'm going to wink at him.” Mac guffawed aloud. It was wonderful. When he closed the book, he realized his mother had been sixteen when she wrote those entries.

The fifth, and last, diary was obviously presented on her birthday. It was different, Mac noticed. A whole year and a half had passed before it was written in for the first time. The diary started in July, when his mother was seventeen and a half. All of it was devoted to Adam Ellis. “He's so good-looking,” she wrote. “He has a dashing smile, and he's a wonderful dance partner. He kissed me. He really kissed me. He asked my father if he could court me. My father said yes, if Maddy chaperoned us. Maddy turned her head so he could kiss me under the big old angel oak in the back of the stable, but she tied my corset tight because, she said, no young buck was going to untie it if she could help it.”

Further on he read: “I leave for Miss Adele's school for young ladies. I don't want to go. I don't want to leave Adam. He says he will write. It's only for a year, Maddy says. I cry all the time. Adam says he cries too.”

There were no entries for the next year, until his mother's return to her home from Miss Adele's school for young ladies.

“You bastard!” Mac exploded, feeling his mother's pain. Mac continued to read, often seeing blurred spots on the small pages of cramped writing. His mother's tears. What else could it be?

Mac continued to turn the pages, his eyes devouring the small, cramped writing. There was more to write now, more secrets, and the space allotted was too small. Words were written sideways in the margins, powerful, unbelievable words. So powerful and unbelievable Mac didn't hear Yody come in, didn't hear her hammer the butterfly and clown pictures to the wall next to him. He didn't see the dogs get up, and didn't hear Jenny's and Alice's laughter. Yody watched him out of the corner of her eye.

The books were placed back in the box. The string tied. Only the last diary remained on the desk.

His steps were jerky, lopsided, when he walked from the study, down the hall, out to the kitchen and then outside. Yody called to the dogs to stay inside. They sat on their haunches, panting after their master. She watched as Mac ran, not for the barn and Jeopardy, but out across the fields. In unison the dogs howled. The fine hair on the back of Yody's neck prickled. After what seemed like a long time, she heard a sound she'd never heard before. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the sound to stop.

It did. Finally.

Yody blew up the balloons and tied them to the backs of the chairs with butcher's string, then she set the table. She fed the dogs leftover roast beef because everyone knew spaghetti wasn't good for dogs. She filled their water dishes. She took the cherry cobbler out of the oven, and still the fine hairs on her neck were on end. She fixed the coffeepot and made a jelly sandwich with strawberry jelly, which she wrapped in wax paper for the little girl's dessert. She watered the plants and then blew up the last three balloons, which she tied onto the door handle. “It looks as if we're having a party,” she said to the dogs.

She heard him before she saw him. She turned when the dogs did, her ears every bit as keen as theirs.

“I'm hungry, Yody,” Mac said tightly. “It's almost six, so I'll wash up. I have to make a phone call. Call me the minute Alice and Jenny get here.” He smiled. Yody could feel her body go limp. The dogs laid down in the middle of the floor. Whatever the crisis was, it was over.

Yody drained the water from the spaghetti.

It was seven-thirty when Alice said good night. “We really enjoyed dinner, Mac. I know I did, and I never saw Jenny eat so much. She's almost asleep on her feet. Perhaps we can return the favor one of these days. I'm glad you invited us. Whenever you want to do the interview with those people, just tell me. I'd like at least a day's notice, if you can manage it.” She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thanks, Mac. You made Jenny very happy tonight. She loves the balloons.”

“I'll walk you over to the house. How about a piggyback ride?” Mac stooped down while Alice helped Jenny climb onto his back. The long strings of balloons were fastened securely onto her wrist. He galloped like a horse across the lawn and up the hill to the main house, with Jenny astride him.

“What you're doing at the foundation is wonderful, Alice,” Mac said sincerely.

“I couldn't do it without your help, Mac. It's you who should be proud. What you're doing is wonderful. I'm very grateful, Mac, I just want you to know that. And again, if there's anything I can do . . . if you need me for anything . . . just ask.”

“I will. Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite,” he teased Jenny. The little girl laughed when he tweaked her cheek.

He was alone.

Again.

T
HE FRONT DOOR
was made from the finest mahogany, and the brass doorbell shined so that he could see his reflection. Fresh paint, white, of course, permeated the air around him. All about him azaleas bloomed. Bees buzzed in the warm spring air. He could tell by the sweet earthy smell that someone had mowed the acres of lawn recently. He could hear the swish of the lawn sprinklers behind him. He looked for a leaf, a twig, a speck of dirt on the old veranda but could find nothing. In the South, people rose early and did their chores before the heat took over.

Mac rang the bell a second time. The wicker chairs were the same as those at his mother's old home, only in better condition. The owners probably sipped lemonade and mint juleps out here. Maybe coffee. He wasn't up on the ways of the South these days.

He was a nice-looking man, Mac thought when the door opened to reveal a gentleman as tall as himself, dressed in snowy-white shirt and khaki trousers. Distinguished, Mac thought. Silver hair, plenty of it, brushed casually to the side. Handsome. His smile was warm and welcoming, his eyes bright and curious.

“Mr. Ellis?” Mac asked.

“Yes.”

“My name's Malcolm Carlin. I believe you're my father.”

The smile stretched from ear to ear. “They said they would never tell you. Come in, come in . . . son.”

“They didn't. My uncle Harry gave me my mother's old diaries a long time ago. I'm sorry to say I didn't read them till yesterday.”

“Let's go back in the kitchen. I hate sitting in this parlor. We can have some coffee or lemonade and talk man to man.”

“Fine with me,” Mac said.

He was a good host, setting out fine china and silver spoons along with linen napkins. The percolator was silver and electric. Mac could see his reflection in it. He raised his eyes to stare at his father, a stranger.

“I always wondered about you. I heard you came back to the cemetery a while back. Met Harry in the post office and he told me. Harry more or less kept me informed. Not that he knew much. You see, Harry didn't give his promise to keep everything a secret, the way your mother and I did. Harry simply wouldn't do it. And your grandfather Ashwood couldn't make him. Harry was the oldest boy and a real hellion. In the end the old gentleman backed down. I couldn't marry your mother, son, even though I loved her as much as life. I was promised to another wonderful woman who did become my wife. Things are different here in the South, as you well know. Matilda's father and my father struck up a bargain, and this plantation is the end result. Money changed hands, that kind of thing. That's the way it was done back then. Your grandfather Ashwood didn't think my family was good enough for the Ashwood bloodline. His loss, I might add,” the old man said sprightly.

“If you were promised, then how did you manage to get my mother pregnant?” Mac snapped.

“In the usual way. You're being cheeky, so you deserve such an answer, young man,” Ellis said sharply.

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” Mac retaliated.

“Humor me, son. Having you sit there across from me isn't the most comfortable of situations for me. I loved her. She loved me. I had the freedom to go out in the evenings. Your mama would arrange with Maddy to go for a walk, and we'd meet. Maddy would go off for a little while and we'd be alone. Neither one of us knew anything about stopping babies—what's referred to as birth control today. We took a chance and we lost. When your mama came to me and said she stopped perking, I was wild. I didn't know what to do. Excuse me, stopped perking means she stopped menstruating. Southern term. Both of us knew your granddaddy would have strung me up from the nearest oak tree and kicked out the bench. It was your mama's idea to go after the man who . . . Marcus Carlin, who was in town visiting. She set her cap for him, and when he fell for her, she went and told your granddaddy she was pregnant, but she wouldn't tell him the father's name. He was a staunch southern aristocrat with so much money he would have choked a dozen mules to see this northern Yankee's father who had pissed in his poke. They struck up a deal, and as Marcus said later, many, many times, he had bought damaged merchandise. Your mama never loved him. She did it for me, so I wouldn't get hung by my neck and so there wouldn't be an Ashwood scandal.

“Bet you never knew we kept in touch through Harry, did you?”

“No, I never knew that. Did . . . Marcus Carlin know?”

“I'm not sure. When he sent her back here, we thought for sure he knew. It was his way of tormenting us both. I had a wife and family then, and she had no one. We saw each other in church, but that was it. I went to her funeral. We never got to talk about you face to face. Marcus got a whole lot of money for marrying your mama. Actually, his father got it. Same difference. Her dowry, they called it.”

“I hated him. I still hate him. I'll always hate him. When I came of age, you should have told me. I'm the one who told my mother about . . .
his
infidelity. I will never forget the look on her face,” Mac said miserably. Adam patted his hand reassuringly.

“It's no longer important, son. We should have done a lot of things, son, but we didn't. That's all water under the bridge now. Can't make up the past to you, but the future is just around the corner. Your mama said you were going to turn out to be a fine man, and, by gad, she was right. I was real proud when you took your seat in the United States Senate. What would you think about coming here and working for us? We could use a bright young senator like yourself. I'm not without influence around here.” He grinned.

Mac snorted. Where had he heard those words before?

“Do you have children?” he asked curiously. If he did, that meant he would have half brothers and sisters.

“Four girls. My wife died the same year Harry died. I live alone here. A woman comes in to clean and cook. My two oldest daughters live in Columbia, and another one lives in Summerville, and the fourth one lives up north in New York City. Got eleven grandchildren. Guess that makes you an uncle of sorts. I imagine this is all a bit overwhelming now that you've heard it. We gave our word, Malcolm. No true southerner ever goes back on his word. You wait here, one minute,” Ellis said, getting up from his seat at the table. “I have something I want to show you.”

Mac wanted to cry, lash out. How many goddamn kicks in the gut was he going to have to endure? His eyes were moist when he looked up at his father. In his hands he had a stout wooden box with a padlock.

“I guess you could say this is the story of your life, the only life I knew. Of course, everything stopped when your mama came here, but we still managed to get news of you one way or another. Harry was real good about it. He paid out a lot of money to detectives to snap your picture. See this one? You were going into a moving picture show with a friend. I was at your graduation from West Point. I wouldn't have missed that for all the cotton in the South. Harry was with me. We, both of us, went to the cemetery when we got back here and told your mama what a fine young man you were.”

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do now,” Mac muttered.

“What is it they say in the army? Fall back and regroup, something like that.”

“Yeah, something like that.

“I need to know why my mother didn't . . . she didn't write, call me, or get in touch.”

“Harry told me she was afraid of what Marcus would do to you. She knew Harry would tell you some day, and you'd forgive her. She did what she had to do, you'll just have to accept that. She loved you as much as she loved me. Maybe more,” Ellis chuckled, “but I was never jealous, because I loved you too. I want you to believe that.”

“I do. I can feel it,” Mac said in a choked voice. “I'd like to get to know you better.”

“I'd like that too, son. When you're ready. Is it true what I hear about you turning the Ashwood homestead into a summer camp for retarded children?”

“News does travel fast, doesn't it?” His father nodded and Mac continued. “There's a lot of land here, more than the Down's Syndrome Foundation can use. I've been thinking about starting up something else down here, for Vietnam veterans. Hell, I'm not getting anywhere in Washington. I went into politics thinking I could do some good. Christ, I tried, but no matter what I do, I get stonewalled. I hate to say this, but our country doesn't give a shit about the guys who fought in Vietnam. So I'm getting out when my term is up. Maybe sooner. I don't want you getting the idea I'm a quitter. It's just that I think I can do more good down here. And thanks for the offer of southern politics, but I have to say no. Those people you mentioned, you said you weren't without influence . . . do you suppose they'd . . . give me some support, or are they as narrow-minded as the people back home? I've got to warn you, this is one hell of an undertaking.”

“Son, I'd consider it an honor to do whatever I can.” His eyes twinkled happily.

“Then we have a deal.” Mac didn't know it, but his own eyes were twinkling. Jesus, he had a
real
father.

“By the way,” his father went on, “the tail end of my property links up with yours way back at the end. If you find yourself in need of a few more acres, I would be more than glad to share. The decision is yours. No money will change hands. You think about it.”

“I'll do that, sir. If you don't mind, I think I'll drive by the old house and pay a visit to the cemetery. I'll be back. I'm not sure when, but I will be back.”

“I'll be here, son.”

They shook hands—father and son. He wasn't ready for anything else.

Not yet.

M
AC DID HIS
best to digest the past few hours. He had a real flesh-and-blood father. The kind of father, he thought, had they lived together, who would have taken him fishing, taught him to drive, gone to sports events with him. A kindly man. A man who loved his mother but, due to circumstances, was prevented from having a family life with her. He understood now, and felt he was capable of putting it all in proper perspective. A father who really did care about him. His mother had truly loved him and had done all she could. The ache in his heart eased when he swung the rental car onto Route 26.

He had decided not to go to his mother's old home or to the cemetery. He had plenty of time for all that. The rest of his life.

So it turned out that he'd been bought and paid for like a bale of cotton by Marcus Carlin. And then he and his mother had continued to pay for the rest of their lives. His real father had told him all about it. The Carlins of Virginia had fallen on hard times, and the Ashwoods of Charleston had bailed out the old northern family. The house in McLean really did belong to the Carlins, but Ashwood money had restored it. Well, he would give it back—lock, stock, and barrel, as they said in the South.

“It's my turn, you bastard,” Mac muttered through clenched teeth. “It's finally my turn.”

“Carlin's homestead was falling down around his ears,” Adam Ellis had said. “Your mama wrote to me and said it was no better than a big old chicken coop with broken windows, cracked floors, bad plumbing, and rotted electrical wires. The roof leaked, the walls were crumbling, and the chimneys were clogged. The first year, the year you were born, there was no heat. Your mama bore it all so you wouldn't be born in disgrace. It was a terrible life she had there in Virginia. She told me she lived for my letters. If it wasn't for my own family, I would have come up there and snatched both of you away. God knows I wanted to. I think what stopped me was the knowledge that your mama wouldn't have come with me. She made a bargain and she stuck to it.”

Mac sat up straighter in the rental car. His shoulders felt light; a feeling of buoyancy swept over him.

He was free.

His jaunt was steady, almost a strut, as he made his way through Charleston's small airport. He knew what he had to do now.

The plane ride was short and uneventful. The trip to McLean from the airport was slightly more eventful. He stopped at his bank and a sporting goods store before he finished the last leg of his trip. He pulled alongside of Alice's car, which was heading out to the main highway. He rolled down his window and motioned for her to do the same. “I'd appreciate it if you'd follow me back to the house. I have to talk to you about something. It concerns you and Jenny.”

Fear fluttered in Alice's stomach. “All right, Mac,” she said quietly. So, she thought, he's finally made the decision to get a divorce. Well, she couldn't blame him. It was all her own fault. She wasn't going to fight him in any way. “You should have given me a second chance, Mac,” she whispered to herself. “I would have given you one.”