Her Father's House (8 page)

Chapter 7

I
t had begun to drizzle, and the April air was soft on Donald's face as he walked toward the hospital. On the corner of the street, he stopped to reconsider whether or not he should continue.

The early morning's telephone call at home had surprised him, although it really should not have done so because he could hardly have expected Lillian to send him a formal birth announcement. In high spirits she had urged him to visit the nursery for a look at the prettiest seven-pound, three-ounce baby girl that anyone could imagine.

“Just ask for the Wolfe baby, and they'll pick her up to show you.”

Wolfe
. Well, of course. What else should it be? He was, after all, the father, soon to be in three or four months the divorced father, but still, the father.

There was such emotional turmoil inside him! During the fall and winter just past, he had been settling down. Mr. Pratt had been right about work as a restorer of mental health; he had provided Donald with so much activity, two trips abroad and a full load at home, that there had been neither time nor energy left for personal grief. But now, as he hesitated on the street, anxiety surged back as if to engulf him again.

What was the point of going in to see this baby? For one thing, it was a girl, and even though he knew he wasn't supposed to feel this way, he believed that he would have a different kind of companionship with a boy than with a girl. So this child would belong to Lillian, and he would be reduced to the kind of pathetic father who had lunch on a Saturday or Sunday with a child who hardly knew him.

He was still standing, undecided, when he caught sight of Lillian's friend Cindy coming out of the hospital. He had not seen her since the day of the wedding, yet she was unmistakable in her slipshod clothes and long, unkempt hair. It was the sight of her that abruptly made his decision; if
she
thinks enough of a friend's baby to come here, then surely
I
have a greater obligation.

The truth was that he was also dreading what he might feel when he beheld this child of divided parents, this child who was to be reared in another man's house.

He went inside, took the elevator, and following directions to the nursery, came face-to-face with Lillian.

“Oh—I didn't think,” he stammered. “How are you?”

“Didn't think I'd be walking around? It's over twenty-four hours, and they want you to walk. This is my second trip to the nursery.”

For a moment he wondered whether she felt as awkward as he did, and in the second moment, knew very well that she did not. For her there would be no embarrassment in remembering how intimate they had once been. He knew every inch of the body underneath the quilted silk robe. If he had known what he later learned, there would be no child now. He would never have touched her.

I wouldn't even recognize him the next morning.

“I'm so glad I didn't—didn't do that, Donald. She's absolutely adorable, the sweetest little thing. See, right here in the second bassinet? She's asleep.”

A small, pink heap had a thatch of dark hair on its head. With surprise, he realized that he had lived all these years without ever having seen a newborn baby.

“Most of them are bald. Isn't it cute, all that hair? She'll probably lose it, they tell me, and be bald until the permanent hair comes in.”

There was a card on the bassinet.
Wolfe,
it said. He didn't know what he felt. Perhaps he just felt
strange
. Wolfe. His name. This
person
asleep there had his name. This
person
was attached to him and would be all her life, even if they should never meet again. And he stood there looking at the small heap of pink with the thatch of hair.

“We have the most gorgeous room for her. This decorator got somebody who painted the walls with Mother Goose murals.” Lillian was in an excited mood, full of chat. “And the nanny's room adjoins. Really, really lovely, the whole business. I want you to see it, Donald. Feel free to visit. Just call up first, that's all you have to do. I want everything to be friendly, Donald, and Howard agrees.”

His eyes went back to the name on the card: Wolfe. And a stranger in his generosity was providing all this “lovely business”! Anger that he knew to be unreasonable rose, lumped in his throat, and was brought under control.

“It's I who will provide for her future,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow morning I will open an account for her education. What are your thoughts about her name?”

“Oh, I'm having the worst time trying to decide! I thought for a while of
Bettina,
like my friend in Florence. She'd be
Tina
for short. Then I thought of
Antonia,
Toni for short. What do you think?”

“To tell you the truth, I don't like either one.”

“Then give me a suggestion.”

“I've never thought much about girls' names. But maybe something more everyday, not so different.”

“What? Like Cathy or Jennifer? Every other American girl has a name like those.”

“Well, she's an American girl.” Then he thought of something. “Perhaps we could name her after my mother. I would like that, if you don't mind it. Her name was Jane.”

“Jane! Oh, for heaven's sake,
Jane
!”

“Well then, after your mother. It's a nice custom, I think.”

“That's the last thing I'd do. I never liked my mother.”

Something about the way she said it, something even beyond the meaning of the words, her defiant stance, and the ugly challenge in her tone, affected Donald so that he could not help but respond.

“I have thought sometimes that you would be a happier person if you would learn to forgive whatever it is that—”

“Forgive us our trespasses?” she mocked, her voice rising so sharply that a nurse passing in the corridor turned to look. “Heavy, heavy. Somber, straitlaced, and serious. That's why we couldn't get along, Donald. Lighten up, will you? No, you never will. You're made this way.”

He should have minded his own business. There they were, quarreling again in a public hall alongside the innocent baby they had conceived together. It was hopeless.

“Name her whatever you like,” he said. “It's not worth an argument.”

“Fine. It's Bettina. Tina.”

Again he looked at the baby, who was still asleep. The little thing unaware of any future that might come her way. Bettina Wolfe. God bless you, Bettina Wolfe.

“I'm sorry, Donald. I certainly didn't plan to yell at you today.” Lillian laughed. “But you know me by now, so you won't mind. I'm starting to feel tired. Guess I'll go back to my room.”

“I'll be going, too. Take care.”

For a moment he watched her walk away down the hall. Not exactly sure what he was feeling, whether pity or anger or some of each, he knew only that even if it were possible to have her back, he would never, never want her.

   

That great case, the one that had sent so many lawyers rushing around the globe, was coming to an end with the unmasking of the brilliant scoundrel at the center of it. How many air miles Donald had flown, he had not counted; how many documents that, by patient digging and delving, had been analyzed, he had not counted, either; it was even a task to keep straight in his head all the names of the empty corporations and fake holding companies that the fugitive had concocted.

Curiously, one thing did keep its hold in a corner of his memory, and that was the overheard conversation in which two men had chuckled over and rooted for the scoundrel who was so cleverly eluding the law. Then, with this memory, there followed the rest of that painful night with all its consequences.

At the hotel bar in Switzerland a few days before they were all to go home, his partners rejoiced.

“I've had enough traveling to last the rest of my life. If I never leave my little roost on Madison Avenue at Orton and Pratt, that'll be okay with me.”

“I know what you mean. I hope my wife and kids will recognize me when I go home.”

These men would find it hard to believe me, Donald said to himself, if I were to say that I don't want to go home. And he thought of that play in which somebody is sitting on a bench waiting for somebody else who never comes. But he, Donald Wolfe, didn't even know what or whom he was waiting for!

Work was good. Augustus Pratt had telephoned him yesterday in his hotel room with unusual praise for his accomplishments in this difficult, complex case. Friends were good; when finally he had told them about the end of his marriage, they had supported him in every possible way.

But it was not enough. Guilt, like an unwelcome beggar, filled and harrassed him. He almost heard himself crying out: Get away from me! I have nothing to give you.

It's true that I haven't seen it for more than three months since it was born.
Do stop saying “it.” Her name is Bettina, Bettina Wolfe.
But what am I expected to do? Ring the doorbell—after an invitation, to be sure—at the home of my former wife, now become the legal wife of Mr. Howard Buzley? (They wasted no time, did they?) Ring the bell, walk in, and stand there gazing at the little pink stranger who bears my name and has my genes?

Back home again in the apartment, he put down the excellent book that was unable to hold his attention and gazed about at the rooms he had so carefully planned. They would have had to move to a larger place with an added room for the baby, but all these nice things would have gone with them and been rearranged. New bookshelves were no problem; a carpenter could do that in two days, including a couple of hours to put shelves in the baby's room; a child should grow up with books. . . . So went his fantasy.

He went to the window and looked down at the street, but there was nothing to see except shifting lights, and nothing to feel except the loneliness that is so peculiarly urban. He showered, laid out his clothes for the morning's appearance in court, and went to bed.

Around three o'clock a dream awakened him. It was said that dreams only last for a few seconds, yet this one seemed to have been going on for hours. He had been lost in some cold, far-off place. Kyrgyzstan? Was there such a place? He had been standing in a brutal wind, while indifferent people hurried past him. No one would even pause to listen to his pleas, although it would have been of no use if they had, because he did not speak their language. Darkness was falling and he was in a panic.

“Idiot!” he said aloud. “Something I ate, no doubt. Perhaps the fish.”

After that he lay awake thinking. He had done nothing about or for the child except to make some inquiries about Howard Buzley, as a result of which he had learned that Buzley was very rich, shrewd, and known for his kindly generosity. These qualities might well add up to one hundred percent safety, especially now that he was married to Lillian and could not easily abandon her without providing for her.

Nevertheless, it was Donald Wolfe, not Howard Buzley, who was responsible for that baby. It was Donald Wolfe who must at once take out a policy on his own life with the baby as beneficiary and a bank as trustee. It was he who would start a bank fund for her education. It was he who must begin to make some contact with her. All of these decisions came out of his head, but what was in his heart—well, he didn't know. He couldn't say.

   

Accordingly, Donald rang the bell of the “fabulous apartment with a view from the East River to the Hudson.” Inwardly, he was resentful because he did not want to be here, but if he wanted to see the baby, this was the only place to see her. Simple as that.

“I was just on the way out,” said Lillian when she opened the door. “You're late.”

“Sorry. I had to get these papers for you. Everything that I described to you over the phone is here in writing, a list with the bank, the trust, the insurance, everything. The originals are with Orton and Pratt.”

“Lucky little girl.” And she gave him the false, flat-lipped smile that came and went in the same instant.

Lucky? This child was lucky?

“Oh, Tina's absolutely adorable. You'll see. She's grown so much since you saw her, you'll be amazed. I can't tell yet whom she looks like, but she's certainly going to be very pretty, that I know. Howard says so, too. He's wonderful with children. He's had so much experience, after all. Come follow me to the nursery.”

Lillian, in a chatty mood, was the confident mistress of the house, dressed for the city summer in simple black linen with gold earrings and one wide gold bracelet. She was the woman he had seen for the first time that afternoon a thousand years ago. But no, he thought as he followed her through an elaborate sunken living room and library, whose shelves were filled with antique knickknacks and a handful of books, no. There's a change. She's climbing all around on the ladder, she's feeling glory, and she wants to show me how she lives now.

The nursery was large and sunny. The walls were bright with the Mother Goose murals that had been promised, but the canopied crib was empty.

Lillian, following his glance, explained that Tina was in the park getting fresh air.

“We have the most wonderful nanny. Her name is Maria, she doesn't speak English very well, but she's experienced, and she adores the baby.”

“In the park? Where can I find her?”

“Wait. I'll draw a map for you. Maria's wearing a green hat, and they'll be sitting near the museum. It's easy to find. But of course you know your way around the park.”

Oh yes, he did. All those Saturdays and Sundays, walking on top of the world . . . Let me get out of here, he thought, and never come back. When I want to see the baby, and I'll surely have to see her every now and then so she won't grow up not knowing she has a father, I'll see her in the park.

“Before you go, let me show you something. Look what Howard just bought for Tina. He's a great window-shopper, and when he passed a children's store, he couldn't resist this.”