Her Father's House (29 page)

“Listen here.” Dr. Scofield spoke up with severity. “I'm going to prescribe something that will give you a night's sleep, Laura. One of you young men take it to the pharmacy now, before it closes.”

“No,” Laura said. “I'm not staying in this house. And I don't take drugs. I'll face reality, not escape it.”

“This is medicine, Laura. I'm not a drug dealer.”

“I won't stay here in this house!”

“There's noplace else for you to stay. You'll stay here. And anyway, you're not fit to travel. Kate and I will take you upstairs and get you into your bed.”

   

When she awoke, the room was gray, and rain was spattering the window glass with the force of anger. Even before she left the bed, she knew that a gale had come down from the north.

Something, Dr. Scofield's pill or perhaps some curious quirk of her nerves, hormones, genes—no matter which—had turned yesterday's helplessness into determination. Whatever it was, it pulled her upright and set her feet onto the floor.

Tomorrow she would be united with her mother.
Mother.
The woman who had borne her. And she looked at the desk where the fake had stood, the smiling fake that she had loved enough to have it duplicated for her other desk in New York.

Someone tapped on the door. “May I come in? I heard you moving around. They asked me to be here so you wouldn't wake up in a vacant house,” Jennie said.

She seemed shy. She seemed small, this teacher who had once been tall in her authority. No doubt she knew the whole story, while I knew nothing, thought Laura.
She
knows everything about
my
life!

“Your friend Gilbert left early to catch a plane home. He wants to find out what's happening, to see how he can help your father. He'll phone you later today, he said. I should be sure to give you that message. I should be sure to tell you he loves you. He wants you to be calm.”

“Thank you. I am calm.”

“Your father called, too. Said not to wake you. He'll be home and try to explain everything. It's an unbelievable shock, he knows that, but in the end he's sure you will understand and forgive.”

“So he's sure, is he? How nice for him!”

“Will you come down and have a late breakfast or an early brunch? It's half-past ten. Kate took corn muffins out of the freezer. Corn with raisins. She said you love raisins.”

Muffins! Are they supposed to make up for twenty years of deception? Nevertheless, Laura went downstairs and sat with Jennie at the familiar kitchen table, across from the dog's water bowl and Rick's raincoat on a wall hook in the corner.

There was nothing to say. Or rather, there was too much to be said. Jennie got up and brought to the table Kate's treasured copper-trimmed coffee pot. The clock in the hall chimed eleven. Clancy came in, lapped water noisily, and rested his wet whiskers on Laura's knee.

Strange that it should be a dog who brought forth the tears she had just vowed not to shed! Be calm, Gil said. Be strong. Cope with disaster as a person must, and people do every day, everywhere.

Jennie spoke softly. “Is there anything you want to ask me, Laura?”

“There's so much that I don't even know how to begin.”

“When you telephoned yesterday, I wasn't able to talk to you. I think I said something about a pot boiling on the stove. They had just come for Jim—for your dad. They were expected, so Kate had asked me to be here. Old, old friends, you know. Not that she seemed to need me or any support. She held her head up. Jim—your dad—had put on a business suit. He answered the officer with his correct name, Donald Wolfe. The officer was a nervous wreck, I could see. Of course, he must have known Jim for years. Everybody knew Jim, and loved him,” Jennie faltered.

A fascinating topic, this would be, from the courthouse to the beauty parlors and the coffee shops, all through the town. The crowds that collect around a four-car accident on the highway are full of pity at sight of the blood and guts, but there is more than a touch, a thrill, of drama along with the pity.

“A fellow was here this morning,” Jennie hesitated. “A reporter. I forget what paper he was from. I told him you weren't here. You were in New York.”

“That was kind. Thank you.”

There was a silence. Jennie got up, rinsed the few plates, and tidied the kitchen counters while Laura stared out at the windy sky.

“You won't mind if I go home, Laura? It's Sunday, and it's our turn for the family's get-together at our house.”

All of a sudden, the most innocent words, “the family,” were sharp as a knife. Whose family? Where? Who?

“No, I don't mind. And thanks again for everything.”

“Sure you're all right? What are you going to do while I'm gone?”

“I guess I'll just read the paper or something.”

“I took it in from the front step. Maybe I shouldn't have. I didn't think. Don't bother with it, Laura. It's just a scandal sheet.”

Dear, forgetful Jennie. Yes, probably she shouldn't have brought it into the house.

Friends are rallying on behalf of Lillian Storm. Early rumors yesterday from authorities in Georgia suggesting that Donald Wolfe, her former husband, will defend his kidnapping of their child by charging her with being an “unfit mother,” have shocked people here and abroad. Not one person out of the several who have already been interviewed during the last two days has failed to be outraged by the charge. The consensus of opinion is that she has spent the last twenty years in a brokenhearted, fruitless search for the girl, Bettina, whom Donald Wolfe took away from her nurse in Central Park and has hidden in Georgia, where they now live on a tree farm owned by Wolfe and his second wife.

The girl, now known as Laura Fuller, is a medical student in this city.

So the mother,
Rebecca,
is
Lillian
. The daughter,
Laura,
is
Bettina
. And they would not even recognize each other if they were to pass on the street.

“I cannot bear this,” said Laura.

Beyond the window swept the gale, ripping early blossoms from the trees, twisting and crippling their branches. Any living creature would be grateful for any kind of shelter on such a terrible day, yet if she could have walked through it to reach Lillian Storm, she would have done so. For a long time, she stood there staring out into the rain.

She was still looking out when a bedraggled little group—Mom, Richard, Dr. Scofield, and another man—came into the room.

“Laura,” Richard began, but she stopped him.

“You're forgetting. The name is ‘Bettina.' ”

“Ah, don't,” Kate pleaded. “This is Mr. McLaughlin. He's kindly come here to talk to us.”

Mr. McLaughlin might indeed have come kindly, but he had clearly not missed the little exchange about names; his quick glance encompassed everything from Kate's reddened eyes to Laura's retort.

“I have had my understanding with Jim,” he said. “It was effortless on my part. He had all the answers almost before I asked the questions. But I haven't yet laid things out on the table for the rest of you. It's a tragedy.” He shook his gray head and continued. “Shakespeare could have written it. Yes, it's a blow to you, young lady. I understand that. But believe me, it's even worse for your father.”

“Young lady.” The old-fashioned term would have amused her if she had been in a mood for amusement.

“It seems you are only thinking of him,” she replied coldly. “Of course. You're his lawyer. But I am thinking of my mother. Have you by any chance read this?” And she handed the newspaper to him. “‘Punishment to the fullest extent of the law,' she wants. Well, I have to tell you, that's what he will probably get, and he should. I have a different point of view from yours, you see.”

Richard, who had been standing beside his mother with shoulders bowed, seemed suddenly to come to life.

“Laura doesn't know the other side,” he said. “I know Jim wouldn't want me to tell it straight out to her; in fact, he forbade me to do so, but I'm going to do it anyway. That kind of life was—it was indecent. And so, to remove his child from it, he sacrificed everything he had achieved for himself.”

McLaughlin had settled into a chair as if he were exhausted. His voice was low and agitated.

“Kidnapping is a federal crime. The best we can hope for is a reduction in prison time. Let me put this to you bluntly right from the start, though it hurts me like hell to do it.”

Richard put his arm around his mother, who, having released one cry, was still.

“I've already heard from Mrs. Storm's lawyers. They lost no time, not an hour's worth. But I cannot defend Jim in New York, that you know. I'll have him out on bail tomorrow morning, but that's as far as I can go. You'll be needing counsel in New York, and I suggest you hire the best you can find.”

“I thought,” Laura said, “there would be an enormous fine. I didn't realize that they put a man in prison for taking his own child.”

“For kidnapping? You didn't know?” McLaughlin's thin smile was astonished. “You'd better stick to medicine then, not law. Your father was telling me—he's very proud of you. Yes. They put you in prison for kidnapping.”

In a low, strained voice, Richard managed a question. “For how long?”

“It depends. It can be as long as twenty or thirty years, and usually is.”

Kate began to weep, making fearful, choking sounds while she rested her head on Rick's shoulder.

A woman whose child had been run over on the street where Laura lived had made just such awful sounds. . . . “Thirty years,” Laura whispered, watching Kate, who never cried. Then she turned to McLaughlin.

“Thirty years,” she repeated. “Is that the fullest extent of the law?”

“I would expect so. It could be more if Jim had mistreated or neglected you, but since that's not the case—at any rate, that's what they'll aim for.”

“And they will get it?”

“It's safe to say he'll serve some years. I wish I didn't have to say it.”

“But all the people who know him, people in town, surely they'll vouch for him, a citizen like him. Won't that count for anything?” asked Richard.

“Frankly, I doubt it will help much. Shouldn't you get a doctor for your mother?” McLaughlin asked with pity, and glanced toward Kate, whose body seemed about to collapse.

“I have those pills I took last night,” Laura offered.

“Yes, give her one. I'm sorry that I've had to talk as I've done, but you wanted the truth. I'm always sorry when I have to give people news that they don't want to hear. But you need the truth in order to do your best for Jim. A tragedy,” McLaughlin repeated. “A splendid man. An eminent lawyer, well on his way to the very top, they tell me. I myself have known him for a long time, but of course I never knew who he really was. I never guessed. How could I have? Well, I'll see you in the courtroom tomorrow. You know you have to bring the deed to the farm,” he added as he went to the door.

“We know,” Rick said.

   

The house was still. Only the creak of the top step as Richard mounted the stairs disturbed the stillness. Then came the small thud of his door as he went to his room. From Kate's room there came no sounds; she must have taken one of Dr. Scofield's pills.

Now finally, long after midnight, the rain had ceased and with it the last gurgle in the spout near Laura's window, through which there poured the poignant scent of wet grass. On the rim of the hills there rested a gibbous moon, faintly green. Living as long as she had in the city, she had long forgotten to look outside except to question whether to carry an umbrella.

Dad and Richard always searched the sky. Should they irrigate today? Was that a rain cloud, or was the sun about to break through the mist? After breakfast, Dad always put on a jacket and drove to town, or else wore jeans and worked in the office, or else wore jeans and surveyed the farm. So it had always been.

Yesterday morning, thirty-six hours ago, everything had made sense. Laura Fuller had made her tidy plans for Saturday; she had had plans for Sunday and would be back in class on Monday. Now, like the victim of earthquake or war, she had no plans. She was not even Laura Fuller anymore.

Needing to steady herself, she grasped the back of a chair and stared about the room, at the bed, the chest, and the desk, where until yesterday had stood that fake photograph, and where, next to it, still stood the smiling family, herself in the midst of them, wearing cap and gown. There they were, for all time together, and now split apart.

Is that really you, Donald Wolfe? What have you done with your life? Oh, I am so angry, I am enraged, I am crushed. I have come home and found my house bombed and everyone in it dead.

An unfit mother, he says. And she has spent the last twenty years with a broken heart! How they must have despised each other. Oh my mother, I need to talk to you!

   

The morning dawned, this morning that should be taking her back to New York, where she would wait for that
Rebecca
, now to be known as
Lillian
. Yet she could not leave here without knowing what the day would bring. Dressed and ready within ten minutes, she went downstairs to find that Kate was already in the car, and Richard was about to join her.

“I can't talk, we have to hurry,” he said.

“I'll be quick. I accused you last night. I was pretty frantic.”

“Understandably. It's okay. We'll talk about it later.”

“Is Mom all right?”

“No, but she'll manage. She has to.”

“Shall I go with you now?”

“No. He doesn't want you to see him where he is.”

Laura nodded at Richard, and the door closed.

The county newspaper had been delivered and put on the table. On the front page in a column next to the state election ran the black heading:

FULLER BAIL, VERY HEAVY,
EXPECTED TO BE SET TODAY