Man, Woman and Child (3 page)

"I know how you must feel," he said.

"Do you really, Bob?"

"Well, I have a notion. Christ, I wish I hadn't told you."

So do I, she thought.

"Why did you tell me, Bob?" She said it like an accusation.

"I don't know."

"You do, goddammit. Bob. You do/" Her fury was erupting. Because she knew now what he wanted from her. Damn him.

"It's the child," she said.

It struck him with a force that frightened him.

"I—I'm not sure," he said.

But she was absolutely certain.

"Look, Bob, I know you inside out. You didn't want it, you didn't plan it, but since you have it, you feel responsible."

He was afraid to ask himself if she was right.

"I don't know," he said.

"Bob, for heaven's sake, be honest with yourself. It's something that we simply have to face."

Clutching at straws, he interpreted her "we" as a

sign that she had not totally sunendered hope for them.

''Well?'' She was waiting for an answer.

At last he mustered the courage to confront his feelings and admitted:

'Teah. I do. I can't explain it, but I feel I should do something."

"You owe him nothing, actually. You know that, don't you?''

Yes, of course he knew ... objectively.

"He's all alone," said Bob, relieved that he could now confess his thoughts. "Maybe I could help to straighten out his life. Find some alternative to—you know, sending him away."

You're not his parent just because you screwed his mother. Sheila shouted to herself, but did not say anything.

"How exactly do you think you'd help?" she asked him.

"I don't know. But maybe if I flew there . . ."

"To do what? Do you know anyone who'd take him in? Do you even have a plan?"

"No, Sheila. No, I don't."

"Then what's the point of flying over?"

He could not defend his impulse. He could barely fathom it.

And then she staggered him.

"I guess there's only one solution, Robert. Bring "him here."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"Do you know what you're saying?''

She nodded yes.

"Isn't that really why you told me?"

He wasn't sure, but he suspected she was right. Again.

"Could you bear it?"

She smiled sadly.

"I have to, Bob. It isn't generosity—ifs self-defense. If I don't let you try to help him now, you'll someday blame me for allowing your—your child to be put in an orphanage."

"I wouldn't...."

*Tes, you would. So do it, Bob, before I change my mind."

He looked at her. All he could manage as an answer was:

''Thank you, Sheila."

And so he let his lovely wife ignore the outrage and the imposition of it all as they discussed the visit of his son from France. The boy could join them when they moved down to the Cape.

''But just a month," she said. "Not one day more. That should give this Louis person ample time to make some permanent arrangement."

He looked at her.

"Do you realize what you're saying?"

"Yes."

He still could not believe it.

"What would we tell the girls?"

"We'll manufacture something."

God, how could she be so generous?

"You're incredible," he said.

She shook her head.

"No, Robert. I'm just thirty-nine years old."

1 WO WEEKS LATER, HE WAS PACING BACK AND FORTH

in the corridor of the International Arrivals Building at Logan Airport.

In the strained and anxious days before, there had been many conversations with Louis Venargues. To make arrangements, establish the parameters for the boy's brief visit to America. A month, not one day more. And Louis would have to use this grace period to find some alternative to a state orphanage.

Louis had to tell Jean-Claude that he had been invited by old friends of his mother's. The idea was not totally implausible, since Nicole would surely have spoken to him about her year of residency in Boston.

But under no circumstances could Louis tell the boy that Robert Beckwith was his father.

''Of course, Bobbie. Anything you say. I know this is not easy for you. I understand."

Do you? Bob wondered.

Then there was the not inconsiderable matter of telling the girls. After much agonizing, Bob convoked a family meeting.

''A friend of ours has died,'' he said.

25

26 Erich Segal

"Who?" asked Paula apprehensively. ^*Is it Grandma?''

''No/' said Bob. "It's nobody you've met. Someone in France. A lady."

"A French lady?" Paula asked again,

"Yes/'Bob replied.

Then Jessie said, "How come you're telling us if we don't know her?"

'She had a son .. /' Bob answered.

'How old?" Jessie quickly asked.

'Uh—roughly Paula's age/'

'Oh wow/' said Paula.

Jessica looked stilettos at her younger sister, and then turned to Bob. "And?" she inquired further.

"And he's an orphan/' Sheila added with an emphasis that only Bob appreciated.

"Oh gee/' said Paula sympathetically.

"That's why—" said Bob, "since he's alone— we'd like to ask him over for a while. Maybe a month. When we're in the big house at the Cape. That is, if neither of you minds."

"Oh wow," chirped Paula once again. Her vote was clearly yes.

"Jessie?"

"Well, there's justice in the world."

"What?"

"If I can't visit France, at least I'll have a native to discuss it with."

"He's only nine years old," said Bob, "and he'll be sort of sad. At least at first."

"But, Father, surely he can talk."

"Of course."

"Which means I'll hear a better French than Mademoiselle O'Shaughnessy's. Q.E.D. on you. Dad."

"He's my age, Jessie, not yours," Paula interrupted.

"My dear," said Jessie with hauteur, "he won't give you the temps du jour J'

"The whatr

"Go study French. Vous etes une twerp."

Paula pouted. Someday she'd get revenge on Jessie. And their foreign visitor would soon see what was what and pay attention to the true in heart.

Curiously, neither of them asked why the boy was crossing the Atlantic instead of staying with seme friend who lived a little closer. But girls of nine are overjoyed to have a visit from a boy their age. And girls of twelve are anxious to gain worldliness through international experience.

Sheila made herself go through the motions of a normal day. Her act worked well enough for the girls, who seemed to sense nothing awry. She worked furiously, and actually completed the editing of Reinhardt's book. Bob, of course, could see behind this fagade of industry, but could do nothing. Say nothing. As she grew more distant he felt increasingly helpless. They had never been estranged like this. At times when he was yearning for her smile, he would hate himself. At other times, he would hate the boy.

The Arrivals board announced that TWA 811 from Paris had just landed. A crowd began to form around the double-doored exit from the customs area.

And Bob suddenly was very scared. During the past weeks all the arrangements had occupied his mind to the exclusion of emotion. He'd been too distracted to allow himself to think what he might feel when those metal doors would open and a son of his would walk into his life. Not a theoretical dilemma he'd discussed by telephone, but flesh and blood. A living child.

The double doors now parted. Out came the flight crew, jabbering about the fantastic roast beef at Durgin-Park. And could they catch the Red Sox afterward?

**I know this disco . . /' said the captain, as they walked away.

In the instant when the open doors revealed the customs area, Bob craned his neck and tried to glimpse inside. He saw the lines of passengers, all waiting for inspection. But no little boy.

He was so distracted he began to smoke. Actually, since he had given up in high school, he was puffing on his pen. It pacified him somewhat, till he realized what he was doing. Embarrassed, he put it back into his pocket.

The doors now opened once again. This time a stewardess emerged, carrying a green leather valise and leading a tousle-haired little boy who was clutching a TWA flight bag close to his chest. The stewardess glanced swiftly at the crowd, finding Bob almost immediately.

"Professor Beckwith?''

"Yes."

"Hi. Guess I don't have to introduce you two." She turned to the boy, said, "Have a good time now," and slipped off.

Now, suddenly, the two of them were on their own. Bob glanced down at the little boy. Does he look anything like me? he thought.

"Jean-Claude?"

The boy nodded and held out his hand. Bob reached down and shook it.

*'Bonjour monsieur/* the child said politely.

Though his French was reasonably fluent, Bob had prepared some remarks in advance.

''Est-ce que tu as fait un bon voyage^ Jean-Claude?'*

*Tes, but I speak English. I have taken private lessons since I was small/'

^*Oh, good/'said Bob.

''Of course, I hope to practice. I thank you for inviting me.'*

Bob sensed the boy's remarks had also been rehearsed. He picked up the green leather suitcase.

''Can I take your flight bag?''

"No, thank you/' said the boy, clutching his red canvas sack even tighter.

"My car's just outside," said Bob. "Are you sure you have everything?"

"Yes, sir."

They began to walk. Through the doors and into the parking area, where the bright sun was now dimming into the afternoon. The humid Boston heat was still intense. The little boy followed silently, half a step behind.

"So the trip was okay, huh?" Bob asked once again.

"Yes. Quite long, but nice."

"Uh—how was the film?" Another question Bob had carefully prepared.

"I didn't watch it. I was reading a book/'

"Oh," said Bob. They now had reached his car. "Look, Jean-Claude, a Peugeot. Doesn't that make you feel at home?"

The boy glanced up at him and gave a tiny smile. Did that mean yes or no?

"Would you like to sleep in back?" Bob asked.

"No, Mr. Beckwith. I would prefer to see the sights."

"Please don't be formal, Jean-Claude. Just call me Bob."

"I feel awake, Bob," Jean-Claude said.

Once they were inside the car, Bob asked him, "Do you know how to fasten your seat belt?"

"No."

"I'll help you/'

Bob reached over and toolc hold of the belt. As he fumbled with it, drawing it across Jean-Claude's chest, he brushed him with the side of his hand.

My God, he thought. He's real. My son is real.

In a matter of minutes they were driving through the Sumner Tunnel and Jean-Claude was fast asleep. As they headed south on Route 93, Bob kept the car under the speed limit. The trip normally would take at least an hour and a half. But he wanted as much time as possible to look at the boy. Simply look.

The boy was curled up, leaning his head against the car door.

He looks a little frightened. Bob thought as he drove into the growing darkness. Hell, it's only natural. After all, he had woken up some twenty hours earlier in the sunny security of his native village. Was he afraid when he boarded the connecting flight to Paris that morning? Had he ever been outside the south of France? (That was a nice safe topic they might talk about tomorrow.)

Did someone from TWA meet him in Paris as promised? He had worried about that—a little boy changing planes all by himself. Did he know what to say? Well, obviously. And he seems to have such poise for a nine-year-old.

Nine. He had been alive for almost a decade without Bob's knowing he existed. But then he still doesn't know that J exist. Bob wondered what Nicole had told him of his father.

He looked at the sleeping child and thought, You are a stranger in a foreign land, five thousand miles from home and unaware that I, sitting right beside you, am your father. What would you say

if you knew? Did you miss not knowing me? He looked at him again. Did I miss not knowing you?

The boy awakened just as they were passing Plymouth. He saw the road sign.

'*Is that where the rock is?" he asked.

'Tes. Well visit it sometime. We'll visit all the famous places while you're here."

Then the Cape Cod Canal. And Sandwich. The boy laughed.

*'There is a place called Sandwich?"

"Yes." Bob chuckled with him. ''There's even an East Sandwich."

"Who made up such a funny name?"

"Somebody hungry, I guess," said Bob. And the boy laughed again.

Good, thought Bob, the ice is broken.

Some minutes later, they passed another significant road sign.

"Now that is a reasonable name," said Jean-Claude, grinning mischievously.

"Orleans," said Bob. "Our Joan of Arcs all wear bikinis here."

"Can we go sometime?" he asked.

'Tes." Bob smiled.

WELLFLEET, 6 MILES.

Bob didn't want the trip to end, yet in a few short minutes, end it would. His wife and family were waiting.

"Do you know about my children, Jean-Claude?"

"Yes. Louis said you have two daughters. And your wife is very kind."

"She is," said Bob.

"Did she know my mother too?" he asked.

Jesus, don't ask Sheila that, Jean-Claude.

"Uh—yes. But distantly."

"Oh. Then you were her closer friend."

*'Yes/' Bob answered. And then quickly realized he should add, "I liked her very much."

"Yes/' the boy said softly.

Just then they had reached the corner of Pilgrim Spring Road. In sixty seconds they'd be home.

J

1 HEY ALL STARED AT HIM WITH DIFFERING EMO-

tions.

Sheila felt an inward tremor. She thought she had prepared herself for this. But she was not prepared. The little boy now standing in her living room was his. Her husband's child. The impact far exceeded everything she had imagined. Because, she realized now, a part of her had been refusing to accept the truth. But there was no escape now. Proof was standing there before her, four feet tall.

''Hello, Jean-Claude. We're glad to have you." That was the most that she could manage. Every syllable took painful effort. Would he notice that she couldn't smile?