He nodded, thinking.
"Can we talk to your father now? Would he talk to us?" I asked. I was afraid to approach him myself. "Let's try," Cary said.
We descended the stairs together and found Uncle Jacob reading his paper and listening to the news on the radio. He looked up, surprised.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Melody has some questions to ask you, Dad," he said. "Because of the things Grandma told her and me about her mother."
"You know how I feel about talking about that." He started to raise his paper.
"Grandma feels we're old enough to know things, why can't you?" Cary challenged. I think he was braver with me standing beside him, only now I felt responsible for any bad feeling between him and his father.
Uncle Jacob thought a moment and then lowered the paper to his lap. He turned off the radio. "You want to hear about your mother? You want to hear the ugly truth?" he said with a note of threat.
"I want to know the truth," I replied undaunted, "ugly or otherwise."
"All right. Sit," he said, nodding at the settee. We both went to it. Uncle Jacob lit his pipe and puffed for a few moments.
"Haille was always getting in trouble with boys. Either Chester or I had to come to her aid all the time, trying to save her from herself. On more than one occasion, I found her down on the beach with someone doing things I'd rather not describe. I got into fights and so did Chester. We were teased a lot. The family was disgraced a lot, but nothing seemed to change her. She was fascinated with herself.
"Your mother was always a source of misery for my parents," he said, pointing with his pipe. "She was caught smoking, drinking, and doing all sorts of immoral stuff in school dozens of times. If my mother hadn't had influence in this town, they would have thrown Haille out of the public school. She was actually arrested twice for lewd behavior on the beach when she was in high school." He paused. "You still want to hear this?"
I swallowed back a throat lump and nodded.
"About when she was fifteen, sixteen, she got caught with a truck driver out on the dunes. They were going to throw the book at the guy. He was about twenty-eight or so and she was obviously under age. Only, my mother was worried about the scandal, so it was kept quiet and the truck driver was let go. Mother tried to get a doctor to help Haille, the same doctor who was treating Belinda at the time, I recall, but nothing seemed to help. She was a wild creature. She'd do whatever she wanted, whatever she fancied. Chester and I did our best to cover up for her, to protect her."
He paused and sat back, thinking. The lines in his face grew deeper, his eyes colder. Then he took a breath and continued. "The year she was supposed to graduate from high school, Kenneth Childs began coming up and spending time with us more and more. We liked Kenneth and our families were close. In those days Chester and I thought of him as another brother. Kenneth was going to college in Boston. He would come up weekends. Sometimes Chester and I didn't know he was in town, but Haille always did. She was over at the Childs' lots of times, and sometimes, there was no one else there but Kenneth.
"That was the year she got pregnant. She made up that story about my father. Chester always favored her more than I did, overlooked her sins. He made excuses for her all the time. He refused to believe Kenneth would make her pregnant and not own up to it. Haille filled him with lies about Dad and he swallowed them, because he was so hypnotized with her himself.
"I told him she was a liar and a whore. I told him she once tried to seduce me, and he got into a fight with me. He took her side and they ran off together. That's the story," he concluded, like a slap of thunder at the end of a rain storm.
There was a heavy silence in the room. Cary looked at me.
"Have you ever spoken with Kenneth Childs since?" I asked.
"We've had some words, mainly because of the judge.
I went to his mother's funeral, of course, but it's hard for me to look him in the face and not think about what happened."
"Did you ever ask him outright about it?"
"No," he said, "and I don't intend ever to talk about it. You're my mother's sister's grandchild. Your Aunt Sara is fond of you, and from what I hear, you're doing well in school. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need to or until your mother decides to be a mother instead of a tramp. That might never happen, of course, and soon you'll be on your own anyway. But I won't have any more talk about those days in my house," he said firmly. "And I don't want any scandals." He looked at Cary. "Satisfied?"
Cary turned to me. "You want to ask him anything else, Melody."
"No," I said. I was crying inside, the tears falling behind my eyes and over my heart.
Uncle Jacob went back to his paper and put the radio on again. I left the room, pounding up the stairs. I threw myself on the bed and lay there embracing my stuffed cat.
There was a soft knock on my door.
"Yes?"
Cary poked his head in.
"Are you okay?"
"No, but it's all right," I said. "I guess in my heart I knew everything your father said. It's just hard hearing it like that."
Cary nodded. "It'll be all right. Things will be just fine," he promised.
I smiled at him. "Sure."
"I'd better go up and start studying," he said. "I gotta pass those finals."
"Yes, you better. Cary," I said, as he started to close the door. He raised his eyebrows. "One day this week, will you take me to see Kenneth Childs?"
"Sure," he said. "I don't know what he'll do. He doesn't like people coming around much, I know. I hear that when he works, he won't even come to the door." "Still, I'd like to try to meet him," I said.
"Okay. Nose to the grindstone," he said and left.
I lay there for a long time, just thinking, remembering silly things Mommy had done, recalling her whining and crying and Daddy's soothing her all the time. Then I thought about her with Archie Marlin.
Children inherit so much from their parents, I thought. Would I become like her one day? It frightened and intrigued me. I had to know who my real father was. Then I could learn what part of him I had inherited and whether that part was strong enough to overcome the bad I had inherited from Mommy. To be without a past is almost like being without a future, I thought.
I would know my past. No temptation of a fortune, no threat, nothing would keep me from pursuing the truth.
No one at school knew anything about my trip back to West Virginia. They didn't question why I had been absent. Some-of the girls thought it was in sympathy with Cary and his unfair suspension. I didn't say it was, but I didn't deny it. There was a lot of excitement because of the school year's approaching end.
The week before finals was a week mainly for review. At the end of the week of finals, the school would have its variety show, the proceeds of which went toward college scholarships. The principal, Mr. Webster, hadn't forgotten that I played the fiddle. He had Mrs. Topper, the school music teacher who was in charge of the show, ask me to perform.
I tried to get out of it, claiming the truth: I hadn't been playing much these past months.
But Mrs. Topper was desperate. "I barely have enough performers to fill a half hour, much less an hour. I need you. You have to do two numbers," she pleaded. "It's all in good fun and for a good cause. Won't you help us?"
How could I refuse? But this, along with my anticipated visit with Kenneth Childs and my final exams made me more nervous than a flock of hens with a fox at the gate. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. Cary was more excited about my performing than I was. He insisted on watching and listening to me practice. Aunt Sara thought it was wonderful, too, and even Uncle Jacob looked and listened with interest.
I decided I would play one of Papa George's favorites, "Katy Cline," and a traditional Woody Guthrie folk favorite, "This Land is Your Land." I sang when I played, of course. Uncle Jacob looked amazed and Aunt Sara had the widest, happiest smile yet on her face. Cary beamed. I felt sorry for May, but she seemed content just fee
ling the vibrations when I let her or just watching my face and actions. I didn't think I was good enough to actually perform, but even Uncle Jacob said I was. He hinted that he would attend the show, which Cary said would be a first.
"The only community event I've ever seen him attend is the Blessing of the Fleet."
Cary suggested that on Thursday, after we had brought May home from school, he and I would go to the Point to see if I could speak to Kenneth Childs.
"What are you going to say?" he asked.
I thought a moment. "I'll introduce myself first and then see what he says."
"What if he says nothing? What if he just nods and walks away?"
"I'll find a way to get him to talk to me," I said. Actually, I was excited with the idea of just seeing him, seeing if there was anything about him that reminded me of myself. I couldn't really tell much from the few photos I'd seen.
"The last time I saw him, he had a beard," Cary said. "Laura and I used to go to the beach up there, but I've never been in his house or studio. What excuse are we going to use for driving over to see him?" he asked.
"We'll tell him my mother asked me to stop by to say hello," I replied. Cary nodded and smiled.
"You've been scheming, haven't you?"
"That's all I've been doing lately," I admitted.
"Okay, Thursday," he promised.
My heart was pounding in anticipation.
The night before, I sat at the desk and, after stuffing the envelope with the money Alice had given me, wrap-ping it carefully so no one would know what it was, I wrote her a letter.
Dear Alice,
You'll be surprised to learn that I didn't go to Los Angeles after all. My cousin Cary was sent by Grandma Olivia to bring me back to Provincetown and he found me at the bus station in Richmond. I agreed to return when he told me he thought he knew who my real father is. He's an artist who lives in Provincetown. Tomorrow, Cary is taking me to his house and studio and for the first time in my life, I will set eyes on the man who could be my father. I have seen pictures of him when he was younger, but seeing pictures is one thing. Standing before him in the flesh will he another.
I am rehearsing what I will say and how I will say it. You'd laugh if you saw how I pose before the mirror in my room and pretend I'm seeing him. Everything I can think to say sounds silly. I'm afraid he will just look at me and shake his head and maybe shut the door in my face. I don't know how I would feel if that happened.
Apparently, he is a man who keeps to himself so that just might happen. I'll write to tell you all about it afterward.
Speaking of rehearsals, you won't believe this, but I've been talked into performing at the school's annual scholarship variety show. I'll be playing my fiddle--two tunes. I practice and have played for the family. They all seemed impressed, but I'm terrified.
I'm returning all the money you lent me. It was nice of you to do it and I know now that you are my one true friend. I hope we will always remain friends, no matter how many miles apart we might be.
I still haven't heard from Mommy. When I asked her why she lied to me the last time she called, she sounded frantic and very distant and I have this fear she won't call again. There is a lot she and I have to discuss now, now that I'm old enough to
understand. I have heard unpleasant things about her when she was younger--my age and a little older. It saddens and sickens me, but I try not to think about it.
My grandmother has told me that I'm an heiress and that someday I'll have a lot of money. How's that for a surprise? Me, someday rich? Right now, I don't even think about it. It really doesn't seem important.
What's important is that I might be on the verge of learning the whole truth about myself and my family. It frightens me and yet, I know how much I want to know everything.
As I write this letter, I am looking at the watch Papa George gave me. Inside, I placed a blade of grass from Daddy's grave. Even though I was just there, I feel so far away, not only in miles but in time. It makes me feel that I'm about to become someone else, as if I lived a different life, a life that will soon end. After all, this and a few of the things I was able to bring with me are all that I have from my former life. Of course, I have memories, but they're burning down like candles. I'm afraid of being left in the dark.
As soon as I finish this letter, I'm going to practice my fiddle and then I'm going to go to sleep and dream of a new tomorrow, where lies crumble like fallen autumn leaves beneath my feet and where promises of happiness and hope sprout rich and green like our mountains and hills in spring.
Say a prayer for me. And thanks for being my truest friend in all the world.
Love, Melody
I put the letter in the envelope. I played my fiddle and then I crawled into bed and had the dream I told Alice I would have.
Tomorrow would be a new day.
19
Lost and Found
.
The way to Race Point was along a road so
narrow and hidden between two hills of sand, it could easily be overlooked. Cary explained that at Kenneth Childs's request, no sign was posted to designate the road. He was the only one who lived on it and it had become known as Childs Road. After its entrance, protected by the two hills, the road was covered with sand that was six to eight inches deep in spots.
"The best way to navigate this is to let air out of my tires," Cary explained and stopped the truck to do just that.
It was late afternoon and the powder blue sky was streaked with flat, soft clouds that looked like vanilla icing smeared across it in odd shapes. Cary said it meant it was very windy in the upper atmosphere. We went in about three quarters of a mile before we reached the peak of the incline and were able to see the ocean. It looked a darker metallic blue, making its whitecaps whiter. The beach here was cluttered with twisted seaweed that lay in clumps combed by the fingers of the waves. Terns walked gingerly around and through the seaweed as if they were part of some bird ballet entitled Searching for Food.
"This is one of the best places to find driftwood," Cary said. "Laura and I spent hours gathering strangely shaped pieces. Local artists will buy them from you. Seashells too," he added.
"Where's Kenneth's home?"
"Just to the right here," he explained and we made a turn. Ahead was a smoke-gray cedar saltbox house. The sea air, sun, and rain had faded its black shutters to a light charcoal. Behind the house was another small structure that looked like a barn.
"That's his studio," Cary explained.
I saw no one. The front of the house was spotted with pink wild beach grass, no flowers, no trees. On the side of the house facing us was an upside-down row boat, its hull sun-bleached. There was a dark blue jeep in what served as a driveway. An inky black Labrador was lying on the rear seat and lifted his head with curiosity as we approached.
"That's his dog, Ulysses. He's fifteen years old, half blind and deaf," Cary said. "At least that's what the judge says. His jeep's here, so Kenneth must be home," Cary muttered with some anxiety.
From the moment we had left the house, a small, but persistent trembling vibrated through every bone and muscle in my body. My heart was in a continual drum beat. Cary tried to keep up some conversation, but I could only smile or nod.
"You sure you want to do this?" he asked one final time before turning into the driveway. I nodded and took a deep breath.
Ulysses rose on his legs as if he had to lift three times his weight, but once he was on his feet, he hopped out of the jeep and began barking. It was a friendly bark, not a growl.
"Whenever Laura and I stopped by here, we had the feeling we were being watched, but Kenneth didn't come out but one or two times and then it was just a quick hello and some comment about the weather."
"I'm going to do this," I said firmly. I opened the truck door and stepped out. Ulysses came to me first, his tail wagging. "Hello," I said and patted him. The sight of company excited him and he was licking my hand and rushing back and forth between Cary and
me for our strokes and words.
"Some watchdog, huh?" Cary said with a laugh.
I looked at the front door. It was gray and weather-beaten, with no knocker, no buzzer, no indication the inhabitant of this house wanted anyone coming to it.
"You wouldn't think he had any money the way he lives," Cary muttered. "That jeep's about ten, twelve years old, and the furniture in the house looks as if he got it all at a thrift shop. We were never inside," he quickly added, "but Laura and I once peeked through the window. There aren't even any pictures on the walls. All his art is in his studio, I guess. We never got close enough to look in there.
"Kenneth has eyes that can scare you."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see," he said. "I think. He might not answer the door."
We stared at it. I could see Cary wasn't going to be the one to knock, so I stepped forward slowly over the walkway, which consisted of small rocks. Ulysses stayed at my side, Cary remained a foot or so behind. I knocked and waited.
The roar of the ocean, the waves breaking on the beach, the cry of the terns, and the whistle the sea breeze made was all we heard. I knocked again, louder.
"What'dya want?" Both of us nearly jumped out of our sneakers. We turned to see Kenneth Childs standing at the corner of the house. He wore a pair of jeans, no shoes or socks, and a faded brown T-shirt. He was long-legged and slim. His hair, a little darker than mine, was, as Cary had described, tied in a pony tail, the end of which reached the base of his neck. His full-face beard was even a little darker. He had a wide fore-head with deep-set dark eyes and a long, straight nose, under which his strong, firm lips stretched to dip at the corners. I couldn't help staring at his face, looking for more evidence of my own, but it was hard because of that thick beard. To me it was like a mask.
"She wanted to come see you," Cary said quickly, embarrassed and made more nervous by the long silence.
"What for?" Kenneth asked, his eyes on me. "My mother told me to say hello," I said.
"Who's your mother?" he asked, without softening his face. He was miles from smiling.
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