Her Father's House

by Belva Plain

  Man killed in highway crash. Leo Simmons, 37, of Jefferson Township, was killed in a two-car collision at the intersection of Jefferson Avenue. Phillip Ferrier, 32, of New York City, is in critical condition at Jefferson Memorial Hospital. One passenger, Lillian Buzley, 29, of New York City, sustained a broken arm and shoulder, while her child, Bettina Wolfe, age 2, escaped injury.

  Flinging the paper to the floor, Donald cursed aloud. “On her way to New York! On her way! Where the hell had she been, and why, out with the baby—my God, I knew, I knew something was bound to happen. For weeks I've felt it whirling in my head, damn her. Damn her to eternal hell.”

  And he sat there with his head in his hands, trying to think. What to do? What to do? After a while he got up, washed his few dishes, and went to stand at the window looking down upon the Sunday morning quiet in the street. Why? Why, when it could have been so blessedly good with productive work, a wife, a child or children, and more than enough to feed them all?

  When the phone rang again, he sprang to it. “Ed? Ed? Where are they? I'll borrow a car from somebody and go for them.”

  “You won't have to. The people who gave the party are driving them home. They're leaving now. Their name is Carter. Lillian's all bandaged up, but the baby's happy, they said. I asked especially about her.”

  “Thanks, Ed. Thank you very much.”

  “Thanks for nothing, Don. You must be pretty washed out.”

  “I guess so. But I'll see you in the morning, same time, same place.”

  Too distressed to sit still, he walked around his rooms as if in search of something to do. He rearranged some books on the shelves and watered the fern that Lillian had bought and cherished. The fern was a fountain of healthy greenery, whereas Lillian—

  The telephone rang again. This time it was the agitated voice of Maria that he heard.

  “Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Wolfe, what happened? I just came home from my cousin, and Mrs. Buzley called up, and she said there was an accident, and Cookie was fine, and she has a broken shoulder, and they'll be home by one o'clock—where are they?”

  “I don't know anything more than you've just told me. But where have you been, Maria?”

  “I told Mrs. Buzley on Thursday that my cousin come to New York this week and I want to have two days to see her. She was angry with me, no, not really talking angry, but I see she was. She wanted to go to a party Saturday, but I thought my turn. I need to see my cousin. Mrs. Buzley goes to parties all the time. I said I'd come back Sunday morning, and here I am, but where is Cookie? Where did they go?”

  “Someplace on Long Island. That's all I know. You'll find out when she gets home. Please phone me then right away. I need to know. But where's Mr. Buzley?”

  “He went to California. His work. He's coming back now. There was a message on the machine. Sunday early, it said. I thought she say not until Tuesday. Yes, she say Tuesday. I don't know what—all right. I'll call you, Mr. Wolfe.”

  He walked back and forth again through his three rooms, thinking. There was dirty business going on here. No question of it. It was no business of Donald Wolfe's, or would have been no business if it had not been for Donald Wolfe's little girl.

  After a while he went downstairs and outside. The day was balmy, and people had come out to enjoy the afternoon, strolling with their beautiful babies in carriages and their beautiful dogs on leashes. It seemed to him that the atmosphere was filled with a friendly peace. With terrible anger, he thought about Lillian, destroyer of peace. Then he turned about and went home to walk back and forth again like a prisoner measuring his steps, trying to think of something sensible that he might do.

  When the phone rang, it was Maria speaking in nervous haste. “I'm in the kitchen. They can't hear me, but I'll be quick. Mr. Buzley's here. They're in their room, she's all bandaged, he's yelling at her, it's awful, Mr. Wolfe, Cookie's all right, I have her in the playpen, I have to go.”

  “Come to my apartment instead of going to the park on Saturday afternoon. If it should rain so you can't go to the park, I'll come to your place whether anybody likes it or not.”

  “Oh, don't come here, Mr. Wolfe. Don't do that.”

  “Then you must promise to call me every day so I'll know what's happening.”

  Thank heaven for Maria, for her loyalty and her common sense. You didn't find Marias on every street corner. Then it occurred to him that he was hungry, so he made a sandwich, and then had no appetite for it. He looked out of the window again; an ambulance passed below, shrieking along the street, and he imagined the accident. By what marvel had his little girl been spared?

  When evening came, he went to bed, for it seemed that he had been awake for days and was dying to sleep. But the sleep that came was only fitful, interrupted by frustration dreams. He was being pursued by some unidentifiable horror, was running with every muscle strained to the fullest, yet he was unable to advance an inch. The horror was coming nearer . . .

  He awoke and fell asleep and dreamed again. So the night passed.

  Everyone at the office had heard about Donald's baby and the accident. It was surprising that so many people had read that tiny item on an inside page. If some hadn't seen it, they had been informed about it as soon as they came to work. By the way people spoke to him or by their facial expressions alone, he knew that they were aware of his pain, and he was grateful for their sympathy.

  Mr. Pratt said little, and by doing so, said it all with the pressure of his hand on Donald's shoulder and one sentence: “Your baby's not hurt, which is all that matters. Remember that.”

  On Donald's desk lay a small stack of important mail, which was probably a good thing because it made the morning pass quickly. Then at one o'clock, when Ed Wills came in to suggest going down the street to lunch, all yesterday's trouble erupted again.

  Ed began it. “I had somebody look up the police report in Jefferson. That driver was not in the best of shape. He was over the white line when it happened. He seems to be some kind of good-time guy-about- town with a reputation for drinking too much, and maybe having a cocaine habit, too, although they haven't checked that. Anyway, it doesn't matter, except to his heirs, if he has any. If he has, they had better hope he had plenty of car insurance. According to the hospital's report an hour ago, he's not going to make it through. Landed on his head when he was thrown out of the car.”

  Donald shuddered and listened.

  “I'm wondering how much of all this stuff you want to hear,” Ed said, fingering a stray fork. “Yes, I'm uncomfortable,” and putting the fork down deliberately, he continued, “I hate this kind of talk, sounding like a gossip columnist, but for your sake, I should do it, so—”

  “What is it, Ed? Come on. This fellow, was he the one you've told me about, the one on the beach near you?”

  “No, no, that's another story.”

  “Excuse me if I sound confused,” Donald said, not disguising his bitterness, “then who is the mysterious stranger on the beach? Not that I give a damn.”

  But thinking of permanence, of stability, and of Howard Buzley, he did very much give a damn.

  “June doesn't run with the gossiping set,” Ed began, “but she knows a lot of women who do, so she got on the phone last night when I asked her to and she found out. The man is Storm, Arthur Storm, some sort of tycoon who has a showplace about ten miles east of our beach. I've seen it, or at least as much of it as you can see from the road. Big trees, lawns, acreage, long, low white house—you get the picture.”

  “Yes. What else?”

  “Does it matter?” Ed asked gently.

  There was really no point in hiding one's fears any longer, especially from a friend, from one's closest friend. So Donald spoke out.

  “I am afraid Buzley will leave her if she doesn't behave herself. In this short time, I've come to rely on his steadiness, and isn't that strange? He's given Bettina a home, he's fond of the child, and the arrangement is a lot better than having the child's mother go adrift. That's why I'm worried and
that's why I need to hear anything you can tell me.”

  “Okay. Arthur Storm is a good-looking guy, about forty, they say, or maybe not even that. He has a wife and four young sons, thirteen or fourteen and younger. When he met Lillian, he went wild over her.”

  “I understand.”

  Neither spoke until Donald asked whether Storm's wife knew about it.

  “Yes. She's left him.”

  “Was it Storm's party that she went to last Saturday?”

  “No, Storm's gone to France temporarily to see to the house that he owns there.”

  “I see.” This was a perfunctory remark, since he was not seeing anything at all other than an ugly muddle.

  “If only I could get total custody . . .”

  “Very, very difficult,” Ed replied, shaking his head. “That you know.”

  Yes, that he knew.

  On the following Saturday afternoon, Maria arrived at the apartment with Bettina all dressed up in something yellow that, when it was removed, revealed a prestigious Paris label. Lillian had taste; you certainly had to give her credit for that.

  Donald had prepared for the visit by removing whatever was reachable and breakable. He had provided a fluffy cat that meowed when it was squeezed, a wooden game with wooden balls that rattled through a maze when it was shaken, a large, plush ball to be rolled around the floor, and vanilla ice cream for refreshment.

  “And for you and me, Maria, a cup of coffee and cake from the French bakery. Wait till you taste it.”

  The day was cloudy, so that the light that lay upon the little table at the window was a gentle one, muting the lovely colors in the room and on the carpet, where Bettina sat concentrating on the wooden balls.

  “So nice, so quiet here,” Maria murmured. “I'd like to stay.”

  “Not quiet at your place?”

  “Oh yes, sometimes. A lot of times. But you never know. Mr. Buzley was so—oh, oh, so oh, oh angry, Mr. Wolfe! The accident, you know, with Cookie in the car, and why she went to the party. Sneaked out, you know. But he found out. Oh yes, he found out!”

  It seemed then, as Maria continued, that Lillian, upon learning that Buzley was coming back two days earlier than planned, had been in a rush to get home before he did. Apparently, the couple who had driven her to the party were in no hurry to leave it, so that she had accepted a ride from this young man whom she had never met before.

  Maria became emotional. “It was terrible, so sad. I wanted to cry. Mrs. Buzley cried. Her arm hurts, I think. Then he felt sorry. First he yelled, then he felt sorry, and yesterday he was very nice to her, bought her a present, some jewelry, I think. I saw the box, and she was nice to him then, too.”

  He doesn't yet know about Arthur Storm, thought Donald.

  “You know, Mr. Wolfe, she is a funny woman. Always nice to me, laughs all the time, is nice. At the party she says people played with baby, and she was very glad because Cookie is so beautiful.”

  Because Cookie is so beautiful.

  He was outraged. So beautiful, she says. Yes, and so close to death, literally by inches, in a car driven by an irresponsible stranger when she should have been home in bed. Suddenly Donald stood and picked up his child, along with a toy which he set on the table before her.

  “Daddy!” Squealing in delight, she reached down to his plate. “Cake! Cake!”

  Apologizing with a laugh to Maria, he gave it to her. “I know she's not supposed to have it. But a little chocolate whipped cream once in a while won't hurt.”

  “You never will hurt her, Mr. Wolfe. Not you. But Mrs. Buzley, yes, she is a funny woman. Very nice—but still not good for child. You understand?” And sadly, Maria shook her head. “Very smart, but foolish too. Not good for child.”

  Oversimplified, Donald thought. “Mixed up” would be more accurate. Damaged goods, either born or made that way. But what difference? She was what she was, no matter why. He looked down at the little hands, now smudged with chocolate. Those hands, their future, were everything.

  Maria said soon, “She needs her nap. I'll put her on your bed in there, all right?”

  “Will she go to sleep in a strange place?”

  “Oh, Cookie is easy child. Easy nature. She sleeps a little, then we go back.”

  In the living room, he sat where he could see the bed. Maria had picked up a magazine. With obvious difficulty, she read, her lips shaping each word. This woman, Donald thought as he observed her, this kindly stranger, was his only link with the child asleep on that bed. If ever he wanted the truth, she was the only one who would give it. This was his situation.

  His impulse was to pick up the telephone and give Lillian a piece of his mind. But the reasonable part of that mind knew better. How often had he not done that before and received nothing more than a slammed receiver?

  “Maria,” he blurted, “will you always stay with Cookie? Always?”

  “Always, Mr. Wolfe?”

  “Yes, because—” There was no dignity, no decency even in saying what he wanted to say about a woman who had once been his wife and always would be his child's mother; everything in him rebelled against washing this particular linen, so he said only, “There is no one like you, Maria. Cookie needs you. Do you understand?”

  “I love Cookie, Mr. Wolfe. I carry her home from the hospital, two days old. And Cookie loves me, more than mother, that's true, you know?”

  “I'll give you more money, Maria. Whatever Mr. Buzley gives you, I'll give you more.”

  “No, no, I think you're not rich like Mr. Buzley. I don't want that, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “You won't go soon, will you, Maria? Not without telling me?”

  “No, no. Maybe sometime. Not soon. I tell you everything, Mr. Wolfe.”

  Later, when Donald closed the door upon Maria and on Cookie, in her yellow coat with the white plush cat in her arms, he stood for a moment quite still. Maybe sometime. A kind of sadness crept through the quiet rooms, heavy and gray as a fog on a winter night.

  Donald's friends at the office told him what he, as a litigator, already knew, that he would never get sole custody of his child. The divorce was past and agreed upon. And once the child was in a foreign country? It didn't bear thinking about.

  I wouldn't even recognize the man the next morning . . . Anyway, would that be grounds enough for removal of the child? One never knew.

  His friends, chiefly Ed Wills, also told him some things he did not know: that Arthur Storm's wife had filed last week for divorce, that Arthur Storm was famed for his collection of modern art, chiefly kept at his house in France.

  When I am rich, I shall collect great art. Ah yes, it all fits. . . .

  One evening Maria came back. Her familiar green hat was lopsided, and she was gasping, out of breath.

  “Mr. Buzley gone! Took his clothes, everything, closets empty, all his things gone. He was so angry, I never saw, Mr. Wolfe. Terrible, terrible! Said to me, ‘Take care of baby.' He kiss baby, and go.”

  “Where is the baby?” Donald cried.

  “Home, sleeping. You think I leave her? Cook is there tonight. Mrs. is out. Some friends come for her, I don't know. It's terrible, Mr. Wolfe.”

  Before Donald's eyes, there appeared an instant picture of that apartment, seen once so briefly, but not forgotten: the vista of great rooms, things now heaped and jumbled, the faces of curious, astonished onlookers, and again, Lillian's face as it must be now, her pale skin red with tears or rage.

  He looked at the trembling woman, the innocent bystander, and gently removing her coat, made her sit down.

  “Have you had any dinner, Maria? Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

  “I'm not hungry. Nothing, please.”

  So Buzley had left! Now possibilities, or probabilities, must be considered, questions about the apartment, whether owned or leased; if leased, the term of the lease. If divorce was to follow this upheaval, where was Lillian—meaning of course the baby—going to go? And then there was that other man, the likely cause of this
mess.

  “Took furniture, too,” Maria said. “His desk. Big desk he loved. Big chairs and pictures, his family, children, that's all.”

  Then it was to be permanent, this upheaval. An angry man may take his clothes, but he doesn't move his favorite furniture without knowing that he's not coming back.

  Maria reflected for a few minutes as if to make sure of her conclusions and continued, “You know, Mr. Wolfe, I think she has different man, no boy—big man this time. Yes, yes, she has. She ask me to go with her to France, because Cookie love me. Beautiful house in France, beautiful picture. Me! I just come to New York. I say no. Sorry, Mrs. Buzley, no.”

  It was an enormous effort over the leaping of Donald's heart to speak quietly. “Did she say when?”

  “Soon. A couple of months. He have business here first, then they go.”

  He had business indeed, did Arthur Storm: the divorce and the four young sons, whom he was trading in for Lillian Buzley, formerly Lillian Wolfe, formerly— And so forcibly did Donald strike his fist on the table beside his chair that Maria jumped.

  “Mr. Wolfe, don't worry! I stay with Cookie until she go. Maybe they will not go. Maybe she just talk. Mrs. Buzley, she like to talk.”

  Donald knew better than to believe “just talk.” To begin with, he knew Lillian, her drive, her impatience, and her successes. Second, he had his contacts, the chief of them being Ed Wills, who through June made a helpful effort to learn what was going on in the Arthur Storm situation. Maria, of course, was his other contact; through her, he kept track of the French connection.

  As one tense week followed the other, it became clear that Lillian was not even trying to conceal her plans from Donald. Surely she was not relying on Maria to keep silent on those Sunday afternoons in the park! No, she was only too aware that Donald had no real power to stop her from taking her child anywhere she pleased.

  He berated himself for having had no foresight. It was true that on the day he willingly signed those papers he had seen the baby only twice. His feelings, now hard to describe, had been a mixture of sadness, rage at Lillian, bewilderment, a certain odd sense of detachment, along with a sense of moral obligation—all of these, and nothing yet of real love.