His voice cracked and he fell silent. Dorothy-Anne noticed that his eyes glistened moistly in the moonlight. Then she saw it. A single tear trailing a snail's track down his cheek.
She sought his hand again. This time he didn't pull away, but closed his fingers around hers. They sat like that, in silence, for several minutes.
'I'm sorry,' Hunt said thickly. 'I don't usually get this choked up.'
'It's not a crime to show your emotions.' She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. 'And you don't have to tell me this.'
'No. I want you to hear it. It's . . . important to me.'
She nodded, and waited for him to continue:
'Of course I answered the telephone. More out of habit than curiosity. A man was on the line. He asked for Mr. Winslow. I automatically said, 'Speaking.' You see, I'd momentarily forgotten that it was my father's private line.
'The caller then identified himself. 'This is Dr. Zahedi,' he said. The name meant nothing to me. Why should it? I didn't know Dr. Zahedi from Adam. When I didn't reply, he said, 'From Pacific Acres in Pebble Beach.'
'Since I wasn't sure how to respond, I said, 'Yes, Dr. Zahedi. What can I do for you?'
'He was very apologetic. 'I'm sorry to bother you with mundane matters, Mr. Winslow. But you specifically told me to deal with you personally on all matters concerning your son.'
'Naturally, I assumed he was talking about me! Also, it was obvious that he hadn't heard about my father's death, and believed he was speaking to him. My father's voice and mine, you see, sounded very much alike. People often mistook one of us for the other over the telephone.
'Admittedly, by now my curiosity was aroused. I longed to know what Dr. Zahedi, whom I did not know, had to say to my father about me. So I didn't correct him.
'He sounded embarrassed. 'We have not received your checks for July or August. It's not that we're pressing you for payment, Mr. Winslow. We know you're good for it.'
'I made some noncommittal noises.
' 'I only called to see if everything was satisfactory,' he said. 'Or, if it isn't, how we might improve things, or whether you were planning to move Woodrow to another institution.' '
'And that was when it hit me! He wasn't talking about me at all! But he was talking about my father's son—a son named Woodrow! A son I never knew existed!
'I believe my heart stopped. At least, that was what I remember feeling.
'Somehow I found my voice and said, 'You're speaking about . . . my son, Woodrow?' For I had to know right away.
'Dr. Zahedi obviously thought I was distracted, for he said, 'If I'm calling at a bad time, Mr. Winslow—'
' 'No, no, Dr. Zahedi,' I assured him. 'You're not inconveniencing me at all. In fact, I'll drive down this afternoon, drop a check off personally, and pay Woodrow a visit.'
'Dr. Zahedi said that would be very nice and thanked me and hung up.'
'But, how awful' Dorothy-Anne whispered. A shiver went through her. 'To have to find out like that! Oh, Hunt . . . '
'Needless to say, my emotions were in turmoil. I didn't know whether to jump for joy, or weep with sorrow, or scream from anger. But I couldn't wait. I immediately jumped into my car and drove down to Carmel.
'Once there, I asked for directions. Despite its name, Pacific Acres was not on the ocean, but slightly inland. Like many such places, it had once been a grand old mansion, and part of a much larger estate. High stone walls surrounded it completely. I think you get the picture.'
'Oh, yes,' Dorothy-Anne whispered. 'I'm afraid I do.'
'I had to show my driver's license to the guard at the gate, who checked my name against a list. It's ironic, isn't it? Had my name not been exactly the same as my father's, I might not have gained entry so easily.
'But I digress. Once inside, I parked in the visitors' parking lot. Mine was the only car there. Apparently, relatives are not big on visiting their kin at Pacific Acres.
'And of course, I knew at once what this place was—a dumping ground for the unfortunate relatives of the rich and famous. A place where one can stick the family embarrassment—the crazy aunt, the deformed child, the deranged brother, the incontinent grandparent, the vegetating accident victim. All wonderfully cared for! Not wanting for a thing! Very conveniently tucked out of sight, and therefore, presumably, out of mind!'
Dorothy-Anne shuddered. 'It sounds so . . . cruel. So unnecessarily cruel.'
'It is cruel,' he said grimly. 'Crueler and more depressing than you can surmise. My first instinct was to get back into my car and flee. Yet I could not. I had to go through with this visit. I knew I could not rest until I discovered the truth.'
'And you learned it.'
'Did I ever.'
He shook his head and drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
'Dr. Zahedi met me at the entrance. The instant he saw me, he was visibly shaken. I had no idea why, since he looks like one of those men who naturally exude confidence. I told him that my father had died, and that since I was of age, I was now the titular head of the family.'
'Were you?''
'No. My mother was, but Dr. Zahedi could not know that.
'But to continue: An orderly took me upstairs and down a corridor lined with small private rooms. The doors were all open, so that the staff could keep an eye on the . . . I keep wanting to say inmates, but that's not the correct word. Nor can I call them patients, because that suggests their conditions might improve. The staff refer to them as residents, but that makes it sound as if they're there by choice. And they're not. What they are is victims of circumstances—whether through accident, birth, disease, or genetics.
'The room I was shown to was number 211. And there I discovered . . . there I found . . . Woodrow. Yes. My younger brother. A year younger than me, almost to the day.'
'Oh, Hunt!' Dorothy-Anne whispered.
Still holding onto his hand, she put her other arm around him and pressed him against her in an effort to share his terrible burden. The moon traveled higher. The night was cool.
Finally Hunt continued to bare his soul, his voice quavery and tortured:
'Dr. Zahedi had seen to it that Woodrow had been prepared for my visit. He was freshly bathed and neatly dressed and his hair was combed—as if cosmetic touches could have made any difference!'
Dorothy-Anne's voice was hushed. 'And the visit? How did it go?'
'For me, horribly. For Woody'—he shrugged— 'I might as well not have been there. When I came in, he was seated at his desk in front of the window, concentrating on a jigsaw puzzle. I sat down beside him on the bed, but he . . . ' Hunt's voice faltered ' . . . he took no notice of me. None whatsoever.'
'Then he's . . . '
'Autistic,' he sighed, and nodded. 'Yes. But I saw at once what had shaken Dr. Zahedi. It was our physical resemblance. Woody and I . . . '
He turned to Dorothy-Anne and looked deep into her eyes.
'We might have been twins!' he whispered hoarsely. 'We are almost mirror images of each other, except . . . '
'Except for his illness,' Dorothy-Anne finished gently.
'Yes. There was absolutely no expression on his face. No emotion at all. His face was blank . . . but it was a peaceful blank. And when I spoke to him, he didn't respond. But when I touched him . . . '
Dorothy-Anne listened in silence, her heart stricken.
'He jerked and pulled away! I simply didn't register to him.'
As a mother with three lively—sometimes almost too lively handfuls—Dorothy-Anne couldn't begin to imagine the bleak emotional landscape Hunt painted. It made her leadenly aware of what an utter crap shoot every conception, pregnancy, and birth could be.
But a completely unresponsive child like Woodrow?
That was almost beyond her comprehension.
Kids can't be lively enough, Dorothy-Anne thought. From now on, I'll treasure their every yell and shriek and laugh. She silently blessed her own rambunctious brood. The next time Liz and Fred and Zack get into a fight, I'll welcome it. Never
again shall I take their normality for granted.
Normality. It was such a simple little word.
And yet it's the greatest gift of all.
'You asked me why the Whitman's struck such a chord in me,' Hunt said quietly. 'Now you know.'
'Because they didn't lock Kevin away,' Dorothy-Anne said softly.
'Damn right, they didn't! They went out of their way to give him a normal life! To them, it doesn't matter if Kevin isn't photogenic! He doesn't embarrass them! They love him—even though he isn't anyone's ideal of perfection. Nor does it matter that he'll never be able to love them back!' His voice broke. 'Their love is unconditional.'
'As opposed to the love of your parents,' she said.
He nodded. 'That's right. They hid Woody . . . and edited him completely out of our lives . . . as if he'd never existed. And for me, he hadn't. That's how thorough they were. If it weren't for my father's death, and my answering that phone . . . '
Hunt shook his head, flexing his fingers on his thighs. His breathing was thick, heavy, and rapid with anger.
'What they did—my parents—is the modern-day equivalent of the ancient Greeks. Only instead of leaving Woody on a hillside for the wolves, they locked him away for life.'
'It sounds so . . . cold-blooded!'
'I suppose they rationalized it as doing the right thing. 'He's best off this way.' You know the old argument.'
'Yes.' Dorothy-Anne nodded. 'But I don't necessarily agree with it.'
'I guess the biggest surprise is that they didn't leave him on a hillside! I mean, wasn't that humane of them! Wasn't that exceedingly kind!'
Hunt stopped to glare out toward the open sea. His face was hard, etched with unforgivingness, and the moon wash delineated the clenched, defiant set to his jaw, the narrowly focused resentment burning within his eyes.
Dorothy-Anne waited, acutely attuned to his feelings. If he decided to continue, she would gladly listen, and if he wanted to drop the subject, that was okay with her too. She herself had endured enough tragedy of late to be an expert, however unwilling, on loss and suffering and pain— and she had a good idea how difficult this must be for Hunt.
Baring the pent-up frustrations of a lifetime could not be easy.
It's damn hard! Especially when we've been taught to keep our emotions private and our grief in check.
Clearing his throat, he said, 'Sorry about that. I didn't intend to unload all this on you.'
'You have nothing to be sorry about,' she said. 'And every reason to be angry.' Then her voice softened. 'Where is Woody now?'
'Still at Pacific Acres. That first day, I was determined to bring him home and welcome him into the fold. Which just goes to show how naive was.
He sighed and shook his head at his folly.
Dorothy-Anne looked at him inquiringly. 'What made you change your mind?'
'Dr. Zahedi. He sat down with me and gave me a crash course on autism. What I could expect, and what I couldn't. He convinced me that Woody would be better off staying there. At any rate, I wasn't in a position to provide a better home. I was just on the verge of leaving the nest myself.'
'And your mother?' Dorothy-Anne asked. 'She wouldn't have him?'
'Mother won't even discuss Woody, let alone have him around. As far as she's concerned, he was never born.'
'How awful!'
'Yes, isn't it? Just goes to prove you don't have to be autistic to be emotionally impaired!'
'So she doesn't even visit him?'
'Visit him?' Hunt chuckled mirthlessly. 'She hasn't been to see him once. Not once!' he emphasized. 'So much for the old maternal instinct, eh?'
'But you visit Woody regularly, don't you?'
'I usually manage to get there about once a week.'
He sucked in his cheeks, then tossed his head, his hair flopping aside as if to fling off some irritating insect.
'Isn't that saintly of me?' he said stingingly. 'Why, if I'm not careful I might yet be canonized!'
Dorothy-Anne ignored his self-inflicted sarcasm. Her eyes cast about the tranquil, constellation-filled night. Mars shone brightly, and Porrima flickered amid Virgo's tail, the entire heavens twinkling like diamonds scattered upon a jeweler's cloth of midnight blue velvet.
'Has Woody shown any improvement?' she asked. 'Any at all?'
Hunt shook his head. 'I'm afraid not. After all these years he still isn't cognizant of me. That's the single worst thing about autism. Being shut out like that.'
She nodded thoughtfully.
'In other words,' she said, 'he inhabits his own little world.'
'And the rest of us don't exist,' he said. 'Period.'
'So there's no way to reach him.'
'None. But what's so curious is what he does respond to. Jigsaw puzzles.'
She frowned. 'Isn't that a little odd?'
'What's even odder is that he's such a whiz at them. I bring him several new ones each time I visit. You should see him. He can finish a thousand-piece puzzle in under an hour.'
'An hour? Good Lord. He must be incredibly intelligent!'
'On that one level, yes.' Hunt nodded. 'But only on that level. On all others, including emotional development and response to his surroundings, it's hopeless.'
'Is that the reason you don't have children of your own? Because you're afraid you might pass on a genetic defect?'
'No,' he said. 'I wanted kids, and the more the merrier. Only Gloria never seemed to get pregnant. And not for lack of trying on my part.'
Had it been any less bitter, the sound he made might have been a laugh.
'Fool that I was,' he said, 'I tried. And tried. I was the goddamn Energizer bunny, the way I kept on trying.'
'Are you saying,' Dorothy-Anne asked carefully, 'that your wife couldn't conceive?'
'Nope. It wasn't that she couldn't.' He shook his head. 'It's that she wouldn't.'
Dorothy-Anne was silent. She could tell he was thinking back, his mind thousands of miles away in some intolerably hellish past.
'Then, as luck would have it,' he said, 'I stubbed my foot on the bedpost. This was a couple of years ago. Gloria's bathroom was closer than mine, so I went into hers for a Band-Aid. Guess what I found in her medicine cabinet?'
Dorothy-Anne sat very still. 'I think I get the picture.'
'Yeah,' he said bitterly. 'Birth control pills. All these years while I tried for children, she'd been on birth control!'
'You must have been devastated,' she said quietly.
'I was,' he admitted. 'But you know what hurt the most?'
'Other than the fact that you felt betrayed.'
'Other than that, yes.'
He breathed in some air and exhaled it slowly through his nostrils.
'My own stupidity,' he said. 'You'd think I'd have caught on, right? But no. I was so gullible the truth had to hit me over the head. And even then I didn't want to believe it.'
'Could it be you might have suspected it, but suppressed it?'
He frowned and thought about it a moment and then nodded.
'Could be,' he said.
'Is she still on the pill?'
Hunt shrugged. 'Hell if I know. Hell if I care, either.'
'But you did care,' Dorothy-Anne said. 'Once upon a time.'
'True,' he acknowledged. 'But not after I found the pills. That did it for me.'
'But you tried to patch things up, didn't you?'
'No,' he said. 'I couldn't find it in my heart to forgive her—I still can't. Gloria knew how important children are to me.'
He raised a clenched fist, then let it drop on his thigh.
'Dammit, she knew!' he whispered.
Dorothy-Anne looked at him quizzically. 'Yet you remain married,' she observed.
He flicked a hand dismissively. 'A mordant joke. Our house is divided—like Korea.'
He laughed softly.
'We even have a demilitarized zone!'
She flinched under the acid of words, then cocked her head like a bird, saying:
<
br /> 'But if things are that bad, there are remedies. Divorce, for instance.'
Hunt turned his head slowly and inspected her as if she were a mutant curiosity the likes of which he had never before seen.
'Divorce?' His voice dripped sarcasm. 'Haven't you heard? Wins- lows don't get divorced. We live with our miseries.'
Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'Somehow I can't picture you in such an antagonistic union. Not for the rest of your life.'
'Neither can I. Sooner or later, divorce is inevitable. I know that. The trouble is, the timing's never good.'
'When it comes to divorce, timing never is.'
He smiled sourly. 'Good point.'
They fell quiet, watching the moon float a little higher. It looked like a great wheel of gorgonzola. Somewhere in the darkness something broke the surface of the water. There was another little splash and it was gone.
After a while, Dorothy-Anne said: 'Something evidently keeps you married.'
He nodded. 'Two things, actually. First, there's the prenuptial agreement. 'If I sue for divorce, Gloria walks away rich. Very rich. But if she sues, she walks away with little. Relatively speaking.'
'But doesn't California have community property laws?'
'Those won't help her much. My own assets are pretty modest. My mother owns or controls most everything. While Mother's alive, Gloria would have to fight her.' His voice was soft, even amused. 'Now that would be an interesting match.'
'You said there were two reasons,' Dorothy-Anne reminded him.
'What? Oh, right. My campaign managers. The word divorce isn't exactly music to their ears, as you can well imagine.'
'You're speaking in the plural. How many campaign managers do you have?'
'Two, but only one who really counts. Althea Netherland Winslow.'
'Your mother.'
'That's right. Divorce doesn't figure into her political strategy.'
His features clouded again, as if he were looking —at what? Not the moon and the whirling constellations splayed across the night. Nor the horizon where sea melted into sky . . . no, something far more distant; the corridors of power for which he had been groomed since birth. He made a face.
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