by Lisa Tucker
“All right.” Dorothea smiled a half smile. “I always enjoy movies. Thank you for suggesting this. Actually, I would love to see a movie Father made.”
At nine-thirty, they were settled in the den, each with a bagel and cream cheese and a glass of orange juice. Lucy was steeling herself a little because she hadn’t watched this herself since Charles disappeared. The only reason she even owned the DVD was because Walter made sure to always send her every released version of any of Charles’s pictures. He also sent her some of the profits, but she only kept enough for the taxes on the house and for the trips she took trying to find the children. The rest she gave away to charity.
The movie was about an Irish Catholic family in the fifties, the Lanigans, who live in an idyllic little town in Nebraska. Mrs. Lanigan and the four young children are wonderful, but Paul Lanigan doesn’t appreciate what he has. He grew up without a father himself; he never wanted a family, but he ended up with one when his girlfriend got pregnant. He’s not cruel; he just doesn’t care. But then one day, as he’s walking his eight-year-old son to the store, Paul Lanigan is almost killed. He’s in the middle of complaining about something and he doesn’t see a car coming straight for him, but his son does and, at the last minute, he pushes his father out of the way.
The rest of the film charts Paul’s transformation as he comes to believe that the only thing that makes his life worth living is caring for his family. The plot itself wasn’t why Charles won an Oscar; it was the writing, especially the part of Paul, who the critics said was like the biblical Paul converted on the road to Damascus, except rather than believing in God, Paul Lanigan believes in the fifties dream of giving his children a chance at a better life. The complexity of the movie unfolds as Paul Lanigan has such difficulty defining what that better life would be, and he travels throughout the town, asking questions, trying to understand why his neighbors live as they do. In the end, he realizes that a good life requires being moral and being educated, and he decides to instill those values in his children. The last scene shows those children grown up, and it’s clear he’s succeeded.
Lucy might have found it hard to watch, with all the focus on the father, if she’d been really paying attention. But she wasn’t. She forced herself to look at the screen whenever Dorothea glanced at her, but otherwise she gave in to her desire to stare at her girl. Every few minutes, she was struck again by how amazing it was that the two of them were sitting in the den together on an ordinary Tuesday morning, just as if they hadn’t been separated for years.
When the movie was over, Lucy was hoping Dorothea might open up a little about the way Charles had raised her and Jimmy. Instead, the credits had barely begun when Dorothea said that she needed to call her father. “May I please use the phone?”
“Sure,” Lucy said, exhaling. She told Dorothea the nearest phone was back in the kitchen, but she didn’t follow her.
A minute or two later, Dorothea was back. “I left a message with Dr. Humphrey. I hope he’ll get it soon and relay it to Father. I’m so grateful to you for showing me this. It explains so much about Father’s love for the fifties. Even the clothes he had me wear were similar to the daughter’s outfits in the movie.”
“Really?” Lucy said. Dorothea was wearing a short black skirt, a light gray V-neck and black chunky heels.
“I myself am fond of modern clothes.”
“Me too.” Lucy smiled. This was the first thing Dorothea had said that indicated any distance from her father, and Lucy couldn’t help being encouraged.
The movie wasn’t long, and it was only a little after eleven. She asked Dorothea if she’d like to see any sights, maybe go out to lunch. “Los Angeles is a great city. There’s so much I’d like to show you.”
She was just starting to list some possibilities, when Dorothea said, “Thank you, but I really can’t stay. I do need to ask you some questions though, before I go back.”
Lucy’s heart sank. She’d clung to the bulky size of Dorothea’s garbage bag as indicating that her daughter would be here for at least a week or two. What if Dorothea was only here because Charles wanted some kind of agreement that she wouldn’t prosecute him if he came back to L.A.? This thought had occurred to her when she woke up in the middle of the night last night. One of the cable channels had recently done a retrospective of Charles’s work, and there was a lot of interest in what could have happened to him, especially now, when some young director kept mentioning Charles as his primary influence and “spiritual mentor.” This guy had even called Lucy to ask her to be in a documentary about Keenan’s disappearance. She said no and when he started to argue with her, she’d hung up on him.
“All right,” Lucy said to her daughter. “But could I show you the upstairs of the house first?”
Dorothea had slept in the downstairs guest room last night. Lucy and Al lived exclusively downstairs, partly because the first floor was more than enough house for the two of them, partly because it was a hassle for her to walk up all those stairs if her leg was feeling stiff, but mainly because the upstairs was the only part of the house other than the playroom that she had refused to change. For the first year, she couldn’t bring herself to change anything, sure that her family would return any day. For several years after that, she was a full-blown addict, and the upstairs was the place she went to wallow in her grief and insanity. Then she met Al, when she rear-ended his car on the freeway. It was just a fender bender, but he insisted on driving her home because he could tell she’d been using, and then he came inside to talk to her about rehab. He’d done it himself, when he was in his early twenties, and he knew what it was about. She told him no, but he kept calling her day after day, and finally, she checked herself in.
Before long, she was off the pills and married again, but still, she couldn’t move or change the upstairs of the house. Al agreed to move in, even though he knew he was going to be living side-by-side with Lucy’s shrine to her lost family. He said as long as he didn’t have to go up there, he was fine with it. Lucy rarely went up there anymore either, but she needed to know she could. Sometimes she thought she clung to all these things because she didn’t have anything from her own childhood, not even a picture of her mother; other times, because she was afraid if she forgot any part of the past, she would eventually forget her kids completely. Or maybe she was punishing herself. Or maybe she’d just been waiting for this day, when she could take her daughter into the space of their family’s memories.
Seen through her daughter’s eyes, the upstairs was entirely innocent. Dorothea didn’t remember the bedroom that had been her parents’, the fireplace tool that Lucy had used to stab her hand, the balcony where she’d jumped the night she might have killed her last chance to have another baby. To her daughter, the only notable feature of the room was the incredible view of the ocean. “It’s just like my book about California,” Dorothea said. “Finally!”
Charles’s office, which had been pored over by so many detectives for clues, was barely worth a glance, though Dorothea did say it was nice. She said that about all the rooms, more out of politeness, Lucy could tell, than true interest. Probably because the place where she’d grown up was just as nice or nicer. Even her own bedroom didn’t seem to impress Dorothea, though she did say it was “very sweet.” And she took her shoes off. She said she couldn’t resist walking on such a luxurious carpet.
“Your father bought that for you,” Lucy said. “It was right after you started having your breathing problems, and he was afraid you’d lose consciousness and fall.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Lucy wanted to kick herself for mentioning another positive thing about Charles.
“That sounds like Father.” Dorothea smiled, as she stepped around the room in her bare feet. “My room now has a thick carpet also, but nothing compared to this.”
“You still live with him then?”
“Up until recently,” she said, but her voice was quiet and her face looked so unhappy that Lucy couldn�
��t resist asking if something was wrong. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not discuss it,” she said. She slipped her shoes back on, and Lucy took her to the next room, which had been Jimmy’s.
Dorothea walked over to the wall of cork that was covered with drawings and paintings her brother had made. “Oh, look at these adorable pictures!”
Lucy watched as Dorothea moved from one picture to the next, staring intently, as though she was looking for something in particular. Finally she stopped and pointed at a picture of a dog.
“Was this what our own dog looked like? I don’t remember the dog myself, but Jimmy has mentioned him.”
“Close. There’s another one over by the corner that’s more like Tigger.”
Dorothea walked over and examined that one for a moment. “I just thought of something I do need to see,” she said, looking out the back window. “The grounds.”
“Good idea. I think you’ll like it. It’s really beautiful.”
They walked around the garden together, with Dorothea stopping to admire the lemon, avocado and fig trees, and touch and sniff nearly every flower she saw. “I love flowers,” she kept saying, and Lucy sensed that wherever she’d been living, they didn’t have a garden. They’d made it all the way out to the guesthouse and back, when Dorothea said, “But where is the pool?”
Lucy swallowed. “You remember that?”
“No, but Jimmy does.”
Lucy pointed to the cypress trees that had grown large over the years. “The pool used to be there. We got rid of it when you were two.”
“May I ask why?”
The expression on Dorothea’s face was so serious. Lucy wondered what she was thinking. “Yes,” Lucy said, “and I’ll tell you, but first, I think we need to go inside and have some tea.”
Lucy made two cups of herbal tea. They sat down at the breakfast table, and Lucy felt herself becoming nervous. But of course she had to tell her daughter about that day. If Charles had never told her the origin of her breathing problems, Lucy would have to. Dorothea deserved to know.
She kept it as short as possible, and she left out all of the gruesome details. She said they were in the pool, the robbers came, and the robbers put Dorothea in her bedroom closet until they were finished. But it took time, and while Dorothea was in that closet she’d gotten very scared. Afterward, she was afraid of the dark, and her heart started racing. She’d lose consciousness when she couldn’t catch her breath, not often, but sometimes.
“A closet,” Dorothea said. She seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Was this the same room you showed me with the soft carpet?”
“No. You were only two and you were still in the nursery. It was a smaller room, but still nice.”
“In this other room, was the closet next to my dresser?”
Lucy was very surprised, but she forced her voice to stay calm. “No, but the robbers put your dresser in front of the closet door, so you wouldn’t get out.” She paused and sipped her tea. “You don’t remember this, do you?”
“Jimmy said he thought I was inside of a dresser drawer.”
“During the robbery?” Lucy was confused. “So you already knew about it?”
When Dorothea didn’t answer, Lucy told her to take a deep breath. Her daughter’s bright eyes had gone flat, and her mouth had fallen into an expressionless line. “We can stop talking about this now. Why don’t you tell me some of the questions you came to ask me?”
“Jimmy also said you were lying on the floor, cut to pieces.” Dorothea’s voice was hollow. “He said you were dead.”
“But I’m not dead, am I?” Lucy said, as brightly as she could manage. “I did get hurt during the robbery, but I got better.”
“You were hurt very badly though?” Dorothea looked at her. “You were stabbed many times?”
“Okay, I don’t want to lie to you. I did get hurt and I ended up in the hospital for months. I was still hurt for a long time after that. This is why my leg goes out every once in a while. I have a cane for when it gets really bad, but most days I get by just fine.”
“So it really happened. Everything Jimmy has been saying. It’s really true.” Her daughter was talking more to herself than to Lucy, but she sounded devastated, and Lucy wished she understood what this meant to her.
She motioned at Dorothea’s cup. “Why don’t you drink some of your tea? I could make us some lunch too. You must be getting hungry.”
Dorothea didn’t answer. She was staring at the patio door. After another minute, she said, “Did Father really get angry when you worked?”
“Yes, but he—”
“Jimmy said he even cut your hand to keep you from working.” There were tears standing in Dorothea’s eyes, but she was blinking them back. “Is this also true?”
“No,” Lucy said quickly. “Jimmy’s right that I injured my hand, but your father didn’t do it.” She felt like she had no choice. She had to defend him, for Dorothea’s sake. “He was very upset about it. He was always worried about my safety after the robbery. This was why he didn’t want me to work, because he was afraid something would happen to me.”
“Because he loved you so much?”
Part of Lucy wanted to scream, No, he didn’t love me. Of course he didn’t love me. If he’d loved me, he wouldn’t have taken my children away. He wouldn’t have ruined my life.
Dorothea was staring at her, waiting for the answer.
“I don’t know,” Lucy finally said. “But it was a long time ago, and I—”
“Please tell me what you really think.” Dorothea had regained her composure, but she’d wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were her only comfort. As if, Lucy thought, she was a motherless child, which she’d been, hadn’t she? It was something they had in common. A strange, sad connection between herself and her daughter.
“Please,” Dorothea repeated. “It’s very important.”
“In your father’s own way, I think he did love me.” Lucy inhaled. “But he kept me away from you and Jimmy for all these years. I don’t know how someone who ever loved me could do that.”
Dorothea sat up even straighter. “Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper. “I appreciate your honesty.”
Her daughter was quiet then, but her confusion and loneliness were so obvious to Lucy that she couldn’t help it, she stood up and went to her. As she leaned down and put her arms around Dorothea, Lucy realized that the part of her fantasy where her daughter understood everything that had happened before was one of the stupidest thoughts she’d ever had. She wished Dorothea didn’t have to know about any of this. She wished she could tell her something so wise it would all make sense to her.
It was the first time she’d hugged Dorothea, and Lucy wanted to cry when the girl didn’t pull away, but instead, leaned her face against Lucy’s neck.
They stayed like that for a minute, maybe more. Finally Dorothea said, “Will you go somewhere with me? It’s very important.”
“Of course,” Lucy said, leaning back, looking at her. “Wherever you want.”
“I think we should leave for St. Louis as soon as possible. I don’t want him to have to wait any longer.”
“We’re going to Missouri?” She was very surprised. “That’s where I grew up.”
“I know. My brother went there to look for your family.”
“Jimmy did that?” Lucy’s heart was in her throat, thinking about her little boy. That she would get to see him too was like a miracle. This day was changing everything.
Dorothea nodded. “I feel as if I’ve betrayed him. I don’t know why I couldn’t listen to what he was so desperate to tell me.”
Lucy thought for a moment. “He’s the reason you’re here though, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“You were trying to help him somehow?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be able to help him now?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, I think what you’ve done for Jimmy required a lot of courage. I think
he must know that he’s very important to you.” Lucy waited until she caught Dorothea’s eye, until she was sure her daughter would hear this. “I hope your father is proud of the wonderful girl he raised.”
twenty-two
ON THAT SAME Tuesday, while Lucy and Dorothea were preparing to go to St. Louis, Stephen was arriving in Tuma, New Mexico.
He’d started his search for Dorothea at the hospital on Monday afternoon. When he asked Jimmy if he’d seen her, Jimmy told him she’d come by that morning to say she was going home for a while. “She said she’s going to find out as much as she can about what happened to our mother,” Jimmy explained. Then he showed Stephen the California book. “She left this for me, to look at until she returns.” He smiled shyly. “She said if I keep looking at it, I’ll see what she knows I used to be, just a little boy on the beach.”
When Stephen stood up to leave, Jimmy shook his hand and thanked him for everything he’d done for his sister. Stephen felt like a piece of shit, but he said, “You’re welcome.”
He rushed to the Greyhound station, hoping to catch her, but she was already gone. So he went home, brewed a pot of coffee for his Thermos and hit the road. He still had the address in Tuma from the envelope Dorothea had given him the first day. The town was so small, it wasn’t on his U.S. map, but he knew it was in the northern part of the state. The only obvious way to get there was across Missouri and Kansas and then down to the border. When he arrived in New Mexico, he’d buy a state map.
He drove all night and most of the next day without stopping. Finally, when he got into Tuma, he pulled off to the side of the road and let himself sleep for a few hours. It was four o’clock, and he set the alarm on his watch for 8:00. He didn’t want to get there too late, but he was also afraid of getting there before she did. He wished he’d thought to get a Greyhound schedule. There wasn’t a Greyhound bus station here, and the local bus stop was nothing more than a sign by the side of the road.
He startled awake and realized he had no idea how to get to her house. There were exactly three streets in downtown Tuma, and only one place that was still open: a convenience store/gas station. He went in there, thinking his simple request for directions would get a simple response.