Better You Go Home

by Scott Driscoll

  If negotiations go smoothly, the evening will culminate with a modest ceremony held at the orphanage. Tomorrow, regardless of what happens tonight, I will be in Prague, either checked into IKEM’s transplant clinic or into emergency care. Today has been a rough day. The headache and nausea have made napping difficult. Because of the beating it’s hard to find a comfortable position. Each of my ankles looks like the trunk of a cherry tree. For ten months I’ve known it was a race against time. The beating handed out gratis by Jungmann’s guards merely took the uncertainty out of it.

  * * *

  My father paddles out of the bathroom wearing an inquiring look on his face. I’m blowing “Clementine” on my harmonica to help him calm down. He’s wearing his socks half on and half off—an old habit that means he’s worrying, a habit that used to drive both me and Mom crazy.

  “Did you know that’s my favorite song?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know. Your socks …”

  He gives me that hang-dog look. “Tonight is not going to be easy.”

  “Mom’s been gone almost three years. You could start thinking about …”

  “No, no.” Standing before the French doors, my pensive father looks out across the balcony at the snow, which is at least abating. “We have to get you to Prague. You and Anežka. That’s all that matters.”

  My father paces in his half-stockinged feet. I don’t have the heart to ask him to stop. His worrying at least leads to some resolve. Grabbing one of his dog-eared Zane Grey paperbacks, he joins me on the bed. A bookstore in Prague sells Karl May westerns translated into Czech from German. He has a stack of those waiting at the flat. He’s preparing to be here for an indeterminate duration.

  He drops the paperback onto his lap. “I’ll do whatever has to be done.”

  “Including sign the paternity release?”

  “If that’s what has to be.”

  “What about Anežka?” Trying to picture her, I keep seeing me. A boy of four or five, in the basement, my hands on a stack of quarters, reveling in the glint of silvery light, the tinkle of what to me was pirate treasure, when he caught me and in a curt voice that frightened me, said, put those back and don’t ever touch them again. “Remember that amber bowl, you used it as an ashtray? You kept it on your desk down in the basement?” He doesn’t recall the bowl particularly. “You’d go down there to smoke your Friday night cigar?”

  “Your mother hated cigars.”

  “When I was young I was convinced you preferred hanging out down in the basement to being upstairs with us. I figured you had secrets down there.”

  He brushes his paperback aside. Pushes up from the bed, his arthritic knees creaking. He looks out through the French doors into the snowy night.

  “There was a time when I really believed I wanted to be a resistance fighter. I wanted to impress my uncle.” Still looking out toward the night, he says, “Remember that time you visited your grandfather?”

  “You know, to be honest, it was more than just that once.”

  “I figured.”

  “Just for the record, he never told me anything. I really had no idea I had a Czech sister until this past January. When I found those letters.”

  “It’s hard for me to tell you this, but when I found out you were seeing him …” He clicks his tongue. His hand reaches for a phantom toothpick. “Well I’ll just say it. I felt betrayed. There was no way you could have understood.”

  “I was trying to understand. But you kept that life separate from us. It was your private basement life. I see now why you maybe didn’t want to share it.”

  “There was no going back. I tried to forget about it.”

  “But, you had a child.” I sink back against the rolled pillow. “In my heart I want to forgive you for that. I try.”

  “I know. I don’t expect you to. But remember, for a long time I believed …”

  “You’re going to tell me you believed that story about your father and Rosalie. You have to admit, it is a little convenient.” But we’re running out of time. “What do you think is going to happen tonight? You think Rosalie will go through with it?”

  “That’s what Josef says. She said she’d do it.”

  “When you two are in the same room … Anyway.” This is his dilemma. On the eve of asking his daughter for her forgiveness, he will be asked to sign a disclaimer waiving paternity rights so that Jungmann can name her as his daughter in his will. Of course, she could simply be named beneficiary of his estate. The issue of paternity especially seems to matter to Jungmann. And all this while watching his old flame marry his old rival.

  “I don’t want you to do this just for me. I’ll go on dialysis.”

  “Son. I won’t let you down.”

  “Do what’s right for Anežka.”

  “We’ll see how it goes.”

  “Fix your socks. Please?”

  It’s time. He pulls up his socks. We bundle up. Josef has pulled up out front in an old Volga wagon of indeterminate color—it has so many replaced panels. The rusty, shockless Volga belongs to the mayor’s son, who has agreed to chauffeur us. Jungmann, we’re told, has been busy today with my cousin Františka’s husband making hasty modifications in the orphanage. It’s an odd place for an odd wedding. The building is condemned for good reason. There is no heat source but that wood-burning stove that’s missing its cast-iron doors. With its worm-eaten wooden beams and log walls only scantily clad in plaster, the building is unquestionably a fire hazard. But the building belongs to Jungmann. Very unlikely anyone would cross him but Zámečník and he’s promised to let us have this night without any interference from the human rights court. The wedding will be a ceremony only. Paperwork to be filed later.

  * * *

  It’s cold outside and the temperature is dropping. No miscreants lounging on the mausoleum with their boom boxes. The square is empty of people. The wind has mercifully died. The roads are still passable and the searing cold and the still air may hold off any further snow. Outside of Žamberk, a thin raiment of crystallized snow glistens on bare limbs that catch in our headlights. Through the woodlands, an icy ground fog rises from the river. The Volga’s bald tires give poor traction at best on the frozen asphalt. Our seats, thinly cushioned metal benches bolted to the chassis, send us bouncing and sliding—of course there are no seatbelts—and the jarring is especially hard on my back. I’m wondering how I’ll manage the long drive to Prague later tonight in this steel can.

  Limbs snapped off in the earlier storm crack under the Volga’s wheels like gunshot. More than once Josef, worried that Jungmann’s minions will be out here to give everyone an unasked for escort, asks the mayor’s son to stop and turn off our headlights and wait. It’s a paranoia that never entirely goes away, evidently.

  Around the bend at Hnátnice, the orphanage is suddenly there. Hulking, sagging, an immoveable presence. The cracked gargoyles that used to seem charming leer at us tonight as though we should know better than to tempt fate. The heavy shutters have been closed over the windows, yet a thin glow escapes around the edges. What could have been arranged for lighting? Surely not open flames. At least a fire would provide the place a death with dignity. My father thinks it should be torn down to the foundation and rebuilt from the ground up. I want the relic saved. When I walk around in there I feel the spirit of the children. This was Anežka’s home. That’s what I want to save for Anežka. Home.

  Chapter Thirty

  Monday Night at the Orphanage: Preparing for a Wedding

  Františka ushers us into the caretaker’s flat, her brow pinched behind her bulky glasses. Her thick torso is wrapped in a burgundy silk robe that looks too svelte for her, like she borrowed it from Rosalie. She has prepared a bath for herself. She will not be joining us for the ceremony. There are a few messages.

  Anežka was released from prison into Jungmann’s custody. According to a call from her legal counsel, Jungmann has her release authorization, her passport with the visa, her birth certificate. When sh
e walked out of the prison, he watched her stop to scratch her initials into the peeling stucco on the outer wall before two guards escorted her into the back of the waiting police van. She will be delivered under guard. Jungmann will be along later, after he has changed for tonight’s ceremony.

  Dana? Did you hear from Dana? What I wanted from her was to find a way to convince him to drop the paternity requirement. “She say, tell Chico, she danced for Jungmann last night private, Salome.” I nod, my heart sick for her. “She say tell Chico everything is fine, he has agreed.” No way are we trusting this intelligence, but at least the opening salvo in the negotiations has been fired.

  Rosalie went missing. Františka found her. Where, I ask, shuddering at that possibility.

  “V místě, kde byste to nejvíc očekávali. We found her in most obvious place.”

  My father guesses. “The farm. In the blue room.” Lest we misjudge her, he adds, “She can seem … haughty, like she’s too good for everyone. But I remember how my mother treated her.”

  The bride-to-be is upstairs preparing herself. We are not allowed to see her. When she’s ready, she’ll call for Josef to escort her. Until then, we should wait for her in the orphanage.

  I take my pulse. Do I need a snack or a booster shot? Usually I can tell. Tonight I can’t. My father notices that my eyes are dilated and decides I’m having a reaction. He hands me a six-ounce can of orange juice from my daypack. Would I like to nap until all are assembled? You go ahead, I tell him. Come get me when Anežka is here.

  Wielding a borrowed flashlight, he leads Josef across the frozen field, a slight erect proud lonely figure etched out of the dark by a cold slab of moonlight. Winds high up are shifting away the cloud cover. At the tumbled monument to the dead flyer, he kicks snow from the bison and takes his time looking it over. I watch them cross the frozen yard, watch until they open the door upon a reddish pulsing glow and enter what looks to my inflamed imagination like the maw of a furnace.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Orphanage: They Begin to Arrive for the Ceremony

  The smell of kerosene overpowers even the funk of rodent. Near the stove Františka’s husband has erected an arbor on a raised platform. The assemblage bears an unfortunate resemblance to a gallows. From the arbor a wide bench-swing hangs on ropes. The ceremony will include a courtship scene on the swing. Of course there are no flowers; it’s too cold for that. My father and Josef have been feeding wood scraps into the open-bellied stove to beat back the chill before the others arrive. The smoke vents out a flue that is far from air-tight. If there’s a high-pressure inversion that smoke will stay in the loft and we’ll be in trouble. There is no power to the building. Lighting is provided by several kerosene lanterns with open flames in glass covers, hung from nails pounded into rafters. The lanterns carve an intimate space around the platform. The pulsing glow from the belly of the stove paints an amber stain on Josef and my father and casts harsh shadows that feel like creatures reaching out of the dark.

  “I’m feeling better,” I tell my concerned father. I nod to Josef. “I can’t imagine what you must have said to her.”

  “You must ask to her.” None of us heard her come in. That faux London Fog covers her wedding outfit. She’s gone to a lot of trouble to braid her hip-length white hair. Two pinned ram’s horn braids elegantly frame her angular face. Tucked from horn to horn is a daisy chain of tiny white flowers. The ruby lipstick has been applied so thickly I worry she’s been hitting the Slivovice. Her cold hands fumble with a cigarette.

  “You’re willing to go through with this?” I hope I don’t sound too incredulous.

  “We will see if he keeps his word.” My father clicks his tongue.

  “Just the same,” I say, willing to offend him if that’s what it takes. “What if he insists on the paternity issue?” Halbrstat, the town historian, will perform the civil ceremony. It was out of the question to approach Zámečník, the mayor, for this task.

  “It is my wedding day. Nothing will spoil it, not even your gloomy looks.”

  “I’m happy if you’re happy,” I say. My father’s silence speaks too loudly. I cover it with idiotic questions until Rosalie stops me.

  “We will begin with courtship swing. He will place flowers in my hair.” Unmistakably she has brought the required flowers. There’s a sobriety in her tone that stops me from joking about it. “I must not be here when he arrives.” Our instructions are given. She wants Josef to lead her in when everyone’s here. First will be the swing ceremony, followed by a round of stories, everyone’s chance to share a memory of either bride or groom. Objections will be heard at that time. Until then we should just go with the ceremony. She emphasizes this last point, brows lifted. “Understand? You must trust me. I know what I am doing.” With that odd request, she slips out to finish her preparations.

  My silent father jiggers pensively foot to foot and looks like Isis doing it to stay warm. At least I talked him out of wearing that yellow golf cap with the ear flaps.

  * * *

  I have to keep moving or my back will seize. Josef walks with me through the hall. The fire lurches at our backs. Shining my light down the row of stout posts and along the outer walls—wide swaths of missing plaster expose thick square logs coated with black tar, the gaps filled with mud and straw chinking—it seems to me that we are in the belly of not a furnace but an ark. An ark built for lost children. An ark built to endure any storm. An ark ultimately cast athwart the one storm it could not ride out: the storm of abandonment. Where did Anežka’s children go when Jungmann closed this place four years ago? Josef doesn’t know. Why leave it neglected if he had plans for it? Could it still be salvaged, or have worms bored too devastatingly into its structure? Josef won’t profess to having an opinion. What if … I tug his arm, filled with a sudden inspiration. What if we were to start a foundation? Fix up the place, turn it into a shelter for battered women and children? Anežka could be the director.

  But Josef is looking dubious. He wants to discuss the ceremony. Rosalie has a punishment in mind for Jungmann and we mustn’t question her. “It’s your father I worry,” he says, whispering. “If he wants fight with Jungmann, it will not go well for Anežka.”

  “I think he has Anežka’s interest at heart.” What troubles Josef, I’m guessing, is that my father’s latent feelings for Rosalie could be aroused. What troubles me, but I keep this to myself, is that he might decide it’s time to talk about what happened to the boy who was found in the river.

  “You ready for this?” We’re back with my father by the stove.

  His mouth opens and he looks at me and his eyes are bleeding with concern. He looks at me and he puts a hand on my shoulder like a girl asking me to dance and he says, “Charles … Son, I … Son, I’m sorry. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I really want everything to work out …”

  “But? I hear a loud ‘but’ in this.”

  “Before Rosalie marries him she has to know. I know we talked about this—”

  “Just do me a favor. Let’s wait and see how it goes. This can’t be just about your need to confess.”

  “She has to know. I owe that to her.”

  “She’s spent most of her life under the same roof with that guy. You think she doesn’t know him by now?”

  “It’s not just him.”

  He stops talking and instead busies himself adjusting lantern flames, feeding the stove, testing the ropes on the swing, which has been slammed together out of rough-cut birch still damp from the woods. All those Saturday afternoons when little Anežka waited indoors so that if her mother came for her she wouldn’t miss her … It was just as much my father she waited for, even if she didn’t know it. He knew. His sisters corresponded with the family.

  We hear the crunch of tires on snow. A car door slams. The reckoning my father has dreaded the past five decades is about to arrive.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A Family Talk at the Orphanage: the Wedding Begins

&nbs
p; A month of interrogation in a tiny cold cell has left Anežka thin, her skin sallow, her eyes bruised, her hair as toneless as her cat’s fur when we found it hanging. She leans heavily on her cane. What we can see of the uniform under her coat, the knee-high stockings, plaid skirt and the rest looks rumpled like it’s been slept in. Prison has aged my sister. She looks closer to my father’s generation.

  Two guards escort her in. My father convinces them that the ceremony is not going to include food and drink so they might as well wait outside in their van and keep it running and stay warm. One of the guards, the same phlegmatic older one who beat me in the prison, is carrying a black flashlight. He taps it desultorily into his palm. His indifference suggests that I was nothing more to him than a job, a reason to have been late for supper with his miserable family. That he has been sent, rather than some other random guard, can only mean Jungmann was behind that beating. This is my reminder to behave, is it? My skin crawls with loathing. Of course, for Anežka’s sake—this would have been in Jungmann’s calculations—I will mind my manners.