Fortune's Hand

by Belva Plain

  “If it’s not only the glitter of Fowler’s political connections and fancy fees, what else is it?”

  He could have answered. I want money for Penn. And, to be totally accurate, I want money for my self-esteem that has been trodden on. Instead, the sarcasm, the sneer, gave impetus to an even bolder retort.

  “It is my realization that you despise me.”

  “What? I have never made any complaint about you or treated you without courtesy.”

  “You have never complained about my work, it is true, because there have never been any grounds for complaint. But ever since Penn came, you have treated me with courteous contempt, sir. You have ignored the poor child. Perhaps it has just gone on too long for me.”

  “ ‘Despise’ and ‘contempt’ are very strong words.”

  “They’re what I’ve felt.”

  “Have you been talking this way to Ellen?”

  “No.”

  “I shouldn’t want you to. She’s had enough to bear, and I want to protect her from this kind of ugliness. She’s my daughter.”

  “She’s my wife, in case you’ve forgotten. My beloved wife.”

  The two men stared at each other. In another milieu, Robb thought, we would be shoving or using fists. As it was, strong words were their weapons.

  “You acquired this wife under false pretenses. You have been told that sixty percent of people like your boy inherit their condition. Sixty percent! And you must have known. You can’t tell me you didn’t. But you lied. By your silence, you lied.”

  Robb’s heart was pounding. Hot, bitter liquid, strong as bile or blood, formed in his mouth. “There is no use in going on with this,” he said. “I thank you at least, and at last, for being totally truthful about your feelings toward me. It is better for all of us.” He strode toward the door. “Now, if you will please ask Jim to work out the terms of my departure, so that there will be no inconvenience here to this firm, I will appreciate it. You and I will then have no need for any further meetings. Good night, sir.”

  In the hall downstairs, he stopped at the cooler for water. When he had drunk a paper-cupful, he filled it again and smoothed his face with wet hands.

  Never, never, would he tell Ellen exactly what had been said here. Yet, with its inevitability, life would be changed for a woman whose husband and father were estranged. Already, he felt her grief, the tangible sore that would stay with her. I will do everything to make it up to her, he vowed. Everything.

  At least now the slate was clean. Grant had made the challenging decision an easy one.

  Jasper was putting on his coat when Robb came in and gave him his news, which Jasper heard gravely.

  “Robb,” he said, “I apologize for having gone to him with the problem. But I did it with the best of motives. I hoped he would dissuade you before you could make such a drastic move.”

  “I understand,” Robb said, meaning it.

  “So the die is cast?”

  “Yes. Now it is. It has to be.”

  “I still say it’s a mistake. I only hope you will not regret it.”

  “I don’t think I will,” Robb said gently.

  He would have liked to pour out his heart, to pour out his feelings about Grant, and Penn, and everything, but knowing himself to be a private person, he also knew that if he were to do so, he would be ashamed afterward and wish to take back his words. So he shook Jasper’s hand with warmth and promised to stay in touch, after which he went to the telephone on his desk and called Eddy.

  “Well, Eddy,” he said, “I’ve got something to tell you. No more coattails.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  1986

  Ellen left Phil Lawson’s office with Penn and paused on the hospital’s front steps. There came to her sometimes in this place a curious visitation from the past, the feel of that instant when Robb MacDaniel appeared and their not-so-accidental meeting occurred. She smiled now, remembering his hurried gait, which he still had, remembering exactly the heavy weight of the heat, the sleepy silence on the street, the green ribbon on her straw hat, and her impression that he looked like somebody grave and famous—Lincoln, or Robert E. Lee.

  “I want a lollipop,” Penn said. “A chocolate one.”

  “All right. We’ll find one in the park.”

  “I’ll ride a horse?” he asked, or announced, meaning the wooden one on the carousel.

  “Yes,” she said, holding his hand as they crossed the street.

  So they would spend the rest of the afternoon. She had brought crackers for him to crumble and throw to the ducks. They would walk slowly back to the parking lot and drive home in time to meet Julie, who would then be finished with her piano lesson.

  In this way, the days were measured out. It was a kind of juggling act to keep things separate that needed to be so, such as Penn’s nighttime disturbances and Robb’s well-deserved sleep, or Penn himself and the car that was backing out of the garage.… And Ellen shuddered at last week’s close encounter, Mrs. Vernon’s chilling scream when he had somehow gotten away from her, and most of all, her own collapsing heart.

  Yet things were better now, they really were. At eight, Penn was a not-entirely unpleasant four-year-old. You just had to know how to handle him. So she bought the lollipop, helped him climb onto the horse—after some peevish indecision about whether to choose the white one with black markings, or the black one with no markings.

  When at last she sat down, she knew she was tired. Perhaps she was not getting enough exercise; it was hard to fit any into the day. Or perhaps it was only mental tiredness, to which she did not want to admit. Once in that diary she had written about it and been so ashamed after Robb had seen it that she had thrown the whole thing away, into the fire. You were brought up in a certain manner, not to complain even on paper, or especially not on paper. Her father had reminded her so just the last time they had been together.

  It was hard to live as if she were a wall between two men, placed to keep them apart. She minded it far more than either one of them did. In the two years since that climactic day, they seemed to have reached an armed understanding. As he had long been doing anyway, the father continued his visits when the husband was sure to be absent; the daughter visited the father in his office at lunchtime. On holidays, she included friends as buffers so that the two men, sitting at opposite ends of the table or opposite corners of a room, did not infringe upon each other’s territory.

  “He resents me far more than I resent him,” declared Wilson Grant. “He resents me because he knows he hid the truth from us.”

  Again and again Ellen let that pass. Her father had already had a second heart attack, and although she saw the total injustice, even perhaps the cruelty of his remarks, she would not argue with him.

  “I’m too old to harbor a grudge forever,” Robb would say whenever the subject intruded upon their lives.

  Of course he meant by that to show that the other man ought to know better. “His pride is wounded because I finally dared to stand up to him.”

  These days Robb was in high spirits. He was a senior associate and in another year or two, would become a full partner, or else, as he explained, they would not have invited him to join the firm. Conducting Ellen through the vast offices that occupied two floors of the impressive building, he had been as pleased as a child with a splendid new toy, and she had been not only touched by his pride, but very proud, too.

  In a subtle way, Robb was changing, though not toward her, for tender as always, he was indeed often more passionate than ever; the change was one of mood, his high spirits climbing at times toward exuberance. When he brought a check home for deposit in their joint account, his fingers touched it as if they cherished the very feel of the pristine paper. Gone were the evenings spent in checking the budget, for now there was more than enough to meet every expense, without need to stretch or calculate. So Ellen was glad for him, glad about his sense of independence, his busyness, his luncheon meetings and conferences with people of national note.
He seemed more youthful. She imagined that all this activity might, in a way, be making up for the subdued and quiet years they had been living since Penn was born.

  One day he had surprised her with two new cars, one for each of them, bought on the same day. He had already surprised her with half a dozen new suits for himself, made to order at Eddy’s place.

  “Eddy’s right. Now I see the importance of it,” he had explained. “It’s important to make an impression. That may sound superficial, but the fact is that a man is judged by his appearance.”

  This opinion astonished Ellen. It seemed so unlike him, a reverse, harmless indeed, yet astonishing.

  “Not that I mind, for heaven’s sake. But I’m curious. You never thought so before.”

  “The clientele are different now. Their expectations are different now.”

  She supposed it must be so. But she knew little about such things, after all. Writing and art were solitary. You worked at them surrounded by your own four walls. The two little books that during these last years she had barely managed to squeeze out of her head had been unsuccessful. She had felt when she submitted them that they would flounder and die, which they had done. She had not tried again, and so, even the very limited contact with the business world that publishing had afforded her was no more.

  The carousel circled. The rhythmic jingle of its music circled through the repertoire as Penn’s face appeared and reappeared. He would readily stay there for an hour if she were to let him, and she let him, giving the ticket-taker, who knew him, a sheaf of tickets at the start. She supposed Penn was not hard to remember: a tall boy for his age, handsome, and obviously well cared for; with his baby ways and his mouth often hanging open, he most probably evoked both curiosity and pity.

  A pair of school boys was passing with their book bags on their shoulders. They were only a few years older than Penn. At best, he would never be like them, alert and laughing.… If only there were a school for him within a reasonable distance! It seemed as if the few here didn’t even want to try to help him. Couldn’t they at least try?

  Even that nice tutor whom she had coaxed into working at home with Penn had given up teaching him the alphabet.

  “I’m not well enough trained for a child like this,” she had apologized.

  That was probably true. But it was also probably true that Penn would never be educable.

  “Perhaps later,” the woman had said, showing her sympathy with a gentle glance and tone; she had a boy of her own, Penn’s age.

  Perhaps later.

  Ellen was sinking into a reverie when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Hello,” Phil Lawson said.

  Having left him only a short while ago, she was surprised—surprised, anyway, to see him here in the park.

  “I recognized the straw hat,” he said.

  “People always find me by my hat. It’s to keep the sun off. I burn badly.”

  “You’ve very fair skin, I’ve noticed.”

  “What brings you to the park?”

  “A breath of fall and fresh air. I parked my car way over on Fuller Street so I’d have to walk back through the park to get it again.”

  “Hi, Philip,” Penn called. He was excited, waving both arms. “Hi, Philip!”

  “Watch out, buddy, or you’ll fall off that wild horse,” the attendant warned, lifting him down.

  “I didn’t know he calls you ‘Philip,’ ” Ellen said.

  “That’s new. He must have heard somebody say it.”

  “ ‘Philip’? It sounds formal, not like you somehow.”

  “I know, but actually I like it better than ‘Phil,’ probably because it has memories attached.”

  “I didn’t know. From now on you will be ‘Philip’ in our family. I shall be sure to tell Robb.”

  “It’s not important. Are we walking?”

  “To the pond. Penn has crackers for the ducks.”

  Most often, Penn rushed ahead, and she had to pursue him. But now he walked slowly, holding Philip’s hand as if, Ellen thought, he wants to prolong the contact. The unhurried pace was in keeping with the mild afternoon. A city park could be idyllic, depending upon who happened to be in it, she reflected. Today there were no walkers’ crowds, only mothers with their toddlers, strolling elderly couples, a pair of lovers, baby carriages, and a student reading on a bench. An old man was feeding pigeons, while in the pond ducks cruised near the edge expectantly.

  “You forgot,” Ellen said, correcting Penn. “Don’t throw the whole cracker in. Show Philip how you make crumbs.”

  “I know, I know,” Penn cried.

  A little apart in the shade, they stood watching him. He had a smile as he crumbled and threw. The ducks were making him happy.

  “Penn’s making progress,” Philip observed.

  “Yes, inch by inch. It’s hard to believe he’s eight.”

  She wasn’t rushing time. With her twenties already behind her, she was all too aware of time’s speed. And where her boy was concerned, its passage only terrified her, bringing them all the nearer to crisis. Not much longer would he be a child. And, as so often, when she tried to imagine him at fifteen—or at twenty—tears started into her eyes, and she turned away as if to hide them under the merciful brim of her hat. She wished Philip would go, for surely he must see her struggle. But he had only moved toward Penn and was watching the ducks.

  Before the crackers were used up, her tears were beaten down. She was an expert at beating them down; she despised them for forcing themselves upon her against her will.

  And they went on to the next event, the sandbox. Tiny children were already playing in it, while their mothers sat on the surrounding benches. From her tote bag Ellen took out a pail and shovel. Then she removed Penn’s shoes and bade him sit down on the wooden rim of the box. Conscious that wary, watchful eyes were observing him and suspicious glances were being exchanged, she paid no attention. Accustomed to all of these, she would have liked to reply to the unspoken questions that hung in the air: Yes, he is retarded, but he will not harm your children; you needn’t be afraid.

  “Philip, don’t go,” Penn cried.

  “I won’t. I’ll stay right here on this bench.”

  Now she was glad that he was staying. They would talk and she would not have to sit there in frozen silence.

  “Are you sure Penn isn’t keeping you from going home?” she asked, having nothing else to say.

  “I’ve no reason to hurry home,” he replied. “There’s nobody there but a pair of cats, and they have each other.”

  The answer surprised her. As warm and friendly as their contact had been through these past years, it had yet remained professional. As counselor, he had needed to learn much about Ellen and Robb, while they had not had any right, or even any particular interest, in learning about him. Failing to see in his office any photographic evidence of wife or child, Ellen had taken for granted that he must be living with someone. He did not look like a person who would live alone with two cats!

  “Yes,” he said now as if he had read her mind, “I’ve been alone for a long time. It’s not the way to live, but somehow I don’t seem to break out of the habit. I’ve tried, I’ve had relationships, but they haven’t lasted, and so I’m thrown back onto the cats.”

  He looked at her. Astonishing, she thought, I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that blue.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” she stammered, “I was only waiting … I thought you had more to say, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “I suppose I did have more to say, and then decided not to say it. It would be inappropriate. A personal affair. Boring.”

  “The fact that it’s personal wouldn’t make it inappropriate, and certainly not boring, as far as I’m concerned, Philip. You’re probably thinking, oh, this woman’s son is a patient of mine, the relationship is professional and why should my affairs be of any interest to he? But if that’s it, you’re quite wrong. Robb an
d I are so thankful to you, you’ve been the staff we lean on, you’ve been our friend—”

  Her words had touched him. For a moment he did not speak, and then, while looking away across the grass, he began.

  “Today is an anniversary for me, a day that will probably plague me forever. I come from Canada. We have winter storms there at this time of year. Fifteen years ago, against my better judgment, I let my wife take the car onto treacherous roads. She skidded into a collision on the ice. She was killed, and our child died of terrible injuries a month later. I am haunted by that long month of suffering. I should have never let her go.”

  He stopped. You can’t really know anything about people, Ellen thought, unless they choose to tell you. He always looks so benign, so reasonable, so adjusted to life. And she spoke very gently.

  “It wasn’t your fault. She was a grown woman. How could you have stopped her?”

  “Of course you are right. Common sense tells me that. Yet still I think I should somehow have prevented her. As I said, it’s our child who haunts me. It’s as if he were accusing me.”

  “So that’s why you went as far away from the scene as you could and why you work with children.”

  “That’s why.”

  “You hide your sorrow very well, Philip.”

  “And so do you.”

  “And so does Robb.”

  “I know. He has character, Robb has.”

  Quietly then, with no further speech, they sat observing the sunny scene. The old man was still feeding pigeons, a tiny woman led an enormous Saint Bernard, and a pile of thunder clouds were rising in the east, while the sun moved to the west. Children were summoned away from the sandbox, brushed off, and started on their way home. Penn had filled and dumped his pail a hundred times or more. It seemed impossible that an hour and a half had gone by on this bench.

  “Julie will be home from her lesson,” Ellen said. “It’s time to go.”