Fortune's Hand

by Belva Plain

  Philip had not been there in many weeks. Ellen had seen him only when taking Penn to his office, once accompanied by Robb and twice alone. Now, as he stood with his foot braced against a step, he was a different man from the one who in jacket, white shirt and tie sat behind a desk. She had a startling recollection of that other man on that other day. She had spoken too frankly to him, confiding what she probably should not have confided, and he had heard her, really heard her. Unmistakably, he had read the thoughts that she should not have had. She knew that surely, and the knowledge frightened her.

  Nevertheless, she spoke clearly. “We were having a little discussion. Robb wants to move and I don’t want to.”

  “Philip doesn’t want to hear about our foolish little tiff, Ellen.”

  Robb was furious, but being above all mannerly, he would never show it. And quickly regretful, Ellen tried to make amends.

  “Excuse me, Philip. Robb is right. I only said it because you are always such a help to us through all our troubles. I spoke without thinking.”

  Philip responded gracefully by inquiring for Penn. “Where’s my friend Penn?”

  “He’s been playing ball with Robb.” She must make further amends to Robb for having embarrassed him. “They have a good time together. Now Penn’s come in to watch television, nothing worse than cartoons, I hope.”

  “I’ll go tell him his friend is here,” Robb said. A moment later he returned. “Penn’s not there.”

  “He’s probably bothering Julie in her room. She’s doing her homework.”

  When she had searched upstairs and downstairs without finding him, Ellen was alarmed, although not too much so. Last week he had gone wandering to the house next door, but the neighbors, friendly people, had brought him back within minutes before either Ellen or Mrs. Vernon had known he was missing. So she went next door, fretting, “In cold weather at least we can lock the doors, and he doesn’t know how to open them. But as soon as it warms enough to want some fresh air—”

  The house was closed and there were no cars in the garage. Therefore, Penn was not at that house. Trying the next one and not finding him, her alarm became serious, and she ran back home to report.

  Robb jumped up. “Get Julie. We’ll each take a street. He can’t have gone very far.”

  “Calhoun Street! There’s all that traffic, and he doesn’t know how to cross!”

  In four directions, running, calling, and shattering the Sunday quiet, they dispersed.

  * * *

  “Have you seen Penn?” Ellen inquired of some ten-year-old boys not doing much of anything in somebody’s front yard.

  “Who’s Penn?” asked one.

  “The funny one. You know,” another answered, tapping his head and screwing up his face. “Did he run away?”

  “Yes. If you see him, please tell your parents, will you? They’ll take him home. They know where he lives.”

  Indeed, everyone in the neighborhood must know Penn MacDaniel. How that had hurt during those first years! But what difference did it make now, or had it made for a long time, what people said or thought about her child? Only let him be safe!

  She ran. Falling over a curb, she bloodied her knee, picked herself up, and kept running. On Calhoun Street only the pharmacy was open. No one there had seen Penn. He could not possibly, in this short time, have gone any greater distance than this. She must try elsewhere, must go home by another route. Please, God, let somebody have seen him!

  Exhausted now, with plodding steps, she walked. To think that only a few minutes ago we were arguing about a house, she thought. A house.

  The commotion was audible before it became visible. Penn’s voice, when he raised it, was a piercing treble. And there he was, not five blocks from home, surrounded by a small mob of gesticulating children and a cluster of parents whose Sunday rest had obviously been broken by the racket.

  “Mom!” he shrieked when he saw her. His face was furiously red; he was twisting, kicking, and fighting off three boys at once. One of them knocked him down.

  “Get off the hopscotch, you big dope!”

  “I won’t! I won’t! You can’t make me. Ouch! I’ll kick you!”

  A little girl wailed, “He punched me! You’re not allowed to hit girls! I’m going to tell my father and he’ll punch you!”

  Two men grabbed Penn’s arms and pulled him up just as Robb, Phil and Julie appeared, all converging from different streets. The men handed Penn over, still furiously fighting. And a woman scolded.

  “You his parents? A boy like him should be watched, shouldn’t be allowed out to bother other people’s children.”

  Clearly this person was new in the neighborhood. How was one to answer her? But another woman, who had known Penn from the day he was born, intervened.

  “He meant no harm. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. These children were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, and he was standing on the chalk marks. When he wouldn’t move out of the way, they pushed him. So he pushed back hard, and of course he’s older and bigger, and so—” She threw up her hands. “Go home, Ellen and Robb. Don’t worry.”

  They went home while Robb and Phil restrained Penn, still roaring and struggling. Ellen and Julie followed. Both saddened and embarrassed, they were silent.

  “I’ll get him some ice cream, Mom,” Julie said as they neared home. “That’ll soothe him.” She looked into her mother’s face. “I know you feel like crying, and I do, too. But what’s the use?”

  “You’re right, darling. None. We’ll just have to keep all the doors locked from now on. He wants to play, you see, but he doesn’t know how, and nobody lets him.”

  And so the small procession entered the house. Penn, having been given an oversized bowl of ice cream, quieted down, Julie went back to her homework, and the three adults were left with their tired thoughts.

  After a while, Robb said, “I’m glad you were here, Philip. Did you have any idea he was so strong?”

  “He’s going to be a big man,” Philip replied.

  “And fast. He can almost outrun me.”

  They were looking at Ellen. He’ll soon be out of your control, if he isn’t already, their silence told her. And so, what next?

  “What next?” she whispered.

  “I think you know,” Philip answered.

  “We don’t want to do it until we absolutely must,” Robb said.

  To part with him! Who would be as patient as his mother? thought Ellen. And she saw him afraid and bereft among strangers who were at best indifferent. The worst did not bear thinking about.

  Then Philip spoke. “Granted that this is premature, but I’m thinking you should hear about something I just learned. Do you remember the place near Wheatley where we went about six or seven years ago? They had some good people in charge, but the plant was so rundown it was pathetic. You’d only take someone there as a last resort. Well, I learned recently that they’ve received a huge benefaction, and big changes are taking place. It might be worth looking into.”

  Robb shook his head. “We’re not ready.”

  “Even so. It’s better not to wait until the last minute. It’s better to be prepared.”

  Robb was examining his fingers, and Ellen said faintly, “You think the time’s not far off, Philip, but you don’t want to say so.”

  “If I had a crystal ball, Ellen, they’d be bringing patients to me from Timbuktu. I only said it might be worth looking into.”

  Robb raised his head. “I think you’re right. Will you, or do you have the time to investigate?”

  “Of course. But I think we should all go.”

  “Fine, but not this week, nor the next, either. I’ve court here and something in Washington. Just a minute till I get my datebook.”

  Robb’s dark red leather appointment book was a meticulously kept duplicate of the one that had been Wilson Grant’s annual Christmas present in the period when Robb MacDaniel was his admired son-in-law. All of a sudden, it occurred to Ellen that their house was indee
d filled with such reminders of her father’s beneficence: a handsome dressing case for Robb’s out-of-town commitments, tennis rackets, and first editions.

  “How about Monday, three weeks from tomorrow? All right with you, Philip? And you, Ellen?”

  She nodded. As if she had anything more important to do! And the sadness of everything washed over her like a long, slow wave of ebb tide.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  1989

  On the third Monday Robb telephoned home from the office to say that having been summoned into an unexpected conference, he was unable to go.

  “You go with Philip and look it over. But let’s not get ourselves ready for Doomsday. This is simply to have something in case. We may never have to use it, in spite of what anyone tells us.”

  Like Ellen, he was thinking and saying what he believed he ought to think and say. Neither of them had even touched on the unhappy subject since the episode on that Sunday afternoon three weeks before. Neither of them had touched on the subject of the move, either. And she hoped that now, with this greater, more imminent concern over Penn, he had dropped it.

  “Let’s postpone the trip,” she said. “What day can you go? I’ll call Philip.”

  “No. Go today. I don’t believe in postponements. And take your car. It needs a workout.”

  So much for his optimism. Poor Robb. And so much for the pretty little car that was so seldom used, a car built for a life of cheerful, busy errands and jolly excursions. She sighed as she hung up the phone. It was a pity to feel such dreary lassitude on a day so bright with the full arrival of spring.

  She wished Robb had not been so positive about this visit. It would be late afternoon before they would return. And yet again she recalled that day when she had told Philip about Robb and her father. Why had she done such a thing? What could they talk about now during all those hours? They could not talk about Penn the whole time. And there would have to be a stop for lunch someplace, where they would sit with a little table between them, having a private time together.… No, it was too uncomfortable. A couple of sandwiches and a thermos of coffee would be better. It would be quicker and businesslike.

  “Do you mind going in this car?” she asked when Philip arrived. “Robb thinks the engine needs some exercise.”

  “Not at all.” He ran his fingers over the smooth gray leather. “It’s a kind of jewel, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. Well, yes it is.”

  Although her eyes were on the road, she was aware that he was looking in her direction.

  “How is Penn today?” he asked.

  “I left him with some new toys. One is a maze with a tiny ball that slides around as you tilt the thing. You should see his expression when he’s absorbed in something like that. It’s so delightful, so sweet.” And her father had been unable to see it. “I’ll never understand my father,” she cried. “Can you explain that to me?”

  “I never knew him, Ellen. I have no pieces with which to fit the puzzle together. Maybe he simply had an image of himself and his family.… Everyone has an image. I think I see myself as a source of ‘wise advice, a help to the distressed.’ ” He laughed. “And sometimes I think I’m being ridiculous. Who do I think I am? How much do I really accomplish? I haven’t changed your lives, yours and Robb’s. You came to me years ago with a problem, and you still have the problem.”

  He had, perhaps unconsciously, moved the subject from her father to himself. Plainly, he wanted to talk to her about himself. But she did not want to hear it. His hand, lying on his knee, disturbed her. Very white, with long, supple fingers, it reminded her of the contrast between the whiteness and the sunburn on his chest that she had seen that day. Was it yesterday or years ago? But she had remembered it. The mind retained things one didn’t want to keep, queer, jumbled bits and pieces, even the V of a white collar and a striped tie, even the timbre of a voice.… I am losing my common sense, she said to herself with furious shame.

  “Would you like some music?” she asked.

  He leaned forward to the dial. “What kind?”

  “You choose.”

  Any kind would do, rock, classical, or country. He chose classical, the Schubert Seventh and Eighth, which would last well over an hour.

  They traveled westward with the sun behind them, dark pines in jagged rows ahead and cool air sweeping through the open windows. Driving very fast, she had to concentrate on nothing else but the road, and this concentration emptied her mind, seemed to cleanse it, so that she could willingly have gone on without stopping, with no past, no future, and no thoughts.

  When the music ended, they were silent. Once they had to consult the map, but afterward silence resumed and lasted until they arrived at the Wheatley sign. There they turned through the town onto a stony road and stopped in front of a large wooden structure that had apparently not been painted in years.

  Philip said suddenly, “You don’t really want to go in, do you?”

  “It’s why I came.”

  “I sense that you’re feeling weak in the knees. Sit down somewhere first.”

  The whole scene had come flooding back: dim halls, the smell of a greasy kitchen, the whole chill spectacle of neglected age and no money. Yet more painful than any of these was the recollection of apathetic faces.

  “Wait here on the bench in the shade. I won’t be long.”

  How had he known that her knees were about to fail? Or that her heart had been hammering? And she sat quite still while her heart began to slow, watching two squirrels chase each other among the trees.

  In a short time, Philip returned to explain that these old buildings were gradually being emptied, and the new ones were just down the hill. He studied her face. “I see you’re feeling better. Shall we walk?”

  New shingled rooftops came in sight below the crest of the hill. The sounds of hammers, men’s shouted voices, and pneumatic drills, all the noises of unfinished business, floated toward them. A driveway was being paved. A bulldozer was leveling ground for what most probably would be a playing field. The telephone company was laying cables. A truck loaded with spruce and hemlock was being unloaded in front of a low brick building with white trim.

  A workman, seeing their hesitation, directed them. “You want the administration? That’s it, the green door.” They looked toward a wide, hospitable entrance flanked by tall pots ready to be planted. “Go on in. They’re already seeing people, if you’re interested.”

  And Ellen stared. There, carved in stately letters on a long stone panel she read, to her utter shock, these words: The Richard and Olivia Devlin Living Center.

  “Devlin! Look, Philip! Devlin, I don’t believe it!”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know! He just doesn’t seem—doesn’t act like the kind of man who would care.”

  “Well, people surprise you. Come inside and see what’s going on.”

  An affable woman of middle age, the kind of person who creates cheer for the troubled or unsure visitor, approached them. Philip introduced Ellen and identified himself.

  “Dr. Lawson! You don’t need to give me your name. I heard you speak at the conference two years ago. So you’ve come to see us. Quite a change, isn’t it? We’ve had this angel, positively an angel, give us ten million dollars. And of course that’s only the start. With a gift like that, the ball gets rolling. Well, of course you know how it is. Let me show you around.”

  Led by this flow of enthusiasm, they passed through a series of buildings linked by easy, airy passageways to form a united complex. The predominant impression was of light and space. And gradually it began to seem to Ellen that if the worst were to come to the worst, it wouldn’t be the most fearful thing in the world to leave home and come here. Devlin, she thought again. It was astonishing.

  When they had seen it all, they went back up the slope, found a weather beaten bench, and unwrapped the sandwiches. Below them lay the new rooftops, glossy in the sunlight. There was birdsong. “Listen,” Philip said, “nesting
time.” Otherwise it was very quiet.

  “Devlin,” Ellen repeated as if she had not heard him. “Olivia, I can understand. She’s a foolish, good little woman. But the money belongs to him, and I don’t see him spending it on a project like this.”

  “All I know of the man is that he’s phenomenally successful, that he’s a name.”

  “Robb says he wants to be a senator, or governor.”

  “This gift will surely not hurt his chances. You don’t have to be told that there’s a crying need for modern, enlightened facilities like this one. The papers and magazines are filled with articles about it. This gift will be worth a few thousand—no, make it a few hundred thousand—votes.”

  “Nevertheless, I feel evil in the man.”

  “That may be so, but whatever his motives, they don’t make his gift any the less marvelous.”

  “True, and still I feel—” Ellen’s voice died away.

  “Forgive my curiosity, but just what is it that you do feel?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I hate the way he looks at me, for one thing. He ogles.”

  Philip smiled. “Annoying to you, but not unnatural of him to admire a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you, but this is different. It’s hard to explain. He measure things, even people, as if he were going to buy them. I’ve seen his negotiations over wine at a thousand dollars a bottle. It disgusted me. Of course it’s none of my business. I know that. Do I seem petulant with all this criticism? I think maybe I do. I can hear myself.”

  “No. You have a right to like anyone you want. But so much for Mr. Devlin. Poor man, I hope for his sake he doesn’t know what you think of him.”

  “Oh, never. I have to be nice to him. He’s too important to Robb. I wish he weren’t.”

  She should not have said that, either. This was the second, or was it the third time that she had revealed things too personal to be revealed? Yet she had never told them to anyone but Philip. Her words had fallen from her lips as naturally as her thoughts had come to mind.

  She looked at him. He had finished eating, had neatly discarded the remnants in a paper bag, and was gazing out into space. The rugged face with its flat cheeks and craggy nose opposed his gentle eyes; those eyes, always so astonishingly blue, were her earliest image of the man; perhaps they were everyone’s vivid image of him? There was a calmness in his gestures that was very masculine, as if he possessed unlimited strength. You couldn’t imagine his fussing over anything trivial, or fussing at all. Robb fussed. Calmness was a word you wouldn’t use to describe Robb, although once you might have done so. But not anymore.