Family Tree

by Barbara Delinsky

  “The printer just delivered a sample of the book-party invitation,” Dorothy reported, coming toward him from the library door. “I don’t think it’s right, Eaton. It doesn’t have the dignified feel I want.”

  She put it down on the desk. Sitting forward, Eaton immediately saw the problem. “The ink color is wrong. This is blue-gray. We want green-gray.”

  Dorothy frowned at the sample. “Well, if that’s all, it isn’t as bad as it could be. Still, they’ll have to send this back and have it redone, and if the envelope liners match this blue-gray, they’ll have to be reordered, too. By the time they get it right and print them up, we’ll be at the deadline for mailing. There’s no more room for error.”

  Eaton didn’t want to hear that. “We should have let my publisher do it.”

  “But they did an awful job last time. These invitations go to people whose opinions we value. Would you show up at the University Club wearing a bargain-basement suit? Absolutely not. You like presenting yourself a certain way, and the invitation to your event is no different. This is the start of your tour, it’s on your home turf, and it’s important. Did you call Hugh?”

  In a measured way, Eaton asked, “Did Hugh call me?”

  It was a rhetorical question. The phone had been ringing since they walked in the door. If any of the callers had been Hugh, Dorothy wouldn’t have asked. No, the calls would have been from people hearing of the birth of Hugh’s child. Thinking about that put Eaton on edge.

  He had two sons. While Robert was traditional, agreeable, and, Lord knew, successful, Hugh was the one most like Eaton, and not only in looks. Both were athletic. Both were intellectually creative. Both had chosen fields outside the family field and excelled.

  If Eaton had a soft spot, Hugh occupied it.

  “Where is Mark?” he barked.

  “You sent him home,” Dorothy answered quickly, defensively. “You left him a note before we went to the hospital, don’t you recall? You said we were celebrating a new baby, so there wouldn’t be work today, and I’m not sure what work there is now, anyway, Eaton. He’s your researcher, and the book is done.”

  “He’s my assistant,” Eaton corrected, “and, yes, there is work still to do—interviews to complete, speeches to outline. It used to be that all you had to do when you toured was sign your name to books. Now they want a speech. They want entertainment. Did I give Mark a paid day off?”

  “I don’t know, but if you did, it’s done, and it was not my doing, so please don’t yell at me.”

  Eaton quieted. He couldn’t be angry at Dorothy. Hugh’s folly wasn’t her fault.

  “Did you call him?” she repeated, albeit with deference.

  Eaton didn’t reply. Rather, he sat back in his tall leather chair and looked at the books that surrounded him, floor to ceiling, shelf upon shelf. Like his neighbors, these books were his friends. The books he had authored himself sat together on a side shelf, clearly visible, though in no way singled out. While Eaton was proud of each one, they wouldn’t have existed without those that had come before.

  One generation led to the next. Wasn’t that the theme of One Man’s Line? Early reviews were calling it “eminently readable,” “engrossing,” “an American saga,” and while Eaton wouldn’t have used the word “saga”—too commercial—he agreed with the gist. Ancestral charts appeared at various points in the book, growing more elaborate with the years. They were impressive and exact.

  “Eaton?”

  “No. I haven’t called.”

  “Don’t you think you should? He’s your son. Your approval means the world to him.”

  “If that were true,” Eaton remarked, “he wouldn’t have married the woman he did.”

  “But did you see how pale and tired he looked? Yes, I know he was up all night, but he didn’t plan for this to happen. They had no indication that her father was African American, and maybe he isn’t. Maybe it came through the grandmother’s side. Call him, Eaton.”

  “I’ll see,” Eaton said dismissively.

  But she was dogged, stronger now. “I know what that means, it means you won’t, but this is about a child, Eaton. She’s a living, breathing human being, and she has at least some of our genes.”

  “Does she?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “You’re too soft.”

  “Maybe, but I love my son. I don’t wish him hurt, not by her and not by you.”

  “Dorothy, he basically told me to jump off a cliff.”

  “He did not.”

  “He did. It was right there in his eyes. You weren’t close enough. You couldn’t see.”

  “He was upset. Goodness, if we were upset seeing that child, after all the months looking forward to it and now fearing that something’s amiss and not knowing what to think, imagine what he’s feeling.”

  “What about us? We were looking forward to this baby. Every single one of our friends knew how much. So. Tell me who called.”

  Dorothy brightened. “Alfred called. And Sylvia. And Porter and Dusty—they were on two extensions, talking at the same time, so I could hardly hear.

  “How much do they know?”

  Her brightness faded. “Only that it’s a girl. And Bradley. Bradley called.”

  Eaton’s head buzzed. “And how did Brad know? Robert.” He let out a breath. “Does that boy know the meaning of discretion?”

  “Oh, Eaton,” Dorothy said with resignation. “If not from Robert, Brad would have heard it from someone else. This won’t remain a secret for long.”

  Eaton knew that and was annoyed. “What did Hugh expect marrying her? I said this back then, and I say it again now—she may well have married him for his money.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Of course you don’t. You don’t want to admit Hugh made a mistake and, besides, she knit you the afghan you wanted, which you interpret as a sign of affection, though it may not be at all. The thing about marrying someone so different is that you never know what drives them.”

  “If it’s only about money, why does she work? She could be lunching with friends, or spending the day at the spa, for God’s sake. If it’s only about money, why does she make the effort she does?”

  Eaton snorted. “Effort? Please. What she does isn’t work. She drives from house to house visiting people who are either lazy or lack taste, and then she trots off to the Design Center, likely as an excuse to buy things for her own house. She certainly doesn’t work like Hugh does.”

  “But she earns money. And she isn’t the only wife who works. Look at Rebecca Boyd. Look at Amanda Parker.”

  “Look at Andrew Smith’s daughter and the Harding girls,” Eaton countered. “They don’t work. Dana could be doing things to help Hugh in his career. She could be doing charity work. She could make important contacts for him through that.”

  “But he represents criminals.”

  Eaton sighed. “No, Dorothy,” he explained with the patience of one accustomed to dealing with ill-informed students, “he represents people who are accused of being criminals. Jack Hoffmeister is the president of a bank. He was accused of fraud by one of his vice-presidents, after he fired the man for incompetence, but the accusation was entirely false, as Hugh proved. He earned a good fee and several referrals from that one, and whose contact was Jack? Yours. You met him through the Friends Committee at the hospital. Hugh’s wife should be involved with groups like that. I’ve told him that dozens of times, but he doesn’t seem to hear.”

  “What has happened now is different. You need to talk with him.”

  But Eaton wasn’t groveling. “If he wants me to talk to him, an apology is in order. I have my pride.”

  “I know that, dear. It explains his.”

  Eaton was unsettled. “Are you taking his side?”

  “There are no sides. This is our son.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “You’ll stand behind me in this, Dorothy. You’ll stand behind me in this.”

  Chapter 7

/>   Hugh headed home to shower and change, but his cell phone kept ringing as he drove, friends calling to congratulate him, promising to be over soon to visit, and if it wasn’t the phone, it was his BlackBerry.

  Can’t wait to see the baby!

  Looking forward to seeing the baby.

  When can we see the baby?

  Everyone wanted to see her, and that should have been a tribute to Dana and him, proof that their friends cared. Hugh should have been ecstatic.

  He didn’t know why he wasn’t—why there was a rock in his gut when he thought about the baby. He kept hearing Dana’s disappointment in his reaction, and he didn’t know what to do. Their love had come so easily. They had married within eight months of first meeting, and had never looked back. And he wasn’t doing it now. It sounded, though, like she was.

  Is there a racial limit to your love?

  There was not, and he resented her asking. He had no prejudice. She had only to look at his work for proof of that.

  Is there a racial limit to your love?

  The question came again, louder now and sounding like a dare. Had he been playing devil’s advocate, he might have said she was creating a diversion or, worse, a cover-up.

  Hugh didn’t want to believe that. He didn’t believe she had been unfaithful. She loved him too much to cause him that kind of pain—and it would be excruciatingly painful, if it were true.

  But there was the baby, with her beautiful brown skin, and no explanation for its source. Didn’t he have a right to ask questions? Didn’t it make perfectly good sense to choose one of a dozen other birth announcements that didn’t have a picture on the front?

  He walked in the kitchen door and picked up the phone. The pulsing tone told him that there were messages, but he didn’t access them. Rather, he called the office.

  His secretary was not happy to hear from him. “You aren’t supposed to be working,” she scolded. “You’re supposed to be with Dana and the baby. I’ve been given orders not to talk shop.”

  Hugh humored her. “Then just a yes or a no, please. Did Alex get in touch with Henderson Walker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he going over to the jail?”

  “No.”

  “The situation is defused?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did we get a continuance on the Paquette case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I get a call from someone calling herself ‘the garden mom’?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. That’s it. And, Sheila, if the latter does call, I want the message ASAP. Don’t give it to anyone else. There’s a personal connection here.”

  He hung up the phone feeling marginally better, but picked it up again seconds later and punched in another number.

  “Hammond Security,” came a familiar voice, deep and mildly accented.

  “Hey, Yunus. It’s Hugh. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, my friend. We haven’t talked in a very long time.”

  “My fault. Life is too busy. But I think about you often. How is the job going?”

  Yunus El-Sabwi, born and raised in Iraq, had fled his homeland in his early twenties, taking his young wife and two daughters to America to ensure them a better life. After becoming an American citizen, he enrolled in the police academy, graduated at the head of his class, and, at a time when community policing encouraged the hiring of minorities, won a spot in the Boston Police Department. In the course of eight years, he was cited numerous times for his work. Then came September 11, and everything changed. He was marginalized within the department, widely distrusted for the links he kept to relatives in Iraq. One rumor held that the money he sent monthly to his parents was earmarked for terrorists, another that he was transmitting sensitive security information in code. When the federal government refused to bring charges, deciding that it feared the ACLU more than it feared Yunus, the local authorities charged him with drug possession.

  Hugh defended him on that charge, agreeing with Yunus’s contention that he had been framed. A jury agreed with it, too, and so the case ended. No one was ever charged for planting drugs in Yunus’s locker, and though Yunus was reinstated to the force, his life was made so unpleasant that he finally resigned. He now worked in the private security force of a company owned by Hugh’s family.

  “It’s going well,” Yunus replied. “I got a fine one-year review.”

  “And a raise, I hope.”

  “And a raise. They knew if I didn’t they would have to answer to you. Thank you, my friend.”

  “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who’s doing the work. How are Azhar and the girls?”

  “Hamdel lah, they are well. Siba will be a senior this year. And she has decided to be a doctor. She wants to go to Harvard.”

  “That’s a fine choice, Yunus.”

  “Well, she has to get in. But she was given an interview, and her grades are good.”

  And her connections, Hugh thought, making a mental note to call the head of admissions, a Clarke family friend.

  “And tell me,” said Yunus, “how is your wife? Did she have her baby?”

  “She did. A little girl.”

  “Hamdel lah ala al salama! Such good news! Azhar will be happy to hear it. Perhaps we can visit them soon?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Hugh was smiling when he hung up the phone. He had been appointed by the court to represent Yunus after three separate lawyers opted out, and in taking the case he had had to buck the will of the police department, the local district attorney, and the FBI. He hadn’t received money other than reimbursement for court costs, but the emotional reward had been huge. Yunus El-Sabwi was hardworking and focused. Not only would he give his life for his family, but his loyalty to friends was absolute. Hugh had become a beneficiary of that.

  Feeling better, Hugh went upstairs to shower and shave. Revived, he pulled on clean jeans and a fresh tee shirt, put the dirty sheets in the washer and fresh sheets on the bed, then set off for the hospital again. Along the way, he stopped at the flower shop for a balloon bouquet, at a local boutique for an absurdly expensive tie-dyed pink onesie, and at Rosie’s, Dana’s favorite café, for a grilled chicken salad.

  Dana was feeding the baby when he arrived. Still buoyed, he smiled, admired the flowers sent by friends, asked how she was feeling, whether the doctor had been in, when she could go home. He traded her the salad for the baby, and managed to change his first diaper.

  He didn’t mention the birth announcement, didn’t mention Dana’s father, didn’t mention ancestry. His mood deflated some when his uncle called and harassed him about Lizzie’s coloring. But Hugh was firm. It wasn’t an issue, he said, and proceeded to talk about the miracle of the birth.

  Dana appreciated his enthusiasm. She smiled. She answered his questions. But her focus was on the baby, even while she ate her salad. He sensed she was holding back where he was concerned.

  And later, as he drove home, that was what he obsessed about—not Lizzie’s color, his uncle’s rudeness, or the fact that neither of his parents had called. All he could think about was that if Dana was holding back, it was because she had something to hide.

  Late the next morning, Dana was discharged. She dressed the baby in the pink tie-dyed onesie, which took some doing. Four adult hands—make that four inexperienced adult hands—kept getting in each other’s way. But they managed, and when Hugh brought the car around, they had no trouble securing her in the car seat.

  Hugh had waited for this, had imagined it so many times—driving his wife and child home—and it was good at first, the same euphoria he had felt earlier. Dana was beside him in the front, looking back at the baby every few minutes, clearly excited.

  Then the baby started to fuss. Hugh pulled over; Dana got into the back; he resumed driving. Lizzie continued to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, glancing worriedly in the rearview mirror. He couldn’t see much; the baby was directly behind him and facing toward the rear of t
he car.

  “I don’t know,” Dana said. She took a pacifier from her bag. That did the trick, but only for several more miles. Then Lizzie began crying again.

  “Is she wet?” he asked.

  “If she is, there can’t be much. I changed her right before we left.”

  “Then, hungry?”

  “I think she’s just fussy. I wish I could take her out and hold her, but that’d be totally dangerous.”

  “Not to mention illegal,” Hugh said. “Want me to pull over?”

  “No. Let’s just try to get home.”

  He drove to the sound of sporadic crying. When they were five minutes from the house, Lizzie finally fell asleep.

  Ellie Jo and Gillian Kline were at the house when they pulled up, and Hugh was as relieved to see them as Dana was delighted. These two experienced mothers knew why babies cried. Moreover, with Hugh’s parents nowhere in sight on what should have been a special family day, their presence was particularly welcome.

  They changed the baby, gave her to Dana to feed, murmured soft words of encouragement when it took a while to get her to nurse. Totally normal, they said more than once, then She’ll catch on, and There she goes, look, that’s good. Hugh watched from the door, drawing comfort from their calm. When Lizzie was asleep and he suggested taking her up to her crib, Dana opted instead for the family room.

  They settled the baby in a bassinet there, settled Dana on the sofa nearby, then produced a bag from the local deli and made lunch, something Hugh hadn’t thought of but welcomed. When they finished eating, the guard changed. Ellie Jo and Gillian were replaced by Tara and Juliette, and a while later by two of Ellie Jo’s friends, and a while after that by two neighbors from down the street. All brought willing hands, intimate knowledge of babies, and foil-covered pans containing dinners enough for a week.

  Hugh found himself leaning against the doorjamb while others took care of the baby. He was a third wheel, relegated to the status of observer, so much so that he was tempted to go to the office, where he would feel useful at least. If he had done that, though, he wouldn’t have heard the talk.