“He has?”
“But of course,” Leslie said. “He worries for you and thought maybe we should talk with you.”
“Our father has another child, but he doesn’t pretend she is not there,” Catherine willingly admitted.
“Mama is always after him to make sure he provides for her, too.”
“Well, that’s very big of her. I’m glad it’s all one big happy family for you, but my situation is quite different and Randall had no right to go and blab it all over the place,” I said, my fury building.
“Oh, it’s not blabbing. He says entre nous, just between us.”
“As you Americans say,” Leslie added, “on the Q-T. Eh?”
“We will help you, if you want,” Catherine said.
“There’s nothing to help me with. Just forget about it. Become D and D when it comes to me, if you please.”
“D and D?” Catherine looked at Leslie. “This is one we do not know.”
“Deaf and dumb,” I said, rising. “My life isn’t some French soap opera.”
I spun around and marched out quickly, my tears of disappointment and betrayal mixing with my tears of fury. I felt as if a hive of bees were swarming around in my head. Without the slightest hesitation, I walked to the vocal suite, opened the door and looked in on Randall and Professor Wilheim. My abrupt entrance ripped them both from their discussion concerning the sheet music they were studying. They looked my way, the professor as shocked and surprised as Randall.
“You had no right to tell my secrets to Leslie and Catherine,” I cried. “No right.”
I backed out and slammed the door. Then I ran out of the school building, deciding I didn’t want to, or maybe couldn’t, attend my drama class. For a while I simply wandered the city streets, not really thinking about where I was going. I walked and walked until I ran down my anger and then found a bench in a small park where I watched a young couple walking hand in hand, their heads practically touching as they conversed. They, too, paused to sit on a bench. He embraced her and they just sat there watching the birds feed and flutter, neither of them speaking. For them it was just a moment, but for me it was again like looking through that expensive department store window.
Where is this place where some people go to find true love and trust? Where did they discover a way to invest their hearts and have faith in their relationship? What sort of a man would I eventually find? Who would love me more than he loves himself and begin his day by thinking, What can I do to make her happier and our lives more complete?
The way the couple sat so contentedly, so pleased with their moment, I was sure that some time in the future, each of them would think back to the peacefulness of this hour they shared and smile and think they were right, they were secure, they had made a good decision when they whispered their love and declared their intent to be one. No children would fall by the wayside. Was I living in an illusion again?
I rose and walked on. Maybe it was purely by accident; maybe I subconsciously knew where I was going. Maybe Fate herself decided to take a more direct and definitive role in my life, but I suddenly realized I was minutes away from my real father’s school. The thought of going there titillated and excited me, but also filled me with fear.
Yet I needed to see him again and I wanted so to hear his voice. Randall had been right about that, at least.
Tossing caution to the wind, I continued in that direction and found myself standing in front of the building. Could I do this? Should I do this?
As if invisible hands had pressed themselves against my back to propel me forward, I stepped up to the entrance, took a deep breath and entered. He was, after all, my father. Maybe he could deny it and live as if I didn’t exist, but I couldn’t. I hated lies, but I hated being a child of lies even more. It made me feel dirty inside, contaminated, tainted With deceit. I longed to rid myself of all of it, regardless of the consequences. Only then, perhaps, could I look at anyone honestly and even dare to think I could love and be loved.
There was a directory in the lobby and an information desk with a girl who looked like a first-year college student sitting behind it, obviously taking the opportunity to do some homework.
She looked up after I reached the desk.
“May I help you,” she said.
“Yes. I was wondering where Professor Ward’s class was.”
“You mean this hour?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You know he has one this hour?”
“No,” I said.
Her eyes blinked with confusion.
“Are you in his class?” she asked.
“No. I’m supposed to audit one,” I said.
“Oh. Well, let’s see then,” she said and opened a large folder. She ran her forefinger down, glanced at her watch. “Oh, his class in Shakespeare’s tragedies has already begun. Twenty-five minutes ago in Room 211,” she said. “That’s down the corridor, the second stairway and then to the immediate right.”
“Thank you,” I said and followed her directions.
Professor Ward’s classroom was about three-quarters full. He paced in front of his students as he lectured and most of them were busy taking notes, their heads down, their pens scribbling. I opened the door as softly as I could and thought I had slipped in and sat in a seat in the rear completely undetected. How could he possibly notice me in this crowd? I thought confidently and sat back, listening to his lecture on Othello.
Twice he seemed to look my way, pause and then continue.
“The question I want you to ponder today is what was it in Othello’s character that made him so vulnerable to Iago’s evil plan?
“Shakespeare provides us with some answers,” he continued as he started up the aisle. “However, this will take a closer reading, a reading between the lines, so to speak.”
He paused, the moment of silence so long that heads were raised and pens stopped. Students looked at him, saw the direction of his gaze and turned to look at me.
He couldn’t be looking at me, I thought. Why would he? My heart began to pound, and my throat suddenly became so dry, I couldn’t swallow. He smiled.
“So,” he said, “now some students are wandering into my classes to pass the time. Is that a compliment, I wonder, or should I consider myself to have become amusement rather than edification? What do you think, Miss Austin?” he asked the girl right beside him. “Am I entertaining or edifying?”
The girl shrugged.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Oh, pity. Well then, perhaps we should ask our guest,” he said, taking a step up the aisle toward me. “Miss Mystery Person?”
All eyes were on me.
“Why can’t you be both?” I said and the classroom roared.
He smiled.
“Yes, indeed, why can’t I? Now then,” he said, turning back toward the front and permitting me to release the trapped hot air that threatened to make my lungs explode. “Let’s return to Act I, Scene I.”
When I felt my legs return from two wet noodles to flesh, bone and muscle again, I rose as quickly as I could and slipped quietly out of the classroom. What had gotten into me that I would do such a thing, have so much nerve? Now I could never permit him to see me accidentally. I could never spy on him and his family for fear that if I was discovered, he would surely connect me with this day in his class. Maybe this was good, I thought. Once and for all, I’ve brought it to an end. Let him live his life and let me try to do something worthwhile with mine.
The bell rang to end the class hour before I reached the stairway and doors to other classes were thrown open. The students burst out as if they had all been holding their breaths under water. It brought laughter to my lips. This was more like an American high school. I was actually jostled about as they streamed by me, their voices loud. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to face a tall, dark-haired boy with a twisted smile. Two other boys were beside him, both with similar grins.
“Excuse me,”
he said, “but haven’t I seen you before in one of my dreams?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “I’m not permitted to go to places like that.”
His friends laughed as his confidence leaked out of his smug grin.
“Excuse me for talking to you,” he shouted after me as I quickly started down the stairway.
I went back through the lobby, past the girl at the information booth and out the front entrance where I paused to get my bearings. I knew I had to get to the tube station and take a train. I had wandered so far, it would probably take me more than two hours to get home and I would miss my duties before dinner.
I stopped to ask a friendly-looking lady directions and then continued, now feeling rather stupid about missing my own classes and bursting in on my father’s class. I had to stop to buy a ticket since I was traveling out of my zone. After I had done so, I turned to follow the directions to my platform and nearly fainted on the spot.
My father was standing there, a smile on his face.
“Well now, who’s following whom?” he asked. “Do I have good reason to think it’s you following me?”
Of course, I couldn’t help wondering if he had spotted me near his home the past week as well.
All I could do was shake my head. His smile widened and deepened with interest and curiosity.
“You’re not a student at the college, are you?” he asked me. That question I could answer.
“No,” I said.
“Okay. You’ve got the advantage on me, Miss. . . ?”
“Arnold, Rain Arnold,” I said.
“Rain? Interesting name. How did you get it?”
“My adoptive mother named me,” I said quickly.
“She wasn’t a native American, was she?”
“No. Just an American,” I said. He laughed.
“An American in London. Sounds like a movie.” His eyes glittered with amusement. What beautiful, deep, dark eyes he has, I thought and tried to imagine the first time he turned them onto my mother and she got caught up in their power and beauty. “What brought you to my class today?”
“I, I’m in the Richard Burbage School for the Performing Arts and I’ve been doing some Shakespeare,” I said. “I thought it might help me to know more.”
“Don’t they study the plays you’re performing before handing you lines to memorize?” he asked.
“Yes, but not as detailed as you do,” I said.
Skepticism tilted his head to the side.
“You discovered that with only ten or fifteen minutes of observation?”
“No. I had heard about you and your classes,” I said.
“Oh?” His doubting smile lingered. “I’m flattered. However, maybe it’s because I’m working on Othello at the moment, but I have a healthy skepticism for the obvious these days,” he said. “Especially people’s motives.” He glanced at his watch. “Care to take a cup of tea with me? There’s a little café I fancy right next door.”
I hesitated.
“We could talk more about Shakespeare,” he added with a different sort of smile now, one of glee. He was toying with me, but he was very interested in me, too.
“I don’t have much time,” I said. “I have to be back to help with my dinner chores.”
“Oh? An American student in London working her way. Now you do have my interest, Miss Arnold. Indulge me a few minutes. After all, you owe me that much for all the free knowledge and insight you took from my class today,” he said.
I couldn’t help but smile.
“Okay,” I said. “A few minutes.”
“Right this way,” he said and led me around to the café. We sat at a corner table near the front where we could look out at the hustle and bustle on the street.
“I imagine you would like coffee rather than tea,” he said.
“No, English breakfast tea is fine. I’ve grown used to it,” I said. He nodded and ordered for us. “I’m a mif,” I added when the waitress left.
“Excuse me?’
“Milk in first.”
“Oh.” He laughed. “Yes. I do have some friends who are very serious about that.” He leaned back and turned his head slightly so he was looking at me from an angle. “Seems you’ve learned a great deal about this country already. How long have you been here?”
“Not that long, but I’ve had good teachers, especially the cook at the house I’m at,” I said.
“How did you come to this house?”
“My grandmother arranged it,” I said. “Actually, she’s primarily responsible for my being here at all and studying performing arts.”
“I see. She must have quite a bit of faith in you.”
“I don’t know why she should,” I said. “She hasn’t known me all that long.”
“Oh?”
The waitress brought our two teapots and I put my milk in first and poured a cup. He watched me before pouring his own.
“And why is it that your grandmother hasn’t known you all that long?” he asked as he took his first sip of tea. He held the cup so that he peered over it at me. His eyes were full of interest, but the intensity of his stare suggested he was being more than curious. I started to get a little nervous.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“And you don’t have much time. I know. Well,” he said, putting his cup down and gazing at it, “I have a confession to make.” He looked up. “I’ve seen you before. Twice in fact, so that when I saw you in my class, I recognized you.”
I felt my body freeze.
“I don’t think you’re a stalker or anything, but you have piqued my curiosity. I must confess, however, that you made my wife a little nervous. You’ve been in our neighborhood recently. She pointed you out to me one day and said you were there, across the street from our house the day before and the day before that. Is that so?” he asked.
I was shocked to know I had actually been discovered and yet he had never come out to see who I was.
“It’s a very small, close neighborhood, easy to spot strangers, especially if they’re repeat strangers,” he added with a smile.
I wasn’t just silent. I was fighting back tears. I had a great urge to jump up and run, but he didn’t seem angry. He still had that impish smile around his lips, a smile of amusement.
“I’m not someone with a mad crush on you or anything,” I finally said.
“Well, I’m happy to hear that. For your sake, I mean,” he quickly added when I looked up at him. “Those sort of things are never good for either party, especially if one is an old married man with children.”
“You’re not that old,” I said.
“You know my age?” he asked. I didn’t answer. “You know more about me than I think, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“This mystery is moving into melodrama, Miss Arnold. Can’t you give me a little more concrete information about it, another clue, perhaps?”
You want clues, I thought, all right. I’ll give you clues.
“My grandmother’s name is Hudson,” I said sharply. “Frances Hudson, and her husband’s name was Everett.”
He stared, barely a movement in his face.
“The Hudsons of Virginia?” he finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Frances Hudson is your grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Are you telling me you’re Megan Hudson’s daughter?” he finally asked.
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
Again, it was his turn to be silent. He sat back, his eyes growing larger and then growing smaller as he focused more closely on me and nodded.
“I can see the resemblances to Megan,” he said softly. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I said.
He started to lift his teacup and then set it down. He shook his head and looked away.
“This can’t be,” he muttered. He turned back to me. “Did Megan send you here to find me?”
“No. She has no idea I’ve found you,” I said. “She
had told me your name and that you had gone to London to study Shakespeare and teach. A friend of mine at school made it almost a game to locate you for me. I didn’t want him to do it, but he did and . . . I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t bother you anymore.” I started to get up and he reached across the table quickly to stop me.
“No, wait. Please,” he said.
I sat
“When Megan became pregnant, she left and I was of the understanding she was giving the child away for adoption. You are that child?”
“My grandfather paid someone to take me, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “His name was Ken Arnold and I was brought up as his daughter. Latisha Arnold was the only mother I knew until relatively recently. We lived in Washington, D.C. Ken Arnold was never much of a father to me or to his own children. He and his son Roy got into fights constantly. Roy is in the army now. Latisha died of cancer a few months ago. Before she did, she made sure I was taken care of by contacting my real mother, who arranged for me to live with my grandmother.”
I recited my history quickly and took a breath. Despite his poise, he looked bowled over, speechless, and for a college professor, that was something.
“I see. Wow,” he said, shaking his head, “what a difficult life you’ve had. This is very complicated.” He thought a moment. “Megan must be married, I’m sure.”
“Yes. To an important lawyer. She has a daughter and a son. None of them, except for Grandmother Hudson and her other daughter Victoria, know the truth about me. Yet,” I added.
Once again, he simply stared at me.
“I didn’t mean to worry your wife,” I continued. “I just was curious, but don’t worry about it. It won’t happen again.”
He shook his head.
“You’re my daughter,” he said as if the fact just had settled in. “My God, this is. . .”
“Terrible, I know.”
“No, no. I didn’t mean to imply that.” He nodded and smiled. “The fact is I’ve often fantasized about this. I mean, I knew you were going to be born and I couldn’t help but wonder about you.”
“Everyone couldn’t help but wonder but no one cared to do anything about it,” I said dryly. “Except my adoptive mother who turned out to be the only one who ever loved me.”
Lightning Strikes Page 19