Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  The sight of a young, attractive mother playing with her baby daughter is probably one of the most appealing on earth. The sight of Star Halaby chasing Cassie’s bottom up the stands and then sitting like a sculpted goddess while her daughter slept against her would have charmed anyone who saw them. The grooms and trainers liked to look up at her.

  One man—against his nature and good judgment—found the sight of her so riveting he returned to watch each morning. He was a man of utmost dignity and he worried that his daily appearance might be considered odd. To forestall comment, he became devoted to the horse he boarded there—an animal that had until now made him wince with disappointment.

  He was a tall, rangy man of considerable wealth and wide experience, not only with women but also with the devastating lessons of war. It wasn’t his style to moon over women. And now, at the least likely time of his life, he was chagrined to be caught like this, shy and slavishly intrigued by a woman who was not only married but also a devoted mother.

  For anyone who wanted the key to Andrew Larabee, there were several things that were important to know. During the war he had loved an Italian woman who had been married to someone else. It hadn’t been the typical wartime romance brought on by the possibility of imminent death, but a deep and abiding friendship and a passionate love. They’d had seven months together and then, senselessly, Cecilia was killed. Ten years later he still thought of her and had no desire to marry. The last thing anyone would have suspected of him—after all, his Scottish forebears were among the first settlers of St. Mary’s County—was that he would ignore the freckle-faced tidewater beauties who attended his own clubs and his own schools and rode through his own hills and fall for an Italian.

  Today, with his pulse accelerating, he had made himself sit in the stands, too. There was a scattering of regulars but he was the only one in her row. He sat in a way that allowed him to monitor their moves and—this was a bonus he hadn’t expected—hear her voice. “Come back, Cassie. Don’t go too far.” The baby had raised herself and was managing to hold on to the upper tier of seats while her feet were planted on the lower ones. Suppose she started to fall? Should he get up and rescue her? Well, of course he should. Should he move toward her now? Maybe the baby was fine. No. The baby was half turned to give him a drooling appraisal. She was rocking back on her heels with a recklessness that frightened him. Only one stubby finger pressed to the bench gave her stability. If he didn’t act this minute, she would fall over.

  “Here . . . perhaps . . . you’d like a little help,” he said softly, but his stupid heart—it had been through combat without this much fuss—was coming through his chest.

  The weight of the baby in his arms was so welcome it took him by surprise. She sagged against him with an intimacy that was unquestioning. He had never held a baby. How pleasant it felt. It didn’t hurt that Cassie was pinning him down with a wild, staring grin, her full pink lips glazed with saliva.

  The mother was moving toward him, hands outstretched for her child. He didn’t want to appear critical, as if she had been negligent. He wanted . . . what was it he did want?

  “Thank you.” She smiled.

  Oh! She was so much more than he had imagined. The beauty was only a small part of it. Let me hold your baby awhile longer, he wanted to ask. Won’t you sit down? Please stay with me. What he said was, “You’re welcome.”

  He kept coming back for several days, but she wasn’t around anymore. Oh, well, he thought, that’s all right because now I’ll stop acting like an idiot. On his way out he stopped one of the grooms. “That woman with the baby, you know the one I mean? She came every morning.”

  “That’s Mrs. Halaby. She was staying out at Mara Farm. Ned Risley works there.”

  “But she’s not staying there anymore?”

  “Naw . . . they went back. If she was still around, she’d be right here.”

  “I guess you’re right.” He walked away quickly, chagrined that he should feel disappointed. What had he thought would happen? That he could just persuade her to give up whatever life she had and follow him?

  The Pan American morning flight from London was half an hour late. The pilot, in a curiously chatty moment, explained that strong headwinds had worked against them. “A giant hand tugging to hold us back,” he mused to the surprise of passengers used to dry recitation of altitude readings.

  Perhaps that’s an omen, thought Julia. A giant hand was tugging at her mind and heart to hold her back, too. I’m not going to start wavering, she decided, eyeing the approaching ground below. I wish to God I weren’t the pivotal figure in all this, but I am. I’m the only one left to make the choice and it has to be made. She clutched the small velvet sack that held a ring and a locket that belonged to people long dead.

  She had not slept well for a month, agonizing over the decision. I must tell her. I can’t tell her. That dreadful man who had come to question her about the Walkers knew more than he was saying. Perhaps he knew everything. From the first sight of him, she had felt menaced, as if his heart could see straight into hers without any words spoken. The image was of a huge black vulture pecking at her heart. Worse, exhuming and pecking at poor Nadia’s heart. If she felt this troubled, there must be something to it.

  And if there were something to fear, wouldn’t it be better if she told Nijmeh herself? There was no one else who knew the truth or could explain the desperate situation that had made them do what they’d done. It all rested in her. If she could make any part of Nijmeh’s life easier, how could she withhold that information? Nijmeh, you’ve lost not one but two mothers. Both died in the most violent situations. I don’t know why you’ve been singled out for so much tragedy.

  Oh, God, I can’t. I can’t. But suppose that awful man tells her? He had mentioned the fact that there was a child. His lips had said, “Have you any idea what happened to the child?” but his eyes had said, I know. I know everything.

  “I’m going to visit Nijmeh in America,” she told Peter. “I’ll go alone,” she added firmly. “I want to comfort her and talk about Nadia. She must need to let out her feelings.” Peter was so unused to having his wife ask for anything that he not only urged her to go but to go first class.

  Instead of descending immediately, the plane rose again. Julia closed her eyes and at the suggestion of the stewardess, who said they would probably be in the air at least another half hour, fell into a fitful sleep. She awoke to the rude, rumbling bump of wheels scraping the ground and a cry of fear escaped her lips. In just a few hours it would all be over.

  “You think of me as just your aunt, but I feel closer to you than that. More like another mother.” You’ll know why soon enough. They were side by side on a couch in the living room, awkwardly trying to face each other. Star was fidgety, knowing she had to hear all of the heartbreaking details of her mother’s death but also wanting to delay it. She could hear Cassie babbling in the nursery and thought if she let her skip the nap and brought her back downstairs, they could be distracted. But then she’d have to go through it another time.

  “Amti, let’s go into the kitchen. It’s chilly in here.”

  Julia rose and followed her through the house. Their shoes clattered on the various surfaces . . . wood, then tile in the foyer, then linoleum. “This is a lovely house,” Julia said nervously. “Paul must be doing well.” Paul looks dreadful, she was thinking. He had left early and held no promise for returning at all that day, mumbling that he had to cover for another doctor who was on vacation. Julia felt that perhaps he was embarrassed to see her because of Delal and she’d wanted to reassure him, but couldn’t find the right words. She had too much on her mind already. She had left her suitcase packed, as if she might be ordered to leave immediately.

  “It’s Paul’s dream house,” Star emphasized. “I would be content in something far less grand if it would mean he could work less. But I don’t think that would happen.” She was trying
to exonerate herself as being the cause of Paul’s haggardness. She wanted her aunt to think well of her and, for the length of her visit, keep up appearances.

  “If you have money problems,” began Julia awkwardly, “you have Sedo’s inheritance. Perhaps you’ve forgotten. It’ll be yours in a few years.”

  “I’ve never thought of it and I don’t think Paul would take it. I don’t remember Sedo very well. Was Delal upset because I received money and she didn’t?”

  “Delal has more money than she’ll ever need. No. She’s not upset.” She fell silent and twisted restlessly in her chair. There was no easy way to begin. She wished they had remained in the larger room. The kitchen was too intimate and casual a stage for her to play the role of the cruel executioner. Star . . . Nijmeh, darling girl, you’re not who you think you are. We stole you from your parents. We tricked you out of your rightful heritage and used you to console a woman who couldn’t have children. We willfully gave you to a man who became obsessed with you. “I didn’t know what else to do. She wanted a child so desperately. But we didn’t have the right . . .” She was whimpering and speaking aloud.

  “Amti! What’s the matter? Are you all right?” Nijmeh stretched out her hand to touch her aunt.

  “I’m not all right. I’m eaten up with guilt and apprehension, but I’ve got to tell you. There’s no one left who can do it.” She yanked her hands away and curled them in against her heart. “Nijmeh, this is awful. It’s news that will shatter you and you don’t deserve it. Oh, my God, please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you for what?”

  “I love you like my own child. Maybe it was because I nursed you myself. I still had milk from Delal and your mother . . . she couldn’t do it. Not that she didn’t want to. She did. But it wasn’t possible because . . .” Those clear green eyes were waiting . . . waiting in a deathly stillness. “Nijmeh . . . darling . . .”—she turned her palms upward in a gesture of helplessness—“it would be worse if you found out another way . . . if someone used the information to hurt you. Your mother, Nadia, was not your mother. Oh, wait, I didn’t mean to begin that way. Please . . .”

  She turned away. “I’ll tell you everything, but I don’t have the courage to look at you.” She stared steadily ahead. “We were at the farm . . . sitting outside at dusk. Delal was crawling at our feet. A plane roared overhead and we became upset. It was flying very erratically . . .”

  44.

  I WANT PAUL.

  It was so easy not to believe it. In the morning she would wake up and think, Well, it’s not true so I don’t have that to think about. She would get Cassie out of her crib and change her diaper, sponge her bottom, and put on dry clothes. She would hum as she took her down to the kitchen and placed her in her high chair while she warmed the milk for the cereal. She would push her hair behind her ears and pour the pablum into a bowl and then carefully add the milk so it wasn’t too mushy or too dry. She would tie the terry bib around her daughter’s neck—there was a duck on one side and quilted plastic on the other. She would smile down and say, “OK, Cassie, here comes breakfast.” With an unconscious smile—giddy with desire to please the baby—she would add a heaping spoon of applesauce because Cassie loved it so.

  It was then, at the moment when the sweet fulfillment of making Cassie happy was uppermost in her mind, that the truth would electrify her. I was the helpless trusting baby. They took me. They made decisions and I was powerless to resist. It stunned her over and over, piercing through the past until all memory of her mother was crisscrossed with confusion and melancholy, anger and despair. And for herself? Shame. She felt ashamed for having been the victim of such a shocking crime. It was a crime of theft. Never for one instant did she consider telling anyone.

  She realized with a sense of foreboding that by simply opening the phone book she might find a Walker relative. Larraine told her the library had phone books for other states and far-off areas. She worked up the courage to look in the Leonardstown, Maryland, book and, with her heart fairly beating out of her chest, she saw all the names: Charles Walker, Charlotte Walker, Edmund Walker, Mary Walker, Sis Walker. Walker and Abbott Insurance Brokers. Walker Feed and Seed. At night, when all the other emotions had run their course, she became so fearful her body trembled as if she were out in the cold. She would leave the bed so as not to wake Paul and go down to the kitchen for a cup of tea. If Samir found out, it would kill him. But how would Samir find out? Aunt Julia would never tell him. No one else knew. So why was she afraid?

  It was a riddle. No one else knows. No one else knows . . . one else knows. Rashid had said it. “It must have been a terrible shock . . . even though she wasn’t your blood mother.” Oh, dear God, please no. Don’t tell my father. There was no choice. She had to go and see Rashid.

  The office was huge and oddly cold on this muggy October day. He was seated at a massive desk of thick bluish glass over two columns of stainless steel. He was on the phone and his back was to her. When he turned around, his face was innocently quizzical. “Hello, habibty. Ahlan wu sahlan. How’s the baby?”

  She had come for a confrontation, but that seemingly kind welcome undid her and she collapsed into a chair and began to cry. He walked to her side and put his hand on her shoulder. “Shu? Is Paul sick? The baby? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, God.” She sighed and wiped her eyes. “Where do I begin? Rashid”—she looked up at him like a hurt child—“why are you doing this to me? I haven’t hurt you. You took our lives—mine and Paul’s—and turned them upside down. We’re deeply in debt to you with no hope of getting out and you keep tempting him with more. It’s taking a terrible toll on him. I worry that he’s going to collapse from overwork. I know you’ve always hated me, but why . . . why did you send that man to frighten my aunt? It’s all so evil and I can’t make sense of it. Why? What do you want?”

  He went around and sat back at his desk, put his hands together in front of him and fixed her with a deadly stare. He wasn’t going to waste time refuting her accusations. He was going to get down to business and she had an ominous flutter of the heart, as if her sentence was about to be handed down for a crime she wasn’t aware of having committed.

  “I want Paul.”

  Paul? She was so confused she couldn’t react. Paul? She wanted to laugh but she knew that wasn’t the proper thing to do. She closed her eyes and waited.

  “I want Paul for Asha.”

  Tears squeezed through closed eyes. She couldn’t look at him for fear he would see the relief. Paul was what he had wanted all along. He had no intention of telling her father anything. She was close to hysteria, but she would sit perfectly still until she had a hold of herself. Count to ten. Say a Hail Mary to calm down. Such soothing words: Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us . . . She opened her eyes. “And what do you propose to give me in return?”

  He looked confused. He had expected something else and now he was at a disadvantage. He cleared his throat. “I’ll forgive the mortgage on the North Capitol Street property . . . twenty thousand dollars. You’ll be able to use it to buy something else. I have faith in you. You’ll be all right. Of course, he’ll allow you to keep the baby. You can go to Mexico for the divorce. I’ll leave it up to you to choose the time to tell him.”

  She opened her bag and put her handkerchief inside. Her voice was hoarse and it cracked as she spoke. “How do you know Paul will do what you want?”

  “Because, my dear, it’s—how you say it?—an unbeatable deal.”

  All at once the room seemed to be out of air and she felt as if she were suffocating. She had to get out of there or pass out. “I’ll wait for the transferred deed,” she said coldly. “Then I’ll decide when to tell him.”

  Paul was busier than usual that fall. He even joked to Menden that there must have been a lot of dull television during the winter to have made so many women reach term in September.

  He had stayed at the hou
se to oversee the installation of new flagstones around the lily pool and now, if he wanted to finish rounds before office hours, he had to hustle. The staff elevator was being held for a dolly with lunch trays, so he opted for the stairs to the third floor. After one flight he was breathing so hard he had to stop. He felt a tightness like a heavy sandbag laid across his chest. The weight pressed against his lungs, making it impossible to take a full breath. He had to sit down. A janitor, swabbing his way from landing to landing, reached him. “Something the matter?”

  The tightness began to ease. “No. Just ran up too fast. I’ll be all right as soon as I catch my breath.” His chest held the memory of the recent pain and he wondered if he had wrenched a muscle while lifting one of the flagstones.

  Early in his second term, President Eisenhower had had a mild heart attack, and each time he had a checkup the newspapers listed warning symptoms of a myocardial infarction. Every literate citizen was monitoring his chest and arms for telltale signs. Paul never suspected. He attributed his recent bouts of breathing difficulties to a combination of fatigue, worry, muscle strain, and allergy to the plaster dust produced by the alterations on the house.