“It would have been good to see you. It’s good to see you now.”
“Yes. I’ve missed you. Caesar always said you had done well for yourself. I can see he was right. He was very proud of you.”
“He wanted me to do more with my life.”
“Every parent wants that.”
“He didn’t understand.”
“They never do. He told me earlier this year you were the one person he could count on to take your own path. He knew you would stand up to your own decisions.”
“I’m sure he over-estimated me. I’m lost most of the time, just like everyone else.”
“What he was proud of was the way you take responsibility. Even if you are lost, you don’t blame the people you ask for directions.”
“He wasn’t always very nice to…the women in his life.”
“You’re right. He could be a real asshole. But he was what he was. I never stopped loving him. I just stopped being available to him on his terms. I had to hold myself up to a higher standard. I always believed after I left him our relationship improved. He respected me more.”
“I wish I’d known. I would have liked to know how things were going with you.”
“I couldn’t replace your mother.”
“No.” That’s what it had come down to. Helen had refused to replace Mommy, not only as our mother, but also as Daddy’s wife. She had refused the dubious honour of being Mrs. J. Caesar Fortune, keeper of the home and stoker of the fires of genius. Even her love for Daddy had not been great enough to cast her in that secondary role.
Mommy had lived in the shadow of greatness and it had killed her. Helen was still alive. I couldn’t help thinking she had made the right decision.
“But didn’t it bother you,” I said, “about the other women?” I only had to think about Adelle, acknowledge her existence, and I died a little inside.
“It bothered me a lot. For years it ate at me. Then I realised it wasn’t going to change. That made it easier. Besides, they didn’t mean anything to him. There was only one, ever, he cared about.”
I turned away. I knew she was talking about me.
Still I wondered. How much had it continued to bother Helen over the years, sharing Daddy with other women physically and intellectually? Never really possessing that part of him that might be worth having? His love, his affection? Would a woman’s self-worth be able to survive that kind of neglect? Would it drive her to murder?
Helen didn’t look like someone who was capable of murder. But really, aren’t we all capable of it? If the circumstances are right and the stars are aligned, if passions are at a pitch or if our backs are against a wall? If grief, loneliness, anger or hatred have eaten too large a hole in the middle of our souls? Aren’t we all, really?
Maybe not Helen. Maybe she had already let forgiveness heal her wounds. If so, I could learn a lesson from her.
Andy Rivard arrived at the house the day before the service. He had booked into a downtown hotel, but Lucy insisted he stay in Daddy’s room. He probably would have been more comfortable at the Sheridan, using the pool or the sauna, but he didn’t have the heart to refuse her. She managed to put a terrific dinner on the table for us, though I couldn’t tell you what it was. I was barely conscious of eating and breathing and speaking. Lucy turned in early, and I stayed up to discuss Millennium Girl with Andy.
I handed him the manuscript without a word. He started reading at page one. By page five he knew what he had. It was Daddy’s best work. It would put him forever in the same league as Hemingway, Hardy and Faulkner, any of the ‘greats’. He would be taught in Lit classes around the world for at least a hundred years. Andy shook his head.
I saw the tears in his eyes before he could brush them away.
“He left us this,” he said, lifting the pages. “It’s his legacy.”
“I know.”
“I wish he could have seen it go to press. He would have loved the reviews.”
“How long?”
“No time at all. By spring for the hardcover. We’ll follow it with the softcover. I’m betting Michael Douglas for the movie.”
I laughed. Daddy would have loved that. Douglas was a perfect cast for him, with his chiselled, intelligent face, thick hair and compassionate demeanour.
“Who’ll play me?” I couldn’t resist asking.
“I don’t know.” Andy allowed himself a grin. “Jessica Lang is too old. How does the story end?”
“Sorry, Andy, you’ve got to read this one. No synopsis. Just let it carry you away.”
He nodded. I left him there, reading glasses on his nose, Daddy’s precious pages on his lap. I knew he’d stay up till he finished.
Andy drove us to the service. We picked up Uncle Willard on the way. The two men had never met. I was shocked by the differences between them. They were close in age, but Andy shared Daddy’s robust energy. He walked with a youthful step. His eyes behind his glasses were clear and inquisitive.
Uncle Willard, on the other hand, was stooped and small by comparison. His head was fringed with a thinning white ridge of hair. His eyes were soft with cataracts and his hands were covered with liver spots. I hoped he felt better than he looked.
I took his arm and let him guide me into the Church. Lucy followed with Andy. I tried not to notice the press across the street. Instead I focused my attention on the throng of close friends who pressed their hands onto mine in a steady rush. I couldn’t hope to count the faces, remember the words of kindness. I tried not to listen to the Minister as he spoke about God’s unending mercy, but at one point his words caught me off guard and the tears spilled again from my eyes.
After the service, I followed Uncle Willard to the coffee area. I suggested he should take Lucy home, but she insisted on staying with me during the reception. She was a brave girl.
As I turned with my cup away from the coffee urn, I was shocked to come face to face with Detectives Rice and Manor. I nearly spilled my drink.
“Miss Fortune,” Phoebe Manor said, “our condolences.”
“Thank you, Detective,” I said, taking her hand in my free one.
“We should have warned you we’d be here. We didn’t mean to surprise you.”
“I should have expected you.”
“We always have someone present at the service when the death is violent. Sometimes the perpetrator shows up out of guilt or curiosity.”
“Please just ignore us,” Detective Rice said. “We’ll have someone at tomorrow’s public service as well.”
“Thank you. Please do whatever you have to do. I’ll explain to Lucy why you’re here.”
I nodded a brief farewell to the Detectives and was led away by two Professors and an author who had been close to Daddy. They pumped me for information on his latest work as they heaped sympathy on my head. It was a strange profession Daddy had chosen. The most celebrated writers were those who could bare their souls on the page and empty themselves of everything true for their readers. And yet the authors I’d met had been a sadly pretentious and insincere lot. They were often driven by vanity and envy, even as their public credited them with humility and generosity.
Could one of Daddy’s literary rivals have been motivated by jealousy to take his life? Could one of his students, shunted aside in favour of a preferred protégé, have reacted violently in a fit of rage? Were the police looking at everyone in the room or were they watching for someone who didn’t ‘belong’ to make an appearance?
And then, of course, there were the women. There were so many of them, all counting themselves among his closest friends. It was like an old joke. They preened and pranced and squeezed out the occasional tear in Daddy’s memory. What did they miss? His widely-recognised neglect? His arrogance? His pocketbook? At least there he was known to be generous. Stories abounded of the fine restaurants he took his lady-friends to, the jewellery, the trips to Caribbean beaches…
Was it possible one of his women could have reacted to his scorn? Were the police lo
oking at that angle?
I spotted Lucy in a corner with Uncle Willard and fought my way across the room to join them.
Dr. Walter Jacobs of the university’s astronomy department approached with his wife, Sheila.
“Sheila, Walter, thank you for coming.”
“We’re so sorry, Desdemona,” Sheila said, hugging Lucy and me in turn. She was a nice lady. She reminded me of our mother, small, dark-haired, with fleeting, bird-like movements. I had to admit Sheila was more self-assured than I remembered Mommy to be. In many ways they were alike, though. Sheila had the same soft, caring voice I remembered.
Her eyes were red. Walter slid a protective arm around his wife’s waist.
“You remember our uncle, Willard Brown?” I said.
“Willard, you’re looking well. I was hoping we’d see you at Caesar’s next book launch. We sure never expected to see you like this.”
“No one could have seen this coming,” Willard said. “Least of all Caesar. He was hale and hearty till the end.”
“Last time we saw him, he was nearly finished his new book,” Sheila said.
“That’s right,” said Walter. “I guess it’s something at least that he went out on top of his game.”
“He had another twenty years in him,” Sheila said, and the others nodded. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”
Lucy held my hand. I pulled her in close to me. Sheila was one of Daddy’s women. I didn’t know whether or not Walter knew it. Was it the tail end of some conversations I’d walked in on as a child? Was it a telephone call that seemed out of place? Was it a comment Mommy once made in anger? It no longer mattered. I knew Sheila was sincere. She cared about Lucy and me. She had cared about Daddy, as much as one could care about him. To all appearances, she was a loving wife and a dear friend.
I was happy to leave it at that.
What about Walter? Had he ever suspected his wife might have grown too fond of his friend? I doubted it. Sheila wasn’t the type to pursue her feelings for my father to any great extent, much less flaunt those feelings to her husband.
But what if he found out anyway? I, of all people, understood how love could make us do foolish things. I could still feel Ben inside of me. Two months had passed, but he was still there, like a pearl hidden under the belly of an oyster. His warmth spread through my body like a fine brandy, filling me. As long as I could hold onto the feeling, I would never be empty again.
Had Sheila given in to her feelings? Had she and Daddy met, made love? Had he laughed at her child-like affection? Was she capable of the kind of anger that would make a woman kill?
I didn’t think so.
Was Walter? He seemed so mild-mannered, his arm resting on the small of Sheila’s back. They looked like the perfect couple, and I guess they were as close to it as it gets. They were married back in their university days, and were still together. He held the door for her, pulled out her chair, spoke always to her in the gentle tones of love. Did he have the kind of fire in him that could drive a man to murder?
Maybe.
More and more, I was becoming of the opinion that we all do, really. Appearances are deceiving. The gentle wife, the loving husband. The obedient daughter, the doting uncle. The troubled sister, the welcoming friend. Who among us has never held the ‘big anger’? Who among us has never thought, If I had a weapon in my hand right here, right now, you would die?
And that is the best argument for reducing access to guns anyone can make. Because that moment of anger passes for most of us. Most of us cannot sustain the bitterness – the hatred needed to plan a murder. Only those few rare twisted individuals with obsessive compulsive disorders are actually capable of planning and executing a crime of that magnitude.
But any of us, given that moment of rage, and given a loaded gun, could kill. That’s what I believe.
But Walter? Yes. Sometimes the gentlest surface can hide the greatest torment. It was possible.
TWELVE
The women, Daddy. Why so many? I couldn’t understand. He seemed to feed off their affection. With every lover, with every conquest, he seemed to grow stronger. His creativity expanded, his persona was magnified.
Promiscuity was one thing Daddy and I would never share. For me there was only Ben. He alone had the power to draw me out, to help me become a person in my own right. Beside him I stood tall. Without him I was merely my father’s daughter.
Those last months with Ben were a memory I would rather erase. They were burned forever in my psyche like some shameful brand. It was my fault. I played those months over and over like parts of a movie that would be better left on the cutting room floor.
Gail was gone. Nothing could bring her back. I still had Ben. I still had Lucy. I still had Daddy. I still had my job, my role in the world.
Why wasn’t it enough? Why did I have to destroy it?
Survivor’s guilt. How could I go on and live a full, happy life, when Gail and Mommy were both gone? It wasn’t fair. I hadn’t been able to save them. I didn’t deserve to be happy.
So I let Daddy drive his wedge between Ben and me. The needling got worse. The insults disguised as concern, the unwanted advice, they kept coming, until Ben put his foot down.
“He’s weak, Desdemona,” Daddy would say. “He can’t give you the life you deserve and he knows it.”
Or, “Where is the Moor this evening, my dear?”
Or, “He’s holding you back, Desdemona. He should be encouraging you to pursue your talents.”
It’s possible some small guilty part of me might have agreed with Daddy. I only know I was depressed and that letting Ben go was an act of self-destruction. It put me in Daddy’s hands in a way no other move could have.
I saw Ben across the room with Adelle. They made their way toward us and I fought the urge to run. Lucy stood beside me. I drew strength from her and faced my love and his wife. The right words were said, the right gestures were made. Then Ben led his lovely wife back into the crowd and I turned my broken heart away.
There are things we don’t teach our children in school. We should offer classes in surviving the modern family. How to break away from a domineering parent – how to live as a whole person after the impact of suicide – these are skills I would be grateful to have. We don’t discuss these things with our young people. Maybe we are afraid of putting ideas into their heads. But we are kidding ourselves. The ideas are already there. Any teenager who is part of a family is subject to dark ideas. Just ask any high school teacher.
So how does one accept the unacceptable? How does one live with grace after losing not only a mother but also a sister to suicide? If you rip out my heart and follow up by tearing out my soul, am I still alive? Is it worth it to go on breathing?
You try your best. That’s all anyone can do.
Some days it just isn’t enough.
Here’s a moment of insight: after losing both Mommy and Gail that way, is it any wonder I pushed Ben away? How could I risk having another love torn from me? Better I should control the situation myself, end it in a way I could live with. And live I do, even now, even after saying good-bye to Daddy.
But I still had Lucy. I had to remember that. She needed me. I needed her.
I held her hand for most of the next hour. We both got through it. At last it was over, and Uncle Willard walked with us to my car. Lucy wept all the way home. I felt like I was out of tears.
We got Lucy into bed. I rooted in Daddy’s cabinet until I found his favourite brandy. Uncle Willard and I sat in the cool darkness of Daddy’s den, the room where he had created more than twenty novels. I could almost imagine greatness was oozing out of the very walls of that room. Maybe Daddy was always right. Maybe there is no disputing destiny.
But what about Daddy? Did he meet the destiny, after all, that he was supposed to meet?
Uncle Willard sank into Daddy’s chair and we both sank into his brandy.
“The service was nice,” he said.
“Yes.”
&
nbsp; He rolled the brandy around in the glass. I knew he had something to say. I let him get to it in his own time.
“When your mother died,” he began, “I thought I was finished.”
That surprised me. Uncle Willard had been a rock at the time. At least he seemed to be.
“She and I were close. My mother never accepted me. I guess I clung to Angie because she never judged me. She was the only blood I had that I could always turn to. Unfortunately, she had her own problems…”
That was an understatement.
“She never got over our father’s death. I guess neither of us did. When someone you love and look up to takes his own life, it shatters your belief in the whole structure of the world as you know it. You have to face the truth. In our case, we had to face the fact our father’s love for us wasn’t big enough to keep him alive. He left us. His depression was greater than his love.”
“Grampie died of a heart attack. Didn’t he?”
“We always told you that. Caesar wanted to protect you from the truth. He didn’t want his children tainted by anything as unsavoury as suicide.”
“So you know how I feel.”
“That’s right. I lost a parent and a sibling to suicide. You and I have that in common.”
“How did you know about Mommy? I found her note. I never told anyone.”
“I always knew about your mother. Drugs and alcohol? Accidental overdose? I knew it wasn’t an accident. She was headed for death from the day our father died. I always blamed myself. I couldn’t save her.”
“Daddy wouldn’t let you save her.” My voice was flat with the truth. It was chilling, even to my own ears.
“Don’t think that, Mona. Your father always did what he thought was best for your mother and for you. He just didn’t understand. How could someone like J. Caesar Fortune understand weakness? To my knowledge, he never suffered a moment of weakness in his whole life. He thought if he pampered your mother’s grief she would never get over it.”
“He should have loved her more and judged her less.”
The Noon God Page 9