by Dianne Day
“Fully, no. Enough to get along, yes. But still Augusta would never have agreed to my making the long train trip. I thought it best, therefore, to spare her the worry of knowing that I was coming here.”
“Father, if you don’t mind my asking—what was the nature of your illness?”
His eyes left mine and seemed to stare, unfocused, into some middle distance that only he could see. After a pause in which, for a moment, his mouth worked without producing a sound, as if he were an ancient no longer capable of speech, he said: “It’s in the nature of a severe digestive complaint. That is all I can tell you. The doctors themselves don’t seem quite to know. It comes and goes, sometimes better, sometimes worse, but since it set in about a year ago it has never been completely cured.”
“I see,” I said; and because he seemed so uncomfortable I returned to the topic he himself had broached. “Since you are obviously out of town, where does Augusta suppose you to be?”
“In Chicago at a professional meeting,” he replied, with a sudden, impish smile.
Impulsively I reached across the table and put my hand on Father’s, where it rested just to the left of his plate, politely, as if ready and willing to dive back into his lap at any moment. “Yet,” I said, all the warmth I could muster, which was considerable, in my voice, “you did come, all the way here, just to see me. Thank you, Father. I can never thank you enough.”
“You don’t need to thank me. In the morning, on your birthday, you’ll understand exactly why I came. In the meantime, if you could continue to put up with me tonight just for the sake of companionship, I’d be honored to hear the story of your life before and since the earthquake. Every single minute you can remember.”
So I launched myself into the story of my life over the past three years. I omitted only the strange subject of Edgar Allan Partridge, who had also been known by his real name, Peregrine Crowe—because there are some stories that, while true, are so incredible as to invite disbelief.
Thus was the rest of the dinner passed, and I left after agreeing to return at nine o’clock the following morning. My father still kept to his banker’s hours—that about him had not changed. And that was almost the only thing that had not.
———
My bed had a fine new mattress, which Frances and I had bought on her husband’s account, yet lying upon it I seemed unable to sleep at all. There was far too much going on in my mind. What a jumble it was, a maddening kaleidoscope of thoughts. I may have dozed; there were times when I could not tell the difference between those half-awake thoughts that take us on one or the other edge of sleep, and dreams themselves.
One thing I did remember clearly, when with the first certain light of dawn I left my bed and gave up even the pretense of sleep: Emperor Norton. He had appeared to me in the outlandish military-style costume he wore in the one photograph of him that I’d seen in the old newspaper archives at the library. Perhaps, like the previous night’s intruder, the Emperor had mistaken me for Frances?
I did not really think that was so. Rather, I must have seen the Emperor in an ordinary dream, as I have no psychic ability whatever, nor do I wish to. Yet as I splashed cold water on my face in a vain attempt to feel alert and halfway human, I had the oddest feeling that the Emperor had been in my dreams for a reason. As if he were trying to draw my attention to him … and perhaps through him, elsewhere … as if he might help me to solve some problem, or, more likely, as if my attention to Frances’s problems would help her solve them.
“Well,” I said somewhat huffily to the mirror, not looking at my own face but rather over my shoulder into the depths of the room that was actually behind me (an odd sensation, to be sure), “if I am to help her solve her problems she will at the very least have to cooperate with me!” Then for no reason I could think of, I heard myself mutter as I turned away, “And your cooperation would also be greatly appreciated, Your Sovereign Majesty!”
Honestly, I thought, shaking my head and commencing dressing, what nonsense will I be into next?
The previous night I had worn my good dark blue silk. For today, my twenty-fifth birthday (something of a milestone, a quarter of a century), I had a new dress. It was only cotton, but of a fine hand, polished like satin, in an amber color that brought out the red in my hair rather nicely. Michael would like that, I knew. And Father would like Michael, I thought. If only … but then I nipped that train of thought in the bud, as being unprofitable.
My amber dress had a round collar of heavy ecru lace. To wear with it I had earrings of real amber in a teardrop shape; one of them had a tiny spider trapped inside. You could only see that it was a spider beneath a magnifying glass. I rather liked the idea of wearing a spider dangling from my earlobe.
I ate a solitary breakfast, for Frances did not appear, and I was not in the mood to call and wake her. I wanted only for the time to pass so that I could be with my father again. I had the oddest feeling.… Another unprofitable thought, which I likewise pushed away. I went into the office, sat at my old desk, and wrote a note of detailed instructions for Edna Stephenson. Included was an alert: I expected to bring Father back here before the day was over. He would not want to go back to Boston, I was sure, without having seen where I live and work.
The lavender shawl was the best I owned, and so I wore it when I left the house, although it would not have been my first choice to go over an amber dress. I should much have preferred a darker color, but the black shawl was entirely too disreputable, and I had not had a coat or a cape for ever so long. Would Father notice that I was without certain, shall we say, wardrobe essentials? Probably not. He had never been too interested in the subject of women’s clothing, though he shared my dislike for those elaborate concoctions most women like to put on their heads.
I walked uphill to Broadway, and then down Broadway toward Van Ness, a bit of a hike but it felt good. The sunlight fell thin and thready through the fog; the more I walked the more the golden threads burst through, until, by the time I had obtained a cable car for the ride down Powell Street, the sun was shining in earnest.
So, I thought, smiling as I descended gracefully from the cable car directly in front of the Hotel St. Francis, my birthday will be a sunny one after all. It is a good omen.
———
It all went by entirely too fast, and seemed to be over almost before it began. Success, whirlwind, both: that was my twenty-fifth birthday. Father gave me another watch, this one lavaliere-style on a chain, for which I thanked him profusely. He hung the watch about my neck, right there in his hotel room, as he was finishing up a breakfast brought him by room service. On the tray I noted the remains of dry toast, coffee with cream and sugar, and half a grapefruit all nicely segmented, with a cherry in the center, which remained untouched.
Then we left the hotel and went to the Bank of San Francisco. I thought at first this was only a courtesy call, as my father is himself a banker and knows others all over not only this country but the world; but I soon learned I was wrong.
They had known we were coming. Heads turned as Father announced himself in a voice with just the right edge and hint of command to make it carry. Deference was shown through a certain modicum of bowing and scraping.
And when we left half an hour later, the bowing and the scraping were being done for me, Fremont Jones, holder of a new account in this establishment—a new account containing more money than I had ever in my wildest dreams thought would be mine. Certainly I had not known, nor would it ever have occurred to me to inquire, the extent of my father’s wealth. When I was living at home, I’d taken all that for granted. With some amazement, as I signed paper after paper acknowledging the transfer of funds, I realized that being largely without money for the past couple of years had taught me its true value.
“This represents a little less than half your inheritance,” Father had said, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm as we left the bank, “the discrepancy having been caused by the fact that I had to sell some stock in order t
o come up with the cash amount, and the price of that stock fluctuated downward that particular day. The other half of the inheritance is to be yours upon my death.”
“But what of Augusta?” I’d blurted out the question, when I should—had I thought about it—have restrained myself.
“She is also to be provided for. But nothing is to go to her many relatives, including that son, who is a ne’er-do-well if ever I saw one.”
“Son?” This was the first I’d heard of a son.
“Yes,” Father said with a hint of bitterness. “I didn’t find out about him until near the end of that first idyllic year with Augusta. He has been like a plague upon us ever since. But let us talk no more of him, as I have only this one day with you.”
So the day had gone on, its highlight a visit to the double house at Divisadero Street, Wish and his mother a great hit—Edna thankfully on her best behavior, and Frances nowhere in sight. Father’s only comment that could be construed as negative was: “Well, Fremont, now that you have some of your inheritance, you will be able to complete the furnishing of your apartment.” To which I’d merely nodded. But then that night, once again unable to really sleep, I’d wandered around half fantasizing, half planning what I should buy. After, of course, buying my half of the house outright from Michael. How good that would feel!
Now, at seven o’clock in the morning on April 11, I stood on the dock at the Embarcadero with Leonard Pembroke Jones, waiting for the ferry that would take him to Oakland and the train back to Boston … and a part of me was filled with sorrow and gloom and a horrible foreboding that I would never see him again.
Of course I could not tell him that.
“You’re awfully quiet, daughter,” he said, looking over at me. Since we are nearly the same height, our eyes met on the level. “It’s not like you,” he added.
I smiled. “No, it isn’t.”
“The life here suits you, it would seem.”
“Yes. I do love San Francisco. But I didn’t realize until seeing you again how much I’ve missed you, Father. I’m sorry you have to go so soon.”
“So am I, dear heart. So am I.” My father could be affectionate on occasion, but never demonstrative in public, and so I was surprised when he reached out, put his arm around my shoulders, and drew me close.
“There was only one thing missing from our visit,” he said, very quietly.
“And what was that, Father?”
“Your friend Michael. Your partner. I’m truly sorry I was not able to meet him. I suspect he is more than just a friend and business partner to you.”
“Why, what makes you say that?”
“Any number of little things that have come to my attention over the past few years. If nothing else, the persistence with which he remains in your life. How many years older than you is this man?”
“Roughly, um, twenty,” I answered truthfully.
“You’re my daughter, I know you. I watched you grow up, don’t forget. I’ve seen how the older men were the ones who interested you most, and you them, while you treated the boys your own age like brothers. Finally, my dear, there is the expression on your face whenever his name is mentioned, and the unusual blush that overcame your composure that first night when I asked after him. So tell me now, for I’ll be leaving soon; has he asked you to marry him?”
As he asked that so touchy question, Father’s grip on my shoulder tightened. I was going to have to deal with this, I could not escape it, and so Michael’s leaving, all the days and nights alone, had been for nought. I bit my lip briefly, drew in my breath, and answered: “Yes. He has. But I have refused. I do not wish to marry, Father. You know that. I do not wish it now any more than I did when I was living at home with you. Though of course my home is here now.”
“Yes, I have seen that it is, and a clever arrangement it is, too. One must assume that you and Michael get along well, to live and work in such proximity.”
I nodded, and turned a bit toward Father so that I could better see his face. What was he getting at?
“You are in love with him, and apparently he is with you, or he would not be asking you to marry. Yet you will not do it. Why, Caroline?”
I ignored Father’s inadvertent use of my first name; under the circumstances that was the most unimportant thing he’d said. “I don’t believe in marriage. I told you that long ago, and it hasn’t changed. J-just because I’ve found the man I love, who loves me, doesn’t mean my beliefs have changed a bit.” My chin went up reflexively, defensively.
Father’s eyes went soft; he removed his arm from around me and with the back of that hand he stroked my cheek. “My little girl,” he said, almost in a whisper, “I would like to see you married before I die.”
My voice stuck in my throat. Something very painful, and inevitable, something that had been growing there since I’d first seen how much Father had physically changed, cracked my heart.
“Think about it. That’s all I ask,” Father said.
A sudden gust of wind off the Bay stirred my skirts and tugged at his bowler hat. The thrum-thrum of the approaching ferry’s motor filled my ears, and tears filled my eyes. Wordlessly I reached for my father and embraced him, he with one arm around me and one hand removing the wayward hat from his head, then that arm around me, too, and both my arms about his neck.
“Daddy,” I said, the childhood name I had given up with a certain scorn in adolescence, “Daddy!” I did not want ever to let him go, couldn’t think how I’d been able to bring myself to leave him all those years ago.
“Caroline, my only child.”
I pulled away. Though tears streamed uncontrollably down my face, there was something I had to ask. I knew by the bustle all around us that the ferry had pulled into the dock but my focus was only on Father. I asked the question: “Am I a great disappointment to you?”
“Ah, no. You’re unique. You are yourself, Fremont, as you’ve always been. I wouldn’t want you to be any different. Closer, perhaps, not so many miles away—but not different.” He managed a smile, though it was as difficult for him as it was for me.
But I smiled, too, even through my tears.
“I will come and see you,” I said, “in a few months, in Boston. Now that I have the means there is no reason why I should not travel. I’m grateful for what you’ve done, Father.”
He tucked my hand into his arm once more and we joined the end of the queue for the ferry. “It’s my very great pleasure to see you set up now as a woman of means in your own right. I know you will use the money wisely. And I hope you’ll think on what I said.”
“About Michael?”
“Yes.”
“Father, I will.”
I stood waving at that ferry until long after the people on deck, Father included, were no longer discernible to me. I still had the most awful feeling that I would never see him again.
25
———
Will-o’-the-Wisp
Ooo la-la!” said Edna Stephenson, waving her hand in front of her face like a fan, “your father is handsome, Fremont. And he seems like such a nize man. Pity he couldn’t stay longer. Your mother’s passed on, you said?”
I could see the wheels turning behind Edna’s bright little eyes, and it didn’t take much deduction or imagination to know which way her thoughts were headed. “That’s right, Edna, but Father married again the same year I came out to San Francisco. Which is why he couldn’t stay longer. His wife needs him at home.” Wants him at home was more like it, but I didn’t like to imply that Augusta’s every wish had to be my father’s command. Sometimes I wondered, though.
I changed the subject by asking: “Where are the others?”
Edna rocked back and forth in her desk chair, swinging her feet, which as usual did not quite reach the floor. “Let’s see,” she said contentedly, “Aloysius has gone off to work on that special project of his, whatever it is, he never will say. So mysterious he is, sometimes. Oh well, but what’s a mother to do when he’s a g
ood boy otherwise? And your friend Miss Frances—well, I know she’s Mrs. McFadden, but the way she’s acting, sure as I’m born you never could tell she was a married woman—well, she’s gone out somewheres. Just breezed right on by without a word, she did.” Edna stopped rocking, leaned back in the chair, raised her eyebrows, and gave me a wise-old-owl look. “She looked mighty sharp in her new clothes. Mighty sharp. Peach-colored, her dress was today. Lotsa lace. Nize. Too bad her manners isn’t.”
“Um-hm,” I nodded. I went over and sat at Wish’s desk, thinking. I remembered that peach-colored dress, which had indeed been remarkably becoming to Frances’s skin and hair coloring. “We shall have to do something about Frances,” I said, “but exactly what, I do not know. I’m not sure she’s safe here in the City. If I had relatives in the country, or even just an acquaintance with whom she could stay, I swear I’d send her out of town.”
“Dunno as she’d go.”
Good point, I thought. The telephone rang, and Edna pounced on it, answering in her usual efficient fashion. When it came to business, she was all business. I did hope Michael would be pleased with her. And then, with a glow of pleasure, I realized that if he were not it would scarcely matter. I could pay Edna myself now! Of course, one would prefer to pay her out of profits, but if lean times persisted …
“Oh my, yes,” said Edna into the telephone, “I’m sure Miss Jones would like to speak with you, but she’s in conference with a client at the moment. Will you give me the number where she can ring you back?”
I frowned mightily, shook my head, and started to get up and cross the room to take the telephone, but Edna motioned me back down with a firmness that would not be brooked. What was going on?
“Oh, well now, dear, that is a problem, isn’t it? Because I just can’t interrupt her, it wouldn’t be fair to the client who’s already here and paying for her time. You can see that, now can’t you? So why don’t you just make an appointment yourself and come on down to our office on Divisadero Street? You know where it is? No? Well, I can give you direc—” She broke off and turned to me, beaming. “He rung off. Thought he would.”