Eagles

by Lewis Orde

  He got up from the couch and walked to the window, looking down into the empty street. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Sally wrapped in an oversized robe. ‘I heard you walking around,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t sleep. I should have stayed in the hospital. What time is it?’

  ‘Just after four. Do you need anything?’

  ‘A miracle.’

  The stillness of the night was shattered by the ringing of the telephone. Roland grabbed it before Sally could. He listened intently, his only words an occasional yes. Then he hung up. ‘They’re going to operate in an hour.’

  Sally was already hurrying back to her room. ‘I’ll drive you there,’ she said, unable to hide the tension in her voice.

  *

  By the time the operation began, Ambassador Menendez and his wife were also at the hospital. Juan would be coming later. Two eminent brain surgeons from Paris were also on their way. The family was closing ranks – ranks that for the first time included Roland.

  It seemed like an eternity to him, sitting with his in-laws while they waited for news. Juan arrived at the end of the lengthy operation, and together they listened to the surgeons explain that it would be some time before the operation’s success could be measured. Catarina was still in a coma, lying in an oxygen tent, being fed intravenously.

  Roland only vaguely heard the information. He knew already. He was fated to lose Catarina just as he had lost his family once before.

  Juan left, but Ambassador Menendez and his wife stayed with Roland. That evening, after a further examination, the combined group of specialists from England and France voiced extreme pessimism. It was time, they advised, to think of saving the child. Menendez and his wife turned to Roland, recognizing that though they were her parents, Roland was her husband. The decision was his.

  Exhausted, managing only to stay awake by sheer determination, Roland struggled with the decision. If the doctors concentrated solely on Catarina they might lose both mother and child. If they performed a Caesarian section to deliver the premature child, they would almost certainly lose the mother. The equations rocked around inside his head like boulders. He looked to his in-laws for guidance, but they could only stare back at him, helpless in the midst of their sorrow.

  Finally, Roland sat back in the chair, closed his eyes in agonizing defeat and told the surgeons to go ahead with the operation.

  Just before midnight Catarina was delivered of a five-and-one-quarter-pound girl. Roland and the Menendez family, masks covering their faces, got one brief look at the red-faced, wrinkled baby before she was placed in an incubator. Then they returned to their seats to wait.

  At twenty-eight minutes after midnight, as if accepting that her life’s work was complete, Catarina died.

  *

  Three days later in London’s Westminster Cathedral – the Roman Catholic equivalent of Westminster Abbey – Roland stood with his head bowed, hands clasped, as Catarina’s funeral service was read.

  His mind failed to register even one word of the service, nor did he recognize a single face in the congregation that packed the country’s leading Catholic house of worship. All he could see was the catafalque, the casket on top that held Catarina’s body. He could only think of the bitter injustice that determined that an eighteen-year-old girl should lie inside.

  After the service, with head still bowed, his body rigid, Roland stood by the catafalque to receive condolences. Diplomats from a dozen countries filed past, all attending out of respect to Ambassador Menendez. Roland shook their hands automatically before they moved on to the ambassador, his wife and son. Roland’s friends, those who had shared in the joy and excitement of the whirlwind romance formed a protective circle around him as members of the press, who had been kept outside the cathedral during the services, now tried to push their way inside for photographs and interviews.

  ‘Hold on to me,’ a man’s voice said. ‘I’ll get you to the car.’

  Roland looked up to see Alf Goldstein, ill at ease as ever in a dark blue suit. Next to him was Michael Adler, the Aronsons, Sally Roberts and Lawrence Chivers. Together, they formed a wedge, forcing open a passage for Roland to reach the car that would take him to the cemetery.

  One of the few things he could remember of the actual interment was the sun blazing down unmercifully; it was another one of those golden days, just like the one when he and Catarina had stood in Regent’s Park beneath the oak tree. He shook his head to clear the memory – he couldn’t bear to live with it just now.

  Afterwards, Sally drove him to Middlesex Hospital to see his daughter. His mood wasn’t lightened when doctors informed him the premature child was pitifully weak. They were optimistic that she would recover fully, but there was still room for concern. Roland took that disquieting knowledge back with him to his apartment in Regent’s Park. Sally offered to stay, but he told her to leave. He was no longer frightened to be left in the flat. He had overcome that fear in the three nights since Catarina’s death. Now he welcomed solitude. This night, after the final, irrevocable separation from his beloved Catarina, Roland sat in the darkened nursery angry at the fate – at the God – that had sought him out twice. Sleep finally came to relieve him of his grief, and as he felt himself drifting into that welcome state the same question he’d asked himself ten years before continued to burn in his mind – why?

  *

  Roland returned to Middlesex Hospital the following morning to learn that his daughter’s condition had stabilized. She was expected to remain in an incubator, but the doctors were now more confident. Feeling slightly more at ease, Roland decided to take a taxi to the factory. The only thing to do now was immerse himself in work; it was the only way he knew to cope with his sorrow. He wasn’t at his desk for ten minutes before a reporter telephoned. Roland slammed the receiver down, left the factory and returned home.

  He remained in the apartment the entire day, dividing his time between sitting in the nursery and taking Catarina’s clothes out of the wardrobes and drawers, setting them on the bed, on the backs of chairs and wondering what to do with them. He went through her jewelry box and sat staring at the charm bracelet he’d given her, the four-leaf clover with the names of three horses inscribed on the back. Then he spent the next half hour putting everything back as he’d found it.

  As dusk settled Roland left the flat and walked toward the park. Beneath the oak tree he stopped, felt with his fingertips for the broken piece of blade. He pressed against it until the sharp, jagged steel pierced his skin, drawing blood. Roland welcomed the pain of that cut; it gave him something else to think about. He sat under the oak tree until it was completely dark, wishing the pain was even sharper.

  As he walked back to his apartment he heard the familiar tapping sound of a stick on concrete. Ahead of him, beneath a gas streetlamp, Roland saw the lonely figure of Mrs Peters, waiting at the curb for someone to help her. He wondered if she would ever try to cross a street by herself again. It didn’t appear so – she stood a long while at the curb, obviously waiting for someone to come along. Roland crossed to the other side of the street, strode past, hoping she wouldn’t hear him. His footsteps carried on the crisp night air and the woman called after him. Roland closed his ears to her pleas and hurried on.

  Outside his building he found Sally sitting in her car. ‘We’ve been calling you all day long, ever since you left the factory. We’ve been worried crazy about you.’

  ‘I put the phone in a drawer so I couldn’t hear it.’

  ‘Simon wants to see you. I’ve come to take you over there.’ She opened the passenger door and started the engine. Roland climbed in.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He wants to speak to you – before you kill yourself.’ She noticed him sucking on his finger and asked what had happened. He told her he’d caught it on a splinter.

  Simon and Nadine were waiting for them in the drawing room. Simon sat Roland down, poured him a large drink and got to the point. ‘Before th
is week the closest person to you was Catarina. Now the closest people to you are right in this room, with the exception of your daughter who is in no position to offer you any advice. Quite frankly we’re worried sick about you.’

  Roland stared at the glass in his hand, wondering how it had got there, not fully understanding what Simon was trying to say.

  ‘Go away, Roland. Do yourself a favor and go away for a few weeks, a month, two . . . it doesn’t matter. Just give yourself a chance to recover from this tragedy.’

  ‘What about my daughter? When she comes out of the hospital?’

  ‘What about her, Roland?’ The question came from Nadine. ‘What arrangements have you made for her?’

  ‘Arrangements?’

  ‘Yes, arrangements. Or are you planning to look after her all by yourself? You’ll need a nurse, a housekeeper. You can’t bring up a child on your own, especially one who’s a month premature to begin with.’

  ‘I’ll get a nurse and a housekeeper.’

  ‘Forget about that, Roland,’ Sally interrupted. ‘Just do as Simon suggests and take a holiday. There are others here who can look after your daughter.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘What about your in-laws?’ Simon asked. ‘Maria Menendez telephoned here earlier to ask if we’d seen you. Have you spoken to them since the funeral yesterday?’

  ‘Last night. I telephoned them.’

  ‘And you didn’t call them today? They are Catarina’s family as well, just as much as you are. Go see them – explain to them that you need to go away for a while. I’m sure if you asked them to care for the baby while you get your bearings they would – in fact they’d probably be delighted to do so.’

  Roland recalled the weight of the ambassador’s hand on his shoulder, the way Catarina’s death had drawn them together. ‘Where would I go?’

  ‘Anywhere. It doesn’t matter. Take a boat trip to South Africa, to New York. Just get away from all the familiar sights.’

  New York . . . Roland toyed with the idea. A place he had always wanted to visit; perhaps he could even look up some of the survivors of Bergen-Belsen whom he’d helped to put in contact with relatives over there. His mood lifted momentarily as he considered the idea . . . He could visit stores there, see how the Americans did things, maybe learn something from it. ‘New York,’ he said, seeming to confirm it.

  ‘Good. Now telephone your in-laws.’

  Half an hour later, Roland was at Wilton Crescent. Sally waited in the car as Roland walked up to the ambassador’s house. The front door opened and Juan came out, wearing a tuxedo, a light raincoat slung over his arm. He walked past Roland as if he didn’t exist and waved for a passing taxi. Roland watched Catarina’s brother climb into the cab and muttered under his breath; his sister was only buried yesterday and the little bastard’s going out.

  ‘We tried to telephone you today,’ Menendez said when Roland entered the house. ‘We wanted to see how you were.’

  ‘Thank you. I disconnected the telephone. I just wanted to be alone.’

  ‘We understand.’

  Roland really thought he did. Menendez had certainly undergone a dramatic change; he seemed genuinely sympathetic, as if all the anger he had towards Roland was drained by Catarina’s death. ‘I just passed Juan,’ Roland said, looking from the ambassador to his wife.

  ‘He had an appointment,’ Señora Menendez answered softly, and Roland wished he hadn’t brought it up. Juan’s period of mourning must have lasted for as long as it took him to arrange his next date.

  ‘Sir, with Catarina gone I have no one except my daughter,’ Roland said. ‘But before she comes home I feel I must get away, at least for a while. I would be grateful if you and your wife would care for my daughter while I’m away.’

  ‘But of course!’ Maria Menendez exclaimed. ‘How long will she be in the hospital?’

  ‘Possibly four or five weeks.’

  ‘We’re more than happy to care for her. Go away for as long as you wish. Let us know where you’ll be and we’ll keep you informed of her progress.’

  ‘Have you decided on a name yet for the baby?’ Menendez asked.

  ‘Catarina and I were going to call her Elizabeth, for my mother,’ Roland replied. ‘Now I would like to name her Katherine Elizabeth. For Catarina.’

  Señora Menendez dabbed tears from her eyes. ‘We will be delighted to care for Katherine for as long as you wish. She is as precious to us as she is to you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As Roland left the house he, too, felt tears brimming in his eyes. He had misjudged the Menendez family as badly as they had misjudged him.

  Chapter Nine

  Roland left for New York a week later from Southampton on the Queen Mary. He forced himself to mix with his fellow first-class passengers, enduring the condolences they seemed duty-bound to offer him. Understanding that he was still somewhat of a celebrity, he resigned himself to a lack of privacy during the voyage.

  Roland occupied himself by playing bridge and poker all day long and far into the night, seeking out the high-stakes games and playing with a cold ruthlessness that swept all before it. By the second night he had won enough money to pay the steamship fare.

  Every evening at seven o’clock he used the ship’s radiotelephone to call the Menendez home to inquire about his daughter. And every night, when he finally went to bed because he had run out of card partners or people to talk to, he lay very still, trying to remember every moment he had ever spent with Catarina.

  He stayed in the United States for two months, splitting the time between New York, Chicago and the West Coast, filling every minute with visiting stores, comparing the workmanship of American products with those of his own country, and sightseeing. The daily telephone calls continued, and by the time he reached Chicago the first photograph arrived, taken the day after Katherine had been released from the hospital. Roland stayed in his hotel room for half an hour, just gazing at the picture. In a month, the weak, underweight baby had become a chubby china doll with eyes that were as blue as his own and a wisp of curly blonde hair that rose from her head like a question mark.

  A second photograph reached Roland at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel in San Francisco. Taken only a week after the previous one, it showed a totally different child – she had filled out more, with ringlets of fat on her arms and legs, tiny fists clenched, bright eyes wide open. Holding the photograph in one hand, Roland picked up the telephone and asked for the local Cunard office. He canceled his homeward-bound reservations on the Queen Mary from New York that was still two weeks away and booked a plane flight instead. He didn’t want to play any more cards, speak to any more people, watch the wake spill out from the majestic liner’s stern any longer. He just wanted to be home. The period of intense mourning for his young wife was over; now it was time to resume life with his daughter.

  *

  Simon Aronson was waiting at the airport. ‘Roland, you look wonderful! America must agree with you!’ the banker exclaimed when Roland emerged from customs carrying two leather suitcases.

  ‘The pictures of my daughter agree with me.’ Roland knew he had gained almost ten pounds. His face shone with a healthy copper glow and his eyes sparkled. He was raring to pick up the pieces of his life – a life that would center around his baby daughter.

  ‘Where do you want to go first? Regent’s Park or your in-laws?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ He threw the suitcases into the trunk of Simon’s Daimler and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Tell me all about her.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ Simon answered. ‘But none of us has been to the Menendez home to see her.’

  Roland was mystified by the reply. ‘Why haven’t you been there? Or Sally? You’re my friends. Surely you kept in touch with them while I was away.’

  ‘We telephoned, yes, but we were never invited. Besides, there was trouble with Juan. Shortly after you left he was involved in a drunken driving incident, almost killed a man when his car went out of control.’ Sim
on took a press clipping from his picket and passed it to Roland. ‘The family packed him off to Argentina to avoid scandal.’

  ‘I see.’ Roland barely glanced at the story. He had no time at all for Catarina’s brother. ‘Well, you can come with me now. We’ll see my daughter together.’ He sat back, though he couldn’t relax. Damn! . . . he wanted to see Katherine. Wanted it so badly it was almost a physical ache. He couldn’t wait until he held her in his arms, bounced her on his knee. And yes, even sat at the table in the nursery and changed her, just as Catarina had said he would.

  Simon went with Roland into the Menendez home. Maria Menendez led them right through to what had been Catarina’s room. A crib stood where once Catarina’s bed had been. Next to it sat a stern-faced, gray-haired woman in a crisp white uniform whom Maria Menendez introduced as Queenie Blackwood, a nurse sent by an agency.

  Roland leaned over the crib. Katherine stared up at him, big round blue eyes looking like two small lagoons, the blonde hair much thicker than in the photographs. ‘May I pick her up?’ he asked the nurse. She nodded and instructed him to be gentle.

  Roland reached down and lifted Katherine into the air, held her close, supporting the back of her head with his arm. He made a face at her, funny sounds. ‘Look, she’s smiling.’

  ‘Gas,’ Nurse Blackwood said in a manner designed to dampen paternal overindulgence. ‘She’s just been fed.’

  Roland refused to be cowed by the nurse’s manner. ‘To you it might be gas, but to me it’s the biggest, brightest smile in all the world.’ He returned to Maria Menendez. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done, especially the photographs. They’re what made me come back in such a hurry.’

  ‘It was the least my husband and I could do.’

  ‘Where is the ambassador?’

  ‘In a meeting. He asked to be notified when you arrived.’

  Roland sat down with Katherine in his arms to wait for the ambassador. ‘And Juan, where is he?’ he asked, curious to hear what the woman would have to say about her wayward son. Roland had to feel sorry for her – daughter dead, son never up to any good. What wonderful hopes the Menendezes must have held for their children, and this was how it all turned out.