The Noon God (13 page)

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 looking 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.

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.”

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.”

“Yes. But ‘should have’ is a tall order. It doesn’t correct the past. Angie was lost for as long as I knew her. Our mother never wanted children. We were a disappointment to her. So was our father. We clung to him like a raft in the middle of the ocean, but he capsized. He just didn’t have the right stuff to keep us going.”

“How did you get over it?”

“I never did. That’s my point. Neither did your mother. But I was able to force myself to go on. I had more strength, for lack of a better word. It was as simple as that. But I never got over Dad’s death, or Angie’s. I loved them too much. I promised Angie I would be there for you and your sisters. I want you to know as long as I’m alive, I’ll keep that promise. I’m here for you.”

“I know, Willard. Thank you.”

We sat in silence for awhile, letting our love for each other work its healing magic. I wasn’t sure what to make of what he had told me. We aren’t meant to understand everything at once. Just when I thought I had a handle on events, some new aspect would present itself and throw my limp understanding into an unforgiving light.

Grampie had committed suicide. I hadn’t considered that possibility. I had always assumed Mommy’s unhappiness was a direct result of Daddy’s infidelity. Now I had to face the possibility my beloved mother was merely one more flawed product of a flawed parentage. Daddy did not create her destiny for her. Her lines were written out long ago, by a cold mother and a weak father. The hard wiring for depression was fixed in her brain as a child. Daddy did little to help her, just the same. I was still comfortable blaming him, at least in part, for Mommy’s death.

And what about Gail? Was Mommy responsible for Gail’s death? Did she draw the pattern in Gail’s young brain that would lead her to self-destruct? Probably.

But again, Daddy was still to blame, at least in part. He enabled Gail’s behaviour. He gave up on her. He let her believe she wasn’t worth the effort.

Yes, I could still blame Daddy. My understanding of my world had not been shattered by Uncle Willard’s revelation. Just shaken a bit.

Uncle Willard’s jaw went slack. I considered leaving him to sleep in Daddy’s chair, but I was afraid his old bones might hurt in the morning. I woke him and pulled out the daybed for him.

“
Mona,” he said, “don’t judge the world too harshly.”

“
I’ll try not to, Willard.”

“
You are your father’s daughter in many ways.”

“
I’m my mother’s daughter, too.”

“
Try to cultivate her softness alongside your father’s strength.”

“
I will,” I promised.

There was a time when I would have argued with him.
‘I’m not judgemental,’
I would have said.
‘My father was judgemental, but I am not.’