Claire at Sixteen (16 page)

“I don't believe you,” he said.

“How can you not?” Claire asked. “You look exactly like Nicky, or at least the way he's going to look in about thirty years. I can't wait to tell him he won't be bald. That'll be such a relief for him. Nicky's very vain about his appearance. I am, too. I suppose you are, also. Vanity runs in a family, like dark hair and high cheekbones.”

“If Keefer, or Nicky, or whatever he calls himself, sent you here, he's going to be very disappointed,” Mr. Prescott declared. “He's gotten all the money from me he's ever going to see.”

“Nicky doesn't know I'm here,” Claire said. “Nicky doesn't know you're alive. He probably doesn't care, either. He made up a much better daddy than you ever were. Some noble hero who died during World War Two. He doesn't even give you credit for his college education. He claims his high-school English teacher paid for that. Poor Gramps. You give a boy a headstart in life, and he never even thanks you.”

“How do you know all this?” Mr. Prescott asked. “What you're claiming, I mean, about Keefer.”

Claire smiled. “That's where the story gets interesting,” she said. “Not that I don't love all the sleazy parts about the affair and the payoffs. You see, after George Keefer became Nick Sebastian, he met my mother. Her name was Margaret Winslow. Your son-in-law Brad knows her. Anyway, Megs's guardian, Grace Winslow, hired a detective to find out about Nicky. She didn't trust him, and rightly so. I'm sure she'd be delighted to tell you everything that's in the report. She told me, after all, and my older sister Evvie.”

“Evvie?” Mr. Prescott said. He'd gotten some color back in his cheeks, but he still seemed to be shocked by what was going on. Claire couldn't blame him.

“There's a bunch of us,” Claire said. “Nicky and Megs have four daughters. I'm number three, but I'm the only one who looks like you. I brought a picture. Hold on, and I'll dig it out.” She opened her overnight bag, and located the snapshot, which she handed to Mr. Prescott. “There's Nicky, see how much he looks like you, and Megs, she's squinting, and then there's Evvie and Thea and my younger sister, Sybil, and me. It's an old picture, but it should serve as an introduction.”

Mr. Prescott stared at the picture. Claire decided not to rush him. It was his first glimpse of his son in twenty-five years. Once he'd had his fill, he flung the picture across the room.

“I know,” Claire said. “It's a little overexposed.”

“I want you out of here,” Mr. Prescott said. “Right away.”

“Believe me, I sympathize,” Claire replied. “You probably want some time to yourself, to compose yourself, think about the appropriate way of welcoming me to your family. You have a choice, after all. Granddaughter, or granddaughter-in-law. Birthday cake, or wedding cake, that sort of thing. I don't care which way you go, so pick what's most comfortable for you.”

Mr. Prescott swung his arm across the desk and slapped Claire hard.

“Hey, that hurt!” Claire said, trying not to rub, not to cry.

“That's nothing compared to what I can do to you, if you don't leave immediately,” Mr. Prescott said. “Get out at once.”

Claire jumped off the desk and walked over to where the picture lay. She bent down and picked it up, then walked back to the desk and pushed the snapshot at Mr. Prescott. “This is your family,” she said. “As much as Schyler and Prescott are. Look at them.”

Mr. Prescott's eyes lowered toward the photograph.

Claire waited until he was through looking, and then she pulled the picture back. “You gave my father nothing,” she declared. “Just a few thousand, not even enough to put him through college. I bet you were more generous to your other children. I bet they got everything you had to give them, trips, and college, and cars, and savings bonds, and memberships in all the right country clubs. All Nicky got were your looks.”

“My children were born in wedlock,” Mr. Prescott said. “Naturally, they were entitled to all I had to give them.”

“Including your moral standards, no doubt,” Claire said. “Let me tell you, there've been lots of times I haven't liked Nicky, but I know he would never cheat on Megs. And if somehow he found out he had an extra kid lying around, that kid would be as much my sister or brother as Evvie or Sybil or Thea. You knew all those years that there was a child. The birth certificate might have said ‘father unknown,' but you knew. And you let him grow up without once seeing how he was, seeing if there was something you could do for him. Nicky's stepfather was a drunk and he used to beat him, and his mother got sick and died when he was a kid, when he was my age, and you weren't there to help. He could have starved, and you wouldn't have cared.”

“I had a family to care about,” Mr. Prescott said. “I had a family to protect.”

“You had yourself to protect,” Claire said. “You and your lousy reputation.”

“I do not have to justify myself to you,” Mr. Prescott said. “I have no legal or moral responsibities to your father or you.”

“I used to picture having a grandfather,” Claire said. “My mother's an orphan, too, a real one, so I never had grandparents. I never dreamed that I did have a grandfather somewhere, and that he was slime.”

“I hit you once, young lady,” Mr. Prescott said. “And I would be perfectly willing to hit you again.”

“It's going to be real hard to explain if I come out of here with a black eye,” Claire replied. “And you're going to have enough explaining to do, anyway, so I wouldn't aggravate the situation if I were you.”

Mr. Prescott stared at Claire with such loathing that it took all her strength not to turn away. She'd come too far to let him bully her out of there. There were too many unsettled debts.

“I think,” she said, “that I'm a lot like you.”

“Get out,” he said. “Before I call the police.”

Claire laughed. “That's the silliest thing you've said yet,” she declared. “First of all, I haven't committed any crimes. I'm here with your grandson, who happens to be my husband. And even if that constitutes trespassing, you're not going to bring the police into this. You don't want to bring anyone into it. This is just between you and me. That's the way you really want it. We both know that.”

“What is it that you want?” he asked.

“A lot of money,” Claire replied. “As much as you're willing to give.”

It was Mr. Prescott's turn to laugh. “I'll give you nothing,” he declared. “You'll go out of here as penniless as when you entered.”

“I have nothing to lose, then,” Claire said. “That's the great thing about being poor. You, on the other hand, could stand to lose a whole lot.”

“Your father has no legal claim on my wealth,” Mr. Prescott said.

“I don't know,” Claire replied. “I'm not a lawyer. But I would think that if Nicky brought—what is it called—a nuisance suit against you, it might net him a few dollars. After all, if he could prove your paternity, he'd have a claim on your estate.” She had no idea if she was right, but she thought that was how it worked on television.

“What's to prevent him from doing that, even if I do give you the money?” Mr. Prescott asked.

Claire tried to keep the relief she felt from showing. One slipup, and she could lose it all. But she could see he was weakening, and she needed to know that. “Nicky doesn't want to have anything more to do with you than you want to have with him,” she replied. “Hell, if I could find you, he could find you. Obviously, he hasn't been looking.”

“Then what makes you think he'd take my money?” Mr. Prescott asked. “If he's as proud as you claim he is.”

“Because it wouldn't be for him,” Claire said. “It would be for my sister Sybil. That's your youngest granddaughter, at least on Nicky's side. Sybil's fourteen now. Two years ago, she was hit by a hit-and-run driver. She's been crippled ever since. You'd like Sybil, if you ever got to know her. She drives a hard bargain, too.”

“So I'm supposed to contribute to some fund for her behalf,” Mr. Prescott said. “Just offer you a little charity?”

“I prefer to think of it as blackmail,” Claire said. “Charity's such an ugly word.” She smiled broadly.

Mr. Prescott sat back in his chair and laughed. “I don't frighten you, do I?” he said.

“Sybil's future frightens me,” Claire replied. “You're nothing compared to that.”

“Very well,” Mr. Prescott said. “Since it's for such a worthy cause, I'll contribute to your fund. How does five thousand dollars sound to you?”

“It sounds like garbage,” Claire said.

“Don't push me, girl,” Mr. Prescott said. “Or else you'll walk out of here empty-handed.”

“Out of here and into your daughter's living room,” Claire replied. “And I'll stay there until your wife gets in from church. I like a woman who prays a lot. It shows respect for traditional values, like the sanctity of marriage. How many secretaries have you had over the years, Gramps? How many little George Keefers have shown up to embarrass you?”

“Five thousand,” Mr. Prescott said. “Take it or leave it.”

“A hundred thousand,” Claire said. “And cheap at twice the price.”

“You're mad,” Mr. Prescott said.

“Not as mad as your wife's going to be,” Claire said. “She might not like getting four stepgranddaughters all in one afternoon. That's a lot of birthdays she's going to have to write down on her calendar. Mine's coming up in a month, by the way. I'll be seventeen. Don't make too big a fuss. My mother'll bake a cake.”

“Five thousand,” Mr. Prescott said.

Claire sighed. “Maybe you have a hearing problem,” she said. “Or simply a lack of imagination. Let me lay the whole situation out for you, in simple, easy to understand language. I am your granddaughter. My father, Nick Sebastian, is your illegitimate son, George Keefer. My mother, your daughter-in-law, is Margaret Winslow. Your son-in-law Bradford Hughes grew up with her, danced at the same cotillions. At best, he's going to be embarrassed to learn she's his sister-in-law. At worst, he's going to be furious at the scandal it'll cause if the truth comes out. Maybe not so much about Nicky; after all, that was a long time ago, and probably, the only people who'll care are your wife and your other children. But I'm married to your grandson. And that could make for interesting reading.”

“Prescott,” Mr. Prescott said, and Claire could see he'd finally made the connection. “Does he know?”

Claire shook her head. “He's such a sweet boy,” she said. “He worships the ground you walk on. You should hear him talk about you. He says you're tough, but you're honest. He says he only wishes his father was more like you, living by the Ten Commandments. How did he put it—an upright, moral existence. I had a hard time keeping a straight face when he came out with that one.”

“Prescott must never know,” his grandfather said.

“I don't look forward to telling him,” Claire said. “I'm not even eager to meet your wife or to tell my new mother-in-law that she's my aunt. Hell, once I get out of here, all I'm going to want to do is take a bath. But if I have to embarrass myself to drag you down with me, you'd better believe I'm going to. I'm not Nicky. I don't have any pride. At least, not where Sybil's concerned.”

“Am I supposed to find that admirable?” Mr. Prescott asked. “Am I supposed to embrace you, welcome you to the bosom of my family because you love your sister?”

“I'd sooner eat dog turds,” Claire said. “This isn't a Shirley Temple movie. I don't want your love. Just your money. You give me a hundred thousand dollars, and I'm out of your life, and Prescott's. You don't shell out the money, then who knows what I'll do. Maybe I'll talk, tell my in-laws all about my family history. Or maybe I'll just get Prescott alone somewhere near a bed, and let nature take its course. Our grounds for annulment are nonconsummation, but that can be changed easily enough. He wants me, you know. He wanted me enough to marry me. I guess you wanted Nicky's mother, too, but not that much. She was easier than I am.” She looked down at her hands, to make sure they weren't trembling, and noticed Scotty's class ring still on her finger. She should have let him buy her a wedding ring, she thought. The scene would have played better with a wedding ring. Her problem was she was just too damned nice.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Mr. Prescott said.

Claire bit back a grin. “That won't even cover my expenses,” she said. “You think it's cheap getting someone to marry you these days? Not to mention the legal fees for getting unmarried.”

“Don't be frivolous with me,” Mr. Prescott said.

“I haven't been,” Claire replied. “If I'd wanted to be frivolous, I could have done a lot more damage. Lucky for you, I'm fond of Prescott. He's a nice kid. He deserves better than you or me. But if I have to, I'll hurt him so badly he'll never speak to you again. Because, from now on, if you don't give me what I want, everything I have to do, I'll blame on you. And if I wreck Prescott's life, which I have the power to do just as long as we're married, I'll see to it your daughter finds out why. She'll hate you for what I do. So will your wife. For ten thousand dollars, you leave behind a heritage of misery and suffering. For a hundred thousand, you buy your family peace of mind.”

“How do I know you won't be back demanding more money?” Mr. Prescott asked.

“I'm doing this for Sybil,” Claire replied. “When she's taken care of, then I'm taken care of. Besides, the one thing I have to be grateful to you for are my looks. Which I intend to use to get me a lot more money than you ever dreamed existed. This is a one-shot deal. Take my word for it. I don't enjoy rolling around in mud enough to do it again.”