Fortune's Hand (15 page)

That was true, but on the other hand, there are the people, even Jasper in my office, Robb told himself, who console and advise the opposite: “Send the boy away now where he can be cared for by professionals. Don't martyr yourselves, Robb. You deserve a life, too. Send him away.” But they are not his father. They don't see the sweetness in his poor, innocent face, in his baby words, and his delight in an ice cream cone.… He read on.

“I hate myself when I've been cranky toward Robb
and when I know he wants to make love and I'm too tired. Sometimes even when I don't want it, I pretend. I hate myself when I have shocking thoughts. I despise myself for having wished Penn would die and relieve us all. The crazy thing is that I still love him so. Every night I pray that he may never, never suffer, that he will be cared for after we die. Phil says it isn't crazy at all, that most people are full of my same conflicting emotions, although most people won't admit them.”

You, too, Robb MacDaniel, how many times have you not wished the child would die and give us some freedom? Think about last month at that black-tie event, with Ellen so beautiful in black lace, with the music, the dancing together, the first time in God knows how long, and then the message—a rare one for Mrs. Vernon, who must have come to the end of her patience—“Come home. Penn just pulled on the tablecloth, all the dishes are broken, there's cocoa on Julie's dress and she's crying, and now Penn's fallen on the stairs.”

So he wasn't hurt, only bruised, and a thing like that can happen to any child, but still he is always the spoiler. And that night was the straw that breaks the camel's back … You ought to stop reading, Robb. This is not your diary.

“Julie is afraid she will get sick like Penn. I assure her that it isn't going to happen, isn't possible. I look at her, so radiant, with all her burgeoning skills, with a book under her arm, or at the piano intent on her lesson, or racing on her bike to her friend's house, where they will laugh and eat and squabble. Then I look at Penn and
try to imagine that he might have been doing all those things, and I am just so angry. The tragic irony of it all is that every day he looks more and more like Robb.”

He bent over the desk, staring at the words, and the words stared back, leaping from the page as if they had been written in red ink.

“How could he have forgotten? How could he? Phil says it's quite understandable that an unpleasant thing, a thing that happened before he was born, would be buried away.”

“Thank you for that, Phil, anyway,” Robb muttered to himself, and read on.

“Phil and I drove out to that residential school he talked about. It's a beautiful place, a good four hours' drive each way up in the hills. But it costs a fortune. I was staggered by the price. I told Phil we can't possibly afford it and never will be able to. Robb's not the kind of lawyer who makes a fortune any more than my dad does. Anyhow, we don't want to send Penn away. We want to keep him as long as we can, forever, if we can.”

With some resentment Robb was thinking “This Phil seems to know a lot about my business,” when Ellen came up behind him.

“What on earth are you doing?” she cried.

“Reading your diary. Don't scold. I know I have no right to, and I apologize.”

“I have no secrets. It doesn't matter.”

“But you're angry. You don't have to hide it.”

“Not angry, at least not about the diary. I'm exhausted. And yes, I guess I am angry.”

“At me. I know.”

“I didn't say that! At fate.”

She fell onto the sofa. It needed no more than a glance to tell him that this had been a terrible day; her stocking was torn, her face flushed, and her blouse gapped where a button was missing.

“A hard day,” he said, meaning to sound sympathetic. Instead, he heard himself sounding lame.

“Ask Mrs. Vernon about it.”

“I don't need to.”

“He had one tantrum after the other. Phil says it's rather like the way an infant gets frustrated when he cries and can't say what he wants. I let Julie eat her dinner at her friend Sue's house to get the poor child out of Penn's way. The only thing that quiets him when he gets like that is food. Phil says these children sometimes tend to overeat, but we mustn't give in. It's just patience and more patience, he says. Eventually, as Penn ages he'll be able to express himself more easily and we won't see these tantrums.”

“When did you start to call him ‘Phil'?”

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“No difference. I merely asked.”

“He's the best friend we've got, for God's sake. He's our anchor. Don't you see that?”

“You don't have to be offended, Ellen. What did I say?”

“You seem to be accusing me of something.”

He dropped his briefcase on the floor. Only then did he realize that he had been gripping it ever since he had walked into the house.

“I hate the way we claw at each other,” he said.

“I didn't think I ever ‘clawed' at you.”

“It's true it's not too often, but that's because you're holding things in. You're not being truthful with me. I didn't know you ‘pretended' when I made love to you.”

“It isn't because of you. Don't you understand? It's because sometimes I'm completely exhausted, at the end of my endurance.”

His hearing had always been exceptionally keen, and now her shrill voice, risen, infuriated him.

“And how do you think it is for me?” he retorted. “I'm riddled with guilt. Do you think I miss your little innuendos? ‘So-and-so is pregnant again with their fourth.' And you can't be pregnant again because of me, because of the wedding present I brought you. Right? I sit in the office and listen to Jasper telling everybody about his kid's sense of humor. ‘A real standup comic,' he says. I go from the courthouse to lunch, and all I hear is men talking about their sons: Little League, Cub Scouts, medical school—you name it—and I sit there with my mouth shut.”

“You have a daughter, you forget.”

“I? Forget Julie? Listen to me, if I had six daughters and no sons at all, I would be one hundred percent happy. It's having a son without having him that puts a knife into my guts.”

She turned away toward the darkness beyond the window. The poise of her head, the languid, hopeless droop of her gesture, was infinitely sad. And without seeing them, he knew that tears had already gathered behind her eyelids. He knew that out of mercy and love,
he ought to stop now, yet pain drove him to say what was better left unsaid.

“And your father. Do you think I'm not aware that he comes here to dinner when I'm at a meeting, and usually has an excuse when he knows I'll be home? Do you think I don't
hear
those innocent remarks of his, such as, ‘I'm the wrong man to give any advice. We never had a sick child like this in our family on either side, and we have a history that goes back seven generations before me.' Oh, I remember that one. I remember them all.”

Without moving, still turned toward the window, she replied, “Maybe you're too sensitive. What do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing. I just want—I want the impossible, that everything should be what it used to be.”

“We are both almost drowning in self-pity, that's what's the matter. And we must stop it, Phil told me, or we will really drown.”

Phil again. Well, if he helps her, why not?

“No more self-pity tonight, then,” he said. “Let's go up to sleep. We need it.”

He was already in bed when Ellen was still on her usual round of the children's rooms. The house and the night outdoors were quiet, until the stillness was cut by a strange, anxious cry. It is a bird attacked in its nest, he thought, or some small, foraging creature, rabbit or woodchuck, caught by an enemy. And he was disturbed that so small a thing as a cry in the night could hurt him so.

But are we not all as vulnerable as these? Can we not
all cry out in the night, alone? And except for the fact that men are not supposed to weep, he could have wept.

When Ellen came back, she went to the mirror and brushed her hair. He had a double view of her, the reality and the reflection. Her young breasts were carved like marble under the classic flow of her light green gown. She was a classic statue in flesh, still and always the most beautiful woman in the world. And he loved her so!

“You wore green the first time I saw you,” he said. “Do you remember how I knew you were some kind of artist? Yes, and that you always got what you wanted? Come here. You've brushed it enough. I need you.”

When she came to him, there was a small, rueful smile on her lips. “Not all of our days are like this one, Robb. This was a bad one. I didn't mean everything I said about not being able to bear any more. I didn't mean to hurt you, Robb. My God, I love you.”

“I know.”

“It's just that I worry so much about the future.”

“Yes, yes. But not now. Oh, come here.”

Often enough but not always, the union, the merging of body and spirit is complete. When she cried out, he kissed the hollow in her throat from which the cry had come. This time there had been no pretending.

He was filled with gratitude. She was his love, his world, and his life. They would endure together. They would survive.

S
omething unexpected happened one day. Not having had time to eat since his early breakfast, Robb, stopping near the courthouse for a quick sandwich, was hailed by Will Fowler seated alone at a table.

“MacDaniel! Like to join me?”

The encounter was odd. People from Fowler, Harte and Fowler were rarely seen singly. They were probably the most powerful lawyers in the state, and every good restaurant in the city, including coffee shops, had a table unofficially reserved for them and those who would inevitably cluster about them: politicians, the established as well as the hopeful, job-seekers, and clients. Will, as the younger Fowler, had several times been Robb's adversary, so they had taken each other's measure; yet they had never sat across from each other at a table. Now, in the mid-afternoon stillness of the little room, there seemed suddenly nothing much to say.

Then Fowler began, “I had a long morning. This last
year, for some reason, the work has seemed to pile up so that sometimes at the end of the day I feel as if I've hardly made a dent in it.”

No doubt true for you, Robb thought, although not particularly true at Grant's. But he replied agreeably that yes, it did pile up.

“I heard the tail end of your case last week, that motorboat affair. I thought your summation was tremendous.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”

“It's well deserved. You had a very hard case. I wouldn't have taken a bet on that jury.”

Had he been asked on the strength of limited, formal acquaintance with Fowler, for his opinion of the man, he would surely not have used any words like “warm” or “expansive.” Those alert eyes were all-encompassing; you felt that he would notice your table manners, your fingernails, and your diction. He would have an opinion. Having no self-doubts in any of these departments, however, Robb gave himself up to listening and making his own observations.

“Still, I suppose, this is nothing compared with a practice in New York, for instance, or Washington, or any other major city. There was a time when I toyed with the idea of going up north. I'm glad I never did it, though.” Fowler smiled as if amused at such boyish folly. “ ‘Toying' is the word. In my heart I knew darn well I'd never leave the nest. This town is busy enough. It's a good place to live in. For me, of course, it's a family place. There's something nice about being in a
family kind of community where people all get along together pretty well which, thank heaven, we do.”

Fowler smiled again, a nice smile, neither oily nor artificial. Still, Robb felt that there was perhaps something behind it, as if Fowler were very gradually leading up to something. But to what? No, that was absurd.

“Do you have family in town, any other MacDaniels?”

“None at all anywhere except for my wife and children. My wife is Wilson Grant's daughter, but you know that already.” And Robb flushed at his clumsiness in stating the so-perfectly obvious.

“Yes, yes, a fine man. Salt of the earth. A scholar. I always think he would have been a superb professor. You went to the law school here, didn't you? I went north to Yale, but only because I wanted to go away from home for a while. They had no magic up there, I assure you. Our school can hold its head up with the best of them. Let me tell you an amusing story apropos of that.”

He was a good raconteur, well read and well traveled. Ellen would enjoy his wit. A man like him would have an agreeable wife. They would be a fine couple to know even though they are, or at least Fowler is, a good ten years older than we are, Robb was thinking. But then, we don't go out much, anyway.…

Fowler stood up. “It's been nice talking to you, Robb. By the way, I'm ‘Will,' as you've no doubt learned. The ‘Will' is for ‘Willard,' which I've never liked. In fact, I refuse to answer to it.”

“I'll remember that, Will.”

“Good. By the way, I might be giving you a call one of these days. Well, back to work.”

Now what was all that about? Robb wondered. He was still wondering when, later in the afternoon, Eddy Morse came by on one of his “take-a-chance” visits.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd take a chance on finding you in. If you're too busy, say so and throw me out.”

“No. I'm finishing up to get home by six. It's Julie's birthday. How are you? Haven't seen you in a month. No, it's been more than a month.”

“I know. I've been busy. Devlin's buying up the United States from Portland M. to Portland O. Or almost. Keeps me working like a beaver.”