Random Winds (32 page)

Claire didn’t hear the rest Out of all the thousands of black letters on the spread page, her eye had fastened on a handful, the few that spelled a name:
Dr. Martin Farrell
. First there was something boring about speeches at the Academy of Medicine, then a short list of names.
Dr. Martin Farrell
stood out from the rest as if it had been printed in red.

This name was never spoken at home. She had not thought about it for a long time, either, not since she had been quite young. The image “father” came to mind when it did, without specific features, in a sort of blur made up of largeness, tobacco smell and harsh wool. Her concept of “man” came, naturally; from the men she knew: friends’ fathers, the school principal, the doctor and the dentist, with something also of Uncle Drew, a pale figure who sat hack while Aunt Milly did the talking and who, in a restaurant,
added up the bill and paid. Of course, there had been Grandpa, but he was dead, and she had been only six when he died in his upstairs room with its sour smell. These, then, were the models out of which “father” was constructed and it existed in some vague recollection, some old sense of loss, long ago.

Surreptitiously, she passed her hand over the print:
Dr. Martin Farrell
. It must be the right one. There wouldn’t be two, would there?

“It’s eight-fifteen,” Jessie said suddenly, lowering
The Times
, “and you haven’t finished your breakfast.”

Claire picked up the spoon and began swallowing cereal. Something had fixed itself in her head, something so hard and solid that it was surprising that she had not thought of it before. She drank the milk and got her coat Jessie tied her tartan scarf and kissed her forehead.

“Be careful at the crossing,” she admonished, as she did every morning. “You coming right home after school or going to Carol’s house?”

“Carol’s got a cold. I’ll come home,” Claire said.

She went downstairs. From the front hall, you could look into the shop, which took up the whole first floor. Along one wall were dark shelves with shining objects on them: a marble head of Shakespeare, a clock with a gilded face, candelabra and a porcelain tureen with blue roses on it. Pieces of beautiful cloth were spread like fans on the backs of chairs. There were old, carved chests of drawers and many little tables. There were lamps and pictures and a crimson velvet sofa. All of these things were for sale except her mother’s desk with its tidy, stacked papers and its telephone. Aunt Milly and Uncle Drew said Mother was very clever, and it was astonishing what she had managed to do in only three years. Yes, her mother was very smart. But she was not thinking of her mother.

She hurried down the front steps between the two stone urns, each with its evergreen like a toy soldier in stiff salute. Under the bay window was a neat, small sign: Jessie Meig, Interiors. It still bothered Claire that her mother’s name was different from her own. Sometimes people asked
about it. Her mother said it didn’t matter, that here in the city divorce wasn’t anything to be shocked about. Claire knew that was true. There were three other girls in school whose parents were divorced, so it was not at all the way it had been in Cyprus. Still, for some reason, it bothered her this morning.

She went down Sixty-seventh Street swinging her bag of books, arrived at school, sat at her desk and went to lunch as on any ordinary day. But a curious excitement stirred in her all that time.

The subway swayed and roared. She had never been alone in it before. She had copied the address out of the phone book, shown it to the man in the change booth, and been told to take the Lexington Avenue line, get off at 125th Street, then walk two blocks east and one block north.

This was adventure! Being alone and going somewhere was adventure. She thought of Boadicea, blond and bold with her crown, commanding troops against the Romans. She thought of an Indian princess with coarse black braids as glossy as a horse’s tail, riding in prairie wind toward where the Rockies rose.

Suddenly in the window across the aisle, her own reflection flashed. With the green school
skirt
hanging below the hem of her coat and the plaid wool scarf around her neck, she bore no resemblance to Boadicea or an Indian heroine, either.

Suppose he didn’t want to see her? Suppose he had a lot of other children by now and hadn’t told anyone about Claire? He might even be terribly angry! Yet something drove her on. She had the directions firmly fixed and didn’t even need to read them again. It puzzled her, when she climbed back up to the lofty afternoon, that all the people on the streets were Negroes. The boys jostling home from school and the women carrying grocery bags were all black. It didn’t seem like New York at all. But she walked briskly, found the correct address, and sure enough, there was a sign in the first-floor window: Dr. M. T. Farrell.

She rang the bell and a tall black man with curly white hair, wearing a white coat, came to the door. He seemed surprised.

“I’m looking for Dr. Farrell,” Claire said.

“I’m Dr. Farrell. Come in.”

She wasn’t sure what to do next, but she said politely, “I’m looking for my father, Dr. Farrell.”

The man smiled. “Well, it’s too bad, but it seems you’ve come to the wrong place.”

She had worked up so much courage and energy and now this! All the courage and energy oozed away like air from a balloon.

“Sit down,” the man said, “and let’s see if we can straighten this out.”

In the cramped, vacant waiting room there were four rows of wooden chairs, one against each wall. Claire selected a chair in the middle of a row. The doctor sat opposite.

“Suppose you tell me about it,” he began.

“Well, you see, I haven’t seen my father since I was three and I’m not sure what he looks like. But his name is Dr. Martin T. Farrell. I think the ‘T’ stands for Thomas. I’m almost sure it does.”

“Now that’s a coincidence, isn’t it? Because I’m M. T. Farrell, too. But my name is Maynard Ting Farrell.”

“When I looked you up in the telephone book, it said ‘?. T. Farrell.’ ”

“Yes, I use initials, I don’t know why. I just always have. Why don’t we get the telephone book again? Perhaps we’ll find Dr. Martin.”

He had a soothing voice. Colored people have nice voices, Claire thought.

“Yes, yes. This must be it. Dr. Martin T. Farrell. It’s just five lines above my name. You skipped it when you were looking.”

She giggled with relief. “That was stupid of me, wasn’t it?”

“Not stupid. You must’ve been in a hurry or had a lot on your mind. Where do you live?”

“On East Sixty-seventh Street.”

“You know, you could have walked to where you were going. It’s only seven blocks.”

“Oh!” Claire said.

“Does your mother know what you’re doing?”

“Of course she doesn’t! But I wanted to see my father. You’re not going to tell her?”

The dark man looked at her for a moment. “No,” he said gently. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Have you got a nickel for the subway back downtown?”

“Oh, I have a lot of money. I get fifty cents a week. Look, it’s in this pocket.”

“Well. Just stick it deep down while you’re on the street and only take the nickel out when you get to the subway. Why are you staring at me?”

“I was thinking how nice you are,” Claire said, “and that you look like chocolate with whipped cream on top.”

“Why, that’s a very pleasant thought, isn’t it? And you remind me of the opposite—vanilla with chocolate on top.” He opened the door. “Now, you’d better start before it gets dark.”

On the stoop he stood looking after her. “Good luck, good luck!” he called.

The people you meet! Claire thought. It’s a strange world. One minute you’re lost and feel like crying and the next minute you feel so friendly.

Streetlamps came on just as she arrived. The dusk was shadowy. She felt afraid. What if it were the wrong place again? The apartment building looked like the ones where many of her friends lived: white stone with a green awning that reached from the door to the curb. A doorman with brass buttons opened the door and directed her.

This waiting room, like the other, was vacant. But unlike the other, it had a carpet, pictures, lamps and magazines. A lady with a permanent wave sat behind a small desk. She looked annoyed in that well-mannered way people have when they are in a hurry and you are delaying them. She was probably getting ready to go home. Claire marched right up to the desk.

“I want to see Dr. Farrell,” she said, holding her fear in.

“Have you an appointment?”

“No. I only just decided to come.”

“Well!” the woman said, with a deep, indignant breath. “Well—what is it about?”

“A personal matter,” Claire answered. Mother sometimes said that on the telephone.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t take up the doctor’s time unless you will state what—”

She felt a sudden strengthening of nerve.
I don’t like this woman and she doesn’t like me
.

“Just tell him—just tell him that Claire is here. He’ll know who I am.”

He hadn’t cried out or jumped up and squeezed her, which was a relief. It had occurred to her on the way that he might do that and she didn’t want that, although she could not have said why. He had started to get up and come around to the front of the desk, but then he had sat down again, as though he hadn’t been able to get up. His face had gone very pale. She had seen how white it looked against his dark blue suit. Now it had gone red.

From the opposite side of the desk, she regarded him furtively. She didn’t want to seem to be staring at him. She didn’t want to meet his eyes. It felt—it felt too
sudden
, meeting his eyes as she had had to do when she came into the room. Yes, too sudden. So she kept glancing at him and then quickly away at the wall of books to the left. Her hands were twisted together in her lap and the palms were wet. She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped them.

He was medium. He was neither very young like her friend Carol’s father, nor bald and tired like some of the other fathers in the houses where she went to play. He had nice hair, brown and thick. He didn’t wear glasses and he looked, she thought, like a doctor. Perhaps it was because he wore a dark tie. Doctors always seemed to wear dark clothes; at least Dr. Morrissey did whenever she had the grippe and he came to see her. Yes, he looked like a doctor and he was her father, her real father, sitting here.

A cry came out of her. “I feel scared!”

He answered softly, “Yes. Yes, I know.”

“No matter how calm you make yourself on the outside, there’s nothing you can do about the inside, is there?”

He replied with a question. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

Why did people always have to ask that, as if your mother had to know or be told every time you took a step or spoke a word or ate a mouthful?

“No. I came from school by myself.”

“From school? You go to school here in New York?”

“Yes, of course, since second grade. I’m in fifth grade now. I go to Brearley.”

“You live in New York?”

“Yes. We didn’t have any money in Cyprus and we came here so Mother could earn some. She went to school and she has a degree now. A.I.D.”

Her father took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. Then he took a drink of water from the pitcher on the desk. She could see he was very upset. She
didn’t
see why he should be
that
upset.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“Well, you see, Grandpa lost all his money and then he died and the factory closed and we couldn’t afford to stay in our house anymore. So Mother learned to be a decorator and Uncle Drew and Aunt Milly got a lot of customers for her and then more came and Uncle Drew says she is a very smart woman.”

All these words with which Claire had lived so long in her mind sounded aloud with a moving sadness. She had never felt their whole meaning until this moment. Her voice quivered, telling the story. At the same time, it was pleasurable and dramatic to be part of such a story.

“Your mother ought to have come to me. How could I have known? I would have given you money.”

“She wouldn’t have taken it.”

“How do you know that? Did she say so?”

“She didn’t ever talk about it, but I knew just the same. She doesn’t like you, does she?”

On the desk lay one of those paperweights that you turn upside down so that snow falls over a country village and a white church with a steeple. Her father played with it, turning it up and back, up and back again.

Then he said, “No, I suppose she doesn’t. I’m sorry about that, too, because I like her. And you I love, Claire. I’ve never stopped loving and thinking of you, every day of my life. Every day,” he repeated, putting the paperweight down with a thump and looking at her, looking straight into her eyes.

She looked straight back. “Why don’t we live together, then? Why did you go away? I used to ask and ask and I never got any answer, so I stopped asking. But somebody really ought to tell me.”

Now her father raised his eyes and looked at the wall behind her, above her head.

“The simplest thing I can tell you is that people sometimes change. First they expect to be happy together. Then they find out they’ve made a mistake and aren’t happy, so it’s just better for each to go his own way.”

“That’s not the whole story,” Claire said impatiently, feeling the old indignation at being put off. “You haven’t really told me anything at all.”

Her father sighed. “You’re right. I really haven’t.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I don’t like to say this because you seem so much older than ten, but—”

“Ten and a half.”

“Ten and a half. Perhaps you really aren’t quite ready to understand it. Sometimes I don’t even understand all of it myself.”

“I think I know why. It’s because Mother is—has a hunchback. She looks funny, so you didn’t want to live with her anymore.”

Her father got up from his chair. “Oh no! Oh no! I can’t help what else you may think, but you can’t be allowed to think that of me. Never, Claire. Never. Your mother is a wonderful woman, and I knew when I married her that—”