Searching for Caleb (28 page)

   "To-no. No, it's just a little matter of timing, you understand. I thought the presents would be opened by one o'clock. Maybe we could do them before dessert."

   "But I had counted on enjoying my cake," the grandfather said.

   He and Two stared at each other, a pair of old, cross men. "This is a matter of timing, Father," Two told him.

   "Of what?"

   "Timing!"

   "Speak up."

   Two groaned.

   "The worst of it is," Lucy whispered to Justine, "now Two is growing a teensy bit deaf himself."

   "I most certainly am not," Two said.

   "Sorry, dear."

   Two picked up a small flat package. "From Sarah," he said. "Happy birthday."

   Two's father took the package and turned it over. How many times had Lucy watched him painfully untie a bow, peel off the Scotch tape, remove the paper and fold it carefully for future use before he would look to see what he had been given? Year after year he received this cascade of shirts and socks and monogrammed handkerchiefs, all in glossy white boxes and handsome paper, tied with loopy satin bows. To each gift he said, "Why, thank you. Thank you very much," after which he replaced it in its box. Probably none of these things would ever be used. Except, of course, Justine's: a crumpled white sack of horehound drops that honestly seemed to delight him, although that had been her gift for as long as anyone could remember. "Can you figure it out?" he said. "Stuff's practically impossible to find any more but every year she manages. Expensive, too.

   Justine makes do with Luden's cough drops but I fail to see the resemblance myself." He popped a lozenge in his mouth and passed the sack around. Only Justine took one. Nobody else could stand them. "Last chance till next year," he told Lucy, flooding her with his pharmaceutical breath. Lucy shook her head.

   Duncan of course gave nothing at all, and would never allow Justine to pencil his name beside hers on the sack of horehound drops. He didn't believe in celebrating birthdays. He would give presents any time, to anyone, sudden surprising touching presents, but not when the rules said he was supposed to. And this year there was no gift from Meg either. Lucy was watching. Not so much as a tie clasp or a bureau top organizer. She felt a brief surge of wicked joy: now Duncan himself knew the pain of having an ungrateful child. Perhaps he had thought, when Meg eloped, So this is what it feels like! This is what my parents have had to put up with all my life! But then she was ashamed of herself, and she felt truly sorry that her granddaughter had somehow forgotten such an important occasion.

   Next to last came Laura May's gift: needlework, as usual. This year a family tree, embroidered on natural linen with a wooden frame. "Why, thank you," said her father. "Thank you very much." But instead of setting it back down, he held it in both hands and looked at it for a long, silent moment. A diamond shape, that was what it was. Lucy had never noticed before. Justin alone began it and Meg alone ended it. In between there was a sudden glorious spread of children, but what had they come to? Nothing. Claude, Esther, the twins, and Richard stood alone, unmarried, without descendants. (Laura May had tactfully left off all record of Sally's divorce and Richard's annulment.) Only Duncan on the far left, son of the oldest child, and Justine on the far right, daughter of the youngest child, were connected by a V-shaped line that spilled out their single offspring at the bottom of the diamond.

   There was no room for anyone below Meg's name. Lucy shook her head.

   "But," said Justine, "maybe Meg will have six children and things will start all over again!"

   Maybe so. Lucy pictured the diamond shape endlessly repeated, like the design on the border of a blanket. But the thought failed to cheer her up.

   Then came the last gift, the largest, a gigantic cube two feet square.

   The card was the largest too. It had to be. Birthday greetings and many happy returns from your sons Justin II, Daniel Jr., and Marcus.

   '"Well now," said Grandfather Peck.

   Two began chuckling. The wrapping was a joke.

   First the striped paper, then a large white box. A slightly smaller box inside, then fleur-de-lis paper covering another box, then another, another . . .

   Grandfather Peck grew bewildered. Mountains of ribbon and tissue rose around him. "What's all this?" he kept asking. "What's ... I don't understand."

   "Keep going," Two said.

   He and his brothers had spent an entire evening working on the wrapping.

   Ordinarily they were not humorous men, but while fitting cartons inside cartons on Lucy's dining room table they had chortled like schoolboys, and Lucy had had to smile. She smiled now, seeing Two's face all squeezed together to keep the laughter in. "Go on, go on," he kept saying.

   A hatbox, containing a shoebox, containing a stationery box, containing a playing card box, containing a matchbox. And finally the gift itself, wrapped in white paper. Two was laughing so hard that the corners of his eyes were damp. "It's a joke," he explained to Duncan. "See?"

   "Typical," said Duncan.

   "No, see? They did it at this office party, when Dan's secretary got married. They wrapped a little tiny present in a great big box, funniest thing you ever saw."

   "It would be funnier if they had wrapped a great big present in a little tiny box," said Duncan.

   "No, see-"

   Grandfather Peck removed the Scotch tape from the minute rectangle of paper. He opened the paper carefully, but for once did not fold it and set it aside. Perhaps because it was too small. Perhaps because he was too shocked: his present was a single calling card.

   " 'Worth and Everjohn, Inc.,' " he read out. " 'Your Local Domestic Investigating Agency. 19 Main Street, Caro Mill, Maryland. Why Stay in Doubt? Call Us and Find Out. All Reports in Strictest . . .'" He looked up at Two. "I don't quite understand," he said.

   But instead of answering Two rose and left the room. They heard him open the front screen door. "All right now!" he shouted.

   The man he brought back with him looked like Abe Lincoln, even to the narrow border of beard along his jawline. He wore a black suit, a very starched white shirt, and a string tie. Probably he was in his thirties, but his weary, hungry expression made him seem older. Runlets of sweat streaked his temples. There was a pulse in the hollow of one cheek.

   "Sorry to have kept you out there so long," Two was saying. "I know you must be hot."

   "Oh, I didn't have nothing else to do."

   "Father, this is Mr. Eli Everjohn," Two said.

   Mr. Everjohn held out his hand, which seemed to have an unusual number of bones in it. Grandfather Peck peered into his face. "I don't understand," he said.

   "Your birthday present, Father."

   "Oh, naturally," Duncan said to no one. "I'm surprised they didn't gift-wrap the man himself."

   "Well, they thought of it," Lucy told him.

   "Father, Mr. Everjohn's a detective," said Two.

   "Yes?"

   "He tracks people down."

   "Yes, of course," said Grandfather Peck. He waited patiently, ready to smile as soon as he saw the point.

   "He's going to track Uncle Caleb for you."

   "How's that?"

   "See, Dan and Mark and I pooled together and hired him. We thought, why not get this thing settled? I mean determine, once and for all, that Uncle Caleb is ... I mean you're not getting anywhere, Father. Now we'll spare no expense. We've picked a man who's located here so that you can keep tabs, help out in any way that's needed, and no matter how long it takes we're prepared to foot the bill. Understand? That's our little gift to you. Happy birthday."

   His father stared at him.

   "Didn't you hear?" Two asked.

   "But I don't . . ."

   Mr. Everjohn's hand remained outstretched, motionless. You would think that he went through this every day.

   "I don't believe I require any assistance, thank you just the same,"

   Grandfather Peck told him.

   "But Father! It's your birthday present."

   "Then it's his to refuse," Duncan said.

   "Stay out of this, Duncan."

   Duncan rose and came around the table. He shook Mr. Everjohn's hand. "I believe," he said, "that my grandfather likes to track his own people."

   "Certainly, for fifteen years!" Two shouted.

   But he was not a shouting man. Even his sisters, fluttering their hands toward their ears, couldn't hold it against him. This was all Duncan's doing, some germ he spread. "Two, dear," Lucy told him, and right away he lowered his voice.

   "Oh," he said, "don't think I don't know why you've let him live here, Duncan. You like to see this happening, your grandfather chasing rainbows on the Greyhound bus line. But consider him, for once. At the present rate, how long will it be before he's successful?"

   "Forever, probably," Duncan said. "But at least he's happier than most other Pecks I know."

   Everyone looked at the grandfather. He stared blandly back, not giving away a thing.

   "And I doubt if success is what we want here," said Duncan. "What would you do with Caleb now? Where would you fit him in? In the end you'd just have to let him run on, like a fox after a foxhunt."

   "Oh, was he a sportsman?" Mr. Everjohn asked.

   "What? I don't know. No."

   "Of course not," said Two.

   Mr. Everjohn took a spiral notebook from his shirt pocket. He uncapped a Bic pen and wrote something down. In the sudden silence Justine said, "Maybe you'd like a seat."

   "What for?" Duncan asked. "He's not staying."

   And his grandfather said, "Yes, actually Justine and I-"

   "That's just what we're trying to spare you," Two told him. "These endless, fruitless searches, wandering about the country like a pair of-let a professional do it." He turned to Duncan. "As for what to do with Caleb," he said, speaking very low and fast, "I seriously doubt that that problem will arise. If you follow me."

   "What, do you imagine he's dead?"

   Two gave his father a sidelong glance.

   "You can't stand to think he's alive and well and staying away on purpose," Duncan said. "Can you? But he's a Peck and he's not even ninety, barely in his prime. I'll bet you a bottle of bourbon he's sitting in an old folks' home this very minute watching The Dating Game."

   Grandfather Peck slammed a hand down on the table. Everybody stared.

   "I've stood a lot from you, Duncan," he said, "but not this. I do not have a brother in an old folks' home."

   If he had spoken to Lucy that way she would have crumbled and died, but Duncan only raised his eyebrows. (And though she blushed for him, she felt a little thrill that nothing these Pecks could do would ever really touch him.)

   "Mr. Everjohn/' said the grandfather, "I'll tell you all I know, and then you get to work. I am not a drinking man but I want to collect a bottle of bourbon from my grandson here."

   Then he stood up and led Mr. Everjohn to the living room. Two went with them but the others stayed in the kitchen, gazing down at their slices of cake, which no one had the appetite for. Lucy tore her napkin to shreds and wondered where the Gelusil was. Sarah fanned herself with a sheaf of folded wrapping paper. Justine was chewing on a birthday candle and Laura May had picked up the family tree to admire her own embroidery. Only Duncan, circling the table aimlessly, seemed to have any energy left. He whistled something unfamiliar. He touched a strand of Justine's hair as he passed. He looked over Laura May's shoulder at the family tree. "Has it occurred to you," he asked her, "that someone somewhere may still be searching for Justin?"

   By four o'clock Two still hadn't made a move to go. And he was the one who hated night driving! He said he had to get everything straight with the detective first. Lucy could tell he was beginning to regret his choice, not that there was much choice in a town like Caro Mill. This Mr.

   Everjohn was turning out to be a little peculiar. The more peculiar he got the grimmer Two's face grew, and the gayer Duncan's. Justine became downright hospitable and offered Mr. Everjohn root beer and birthday cake. By now they were all in the living room, the aunts in a row on the couch and the others in kitchen chairs, having been lured there one after another by the goings-on. Grandfather Peck was giving Mr. Everjohn the names of every classmate Uncle Caleb had ever had. Every teacher, friend, and business associate. Where did he get them all? Then Uncle Caleb's church, school, barber, tailor, doctor, tavern . . . she had never known a Peck to frequent a tavern. But Mr. Everjohn did not look surprised. He continued filling his spiral notebook, scribbling away at unexpected moments for unexplainable lengths of time. He requested and pocketed the grandfather's treasured photo, saying he would have a copy made, but why, when it was half a century out of date? He listened to a recital of the entire attendance sheet of a vacation Bible school that had opened, and closed forever, in the summer of 1893. Whole strings of names were allowed to slip by, but then he would pounce on one and fill two pages.

   What was he writing? Lucy sat up very straight, but she couldn't see into his lap.

   Now another peculiar thing was, how a man of business could spare so many hours. Naturally a detective was not like a lawyer or anything, but still you would think he had appointments and commitments. Mr. Everjohn seemed ready to give the Pecks the rest of his life. He sat without fidgeting, keeping his sharp knees clamped together and his elbows close to his body. One trouser leg was rucked up to show a shin like a stick of timber. He wrote with his pen held so awkwardly that it made Lucy's hand ache. When he asked questions, they were always the least likely. For instance, he wanted to know Uncle Caleb's smoking habits, the name of his childhood nursemaid, his mother's birthday, and his preference in shoes. He asked about Laura's reading matter and Justin's will, about religious beliefs and shipping schedules. The stranger the questions, the more excited Grandfather Peck became. It was like going to the doctor for a headache and having him examine your toenails. What undreamed-of things he must know! Even when Mr. Everjohn asked about Margaret Rose, Grandfather Peck barely flinched. "Of course, that's something I never think about," he said. "I've forgotten her entirely."