Her Father's House

  At the hotel bar in Switzerland a few days before they were all to go home, his partners rejoiced.

  “I've had enough traveling to last the rest of my life. If I never leave my little roost on Madison Avenue at Orton and Pratt, that'll be okay with me.”

  “I know what you mean. I hope my wife and kids will recognize me when I go home.”

  These men would find it hard to believe me, Donald said to himself, if I were to say that I don't want to go home. And he thought of that play in which somebody is sitting on a bench waiting for somebody else who never comes. But he, Donald Wolfe, didn't even know what or whom he was waiting for!

  Work was good. Augustus Pratt had telephoned him yesterday in his hotel room with unusual praise for his accomplishments in this difficult, complex case. Friends were good; when finally he had told them about the end of his marriage, they had supported him in every possible way.

  But it was not enough. Guilt, like an unwelcome beggar, filled and harrassed him. He almost heard himself crying out: Get away from me! I have nothing to give you.

  It's true that I haven't seen it for more than three months since it was born. Do stop saying “it.” Her name is Bettina, Bettina Wolfe. But what am I expected to do? Ring the doorbell—after an invitation, to be sure—at the home of my former wife, now become the legal wife of Mr. Howard Buzley? (They wasted no time, did they?) Ring the bell, walk in, and stand there gazing at the little pink stranger who bears my name and has my genes?

  Back home again in the apartment, he put down the excellent book that was unable to hold his attention and gazed about at the rooms he had so carefully planned. They would have had to move to a larger place with an added room for the baby, but all these nice things would have gone with them and been rearranged. New bookshelves were no problem; a carpenter could do that in two days, including a couple of hours to put shelves in the baby's room; a child should grow up with books. . . . So went his fantasy.

  He went to the window and looked down at the street, but there was nothing to see except shifting lights, and nothing to feel except the loneliness that is so peculiarly urban. He showered, laid out his clothes for the morning's appearance in court, and went to bed.

  Around three o'clock a dream awakened him. It was said that dreams only last for a few seconds, yet this one seemed to have been going on for hours. He had been lost in some cold, far-off place. Kyrgyzstan? Was there such a place? He had been standing in a brutal wind, while indifferent people hurried past him. No one would even pause to listen to his pleas, although it would have been of no use if they had, because he did not speak their language. Darkness was falling and he was in a panic.

  “Idiot!” he said aloud. “Something I ate, no doubt. Perhaps the fish.”

  After that he lay awake thinking. He had done nothing about or for the child except to make some inquiries about Howard Buzley, as a result of which he had learned that Buzley was very rich, shrewd, and known for his kindly generosity. These qualities might well add up to one hundred percent safety, especially now that he was married to Lillian and could not easily abandon her without providing for her.

  Nevertheless, it was Donald Wolfe, not Howard Buzley, who was responsible for that baby. It was Donald Wolfe who must at once take out a policy on his own life with the baby as beneficiary and a bank as trustee. It was he who would start a bank fund for her education. It was he who must begin to make some contact with her. All of these decisions came out of his head, but what was in his heart—well, he didn't know. He couldn't say.

  Accordingly, Donald rang the bell of the “fabulous apartment with a view from the East River to the Hudson.” Inwardly, he was resentful because he did not want to be here, but if he wanted to see the baby, this was the only place to see her. Simple as that.

  “I was just on the way out,” said Lillian when she opened the door. “You're late.”

  “Sorry. I had to get these papers for you. Everything that I described to you over the phone is here in writing, a list with the bank, the trust, the insurance, everything. The originals are with Orton and Pratt.”

  “Lucky little girl.” And she gave him the false, flat-lipped smile that came and went in the same instant.

  Lucky? This child was lucky?

  “Oh, Tina's absolutely adorable. You'll see. She's grown so much since you saw her, you'll be amazed. I can't tell yet whom she looks like, but she's certainly going to be very pretty, that I know. Howard says so, too. He's wonderful with children. He's had so much experience, after all. Come follow me to the nursery.”

  Lillian, in a chatty mood, was the confident mistress of the house, dressed for the city summer in simple black linen with gold earrings and one wide gold bracelet. She was the woman he had seen for the first time that afternoon a thousand years ago. But no, he thought as he followed her through an elaborate sunken living room and library, whose shelves were filled with antique knickknacks and a handful of books, no. There's a change. She's climbing all around on the ladder, she's feeling glory, and she wants to show me how she lives now.

  The nursery was large and sunny. The walls were bright with the Mother Goose murals that had been promised, but the canopied crib was empty.

  Lillian, following his glance, explained that Tina was in the park getting fresh air.

  “We have the most wonderful nanny. Her name is Maria, she doesn't speak English very well, but she's experienced, and she adores the baby.”

  “In the park? Where can I find her?”

  “Wait. I'll draw a map for you. Maria's wearing a green hat, and they'll be sitting near the museum. It's easy to find. But of course you know your way around the park.”

  Oh yes, he did. All those Saturdays and Sundays, walking on top of the world . . . Let me get out of here, he thought, and never come back. When I want to see the baby, and I'll surely have to see her every now and then so she won't grow up not knowing she has a father, I'll see her in the park.

  “Before you go, let me show you something. Look what Howard just bought for Tina. He's a great window-shopper, and when he passed a children's store, he couldn't resist this.”

  She held up a white velvet coat made for a child barely old enough to walk. The price tag was still on it: three hundred fifty dollars. He made no comment for the simple reason that there was no polite comment he could make. Let me get out of here, he thought again. He accepted Lillian's written directions, and left.

  On the avenue, on the shady side edged with trees, he walked, his legs propelling him forward, while his mind was still back in that apartment. It had been one thing to imagine her in her new abode, but quite another to see her there.

  This strange phenomenon that for lack of a better name was called “chemistry”—what was it? It seized you, it mesmerized you so that you became its prisoner, and then, if it wanted to, it vanished, leaving behind a debris of anger, shame, and nasty thoughts. There in the nursery he had had an awareness of the nearby bedroom in which Lillian must now spend her nights. Did she not find it queer to be standing outside its door beside the man whose bed she had been sharing so short a time ago? It seemed to Donald that most women in these circumstances would have accepted his papers when he rang the bell and politely gotten rid of him, but then he reminded himself that of course she was not like most women.

  Nearing the place where he expected to find the nanny and carriage, he felt a disheartening reluctance. The situation bordered on absurdity. He would identify himself to the nanny, glance into the carriage where the sleeping bundle would no doubt be covered in something pink, say a few cordial words to the woman, and go away. Had he not just fulfilled his legal and moral obligation as a parent? He did not feel like a parent, but he had done what the world considered right and would continue to do so. Was that not enough?

  Still he kept going, watched for a green straw hat, found it on the head of a neat little woman, and identified himself.

  “Hello. I'm the baby's father.”

  “Sí, sí, I know. You M
r. Wolfe. She tell me. I'm Maria.”

  Propped against Maria's chest sat a person sucking milk from a bottle. This was no nondescript bundle anymore, but a person who actually acknowledged Donald's presence by turning her large blue eyes in his direction. He had had no idea that a human being could change that much in such a few months.

  “Pretty, you think? No?” Maria asked.

  From under the ruffled cap came wisps of dark hair that seemed to be wavy. The face was already feminine, he thought, although he might be wrong about that. At any rate, it was appealing, as young creatures all were, puppies or calves, all of them whose trustful dependence touched one's heart.

  “Yes, very pretty,” he replied.

  The innocence! Someday this child would want to know about her father and mother; she would ask what and why. It would be easier for her then if there were to be no close attachment to this father, but simply the attachment one feels toward a good friend or nice uncle who sends presents and takes one out for a treat two or three times a year. All this flashed through his mind as he regarded her.

  “You want hold her, please? I fix carriage cover.”

  He drew back in refusal. “She won't like it. She'll cry.”

  “No, no.” Maria smiled. “You scared? Here, take.”

  When he held her against his shoulder, she felt heavier than he had expected. By twisting her neck, she was able to stare directly into his face, and he wondered whether she was wondering about him, whether she knew that he was a stranger.

  “What do they call her, Maria? Tina? Or Bettina?”

  Maria shook her head, not understanding. “Call? Call?”

  Having had three years of Spanish in high school, Donald thought he might try it out again, and he repeated his question.

  Now Maria spoke freely. “They mostly call her Cookie, Mr. Wolfe. Everybody loves her. There's something special about this baby. They aren't all alike, you know. Some of them aren't very interesting. I've cared for so many of them, so I know. Sometimes on the street with Cookie, people stop to look at her and say how beautiful she is. And so good-natured. She doesn't cry much at all. Let me take her from you and lay her down to sleep. Now that her stomach's full, she'll sleep. That's a baby's life, you know, eat and sleep.”

  “Then I'll be going. I'm glad to have met you, Maria.” In Spanish the compliment had a special formal grace. “I'll see you again.”

  “You will be coming to the house, Mr. Wolfe?”

  He looked at the woman, and seeing the kindness in her eyes, spoke frankly, “No, I can't—don't want to go there. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “After September, when we come back from the beach house, we'll be here every day. There'll be crowds of baby carriages here, you'll see.”

  “Well, it'll be a while anyway, because I'm out of the city on business. I'm out of the city on business a good deal of the time.”

  “You, too? Mr. Buzley has business all the time, and they take vacations all the time. When they're not on vacation, Mrs. Buzley is never home. She's a very busy, busy lady.” And Maria shook her head.

  She doesn't like Lillian, Donald thought as he walked away, otherwise she wouldn't treat me so warmly. To be fair, though, who knows why she doesn't like Lillian? It might be only for the perfectly natural resentment a woman could feel toward a younger employer who had everything.

  Retracing the morning's steps while reviewing the morning's events, he re-passed the limestone front of Lillian's building on the other side of the avenue. There beneath the green awning she stood, beside her a man who was obviously Howard Buzley. Elderly, gray, round-shouldered, and no taller than she, he was linking arms with his trophy wife in her summer dress.

  Donald went on down the avenue and turned toward home. This day had been, to say the least, unsettling. The baby had confused him. He wouldn't know how to describe his feelings if anyone were to ask him to describe them. She was his, but she wouldn't be growing up with him, so she really wasn't his. She would always be a charge on his conscience, but little more. And if he had to have such a charge, why couldn't she at least have been a boy?

  At home again, there were messages on the answering machine. Ed Wills had a windfall for him, a ticket to a Broadway hit tonight. Another friend had a girl for him, one he'd be sure to like. Actually, he was too dispirited to do anything. But on second thought he ought to call Ed and accept the extra ticket. It wasn't healthy when in this frame of mind to shut oneself up at home like a hermit, and he wasn't going to do it. It wasn't healthy.

  In his tentative, diplomatic way, Augustus Pratt inquired now and then about what was going on in Donald's life. He was not one of the kind who gave cheery predictions that, meant to comfort, only made the recipient feel worse.

  Yet on this morning when he summoned Donald to his office, it was to give him two pleasant pieces of news.

  “You've been home for three months now, Donald. Are you by any chance itching to hop onto a plane again?”

  “It would be just what I need right now, Mr. Pratt.”

  “Good. I'd like you to see to a matter in the San Francisco office. Hugh McQueen is waiting for you. I didn't think you'd try to beg off, you see. Not that you ever do.” There went that rare, benign twinkle. “It's highly likely that you'll both be flying to Anchorage, because one of our clients is in the hospital there. You haven't ever seen Alaska, have you? No? Well, you'll have a thrill. Take a few extra days to get beyond Anchorage and look around.”

  “I can't tell you how much I appreciate that.”

  The San Francisco office didn't need Donald, he knew. This trip was purely a thoughtful gift.

  “The next thing I want to mention is the bonus. The firm has had a remarkable year, and the bonus reflects it. I'll keep you waiting in suspense until you see it next week.”

  “All I can say besides thank you is that I'm very lucky.”

  “Well, in some ways, Donald, you are.”

  He was already thinking about how he would invest the bonus for the baby. He had more than enough for his own wants. All he spent very much on were books and good luggage to take wherever he was going, to the Moscow office, or now, to Alaska.

  “Oh, before you leave,” said Pratt, “I want to tell you that I'm fairly sure you'll need to be in Italy for a few days in the late fall. After that, you'll be glad to stay home for a year or so. Let some of our new people see the world.”

  “Is it the bank in Rome again?”

  “No, a corporation in Florence that wants to buy property here in New York. Our sellers here want us to look them up on their home ground. It'll only take a few days.”

  “I understand,” Donald said automatically.

  Florence. He had hoped never to see that beautiful city again.

  Chapter 8

  In an old house near the medieval wall, a family was gathered for a typically Italian Sunday dinner, the father at one end of the long table, the mother opposite, with all the numerous rest of them, including Donald as guest, in between. Directly across from him was the grandmother, holding a six-month-old baby girl.

  He could have been listening more carefully to his host, the accountant who, on the next-to-last-day before Donald's return to New York had kindly saved him from a solitary dinner at the hotel. He could have looked out the window toward the wintry garden, at the silver candelabra, or at the fine wainscot on the wall. But he was only seeing the baby.

  “You have children?” asked the hostess in halting English.

  “No,” he replied.

  It was better that way, less complicated, less painful. This sudden pain had surprised him. The baby in her lacy dress, no doubt put on because it was Sunday, had hurt him as he would never have expected to be hurt. There she sat, a queen gurgling over her milk, waving her fat little hands and smiling around the table at the people assembled there to honor her on her throne.

  “Six months,” Donald said. “I had no idea they came so far in six months.”

  “Ah, yes,” respo
nded the father, nodding wisely. “You'll find out when you have your first one. In another six months, and maybe before then, she'll take a few steps, and then before you know it, she'll talk and go to school and argue with us.”

  Bettina Wolfe was already seven months old. . . .

  He turned politely to his host. “You were telling me about that fund to keep Venice from sinking. How do they expect to prevent it? I know almost nothing about engineering.”

  Love grows like a weed. It is often said that a weed is only a plant that is growing where it is not wanted; some of the loveliest, the daisy, the honeysuckle, and the black-eyed Susan, are weeds. Such were Donald's thoughts. He did not want this love to grow. Most definitely had he made up his mind that financial responsibility was all he would undertake. He knew his flaw: wanting all or nothing. If he had not been an A student at law school, the chances are he would have quit. If he couldn't be a father like that one in Florence, what was the use?

  But try to get rid of honeysuckle where it has already fastened its strong vines, or of daisies that have already spread their seeds.

  I suppose, thought Donald, it really began on the day I first saw her smile. If it had not been for the mutual recognition between Maria and me, I would have walked right past that row of benches and baby carriages. There was no resemblance between the baby I remembered from four months ago and the tiny person who was standing, actually standing, at Maria's knees while clutching her hands.

  Maria called out my name. It must have been the startling cry that made the baby turn her head toward me, he thought. She must already have had a smile on her lips because she was pleased with the new experience of standing, for the smile was certainly not for me. Even I in my ignorance knew enough to understand that I was merely getting the tail end of it.

  And yet he was to carry that expression home and keep it with him.

  “Changed, hasn't she?” Maria said, speaking in Spanish. “You hardly know her, do you? Yes, she wants to walk. See how she's hoisting herself on my lap? And you should see her crawl. I could put her on the grass to show you, but it's dirty. We haven't seen you in a long time, Mr. Wolfe.”