Random Winds

  “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—”

  “Then it’s because you wanted to be a famous doctor. That’s why you went away.”

  “Who on earth could have put that idea in your head?”

  “Nobody. I’m only trying to figure things out.”

  “Well, that isn’t true, either. Besides, I’m not famous.”

  “Aunt Milly says you are, almost She says you will be someday.”

  “Your Aunt Milly talks about me?”

  “Only sometimes when Mother’s not there. Once we went to a movie together and afterward to Hicks’ for a soda, and Aunt Milly said it was wrong to hide things from a child and never talk about you, as if I had no father and never had had one. She says it’s wrong to keep so much hatred.”

  “It’s not a question of hatred. Not that simple.”

  Her father turned around and stood facing the window, which was odd, because there was nothing to see outside except a courtyard and walls. Anyway, it had got dark by now. Then she realized that he was crying.

  “Are you crying?” she asked, and when he turned to show that his eyes were wet, he smiled and said, “It’s all right for a man to cry sometimes, you know. It’s nothing to be scared of.”

  And he came and laid his cheek on her head. She sat very still. He whispered. She felt the warm breath on her head.

  “I hope you haven’t been too sad about all this.”

  “Oh no. I mean, it’s not the very worst thing in the world that you went away! It’s happened to some of my friends, and they get along fine. Only sometimes, well, you know, sometimes I get in a thoughtful mood about life. With me it’s usually around five o’clock when I’m getting ready for dinner. Isn’t that odd? Then things go around in my head and I feel bad for a while. Mother says I think too much, anyway. Maybe I do.”

  “Tell me, can you remember anything at all about when we lived together in England? Can you?”

  “Not very much. Just odd things, here and there. I remember the Christmas you gave me Reginald. We were in a house, not our own, because it had stairs. You took me down on your shoulder and you gave me a doll with a lace dress. You said it was from Santa Claus. I believed in him then. And still, I don’t know how it was, I knew that that present wasn’t from him. It was from you.”

  “You named her Reginald.”

  “Yes. And there was a man—I guess he had been invited to Christmas dinner—who laughed when I told him my doll’s name. He said Reginald was a boy’s name, and I couldn’t name her that. But you said I could if I wanted to.”

  “I remember.”

  “I wonder whose house it was. There were children there, bigger than I. One was a boy, I think. And it must have been a country house because there was a lot of snow outside.”

  “Yes, it was snowing.”

  “The dining room was down a long hall, and the Christmas tree was in the hall,” Claire said proudly.

  “Yes. Yes, it was. I’m amazed that you can remember all that.”

  “Whose house was it?”

  Her father said slowly, “It belonged to your aunt, Mary Fern.”

  “I thought it might have! She’s Mother’s sister, isn’t she? And why is she a secret, too? Why will Mother never answer a question about her own sister?”

  “I can’t help you, Claire. I’m sorry.”

  “I wish I had a sister. I hate being an only child. Hardly anybody I know is an only child.”

  Her father said quietly, “You have a brother.”

  Astonished, she cried, “I have?” And, following his glance to a photograph which stood on a bookshelf near the window, she saw a woman holding a little boy on her lap. The child wore a short suit, and he had a toy duck or chicken in his hand.

  “That’s my brother? That little boy?”

  “Yes. His name is Enoch, after my father. Your grandfather.”

  It was too much. It was almost overwhelming … Then she thought of something.

  “I know about your father. Home in Cyprus sometimes people told me he was their doctor a long time ago. The postmaster told me and our maid Bridget said so. Is that your wife in the picture?”

  “Yes. Her name is Hazel.”

  Claire considered that. “What shall I call her when I visit your house?”

  “Let’s ask her what she’d like, shall we? But then, your mother may not allow you to visit, you know.”

  “I’m going to, anyway. I really do obey almost all the time, but this is different. Besides, if you want me to come, I’ll obey you. You have a right to say what I may do, haven’t you?”

  “Not really, Claire.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because—well, I haven’t ever done anything for you up till now, have I?”

  “You can start, then.”

  “Oh, I want to. Is there anything you need? Tell me.”

  “I don’t need any things. Mother’s making a lot of money. Well, not a lot, but enough. Every time she fixes up somebody’s house, they tell their friends, and then the friends call her.”

  “Remarkable. A remarkable woman.”

  There was a silence before her father spoke again. “And are you interested in decorating, too?” But it was as if he really didn’t care to know and was only saying something polite to fill a silence.

  “No, I don’t care about doodads like that.”

  He laughed. “Doodads! Where did you get such an old-fashioned word? Your grandfather used to say that just the way you said it now.”

  Proudly Claire affected carelessness. “Oh, I don’t know, I read it someplace. I read a lot I’ve just started The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  “Ah yes.”

  “But what I like even better than reading is science. Leaves and bugs and all that. It’s my best subject. I’m going to be a doctor.”

  “You are? And when did you decide that?”

  “Oh,” she said, still feeling that proud carelessness, “about a year ago.”

  “But you’ll marry and have children when you grow up.”

  “Not if it interferes with being a doctor. Did you know we were all descended from monkeys?”

  “Yes, in a way. It’s not exactly like that, though. It—”

  But her thoughts came rushing, and she had to interrupt. “Tell me, do you believe in God? My grandfather did. He even got angry when I asked him once. But Mother isn’t sure, and I wondered what you thought about it.”

  “Well, I think, the more we learn about the universe, the more we have to believe in some design. It can’t all be just an accident, can it? So in that way, I call the plan God, and I believe. But that’s not the same as the bearded old king with a crown and a throne.”

  “The anthropomorphic God,” Claire said quickly. Her father blinked surprise.

  “I read that in The Times, and I looked it up in the dictionary. You didn’t think I knew it, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. I have a lot to learn about you, I see.”

  “Do you know what I’m thinking of now?”

  “I can’t in the world imagine. You keep my head spinning.”

  “I’m thinking of the clock with the gilded angels. I suppose talking about God reminded me of angels. It came from Switzerland. Don’t you remember?”

  “I never saw it, Claire.”

  She flushed. How stupid. How unthinking. Of course, it had been long afterward.

  “I’m sorry! It was Grandpa who bought it for my birthday, just before his first heart attack. He was sad that year.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yes, I think he was sad because nobody liked anybody anymore.”

  Her father was silent again for a little, and then he said strangely, “You’re only ten.”

&
nbsp; “Ten and a half. You keep forgetting.”

  “Yes, yes. Ten and a half. Enthralling Claire! You always were. Enthralling.” And he kept looking at her.

  When the desk clock rang six chimes, he jumped up.

  “You mother will be worried sick about you! We’ve been sitting here, not thinking of the time at all. Come, HI walk home with you.”

  Claire drew her coat on. “Better not come near the house, though.”

  “I’ll only walk to the corner and watch until you’re inside.”

  When he had got his own coat, he came and put her head on his shoulder. Then he laid his cheek on top of her head again. She did not ordinarily like close contact, having had very little of it. Her mother seldom gave more than a good-night kiss, and Claire had long ago sensed that this reluctance of Jessie’s had something to do with thinking that people might not welcome her embrace. So this was the first time she had ever known the actual feel of someone else’s emotion; it was more intense than any words that could have been spoken. And she held very still with her head on her father’s shoulder until they heard the traffic start far off on the avenue. Then he let her go.

  “God keep you, Claire,” he said.

  Jessie stared into the darkness past the window. Claire waited. After the furious preliminary scolding, having come home past six o’clock and frightening her mother to a frenzy (“I was about to telephone the police!”), they had sat down in the little room with the blue tiles and Claire had told the whole story. Now, dry-mouthed and scared, she waited for anger and punishment Her mother scarcely ever punished, but then Claire had never done anything as monstrously daring and defiant as this.

  Jessie laughed.

  First her mouth opened with the sort of disbelief that comes after some particularly crazy practical joke. And then she laughed out loud. “Good God!” she said. “Good God!” And then, “Well, I guess I’ve no real right to be furious. It’s just the kind of thing I would have done.”

  It couldn’t possibly be going to end as easily as this! Nevertheless, Claire’s heartbeat slowed.

  “So, then, how is he, your father?”

  How was he? That was another question you couldn’t answer, like some of the other questions grown-ups asked: “How are you doing in school?”