Daybreak

  “They look alike.”

  “They do. I took particular notice of Timmy when I was at the funeral.” Ralph smiled suddenly. “Perhaps it will interest you to know that Peter was a religious Jew.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He was more observant than anyone else in his household. They still talk about it. Perhaps it was his age, or maybe it was his illness, or maybe he simply was a spiritual person. I was there when he became bar mitzvah, when he was confirmed, and when he was buried.”

  In the cemetery under the Star of David, Laura thought. A strange journey from his conception and his birth to that resting place.

  “It’s easier for me than for Margaret and Arthur. Peter is gone, and there is nothing I can do about that, but if he were living and didn’t want me—” She stopped for a moment. “It would be unbearable. Yes. Unbearable.”

  “And so it is for them. They want so much to see Tom, Laura.”

  “Poor people. Well, tell them from me that they’re welcome to come to this house. There’s no reason anymore why they can’t.”

  “Shouldn’t you ask Tom first?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with him. What’s to become of him! He hardly speaks. We eat in silence. I know he has, or had, a girlfriend, but he doesn’t even see her, he doesn’t see anybody. Of course, I know it’s very soon after and we’re all still in shock, his life has been overturned, but still I am just so worried. If you had heard him talk to the minister the night Bud was killed, you would know what I mean. It was dreadful.”

  “I’ve heard him enough,” Ralph said.

  “Here’s the mail.”

  Tom had entered so suddenly that it was certain he had heard the last remarks. He gave Ralph a nod and confronted Laura.

  “You’re not wearing black.”

  “It’s too hot for it, Tom.”

  “Not for me.”

  He was still dressed in a dark suit and black tie. Equally black was the look that he gave to Laura and Ralph.

  Resentment and alarm rose together within Laura. “Where are you going?” she asked as he strode toward the front door.

  “Out.”

  “You’ve just come back from being out.”

  “I’m going for a walk. I can’t stand staying in this house looking at Dad’s things. Maybe I’ll go to the cemetery, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t think you should do that.” Now pity wiped out the resentment. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Your father wouldn’t want it.”

  “I think he would. Especially since I seem to be the only one around here who really feels his death, except maybe Timmy, and he’s a kid, so that’s different.”

  “That’s not fair, Tom. You shouldn’t talk this way to me.”

  “I’m only speaking the truth. Even Jim Johnson seems to have more feeling.”

  Ralph interrupted. “Yes, for the Klan.”

  “Not at all!” Tom said indignantly. “I was referring to the letter he sent me, sympathy over the loss of my father. He has no connection with the Klan anyway, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t. His ideas are only a clever disguise for the Klan’s ideas.”

  Tom snapped back. “That’s your opinion, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  His voice and his very stance, with chin up and hands in pockets, was enough to infuriate an older adult. And Laura felt a mother’s shame because he was a reflection upon her.

  Ralph flushed. Clearly his anger was rising, but he answered evenly.

  “I’d like to talk to you about Johnson. Have you ever wondered where all the money’s coming from to support his high style of living?”

  “No, I haven’t. You drive a pretty expensive car yourself, and I imagine you live well. Does anybody ever ask you where your money comes from?”

  “Tom!” cried Laura, aghast at such impudence.

  Ralph raised his hand. “Please. He’s asked a valid question. Tom, I can easily and will gladly account for every dollar. I practice law, and the IRS knows where to look if it wants to. I doubt whether Johnson can say the same. I know he hasn’t turned down any Arab money. They love his anti-Semitism.”

  “I’m not on the campaign trail, although I intend to be as soon as I can, but today’s not the day and I don’t want to talk about Jim Johnson.”

  “Okay, Tom. Why don’t you sit down and let’s talk about something else?”

  “Frankly, Mr. Mackenzie, I don’t want to talk to you about anything,” replied Tom, still standing.

  “You might be interested in this. As of an hour ago we found the man who drove the car through the Klan meeting.”

  Laura started, and Tom’s eyes glowed as he cried out.

  “Who? Who is he?”

  “Some fanatic, unbalanced as the Klan, only at the opposite end of the spectrum. Otherwise, little difference.”

  Tom ignored that. “What’s his name?”

  Mackenzie demurred. “You’ll see it in the papers. I just thought you’d be relieved to know that he’ll be brought to justice.”

  “I’d be relieved to know that he’d been strung up by his heels.”

  “That’s not what is done in America. He’ll have a trial and if he’s found guilty, he’ll pay a penalty.”

  “Hogwash,” Tom said. “I wish I could get at him. He’d pay a penalty all right. You want to hear what I’d do to him?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Where was this going to end? Laura’s beseeching glance went back and forth between the two.

  “I wish you would let me talk to you,” Ralph said. “I believe I could help you if you’d give me a chance.”

  “I don’t need help, not your politics, and especially not the kind you’ve been giving me. All you want is to turn me over to those—those people. It beats me why you’re such a great friend of a pack of Jews, anyway. I suppose you’ve got black friends, too?”

  “As it happens, I have.”

  There was a silence. And Laura saw that each of the two, sensing an impasse, would like to bring the discussion to an end and was on the verge of doing so. Tom was the first to make a move.

  “Well, I guess that’s enough of this. I’m going out.”

  “I’m truly sorry that you lost your father,” Ralph persisted. “Mine died, though not so horribly, when I was not much older than you. Maybe sometime when you’re feeling more inclined, we can talk about that.”

  “No, let’s not kid ourselves. I’d rather be impolite than hypocritical, Mr. Mackenzie. I don’t ever want to talk to you about anything, and you can tell that to the Crawfields, too,” said Tom.

  He remembers to close the door without a sound, Laura thought irrelevantly, just as Bud always reminded him to do. Bud hated slammed doors.

  “I’m sorry,” Ralph told her. “I came to bring you what cheer I could, and instead I’ve created a disturbance.”

  “No, this is the way he’s been, that’s all. He was like this before Bud died, but Bud defused him. They were always together. The trouble is, the trouble will be, the Crawfields and nothing else.”

  “They’re not going to disappear, Laura.”

  “I know.” The blood tie. It was a curse or it was a blessing, but always it was a tie unless both ends were willing to let it go. And the Crawfields were not willing. Nor would I be, thought Laura, if I were in their place.

  “I wonder how he’d feel if they weren’t Jewish,” Ralph mused.

  “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want to leave this house. But he’d probably be more willing to know them, probably even curious, even wanting to know them after the first shock was over.”

  Ralph was troubled. He frowned, concentrating and hesitating; putting his fingertips together and pursing his lips, he nodded to himself. Presently he said, “They’re determined to see Tom to work things out. I can predict, I can promise, that they’ll be calling and writing. They may simply ring the doorbell one day as I did now. And if they do that, you can be sure it won’t be pleasant for anyone.”

/>   “He’ll be going back to college soon.”

  “They’ll go there, too, and more easily. It’s nearer to them.”

  “Perhaps we really should leave for Patagonia after all,” Laura said bitterly.

  “No,” Ralph answered. He was thoughtful. “I think what you might try is another visit, this time here. You said before that they were welcome in this house—”

  “I wasn’t thinking. You can’t believe Tom would welcome them, can you?”

  “No, but he’s practical, and if you put it to him that an arranged visit would be much more satisfactory than a lot of unexpected interruptions, I think he’d see the sense in that. He’d be coldly polite, very coldly, but I don’t foresee disaster. The presence of Holly and Timmy would help. It would divert attention.”

  Doubtfully, Laura conceded that it might be worth a try.

  “And if it should be a disaster, perhaps they will give up trying, at least for a while. But Margaret,” Ralph said, shaking his head, “Margaret is pitiful.”

  Frustrated, Laura clenched little fists and shook them in the air.

  “If I could get my hands on whoever it was who mixed up those babies, I’d—” Then she thought of something. “All right, I’ll invite them to Sunday lunch. Will you come, too?”

  Ralph stood up to leave. “No, Laura. I’m bowing out. Tom and I are like oil and water, as you’ve seen. It’s best for us all that I bow out of this. Good luck,” he said.

  She opened the front door. Smiling, he turned to go down the steps.

  She watched his car back down the driveway and turn into the road. “Bowing out.” Permanently? Thoroughly? The feeling of loss was bleak. But to think of “loss” was absurd, after all. You couldn’t lose what you had not possessed. It had been like window-shopping and nothing more; admiring, vaguely wishing, and knowing you were being foolish, you moved on.

  But she felt loss, nevertheless.

  Shortly afterward, Tom came home, sweating in his proper suit and tie.

  “So he’s finally left. I thought he was planning to move in.”

  “Tom, don’t. Don’t badger me. What do you gain by it? Unless you get some enjoyment out of adding to our misery.”

  “He’s on the make, that guy. I saw how he looked at you.”

  “That’s a nasty cheap shot. Your father’s hardly a week in his grave, and you actually believe a decent man would be coming here with—with thoughts, even if I could possibly be interested,” Laura said hotly, “which I’m not.”

  “Well, I hope you aren’t,” Tom grumbled.

  “I only want to see you happy again. You and Timmy.”

  “Then keep the pests away, Mom. Mackenzie and those Crawfields. Keep them away.”

  She pleaded now, “How can I do it? You know I can’t. When they want to get in touch with you, they will. That’s why I thought maybe it would be a good idea to have them here next Sunday for a talk, to work out some sort of arrangement that you can tolerate.”

  “No, Mom!” The cry was almost hysterical. “I don’t want them here! No, Mom!”

  “God help me,” Laura said, and added very softly, “They are your father and mother, darling, whether you like it or not.”

  Once more came the hysterical cry. “No! I don’t want to hear it! Never say it! No!”

  He ran out of the room. She heard his footsteps tearing up the stairs, and then the slam of his bedroom door.

  “God help me,” she said again.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Margaret left the telephone and returned to the table, where Arthur and she were having a cup of after-dinner coffee.

  “It’s all set for Sunday. She wants us to be there for one o’clock lunch. She insisted on lunch, although I told her not to bother. Poor woman, no matter what kind of man he was, he was still her husband. Such an awful death, all those gruesome photos in the paper, and the cruel publicity.”

  “She’s worried about the business besides, Ralph tells me. He advised her to sell it. I remember the property. It’s a fine one, but the market’s bad. Still, you never know.”

  Over the raised cup, Arthur looked out into the gathering dark. Often lately he found himself apt to fall silent, gazing at nothing.

  “But Tom’s in a worse state, Ralph told me.”

  “I know.” Arthur brought his eyes back to meet Margaret’s; the two pairs met in familiar understanding. “He has been clobbered from every side. No matter how much he denies it, he must have been shocked out of his wits to learn that Rice was a Ku Kluxer.”

  “Do you believe it’s possible that Laura didn’t know it, either?”

  “Ralph says she didn’t.”

  “He certainly seems to know a lot about her, considering the short time he’s known her. Do you think there could be anything—anything there? She’s a charming woman. I’d call her beautiful, wouldn’t you?”

  Arthur smiled. “Yes, but you can bet your last dollar there hasn’t been ‘anything.’ Ralph is hardly the man to complicate his success by having a messy affair with a married woman.”

  “She’s not married anymore.”

  “Good Lord, haven’t we got enough to think about without fantasizing over Ralph’s love life? Stick to next Sunday. Are your parents included?” Arthur said, changing the subject quickly as Holly came in.

  “Not this time. Let’s not overwhelm Tom again. I’ve been thinking, perhaps that was our mistake. It must have been formidable to face such a lineup, with Papa so emotional, too. The three of us will be enough.”

  “Enough for what?” asked Holly. When Margaret explained, her jaw dropped. “You surely don’t expect me to go, do you?”

  “Why, of course,” Arthur said mildly. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to. Because Tom’s loathsome, Dad. If you ask me, whoever switched those babies did us all a favor. When I think of Peter and then of that miserable—miserable thing, I could barf.”

  “You’re not helping us with such talk,” Arthur said.

  “I tried to be decent to him, even though I knew all those things about him. I showed him the dog, I tried to make conversation, but he didn’t want it. I’m too Jewish for his royal highness, I suppose.”

  Margaret chided softly, “Don’t, Holly. It will take time and patience, that’s all.”

  “You’re deluding yourself, Mom. He’s full of hatred. When he was at this table at lunch that day, I saw him looking at the Sabbath-candle holders. You’d have thought he was seeing a bomb or a rattlesnake or something.”

  “You know you’re exaggerating,” Margaret countered. “Try to put yourself in his place. And now with the awful death of Mr. Rice—”

  Holly sat down, propped her elbows on the table, put her chin in her hands, and regarded her mother. “I have tried. But let’s leave me out. Think about Peter instead. If he were still alive, now that this has been found out, how do you think you would behave?”

  Margaret shook her head. “I can’t answer that. Each of us is an enigma. I can’t even tell you what I myself would do in any new, given circumstance.”

  She has grown older, Holly thought. She hasn’t done her hair properly for days. She’s beaten down, and that damn Tom is the cause. Until this happened, she looked like a girl; people said we looked like sisters, and I used to hate that, but now I wish people could say it again.

  Arthur, gazing out of the window, spoke without turning his head.

  “This is a time of crisis, Holly. You were so strong all through the last crisis when Peter was in the hospital. And when we lost him, you were our comfort. I don’t think you can realize how, in our hearts, you were our hope. And you still are.”

  A wave of sorrow passed over Holly. In these last months she had been drowned in sorrow, as if some fate were trying to make up for all the easy years of her childhood. As if it were trying to teach her something, maybe?

  Her father had still not turned from the window. What was he seeing out there? Most probably the face of the s
ullen, hostile rebel who was his son. Dad must know, she thought, because he is both shrewd and wise, that there is nothing to be expected from that son but rejection and pain.

  Suddenly he turned back to the room. His eyes that could so often moisten with either tears or laughter were now dry and weary. “We’ll try one more time, Margaret,” he said. “If it doesn’t work, well, that’ll be just one more death in the family. And besides, we can’t make more trouble for Laura. She’s had too much.” He leaned down and kissed his wife’s cheek. “And Holly, about Sunday. You do whatever you want. We shan’t force you.”

  Quietly, she replied, “I’m going with you, Dad and Mom.”

  Laura waited until Friday to announce the impending visit. The truth, she admitted to herself, was simply that she had delayed because she did not want to face another explosion.

  During the few days since Ralph Mackenzie’s and Tom’s confrontation, little change had occurred, except that Tom had finally given up the dark suit, and Timmy had again developed an alarming cough. The heat wave, having reached a new height, made it dangerous for him to be outdoors at all, so he had become irritable under confinement to books and television. Moreover, he had retreated into silence, not a hostile silence like Tom’s, but a melancholy one, forlorn and vague, in which he refused to be drawn into conversation. Laura had, therefore, no idea what he was really thinking about Bud, other than that he grieved over Bud’s death.

  They had just finished their dinner when she told them. Tom shoved his chair back so hard that he shook the table.

  “Not those people again!” he cried.

  Laura drew a long breath to gather strength and proceeded. “Tom, I understand how you feel. Believe me, I really do. But listen to me. The fact is, and I’ve told you this, if I don’t set a date, they’re bound to get to you anyway. Would you rather have them surprise you one day at your dorm with all your friends around, or satisfy them now with a quiet visit here at home?”

  He was flushed, and not only with anger, although there was plenty of that; she saw again how fearful he was.