A Live Coal in the Sea

by Madeleine L'engle

  Mac had answered the phone, which was on his side of the bed. Camilla slid out and went to the extension in the kitchen, hearing Taxi say, ‘… you’ll adore Sharilee. She really understands me, all my moods, my needs. She’s so gentle and sweet. She’s only nineteen, but she’s had a tough life, and she’s learned a lot.’ Holding the phone between shoulder and ear, Camilla filled the kettle and turned on the gas. She and Mac would need something warm to relax them before going back to sleep. She reached for the two worn mugs, reminders of the days in the Church House.

  She murmured, ‘Of course we’re longing to meet her, Tax. When the show comes to New York—’ There was no point in saying, No, Taxi! You’re too young, much too young …

  ‘I hope it gets to New York, Mom. We got mixed reviews here.’

  At least he had called them.

  They had honored his right to break away, separate himself, to find out who he was outside the warm nest of his parents who were not his parents. Ever since he had left school, he had made his own way financially, asking them for nothing. They had, he had told them, no rights. Love conferred no rights, and anyhow they did not love him or they would never have let Red and Harriet …

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘Yes, Taxi?’

  ‘Wish us luck?’

  ‘Of course, darling. More than luck. Many blessings.’

  ‘I’ll call you again.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’ She closed her mouth and kept from saying, ‘Soon.’

  They did not hear from him again until three months later, when the show came to New York and died quickly from the faint praise of the critics. They went, with Frankie, to opening night, applauding Taxi’s songs and looking at Sharilee with doubt and concern. She was certainly not the nineteen years she claimed to be. Under the heavy makeup, the lines between nose and mouth were deeply graven. Her voice, too, was harsh, and did not, as the critics pointed out, blend with Taxi’s warmer one.

  Sharilee was outraged at the reviews, at being compared unfavorably with Taxi, whose youthful freshness and wistfulness pleased both audience and critics.

  Camilla and Frankie went to the theatre for closing night, and then went back to Taxi’s dressing room to help him pack up his belongings.

  ‘She’s a marvelous actress,’ Taxi defended, carefully putting his makeup in a green metal box. ‘The role wasn’t a good vehicle for her.’

  ‘You were terrific, Tax,’ Frankie said. ‘I’m glad I was able to get away to see it again.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Taxi said, though he did not ask Frankie how her art classes were going. ‘I do want you to know my Sharilee. She reminds me a little of you. That’s what first drew me to her.’

  Camilla thought two women could not be less alike. She wondered when the scales would drop from Taxi’s eyes.

  But it was Sharilee who soon ended the marriage, moving in with an older actor who, at that time, had more prestige than Taxi, was making more money.

  Frankie was contemptuous. ‘She’s a crass idiot. If she had an iota of sense she’d know Taxi’s on the way up, and that guy’s going to start on the way down.’

  A few nights later Taxi went to the seminary, found Camilla in her study, knelt at her feet, and put his head in her lap. ‘Mom, I’m such a failure.’

  ‘No, darling, you’re not. You’re a rising young star. You work hard. You learn more with each role.’

  ‘No, Mom, no. Not my acting. I know I’m good, or on my way to being good. My life. It’s a mess. I couldn’t keep Sharilee. I’m a failure.’

  Camilla stroked his dark hair, not speaking.

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘You’re not a failure, my darling. Everybody makes mistakes. That’s not failure.’

  ‘You don’t understand. You’ve never failed at anything.’

  ‘Taxi!’

  He started to weep. ‘You don’t understand, Mom. Nobody does. I thought Sharilee understood me. But nobody does.’

  He was, or seemed to be, happy with Beth. Beth was indeed only nineteen. She had waited outside the stage door to see Taxi, one of his most fervent admirers. Waited every night, just to stare, to admire, in awed silence, while others shoved programs at him for autographs. Finally he noticed her, curious and pleased at her fidelity, and asked her out for a sandwich.

  They were married two months later at a church in Rye, a large, fashionable wedding in her parents’ Presbyterian church. Camilla and Mac were there, looking hopefully at Beth’s adoring face. Frankie was in Florence, studying, and though Beth’s parents had offered to pay her airfare, some pride or instinct made Frankie refuse.

  Beth already had an apartment on the East Side, into which they moved, though Taxi said it was inconvenient for the theatre. However, just as he was insisting that they find another place, he was cast in a soap which was filmed from a studio near the East River, just a short walk from Beth’s apartment.

  Camilla and Mac relaxed. Briefly.

  Then Beth waited for Camilla outside her classroom at NYU, in much the same way she had waited for Taxi outside the theatre.

  They walked together toward the seminary and had not gone more than half a block before tears began dripping down the young woman’s cheeks.

  ‘Beth, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Taxi—’

  ‘What about Taxi?’

  ‘He’s having an affair with this—this creature who’s on the show with him. I know she’s older and more sophisticated—’

  Beth wept all the way to the seminary and into the cup of tea that Camilla provided. Camilla washed the girl’s face with cool water, talked with her until Beth was calm enough to call Taxi, who came rushing across town to her, full of love, of apologies, promising that the affair was only a stupid mistake, that it meant nothing, nothing compared to his love for Beth, which was his only reality.

  After the third affair Beth refused to accept the excuses, the charm, the promises. Beth was Beth, not Rafferty Dickinson, and Taxi was Taxi, not Rose. Beth made Taxi a settlement that was more than generous, and divorced him.

  ‘Oh, God, Mom,’ Taxi groaned. ‘I’m like that man whose bastard I am. Mom, who am I? I don’t know who I am.’

  ‘You do have some choice as to what you do, and what you do not do,’ Camilla said.

  ‘Mom, Beth is so bland, so—so nothing. I want to be a good husband, I want to be faithful, but I have so many needs she was too young and untouched to fulfill. Mom, I don’t want to be like Red. I just want to be happy like other people. That’s all. I just want to be happy.’

  If Thessaly did not always make him happy, at least she was the only one who understood Taxi well enough to stay married to him. He was ecstatic when she became pregnant. Thessaly turned to Camilla for support, rather than to her distant parents. She had phoned her mother, who had taken the news calmly, as the natural thing, rather than giving the whoop of joy with which Camilla had responded.

  The first weeks of pregnancy were not easy. Thessaly had terrible morning sickness, and was exhausted. A couple of times a week Camilla cooked a double portion of dinner and took a dish over. Taxi was a disaster in the kitchen, despite his concern about his wife.

  One evening he called. ‘Mom, could you come over? Thess feels really low, and if you could make some chicken soup, maybe she could keep it down. The doctor says all this throwing up will stop in a week or so. I mean, he doesn’t think she’s in any danger of losing the baby or anything, but she does need to eat something.’

  ‘Of course.’ Camilla heard the front door slam. ‘Mac’s just coming in, so let me see if he needs anything, and then I’ll take some soup out of the freezer and come on over.’ She put the phone down and turned to Mac, looking at him, appalled. ‘Mac! What’s the matter?’

  He sank down into the old brown chair. ‘I have a ghastly headache.’

  She was on her knees beside him, putting her fingers gently to his forehead. ‘When did this start?’

  ‘About half an hour ago.’

  ‘Darli
ng, can you go lie down? Taxi just called and wants me to bring some soup for Thessaly …’

  ‘Go, of course, go, especially if Taxi actually called you himself.’ His face looked grey with pain. ‘I’m just going to stay here, in our old chair.’

  She looked at him anxiously. ‘This is much worse than your usual headache …’

  ‘It will go. I just need to sit here.’

  ‘I won’t stay long. Could you drink some tea?’

  He shuddered. ‘Nothing. Go, darling, and I’ll feel better when you get back.’

  When she got back he was dead, sitting there in the old chair, his face serene, all the lines of pain smoothed out.

  “Grandmother,” Raffi said, “I don’t want to lose you or Grandfather.”

  “You can’t.”

  “But I’m not even related to Grandfather!”

  Camilla laughed. “In all the ways that count, you are. He had a way of making people feel loved, and I can see you doing that with your friends, making them feel that they matter.”

  Raffi grunted. “If they don’t matter, then I don’t matter, either.”

  “True. But not everybody realizes that.”

  “I think Dr. Rowan does.”

  “Yes, I think she does, too.”

  “She loves you a lot.”

  “I love her, too.”

  “Sometimes she almost makes me believe that life isn’t just a pile of shit.”

  “I’m glad she got that across.”

  “But, Grandmother, you’ve had an awful life.”

  Camilla looked at her in surprise. “Oh, no! I’ve had a marvelous life!”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Oh, Raffi, I had a husband I loved all my life. His parents taught me about mercy and love. I’ve been able to spend my life teaching the subjects I most enjoy. I may not see much of Frankie, but she’s a wonderful daughter. She has a happy and fulfilled life, and that’s all any parent can ask.”

  “And my dad? Taxi?”

  “He’s taught me about mercy and love, too.”

  “Mercy and love, she said.” Raffi looked at Dr. Rowan. “When I said she’d had an awful life, she looked totally surprised.”

  For once, Luisa appeared not to be listening. She reached across her desk and handed Raffi a framed color photograph of a pubescent child with flaming red hair, standing by a small brown-haired girl in a pink smocked dress. The background was a playground with swings. “Do you recognize them?” Luisa asked.

  Raffi scowled. “The red-haired one in jeans is me. I don’t know who the little kid is.”

  Luisa said, “Oh, God.”

  “What’s the matter, Dr. Rowan?”

  “Raffi, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “You remember Andrew Grange?”

  “Dr. Andy? Sure.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I don’t remember. I sometimes saw him when I went to Dr. Liz for shots, but that was a long time ago.”

  “This picture belongs to him. Will you take it to his office and return it? It’s just around the corner—”

  Camilla left her office, where she had been seeing her honors students, and walked slowly across campus to her house. Her knees felt stiff, reminding her of her age. The evening was cold, with a biting wind rising from the lake. The sky still held color, a pale lemon at the horizon, slowly staining up into rose and mauve and then a deep, darkening blue as night came closer.

  She let herself into her house and heard the phone ringing, and hurried to answer it.—Why are we so compulsive about phones? she asked herself.—Is there any news I really want to hear?

  She picked up the phone and heard Luisa’s exasperated voice. “Where on earth have you been? I almost hung up.”

  She replied calmly, “I’ve been having office hours. I just got in. What’s up?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “I haven’t seen you as much as I’d like since you left New York.”

  “No.”

  “Remember what an interfering little bitch I used to be?”

  Camilla laughed. “I don’t think you would have called it that.”

  “One thing I learned in medical school and after is non-interference. I really learned it. Some shrinks are very directive. That’s not my policy.”

  Camilla frowned. Something was wrong. “What’s on your mind, Lu?”

  “Did you know that for the past few years I’ve been seeing your Raffi on a fairly regular basis?”

  “She told me. I’m glad. Things are not easy for Raffi.”

  “To state it with your famous moderation.”

  Camilla felt the familiar feeling of anxiety. What had Taxi done now? “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve intervened. I don’t know whether it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, or the best. I just wanted to let you know in case Raffi needs you. You’re the one person she really trusts.”

  “Where’s Raffi?”

  “In New York at the moment. She’s coming back to college tonight. At least that was the plan. Excuse me, Camilla, I have a patient coming in. I’ll talk with you tomorrow.” Without giving Camilla a chance to speak, she hung up.

  When Raffi went into the doctors’ office the nurse gave her a startled look. “Can I help you?”

  “Dr. Luisa Rowan asked me to return this picture to Dr. Andy. I’m Raffi Xanthakos. I was Dr. Liz’s patient when I was a kid.”

  “Of course. Just a moment. I’ll see if Dr. Andy’s busy.” She picked up the phone, spoke into it, then said, “He has a patient with him right now, but he won’t be more than a few minutes. If you’ll just have a seat and wait, he’ll see you.”

  Raffi was too restless to have a seat. This was about something, but she didn’t know what, except that it frightened her, and she didn’t know why. She wandered to the shelves of books and games. Looked in the big toy box and pulled out a stuffed pink piglet which had been one of her favorites. It no longer had any eyes, and one ear was gone, but she was sure it was still the piglet she had cuddled when she went into Dr. Liz’s office for a shot.

  One of the doors at the back of the room opened and Andrew came out. He glanced at Raffi, then stopped, looking at her intently.

  She looked back at him, white-haired, stooped, his stethoscope dangling out of the pocket of his long, white coat. “Hello, Dr. Andy, remember me? I’m Raffi Xanthakos.” Unthinkingly, she held out the picture.

  “What have you got there?” Smiling, he took it from her.

  “Dr. Rowan asked me to return it to you. Why do you have a picture of me?”

  “Oh, Raffi. Raffi. C-come w-wi—” He shook his head, unable to continue.

  The other office door opened and Elizabeth Wickoff came toward them, listened to Andrew’s stuttering with alarm, and followed him and Raffi into his office.

  Andrew thrust the picture into his wife’s hands. “L-look at th-this.”

  She glanced at the photograph, looked at it probingly, then turned her gaze on Raffi.

  Raffi said, “Dr. Rowan asked me to return this to Dr. Andy. It is me, isn’t it, with the little girl?”

  “No, Raffi,” Elizabeth said in her calmest voice. “It’s of Dr. Andy when he was eleven or twelve. The little girl is his sister, Noelle.”

  “The one in jeans—it’s a boy? It’s not me?”

  “No, Raffi. It’s Andrew.”

  “I thought it was me.”

  “It does look like you,” Liz said, “far more than when you were a little girl.”

  “But why do I look like—” She looked at Andrew, frowning, then went and stood in front of a long mirror where some of Andrew’s young patients liked to preen. Then she turned to face Andrew. “I look like you, don’t I? Enough like you to be your—” Her voice rose, frightened, excited. “Dr. Rowan gave me this picture to bring to you because—because you’re—oh, Christ! You’re my grandfather, aren’t you? You’re my father’s father, not—not—”

&n
bsp; Tears slid down Andrew’s cheeks, but his voice was back in control. “Yes, Raffi. Yes.”

  “But why didn’t you tell?”

  Elizabeth looked the same question at her husband.

  Andrew said, “By the time I knew, too much had happened. Too much pain. I didn’t want to add to it.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Didn’t you—”

  “I guessed.” She sighed. “But I kept quiet for the same reasons you did.” She sat down abruptly opposite Andrew. Raffi sat in a small wicker rocking chair sized for Andrew’s young patients, but into which her slender body fitted comfortably. Liz probed, “But, Andrew—”

  Andrew said, “A long time ago I had a brief fling with Rose Dickinson.”

  “In Chicago?”

  “Yes. She was so beautiful. And needy.”

  “And you were young and vulnerable.”

  “I don’t excuse myself,” Andrew said.

  “Hey,” Raffi interrupted. “How did you find out? Because I look like you?”

  Elizabeth said, “As a small child you didn’t, and I haven’t seen that much of you since you were older, but something—something—made me wonder. Made me guess.”

  Raffi asked, “Dr. Andy?”

  “Not guesswork,” he said. “Proof.”

  Elizabeth asked. “DNA?”

  He nodded.

  Raffi had been rocking back and forth in the little chair. Now she said, “But you knew, now, before I brought you the picture?”

  “Yes, Raffi. I’ve known since Taxi came home from boarding school with a strep throat. Liz was away, so he came to me.”

  “And?” Elizabeth rested her clasped hands on his desk.

  “I never thought about that one time with Rose seriously, but every once in a while the question would flick across my mind: My dad? or me? And then Camilla brought Taxi to my office … He was a sick kid and I took care of him. And then I thought I’d put my mind at rest, once for all, so I gave him some antibiotics and then I drew his blood to test his D-d-d-d—” For the moment his stutter was back.

  “DNA?” Elizabeth prompted.

  He nodded. Swallowed. Pushed his fingers through his hair. Finally he said, “When the tests came back—and DNA does not lie—I was appalled. Unbelieving.”