The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  A girl in a jumper and jeans entered the café, and the screen-addicted teens looked up from their dragons and Vikings to stare. She was stunning, and she knew it. She was ten years younger than me, with a carefree kind of confidence that I could only dream of. I knew I was being stupid, considering how much of a struggle growing up can be. I would have sooner died than relive that period. But I did miss being able to just roll out of bed, throw on anything, and still step out the door looking flawless. As the girl settled down at a table, I couldn’t help but wonder if George-Harrison would check her out, too. He didn’t even blink, which made me happier than I was ready to admit.

  “How about you?” I asked. “How do you tackle a new piece of furniture?”

  “I use tools,” he said, with a mischievous smile. “But hey, you don’t have to ask about my work just to be polite.” Wow. Busted. What’s worse, he also noticed my guilty look at being caught red-handed. “Hey, relax. I’m just messing with you,” he said. “Let’s see, for starters . . . I envision the blueprint and then sit down to draw.”

  “If you please, draw me a sheep,” I said, in a child’s voice, seeing if he would catch the reference to one of my favorite books.

  “Sorry, can’t help you there. But I can draw a box for the sheep, if you like. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to put holes in it so the little fella can breathe.”

  “So, you’re a fan of The Little Prince, too. It was the first book I ever really fell in love with,” I confided.

  “You and a lot of people, I’m sure.”

  “I know; it’s very unoriginal. And how about you?”

  “Hmm . . . maybe Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? I have to say, I had quite a thing for Willy Wonka. But if I had to choose, I’d say Kipling’s poem ‘If’ was what really floored me when I was a kid.”

  Of course that poem would strike a nerve with George-Harrison as a child. What boy wouldn’t dream of his father reading him those words? I hadn’t forgotten my promise to him, but I had so many other things on my mind at that moment.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re finally taking a stab at being friends, and I’m not really making it very easy on you, am I?”

  “Who said that’s what I was doing?” I said, lying through my teeth.

  “Honestly, I’m sorry,” he sighed. “Ever since we met, all we’ve talked about is our parents and the past. I was wrong to thwart your efforts to change the subject. Do you feel like maybe getting some air? I could go for a walk; I’m really feeling that sandwich.”

  The normal Eleanor-Rigby would have said that’s exactly what you get when you stuff your face so fast. But I didn’t. Truth was, I was feeling anything but normal. Being with him was throwing me way off-balance. I grabbed my bag and followed him outside.

  We walked the streets in silence, then ducked into a souvenir shop in search of a gift for Michel, but I couldn’t find anything my brother would like. Next, I saw a T-shirt shop and wondered if I could still pull that look off even though I wasn’t in my twenties anymore. When George-Harrison saw me hesitating in the doorway, he dragged me inside, scouring through rack after rack until he found a couple of options for me to try. I didn’t want to shoot him down right away, so I tried them on over the top I was wearing. He shook his head and ducked off to find a few more.

  We must have looked like a happy couple out shopping. Back out on the street a bit later, I thought he might even try to take my hand. I don’t think I would have minded if he had, to be honest. It had been a very long time since I had gone walking down the street holding hands with a man. The fact in and of itself didn’t mean much. But when that kind of thought crosses your mind, you suddenly become convinced that there is something wrong with your life, and perhaps, even something wrong with you. Farther ahead, we came to a junction, just up the road from where we had parked the pickup. George-Harrison took a deep breath and turned to me.

  “I’m having a really nice time,” he said. “I may be an idiot for telling you that, but I just felt like I had to say it.”

  “You’d be an idiot if you didn’t tell me. I’m . . . having a really nice time myself.”

  I took stock of the situation. There was a one-in-ten chance that he’d gaze into my eyes and go in for a kiss right then . . .

  But he didn’t. The odds were against me, and it was high time to put an end to the masquerade. I had even gone as far as to buy one of the T-shirts he had picked out for me. I knew I’d end up wearing it back in London, all alone in front of the TV, wine in hand, raising my glass to my damned freedom.

  As soon as my mind drifted to London, I thought of my father. The time had come to question him in earnest. I had a creeping feeling that he knew a lot more than he was letting on. He had to. So, I wandered away from George-Harrison and found some privacy on a nearby bench.

  It was only eight o’clock in the evening in Croydon, so there was no risk of waking him up. But after five rings and no answer, I started to worry. When at last my father answered, I could hear boisterous, jolly voices in the background.

  “Ray Donovan speaking,” my father said, clearing his throat.

  “Are you watching TV? I can barely hear you, it’s so noisy.”

  “Nope, I’ve got company!” he replied. “Maggie and Fred dropped by to see me. It must sound like a bit of a madhouse in here. They brought a couple of friends and some excellent wine—more than one bottle, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Really? Which friends?”

  “A very nice couple. He’s in the restaurant business like Fred, and she works in advertising. I don’t think you know them. Care to say hello to your sister?”

  Maggie hadn’t shown even an ounce of interest in my quest since I got to Baltimore. It seemed like she couldn’t care less, or at least not enough to merit an international phone call in any event. I had no desire to feign casual conversation with my sister at that moment. Especially since these friends I had never heard of were suddenly making me feel shut out of her life. Who were they anyway? Fred’s buddies? Of course, the truth was that I was jealous of my sister for having a social life at all, something I was sorely lacking. The jealousy went hand in hand with shame. Maggie wasn’t responsible for my life choices, and it was up to me to live with the consequences. Someday, I’d have to apologize to her for being so mean and unfair. Why should I care if Dad was helping her out here and there? Money never meant a thing to me, and I would swear on all that was Absolutely Fabulous and holy, on Saints Edina and Patsy, that I was as selfless a sister as they come.

  “Elby? Are you there?” he said.

  “Actually, I was hoping to talk to you alone,” I finally said. “Would you be able to get somewhere quiet?”

  “Sure, hang on, I’ll just slip into my room.” I heard my father grunt as he sat down on the bed, his knees acting up as usual. “Okay, I’m all yours. Is everything all right, dear?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

  “What’s the weather like over there?”

  “It’s long-distance, Dad. Forget the weather. I want you to tell me the truth, all right? What was Mum doing in Baltimore?”

  I heard my father sigh heavily into the silence that followed.

  “So, you leaving in such a hurry wasn’t for an assignment after all, was it?”

  I couldn’t lie to my father, even over the phone. I confessed the truth about the letter and the implication by the mysterious poison-pen that she had committed a robbery. I left out the part about the old photo of Mum kissing George-Harrison’s mother. After I had finished explaining, there were a few more moments of silence, followed by another weary sigh, before my father at last began to speak.

  “When I said that your mother came home to England, it wasn’t altogether true,” he began. “Her real home was back in the United States. She was born and raised in Baltimore, then sent away to boarding school in England. Your mother was terribly lonely there, until the day we first laid eyes on each other at that pub. The rest you know. We
were together for a few years before she decided to reconnect with her family. She spent a good ten years there before coming back to me.”

  “But Mum didn’t have any family. You always told us she grew up in an orphanage.”

  “Well . . . when you’re sent away to a boarding school at twelve, so far from home and entirely against your will, it’s a bit like growing up in an orphanage.”

  “Why lie about all that?”

  “Only your mother could answer that, and sadly, it’s too late now. Elby, please. I implore you. Don’t go digging into your mother’s past. You know deep down inside how much she loved you—you even more than your brother and sister. Let her and her past rest in peace. Hold on to your memory of who she was as your mother.”

  “Dad? You didn’t even flinch when I said your own wife had committed a robbery. So, does that mean you knew about it?”

  “I will not have you thinking your mother was a thief. It’s a bald-faced lie!” my father insisted.

  “I’ve got proof. I spent the whole morning at the police station. I’ve seen the police report, Dad. Thirty-six years ago, Mum committed a major crime. She robbed a wealthy family blind in their own home. Please stop lying. I’m too old for Santa Claus and Prince Charming. You’re the only one I still believe in! Can’t you just tell me the truth?”

  “My dear girl . . . it wasn’t just any wealthy family. It was her family, her own.”

  It was now my turn to be speechless. I took a deep breath.

  “You’re telling me . . . that Mum was Robert and Hanna Stanfield’s daughter?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you, essentially. Since you’ve already got your hands on the police records, you would have uncovered the truth yourself sooner or later. Your mother’s maiden name, the one you knew her by, was actually her grandfather’s, a man by the name of Sam Goldstein. She claimed it as her own as soon as she returned to England, when we reunited.”

  “Why change her identity?”

  “Because she had left that part of her life far behind her and insisted that you and the other kids never learn the truth under any circumstances.”

  “But why?”

  “To break the curse! She wanted her children to be Donovans, not Stanfields. Never that.”

  Stanfields. I still couldn’t believe it. “What curse? What does that mean?”

  “The betrayals, the lying, the souring of any semblance of love . . . the tragedies that plagued the family members and their spouses alike.”

  “What happened to my grandparents? Why didn’t I ever meet them?”

  “Those people were not your grandparents. They renounced their own daughter!” my father cried. “They’re dead and gone, Elby. You go digging around in their graves, all you’ll do is make your mother turn over in hers. Is that understood?”

  In all my life, I had never heard my father so angry. His hoarse, raised voice left me dumbstruck. Even at my age, I felt myself shrinking back like a frightened little girl. And then, even worse, my own father hung up on me. Sitting alone on that stupid bench, I burst into tears. After one look at me, George-Harrison came running over and pulled me into his arms.

  “What in the world happened?” he asked, a warm, comforting hand on the back of my neck as I curled up and let him hold me. I couldn’t hold back the tears, no matter how hard I tried. When at last I could speak, I told George-Harrison about the conversation with my father, my voice broken, my eyes still wet with tears.

  Just one phone call had brought my whole world crashing down around me. Mum had told outright lies about her past for the lion’s share of her existence, and for all of mine. As rotten as my grandparents may have seemed to her, I might have at least met them, but my mother had made that decision for me. What’s more, I had also discovered I was half American. But that wasn’t the most stunning revelation from my father’s outburst. I now knew that we were more than just Donovans. We were the last of the Stanfields.

  George-Harrison gently wiped away my tears and took a long, hard look at me. “I know it’s a lot to swallow, everything he told you. But it seems to me you’re most bothered by having your own father hang up on you. If you ask me, you should call him back.”

  “Are you kidding? Not a chance!”

  “He’s probably just as upset about it as you are. But it’s on you to take the first step. It must have taken a hell of a lot out of him, coming clean like that.”

  I shook my head, but it was clear George-Harrison wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

  “You know you’re lucky to have a father like him. You need to stop acting like a spoiled brat, even though it’s kind of cute. I probably would have steered clear of you at school.”

  “Excuse me? What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, just saying: you must have had all the boys drooling.”

  “You’re full of it!”

  My phone vibrated. George-Harrison smiled knowingly and had the good grace to give me some privacy, returning to his truck as I picked up the call.

  “What the hell did you do to Dad to put him in such a state?” asked Maggie, coming out swinging. “I got worried when he was gone so long and found him shell-shocked, just sitting on his bed with a crushed look on his face. I mean, really! Even from the other side of the globe, you manage to wreak total havoc on our night!”

  I couldn’t stomach a dustup with my sister, not now, and I had already made a resolution to stop fighting with my family. Instead, I laid everything out for Maggie, calmly and steadily, the whole saga step by step. Every time I paused at the end of a sentence, I’d hear Maggie sigh and whisper, “Oh, shit.” By the end of the tale, she must have said it at least ten times. Then, when I revealed that we—Michel, Maggie, and I—were all descendants of the illustrious Frederick Stanfield and a prestigious American family, the grand finale, my sister let out a more expressive burst of expletives—running the gamut from fuck fuck fuck to son of a fucking bitch. That was Maggie, through and through.

  “Okay! Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, frantic and excited. “For the umpteenth time, I’ll fix things between you and Dad. Give him time to sleep on it, then you call to apologize first thing tomorrow.”

  “What exactly am I supposed to apologize for? They were the ones who lied to us our whole lives! If I hadn’t received this stupid letter and come all the way here, Dad would have kept us in the dark forever.”

  “Right. But they’ve loved us like crazy our whole lives, too. You are going to apologize because you have the best father in the whole world, the envy of all our friends, and he’s probably the most generous person I’ve ever met. He is essentially perfect, minus the sweet tooth and the ridiculous, inexplicable attachment to that car. When you’re lucky enough to have a father like that, you suck it up and swallow your pride!”

  Although I was the older sibling, I was already in the midst of my second full-on regression of the day, so I decided to keep my mouth shut and just take it.

  “And while I take care of Dad, you go track down that blasted treasure, whatever it is. I don’t believe for one second Mum would be stupid enough to give up her cut. It’d be nice to finally move closer to London, and not necessarily to Fred’s place, if you follow me. So, I am counting on you, Elby. Get to work. And keep me posted.”

  “Get to work, please. Keep me posted, please,” I corrected her.

  “Tell me: How’s your whole Beatles thing coming along?” she asked, meaning George-Harrison.

  “It’s not.”

  “That’s a relief. Like I’ve been telling you, he could still be in it just to make off with the loot. I still haven’t heard anything to convince me he’s not the poison-pen, or that he’s not just using you to get closer to the treasure.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If there’s one subject I’m an expert in, it’s men. Talk to you tomorrow, sis.”

  As I said goodbye to my sister, I realized the truth was out a
nd there was no turning back. I was part of a family I would never meet, people whom I knew nothing about. Out of respect for my mother’s memory, I vowed not to look for their final resting places. Visiting their graves would do nothing except make me feel like I was betraying her. However, I was intrigued by Sam Goldstein. My mother had taken his name as her own, so he must have had some redeeming qualities. I was eager to learn more about him. And about the Stanfields, too, to be quite honest.

  I approached the pickup to find George-Harrison waiting for me behind the wheel. He gave me a questioning thumbs-up, clearly concerned over whether my father and I had patched things up.

  Maggie was dead wrong. One look was all I needed to convince me George-Harrison couldn’t be the poison-pen. No way.

  “Everything okay?” he asked as he opened the door for me.

  “Yes, or at least it will be first thing tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. Where to now?”

  I felt guilty thinking once more that my side of the investigation was advancing so rapidly, while his seemed to be at a standstill. The best I could do was apologize, but he just shrugged it off.

  “I’ve been waiting so long, so what if it’s not this week, this month, this year . . . or even this lifetime?”

  “Hey, don’t talk like that! We’re going to find your father. I promised, remember?”

  “We’ll see. In the meantime, there’s still one person I can think of who knows more than he’s letting on. So, first thing tomorrow, we head back for round two with Professor Morrison.”

  I looked straight at him. An old pickup truck parked on a forgettable Baltimore street is probably one of the world’s least romantic settings, and yet, right then and there, probably still reeling from my emotional roller-coaster ride, I decided to lean in and kiss George-Harrison.

  It was a long, passionate kiss, the type that makes you forget where you are . . . unforgettable and full of tenderness. It didn’t seem like a first kiss at all, strangely enough. It was so familiar and natural, it felt like we had known each other forever.