The Coach House

by Florence Osmund

  “How would a bank vice president know I was illegitimate?”

  “I don’t know. And maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

  “That’s true. Was there anything else you uncovered?”

  “Just one more thing. ‘BBQ Jon’s Sat 4:00.’”

  “Okay, let’s say, and I think this is a long shot, that this handwriting has something to do with me. How does it all fit together? This bank vice president is going to a barbeque at Jon’s at four o’clock on a Saturday in 1942. What could that possibly have to do with me?”

  Karen shook her head.

  “Wait a minute.”

  “What?”

  “This may be crazy, but on one of my high school records, someone had written the letter ‘J’ in the Father’s Name box and then scratched it off.”

  “Yeah, that’s a bit farfetched, but let’s keep going with this. What if Jon is the one who funded your tuition.”

  Marie thought about it. “So? Do you know how many Jons there are probably out there? It would be next to impossible to…”

  “How many Jons do you know who spell it J-o-n?”

  “Well…none.”

  “If this Feinstein guy is going to a barbeque at Jon’s, then they’re friends or maybe even neighbors.”

  “So? What does that tell us?”

  “Marie, if they’re neighbors, all we have to do is find out where Gregory Feinstein lives, and that will lead us to Jon.”

  “How would we do that? And how would we ever know if Jon has anything to do with me?”

  “Let’s think about this. He works at the National Bank of Chicago.” Karen looked in the file folder. “On LaSalle Street. How many Gregory Feinsteins do you think live in let’s say a fifty-mile radius of LaSalle Street?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t think there would be that many. We’d have to check phonebooks.”

  “Library tomorrow?”

  Marie didn’t answer immediately. “This is all too crazy.”

  “What have you got to lose?”

  Marie contemplated her question. “Nothing. Library tomorrow.”

  “Good. So what did you do while I was away?”

  “I worried.”

  “C’mon. You had nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You have no faith in me, my friend.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did see an interesting movie while you were gone. Rope.”

  “The Hitchcock one?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Shoot. I wanted to see that one. Now I’ll have to go alone.”

  “I’ll see it again with you.”

  “Okay.”

  On their way to the library the next day, Marie said, “I don’t know if you realize, Karen, just how frightening this is for me. I’m twenty-four-years old, and I may soon learn for the first time in my life who my father is. And keep in mind, he made it clear to the banker and the school that he wanted to remain anonymous.” Karen can’t possibly know how frightened I am. “Do you know what that would do to me if I find out who he is and where he lives, and I know he doesn’t want anything to do with me?” Her voice cracked before she could complete the sentence.

  “Or, like you said, maybe Jon has nothing to do with you.”

  Once in the library, they split up the Chicago and suburban phone books looking for Gregory Feinstein. “Bingo,” Karen said, nearing the end of her stack. “There’s a Gregory Feinstein in St. Charles. I’ll write down the address and phone number.”

  When they finished, they had three Gregory Feinsteins, one in the suburbs and two others in the city.

  “Now what?” she asked Karen.

  “Let’s call ‘em.”

  “And say what?” Marie was beginning to feel like they were on a big wild goose chase.

  “Give me a minute.” The two women sat at the library table in silence. “What if I call and say, ‘Is this the Gregory Feinstein who works at the National Bank of Chicago?’”

  “Now how would you react to that question if you received a call like that?”

  “You’re right.” She looked at her friend and smiled. “I could be more creative with a glass of wine.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Back at Karen’s house, a half bottle of Chianti later, they had a plan. They waited until evening, after the bank was closed.

  “Hello, Mr. Feinstein?”

  “Yes,” the first man answered.

  “This is Margaret White from the 135 South LaSalle building security office,” Karen explained. “There’s been a disturbance outside the National Bank of Chicago lobby, and we have your name as a contact person.”

  “There must be some mistake. I have nothing to do with that bank. Sorry.”

  “One down.”

  Karen made the same call to the second number and got the same general response. She looked at Marie and asked, “Do you want to call the last one?”

  “No, you’re doing fine.”

  “Hello, Mr. Feinstein?”

  “Yes,” the last man answered.

  “This is Margaret White from the 135 South LaSalle building security office. There’s been a disturbance outside the National Bank of Chicago lobby, and we have your name as a contact person.”

  “I didn’t know I was listed as the contact person, but what’s the problem?”

  “Now there’s no reason for you to come in. I just wanted to let you know of the incident. It’s our policy. The police arrested the two punks who were attempting to break in. There’s really nothing much else to report for now.”

  “Was there any damage to the bank?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Thank you for letting me know.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Marie smiled at Karen. “You’re good. Now what?”

  Karen looked at their notes from the library. “Well, now we know Gregory Feinstein lives at 2IN Forest Trail Road in St. Charles.” Her face lit up. “Let’s go there.”

  “What? How would we get there?”

  “Drive. We’ll make it a road trip. It’ll be fun.”

  “Karen. Get serious. It’s got to be over 500 miles from here to Chicago. Maybe even further to St. Charles.”

  “C’mon. We both need to get away. We can share the driving.”

  “What about your shop?”

  “I’ve closed it before when I’ve gone on vacation.”

  It was a crazy scheme, the whole thing based on some scribbles on a piece of paper that might not have anything to do with her. Marie thought about Karen’s selfless trip to New York. “Let me think about it. In the meantime, let’s go see the Hitchcock movie this weekend.”

  * * *

  “That was one of the craziest movies I’ve ever seen,” Karen said after seeing Rope.

  “Let’s go back to my house. I’ve got a chicken that will go bad if I don’t cook it tonight,” Marie offered.

  They sat on Marie’s sun porch while the chicken baked in the oven.

  “So what did you think about the movie?” Marie asked.

  “Not sure what to think. Those guys were so cold-hearted. But there were some funny scenes. Like when they held that dinner party and the guy’s dead body was right there in the bureau. It was so bizarre. Wasn’t sure when it was okay to laugh.”

  “I know.”

  “Hitchcock is something else.”

  “Yeah. Like how he hinted that Dall and Granger were homosexuals.”

  “What!?”

  “You didn’t get that part?”

  “No! What makes you think that?”

  “It was pretty obvious. First of all, Dall had a feminine air about him.”

  “Who played him?”

  “Brandon Shaw.”

  “Never saw him before. Maybe that was just his real life personality, and it came through in this character.”

  “Maybe. Then there was that scene where they were walking down Fifth Avenue. That didn’t seem a little strange to you? They
looked like they were more than just friends.”

  “I think you’re nuts, Marie.”

  “All I know is what I saw.”

  Karen made a face. “Homos are disgusting.”

  Marie had mixed feelings when it came to the contrast between her tolerance of everyone’s differences and Karen’s apparent prejudices. “It’s hard to understand, that’s for sure. But you know it goes way back in history. They say some people have them in their family or circle of friends even, and they don’t even know it.”

  Karen’s facial expression took on a puzzled look.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Marie laughed. “Karen Franklin, you can’t fool me. Something is going through that head of yours.”

  Karen jumped up and rushed into the bathroom. Marie followed her. She heard her being sick behind the closed door.

  “Karen, are you alright?”

  Her voice was muffled. “Yeah. Be out in a minute.”

  When she did emerge, Karen’s face was pale. She walked back to the porch and sunk in one of the chairs and waited for Marie to be seated.

  “You figured it out, didn’t you?”

  Marie stared at her best friend.

  “That had to be it. Nothing else makes sense.”

  Marie didn’t say anything.

  “Ed was a homosexual.” Karen stared straight ahead…at nothing in particular. “Can’t believe I just said that.”

  Marie nodded.

  “You knew.”

  “Not until I saw the movie.”

  “I still wouldn’t have figured it out even after having seen the movie if we hadn’t talked about it.”

  “Sometimes we’re a little blind to what we don’t want to see.”

  “I don’t know whether to hug you or hit you.”

  “You don’t think knowing the truth is better, even if it’s unpleasant?”

  “Well, I still don’t have any proof.”

  Marie stayed silent.

  “It’s not normal.”

  “There weren’t any clues?”

  “No.”

  “You said once he didn’t seem as interested in sex as he was when you were first married.”

  Karen nodded. “Yeah. That’s true.”

  “Did he have any male friends that he spent time with?”

  “Had lots of male friends, but don’t most men?” Karen paused. “Well, there was this one guy he knew. I forget his name now. In fact, I never even met him. They used to go out for beers every once in a while. One time I said I would join them, and Ed said the bar they were going to wasn’t suitable for a lady.” She stared out the window. “Good grief. I just thought maybe it was a rough place or something.” She shivered. “That’s sick.”

  “You said he was a sensitive and caring man, right?”

  Karen smiled faintly. “He was.”

  “Then, that’s the memory I would keep of him. Like you said, you have no proof.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Is there any more wine?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Stupid question?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Father

  It took Marie and Karen close twelve hours to drive to St. Charles. They stopped every two to three hours to stretch their legs, eat sandwiches they had packed, and change off driving. After being friends for more than a year, one would think they knew everything there was to know about each other. But they didn’t. They talked about a myriad of subjects—politics, religion, men, families, and more.

  Somewhere there’s music

  How faint the tune

  Somewhere there’s heaven

  How high the moon

  “Don’t you just love Ella Fitzgerald?” Marie asked her.

  “Not that keen on colored music.”

  It was a remark Marie had a hard time ignoring…but she did.

  When they finally arrived in St. Charles, they stopped at a gas station to pick up a local map, and then found a motel and got a good night’s rest before starting their adventure. The next day Marie drove through town while Karen gave her the directions. Pretty soon they were leaving town and entering farmland.

  “Are you sure this is right, Karen? There’s nothing but farms out here. I don’t think a bank vice president would live on a farm, do you?”

  “Don’t know. Keep driving. Forest Trail Road should be coming up in about another half mile or so. When you see it, turn right.”

  Marie did as told, and when she turned right, the countryside turned from farmland to ranches, each one nestled in its own private cluster of trees. Marie slowed down at the first mailbox. “J Norton” was all it said. Karen made note of the name and address. Marie drove further down the road to the next mailbox. “G. Feinstein” was on the box.

  “That’s it.” The sprawling ranch house sat far back on the expansive wooded property. “Let’s see what the next one says. There’s a mailbox across the street, up a little ways.”

  “Double J Ranch.” Karen wrote it down. The next mailbox, the one on the other side of Feinstein’s, read “F.G. Mackey.” Next to the Double J Ranch was Diamond Kennels, and the last mailbox read, “Brooks Horses.”

  Marie drove until she reached a dead end. “Let’s go, Karen. We’re not going to find out anything. And I’m beginning to feel creepy doing this.”

  “Okay,” Karen said, reluctantly. “Your call. But something to think about is that we could find a St. Charles phone book and look for each of the addresses on this road, especially J Norton and Double J Ranch. One of those J’s could be a Jon.”

  “Do you know how long that would take?”

  “What do you want to do then?”

  Marie sighed. “And then what would we have?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll know when we see it.”

  “Well, we came too far to not follow through, I suppose.”

  It was a small town. The St. Charles Library wasn’t hard to find. Marie and Karen poured over the small print of the local phone book looking for any listing on Forest Trail Road. They were able to eliminate one of the addresses during the first hour. Double J Ranch at 54N Forest Trail Road belonged to Jeanne and Jack Mills. They eliminated a second one shortly after that.

  Marie’s stomach did a flip-flop. “Hey, look at this. Brooks Horses belongs to Jonathan Brooks.”

  “Do you think that’s him?” Karen asked.

  “I don’t know.” Her expression turned somber. “Look, if it wasn’t for one very important factor, I’d be tempted to let this whole thing go, assume he’s my father, accept the fact that he doesn’t want to be in my life and call it a day.” She looked directly into Karen’s eyes. “But I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  She glanced around the library to see if anyone was within earshot and then dropped her voice to a whisper. “I have reason to believe my father is a Negro, and…”

  “What?!”

  “Keep your voice down, will you?!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just hear me out, Karen,” Marie continued in a low calm voice. “My mother would never tell me anything about my father. Whenever I would ask about him, she would have the same old tired speech; that he was a wonderful man who she loved very much, but that he couldn’t be in our lives.”

  “So?”

  “So one day when I was working at Field’s, an irate customer stormed out of my office saying she didn’t appreciate having to deal with some half-breed nigger girl.” Marie shuddered. “Her words still ring in my head.”

  Karen studied Marie’s face the whole time she was talking. “That’s just nuts, Marie. You’re obviously not a Negro. Why would she think that?”

  “Because she was from the South.”

  “So?”

  “Look, it had never crossed my mind I was anything but white until that customer said that to me. Anyway, I went to the library back then and found a book on south
ern plantation owners who had their way with young slave girls. There were pictures of their children. Karen, I look just like some of those mulatto children. And that woman would have known because she was obviously from the South.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “And then there’s my mother. Don’t you think it’s a little strange that she wouldn’t tell me even one little thing about my father or show me a picture maybe? She acknowledged him, but not one thing about him. I think she may have been hiding something…like the color of his skin.”

  Karen sat across from Marie with an open jaw. “I don’t know what to say. My first reaction is that woman didn’t know what she was talking about. Sure, you have an olive complexion and curly hair, but that doesn’t mean you have Negro blood in you.” She spat out the word Negro, making Marie uncomfortable. “And even if you did, you…So that’s why it’s so important for you to know who your father is. You need to know who you are!”

  “You got it,” she said, biting her lip and swiping the tear that had escaped and run down her cheek.

  “But you can pass for white, so why—” Marie’s look caused her to stop midsentence.

  “I’m sorry. Let’s get out of here.”

  They stopped at a diner for dinner, went back to their motel room, and talked well into the night. “What are you going to do now?” Karen asked.

  “I want to see what Jonathan Brooks looks like. I need to know if he’s white or colored. What do you think?”

  “I’m thinking there’s an easy way to find out. Go to his house and knock on the door.” Karen had a habit of blurting things out before thinking them through.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? He doesn’t know who you are.”

  “I can’t be sure of that.”

  “Well, he doesn’t know me.” She paused. “Look, this guy sells horses. I’ll make an appointment to see one of his horses.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that, Karen?”

  “Look, you’re my best friend.” Karen paused for a few seconds, blinking back a tear. “And besides, it’ll be fun. I used to live for this kind of thing. It feels good again!”

  “You scare me, Karen.” Marie retrieved Jonathan’s address and phone number from her purse. “Here you go. I’ll stay in the room while you do it.”