by John Dunning
He had signed it, as always, Old Me.
There was a postscript in the margin, the words packed tight in an effort to convince. Unconvincing, of course. This was what haunted her.
I’ll write you a better card next time. Why don’t you burn this one in thefireplace? Promise me you will. And don’t worry, this is really nothing.But if you know where Jack is, reply by letter, not open postcard. I’d ratherpeople didn’t know my business.
Love you, honey. Damned glad I’m your daddy.
He had probably been in a hurry when he’d written it. If he had reread it he’d know how worried it sounded, and he’d never have sent it.
It was so unlike him that she immediately called the bus lines and asked about fares to New Jersey. All that afternoon I tried to reach you, she said. All I could be sure of was that you weren’t in Carolina.
She would go to Jersey herself. But in the morning this plan seemed foolish. She would wait till Monday and the next postcard. If he didn’t seem better by then, she would go to him at once.
No card came on Monday.
You’ve got to understand how he was about that. He was like clockwork withthat penny postcard. Even after Mama died, he stuck to the ritual of the pennypostcard. If anything it was more important, now that there were just the two of us.
She couldn’t remember a single week since October 1932 when he had failed to write something. His postcards had formed a long continuous letter of his life on the road. He packed the tiny panels with news and he tried to be upbeat. But if life was hard he said so, told them why he had no money to send, and that he was moving on looking for something better.
If a card didn’t come on Monday, it meant only that the mails were slow. Often Tuesday was a dead mail day, but by Wednesday at the latest her card would arrive.
On Tuesday morning the sunshine warmed her spirits. But no card came on Wednesday. She left that night, November 19, in bad weather.
Regina Beach, November 20. Arrived after an all-night, all-day trainand-bus ride across Pennsylvania and Jersey. The weather stayed miserable, wet and cold to match her mood. The night came early, without a hint of sunset. It was the off season: the town had folded its tents and rolled up its awnings by six o’clock, and an hour later the streets were deserted.
There were obvious places to go, people to ask. She knew the address by heart, a rooming house downtown. What a relief it would be to go there and find him, put fear to rest, and learn that all was well. They would eat supper together tonight and laugh over her sudden attack of cold feet.
But she felt a harbinger in the air as she came into the foyer. There was no name in the slot for room 214 and this rattled her. Still no reason for real alarm—there were other blank mail slots, and this was the off season after all. But why would 214 be blank when she knew for a fact that he’d been living here and getting mail since the end of August?
Upstairs, no one answered her knock. Downstairs, she could hear noise in the manager’s room. When he didn’t come at once she kicked at the door and battered it with her fist.
The door jerked open: a rat-faced man in his forties, not sure whether he should be angry or alarmed. “Jesus Christ, lady, where the hell’s the fire? You trying to break that door down?”
She was combative and tense, but reason came over her and she forced a smile. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry, I was looking for my dad in two fourteen.”
The man melted, a pushover for a pretty face. Looked over his shoulder at his own room, which she could see was a pigsty.
“My dad’s name is Carnahan.”
“Sure, I know him. He’s gone. Left about a week ago.”
“What do you mean, left?”
“Just put a note under my door. Said he won’t be back, I should go ahead and rent the place.”
The nagging fear turned suddenly cold and she shivered under his eyes. “Did you do that? . . . Did you rent it?”
“Not yet. I got other places to rent.”
“Did he owe you money when he left?”
He took too long to think that over and lost what chance he might have had to lie. “Actually, he left with two weeks yet on his month’s rent. That’s why I haven’t tried to rent it.”
“Have you done anything to his room yet? Changed the bed . . . ?”
He laughed. “Lady, this ain’t the Ritz. I ain’t even been in there yet.”
“Do you think I could look at it?”
He hesitated. “You’re sure you’re his daughter?”
She showed him a driver’s license in her name. A picture of the two of them together. He went to get the key.
Alone upstairs, she found a dark room with a window looking down on a rain-slicked street. She turned on the light. It looked like any room of a workingman’s means, empty and stark, offering nothing of the countless people who had lived there.
Empty closet. Nothing in the bathroom. The view was north, and far away she could see the flashing red light of Harford’s radio station.
She sat near the radiator and turned the squeaky valve. Soon a heavenly ripple of hot air came up, but it took a long time to warm her.
Her eyes moved around the room. Speak to me, Daddy.
That’s when she first thought the unthinkable.
He’s dead.
• • •
Now when she knocked the rat-faced man came at once. He had combed his hair and changed his shirt, picked up some stuff in the room behind him. Now she could come in.
He offered coffee. She said, “Oh God, yes, thank you,” and was surprised when it was good, rich and black the way she liked it.
“So what do you think?” he said. “Gonna be in town awhile?”
“Yeah. I think awhile.” Her voice sounded numb in her ears.
“You could stay here. In his room, I mean. The rent’s already paid.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
She finished her coffee, then remembered what she wanted to ask. “Do you still have that note he left?”
He didn’t have to search for it. “You can keep it.”
Upstairs, she locked the door and sat on the bed. Opened the note and looked at the handwriting.
It wasn’t her father’s. Jesus, it wasn’t even close.
I had a dream once, she said. All the people I knew and loved were dead. It wasa child’s worst nightmare. Then I lived to see it come true.
My sister died, but you know about that. She was ten, I was fifteen. I was agood strong swimmer and I was supposed to be watching her. But I got distractedand just that quick she was gone.
You asked about my other friend who died. His name was Emmett Huff. Wegrew up together. He lived next door, our bedroom windows faced each otheracross the hedge, and in the summers we could talk back and forth, till our parents made us turn off the lights and go to sleep.
If Emmett had lived we’d have gotten married and I’d have children by now.There’s not a doubt of that in my mind. I’d be a happy working housewife,average as hell, in Sadler, Pennsylvania, and all my singing would be done inchurch. You and I would never have met.
But Emmett was killed. Of course he was.
I’m sorry if that sounded like self-pity, I hate that. But maybe it’ll help yousee what damaged goods I am, and why I’m going to hold you to your promise.How you stay with me at your own risk.
Emmett was just a great lovable boy and I loved him all my life. God knowshe loved me. But he was like all of us then, he worked too hard and he wasalways tired. One night he fell asleep at the wheel and his car went right underthe back end of a truck. I was supposed to meet him, and when I heard thesirens I got a cold feeling like I’d had that day at the lake. The same clammyshivers I felt years later when I stood in my father’s room and read a note he’dnever written. I walked out on the highway and got there just as they werepulling the car apart. Someone tried to hold me but I broke free as the doorcame off.
Emmett’s head fell out and rolled between my feet.
&
nbsp; She tried to make sense out of what she’d just said. Maybe God did it. For some reason that must never be questioned, God drowned my sister and killed my friend in that awful way. It makes no sense to have gods like that, unless there isn’t any God, then it makes perfect sense. It’s all the luck of the draw. Some people are lucky and some aren’t, but there’s nothing guiding us, caring, or watching out for us. Our lives are no more significant than ants on a hill. It doesn’t matter how important you think you are, your luck can turn in a minute. Even the rich and powerful can be stepped on.
One of our presidents lost a son like that.
Franklin Pierce and his wife saw their son killed in a train accident. They watched his head roll down the aisle of a passenger car.
Mrs. Pierce went crazy. In the White House she wrote letters to her dead son, and wore black every day of her life.
I made myself a promise: I will not go mad. But you are probably the last toknow it when you’re going crazy. Tom knew there was something wrong withme. I could never give him what he wanted. I did try, I hope you believe that.But it just wasn’t there.
Now he’s dead too, so none of it matters, does it?
The hunt for my father was all that mattered. I was in a strange little townthat might’ve been on the back side of the moon, I was that alone. I had to talkto Harford but I didn’t know how to start.
Pardon me, sir, I’m looking for my father.
What’ve you done with him?
She anticipated trouble, then went out and found it.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Harford doesn’t see people or give interviews.”
She expected that. She looked at the woman, a sunny creature her own age, and said, “I’m not here for an interview. I’m looking for someone and I have reason to believe Mr. Harford can help me.”
“I doubt that. Mr. Harford has led a secluded life in recent years. He sees no one.”
“He saw my father.”
The woman shook her head. But she said, “What’s your father’s name?”
“Carnahan.”
“Of course. A nice man. We all liked him. We were surprised when he left us so suddenly.”
She closed her eyes and saw a streak of red fury. Opened them wide again and said, “He didn’t leave you suddenly. Something happened to him.”
The woman tried for a look of sympathy. “I can see you’re worried. But I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Oh good, I feel much better now. But I’d still like to see Harford.”
“Well, you can’t. I’ve tried to explain how it is, but you won’t listen.” The woman sighed deeply. “Look, I’ll ask Mr. Harford if he knows anything. Best I can do.”
“When can I come back?”
“Try me later today.”
But it was the same later that afternoon. “It’s just as I told you, Miss Carnahan. Mr. Harford never met your father.”
There must have been something in her eyes, for the woman looked at her and wavered again. “I think you should see Mr. Barnet. He does a lot of the hiring.”
Her father had never mentioned anyone named Barnet. But she said, “At this point I’ll talk to anyone.”
Barnet was a cold man, clearly annoyed at having to deal with her. “I hired your father. Not Harford—me. He worked for us five or six months and didn’t give any notice when he left. I doubt if Harford ever spoke to the man.”
They’re all lying, she thought.
That afternoon she watched as Harford left the building. The next morning when he came in, she was there, watching from the woods fifty yards away. She learned his comings and goings. Discovered where he ate, by combing the beach looking for his car. You couldn’t miss that big flashy automobile. The man was a walking self-contradiction. Equal needs for privacy and celebrity. Wanted to be known without all the trappings of fame, so he put his name in stone on the new office building and hid behind that battery of secretaries. Seldom appeared in public but had the station reflect his name in its call letters.
He wants to show the world what’s possible with radio, Dulaney said. Maybe that’s how he wants to be remembered.
She nodded. Or maybe it’s got something to do with his dead wife.
But I didn’t care about any of that. He had his problems, I had mine.
The next day she waited for him outside the office building. When he came out at dusk, she stepped up beside him.
“Mr. Harford . . .”
He shrank away. Reached for the door of his car.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you, sir. Your people won’t help me. You hired my father. His name is Carnahan. You hired him and now he’s disappeared.”
“You’ve made a mistake. I don’t hire people.”
“He wrote and told me about it. The meeting he had with you. And it was you, sir, he called you by name. Now he’s missing.”
He seemed to be looking at her: it was hard to tell with those glasses he wore but he seemed to be watching her intensely. She said his name, just a soft “Mr. Harford,” but it was enough to break the spell. He opened his car door and said, “I can’t help you. I never met your father.” And he drove away.
The next morning she was waiting at the restaurant where he ate. He came in and went into a back room, passing not two feet from the counter where she sat reading a newspaper. She got up and followed him.
He was sitting alone at a table reading his own paper. No one else was in the room. He had taken off his glasses and had unfolded a Times. He didn’t hear her coming, didn’t see her, till suddenly she pulled out a chair and sat at his table.
What happened next would shock her and freeze her mind-set for months to come. She said his name: it was barely a whisper but he recoiled and cried out as if she’d shot him. He dropped his newspaper and spilled his coffee everywhere. For just an instant she stared into that yellow eye: then he jerked his face away and in the leap for his glasses his chair tipped over. The great Mr. Harford lay sprawled at her feet.
Just as quickly he was up and gone. Oh God, she thought with a sinking heart. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Is that the look of a guilty man, or what?
• • •
It was clear by then that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Harford. So she thought in early December 1941.
She went to the sheriff, who took her complaint, took down her address in Pennsylvania, assembled a sheet of vitals on her father. It took less than ten minutes and the sheriff ’s attitude wasn’t encouraging. There was no evidence of a crime, and he certainly wasn’t inclined to challenge Mr. Harford until he had more than she’d given him to go on.
By then she was thoroughly spooked. She had a nagging feeling that the sheriff would share everything with Harford, that she had done nothing but put herself in danger. She would approach no one else: not yet, not now. She would watch them from a distance and speak to no one. She learned who they all were: she became one of those people you never see. She did everything she could to make herself less than ordinary. Dyed her hair, made it mousy and straight, wore glasses from the five-and-dime and dresses from rummage sales. She followed the staff, watched them when they came and went. Wherever they were, I was there too.
It’s amazing how obscure you can be, sitting in a restaurant so close you’realmost part of them. All your attention focused on your newspaper when in factyou’re watching them and nothing goes past you. My dad was a hot topic backthen, mainly because of Livia. I guess they thought the world ended where mynewspaper began. Before long I knew all about them.
I read all the history, everything that had been written about Harford and hisradio station. I knew about March Flack. I bought the back issue of the newspaper with the latest recap, and I saw Mrs. Flack when she walked on the beachwith that sick old man.
I saw Harford many times. I watched him constantly, and sometimes I’d lethim see me. I’d stand still until it dawned on him who I was. Don’t ask me toexplain it, it doesn’t make any sense. Nothing I did in those weeks makes anysense at all.
December 24. A horrible day, with nothing open and no life anywhere. The wind cold, the sky gray, the beach stormy and deserted. Occasionally she heard Christmas carols as she walked through the streets. She longed for work, even the drudgery of washing dishes, but the hash house where she’d taken the job was closed today and tomorrow, leaving her alone till noon Friday. She wanted desperately not to think, but not to think was the province of those joyful creatures celebrating the holiday behind the frosty windows. She walked north on the beach and suddenly Livia’s house appeared in the gloom. A rosy bungalow with smoke curling from a cinder-pipe chimney, yellow windows, and shadows dancing. A child peered out and she stood still, too far back, she thought, to be seen. She didn’t know what kept bringing her back here—surely nothing could relieve the crushing loneliness she felt—yet so many nights she had come to watch these windows from the dunes. If she ever did break her silence, it would likely be with Livia. A hundred times she had thought of it, just walking up to that door and making the first human contact. Hello, I’m Holly Carnahan, I believe you knew my dad. So simple, so easy, the right thing to do. But if you ask her, seven busy months later, she will not know why she came, hesitated, and finally turned away.
That night fate almost changed it. The child at the window gave a little wave and suddenly the door opened and Livia stepped out. They looked at each other and Livia raised a hand and said, “Hello there.”
Holly said, “Hi,” but the step she took was backward, into the gloom.
“Are you lost?”
“No . . .” She drew her coat tighter. “I’m just out walking.”
“Miserable night for it.” Livia took a few steps and tried to see her better. She must be cold in that thin shirt, Holly thought. “Not many people come up this far,” Livia said. “I guess you’re a stormy weather gal.”
She could see Livia didn’t know what to do next. They were strangers after all, but you didn’t close your door on anyone on a cold and stormy Christmas Eve. “I hope you’re not alone,” Livia said.
