Daybreak

by Belva Plain

  “He’s a good guy. I always suspected he was. But was he ever angry at me! At one point, I didn’t see how I’d ever get to you, with all that anger directed at me.” Ralph waited a moment, searching through the past. “I’ll never forget the day I brought that terrible news to this house. My heart was racing so that I didn’t think I’d manage to get the words out.”

  “You were very calm, though.”

  “That was my legal training.”

  “You were very kind. That isn’t legal training, it’s you.”

  He squeezed her hand. “We’ve come a long way in a short time, Laura.”

  He looked at her so intently, so earnestly, and yet so eagerly, that she was struck with a kind of pain.

  “I told you once, or maybe I only think I did, that I believe there is something like an alter ego, the other self, and that’s what I was looking for. And I felt it that first day when I saw you here.”

  “Had you never felt anything like it before?”

  “I told you, I’ve had my full share of women, but that way—no. You have, though.”

  “Once.”

  “I won’t ask you about it.”

  “It’s ancient history. Finished and over. Everything is. Myself as Mrs. Homer Rice—that’s all over, too. And probably was long before I realized it.”

  Before I knew the extent of his deceit, she thought, knowing what I have just found out.

  Later, sometime today, she would tell Ralph the rest of the story. But the whole day lay ahead, and later would do as well as now.

  “You’re not going to work today, are you?” she asked him.

  “No. A man’s entitled to recuperate from all his politicking on the day after he has won an election.”

  “What would you like to do with the day?”

  “Do you want to know? I’d like to go back upstairs.”

  It was so right to go “back upstairs.” This night, their first night, had been completely right, the last step in an orderly progression from the hour when they had sat in the coffee shop at the Hotel Phoenix and she had thought, or could she possibly actually have told him, that he looked like Lincoln. A funny thought for a person born south of the Mason-Dixon Line …

  “You’re laughing. At what?”

  “Not really. Just smiling.”

  At the bedroom door he opened his arms wide to summon her into them. His eyes were bright with his happiness. And she thought, as he held her breast to breast, I never want to lose him.

  Late in the afternoon they went to sit on the veranda. Ralph was examining an old guitar that Aunt Cecile had left on the closet shelf years before. A thin twang trembled as his fingers moved on the strings.

  And suddenly Laura interrupted him. “I have something here, a letter. It came three days ago, but I didn’t want to trouble you with it until the election was past.”

  “Trouble me? Is it bad news?”

  “I’ll let you decide. Will you read it? Or shall I read it to you?”

  “You read it to me, please.”

  She took it out of the envelope and in a strange, tense voice, unfamiliar even to herself, began to read.

  “The stationery is headed: Francis Alcott, with an address in New York. Here it is.

  “ ‘Dear Laura,

  “ ‘When you read this, I shall be dead. Tomorrow I am to undergo surgery on my heart, and I do not believe I will survive it, but will go as my father did, at his same age. The Alcotts don’t make old bones.

  “ ‘My attorney will destroy this letter if I should survive because I want now, at long last, to come to you myself and tell you, along with everyone else concerned, what you will be reading here.

  “ ‘Since I left home I have gone back every two or three years with the intention of seeing you. Perhaps you will not believe me, and I cannot blame you if you do not, but it is true that I have walked around and driven past your house time and time again, trying to find courage enough to ring the doorbell. I used to visit my parents’ graves and my most distant relatives, but when the last day came, I would still not have found the courage to ring the bell.

  “ ’In the past few years my heart has been having “episodes,” and after each one, I have resolved again, before it should be too late, to see you, but as with the embezzler who is determined surely to return the money “someday,” the day never came.

  “ ‘Dear Laura, I have loved you, or shall I say “the memory of you,” all my life. I know now that I must have loved you when you were still a child, perhaps only ten years old, but since it was not “right” to do so, my conscious mind did not permit me to. But when I came home that weekend after four years away, then you were twenty, and it would have been, it was “right”; and recognition when you came through the hedge and crossed the lawn toward me was like an explosion, like fireworks soaring into that summer night. When you played A Little Night Music, when you threw crumbs to the birds on the beach the next day, and when we—But you know the rest.

  “ ‘So now I must get to the core of the matter. I have kept up with the news at home; I know that you are a recent widow, and I know the circumstances. Also, I have the newspaper stories about the Crawfields’ and the Rices’ babies. Dear Laura, it is at this point that my pen wants to stop, but I will not allow it to.

  “ ‘The exchange of the babies, the frightful, cruel, unspeakable deed, was done by me.

  “ ‘I can see you now as you read these words, your trembling hands, your horror, your outrage and your grief. Why? you will demand. How is it possible for a human being to plot such a wanton, brutal thing?

  “ ’I will tell you. It was not plotted or planned. It was a spontaneous act that, ten minutes afterward, I would gladly have undone if I safely could have. It was an inexcusable act, born out of desperation.

  “ ‘On the evening when I went to visit you and your newborn boy at the hospital, I was carrying a burden of information that you did not have and that I could not possibly have given to you. I had returned, as you must remember, because of my father’s death. In going over his papers to see what records had to be transferred and what discarded, I came upon one, going back for years, of your husband’s family. You probably know that he had a sister who died in early childhood and an uncle who died at twenty-one, as well as a cousin in the prior generation who died young. What you may not know is that they all had cystic fibrosis. And I found a note in my father’s handwriting about a discussion he had had with Homer Rice before he married you, in which he, my father, had advised him strongly never to have children. Laura, if your husband were still alive, I would never tell you that part of the story, lest it affect what I hope was a good marriage.’ ”

  She put the letter down, appealing to Ralph, “Why am I not in a rage? I only feel numb, too dull to understand how Bud could have tricked his unborn children. Why am I not in a rage?”

  “Because it would be futile. If he were living and you knew this, you’d be in a rage, and he’d know it, all right. Not that it would do any good. Read on,” Ralph said.

  “ ‘Anyway, you in your natural pride asked me to look at your baby. So when I left you, I went to the nursery. The staff of that little place was shorthanded, for whatever reason I do not know, and there was only one nurse in attendance. I introduced myself. Your baby was crying; it was a distressful cry, I thought. The nurse told me he cried a good deal, that the doctor had said it was probably colic and that they were going to change his formula. They had taken X rays, which showed nothing wrong.

  “ ‘It was then that she asked me whether I could do her a favor, there being a problem in her family, by staying in the nursery for ten minutes so that she might make an important phone call. She knew my father and had no reason not to trust me. When she left, I saw the X-ray plates with your name lying on the desk, and I examined them. There it was, as I had feared: the dilation of the small intestine, the narrowed colon, and all the rest. Soon the ilium would fill; this baby’s future was writ clear. His doctor hadn’t known what h
e was looking at. I was acquainted with him, an agreeable, decent old-timer who had learned almost nothing new since leaving medical school some forty years before. It was a wonder he had even known enough to order the X rays.

  “ ‘I guess I lost my reason. I only know I wanted to save you from tragedy. I looked around, and seeing another bassinet that held a boy, I made an exchange. The bead bracelets were so carelessly loose—it is no wonder that this inefficient little clinic eventually had to close its doors—that with the aid of some lubricating jelly, I was able to slip them off. After that, I moved the bassinets. By the time the nurse came back, all was as it had been except that each of a pair of red-faced, bald male infants now had a new identity.

  “ ‘And no one ever questioned anything. Why should they have? What I had done was unthinkable, so why would anyone have thought of it?

  “ ‘Two or three times in passing your house, I’ve seen the boy, the vigorous son who was not yours, and I imagined your pleasure and pride in him. Later, from neighborhood friends of my father’s, I learned about your second child. Now my feelings were mixed. I began to think more and more about those other people whom, for your sake, I had robbed of their rightful child, and I was afflicted with such pain and guilt as no one can comprehend who has not been in my place.

  “ ‘And then one day, incredibly, the Crawfield family came to me, of all people, traveling to New York because they had learned of my work with this disease. I should have told them then and there, but I did not have the courage. Coward that I was, I wanted somebody else to do it, somebody who could not possibly implicate me, so I recommended a medical center nearer to their home, and the rest you know.

  “ ‘So here it is. Think what you must of me, Laura. If it means anything at all—not much, I’m afraid—know that I have spent my life trying, through charity to my patients and to the poor in general, to repay the world in some way for the evil thing I did. Forgive me a little if you can, and I pray that those other people may forgive me a little, too.’ ”

  Laura stopped. A crow cawed once, and Earl barked at it once. Otherwise, the proverbial dropped pin would have disturbed the silence of the pair on the veranda.

  Then she said, “That’s all. There’s just his name.”

  “Francis Alcott. So he was the one.”

  “He lived there in the house beyond the hedge.”

  “Do you think of him very often?”

  “Not often. It’s a long-healed wound. Lately, though, since I’ve known you—will you mind if I tell you that you remind me of him?”

  “You forget. You have already told me. But you never told me what happened, why you didn’t—”

  “He didn’t take me. It’s that simple. He had promised someone else.”

  “Fool! I would have thrown the whole election away for you if I’d had to. I’d give up anything and go away anywhere with you. You know that, don’t you?”

  She looked at him. Although the light was dimming, she saw plainly the anxiety in his eyes.

  “I know it, Ralph.”

  “What a tragedy to have such lifelong guilt because of a moment’s aberration!”

  “With all the fame, the knowledge, and the respect.”

  “I wonder what Arthur and Margaret will say when you tell them.”

  “I already have told them. And Tom, too. They all said that in an odd way, it is a relief to know, even though it can’t change things. And Margaret said, ‘Let us all rest now and try to put it behind us.’ She is the soul of kindness.”

  “How different things would be if she were not.”

  “And they are so crazy about Timmy. They want to take him to Washington to see the Smithsonian, the Holocaust Museum, the Capitol, and everything. Isn’t that nice?”

  “She still worries that you might be thinking they’ll try to win Tom away from your home and your ways. She wants you to be sure that will never be done, not by gesture or word.”

  “They’ve said so, but I’m glad to hear it again. Because I’m not angelic, Ralph, and that would tear me in two. But I’m not worried now. I’ve asked the Crawfields to come here for Christmas weekend.”

  “Are they coming?”

  “Of course. And we are all to go there in the spring for the Passover Seder. It would be interesting. I’ve never been at one.”

  “It is. It’s a freedom festival, very happy. They always invite me. It’s a day for family and good friends.”

  A few drops fell, and Laura sprang up. “It’s going to pour tonight. I should cut these roses before the rain beats them down.”

  They were the lingerers, last of the season, no more than a dozen, dark red and fragrant with a tartness faintly like pine. She cut and lifted two handfuls to her face. Ralph was gazing at her.

  “I want to be with you forever,” he said. “When can we start?”

  “Appearances, you know. The aunts would say, ‘after a decent interval.’ ”

  “Like what? Tomorrow?”

  They both laughed, and Laura said, “Next month, when Tom’s home for vacation.”

  “I wonder how he’ll take it.”

  “Well enough, I’m sure. He’s been suspecting us, anyway.”

  “He’s a good guy. I know I’ve said it a couple of times today, but I’ll say it again.”

  And they sat there close together, she with the flowers in her lap, as the evening drew in and a small wind came to rustle what was left of the leaves. After a while, he picked up the old guitar and began to play.

  Special Preview

  from the Belva Plain title

  THE CAROUSEL

  Available from Dell

  CHAPTER ONE

  MARCH 1990

  She was not ready to go home, and not ready to face anybody, neither the five-year-old nor the infant, not prepared to answer the telephone or speak a civil word, after what had just happened during this past hour. Never had Sally Grey felt so wretched, so small, as if she had physically shrunk, as she sat huddled behind the wheel of the car and fled the city.

  On the first plateau in the chain of mountains that stretched toward Canada, a scenic overlook had been set aside, very likely for the benefit of tourists. On this waning, windy afternoon it was deserted, and here she stopped the car. Below lay Scythia, an old city, its small factories ringed by tracts of new-built bungalows and highways; beyond them to the east, west, and south came farms. In the north, the dark mountains.

  Lights winked on in scattered spots, but to Sally’s left, where lay the headquarters of Grey’s Foods, light was a solid yellow oblong, marking the place to which one quarter of the city’s population was in some way connected, either employed by the company or related to someone who was. As to that, the other three quarters of Scythia had been touched in some way by the Grey family’s generosity: the library, the hospital, the neighborhood swimming pools, all were gifts from the Greys.

  “You’re thinking such things don’t happen in families like yours. I understand,” that woman, that doctor, had said.

  No, Sally had thought, you don’t understand. You thought I was feeling some sort of superiority, above the flaws of the common people, that I was feeling some sort of nasty, idiotic snobbishness. But I was thinking only of how happy we have been, of how pure our life has been. Pure. Such a Victorian word! But all the same, it fitted. There had been nothing dirty in their lives until now.

  Somewhere within that compact mass of light, at this very moment Dan was working at his desk, not knowing. Tonight he would have to know. And if it should be true—no, of course it cannot be true, of course not—it would devastate him. His baby! His darling Tina.

  No, there’s no doubt in my mind. Your Tina has been molested. Sexually abused.

  Dr. Lisle had already explained herself at length, but still Sally had simply stared at her. She had a homely, square face and a cool manner, this woman who, although no older than Sally, was dressed in authority, buttressed by professional knowledge.

  Scolding me, that’s how she
sounds, as if I were a schoolgirl instead of a woman who has had her own experiences, has traveled all over the world in peace and war with her cameras, having her photographs published all over the world. Well, I guess the truth is we simply don’t like each other. What kind of a crazy thing is this to tell me?

  And as if looking for help, she stared about the spare, plain office. Its inexpensive desk and chairs were new. Its diplomas and certificates were recent. The view led over the back of a run-down three-story commercial building in the run-down heart of town. It was an uncomfortable, dispiriting place with no help in it. But the doctor had been so well recommended!

  “This is incredible,” Sally said abruptly.

  “No, it’s credible.”

  “I can’t believe you. I won’t believe you. How can you even think of such a thing?”

  “It’s natural for you to resist. What parent would want to believe it?”

  “It’s incredible.”

  “It’s credible, Mrs. Grey.”

  “I live with Tina! I bathe her, and I’ve never seen a sign of—”

  “There doesn’t have to be penetration. There are other ways, as you know.”

  Revolting images flared. She had almost felt them burning, pressing inside her skull.

  “Yes, I know. I read. But how can you be so sure? Has Tina told you anything?”

  “Not directly, in so many words. Children rarely do. They’re too afraid.”

  “Well, then, I ask you, how do you know?”

  “There are many ways. For example, they play with dolls. Mine here are anatomically correct. I watch the child, I talk to her, and I listen while she talks to herself.”

  “Tell me what Tina says. Exactly what you remember.”

  The doctor put on her reading glasses. How long it took for her to fumble in the case and adjust them on her nose. It was a torture to watch.

  And now, in the car, remembering, reliving, Sally’s head began to pound.

  “Here. Friday the tenth, the visit before last. I quote: ‘You take your panties off, then you put that thing—’ ”