The Noon God

by Donna Carrick

  He should have given the desk to Lucy after I moved out. Hers was far too small for her. But it was late in the evening for pretence. The truth was Daddy had chosen this desk for me, his first daughter. And the other truth was I loved the desk. I wasn’t keen to let it go. Even now there was something magical about the feel of it. I ran my hand over the polished wood and felt the familiar surge of something intangible, something undeniable inside of me.

  Daddy must have known. The desk was like a talisman. I sat down and laid the manuscript on its surface.

  I read for hours. With Daddy’s work, though, I never felt like I was reading. Maybe it was because I knew him so well. Maybe it was because his characters were always a tapestry of the people in his life, many of whom I also knew. Whatever the reason, opening one of Daddy’s manuscripts was always a living experience for me. It was something akin to stepping through a looking glass into an alternative universe, where familiar music played, but the dancers’ moves were unpredictable.

  When I read Daddy’s work I always had the feeling I was moving through the pages with him and watching his drama unfold. He was telling me a story but I already knew the ending. We were players together on a stage.

  Never was this feeling more intense than when I read Millennium Girl. Of course, it didn’t take a brain surgeon to guess the reason. The story was about Daddy and me. It couldn’t be clearer. The media mogul and his reluctant heiress were the two of us, playing out our lives in perfect parallel with reality.

  There were some obvious exceptions, of course: Daddy had three daughters. His character had only one. But even that wasn’t far from reality. Daddy had never done much to disguise the singularity of his love for me.

  So it was hard for me to read the work, and yet I couldn’t stop myself. I knew what was going to happen but I was powerless to turn away. Reading Millennium Girl was the closest I would ever come to reviewing my own life in print. I was fascinated.

  I read on, allowing the pages to lead me through my own history. But when I reached the part where the daughter fell in love I paused, aware of the taste of salt on my lips as the tears fell down my face.

  Sweet Benjamin. I began to feel faint and for an instant I was sure my soul was going to die, that my light was going to expire without warning.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t have the strength to go on. I was young and had never been in better health. It wasn’t that I was overwhelmed by grief. I was grieving, but I had spent huge sections of my life absorbed by grief. I knew I could withstand its worst.

  It was just that I was tired. That’s what I told myself. I was worn out by lack of sleep coupled with an abundance of grief and responsibility and guilt. So I closed the manuscript and turned out the light.

  For a long time I lay there looking at the steady movement of the passing headlights across my bedroom wall… and remembering Benjamin.

  ~~

  When we met, Ben Williams was twenty-five and I was twenty-two. It seems impossible now we were ever so young. Yet at the time I thought he was the most mature individual I had ever known. In fact I almost refused to see him again after our first date. I thought he was too serious for me. It’s hard to imagine that I, the nerdiest beast on two legs, thought Ben was too serious for me. It astounds me how little self-awareness I sometimes possess.

  By our second date I was in love. Ben was handsome and sure and intelligent and idealistic. He was also funny, making me laugh in a way I didn’t know was possible. He made me laugh from the inside out. I’d never done that, at least not in my memory. Nothing had ever seemed that funny to me.

  We ate in restaurants he couldn’t afford and laughed over how he would make his next car payment. He would never allow me to pay for anything. From the start he was determined no one would accuse him of chasing my money, or rather, Daddy’s money.

  We studied together in the library and struggled to suppress our laughter at the serious people around us. Our grades might have fallen slightly, but we were both A students. We could afford the interlude.

  I was deliriously happy. There were nights when I would sit across the dinner table from Daddy with Gail and Lucy on either side of me and plunge headfirst into panic. What if it were all to end? What if Daddy wouldn’t accept Benjamin? What if the fact Ben was black became an issue? What would I do if Daddy tried to break us up?

  Eventually, though, I had no choice but to introduce Ben to my father. I couldn’t let him know how worried I was. Daddy took it well, warming up to Ben like a long lost friend. They spent the entire evening discussing literature in general and Daddy’s books in particular, a subject that could be counted on to keep Daddy animated.

  It was going too well, I thought. I fought down the panic and bit my lip. The evening played itself out and I waited for Ben to leave. I waited for Daddy’s inevitable disapproval.

  It didn’t come, at least not immediately. Daddy even made a point of asking Ben to join us at literary gatherings. He graciously introduced Ben to everyone as ‘Desdemona’s friend’, and when we became engaged later that year he proudly told people Ben was his future son-in-law.

  “I’ve never had a son,” he said, beaming at Ben. “Of course, with Desdemona as a daughter I’ve never felt I was missing anything. Nevertheless this will be a wonderful experience for me.”

  Lucy adored Ben. Why wouldn’t she? He spoke to her as if she were an adult and treated her like an equal. He listened to everything she said. That was the way he was with everyone, I discovered. Ben was one of those rare people who inspired friendship easily because he genuinely liked people.

  Gail was still in ‘reform’ mode, which meant she was keeping busy with chores and schoolwork and generally not making any waves. But beyond a general politeness I got the feeling she was slipping away. Whatever small connection she had to the rest of us was becoming frayed. So it’s hard to say whether Gail liked Ben. She didn’t seem to dislike him.

  In my euphoric state I found it impossible to concentrate for long periods of time on Gail and her problems. Ben was worried. He thought maybe my affection for him was putting Gail in an emotionally precarious position. I assured him for Gail things were going about as smoothly as they ever did.

  It was the truth, wasn’t it? Even now I wrack my brain looking for the telltale sign, the warning I should have seen. But on the surface, everything was coming up roses. I was ecstatic in my wedding plans, Daddy was on his best behaviour, my fiancée was obviously in love with me and my sisters were happy for me, or at least not apparently unhappy. For the first time in my life I felt like I had all my wheels spinning in the same direction.

  I finally fell asleep, tossing helplessly against a torrent of dreams.

  At four o’clock I woke suddenly and sat bolt upright in one of those moments of clarity. The desk! Of course! That’s what I had to do. I’d give the desk to Lucy. After all, it was mine to do with as I pleased. As much as I missed Daddy, there was an undeniable sense of liberation surrounding his absence.

  It was settled. First thing in the morning I’d tell her she could have my lovely desk. She could even have my room for that matter if she chose to stay in the house. I no longer needed such a large room. I had my own house.

  I lay back down feeling as though I’d managed to strike a difficult but important bargain with someone. I closed my eyes expecting sleep to waft back into my brain like a summer breeze, but instead I found myself once again trapped like a captive audience in a movie theatre, watching my memories play out behind my eyelids and hoping against hope for an alternate conclusion.

  SIX

  Saturday morning found me locked in slumber. I’d lain awake for hours the night before, wrestling with the memories uncovered by Millennium Girl. The clock radio was about to burst forth its morning babble when Lucy crept into my room with a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. It was so like her I nearly wept. Never mind her own exhaustion, her eyes puffy and red from weeping. Lucy would always find a way to put
her loved ones ahead of herself, even if it meant something as simple as getting up first to make the coffee.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. She put her own mug down on a coaster on my desk and sat down to drink it with me. I propped myself up on my pillows and raised my mug to her.

  “How are you this morning?” I asked.

  “So-so. What time do we have to see the Detective?”

  “Ten o’clock. Detective Phoebe Manor.”

  We both smiled at the name. Daddy would have loved it. He had a thing about names. Hence Desdemona Fortune, Abigail Fortune and Lucinda Fortune. He always felt the greatness of his own name, Julius Caesar Fortune, had led him to success. There was probably a lot of truth in that. Daddy had spent his entire life living up to his name.

  He would never call us by our short names. Mommy called us Mona, Gail and Lucy respectively, but to Daddy that was a travesty. He never referred to her as Angie, believing he had given her a tremendous gift in his name. Angelina Fortune – that was what he called her. To everyone else she was simply Angie.

  He would have loved the name Detective Phoebe Manor. It added to the drama of his death.

  “To the Manor born!” Lucy said imitating Daddy’s voice.

  I laughed with her, until a wave of nausea rose in my throat. I reached for my coffee cup hoping to hide behind it for a moment until the feeling passed.

  “Are you OK?” Lucy asked.

  “Yeah. Just didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “I made breakfast. It’s in the warming oven.”

  “What did you make?”

  “Bacon and egg sandwiches on brown toast.”

  Normally I would eat whatever Lucy made without question. At home alone I never ate breakfast. I would usually have some bread crisps for a mid-morning snack. But when Lucy was around every meal was properly prepared and served. Food was her comforter, her friend and her enemy. She also believed it was her link to others.

  This morning, though, I didn’t have the stomach for so much heavy food. After Lucy carried her empty mug back down the stairs, I reached into my nightstand for a couple of soda biscuits and ate them lying down. After a moment I got out of bed and followed Lucy down the stairs.

  My appetite returned by the time I got to the table. After breakfast I called Uncle Willard to let him know what time we were leaving. I’d promised to pick him up on the way to the station. Uncle Willard has always been protective of us, especially since Mom died.

  I could never look at his tidy front yard and flower gardens without feeling a familiar stab under my ribs. It was the jab of a memory – Mom and I had been together here. We had walked among those impatiens and we had cut those lilies for the table. We had sat on that very porch in the early evening watching the people walk by and listening to the wind moving through the branches of Will’s grand Maple.

  Lucy would never share those memories with me. She couldn’t remember anything about our mother. Anyway, she had her own phantoms to chase now. Gail and Daddy – they had both gotten away from Lucy.

  She would need me now. I looked past her sad brown eyes to the front door in time to see our uncle turn the key and try the handle one last time. He swung his walking stick and hooked it over his arm before waving at us.

  “Hello, girls,” he said. He leaned into the front passenger window to kiss Lucy on the cheek. “How was your trip back yesterday?”

  “It was ok.”

  “And how are you holding up?”

  “Oh, Uncle Will, how could something like this happen?”

  “I don’t know, my dear.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re just going to have to take it one day at a time, one step at a time, Lucy. Don’t try to think too far ahead right now. First we have to help the police. Then we have to notify Caesar’s agent and he’ll send out a press release. Then we have to get through the funeral. One step at a time…” He climbed into the back seat and rested his hand on her shoulder. To me he said, “Did you get some sleep?”

  “A little.” A picture of Ben flashed into my mind and again I felt a lump in my throat.

  “OK, then. Let’s get this over with.”

  Detective Phoebe Manor was punctual. We agreed to allow her to speak with Lucy alone on her promise if Lucy became too distraught then one or both of us could join her. I couldn’t see any harm in letting her question Lucy and my instincts told me it would look bad to make things difficult for the police. They had a job to do. They had to find Daddy’s killer.

  I expected the interview to be brief – after all, what could Lucy possibly tell them? Still, I was surprised to see the Detective approach us only minutes after the questioning began.

  “Ms. Fortune,” she said, “could you please join us?”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  Uncle Willard was as surprised as I was. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Can my Uncle come as well?” I asked. There is safety in numbers. Whatever hoops Lucy was being asked to jump through, Will and I were there for her.

  “That should be OK,” she said.

  We found Lucy sitting alone in the interview room. Her eyes were red and she was clutching a tissue. She was unable to speak. I sat down beside her and let her bury her face in my shoulder while she cried. We sat like that for a moment while Detective Manor looked on. Uncle Willard sat on the other side of Lucy and fidgeted.

  “We were just talking about that last night when you had dinner with your father.” The Detective’s voice was soft and low. I let it soothe my frayed nerves while Lucy struggled with her composure.

  Turning to me Detective Manor said, “I was asking your sister about your father’s state of mind that evening. In your statement you indicated your father was in a good mood. You said he had just finished his latest manuscript and was anxious for you to read it. Your sister remembers your father was angry with her.” She left that statement lying on the table, waiting for me to comment.

  “Yes,” I said. I had forgotten their dispute. It was such a minor thing and so ordinary. “Daddy was angry for a few minutes. It wasn’t a big thing, really. He was disappointed with Lucy’s latest report card.”

  “Her grades had dropped?”

  “No. They were the same as always. Daddy was pressing for improvement. That’s why he sent Lucy to private school in Montreal. He was hoping the new environment would stimulate her.”

  “I shouldn’t have argued with him,” Lucy said through her tears. “It was the last time I spoke with him.”

  “Now, Lucy,” Uncle Willard said, “you’re going to have to put that out of your mind. Your father knew how much you loved him. Every child has the occasional argument with his or her parents. The timing was unfortunate, but that’s part of life. Think back to what a wonderful daughter you were. You always tried your best. Caesar knew that.”

  “I’ll try,” she sniffed.

  The Detective picked up her pen, recalling our attention with the subtle movement.

  “Was your father still angry when you went to bed?” she asked.

  “He was fine when I left the house,” I said.

  Detective Manor ignored me and waited for Lucy’s reply.

  “He wanted me to move back home,” she said. “I didn’t want to. I have new friends at school. I’m tired of moving around.”

  “Did you continue to argue?”

  “No. I just went to bed.” I knew what Lucy meant. She never argued with Daddy. If he told her to move back home, that’s what she would do.

  “Did you see your father in the morning?”

  “No. I had breakfast alone. He was already gone.”

  “What time did you get up?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “And he’d already left the house? Was that unusual?”

  “No,” Lucy and I answered together.

  “He met with students and faculty in the mornings before lectures began,” I explained. “It was normal for him to leave the house early, especially on
a Monday.”

  “Why Monday?”

  “He liked to get outstanding issues resolved early in the week. Then he could focus on his work with fewer distractions.”

  The Detective nodded and turned back to Lucy.

  “Did you know of anyone who was angry with your father?” she asked gently.

  “No. Daddy was good to everyone. I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt him.”

  Uncle Willard and I exchanged glances. I quickly looked at my hands, but not before the Detective had caught our looks.

  “You don’t agree?” she asked me.

  “Daddy wasn’t perfect,” I said. “Lucy tends to see the good in everyone.”

  “What was imperfect about him?”

  “He was a successful man,” I said. “Success brings its own problems. He had a strong ego. Sometimes he could make other people feel less successful.”

  “Was he arrogant?”

  I hesitated. Of course he’d been arrogant. He was after all J. Caesar Fortune. How could I explain the simple truth without being disloyal? He was my father. Was he arrogant? Yes. Chauvinistic? Yes. Could he sometimes be a total pain in the ass? Most assuredly. Still, he was my father. People have a responsibility for their own emotional well being. If anyone felt cowed or shadowed by my father’s prowess, well, he couldn’t help that. Could he?

  “Ms. Fortune?”

  “Yes. I would say at times he could be arrogant. Most people in the literary world can be accused of that particular failing.”

  “Did his arrogance create enemies for him?”

  “It’s possible. I just don’t know. I don’t remember him speaking badly of anyone.”

  Recently, I added mentally.

  ~~

  Ben and I married during my last year of teacher’s college. Ben wanted a simple ceremony, a handful of family members and friends in a neighbourhood church followed by dinner at one of the faculty buildings. Of course Daddy wouldn’t hear of it. Nothing but the best would do for his Desdemona. I tried to argue with him, but the truth of the matter is my head was turned by the imagery of the fairy-tale wedding. Daddy compiled a list of guests, including professors and literary people and their families. Ben and I said “I do” at Trinity Church and sat down to a catered feast for three hundred, followed by dancing that went on till well past midnight.