The LeBaron Secret

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “When you were little, and would ask me to tell you a story, I’d always say, ‘I have two stories—one about a good little girl, and one about a bad little girl.’ You always wanted the one about the bad little girl.”

  “I got very good at being a bad little girl, didn’t I? I’d think: Whenever they think of separating because of whatever is so wrong between them, one of them will say to the other, ‘But what will we do about Melissa? Melissa is such a problem to herself that she can’t be left alone.’ And so I made myself the problem, the unsolvable problem, that would force you to stay together, and the minute one problem was solved I’d think up a new one for myself. And it seemed to work. And all the time I told myself: If Melissa is a good little girl, they’ll say to themselves: ‘We can separate, we can divorce, because Melissa is no problem.’”

  Sari reaches out now and touches Melissa’s hands, which are folded in her lap. “Now, look, Melissa,” she says. “We’re not quarreling now, are we. We’re talking like two sensible adults about things we should have talked about for years. We’re talking like two friends. So don’t move out. Stay with me. I need you.”

  “And then you had your accident, and I thought: Good, he can never leave her now. He’s responsible for what happened to her, and his guilt will make him stay. She’s too dependent on him now—he’ll have to stay. You see, he was the one I was afraid would go away and leave us. I loved him so—this father who turns out not to have been my father at all. Perhaps that was why he never seemed to love me back. Who was I? Nothing but his poor sister’s illegitimate child, whom you and he had been forced to raise.”

  “I think Peter loved you very much,” Sari says.

  “And then he killed himself.”

  “A hunting accident—that was the coroner’s verdict.”

  “Nonsense. He never hunted. In fact, I think I killed him.”

  “What in the world makes you say that, Melissa?”

  “I think I killed him as surely as if I’d pulled the trigger. Do you remember how he never seemed to like to look at me? Do you remember how he never seemed to want to speak to me? He seemed to treat me as though I were some sort of terrible family mistake—and I guess I was. My presence almost seemed to embarrass him. That summer of nineteen fifty-five we were all at Bitterroot, and the twins were coming home from camp in the East, and we were all excited—at least I was. It was only two weeks after your accident, and the doctors were still saying that they thought you’d be able to walk again. Everyone was trying to be optimistic—why did I choose that moment to be hateful? I was a grown woman then and should have known better than to do what I did, but perhaps my badness had become a habit. He was going out one morning, to cut down more of his trees, I supposed, and I said to him, ‘Daddy, are you excited that the twins are coming home?’ And without looking at me he said something like, ‘Of course I am.’ And then I said to him something like, ‘Why are you always so happy and excited to see the twins, but never happy and excited to see me?’ He said nothing. Didn’t answer me, and wouldn’t look at me. And so I asked him the question again, and still he wouldn’t answer me. And then I suddenly got angry, lost my temper, and I said to him, ‘What kind of a father are you, anyway? You tried to kill her, didn’t you? Even if she’s not my real mother, you tried to kill her. What kind of father would try to kill a person? I hate you.’ And that was the day he did it.”

  Sari says nothing. There is, of course, a piece of green blotting paper in the Regency games table that she could show her, the handwriting on it so faint and faded as to be almost illegible. But Sari decides to keep that secret to herself.

  “It’s an irony, isn’t it,” Melissa says. “The father I wanted so much to keep I ended by destroying.”

  Perhaps all three of us should share the blame for that, Sari thinks, if that’s what happened—Melissa, Joanna, and myself. The three women who loved him. If that’s what happened.

  “Anyway,” Melissa says with a little smile—Melissa’s beauty still shines when she smiles, Peter’s beauty, Joanna’s beauty, and we are talking only of physical beauty here—“I’ve been on quite a little journey of self-discovery over the past few months. So maybe you can see why I’m eager to take the next leg of the trip on my own.”

  “Well, at least tell me one thing,” Sari says. “If you had come to the meeting this morning, which side would you have voted on?”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have voted on the side of a woman who gave me away, who wouldn’t acknowledge me, a woman who didn’t want to be my mother, who handed me off to another woman to raise. That’s one reason I didn’t come this morning. I didn’t want to look at her.”

  “Well, it’s good to know you’d have voted on my side.”

  “No. I wouldn’t have done that, either. I couldn’t bring myself to vote on the side of a woman who had me sterilized.”

  “That was done on the advice of experts!”

  “Experts! Haven’t you lived long enough to know that there are no experts? Only know-it-alls and charlatans and cranks, and people who see a way to get a piece of the action.”

  “Dr. Obermark! You had been found in a—in a sexual situation with Lance, your half brother—”

  “Don’t try to blame Dr. Obermark,” Melissa says. “You were the one who gave permission for the operation. You were the one who told the lie to me. I was old enough to understand, if you had told me, but you didn’t. That’s why I wouldn’t have voted on your side today.”

  “And yet that’s what you ended up doing—do you know that? Your failure to vote was counted as a vote against the takeover. So there!”

  “Yes, so there. I know all that. So it didn’t matter anyway. And, frankly, Mother, that was the final reason why I didn’t come this morning. I didn’t give a damn whether Kern-McKittrick took over the company or not. I still don’t.”

  “How can you be so ungrateful? Do you know that the only reason why you’re here is because of me?”

  “None of us asked to be born.”

  “They wanted to give you up for adoption. That’s what would have happened if it weren’t for me. I agreed to take you when no one else would. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have grown up in an orphanage or a foster home. If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have any of your money. Everything you have you owe to me, including that emerald ring on your little finger!”

  Melissa rises. “And you see? Here we are quarreling again. As always. I’ve got to go.”

  “I won’t let you leave!” Sari is shouting now, and even Thomas, waiting in the vestibule beyond a closed door, can hear her, and we can imagine Thomas wincing at the terrible things that are being said, but it is not Thomas’s station to interfere. “You’re an alcoholic and an irresponsible, immoral woman! If you leave, I’ll tell you what will happen. You’ll get drunk and find yourself in bed with some unsuitable man, some gigolo who’ll want to marry you for your money. Within two months—I predict this, Melissa!—you’ll come crawling back to me on your hands and knees, begging me to take you in!”

  Melissa moves toward her. With her free hand, she slowly twists the square-cut emerald solitaire from the little finger of her left hand, and drops the ring in Sari’s lap. “That,” she says, “is to repay you for everything you’ve done for me.”

  Sari looks briefly at the ring. “You’re a miserable, ungrateful child, and I hope your fortune-hunting gigolo takes you for everything you’re worth! You’re a drunken, dissolute woman!”

  “Good-bye, Mother.”

  “If you leave, I’ll cut you off without a cent in my will. I won’t leave you a blessed cent! Why should I? You’re no kin of mine—no kin whatever!”

  “What are you afraid of, Assaria LeBaron?” Melissa asks. “Are you afraid that the old ghosts in the portrait gallery will come out of their frames to haunt you? Is that what you’re afraid of? My father’s ghost? My grandfather’s ghost? Athalie’s ghost?”

  “I forbid you to leave this house!”
<
br />   At the door, with one hand on the knob, Melissa says, “You can’t forbid anymore. Don’t forget, you’re no longer in control.”

  “Get out!” Sari screams. “Get out of here!”

  Eighteen

  “And so here I am,” she is saying to him, “with nothing. I have a fancy new title, but no specific duties, and now no daughter. I’ve been abandoned by everybody. My phone hardly rings anymore, and I get hardly any office memos. I’ve turned over my old office to Eric, and Alix has decided to redecorate it, and they’re painting it dark green. Miss Martino complains that she has nothing to do, and she’s asked my permission to start looking for another job. The new broom must sweep clean—and sweep me under the carpet in the process, like yesterday’s newspaper, out with the garbage. All alone, and helpless, and seventy-nine years old.”

  “Seventy-four,” he corrects.

  “It feels more like eighty-four when you’re all alone and useless, after a lifetime of hard work. Sixty Minutes doesn’t want me on the show. Nobody wants me. I’m yesterday’s news. I’m obsolete. I’m utterly useless, Gabe.”

  “You kicked yourself upstairs voluntarily. You didn’t have to, you know.”

  “I know. And I could kick myself for having done it. I only did it so Joanna wouldn’t have the last word. But it’s too late now, and I’m left with nothing at all.”

  “Well, if you expect me to sit here feeling sorry for you, you’re wrong,” he says. “You’re one of the richest women in California. You can afford to do anything you want.”

  “Do? Do what?”

  “Well, I can think of a number of things.”

  “Such as? Such as what?”

  “Well, the Condors are playing Detroit on Saturday. They’ll expect you to be up there in the stands, rooting for them.”

  “Oh, I will be. But that’s not a job.”

  “What about another rehabilitation project, like the Odeon? There are still a lot of good old buildings in the south-of-Market area waiting to be restored and put to use.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about do-goody stuff, Lady Bountiful stuff. That’s not like a job, either. Don’t forget, you’re talking to a woman who’s worked since she was ten years old.”

  “Thirteen,” he corrects again.

  “I’m tired of Lady Bountiful stuff. Rehabbing old buildings isn’t something you do yourself, anyway. You farm the work out to contractors. It’s not like running a company—your own company.”

  “Why not,” he says half-seriously, “get your commercial pilot’s license and start your own air freight service?”

  But she takes him seriously. “Can’t. I’m considered a handicapped person.”

  “I was only—”

  “So you see? There’s absolutely nothing for me—an old woman, at the end of her life, left with nothing to do but spend her last years twiddling her thumbs and waiting for death. All alone.”

  “Poor, poor Sari,” he says. “Poor little rich girl. Your story is sadder than Barbara Hutton’s.”

  “Money is nothing,” she says. “I never wanted money. Without something to do, money is just dust in the mouth. Peter taught me that—the importance of keeping busy. Even if it was just cutting down trees.”

  “Have you made your peace with Eric?” he asks.

  “What do you mean, made my peace?”

  “Well, there’s been some pretty heavy weather between the two of you these past few weeks, a lot of rough things said. Have you and he buried the hatchet?”

  “He’s got the presidency of the company! What more does he want from me?”

  “Maybe a kind word or two?”

  “Actually,” she says, “I was rather proud of Eric for taking me on the way he did. It showed he’s a good fighter, and I like that. It showed that Eric’s got gumption. Eric’s not put together with wheat flour and water paste. He fought me, and he fought fair, and it was a good fight.”

  “It might be nice if you told him that.”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought of it, but maybe I will. Of course it’s no secret that Eric’s always been my favorite of the twins. He’s smart, and he’s tough, and he works hard. He’ll be a good president, wait and see. But Peeper—Peeper’s just the opposite, all bubbly, bubbly charm on the surface, but is there anything solid underneath? Peeper’s a follower, Eric’s a leader. I guess I like Eric best because Eric is more like me. Peeper is more like Peter—the old Peter. Do you remember the old Peter, Gabe? Fun-loving, gay, charming, reckless, afraid of nothing. Of course, that was before …”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, Eric is going to need some supervision—and I’ll see that he gets it, Gabe. But Peeper? I’m afraid I’ve really got some hard work ahead of me in Peeper’s case. If Peeper’s going to be a decent executive v.p., I’m really going to have to put the screws on him. Eric’s almost ready to be given his head, but I’m going to have to keep a tight rein on Peeper for a while.”

  “You see? It’s already beginning to sound as though you’ve got plenty of work cut out for yourself, Sari.”

  “Oh, I intend to keep my hand in things, don’t worry about that. I don’t intend to just sit on the sidelines and watch those two make a mess of three generations’ worth of hard work. After all, I’m still a majority stockholder, Gabe, and that gives me a certain amount of—”

  “Power.”

  “Right! They’re not going to run roughshod over a majority stockholder—don’t worry about that. They’re still going to have to answer to me.”

  “You’ll keep those boys on their toes, Sari.”

  “Right!”

  “So—are you feeling a little better about the situation now?”

  “Well, maybe. Maybe a little. Except—Melissa. I miss her so, Gabe. That big apartment downstairs—completely empty now. I wish there were some way to get her to come back.”

  “I’m sure she’ll come back for visits.”

  “Do you think so? I don’t know. Our last fight was—pretty bad. Do you know what she said to me? She said, ‘We’re not even related to each other.’ But that’s not true, is it? She’s my stepdaughter, and doesn’t that make us related in a way? But of course, she doesn’t know that. Which means—”

  Suddenly, she swings her wheelchair in a half circle, facing away from him. To Gabe, this is a signal. It is a signal that Assaria LeBaron has just had some new idea. “Which means what?” he asks her.

  “I know the secret of who her father was, which she’d dearly like to know. I know that secret, and I’m the only one who could ever tell it to her. That gives me a certain amount of—control over her, doesn’t it? If I told her that I knew that secret, that might bring her back. Mightn’t it? She’ll come back—once she knows I know!”

  “Are you sure you want to tell her, Sari? I’m the only other person you’ve ever told.”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll decide that later. The point is that I know.” All at once she laughs. “It’s like the secret of what’s in Grandpa’s old wine barrel, isn’t it? We’ll never know what’s in there until someone pulls the bung out, and all we know is that something’s in there, some living, breathing thing. And look how that old wine barrel has dominated our lives, the way it dominates the portrait gallery! Think about it, Gabe. I know the secret! We used to talk about Melissa being the loose cannon in the family. Now I’m the loose cannon, aren’t I?”

  He shakes his head in wonder at her. “Meanwhile,” he says, “Archie McPherson is putting the finishing touches on the story about the failure of the Kern-McKittrick takeover bid. In it, you emerge as something of the heroine of the day. That should make you even happier.”

  “Ah, yes. Archie. Your little pet. Well, he can still be useful to us, I suppose.”

  “He’s young. He has talent. But I should warn you, Sari. He still has this idea in his head about writing up the whole LeBaron family story.”

  “Don’t let him do it, Gabe. I know he’s bright, but I don’t trust him. Anyone who’d do work for m
e while he’s also working for you isn’t to be trusted. Besides, he wouldn’t do it right. He’d make Peter into the heavy, or something, and Peter wasn’t the heavy. He was just an ordinary man who happened to be scarred by love. Love was like a snake that bit him once, and he never recovered from it, no matter how hard we all tried to help him. Gabe—I’ve just had a wonderful idea! Why don’t you write our story? Yes, you’re the one who should write it, Gabe. You’re the one I want to write it. I’ll help you. Oh, do it, Gabe. You’re the only one who knows all the facts, who knows what really happened, and who knows all the family secrets, all the lies and deceptions and cover-ups. You know the truth, so write it warts and all. Make me the heavy if you like, because some people might say I was, but remember that I kept my promise to them, and never told anyone their secret. I made a deal and stuck to it. Write our story. You could put a little plug in for the Condors. They’ll need every little boost they can get this season. And after the book is written, after we’ve told everything—then we’ll decide whether to get it printed up, and whether to let Melissa read it. Because maybe, if Melissa could read the book, and learned the truth about all the sacrifices I’ve made for her, and all the suffering I’ve done for her, she’ll forgive me, and come back! Don’t smile, Gabe—I really think she might. Don’t you think she might, if she reads how much I love her and how much I miss her? I think she might, Gabe. Because I do miss her. I even miss our fights, and we had some doozies. And how could I help but love her, having raised her from a tiny baby? Do you think you could write our story in such a way that it would bring Melissa back?”