"Evenin'," he mumbled, and he seized the door jamb to steady himself.
"Philip Cutler, are you drunk?" I asked.
"Drunk? Noooooooo. Oh . . . maybe, just a trifle," he said, squeezing his thumb and forefinger together. "May I come in?" he asked, straightening up.
"It's late, Philip. What do you want?" I asked, not giving an inch of ground.
"Simply to . . . to . . . talk," he said, and he fell forward, stepping just in time to keep from landing on his face. I had no choice but to close the door.
"How could you do this, Philip? Don't you care what the guests will say if they see you? What's come over you?" He covered his ears with his hands.
"My God, it's as if she rose from the grave," he moaned. "How could you do this?" he mimicked. "What will the guests think if they see you?' "
"Philip!"
"I need something to drink," he muttered, and he stumbled his way into our den. He knew where Jimmy kept our whiskey and headed directly toward it.
"You've had enough to drink, Philip," I said. I cut him off in the middle of the room and grabbed his right arm, spinning him around.
"Dawn," he said, smiling, "you look lovely tonight. Just the way I always imagine you, with your hair down. You're wearing one of your sheer nightgowns under that, aren't you?" he asked, licking his lips.
"Philip, you turn yourself around and march yourself back to the hotel and your wife this moment, do you hear me?" I commanded. He nodded, but he didn't move.
"My wife," he said, and he fixed his eyes on me, his lips moving into a grotesque mockery of a smile. "You could have been my wife if that security guard hadn't recognized your father." He seized my shoulders and pressed his forehead to my hair. "We would have eloped before Grandmother could have said anything," he whispered. From the way he spoke, I knew it was a fantasy he replayed time and time again.
"Philip, that's ridiculous; it's ridiculous to think and to dream such things."
"No, it isn't," he replied. I couldn't stand the odor of his whiskey breath and started to pull myself from his embrace, but his fingers tightened, and he pressed his right hand against my back, running it up my spine. His lips brushed over my eyes. I struggled harder until I broke from his hold. He staggered, his eyes glazed.
"Wait, Dawn," he said, his voice nearly a whisper now, "it's not too late for us."
"What are you talking about, Philip? How can you even think these things?" I said, taking another step back. He shook his head vigorously.
"You don't understand. Listen . . . listen," he pleaded. He stepped toward me. "I know you and Jimmy have been trying to have a child and have failed all this time. But we wouldn't fail," he said in a loud whisper. "We wouldn't."
"What?" Instinctively I brought my hands to my bosom.
"We wouldn't fail, and no one would have to know, not even Jimmy. He'd think the baby was his own, don't you see? It would be our little secret, our precious little secret." His smile widened as the possibility of such a fantasy coming true suddenly loomed in his eyes. "Look at how pretty my children are. Ours would be no different, and if the child had golden hair, too, why, no one would think anything of it, seeing the color of your hair.
"I want to do this for you . . . for us . . . for the family," he pledged.
"Philip, you're mad, even madder than I ever imagined. I know that some of what you're saying, you're saying because you're drunk, but even to have these thoughts is terrible. I'm your sister. We share family blood."
"It won't matter." He closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously. "It won't. We have different fathers."
"Philip," I snapped. "Even if we weren't related, I would never betray Jimmy. I would never be unfaithful."
"Sure you would," he insisted, smiling licentiously. "You're like me. You've inherited some of Mother, too."
"No," I cried. "I want you out of here now. I insist you leave. Go home to your wife and sleep off these distorted and terrible thoughts. Go!" I ordered, pointing toward the door. Desperation made my voice high and shrill. He staggered for a moment, and then his debauched smile returned.
"Dawn . . . our child . . ." He came toward me. I started to flee the room, but even in his drunken state he had quick enough reflexes to reach out and seize my left arm, pulling me toward him and toward the sofa.
"Philip! Stop this!" I screamed. He locked his arms around mine, holding me down. Then he began to flood my face with his wet kisses. "Philip, you're doing a horrible thing again!" I tried to kick my way free, but I only lost my balance and fell back to the sofa with him over me. Once again I screamed; I even tried to bite his ear, but he didn't release his viselike grip.
"Dawn, oh, Dawn," he chanted. His mouth began to nuzzle between my breasts. I grew dizzy with the struggle. I couldn't believe what was happening. When he started to bring his right hand to my thigh, I pummeled his head and shoulder with my free left fist, but it was like a fly attacking an elephant; his drunken stupor kept him from feeling any pain. He was drowning in his fantasy. It was almost too late.
And then I heard Christie's small voice. I stopped struggling and listened again. She was calling from behind us, from the doorway. Miraculously, Philip heard her as well, and it brought his attack to an end. He froze.
"Momma!" Christie called. I pushed Philip away and sat up, quickly straightening my robe and my hair. I couldn't let her see what was happening.
"What's wrong, honey?" I asked, forcing a smile. I swung my legs out from under Philip, who sat back on the sofa, his eyes sewn shut.
"I thought I heard Daddy," she said. "Is Daddy home?"
"Oh, no, Christie." I rose from the sofa, went to her and picked her up to hold her in my arms. "It's not Daddy. It's Uncle Philip."
"Uncle Philip?" Her sleepy eyes shifted toward the couch. Philip opened his; he was just sober enough to realize what was happening.
"Hi, Christie," he said, waving.
"Is Aunt Bet here, too?" Christie asked.
"No. Uncle Philip just stopped by to tell me something about the hotel. But he was just leaving," I added pointedly.
"Yes, that's right." He struggled to his feet and straightened his own clothing. "It's late. So," he declared, "I shall wander on home." He turned and started toward the door. "Home to my bed of dreams," he added. He stopped at the doorway and turned, bowing. "Good night, ladies."
Christie giggled. I said nothing until he opened the door and was gone.
"Uncle Philip's funny," Christie said.
"Not really," I replied, but she didn't hear or understand. "Let's go back to bed," I told her, and I carried her up. After I put her in again I went back downstairs to be sure the front door was locked. Then I put out all the lights and went up to bed, my heart still pounding. I pulled Jimmy's pillow close to me and pressed my face into it to stifle my .tears. That was how I finally fell asleep.
In the morning the events of the night before seemed more like a nightmare. I got Christie dressed and ready for school; then I dressed myself, and we had breakfast together. After I sent her off I went to the hotel and my office. I wasn't there an hour before I heard a knock on the door. It was Philip. He looked tired, drained, his normally immaculate style flawed by loose strands of hair, a poorly knotted tie and drooping eyelids.
"Dawn," he began. I glared at him. "I just came by to apologize for my behavior last night. I drank too much, and . . . and I lost my sense of proportion," he confessed,
"Don't you ever come to my house without an invitation again, Philip," I snarled. I was not in any sort of forgiving mood. "To think that Christie almost saw—"
"I know; I know. I'm sorry, and I hate myself for it," he said. Humbly he bowed his head and gazed down at the floor. My anger abated, and the tension left my body as I relaxed back in my chair.
"You need to see someone, Philip. You're disturbed. I'm afraid if you don't, you'll end up like Randolph." He lifted his head and cut his eyes toward me sharply. "You're already doing strange things."
"She
's told you, hasn't she?" he asked quickly.
"No one has had to tell me anything, Philip. I've seen for myself."
He nodded.
"Are you going to tell Jimmy? About last night, I mean?"
"No," I said. "If I did, he would kill you."
Philip nodded again.
"I'm sorry,"" he repeated. "It won't happen again, I promise, and I will . . . try to find someone to talk to," he pledged.
"Good."
He gazed at me longingly for a moment and then turned and quickly left. The moment he was gone I released the breath I had trapped in my lungs. All I could do was hope what he said was true. I meant it when I said I wouldn't tell Jimmy. I knew he had always harbored some suspicions about Philip, and this would just confirm it all and send him into a rage.
When the phone rang an hour or so after Philip's apology and I heard Jimmy's voice, I had the terrible feeling that he somehow sensed something had happened, even over all the distance between us. But he was calling for another reason, a reason that would blind him to anything else.
"Dawn," he began, "I told you I might be calling you today with some good news. Well, I am!"
"What is it, Jimmy? I've never heard you so excited," I said, growing excited myself.
"Ready for this? I've been giving Daddy a little money to invest in a project of ours."
"What project?"
"Wait. Just listen. When Daddy was in prison he met a man who did some work from time to time investigating things. That's what got him into prison—he found out someone's deep, dark secret and tried to blackmail him.
"Anyway, Daddy put this person on our case as soon as he was released from prison, and guess what he has done."
"I can't imagine, Jimmy. What?"
"He's located Fern," Jimmy said.
For a moment I couldn't respond. My heart began to thump with excitement. Images of Fern as a baby flashed before my eyes. I recalled that first time I had looked at her in the maternity ward and the disappointment I felt when I saw she had no resemblance to me; but I also remembered the hours and hours I spent taking care of her, and how she used to cry for me to hold her and sing to her. Momma Longchamp had often apologized to me because I had to spend so much time taking care of Fern.
"You ain't got time to be a little girl yourself," she would say, "rushin' home from school every day to help me take care of a baby."
But I didn't mind. It was fascinating to watch Fern grow and discover things around her. For me, she was like a real-life doll, the ultimate little girl's plaything.
"Are you sure, Jimmy, absolutely positive he's located our Fern?"
"Absolutely," Jimmy replied.
"Have you seen her?"
"Of course not," Jimmy said. "She's not in Texas; she's in New York City. That's where her stepparents eventually moved. She lives in a townhouse in Manhattan, not very far from where you went to school and where you lived.
"Just think, Dawn," Jimmy said, "all the time you were there, you were so close to her. Why, you might have passed her on the sidewalk and not even noticed," he said. The possibility stole my breath away.
"Oh, Jimmy, what do you think we should do?" I asked, my heart pounding even harder.
"First I'll come right home, and then the two of us will go to see her. I'm sure it's just as you suspect—she doesn't even know we exist.
"But she will," Jimmy pledged. "She will very soon."
13
SEEING FERN AGAIN
JIMMY SAT ON THE SOFA IN MY OFFICE AND EXCITEDLY RATTLED off the details provided by the man he and Daddy Longchamp had hired. Right after Jimmy called me in the morning he had started out for home, and when he arrived he had come directly to my office. Christie hadn't even seen him yet, and very few people in the hotel knew he had returned.
"The couple's name is Osborne, Clayton and Leslie. Clayton Osborne is an investment broker on Wall Street. His wife has recently begun to enjoy some success as an artist, placing some of her paintings in galleries around the city. She has her own studio in Greenwich Village."
"How old are they?"
"They're both in their mid-thirties."
"Do they have any other children? Adopted or otherwise?" I asked.
"No. They have a townhouse on First Avenue in Manhattan and have been living there for nearly nine years. Before that they lived in Richmond. Fern goes to a very expensive private school," Jimmy concluded, obviously proud of accomplishing what Mr. Updike and his high-priced private detective had been unable to do.
However, listening to these details about people who had no idea we were snooping around them made me feel like an eavesdropper, a Peeping Tom. How would I like someone watching me, following me, taking notes? After all these years they probably had no suspicions they were being observed, no fears concerning themselves and Fern.
"They sound well-to-do and accomplished," I remarked. "Especially if they own a townhouse in that section of the city."
"So? What does that have to do with anything?" Jimmy snapped. I could see he was on a short fuse.
"Nothing," I said quickly. "I'm just glad she was able to have nice things and live comfortably."
"Yeah, I suppose we should be happy about that," he admitted.
"Well, what do we do now, Jimmy?" I asked.
"I'm going to pick up that phone on your desk and dial their number and tell them directly who we are and what we want," he replied firmly.
"What do we want, Jimmy?" I asked because I wasn't sure what we would do once we arrived in New York.
He looked surprised for a moment.
"Well, we want to . . . to meet Fern, of course, and see how she is, how she's grown, what she's like. She's my sister," he declared, sounding like someone demanding his rights.
But I couldn't help being nervous about it. Jimmy wasn't about to accept anything less, and any sort of rejection was sure to set him off like a firecracker. There was no telling what he would do then. I was sure he would make that clear to Clayton Osborne. Nevertheless, I couldn't help anticipating trouble. His call was coming like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky—no warning, no hints, nothing but sharp, sizzling shock.
He stood up.
"It's time to make the call," he announced.
I got up from my seat so he could sit behind the desk to use the phone. He moved right to it and began dialing the number he had been given. I couldn't help pacing about like a caged tigress, waiting, but trying to close off my emotions and clamp down on them.
"Is this Mr. Clayton Osborne?" he began as soon as the man had answered. I held my breath and listened. "My name is James Gary Longchamp," he said, pronouncing each part of his name like an oath, slowly, with determination and force. I could see from the look on his face that there was a dead silence on the other end. "Mr. Osborne? You know who I am," Jimmy prodded. "Fern is my sister."
In a way, Clayton Osborne had to be feeling a little like Daddy Longchamp had felt the day the police came to our door to arrest him and take me away, I thought. I meant what I had said to Jimmy before he had left for Texas: Daddy and Momma Longchamp had never done anything to make me feel I wasn't really their child, and surely after all those years they had come to accept it as so themselves. We believe in our own illusions if we live with them so long. I imagined Clayton and Leslie Osborne must have buried the truth and in their own minds made Fern their true child. Now here was Jimmy digging up the past and throwing the cold water of reality over their warm fantasies in one fell swoop.
There were more long periods of silence after things Jimmy said or, rather, demanded. The conversation continued for a while longer, and then Jimmy concluded by making an appointment for us to be at their townhouse tomorrow between five and six in the afternoon. When he cradled the phone and sat back he looked drained. For a long moment he was silent. Then he ran his hand over his hair and stood up.
"It's settled," he said. "We can see her, but only if we keep our identities secret. He insisted on that, and I had no cho
ice but to agree. As long as we're going to visit as friends of theirs, he promises to have Fern present. Of course, her name is no longer Fern. They dropped that as soon as they got her."
"What's her new name?" I asked.
"Kelly, Kelly Ann Osborne," Jimmy disdainfully spat. It had a nice ring to it, but I was afraid to say so.
"What else did he tell you about her?"
"He says she's precocious for a ten-year-old. That's the way he put it, 'precocious.' From the way he spoke about her, I guess that means she's ahead of her age."
"Yes, like Christie."
"Ummm." He thought a moment.
"What's wrong?" I asked, seeing a familiar look of worry on his face. There was a depth, an intensity to his gaze, dimming the brightness in his otherwise pearl-black eyes.
"I don't know. He didn't sound proud of her. To tell you the truth," he added, looking up sharply, "he sounds like a stuffy type, speaking out of his nose." He shrugged. "Maybe he just has a cold."
"Maybe he's just in shock, Jimmy."
"Yeah. He kept asking how did we get his number, how did we get his name. I skipped over his questions and asked him questions of my own." Jimmy's eyes brightened, and he slapped his hands together. "Just think, Dawn. After nearly nine years we're going to set eyes on Fern again."
The radiance in his face set my own heart racing. What would it be like? Would she take one look at us and know, especially one look at Jimmy? By now the resemblances in her features would be clear, I thought, but wasn't there also some unseen thing, some magical feeling that would trigger her recognition? I recalled the first time I had set eyes on Philip, that feeling I had first mistaken for romance. There was something in his eyes that told me we were already very close, linked by blood, by heritage. I just didn't know it, didn't understand at the time. Perhaps, like me, Fern was too young to comprehend these feelings and would mistake them for something else. She would be confused, not enlightened, and we would move in and out of her life like ships gliding silently in the twilight, vaguely aware of each other in the semidarkness, but deaf to the inner voices that told us who we really were.
Cutler 3 - Twilight's Child Page 26
