For All Their Lives

by Fern Michaels

  Mac wanted to cry, lash out. How many goddamn kicks in the gut was he going to have to endure? His eyes were moist when he looked up at his father. In his hands he had a stout wooden box with a padlock.

  “I guess you could say this is the story of your life, the only life I knew. Of course, everything stopped when your mama came here, but we still managed to get news of you one way or another. Harry was real good about it. He paid out a lot of money to detectives to snap your picture. See this one? You were going into a moving picture show with a friend. I was at your graduation from West Point. I wouldn’t have missed that for all the cotton in the South. Harry was with me. We, both of us, went to the cemetery when we got back here and told your mama what a fine young man you were.”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” Mac muttered.

  “What is it they say in the army? Fall back and regroup, something like that.”

  “Yeah, something like that.

  “I need to know why my mother didn’t . . . she didn’t write, call me, or get in touch.”

  “Harry told me she was afraid of what Marcus would do to you. She knew Harry would tell you some day, and you’d forgive her. She did what she had to do, you’ll just have to accept that. She loved you as much as she loved me. Maybe more,” Ellis chuckled, “but I was never jealous, because I loved you too. I want you to believe that.”

  “I do. I can feel it,” Mac said in a choked voice. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

  “I’d like that too, son. When you’re ready. Is it true what I hear about you turning the Ashwood homestead into a summer camp for retarded children?”

  “News does travel fast, doesn’t it?” His father nodded and Mac continued. “There’s a lot of land here, more than the Down’s Syndrome Foundation can use. I’ve been thinking about starting up something else down here, for Vietnam veterans. Hell, I’m not getting anywhere in Washington. I went into politics thinking I could do some good. Christ, I tried, but no matter what I do, I get stonewalled. I hate to say this, but our country doesn’t give a shit about the guys who fought in Vietnam. So I’m getting out when my term is up. Maybe sooner. I don’t want you getting the idea I’m a quitter. It’s just that I think I can do more good down here. And thanks for the offer of southern politics, but I have to say no. Those people you mentioned, you said you weren’t without influence . . . do you suppose they’d . . . give me some support, or are they as narrow-minded as the people back home? I’ve got to warn you, this is one hell of an undertaking.”

  “Son, I’d consider it an honor to do whatever I can.” His eyes twinkled happily.

  “Then we have a deal.” Mac didn’t know it, but his own eyes were twinkling. Jesus, he had a real father.

  “By the way,” his father went on, “the tail end of my property links up with yours way back at the end. If you find yourself in need of a few more acres, I would be more than glad to share. The decision is yours. No money will change hands. You think about it.”

  “I’ll do that, sir. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll drive by the old house and pay a visit to the cemetery. I’ll be back. I’m not sure when, but I will be back.”

  “I’ll be here, son.”

  They shook hands—father and son. He wasn’t ready for anything else.

  Not yet.

  MAC DID HIS best to digest the past few hours. He had a real flesh-and-blood father. The kind of father, he thought, had they lived together, who would have taken him fishing, taught him to drive, gone to sports events with him. A kindly man. A man who loved his mother but, due to circumstances, was prevented from having a family life with her. He understood now, and felt he was capable of putting it all in proper perspective. A father who really did care about him. His mother had truly loved him and had done all she could. The ache in his heart eased when he swung the rental car onto Route 26.

  He had decided not to go to his mother’s old home or to the cemetery. He had plenty of time for all that. The rest of his life.

  So it turned out that he’d been bought and paid for like a bale of cotton by Marcus Carlin. And then he and his mother had continued to pay for the rest of their lives. His real father had told him all about it. The Carlins of Virginia had fallen on hard times, and the Ashwoods of Charleston had bailed out the old northern family. The house in McLean really did belong to the Carlins, but Ashwood money had restored it. Well, he would give it back—lock, stock, and barrel, as they said in the South.

  “It’s my turn, you bastard,” Mac muttered through clenched teeth. “It’s finally my turn.”

  “Carlin’s homestead was falling down around his ears,” Adam Ellis had said. “Your mama wrote to me and said it was no better than a big old chicken coop with broken windows, cracked floors, bad plumbing, and rotted electrical wires. The roof leaked, the walls were crumbling, and the chimneys were clogged. The first year, the year you were born, there was no heat. Your mama bore it all so you wouldn’t be born in disgrace. It was a terrible life she had there in Virginia. She told me she lived for my letters. If it wasn’t for my own family, I would have come up there and snatched both of you away. God knows I wanted to. I think what stopped me was the knowledge that your mama wouldn’t have come with me. She made a bargain and she stuck to it.”

  Mac sat up straighter in the rental car. His shoulders felt light; a feeling of buoyancy swept over him.

  He was free.

  His jaunt was steady, almost a strut, as he made his way through Charleston’s small airport. He knew what he had to do now.

  The plane ride was short and uneventful. The trip to McLean from the airport was slightly more eventful. He stopped at his bank and a sporting goods store before he finished the last leg of his trip. He pulled alongside of Alice’s car, which was heading out to the main highway. He rolled down his window and motioned for her to do the same. “I’d appreciate it if you’d follow me back to the house. I have to talk to you about something. It concerns you and Jenny.”

  Fear fluttered in Alice’s stomach. “All right, Mac,” she said quietly. So, she thought, he’s finally made the decision to get a divorce. Well, she couldn’t blame him. It was all her own fault. She wasn’t going to fight him in any way. “You should have given me a second chance, Mac,” she whispered to herself. “I would have given you one.”

  Steeling herself for the words she knew were about to come, the words that would rock her world, she asked, “What is it, Mac?”

  “Come inside the cottage, Alice. Yody can entertain Jenny while we talk. This is important. Mainly to me, but to you too.”

  Alice listened, her face registering shock and disbelief. When she held the diary in her hand, her eyes filled with tears. “What do you want me to do, Mac?”

  “Take all your things out of the house. Jenny’s too. Whatever you think you can’t live without. I’m going to finish out my term, then move into an apartment. I’ll pension off the servants. You can move to the plantation in Charleston. I’ll join you when my term is up.”

  “But what about the foundation? I . . . Mac, I don’t know if I can leave . . . It’s become my life, mine and Jenny’s. I understand everything you said. It’s just that . . .” She shrugged helplessly.

  “I’m not giving up on the foundation. We’ll build an extension in the South. You can be in on it from the beginning. On the way home I made the decision to go ahead with the plans for the summer camp. My . . . my real father has offered us the use of some of his land. Combined with mine, we can make a difference, Alice. You have to decide now. Right now.”

  “Does this mean you and I . . . are we going to live together or separately? I need to know, Mac. I’ll . . . I’ll do it regardless, but I need to know.”

  Mac’s empty life flashed before him. He closed his eyes, trying to visualize his future. It was just as bleak and empty. “Yes, I’m willing to try if you are. We’ll take it one day at a time. Is that all right with you?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, it’s fine with me.” S
he made eye contact with Mac when she said in a clear, firm voice, “Marcus is Jenny’s father.”

  “I suspected that,” Mac said in the same clear, firm voice. “I’ve suspected it for a long time. But a child shouldn’t be punished for its parents’ mistakes. I remember Aunt Margaret. We’ll never mention it again. I would never have brought it up if you hadn’t. As far as I’m concerned, she’s our daughter.”

  “Thank you for that, Mac. I . . . I’ll do my best.” She wanted to go to him, to touch him, but the time wasn’t right. He still had things to do before he could make her part of his life. “I’ll take Jenny to the foundation and come back here. If you want, you can start taking Jenny’s things from her room. I won’t be taking that much. I’m glad we’re leaving, Mac. I always hated this house.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “I never told you a lot of things. You set the rules in the beginning. I did what I thought you wanted. We were both wrong more often than we were right. We’ll talk again when I get back.”

  He watched her leave, her hand in Jenny’s. His wife and the little girl to whom he’d given his name. His daughter. He smiled at Yody, who was staring at him as if he’d sprouted a second head.

  “It’s going to be all right, Yody. Listen, how would you like to move to South Carolina and live in a big plantation house and take care of all of us?”

  “Señor Mac, are you serious? I have many relatives, many cousins.”

  “Bring them along,” Mac said magnanimously. “There will be plenty of work for everyone. Will you think about it, Yody?”

  “Certainly, Señor Mac. Will Mrs. Carlin and the child be dining with you this evening?”

  “Yes, Yody, and they’ll be staying on here for a few days.”

  Yody’s broad face broke into a smile. “The child is enchanting, Señor Mac. She has much love to shower . . . I forget, it is not my place. Tell me, Señor Mac, is there Bingo where we are going?” Her tone was so anxious, so woebegone, Mac laughed.

  “If there isn’t, Yody, we’ll start our own. Would you be amenable to leaving with Mrs. Carlin? You see, I’ll be moving out of this house very soon.”

  “Whatever you wish, Señor Mac.”

  Mac walked outside. He sat down on the top step, the dogs at his side like two sentinels. For the first time in his whole life, he felt at peace. His arms shot out to encircle the dogs. “I finally know who I am.” It wasn’t a silent thought, he realized, when the dogs whined comfortingly at his side. “I have sisters who have husbands, and I have nieces and nephews. I have a father who has warm eyes and a voice to match, and whose handshake is sincere and genuine. He’ll welcome Jenny, but he’ll know. He’ll understand.

  “He said he’d take me coon hunting,” he said to the dogs. “Of course we’ll let them go once we catch them. We’ll go fishing. We might even take Jenny and teach her how to bait a hook. You guys can chase any and all poachers. We’ll take Jeopardy down there too, of course. I’d say this is the beginning of a wonderful life for all of us.” He fondled the dogs’ silky ears.

  Twice Yody brought him coffee while he waited for Alice to return. The dogs were on their feet long before he heard the engine of her car. He set his cup and ashtray on the side, got up and stretched every muscle in his body.

  “I’m ready,” Alice said quietly, a curious look on her face. “Did you speak to the servants at the house?”

  “They’re packing as we speak. I have their severance checks in my pocket. I called my attorney, and he’ll start the paperwork for their pensions. Yody is going with you and Jenny, if that’s all right with you.”

  “That’s fine, Mac. Jenny likes her. I like her too. Before, what I said about her, that was just—”

  Mac held up his hand. “Before isn’t important. Past is past, okay?”

  Alice smiled, her eyes lighting with happiness. “I guess I better get started.”

  “Alice?”

  “Yes, Mac?”

  “Why did you throw out my things? I can understand giving Jenny my old room, but . . . I looked for my old treasures in the attic and couldn’t find them. I need to know why,” he said quietly.

  “I didn’t, Mac. Marcus came over one day right before I had the baby and asked which room was going to be the nursery. I chose your room because it was sunny and had lots of closet space. I thought your things were moved to the attic, but Olga told me Marcus trashed them. He . . . he just had one of his people come and dump everything in barrels by the garage. I went out and packed up everything myself in cartons. It’s all in the garage, up over the overhang. I can’t believe you thought I would just discard your memories. You and I have to take the time to get to know one another,” Alice said with a catch in her voice. “Why knows? We may end up liking one another.”

  “Who knows?” Mac said softly. He had a slight edge, he thought. He actually liked Alice already.

  It was four o’clock when the last load of personal belongings was deposited in Mac’s living room. “A lot of her things are at the foundation. I thought that, because we spent so much time there, it was better for her. She’s learning to share and to interact. She has a little friend named Pamela. I agreed to let her spend the night. If there’s anything else you want me to do, tell me now before I start to pack these things,” Alice said briskly.

  “Have a cup of tea with Yody. I have something to do,” Mac said cheerfully.

  Both women watched as Mac loped across the front lawn, down the slight incline to cross over the pavement outside the garage, and up the hill to the big house. Their eyes met once when Mac opened the trunk of the car to remove a baseball bat. Alice’s hands flew to her mouth. Yody blessed herself. When Mac was out of sight, Yody said, “I will make tea now. I have cinnamon cookies.”

  “Yes, cinnamon cookies,” Alice said, following Yody to the kitchen.

  THERE WAS NO faltering in Mac’s step as he walked through the open front door. He didn’t bother to close it. He stopped a moment at the foot of the steps to look around. Once the house had smelled good, like apples and peaches. The upstairs always seemed to have a powdery smell, clean and fresh. Now all he could smell was furniture polish and Lysol. He hated the smell. Hated the house. Hated everything in it. He took a deep breath and walked up the steps, his back ramrod stiff, his shoulders square.

  He liked the feel of the baseball bat in his hands. He took a practice swing and liked the feel even more. He headed for the room at the end of the hall, the room that had once been his father’s. He kicked open the door. It was a clean, spartan room, with nothing of his father’s remaining. He moved slowly, purposefully, the bat raised to shoulder height. He swung, his upper body moving as professionally as that of any star baseball player’s. He was rewarded with the sound of smashing glass as the windowpane and frame split, showering the floor with glass. The antique dresser, armoire, and commode all came under the bat. He toppled lamps, smashing Tiffany glass into millions of tiny shards. The bed fell under his wrath. From his pocket he withdrew the pocketknife his uncle Harry had given him one Christmas, when he was around six. The knife had been dull then. Now it was razor sharp. He sliced and hacked, gouged and ripped. When he was finished, the bat ravaged the old bed, shredding the dry wood to little more than wood shavings. He grinned when he envisioned an army of antique dealers crying for months over the devastation he was wreaking.

  He moved on, room by room, until he came to the banister overlooking the first floor. He eyed the two-hundred-year-old chandelier with clinical interest. His military mind shifted and coalesced. The baseball bat wasn’t going to work. He turned on the light for effect. Thousands of tiny crystals winked at him. He saluted smartly, then turned to the long, low, cherrywood table against the wall. Next to it was a cherrywood chair with a petit-point seat. It was heavy too. He picked it up and walked to the end of the wide center hall. He ran then as if he were going to throw the shot put and heaved the chair into the winking mass of light. He loved the sound of the crystal smashing on
to the tile floor in the foyer. “Damn, you do good work, Carlin.” He laughed.

  The stairway and banister, which were built of solid oak and polished to a high sheen, were his next targets. He sat down on his rump and kicked out at the carved spindles. One after another they splintered, until the entire banister weakened. Two wild, powerful swings sent what was left of the banister crashing down on top of the chandelier. He did the same thing again as he slid down the steps, his back to the wall, his feet lashing out at the old dry wood. Once again he congratulated himself as he stood in the foyer to observe his handiwork.

  He moved through the rest of the house destroying everything in his path. When he reached the huge kitchen that he’d loved at one time, he stopped to look around. He wasn’t breathing hard yet. “That’s because you enjoy what you’re doing, Carlin,” he told himself. He eyed the monstrous refrigerator and freezer, the new shiny appliances, and the old Virginia brick on the walls and floor. He laid the bat down on the butcher block table and walked out the back door, his destination the toolshed. He found the sledgehammer immediately. He was whistling when he made his way back to the house. It took a full thirty minutes for him to smash the ancient brick his father’s ancestors had installed—his father’s ancestors’ slaves, was more like it, Mac thought in disgust. He wiped his hands on his pants. It would take a construction crew months to repair the damage he’d just done to the house.

  Carrying the sledgehammer, Mac walked through the devastation in the foyer to the front door. He swung until the door hung drunkenly on its hinges.

  Satisfied with his afternoon’s work, Mac walked out to the garage and climbed behind the wheel of his car. He turned on the radio full-blast, backed the car out on to the road, then lit a cigarette. He puffed contentedly.

  It was eight-thirty and already dark when Mac rang the doorbell of his father’s house. A tired old colored man who’d seen too many years of service motioned him inside.