along the side of the station wagon. No one else paid any attention: minding their own business, the modern virtue.
Nick said, ‘Jesus it was scary, those huge tires!’
By this time Marisa’s offside wheels were scrabbling along the rough shoulder, and her car was yawing to and fro, gravel flying.
‘She was great,’ said Nick. ‘I saw the turn-off coming before she did, and I was pointing and yelling – and just as the bastard came swerving in again she wrenched the wheel over and zing, he was gone. Trapped on the freeway, see, while we shot off into Something-or-other Avenue.’
They were completely lost, but at least they were free of the maniac’s attentions. How far it was to the next turn-off was anyone’s guess, but by then he might have forgotten them, if he was indeed drunk; if on the other hand he was still interested it would take him a long time to reach the spot where they’d evaded him, whether he rejoined the freeway in the opposite direction or tried to make his way back by residential side streets. They drove off into the hinterland, found a mini-market and bought themselves a much-needed Coke. Half an hour later they returned to the freeway, via another entrance.
Once or twice during the next hour they were sure they were being followed – which was why Nick had taken so long parking when they finally reached Astoria; he wanted to make sure it had only been their imagination.
Well, I thought, there were plenty of good reasons for all that nervous tension; some kids I’d known would have been in need of first aid. I said, ‘Hartman. I wonder why they were so touchy.’
‘They thought I was a media person.’
‘OK. Why so touchy about the media? And how about the guy in the pick-up?’
‘I still don’t think he was anything to do with them.’
‘Coincidence, eh?’
Nick shook his head; clearly he didn’t believe in coincidence either. We all considered the situation in silence. Then I said, ‘What do you want to do next, Marisa?’
‘I just have this feeling he’s it, I don’t know why.’
Nick added, ‘I just have this feeling we could do with some help from not-Uncle Will.’
‘We might dream up a more subtle way of going about it.’ I smiled to blunt the sharp adult edge. ‘For a start it may be true he’s never in that office; I think we have to find out where he lives. And even if Ms Julie Wrenn was right, we’d better make sure he wasn’t just a boyfriend. He doesn’t have to be biological Dad.’
She nodded, accepting this. Nick relaxed a little; it was obviously what he’d been hoping I’d say. I could understand that being the sole curb on Marisa’s impulses might well be exhausting, particularly if you were no older than she was.
The blue eyes were very direct. ‘Are you going to help me?’
‘How, is the question. Let me think it over.’
The wind blustered and hurled buckets of Oregon rain at the windows, a cozy sound as long as you’re safe indoors. I could see that their heroic day, not to mention the thousand-mile drive preceding it, not to mention the large meal they’d just consumed, were all taking their toll; they were only managing to keep their eyes open because it would have been impolite to let them close. I suggested we make up the bed; we could talk some more in the morning, and by then I might have come up with an idea. There were no disagreements. As a matter of fact I’d already had the idea, but sudden inspiration should never be voiced until it’s been allowed to marinate for a while, preferably overnight; ideas often lead to further ideas.
Bed-making was weird and wonderful; they preferred to sleep head to toe. ‘In case,’ she said, ‘he kind of half wakes up and thinks I’m a boy.’
‘Nobody,’ replied her best friend, taking the words out of my mouth, ‘could possibly mistake you for a boy.’
Myself, I didn’t feel sleepy: too many questions weaving around in my mind, most of them requiring answers from Ruth, some from my brother Jack. What worried me most was the thought of their gnawing anxiety. Would they have put the police onto their daughter? Probably not yet, possibly not ever, even if they wanted to: there were enough wounds to be healed without that one. Did they know that she’d taken off with Nick? He was only a youngster but evidently a prudent and resourceful youngster, and that would be some comfort.
My first loyalty was to Jack and Ruth of course, and yet there was something about their daughter’s dogged independence which also demanded loyalty. I would have to tell them she was with me and safe (relatively speaking) but I could only do so after she’d agreed that it must be done: a weak decision certainly, but what in life is weaker than divided loyalty, and what more common?
Had anyone asked me earlier that evening if I loved my brother I would have replied, ‘No, not really.’ I admired him, yes, and occasionally enjoyed his company, in small doses; but sibling love has always struck me as being either a very strong emotion, or a thing you take for granted and ignore. So I was surprised to find that now, a few hours later, my answer would have been different; perhaps there’s more feeling between us than I’ve ever supposed.
The fact is he’d become remote: a noted figure occasionally seen on television, accepting some award with a witty little speech. Misfortune seemed to have snapped him back into focus. What a heart-wrenching thing to have to do, telling that loved child he wasn’t her real father. His marriage, in a town of nonmarriages, has always been considered perfect; both he and Ruth are honest and honorable people – it’s a wonder he ever made it in that dishonest, perfidious industry.
I suppose that always, from the start, they’d meant to tell Marisa the truth; and knowing Ruth as I did, I was sure it wasn’t a very shameful truth. Presumably they’d put it off and put it off, trying to decide what age would be the right one. Not this year, she’s just a kid. Maybe next year, they grow up so quickly. And then Ruth had again become pregnant; had they convinced themselves that presently, when Marisa had a small brother, things would become easier?
Easier! It seems incredible in our world, and in that city of prestigious hospitals, but something went disastrously wrong. One day it appeared to be a normal pregnancy with five weeks to go, next day it was the emergency ward and an oxygen tent. Ruth nearly died and, thank God, a decision was made not to save the baby, which had suffered brain damage during delivery. It was six weeks before Ruth recovered sufficiently to be told she could never have another child.
So there was only Marisa, and how infinitely precious she must then have seemed. Did they really have to tell her? Supposing it turned her against them? And there the agonizing indecision had stayed, a cancer of untruth in the minds of two honest people: until a dinner-party argument had tipped the scales – we all know those scales, they take very little tipping.
Marisa came out of the bathroom and padded over to where I was sitting. In pajamas, hair tousled, she looked twelve years old again, beautiful eyes clouded by sleep – and, it seemed, by doubt: ‘Will, those things I did, were they wrong?’
Moral sense is always touching. I said, ‘Right, wrong, who knows? Who cares, as long as you get yourself straightened out and happy again?’
She smiled and kissed my cheek. I went with her to the bedroom door and looked in. ‘Sound asleep. I bet you sleep sound too. Get up when you feel like it – I’ll be out, got to see to my boat.’
‘You
