My Father's Daughter Read online

  “Did she commit suicide?” I asked.

  “In an indirect way.”

  Father shot Mother a glance. “Come right out and say it, Grace.” He sighed heavily, wearily. “What your mother is trying to say is that Caroline’s mother took to alcohol.” He said it very fast, and I didn’t know if Heidi caught what he had said. I looked back at Father who seemed to be regretting his small outburst.

  Father patted Mother’s shoulder. “You see,” he said, “something especially good came from that misfortune.” He looked at me and Heidi and added, “Your mother. I met your mother because of Anne’s drinking. She had come to take care of her.” He patted her shoulder again, but it remained stiff. Father walked away, cleared his throat and said, “Anne, Caroline’s mother, was a lovely woman in every way.’ Every other way.”

  “Where has this Caroline been keeping herself?” I asked.

  .”Ethiopia,” Father answered. “Ethiopia. Working-as a nurse.”

  Father moved to a wing chair, the one with the ottoman. Heidi moved from ’the sofa where she had been sitting and climbed onto the ottoman and then onto Father’s lap. He absentmindedly rubbed his hand through her hair. Heidi waited until he glanced down, and then she said, her lips pursed out, as if she would talk in kisses if she could, “I promise you, Father, that I will never get kidnapped.”

  Mother smiled. I knew already that the remark would be repeated at the Club and at Mr. Ricks on Thursday. “Heidi, darling, no one ever chooses to be kidnapped,” she said.

  “What with all the chauffeuring and chaperoning that goes on around here,” I said,“choice or an act of an angry God are the only possible ways it could happen.”

  Father rubbed his forehead and looked at me. His look was strange—apologetic. “I suppose we have been very, very protective,” he said, “but these are dangerous times.”

  “I understand,” I said. I didn’t care to carry on the conversation any longer. “May I look at the scrapbook?” I asked.

  “It’s your mother’s.”

  Yes, I thought, it would be Mother’s. Father wouldn’t cut and paste details between the covers of a book.

  Mother handed it to me, and I carried it up to my room. It was surprisingly heavy. Like carrying half a sister.

  I STUDIED that scrapbook. What a wealth of detail I found there. Detail cast under a thousand watt bulb. There was no history more strange to me than the immediate past history of my family.

  There had been times when the Golden Age of Greece had seemed closer to me than what had happened to the Carmichaels before I was born. I could more easily fit people into togas than I could the twenties. Even the history book picture of Great-Grandfather Carmichael seated beside Carnegie and Frick seemed more familiar to me than the pictures of Father in the library, like the one that shows him wearing a Princeton football uniform. The uniform is standard in all its essentials, but old fashioned in its details; and those tiny differences always made it more difficult for me to place Father in time.

  I began studying the scrapbook by looking for clues. I studied the face of Anne Adkins Carmichael and then the picture of Caroline, which had been in all the papers. I thought that I would enjoy being very clever and finding some small flaw, some small difference that would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that the woman who said she was Caroline really was—or really was not. But I soon gave up reading in the scrapbook for that kind of information. I began, instead, reading to make myself familiar with my family, particularly my Father, a man both familiar and strange. I knew much about Father’s moods and almost nothing about his thinking. I had long been an accurate reader of facial expressions and body language. There was a certain look Father had that said tired and a certain tilt to his shoulders that said busy. Father said so very little that I had learned to “listen” to his face. I read Father’s face for the, same reason that Heidi read lips—to know what was really being said.,

  three

  “Did the scrapbook help to give Caroline a shape?” she asked.

  “Yes, in a way.”

  “An important way?”

  “Not especially.” She looked puzzled. “Let me explain. I said that I had always known that there had been a Caroline. I had always known that Father had been married before and that he had had a daughter named Caroline. I had known it. But I hadn’t realized it. Realize in the literal sense. It had never seemed real.”

  “Would you say, then, the scrapbook made it seem real?”

  “No,” I answered. “It was the look on Father’s face. That glimpse I had had of Father’s face that Thursday night before the library door was closed. That look said that there had once been a Caroline, and she had been very loved.”

  “All that from a glimpse?” she asked.

  How could she ask such a question? “When shadows are all he has, a prisoner learns to tell time by the light coming in through a slit under the door” I said. “Facial expressions were primary Carmichael language. ‘English was second”

  She smiled and leaned back. “I never really thought it was the scrapbook.”

  ON THE LAST FRIDAY of October I saw something new in Father’s look; something newborn, I thought. Then I realized what it was. Outside the front entrance to our house were two boxwood trees that Solomon, our gardener, kept carefully groomed into pompons. In the spring of the year bright green sprigs kept popping out, destroying their perfectly round margins. Father looked like that; he was sprouting bright green sprigs of joy.

  After dinner Father called Heidi and me into the library. He explained: There was now a lot of evidence, and all of it seemed to prove that the woman who claimed to be Caroline really was. She knew dates and details that only someone in the family could have known. No one—not Mother, not the lawyers—had been able to trip her.

  “Where has she been?” I asked.

  “In Ethiopia,” Father answered.

  “You’ve mentioned that,” I said. “I mean, where has she been staying since that Thursday,”

  “In an apartment in Sewickley. We have reason to fear that some people are beginning to suspect her real identity, so your mother has kindly suggested that we have her move in with us until all the legal papers are signed. It is important that we avoid publicity.” Father paused a minute and then said that he had a selfish request to make; he hoped that both of us would understand. He asked us not to invite any of our playmates (he used the word playmates) over to the house for a while, not until all the papers regarding Caroline were signed. After that—after everything was complete and legal—he would make an official announcement to friends, relatives and to the press. Could we understand his need for secrecy?.

  We both said yes.

  I could understand the need for secrecy. From the scrapbook I had seen that Caroline Carmichael had been front page news for two months. All across the United States and in Europe as well. Even on the first anniversary of her disappearance, there had appeared interviews with former high school classmates. No longer on page one, but back on page fourteen were interviews with Beatrice (Bunny) Miller and with Helen Nadel, her classmates at Finchley, saying what a nice person Caroline had been and how they missed her. And there had appeared an interview with Agatha Trollope, the headmistress of Finchley, as well.

  So I could understand Father’s asking us to keep Caroline’s reappearance a secret. What I couldn’t understand was his asking us not to have anyone over to the house. When had we ever had friends (playmates) over? Three years ago, I had. That was my last time.

  THREE YEARS AGO I had asked Barney Krupp over for a Saturday afternoon. We couldn’t keep Heidi out of the sun-room where we were playing. She sat on the floor in the middle of our game sucking her thumb and watching everything we said. Like some troglodyte. Troglodyte was my newest word in my special vocabulary. I wanted her to go. I said to Barney, making certain that Heidi could hear, “Did you sprinkle the powder?”

  Barney got my message and answered, “Yes, Win, but are you sure that it will o
nly affect unmarried females?”

  I pretended that I didn’t want Heidi to hear, all the time making certain that she could, and said, “Yes, Barney; its sensitivity is triggered by the klondestitine hormone found only in unmarried girls.”

  “And you say that the tips of the fingers are the first to dissolve?”

  “Yes, unless the victim sucks her thumb and then, of course, the roof of the mouth goes first. Sometimes the dissolution continues up through the skull, and the girl is left with a hole in her head. That symptom is known as the chimney effect. Can only be disguised by growing the eyebrows extra long and combing them back over the hole.”

  Barney asked, “Did you sprinkle a generous amount all over the room?”

  “Every surface.”

  Heidi took her thumb out of her mouth and rubbed her whole hand over the top of the table, knocking down an ashtray and a vase. She looked at me the whole time she was causing the destruction, and when she was done, she said, “I’ve touched everything. Everything. And I still have all my fingers.” She held up both hands, then said, “I can still do this.” She thumbed her nose first at me and second at Barney, sticking out her tongue at the same time.

  “C’mon, Barney,” I said. We got on either side of her and lifted her out of the room. She was very small and not very heavy, and it was not difficult. I quickly closed the door to the sun-room and since it had no lock, pushed a large chair in front of it.

  But Heidi had no talent for being ignored. She sent up such a wallow that Luellen came running. Luellen called for me to open up. But I would not. Heidi screamed at Luellen to get Mummy, get Mummy, and Luellen did. Heidi continued screaming until Mother arrived, and Barney and I pushed back the chair and opened the door. Mother was holding Heidi, and Heidi was sucking her thumb. Mother accused me of being selfish and inconsiderate, and when I looked at Heidi, straining to hear what I would say, when I looked at her thumb in her mouth like the stem on a fungus, I worried that Mother might be right.

  Barney hardly knew where to look while Mother scolded, so he looked down at the floor. I realized that he was thinking that he had certainly not done me a favor by coming to visit.

  I fell into the habit of not asking anyone over. No one—except possibly Barney—noticed. Only a few of the boys at Wardhill were buddies outside of school. They all came from scattered parts of the city.

  Of course, I thought, Father would not have realized that we never had friends over to the house. On Saturdays he was usually absent locally or absent long distance; his Saturdays were spent either at the office or out of town.

  ON A USUAL SATURDAY Heidi and I went to our piano lessons in the morning. We took our lessons at the Convent of the Sacred Heart. Sister Clothilde was our teacher, the best in Pittsburgh according to Mother, and she didn’t make house calls.

  “Let’s take Winston before Hilary,” Sister would say. Sister was the only person who called Heidi by her real name, and there in that barren, immaculate classroom, I thought that Heidi, the name, as well as Heidi, the golliwog, was out of place. (I also hoped that such unchristian thoughts could be neutralized by passing through the walls of the convent.)

  Then I waited while Heidi took her lesson. I always carried along a book, but I never opened it. I spent my time wondering about Sister Clothilde. I sat there, my book opened on my lap, and wondered how she could always look so unwrinkled and cool. And how she never smelled. Never smelled of wool gabardine or perspiration or soap or incense or mint or must. Was it because she was pure? Purer than Ivory soap which was only 99 44/100% pure and had a slight but clean odor.

  From our piano lessons Maurice drove us to the big Carnegie Library near the University. There we chose books and picked up one of each pamphlet and bookmark that was on the checkout counter. Next we were taken to the Hotel Webster Hall Coffee Shop where I ordered a Devonshire sandwich for myself and a hamburger—no bun and no pickle—for Heidi. After the waitress brought the hamburger, I would request a roll and after that arrived, a small order of french fries. That way I made certain that everything came in separate dishes, for Heidi would eat nothing if one part of her meal touched another. I cut my sister’s hamburger into spoon-size pieces, and I knew by the smiles I received from the other patrons of the restaurant that people noticed how thoughtful and kind I was. I wished I could be unaware of the favorable impression I made, or— second best—not enjoy it. I often wondered what kind of a brother I would be if I didn’t have to be the kind I was.

  The restaurant was never crowded when we were there; we always arrived by 11:00 A.M.; Maurice waited for us in the lobby of the hotel. I always asked the waitress for the check and signed the bill, WINSTON ELLIOT CARMICHAEL, and then added 10% TIP just as I had been taught to do at the Club.

  From the Hotel Webster Hall we went to the Hotel Schenley where we both ordered Joyce’s cream pie. I cut Heidi’s for her, and Maurice waited outside on Fifth Avenue while we ate. The windows of Joyce’s were not draped, and Maurice had only to do an about-face to be in full view of us. It never occurred to me that on a cold day, I might hurry over my Joyce’s cream pie or that I might skip it altogether. If the thought had ever occurred to me, I squelched it. I needed that part of the week more than Maurice needed to come in from the cold.

  Then we went home.

  Heidi took a nap, and I read or wrote letters. I often wrote several letters on a Saturday:

  Dear jell-O:

  There is no dessert more American than Jell-O, and there is no fruit more American than cranberries. I suggest that you make CRANBERRY your next flavor.

  Sincerely,

  Winston Elliot Carmichael

  Dear Mr. Heyerdahl,

  I have just finished reading Kon Tiki, and I would like to tell you that I enjoyed the story of your adventures very much. I would like to volunteer for your next expedition. (I am very healthy and extremely good natured.)

  Sincerely,

  Winston Elliot Carmichael.

  Dear Mr. Berle,

  I saw one’of your television programs the other night, and I have a word of advice to you to improve it: RETIRE.

  Sincerely,

  Winston Elliot Carmichael.

  When Heidi woke from her nap, we usually went to a movie. If Mother were home,,she drove; if not Maurice drove, and Luellen took us in.

  That was my usual Saturday, had been for years. Saturdays were not unpleasant; they had a certain rhythm. We were syncopated, Heidi and I.

  four

  She sat hack in her custom-fitted upholstered chair. “Very good so far” she said.

  I was pleased she said that. “Thank you” I said. “You look prepared to take a back seat for a while.”

  “I’ve learned to do that.”

  “You know” I said. “I think that someone who has been in prison resents the person who frees him. Freedom interrupts something very important”

  “What?” she asked.

  “It interrupts a persons self-absorption.”

  “You keep making references to prison …”

  “But, of course, I do. It was that.”

  “When did you realize that it was?”

  “When I got out. If you’re raised inside a huge shelter, one that you’ve never seen from the outside, how would you know that it was a prison. unless you saw: it from the outside?”

  “Tell about your first steps outside” she urged.

  CAROLINE MOVED IN on the last Tuesday in October. I arrived home from school at the usual time.

  “Is she here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Mother answered, “she is in her room, resting”

  “She only brought one suitcase,” Heidi said, “and she isn’t very pretty.”

  I would not say what I was thinking: that someone once long ago had cut the muscles that allowed a compliment to come from Heidi’s tongue. Instead I asked, “Did Cora quit?”

  “Oh,” Mother said. “Is that your way of telling me that you are ready for something to eat? What would you l
ike?”

  “Something sweet and chemical and with no nutritional value whatsoever.”

  “Winston!” Mother scolded. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?”

  “No, no, my dear,” I said raising my eyebrows and twirling an invisible moustache. “You are provocative enough already, you lovely thing you.”

  Mother laughed out. loud. She stepped into the kitchen to tell Cora that I was home. Heidi left with her.

  I smiled my thanks to Cora when she brought me a tray, I ate with my worst possible manners and thought my worst possible thoughts. Another sister. A long-lost brother would be preferable to a long-lost sister. A long-lost kangaroo would be better than either a brother or a sister.

  I made up my mind to one thing. I wouldn’t start this whole new sister thing by pretending that I liked any part of it. I wouldn’t pretend about anything. When she says, How are you? I’ll say, Exacdy as I ought to be. When she says, (everyone always does!), You resemble your father; I’ll say, I should also resemble an ape, being that I am descended from them, too.

  At last, having eaten and thought all that was on the menu for the day, I gathered together my books and put my blazer on top of the pile and started up the stairs.

  SHE WAS STANDING on the upstairs landing. I saw her over the rim of books.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Caroline. You’re Winston, I know.”

  “Yes, I’m Winston.”

  “I watched Maurice drive in with you. I’ve been waiting for you.

  “I just, well, I hadn’t had much lunch at school today, and I just, well, I just took something to stave off the pangs until dinner.”

  “I know,” she said. “When I lived here, I used to have something to eat when I came home from school.” She paused and said nothing more. She was smiling, but she didn’t add anything to that. My turn?

  “I have your old room,” I said.