Kitabı oxu: «Long-Awaited Wedding»

Chapter Two

Outside, she was grateful to take Dwayne’s arm again and sense his strength as they strolled companionably along the avenue of quaint shops.

“Would you rather skip the show and just take a walk?” he asked quietly.

“Actually, I’m not feeling very well, Dwayne,” she answered honestly. “I think I’d better go home.”

She felt his disappointment as his hand wrapped around hers. Just ahead of them a commotion broke out. Several people ran out into the street, staring up in the sky.

Someone shouted, “Look, there’s been a midair crash.”

Maureen listened for the sound of falling metal. Was it a plane taking off from nearby John Wayne Airport? If so, run for cover! she thought. Don’t just stand there.

But Dwayne Crocker was already propelling her toward the crowd. Overhead a brilliant, blazing light illuminated the sky. The resplendent glow of a rocket missile—dazzling, magnificent

As if awakening a slumbering planet, the missile had split the heavens on soundless wings—mute, echoless as it soared into the clear evening sky. As she watched, it hovered to the left of Venus, shining brighter than the evening star. And then its diaphanous haze cut a course through the clouds, swirling into shimmering vapor trails, churning into eerie streamers.

Dwayne said, “That thing can be seen for a hundred miles.”

She looked up at him. Crocker actually looked like some little kid whose kite had blown higher than his friend’s.

“It just takes minutes to reach an island in the Pacific Ocean,” she said. “Four thousand miles away, quick as a wink.”

“That puts it at a missile range near the Marshall Islands.”

She agreed. Now that he had pinpointed the location to the minute, she felt more inclined toward Dwayne than she had at dinner. In front of them, a young couple craned their necks looking up, a small child clutching their hands.

“What is it, Daddy?” the boy asked.

“It’s a missile, son. Remember, we looked at a book about them the other night. And that’s the planet Venus to the right,” the father said, pointing toward it

What was he? Six? Seven? At unexpected moments like this, Maureen felt a tightness in her chest, an ache that wouldn’t go away, a fresh flood of shame that she had given her own child away. She looked at the father and volunteered, “That splendor in the sky is a firststage separation from the missile. Those blue and orange colors in the sky are vapors that occurred right after the missile was launched and separated.”

As she noticed the boy’s interest wane, she told him, “It’s like painting pictures in the sky.”

“So that’s what they did. Daddy, they spilt their paints.”

Maureen’s heart did flip-flops, as it often did when she thought of her daughter. To the boy’s father she said, “What we’re seeing with our naked eyes is nothing more than burned fuel and water droplets hitting the atmosphere.”

Dwayne rubbed his jaw reflectively. Give it to Dwayne from a mathematical perspective and he would know to the nth degree how much water, how much fuel.

The vapor trails twirled and arced out of control as they moved from the center and spread across the sky. Maureen gripped Dwayne’s arm to steady herself. Something was wrong! How had she stood here for two minutes without realizing what was happening? She hadn’t made the connection. But she did so now. The Fabian missile had misfired.

“Dwayne, that was one of the Fabian missiles. Look at the way it blew apart—at the lights streaming across the sky, like they’re exploding from the center. Out of control.”

“Can’t be, Maureen. The air force agreed to hold off testing any more of the Fabians until the flaws were ironed out.”

But as another burst of streamers spewed from the center, he said, “You may be right”

Of course, I’m right, she thought. And if that was a Fabian launch, I’m in trouble. The misfiring of another missile would set the wires sizzling between her office and the Pentagon. She whispered, “I have to get back to the office.”

“Let me go back with you.”

“No.” She was adamant

As vice-president of Research Operations, her department was responsible for what was happening. And if Eddie McCormick was going to have her head, she didn’t want Dwayne Crocker there to witness it. She turned abruptly and eased her way through the throng, walking hurriedly to her sleek sports car parked beside Dwayne’s. She climbed into her car, the wheels squealing as she raced from the parking lot.

Twenty minutes later, she sat at her desk and dialed the Wallingdale Air Force Base. When she couldn’t get beyond the duty officer, she slammed down the phone and called her friend at the Pentagon. As the phone rang, she glanced out into the evening sky. The lights from the missile had vanished completely. As suddenly as the brightness had erupted into the heavens, it had died away and floated into nothingness, leaving only the evening star surrounded by its unbroken layers of clouds.

Someone on the other end picked up the phone. “Roland Spencer,” he said.

“I was hoping I’d catch you. It’s Maureen Davenport, in California. Roland, they launched that Fabian missile ahead of schedule. What went wrong?” she demanded. “They promised to postpone the launch until we could work out the flaws—”

“I’m sorry. There was a mix-up.”

“Not mine,” she said tartly.

“Ours,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “Look, sweetheart, I’m still your friend. Remember?” He had been her friend since her first visit to the Pentagon. “If I didn’t have a flat top, I’d be pulling out my hair. So I’m tugging at my mustache instead.”

“Not funny,” she said. “McCormick is going to blame me for not getting word to Wallingdale Air Base in time.”

“They knew in time. I’ll vouch for you. So stay calm. I just had a call from the commanding officer at Wallingdale Air Base. He apologized.”

“Apologized? Half of southern California saw their blunder.”

Spencer laughed good-naturedly. He had a throaty chuckle that always made his rimless glasses bob; she pictured them doing so. “The C.O. from Wallingdale said it was a splendid show that could be seen for a hundred-mile radius.”

“So when does Larhaven get wind of it, Roland?”

“Whenever McCormick sends them an e-mail. Hold just a minute. I have a call waiting.”

While she waited, she tried to picture Roland’s square face and wide brow bathed in scowls. He was a solidly built man of forty-eight, twenty pounds heavier than he should be, and yet he cut a favorable impression in his army uniform with the rows of service ribbons across his broad chest

He was back now. “It wasn’t your mistake, Maureen. Larhaven wanted that missile to go off.”

“But we had orders from them to delay it.”

“That was Eddie McCormick on the line. He said for you to stay at the plant. He’ll see you there in an hour. He has one of the Kladis brothers with him.”

“Allen Kladis?”

“That wasn’t the name. Would it make a difference?”

All the difference in the world, she thought.

“Allen is a reasonable man, Maureen. Much fairer than his father. We’ve met over some government contracts. Hope this misfiring isn’t his kind of reverse reasoning. The Kladis brothers are determined to beat out the competition and merge with Fabian.”

The kind of reasoning that Allen Kladis was capable of? she wondered. But Spencer called him “fair.” That would be the Allen that she remembered. “Will the merger go through?” she asked.

“It looks like the boys at the Pentagon want another corporate giant. The White House agrees.” He cleared his throat. “The merger will help maintain our position on the world market”

“But it all boils down to money?” That didn’t sound like Allen. Or had he changed once he joined the family business?

“We’ll put a ban on firing any more missiles until this thing gets settled, Maureen. I’ll check things out on this end in the morning and get back to you. By the way, you’re staying with Larhaven when they merge, aren’t you?”

“If they want me.” If Allen wants me, she corrected silently.

“Their loss if they don’t. And if they don’t, we’ll find you a spot here at the Pentagon.”

As she cradled the receiver, she unlocked the top desk drawer and slid out the oriental jewelry chest that Allen Kladis had given her when she was seventeen. She kept the chest at the office because, with all the security there, she felt it was safer than keeping it at home. And still accessible to her most any time she wanted to journey back to the past. She dusted it off with the back of her hand and then took a tiny key from her purse and unlocked it. As she swung the lid back, tears burned behind her eyes.

She spread the items out and lifted the velvet case with the five-carat diamond from Carl. Then, unfolding a packet covered in tissue paper, she wrapped her fingers around the pink-beaded baby bracelet. Baby Birkland, it read. Maureen Birkland’s baby. It was all she had of her infant daughter. The couple who adopted her baby took everything else. Her daughter. Her life. Her dreams.

Ten yellowed one-thousand-dollar bills were held together with a rusty clip, still unspent after almost twenty years. Maureen shrank back from the money even now, still seeing it as Alexander Kladis’s payoff to a frightened seventeen-year-old, his silent warning to stay away from his son, to never use his son’s name. A son who was still alive—not dead as Alexander Kladis had told her.

As she waited for Eddie McCormick to arrive, she picked up Allen’s last note to her. Inside was the snapshot of himself, taken on board his carrier as it lay anchored near Cyprus. Her tears splashed on the picture—Allen at nineteen in his navy uniform, his sailor’s hat perched cockily on his head, his enormous dark eyes smiling out at her.

She clutched the snapshot and took up his note. She could almost hear him saying,

Dear Reeny,

I see you always in our last happy moments together. Mostly at the winter campsite where you sat on the log beside me above that frozen brook and wrote so intently on your notepad, I love you. I look forward to the day when I will see you again, Reeny. I am counting the days until this winter of separation is gone and we are together always.

Last, Maureen unfolded the letter that she had written as a seventeen-year-old. Words written to Allen, about Allen. Words that she had never sent to him.

Dear Allen,

I love getting your letters, but I wonder if I have them all. Sometimes Mother beats me to the mailbox. But would she keep your letters from me?

I have learned to listen for the mailman’s truck on the street behind ours and to hurry outside and wait for him to reach our block. When I do that, he waves and gives me the mail. Allen, I tuck your letters inside my pocket so Mother will not see them. And at midnight, when everyone is sleeping, I read them.

Mother tells me we are too young to be in love. It makes me sad. I want my mother to like you. To be nice to you. We were such good friends and now she seems like a stranger to me. My loving you has hurt her. She kept asking me about that weekend we went away together. Five months ago now. She knows.

Two weeks ago she took me to the doctor. Mother is furious with us. And so I must tell you that I am carrying your child. I am five months pregnant. Yes, I am going to have a baby. Your baby, Allen.

At first I was terrified. I didn’t know where to turn. I couldn’t tell anyone, not even my friends at school. I tried to hide it from Mother as long as I could. When we left the doctor’s office, she wouldn’t speak to me. Even now I can hear Mother upstairs, packing what we will take with us. She insists that we must move. She will not allow me to disgrace the family name.

I have refused to go back to Indiana with her. And so we are moving to Running Springs. But I will not be far away. I have promised you that I will wait for you. No matter what Mother says, I will be here.

Your father came to our house again last week. But Mother would not let me see him, not the way I look now. But I was leaning over the banister and heard her tell him to go away—the way she told you to go away. Your father insists that I must never see you again. Our parents are determined to keep us apart. But, dear Allen, summer is coming.

Of all the seasons, Allen, summer is best. For you will come again in summer. Back to me as you promised. For now, I feel like we have been torn apart like the dull brown leaves outside my window, drifting from the trees into the yard. Falling before their time.

Last month I found Cyprus on the map. I wish that I could be with you, but I am not as pretty as when you went away. I put my hand on my belly and it is full and round, blossoming with our baby. I am frightened, but I am glad, too, because it is part of you. I cannot touch your face or lips or hold your hands. If I could, I would put your hand on my belly and let you feel our baby kick.

Mother won’t talk about her grandchild. She keeps me isolated at home, but when we move to Running Springs, I can walk in the woods over the red-soiled trails covered with twigs that do not snap and leaves that do not crunch. I will look for footprints not my own. I will be looking for your footprints, Allen, and pretending that you are there with me.

* * *

Maureen sat at her desk at Fabian Industries, crying. She had never mailed the letter. Twenty years ago, while she was still penning the words to Allen, the phone had rung.

“It’s for you,” her mother had called up the stairs. “Mr. Kladis is on the line.”

“Allen? Is it Allen?”

“It’s about him.” Her mother’s voice had sounded shocked, stricken. And as she handed Maureen the phone, she had said gently, “Darling, you must be brave. It’s Allen’s father.”

Across the bottom of the letter, she had written the postscript that Allen would never read:

They tell me that you are gone now, Allen. Dead. Killed in Cyprus. Drowned in the waters near the island you loved. Your mother’s island. Your mother’s people.

I clamp my ears, not willing to hear those words. Surely they are lying to me—my mother and your father. How can you be gone and never know about the baby? You promised to come back to me. And I sit alone, feeling our baby kicking inside of me. Our baby is alive, and you are dead. I am so afraid. And I weep because you will never know about our child. No. They are lying to me, dear Allen. I must keep listening for your footsteps, longing for summer to come.

Maureen heard Eddie McCormick’s thudding, dragging steps coming down the corridor, then his voice speaking heatedly to someone else. The footsteps stopped, doors from hers, the argument between the two men raging. Maureen placed her treasures back into the jewelry strongbox, the beaded baby bracelet on top of Allen’s picture, her unmailed letter folded beneath them. She shut out the sound of the men in the corridor. Allen is alive, she thought. And Allen was married to someone else. Like I was married to someone else so briefly. The seasons had closed in on both of them. Still, she felt sadness for him. Allen with his unforgettable smile was too young to be a widower already.