Dover Beach (21 page)

I saw. The snow fell slowly, as if hesitant to intrude on our conversation. "What is he doing at Oxford, do you think?" I asked. "Kathy said he was retired."

"I dunno. He's a very private man. I'm private too, y'know."

I wanted to point out to Winfield that the case didn't make sense. If someone had tried to kill him in Boston for asking about Cornwall, why was Cornwall apparently retired and living a quiet life in Oxford? But Winfield was too drunk to care about such things. I let it slide.

Winfield made it back to the hotel and passed out on his bed as soon as we entered our room. I pulled off his shoes and coat and left him there. Then I sat by the window and watched the snow falling.

The traffic hissed by below; Winfield grunted and snored. I had a long night ahead of me. I considered taking my five pounds from Winfield's pocket and going out, but somehow I lacked the energy.

I wondered again: was the case over? Looked like it. Asked a couple of friends for help, made a few phone calls. Simple. If there were things that didn't make sense, they didn't particularly matter. Real life, I figured, was not as tidy as fiction.

So why did I feel so strange? Was this how a private eye feels after the last chapter, when he sits in his office and realizes that those characters he's been dealing with are gone forever from his life? Maybe.

And maybe my mood had nothing to do with the case. Maybe it had to do with real life, pure and simple.

Maybe it had only to do with Kathy Cornwall.

She was prettier than any of the stained and dog-eared pinups in Art's Filthy Bookstore. She was young and alive and untouched by the chaos and disease that had permeated my life. Imagine—studying to be an actress! She was a dream I had never dreamed I would dream.

Ah, me. Life is certainly strange. There were Humphrey Bogart movies playing at Notting Hill Gate, but I didn't go. Instead I sat and watched the falling snow and, amid the snoring and the guilt, I dreamed my dreams.

Chapter 19

Winfield didn't want me to come. "What's the point?" he asked. "What will you add?"

"I don't know," I said, "but Kathy seemed to think it was a good idea. Don't you remember?"

He shook his head vaguely. No reason he should. "All right, but you better start thinking about your future here. I probably won't need you after today."

"I'm saving up my money to run an ad," I said.

Kathy was waiting for us when we arrived at Paddington Station. She had on a tweed overcoat and skirt, and she was carrying a shopping bag that contained a gift-wrapped box. She looked tense, but she greeted us cheerily. "I've already bought the tickets," she said, "so let's just check our platform, shall we?"

We walked out into the concourse and watched the huge message board announce the arrivals and departures. Winfield looked like he needed a drink. "Did you tell your father we were coming?" he asked.

"Yes," Kathy replied. "I phoned him last night."

"How did he react?"

Kathy pondered for a moment. "That's difficult to say," she responded finally. "He's not the kind to display much emotion."

"Did he say anything about me? Did he talk about what happened back then?"

Kathy stared at him and shook her head. "I'm sure he'll be more forthcoming when you meet," she said.

"Sure. Makes sense." Winfield fell silent, dreaming about the moment that was about to arrive.

The silence became awkward after a while. "Shirt?" I asked Kathy, to break the ice.

She looked puzzled for a moment, then glanced at the shopping bag and smiled. "Good try, but not as good as yesterday. Dressing gown."

"Ah. Dressing gown. He'll love it."

"I hope you're right."

Our train was announced. We made our way to the platform and climbed aboard. The train was mostly deserted. We had a compartment to ourselves; Winfield and Kathy sat facing me. In a few minutes the train pulled out of the station.

Am I being sufficiently blasé about this? My first train ride—not quite as exciting as my first trip in an airplane, but good enough: the huge concourse, the muffled PA system, the conductor punching our tickets, the station giving way to rail yards flanked by grim flats and factories, giving way to bleak countryside... How often had I read about such a commonplace experience, in Dickens and Doyle and the rest of them? And now the experience was mine. It felt good.

I had plenty of opportunity to consider the experience, because no one was doing much talking. I tried to chat some more with Kathy; she was polite but preoccupied. And Winfield was in his own world, scarcely capable of saying anything to anyone, I think. So I stared out the window and thought about train rides, and wondered what was going to happen at the end of this one. It took us a little over an hour to reach Oxford.

"Now what?" Winfield asked as we made our way out of the station.

"Now we walk," Kathy said. "My father's house is about half a mile from here. It's in the wrong direction from the colleges, I'm afraid, so the route won't be particularly scenic."

Winfield shrugged; he wasn't interested in scenery. The three of us set out in silence.

Maybe it wasn't a good idea for me to be here, I thought as we walked. I felt like an outsider at some strange, private ritual. I didn't belong in this solemn procession over the icy sidewalks, past the quaint stone houses. And then I thought: why is it so solemn? Here we are, two days before Christmas, and a guy is about to meet his long-lost something-or-other. People should be a little happier. Shouldn't they? It wasn't my place to mention this, however. I was just along for the ride. I stuck my hands in my pockets and kept my mouth shut.

Finally Kathy pointed to a small house at the next corner. "That's it," she said.

We approached it like pilgrims heading for Canterbury. Would Winfield get down on his knees? It had a tidy little yard; smoke was rising from the chimney; there was sand on the walk.

"Wait!" Winfield said.

We waited. He stopped and closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Kathy looked at me, but I couldn't read her expression.

"Okay," he said.

Kathy led the way up the walk to the door. She rang the bell.

The door opened almost immediately. He must have been waiting for us—watching us come. "Hullo, Daddy," Kathy said. "Here is Dr. Winfield."

They stared at each other.

I felt as if I were observing an allegory of Time. The black hair turns gray and thin, the eyes require glasses, the firm skin wrinkles and sags. Same height, same build, same features. Were they the same person? I couldn't tell for sure; Time does too thorough a job. But the sight was enough to make me shudder and think of my own mortality, the dreaded future that would be as quick to arrive as the dreaded past had been slow to depart.

I looked at Kathy. Her eyes were fixed on her father. "Perhaps we should go in," she murmured after a few moments.

Professor Cornwall glanced at her, a little confused—perhaps a little frightened—and then he nodded. His gaze met mine for an instant and drifted past. I almost smiled, the experience was so familiar. Then he turned and led us into his home.

He brought us into a cozy library. Dark oak shelves were crammed with books. A coal fire burned in the small fireplace. A bottle of Scotch was open on the sideboard.

Cornwall and Winfield sat down opposite each other, Kathy and I remained standing. I studied Cornwall some more. He was wearing a tweed jacket and a faded gray sweater. He hadn't shaved very well. His clasped hands tensed and untensed in his lap as if he were squeezing an invisible ball. I had a strong suspicion that he needed a drink.

"Well," he said, and the word sounded bewildered on his lips. It sounded like a plea for help. He looked at Winfield; he looked at Kathy.

"Well," Kathy said.

The dialogue was hardly Shakespearean so far. Winfield managed to get out a full sentence. "You know me," he said—quietly, confidently.

Cornwall looked at Kathy; he looked at the bottle of Scotch.

"Dr. Winfield is your son," Kathy said.

Cornwall looked at his hands, squeezing, squeezing. "He's not my son," the old man whispered.

Kathy looked at Winfield, who took the statement in stride. "That's right, I'm not."

I noticed that she was still holding her shopping bag. Happy Christmas, everyone. "Then who are you?" she asked.

Winfield put on his condescending expression. "I'm not his son, you see. I'm his clone. The product of a complicated biological procedure that he developed back in America. I'm genetically identical to your father, Kathy. We're twins, born forty-some years apart."

Kathy processed that little piece of information, and then turned back to her father. "Is this true, Daddy?"

Tangled, leafless branches of an elm tree scratched against the bay window at the far side of the library. The fire hissed, a floorboard creaked, Cornwall squeezed. And I thought: does Winfield see what I am seeing—a weak, confused old man, a man who has not come through life well? Doesn't this scare him? Or is his dream too real, his ego too strong? The silence lengthened, until finally Kathy repeated her question. "Is this true, Daddy?"

Cornwall shook his head. "No, it is not true," he whispered.

"No?" Winfield repeated. "What do you mean, 'No'?" His voice was surprisingly calm, as if a trivial mistake had been made. Easily fixed. Try again.

Cornwall stared at his hands, unable to meet Winfield's gaze. "Cloning of adults is impossible at the moment," he muttered. "I looked into it at MIT, but there were... procedural difficulties. I was never successful."

"But you're mistaken, can't you see?" Winfield said, finally becoming excited. "You successfully implanted the embryo in my—my mother. Alicia Winfield. She volunteered for the experiment. Then she left Cambridge, the war happened. But the experiment worked. Can't you see? Can't you look at me and see?"

Cornwall raised his eyes slowly, but the effort was too much, and he dropped his gaze back to his hands. "I'm afraid you're the one who's mistaken," he said, and his voice was a little stronger. "You're not related to me—you're not my son, not my clone. Perhaps there is a resemblance that led you to hypothesize... something. But it never happened. Nothing ever happened."

"But—but it did," Winfield persisted. "You just have to look at me to know that it did."

Cornwall spread his hands, as if to say:
See? Nothing there.

Winfield turned to Kathy, and his voice was getting desperate now. "You can see the resemblance, can't you? Anyone can see the resemblance." And he gestured at me, as if to prove his case.

"There's a resemblance," Kathy said softly, "but I don't know you. I know my father, and I believe him."

"He must be mistaken—or he's lying."

"Why would my father lie?" Kathy asked.

"I don't know. I—" Winfield's gaze returned to Cornwall, and he fell silent for a moment. I felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for him. He must have rehearsed this scene so often, and now it was happening, and it had gone wildly wrong; the dream had turned into a nightmare. He must have started feeling sorry for himself at the same time, because when he spoke again it was in a low, pleading tone to Cornwall, who sat, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, as he listened. "Look," Winfield said, "I don't know what you're thinking, I don't know what's going on. I only know that this is my life. I've given up everything to come here and find you. I've got to know who—what—I am, and you're the only one who can tell me. It's all right if I'm a clone—I
want
to be a clone. But just tell me the truth."

Cornwall seemed to shrink back in his chair. He looked at Kathy for help, but Kathy was silent. "I'm sorry if this is disappointing to you," the old man said finally to Winfield. "I don't want to hurt you, but this is the truth: you will have to find out who you are on your own. I can't tell you."

Winfield shook his head. He leaned forward and stretched out his hand to Cornwall. "It's my life," he whispered. "It's my only life. Can't you see?"

Cornwall shrank farther back into his chair and ignored the hand extended to him. And for some reason I thought of Professor Hemphill, back in Cambridge, and what Cornwall had said to him once upon a time:
You only have the one life. Don't waste it.
Linc had given me the same good advice. Had Winfield wasted his life? It was beginning to look that way.