1929 (59 page)

“You son of a bitch!” Aryl said in
accusation. Jonathan’s wobbly head turned and he raised his
eyebrows in question.

“You beat us!” Aryl said with a laugh.

“Huh?” Jonathan blinked twice.

“Your son will be the oldest. You beat us,
after all.”

An intoxicated smile spread across Jonathan’s
face, and he held up his glass. “So I did.”

Jonathan remained at the table for almost an
hour alone; staring, sighing, hand wringing, regretting, letting a
few tears fall when the fissure in his chest ached and bled.

Well after midnight, he stood somewhat
unsteadily as the blood rushed from his head. He took the stairs
slowly and paused at the bedroom door, looking down at a blanket
and pillow Ava had thrown into the hallway. Pushing them aside with
his foot, he tried the knob but found it locked. He sighed and
leaned his forehead on the door.

“Ava . . . Ava, please.”

He waited several moments before scooping up
the bedding and turning away. He lay on the couch, not really
noticing how uncomfortable it was and stared at the ceiling with
his hands behind his head. A noise from the other side of the room
startled him, and he remembered Jean, who was still sound asleep,
leaning on the arm of the smaller sofa. Squinting in the darkness,
he wobbled and carefully moved him to lie more comfortably. He
reached for the afghan draped along the back of the couch and when
he touched it, he immediately recognized it as his childhood
blanket. He spread it over Jean and watched him sleep for a moment.
Without doubt, they shared more than the same name; the shape of
the eyes, shape of the eyebrows, even his lips puckered in sleep
were Jonathan’s. The nose and ears were Elyse’s. But there was one
thing that was Jean’s and Jean’s alone, Jonathan realized, and his
heart ached. The loss. That was all his.

He astounded at how this small child, who
just said goodbye to his mother forever, had remained calm as his
whole life tore away from him. And then, Jonathan nearly choked on
guilt. He had sat just twenty feet away with his friends, drinking,
crying, and even laughing, while Jean fell asleep alone on the
couch in a houseful of strangers.

Well, I’m off to a great start, he thought
and reached out to brush a lock of hair from Jean’s forehead.

March 23rd 1930

Jonathan stirred and touched his head.
“Damn.” He grimaced at the ache in his temples and squinted against
the bright room. His fuzzy vision focused on Jean, who sat on the
couch, staring at him.

“Er, good morning,” Jonathan said awkwardly,
sitting up slowly.

“Good morning, Monsieur.”

Jonathan rubbed the scruff on his face and
tried to smooth down the wild chunks of hair on his head sticking
in every direction. It was Sunday morning, at least he thought, and
he hadn’t bathed since the night before the extended fishing trip.
He sniffed himself and recoiled violently. Jean grinned shyly.

“I don’t normally look, or smell, like this,”
he explained. “I’m a fisherman. Lobster. And I, uh, just got back
from almost a week out.” Jonathan’s stomach grumbled loudly.
Eating, along with bathing and changing clothes, was something else
he forgot to do yesterday evening, when the world had stopped. He
looked at Jean again, who was slightly wide-eyed and studying him.
“Are you hungry?”

Dear God, I forgot to feed him last night,
too, he thought.

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Okay. I think I can handle that.” He stood
too quickly and swooned slightly. After getting his bearings, he
went to the kitchen to find food to make breakfast. For his son.
The word was as foreign to him as the pots and pans that he
clumsily tilted out of the cabinet, clanging loudly on the floor.
Jean peeked hesitantly around the corner.

“Come on in,” Jonathan said. “Have a seat.”
He pointed to the table. Jean wiggled up in the chair and sat
waiting with his hands tucked under his legs, watching Jonathan’s
every move. Jonathan glanced curiously over at him several
times.

“Well, they aren’t the best eggs in the
world, but–” He put a plate in front of Jean, feeling awkward
pressure to be a polite host. He sat across from him with his own
plate.

“Merci.”

“You're welcome.” Jonathan watched as Jean
pulled his hands out from underneath him, sit straight, and neatly
placed his napkin in his lap. “Why do you do that?” Jonathan asked.
“Sit on your hands, I mean.”

“So I don’t knock anything over,” he said
casually. He looked down at the plate and smiled. “This is nice,”
he said. Jonathan nodded with a full mouth. “There is only one
fork,” Jean said and held it up.

Jonathan remembered then, fine dining. “Makes
it easier not to get confused, doesn’t it?”

“My nanny slaps my hand when I choose the
wrong one,” he said with a little frown.

“Well, we don’t slap hands around here. And
generally we don’t have more than one fork at a time. And if we
do–” Jonathan shrugged and took a bite. “I don’t care which one you
use.” He gave Jean a slight smile.

The kitchen darkened a few shades, as if a
partial eclipse had stolen a few rays of sunshine. Jonathan looked
up to see Ava standing in the doorway, taking in the scene.

“How sweet.” Her voice was flat and her eyes
were swollen. He stood up quickly and tried to get close to her,
but she moved away, getting a piece of bread from the cupboard and
a small glass of water.

“Can I make you something, Ava?” he asked
meekly.

She turned her cold eyes back to him. “Looks
like you have your hands full.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s no trouble at all.”

She stared at Jean’s plate of food. “Tell me,
Jonathan. When did you make me breakfast?” She turned to him,
waiting for an answer. “Ever?” she asked and pushed past him
roughly. He sat back down at the table and sighed.

“She does not like me.” Observant could be
added to Jean’s list of above-average talents.

“It’s isn’t that. She’s just surprised.”

“You were surprised at me. But you’re nice.”
He struggled to jelly a piece of toast with the big butter
knife.

“Well, it’s going to take some time, you
know, to get used to each other.” He kept his eyes low to his
breakfast, flickering every now and then up at Jean.

“Will you tell me when I can call you by your
name?” Jean asked, staring almost cross-eyed as he levered the
toast, heaping with jelly towards his mouth.

“Oh, right. You don’t need to call me
Monsieur. You can call me Jon, I guess.”

“Will you tell me when I can call you Dadee?”
Jean, for a brief moment, looked his age, letting his guard down
along with his manners, as he tried to reach his tongue to his nose
where a drop of red jelly dotted.

“Good morning,” Margaret said and smiled
tentatively as she crossed the room to the coffee pot. Jonathan
raised his head, grateful for the interruption.

“Morning.”

She sat down with her coffee and smiled at
Jean. “I’m Jonathan’s mother,” she said. Jean thought about this
for a moment.

“What may I call you, Madame?”

Margaret grinned at Jonathan. “That little
accent is so adorable,” she said in a hushed voice. “Well, now.”
She leaned back as if deep in thought. “My name is Margaret. He
calls me Mom,” gesturing to Jonathan, “and being his mom, I guess
that makes me your grandmother.” Jean looked very serious, folding
his little hands in his lap. Margaret looked over him, every inch a
ghost of Jonathan over twenty years ago.

“I’ve never had a Grand-Mere,” he said
softly, looking up at Margaret, almost afraid, as if he had spoken
out of turn.

“Then it’s settled,” she said and smiled to
relieve his fear. “You’ll call me Grand-Mere.” She sipped her
coffee and then turned to Jonathan. “I talked with your father last
night. Today we can clean out the spare room. It’s chock full, and
it will take most of the day, but it should be ready by evening for
Jean.”

“That’s nice of you, Mom, but I think it
would be best if we started looking for a place right away. Aryl
offered to dip into the business funds–”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she
scolded. He rolled his eyes, swallowed and continued.

“The money we brought from New York to help
us out. And I’ve got some saved.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea, Jon.”
She turned to Jean who was finished eating, waiting to be excused.
“Why don’t you run in the living room and turn on the radio?” she
said and smiled at him. He nodded and slid off the seat. “Jon. I
don’t have to tell you that this isn’t sitting well with Ava. Do
you really think it’s a good idea to be gone all day, the two of
them left alone? She’s upset and don’t forget her condition.”

“You think I’ve forgotten for one second her
condition?” He leaned back and crossed his arms, his appetite
gone.

“No. But I think it’s best if you stay here a
while longer. Let things settle down. Let me and your father help
with Jean so he’s not forced on Ava.”

“Look. Staying here with my wife is one
thing. But now it’s my pregnant wife and my illegitima–”

“Your son
.
Regardless of how he came to be, he’s your son. And he’s you to his
shoes, Jonathan.” She paused a moment, trying to organize her
words. “Your father and I don’t have a problem with where he came
from. Ava does. We know very little of this woman that showed up,
and we don’t care to know more. What’s past is past. Right now,
that sweet little boy in there has just lost everything he knows
and loves. It’s going to take a while for you to get to know him,
and you can only be with him so much. You have to mend things with
Ava, and that’s going to take time and energy. So, let us help.” He
looked reluctantly at her and sighed.

“I’ll have to insist on paying you more
rent.”

She waved her hand with a grunt. “I’m not
worried about that.” He knew she was right and agreed with a
reluctant nod. He couldn’t be here to take care of Jean and on the
boat at the same time. And he couldn’t ask Ava to look after him.
She’d probably refuse anyway. “Now. I’ll clean up. Go bathe. You
smell,” she said, smiling. “Then we’ll get started on the
room.”

A while later Jonathan emerged from the
bathroom, smelling and feeling a great deal better. He paused and
peeked through the slightly ajar bedroom door. Ava sat cross-legged
on the bed, writing furiously. He walked down the hall to find his
mother and Jean sitting on the floor of the spare bedroom. A cedar
chest was open, and Margaret sat on her knees, digging through
piles of Jonathan’s things from when he was young. Jean spotted a
small, tattered teddy bear and reached for it.

“What can I do?” Jonathan asked, surveying
the mess of boxes and crates.

Jean looked up, slightly shocked at
Jonathan’s clean-shaven face and combed hair, and smiled.

∞∞∞

“Ruth?” Elyse watched the countryside,
wobbling in her seat next to Ruth as the train steamed toward New
York and away from her child. “Do you think he’ll be happy
here?”

“I do. Jonathan will be good to him. I’m sure
of it. He’s got a big heart.” Elyse looked at her with
compassion.

“You care for him.” It was more a statement
than a question.

“I do.” Ruth looked down. “I always
will.”

“But your husband is a good man to arrange
for our travel, to help and be so hospitable. I still feel I must
repay him for what he has done. He has been very kind.”

“Victor has his own reasons for helping, and
they have nothing to do with kindness. Jonathan is good, kind, and
strong. Victor is . . . nothing like Jonathan.”

“Tell me.” Ruth thought twice before
confiding. She cautiously wondered whether Elyse was yet another
spy to watch and report. But what would Elyse have to gain? She was
dying and had her own money.

“You know, I’m probably signing my own death
certificate, but . . . .” She proceeded to tell Elyse about the two
men’s entangled past. It left Elyse slightly wide-eyed with shock
and worry. “You know, sometimes I think that’s the only reason I’ve
stayed so long. I feel like I might be able to keep an eye out for
Jonathan this way. Maybe warn him. Victor gets more secretive as
time goes on, though. And I think he knows. I think he knows I
still care for Jonathan and that I would betray him in a heartbeat
to protect Jon.”

Elyse laid a hand on Ruth’s, surprised and
grateful that she didn’t shrink away, the way most polite society
did. “I still care for him greatly myself. If there is anything I
can do, please tell me,” she offered. Her eyes held sympathy and
the two women sat quietly for a moment, holding hands and
reflecting on their common love. Ruth looked at her and felt
obliged. Even in her own moment of grief, she was kind enough to
reach out and listen.

Several moments later, an idea came to her.
“There is one thing,” Ruth began, breaking the silence.

∞∞∞

Shortly after a formal dinner, Victor excused
himself and Ruth, leaving Elyse to finish her dessert in silence.
Victor led Ruth to the parlor and closed the door behind him. He
interrogated her and demanded to know the exact words exchanged and
made her repeat, twice, Ava and Jonathan’s reactions in detail. He
grinned to himself, enjoying the fact that Ava was upset to the
point of physical illness.

Go to hell, you filthy, evil bastard. You’re
not a fraction of the man he is. Go straight to hell, Ruth thought
as she stared at the floor to hide her hatred.

“If that’s all you need, I’d like to go to
sleep. It’s been a long day,” she said softly and he waved her
away. Elyse was also in the process of leaving the dining room to
retire for the evening, and Ruth watched her climb to the top of
the stairs. Elyse stopped, looked down, and gave a scant nod.