Sleeping Beauty (39 page)

“Whatever he did before, he's changed,” said Charles. “He's grown-up. He's a U.S. senator. He's my brother, Anne; I can't condemn him out of hand. Is that what you want me to do? Yes, I suppose it is. But I can't do that; I wouldn't do that to anyone in the family.”

“You did it to me.”

“I didn't condemn you. I just couldn't . . . I didn't know what to do with what you were telling us, and what I thought I knew about you, and about Vince. I know I was wrong; I should have found a way to help you. But that was twenty years ago, Anne—”

“Twenty-four.”

“Yes, of course, twenty-four. Isn't that enough time to get over something, to go on with your life? Why did you stay away so long? We did try to find you; your grandfather hired detectives, but they said there wasn't a trace . . .”

“I took Mother's name.”

“Garnett? That's your name now? Isn't that strange, it never occurred to me to ask what your name is.” There was a silence. “I always wanted to be a good father!” he burst out. “I thought, after your mother died and Marian said she'd take care of you, that you and I would be good friends; we'd go to the zoo and the Field Museum and the Museum of Science and Industry and the planetarium and the aquarium . . . I made lists of places we could go. And I thought we'd talk, sit together, you know, whenever you wanted, and talk about everything that interested you, and I'd help you understand things and deal with them. I saw us so clearly, the two of us, it was like those paintings of parents and children that always seem so bright, full of sunlight . . .” He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “That seems foolish, I suppose, but I did see us that way. A daughter and a father, being good friends, loving each other.”

“But none of that happened,” Anne said.

“No. I don't know why. Maybe I didn't try hard enough. Or it took me too long to try at all. I'm sure you don't remember, but I couldn't do anything for a long time. She died so suddenly, you know. It wasn't as if she had an illness and I could get used to the idea of her being gone; it was that one minute she was calling to say she'd be home in half an hour and the next that damned car hit her, that rotten drunk, that filth, but he walked away from it and she died, in that one minute. If she hadn't called me—but she knew how I worried and she always called—or if she'd left a minute—half a minute!—later, or if she . . . But she didn't and he killed her.” He shook his head. “You never get over something like that, you know; it never stops hurting.”

“I know,” Anne murmured.

Slowly, Charles understood what she meant. “It was a death,” he said, his voice rising. “It was the end of our family as we knew it. I wouldn't ask you to forget that; it was much worse, much more devastating than anything that happened to you.”

“Was it?”

“You lost your mother!”

Anne's eyes were thoughtful. “Yes. I hadn't realized . . . It seems that violation and loss and betrayal are harder to get over than even the death of a loved one.”

Charles grimaced. “You think we betrayed you.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I didn't mean to. I told you, all I ever wanted was to be a good father. But nothing seemed to work. All those dreams I'd had of your loving me, rushing up to me when I came home and hugging me and being my little girl . . . you were nothing like that. You always seemed angry. You went off by yourself, you never asked me to do anything with you. I felt you were always turning your back on me.”

“And you don't know why,” Anne said.

“No. I felt so helpless. No, of course I don't know why.”

“I was living in Marian's house. I was seven years old and I'd lost my mother and my home. And my father only cared about
his
loss,
his
mourning, so there was no room for me to share it. You're right. I was angry.”

They were silent. Charles sighed. “I made mistakes, Anne; I know that. I'd undo them if I could. But what would you like me to do now? I could keep saying I'm sorry all night; would that help? Or we could forget the past and start from this minute and . . . get acquainted. You must want that or you wouldn't have come back.” He waited. “Even if you can't forget, you could forgive. I never did anything to you from malice, you know; I always loved you; I always wanted the best for you. Please forgive me, Anne; is that so much to ask?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “It is.”

“Why, for God's sake? We've lived with this pain for so long; why do you want to prolong it? You're here now;
you're a successful, lovely woman and you did it all without me. You've proved you don't need me, or any of us. It's time to forgive. I want to be your father, Anne; it's not too late. Gail and I aren't close—I suppose she told you that—she's never been warm toward me. I think she blames me for your leaving. She didn't tell me that; I just think that's how she feels. But if you forgive me, if we start again, Gail would, too; I'm sure she would. We could get back everything we lost. I'm not making any demands on you, Anne; I just want you to love me again.”

Anne gave a small smile. “That's all you want?”

“My God,” Charles exploded, “don't you have any feeling for me at all?”

Anne felt like weeping, but no tears came. “It's too soon. I don't forgive you. I can't love you.”

Abruptly, Charles thought of Marian again.
It was as if I didn't weigh anything at all and could just
 . . .
float
. Sexless Marian, talking of freedom. But Charles had thought of a husk—empty, dried out, weightless. And that was how Anne sounded to him. There was no pain or tension or even anger in her voice or her face. She might have been discussing a stranger.

But he was not sure. He always had trouble understanding people. Maybe she wasn't an empty husk; maybe she was a young woman who was frozen. Or asleep.

“I don't know,” he said. “I just don't know.”

Anne looked at him, not knowing what he meant. He was frowning at his clasped hands. He was a tall man, but now, hunched in the corner of the deep couch, he looked shrunken, and the lines in his face seemed to deepen as she watched. “Tell me about the company,” she said. “I'd like to know what's happening with it. Gail and Leo said you've been having some problems.”

Still looking at his hands, he smiled faintly. “Is that all they said?”

“I'd like you to tell me,” she said gently.

He opened out his hands. “We had a project that didn't work out. It should have—it was exactly the kind your
grandfather put together dozens of times—but it went wrong.” He paused and sighed. “No, there was a difference. Your grandfather would have waited until he was sure all the pieces were in place. I didn't do that. I wanted so much to get moving, to pull this off and have one thing that would make everyone proud . . .” He shook his head and pulled himself up to sit straight. “Well, I blew it, as the young people say. And I'd borrowed all I could for it, and signed notes on my own—the banks wouldn't loan any more unless I was personally liable—so I'm not in very good shape right now.”

“I'm sorry,” Anne said.

“But I'll be all right, at least a hell of a lot better off, once I sell The Tamarack Company. I've already had an offer, its way off, much too low, but it's only the first; there's a lot of interest in resorts right now, including the Japanese. We ought to get a hundred million for it, maybe a hundred fifty, and that would pay our debts and leave us cash for new projects. Then we'd decide what to do with Chatham Development. I know Fred wants to be president and that's fine with me; I'm ready to retire. But first things first. I've got to get us out of this bind and the family has to help me.”

“I think they'd like to, if they could,” Anne said. “But you're asking them to sell a company that's their whole life. And are you sure you can get a good price? Leo says the cleanup the EPA is talking about could be a major headache; I can't imagine anyone putting down money until that's settled.”

“The EPA isn't important. All they want to do is clean up a little corner of town where the soil's contaminated from old mine tailings. I don't know what Leo's excited about; once it's done, the town will be safer and the value of the company will go up.”

“Isn't it more than a corner of the town? Leo says it's more like half of the east end, and most of it belongs to the company. So you'd have to pay for the cleanup, and for moving people out while it's going on, maybe as many as a hundred families. Nobody even knows how long it will take;
they don't know how far down the tainted soil goes, so they can't predict how much will have to be dug out and replaced. It could end up being enormously expensive. And the other day the EPA told Leo they're worried about poisoned dust in the atmosphere while they're digging out the old soil and carting it away. And the people there are having trouble selling their houses, and they can't get loans to fix them up because no bank will loan money in that part of town until they know what's coming.”

“That's ridiculous,” Charles said angrily. “All of it. I don't know what the hell got into Leo; he's blown it up all out of proportion.”

“But you're being sued. Isn't that right? A couple of families living there have sued the company because their children are ill and they're blaming the mine tailings. I'd guess you'll have more of those, especially if there's dust flying around. And the publicity is already hurting the town; some lodges had cancellations after the first stories appeared nationally. If the costs go high enough, and if there's enough bad publicity, you can't predict what the value of The Tamarack Company will be.”

“I told you, it's all been exaggerated. Vince checked it out with the EPA. It's a small operation; it won't cost much, and the town won't even know it's going on. If some people canceled, others will come; it isn't serious. Anne,” he said abruptly. “I need your help.” He smiled faintly. “I usually have trouble asking for help, you know; it's like admitting I've failed. I won't even ask directions in a strange city; I know that's ridiculous, but the words stick in my throat. I've driven around for hours rather than admit I'm lost.” He shook his head. “I don't know why I'm telling you this. It's just that I'm feeling a little overwhelmed, and I'm ashamed of it. I have the feeling that if I were really grown-up, I'd be able to handle everything. That bothers me all the time. I should be wiser by now, more mature, more able to see what's coming. What the hell, I'm the age when men are called elder statesmen. But I still feel the way I did at twenty-five, that I have so much to learn, such a long way to
go before I act like my father, and sound like him. . . . Well, I'm sorry; I'm really dumping on you, as they say. None of that's important, Anne; what's important is getting out of this bind so I can get back on my feet. I've got to sell The Tamarack Company. That's my only hope. Some of the family are against it, but you could talk to them about it and get them to agree; they'd listen to you; you're more objective about it than I am. Will you, Anne? I wouldn't ask you, but I haven't any choice; things are so bad—”

“Can we say good-night?” Robin asked. She stood in the doorway, poised to take the first step into the room.

“Yes, of course,” Anne said. “I didn't realize it was so late.”

Charles was still looking at Anne. “Help me,” he said urgently, his voice almost a whisper. “Talk to them. They'd listen to you.”

“Good night, Grandpa,” said Robin, standing before him. She held out her arms and Charles leaned forward to hold her. “Sleep well,” he said. “Maybe I'll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Aren't you staying here tonight?” Ned asked, coming in behind Robin. “You didn't see my new bike. It's got eighteen speeds and it goes straight up the mountain.”

“I'll see it in the afternoon,” Charles said. “I'm going to see somebody on business in the morning, but I can be with you after that.”

Ned's face froze. “Business? Like selling The Tamarack Company? You can't do that; we won't let you.”

Robin poked him with her elbow. “You weren't supposed to talk about it to Grandpa.”

“I wasn't talking. I was just telling him.”

“Time for bed,” said Leo from the doorway.

Charles stood. “I'll be going, too.”

“But you're staying here,” Gail protested. She stood behind Leo. “I couldn't let you go to a hotel.”

“I'd rather. And I left my bag there.”

“But stay for a while,” Leo said. “You haven't tasted Anne's cake. And we haven't had a chance to talk.”

Robin and Ned looked at him interestedly, seeing the conflict in his face. Charles turned to Anne. “Shall I?”

“Of course,” she said easily. “We'll make more coffee.”

She went to the kitchen and Charles followed as Gail and Leo went with the children to the other wing of the house. “You see, even the kids,” he said. “They won't even consider it. But they'd listen to you.”

Anne poured coffee beans into the grinder, and took the carafe to the sink to fill it. But when she turned on the tap, only a trickle came out. “Strange,” she murmured. “It was fine earlier.”

Charles watched her as she held the carafe under the faucet, and tried to think of something to say. But it seemed to him he had said it all—and had failed. She still did not forgive him, or love him. Suddenly, he longed desperately for her to love him. There was still time for him to be a good father.

The telephone rang, then stopped as it was answered in another room. Frowning, Anne turned off the faucet. The trickle of water had slowed to a few drops and then there was nothing. “I'd like to visit you in Los Angeles,” Charles said. “Would that be all right? There's so much . . .”