“Mac,” called Mrs. Appleton, as Mac came running in from court. “A messenger came by with a note for you.”
“Who is it from?” asked Mac, as he was taking his coat off, throwing his leather briefcase on the leather couch in his office.
“It is from Sara Mandakovich, Mac!”
“What? That's a name from the past. What does she want?” asked Mac out loud, the red traveling up his face, the gooseflesh rising upon his arms.
“Apparently, she wants to meet with you.”
“Really, let me see that,” he said, coming out of his office to take the note from Mrs. Appleton.
“She wants to meet me in Central Park? At Four o’clock? I Wonder,” he thought at loud, “what she wants?”
“Are you going to go?”
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Appleton. I must admit, though, I am curious.”
“Careful, sir. She is dangerous.”
“Yes, I know. I will think about it. I wonder what she is doing in New York. She wants to meet me by “our place.” She must mean a bench we used to sit on by the Conservatory Water. After all these years?”
“Well, just be careful if you go. You are too important now to get involved in something scandalous.”
Mac walked back into his office, sat at his mahogany desk, and lit up a Lucky Strike. He blew rings out of the slightly open window facing the Brooklyn Bridge, while contemplating what he should do. He tried to do some work, but everything came rushing back. The time they spent together, the chase through Central Park, the Christmas Ball in Rome, her climbing down the drainpipe of his hotel.
It's seven years, he opined. Seven years! Now our paths are going to cross again. I don’t know?
That afternoon crawled at a snail's pace, Mac thinking about anything but his work. He decided to go for a walk to clear his head, up Nassau Street, past the courts, the Police Headquarters. He was halfway to Central Park before he realized he was going to meet her, on their bench, next to the Conservatory Water. He walked up Park Avenue South, over to Fifth, and into the Grand Army Gate, across from the Plaza Hotel, walking up the Poets Walk in Central Park. By four o’clock he was seated on the park bench, across from Conservatory Water, watching the children floating their sailboats, as if in an E. B. White, Stuart Little fantasy novel. The children were dressed in their warm wool coats, as the chill of the Fall air was beginning to make itself known. The boys were laughing, running back and forth along the edge of the pond, as a little girl stood in the middle of it all, just watching, her blond curls cascading out of her wool beret.
“Thomas?” interrupted an older woman, as she approached the park bench.
“Yes, I am Thomas. Who are you?”
“I am Sara's mother, Thomas,” the woman said in an Eastern European accent.
Mac looked at the old woman, and the twinkle in her eyes told him it was true. She did look like an older version of the woman she claimed as her daughter. She was well dressed, a heavy wool coat, a gray felt hat, sensible shined shoes. Mac looked confused, as he didn’t understand why he was meeting this woman, and not her daughter.
“I am sure you are confused. I apologize,” said the old woman. “I sent you the note. I needed you to come. I am so sorry.”
Mac did not respond to the old woman, reaching into his overcoat to retrieve his pack of Lucky Strikes. He silently offered one to the woman before he lit one up himself. She shook him off, while handing him a folded note.
“My daughter asked me to give this to you if anything should happen to her. I have not heard from Sara in over a year. I thought I should come here and give this to you. She told me about New York, about your Central Park, and about your favorite place together. How she loved to talk about you, and her time in New York. Please, sir, read the note. It will explain…”
Mac sat down on the bench once again, inviting the old woman to sit next to him. He unfolded the note, drawing down on his cigarette for strength.
“My dearest Mac,” started the note, “you have always been the love of my life. I know you have moved on, and I do understand, but there is something that I need to tell you. I have tried to tell you over the years, but it just never was the right time, or it just would not come out of my mouth. Well, there is no other way to do this, but to be direct. If you are reading this, it is necessary that I tell you. You are a father, Mac. We have a beautiful baby girl. Her name is Margaret, after your mother. She was conceived during our time together. It was meant to be, I suppose. In any event, I have never once regretted having your baby. I am so sorry to drop this in your lap, after so long. But, if you are reading this letter, it means that I can no longer be there for Margaret. I am hoping that you can be her father and take care of her. Oh Mac, she really is wonderful. So smart, so beautiful, so alive. Please Mac, please be good to her. She needs you now, my love. Please Mac! I will love you always. Sara”
A tear tumbled down his cheek, as the old woman studied Mac's reaction to the letter. He looked down at the paper again, before looking the old woman in the eyes. She too had tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I am sorry to bring this to you like this, Thomas. I thought it was only right that you know, anyway. I am old, and I am tired. The war was rough. My husband is gone. There is no money to take care of the girl properly, except what Sara left us, and that is just about gone. I truly do not know what I will do if you do not take her. I will not be around forever.”
“If she is mine, I will take her, of course. What is your name?”
“My name is Sasha.”
“Sasha, I am embarrassed. Had I known, I would have been taking care of her all along. I am so sorry that you have been under such a tremendous weight.”
“If I could keep her, trust me, I would be delighted. She is a wonderful child. You will love her, as I have loved her.”
“Where is she, Sasha?”
“She is right in front of you, Thomas. The little girl with the blond curls,
playing with the boys, next to the pond. That is your daughter. That is Margaret.”
Mac stood up in front of the bench, watching the little girl play by the water, tears now fully rolling down his face. After some time, her grandmother held out her hand to the child, summoning the young girl without saying a word. The girl ran to her grandmother.
“Margaret, this is your father,” said the old woman, grasping the hand of her granddaughter. “This is your father, Margaret.”
“I’m pleased to meet you sir,” said the young girl in perfect, polite English.
“I am very pleased to meet you, young lady,” replied Mac, as he got down on one knee to hug her. “I am so pleased to meet you, Margaret. I would be so pleased if you would agree to come live with me here in the States. I would love to have you live with us. You have two brothers who will be delighted to have you, as well. As would my wife. She will be so excited to have a little girl to dress up, and to love.”
The young girl looked at her grandmother, as the old woman nodded in agreement.
“Yes, mamochka. He is your father. You belong with him, not this old lady.”
Upon hearing the term of endearment, Mac smiled through the tears.
Teddy bear mamochka, thought Mac to himself. Another time, so long ago.
The old woman, the young girl, and the lawyer spymaster left Central Park together, hand in hand.