Though the heat was sweltering, Isabel walked the entire distance home from Avilov’s office.
What she had experienced was like the turning point in a Greek tragedy. In a matter of seconds she had gone from a person whose whole life had been blessed to one not only cursed, but possibly doomed to death.
She didn’t hurry. There was so much to think about.
Curiously, it was not her own uncertain destiny that was preoccupying her most, even though it was possible that on some day in the future she would turn a corner and come face-to-face with the Angel of Death. At this moment her principal concern was the fate of the man who, from her earliest memories, had loved, cherished, and protected her.
And she was not even his biological daughter.
Isabel knew in some sense it would no longer matter to him. After all, love is not genetically transmittable, and he had lavished it upon her for years. And reciprocally, she had given him all the affection a natural father could have dreamed of.
During the lengthy exploration of her thoughts, she resolved to make things right again. To give Ray what he had earned by sacrificing his own life.
She swore a fervent oath that he would never, never learn of Muriel’s betrayal.
And now when she thought of Jerry, she was pierced with aching loneliness.
The happiness he had brought her was real. Yet how could their relationship continue? She felt tainted, no longer worthy of him.
She arrived back at the flat—overheated and drenched with sweat.
There was an eerie feeling that the apartment was somehow emptier. Her father’s bedroom door was closed. Perhaps he was escaping from the brutal Cambridge heat by taking a siesta.
Suddenly, feeling parched from her long hot walk, she went into the kitchen, opened up the fridge, poured some lemonade, and went back to the main room, which was the coolest because they had kept the shutters closed.
She sat down, took a swig and looked around. The place looked unusually tidy. Magazines and journals that were normally scattered everywhere were piled up neatly.
Glancing at the table they used for work and meals, she noticed a long sheet of lined yellow foolscap propped up between the salt and pepper.
Knowing instinctively what it would say, she picked it up with dread.
Dearest Isabel,
You have been a wondrous, loving daughter, more than someone mediocre like myself could ever have deserved. You are a blessing and a gift that I was honored to enjoy for all those years. Too many years.
I realize that I’ve overstayed my welcome in your life and that your rightful place is with people of your own age—like Jerry, who’s a wonderful boy.
I don’t deny that what I am doing hurts me deeply, but I do it out of the profoundest love I have for you.
Among the many offers Pracht passed on (perhaps to get rid of me?) there was a last minute opening for a physics teacher in one of those fancy prep schools for future Ivy Leaguers who are already full of themselves.
I guess my claim to fame as your father is my best recommendation. When I called him this afternoon, the headmaster said he would take me sight unseen.
As soon as I get settled, I’ll make contact and give you my new address and phone. (Remember, I may be letting you go, but I’m not completely letting go of you.)
From now on, I’ll be acting like a grown-up parent with grown-up children. I’ll look forward to Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, and whatever festivals we can concoct.
I leave behind the only gift I withheld from you—your freedom.
Be happy, my beloved daughter,
Your loving father
Isabel was at a loss for words. She knew—the way a patient on a local anesthetic knows—that a part of her flesh was being torn away. But all she could sense was the anguish she would feel when the shock wore off.
She put her head in her hands. Suddenly her world was spinning in a centrifuge, whirling all her thoughts asunder. She, who had always played the indomitable Miss da Costa, ever cheery and composed even in the most pressured of circumstances, fell apart and began to sob.
She was not aware of the passage of time, and was jolted by the piercing ring of the phone.
“Isa, I waited so long the breakfast rolls got stale. Did you meet some cuter guy or something?”
She was overwhelmed with relief to hear his voice. “Oh, Jerry, am I glad to speak to you.”
“Well, you didn’t give me that impression all day,” he chided playfully.
“Please, Jerry, listen. It’s been the worst day of my life. Traumatic would be an understatement. Can you come over for dinner?”
“Why don’t you let me take you out for a change? I mean, we could be alone.”
She paused for a moment and then said softly, “We’ll be alone. Dad’s gone.”
“What the hell happened, Isa?”
“I’m still in such shock. I’m not sure I understand yet, but I think he had a sudden attack of guilt. Anyway, he’s taken a job in a prep school.”
“Well,” Jerry argued, trying to see the bright side, “this could be the best thing that ever happened to both of you. Is that why you’re so upset?”
“Would you believe me if I told you that’s the least of the earthquakes?” she replied. “But why don’t you let me tell you in person. My invitation was a very special one—I mean, in my whole life, I’ve never really cooked for anyone but me and Dad. Is it okay if I make something basic? I mean, I’m not exactly Julia Child. Will you settle for spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Fantastic. I’ll come by at seven.”
Still in a hypnotic daze, she went out to the supermarket and bought the ingredients for dinner, not forgetting Sara Lee brownies, should all else fail.
The phone was ringing insistently as she opened the door. Quickly setting down her packages, she hurried to answer it.
“Isabel—please don’t hang up. We’ve got to talk.” It was Muriel. “I’ve checked into the Hyatt Regency. Would you have dinner with me?”
“Sorry, I’ve got other plans,” Isabel said tonelessly.
“Yes, of course—Ray—”
“No, Mother, not Ray,” she replied pointedly. She resented the inference that everyone in her life regarded her as a social misfit.
“Well, when?” Muriel asked helplessly. “I mean, now that this terrible thing is out, it has to be dealt with.”
“Look, I can’t think about it now. I’ll call you back in the morning.”
“Can’t we even set a date for breakfast? Say eight o’clock?”
“All right, fine,” Isabel replied exasperatedly. “I’m sorry, I have to go now.”
Just when Isabel had reassured herself that the worst was over and she could now unburden herself to Jerry, she realized that yet another dark cloud had fallen on her life.
She was in love with him and secure in the fact that her feelings were reciprocated. She had always assumed that their relationship would develop in time and that he would eventually ask her to marry him.
But not now. Not with her appalling heritage.
The doorbell rang. And suddenly, despite what was weighing heavy on her heart, she laughed with joy. He was that dear to her.
Jerry had a bottle of that sparkling red concoction known as Cold Duck, as well as a bouquet of roses, but his most precious gift was irrepressible good humor.
Impulsively she threw her arms around him.
He smiled. “Hey, I think I’ll go out and come in again for more of the same.”
“Don’t be silly,” she coaxed him. “Sit down so that I can depress the hell out of you.”
“Where’s Ray?”
She handed Jerry the note, and watched his expression as he read it. He was clearly moved.
“God, it took a lot of guts to write this. He’s a hell of a guy. You should be very proud of him.”
Somehow the approval of the man she loved, his words of unabashed affection, had a paradoxical affect on Isabel. She began to cry.
“Isa, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve just found out he’s not my father.”
“I don’t understand.”
She gathered the courage to tell him everything. About who Edmundo really was. And who Ray really wasn’t.
“You know something,” Jerry remarked. “The fact that he doesn’t even know, makes what he did all the more—generous.”
For the moment Isabel did not have the courage to mention Edmundo’s illness; selfishly perhaps, since she did not want to run the risk of scaring Jerry away on this of all nights.
“Does it sound crazy that I’m angry with my mother for giving birth to me?” she asked.
“That’s a real tough one,” Jerry replied. “Frankly, I can’t help feeling at least a little grateful …” He held both her hands and squeezed them affectionately.
Oh, if you only knew the worst part, she thought.
By the middle of dinner, with some credit perhaps to the wine, they managed to talk of things other than parents, heredity, and fidelity.
It was growing late, nearing the time when Jerry usually made his chivalrous departure.
He stood up, moved closer and put his arms around her.
After they had kissed for a few moments, Jerry asked gently, “Isa, last time when your dad was ill, I spent the night here on the sofa.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay again, but this time with you.”
Their eyes met and, without any touch of hesitation or scintilla of fear, Isabel answered softly, “Please, Jerry, I’d like that very much.”