Peter Lovesey: Rough Cider

“Mom was through with men. She devoted herself to me. She wanted to compensate for what had happened, I guess. She bought me beautiful clothes, sent me to riding school, took me on vacations to Cape Cod. We were real close in those days.”

She paused. I was supposed to draw out the next stage in the story. Obviously the mother-daughter idyll hadn’t lasted. Instead I asked, “What’s her name?”

“My mom?”

I nodded. My memory functions on names. Ashenfelter was already fixed forever, but I needed something more evocative than “Mom.”

“You mean, her given name?”

“Yes.”

She hesitated. “If I tell you, would you use my given name sometimes? It helps my confidence.”

I grinned at the notion that after breaking into my house, stripping, and occupying my bed, she was short of confidence. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“It’s Alice.”

“I know.”

“Hers was Eleanor. Everyone called her Elly.”

I noted the past tense.

She picked up the thread. “Like I was saying, she was turned right off men by Ashenfelter. I remember on Cape Cod, we used to have fun sitting outside a beach cafe sipping Coke and watching the guys. We tore them into small pieces. We sure hated men.”

“How old were you?”

“Maybe nine.”

“And soon, boys were taking an interest in you.”

She placed her forefinger on the bridge of her glasses and hitched them higher up her nose to stare at me through them.

“You know what Am going to say, don’t you?”

“You and Elly fell out?”

“Right. The teenage rebellion. Preteen, and not just rebellion, full-scale hostilities, if you want it straight. The guys tried to date me, she got tough, and I blew my stack. Neither of us were quitters. She tried locking me in, hiding my clothes, whaling my ass off, all that stuff. But my hormones were always going to win out in the end, and of course they did. Don’t get me wrong-I didn’t get into any kind of trouble. I just got it established that I could go on dates whenever I wanted.”

“And how did she react?”

“Badly.”

“In what way?”

“Alcohol. Sometimes when I came in, I had to put her to bed. She had a couple of bad falls. One time she broke her leg, but it didn’t stop her.” Nervously she put her thumb to her mouth and pressed it against her teeth. “I’m going to cut this short. Last fall I started in college, living away from home. One morning in February I was called to the dean’s office. Mom had been in an automobile accident. She’d driven off a straight stretch of highway into a tree.”

“The drinking

“The autopsy confirmed it.”

We observed a moment’s silence.

I asked, “Did she ever tell you that Ashenfelter wasn’t your natural father?”

She shook her head.

“In that case, how…?”

“I’m coming to that. I had to go through her papers to see if she made a will. She kept everything like that in an ebony needlework box that once belonged to her grandmother. I found a sealed envelope in there. When I opened it, there was just a marriage certificate, some press clippings, and a few old letters sent by Forces’ Mail. I glanced at the certificate and saw something unbelievable. My mother, Eleanor Louisa Beech, had gotten married in New York City, April 5, 1943, to a guy by the name of Duke Donovan! It really knocked me out. I mean, I was born the following February, for God’s sake!”

She appealed to me with wide eyes, as if she had just made the discovery afresh. I muttered something inaudible, wanting to move on to other things. I’sm uncomfortable with raw emotion.

“You think that was bad!” she said, inventing dialogue for me. “I took a look at the press clippings next, and they were really bizarre. Something about a trial in England. ‘The Skull in the Cider.’ Creepy. I didn’t know why she kept them. I was about to put them aside when I noticed a name: ‘Private Donovan, the accused.’ Can you imagine how I felt? Jesus, one minute I found a new daddy and the next he was on a murder rap.”

I smiled. Insensitive. I suppose I was as keyed up as she was, in my way.

Anyway, it didn’t upset her. She looked at me with a glazed expression and then unexpectedly smiled back and said, “Do you mind if I call you Theo?”

I answered flatly, “You just have.”

“Thanks. Well, I did plenty of thinking during the week of the funeral. I was very confused. I had one giant identity crisis. Either my daddy had been hanged for murder or I was Ashenfelter’s love child. Someone had obviously faked my records. I could understand my mom doing a thing like that to give me a clean start, but I figured she ought to have let me know when I was old enough to understand. Theo, she never even hinted at the possibility.”

“But you said you have proof.”

“Right. It was in the letters I found with the other things. I didn’t open them right off. I was scared. After the funeral I took them back to college. They waited on the shelf beside the clock, staring at me for over a week. I was extremely depressed, and I couldn’t take much more. Then one morning I came back from a wonderful lecture on William Wordsworth that lifted my spirits. The sun was shining and I went straight to the shelf and opened the first letter. I want you to read it, Theo. Would you hand me my pants?”

Her clothes were folded over the back of the chair I was sitting in. I passed the jeans to her. She took her wallet from the back pocket and extracted a ragged envelope, which she held out to me.

I hesitated.

She said, “Please.”

I took it from her and withdrew the letter. My own inner feelings were in turmoil. As I mentioned, I loved the man who had written it, loved him as a lonely child loves an adult who understands and offers support. I wanted to tap that source of strength again. His words-even to someone else-would be like a contact. But it was also a contact with a nightmare.

He had written in pencil on coarse, war-economy note-paper.

Elly, my dearest,

Another halt for the convoy, another chance to pen a few words to my sweet wife and our baby, trusting that somehow, sometime, you’ll read them. As ever, I’m not permitted to say where we are, except someplace in Europe, “On the road to victory” is, I guess, a description that won’t land me in trouble. I’m also at liberty to tell you that I still haven’t been wounded, thank God. Weary, so weary, but not wounded. I’m going to make it, baby, don’t you ever doubt it.

Enough about me. Can little Alice say “Daddy” yet? I guess that’s asking too much. There are kids here, would you believe? In the firing zone some kid in a bombed-out ruin asked me for gum. I always carry some. What’ll we do together, the three of us, when I’ m back? How’s about a picnic in Central Park? Coney Island? And someday I want to take you both to Washington, show you the White House.

Stay brave, my darling. This comes with all the love in the world and kisses for you both.

Your own Duke

I folded it and handed it back. To be frank, it hadn’t touched me as I had expected. It was a simple, dignified message from man to wife, and I had no part in that area of his life. Actually, it wasn’t disappointing to feel uninvolved. It was a relief.

She was saying, “Beautiful, isn’t it? I don’t care what he did; that’s a beautiful letter and he was my daddy.”

I nodded, sensing that this was a significant moment. I had to be convincing now. Underhandedly, I slipped into her idiom. “Alice, you’re so right. It’s a wonderful souvenir to have. He obviously loved you and your mother above everything else. That’s something to remember all your life. Why not leave it at that?”