Stephen King - Duma Key

Then Melinda was there, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. “Dad? Daddy? Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Is that your roommate?” It was a joke, but I realized from her uncharacteristic silence that I had unwittingly hit the nail on the head. “It’s not a big deal, Linnie. I was just—”

“ — goofin wit me, right.” It was impossible to tell if she was amused or exasperated. The connection was good but not that good. “He is, actually.” The subtext of that one to come through loud and clear: Want to make something of it?

I most assuredly did not want to make something of it. “Well, I’m glad you made a friend. Does he wear a beret?”

To my immense relief, she laughed. With Lin, it was impossible to tell which way a joke was going to go, because her sense of humor was as unreliable as an April afternoon. She called: “Ric! Mon papa … ” Something I didn’t catch, then: “ … si tu portes un béret!”

There was faint male laughter. Ah, Edgar, I thought. Even overseas you lay them in the aisles, you père fou.

“Daddy, are you all right?”

“Fine. How’s your strep?”

“All better, thanks.”

“I just got off the phone with your mother. You’re going to get an official invitation to this show I’m having, but she says you’ll come and I’m thrilled.”

“ You’re thrilled? Mom sent me some of the pictures and I can’t wait. When did you learn to do that?”

This seemed to be the question of the hour. “Down here.”

“They’re amazing . Are the others as good?”

“You’ll have to come and see for yourself.”

“Could Ric come?”

“Does he have a passport?”

“Yes…”

“Will he promise not to poke ze fun at your old man?”

“He’s very respectful of his elders.”

“Then assuming the flights aren’t sold out and you don’t mind sleeping two to a room — I assume that’s not a problem — then of course he can come.”

She squealed so loudly it hurt my ear, but I didn’t take the telephone away. It had been a long time since I’d said or done anything to make Linnie Freemantle squeal like that. “Thank you, Daddy — that’s great!”

“It’ll be nice to meet Ric. Maybe I’ll steal his beret. I’m an artist now, after all.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” Her voice changed. “Have you talked to Ilse yet?”

“No, why?”

“When you do, don’t say anything about Ric coming, okay? Let me do that.”

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“Because she and Carson… she said she told you about him…”

“She did.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure there’s a problem there. Illy says she’s ‘thinking things over.’ That’s a direct quote. Ric’s not surprised. He says you should never trust a person who prays in public. All I know is she sounds a lot more grown up than my baby sister used to.”

Same goes for you, Lin, I thought. I had a momentary image of how she’d looked at seven, when she’d been so sick Pam and I both thought she might die on us, although we’d never said so aloud. Back then Melinda had been all big dark eyes, pale cheeks, and lank hair. Once I remember thinking Skull on a stick and hating myself for the thought. And hating myself more for knowing, in the deep reaches of my heart, that if one of them had to sicken that way, I was glad it had been her. I always tried to believe that I loved both my daughters with the same weight and intensity, but it wasn’t true. Maybe it is for some parents — I think it was for Pam — but it never was for me. And did Melinda know?

Of course she did.

“Are you taking care of yourself?” I asked her.

“Yes, Daddy.” I could almost see her rolling her eyes.

“Continue to do so. And get here safe.”

“Daddy?” A pause. “I love you.”

I smiled. “How many bunches?”

“A million and one for under your pillow,” she said, as if humoring a child. That was all right. I sat there for a little while, looking out at the water, rubbing absently at my eyes, then made what I hoped would be the day’s last call.

It was noon by then, and I didn’t really expect to get her; I thought she’d be out eating lunch with friends. Only like Pam, she answered on the first ring. Her hello was oddly cautious, and I had a sudden clear intuition: she thought I was Carson Jones, calling either to beg for another chance or to explain. To explain yet again. That was a hunch I never verified, but then, I never had to. Some things you simply know are true.

“Hey, If-So-Girl, whatcha doon?”

Her voice brightened immediately. “Daddy!”

“How are you, hon?”

“I’m fine, Daddy, but not as fine as you — did I tell you they were good? I mean, did I tell you, or what?”

“You told me,” I said, grinning in spite of myself. She might have sounded older to Lin, but after that first tentative hello, she sounded to me like the same old Illy, bubbling over like a Coke float.

“Mom said you were dragging your feet, but she was going to team up with this friend you made down there and get you cranking. I loved it! She sounded just like the old days!” She paused to draw breath, and when she spoke again, she didn’t sound so giddy. “Well… not quite, but it’ll do.”

“Know what you mean, jellybean.”

“Daddy, you’re so amazing. This is a comeback and a half .”

“How much is all this sugar going to cost me?”

“ Millions, ” she said, and laughed.

“Still planning to drop in on The Hummingbirds tour?” I tried to sound just interested. Not particularly concerned with my almost-twenty-year-old daughter’s love life.

“No,” she said, “I think that’s off.” Only five words, and little ones at that, but in those five words I heard the different, older Illy, one who might in the not-so-distant future be at home in a business suit and pantyhose and pumps with practical three-quarter heels, who might wear her hair tied back at the nape of her neck during the day and perhaps carry a briefcase down airport concourses instead of wearing a Gap-sack on her back. Not an If-So-Girl any longer; you could strike any if from this vision. The girl as well.

“The whole thing, or—”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I don’t mean to pry, honey. It’s just that enquiring Dads—”

“ — want to know, of course they do, but I can’t help you this time. All I know right now is that I still love him — or at least I think I do — and I miss him, but he’s got to make a choice.”

At this point, Pam would have asked Between you and the girl he’s been singing with? What I asked was, “Are you eating?”

She burst into peals of merry laughter.

“Answer the question, Illy.”

“Like a damn pig!”

“Then why aren’t you out to lunch now?”

“A bunch of us are going to have a picnic in the park, that’s why. Complete with anthro study notes and Frisbee. I’m bringing the cheese and French bread. And I’m late.”

“Okay. As long as you’re eating and not brooding in your tent.”

“Eating well, brooding moderately.” Her voice changed again, became the adult one. The abrupt switches back and forth were disconcerting. “Sometimes I lie awake a little, and then I think of you down there. Do you lie awake?”

“Sometimes. Not as much now.”

“Daddy, was marrying Mom a mistake you made? That she made? Or was it just an accident?”

“It wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t a mistake. Twenty-four good years, two fine daughters, and we’re still talking. It wasn’t a mistake, Illy.”