Colleen McCullough - The Prodigal Son

And at last John had a chance to talk to Max Tunbull, who turned a little side on and asked, “Do you remember your mother at all, John?”

“Sometimes I think I do, sir, at other times I’m convinced that what I think I remember is an illusion,” John said, his eyes suddenly more grey than blue. “I see a thin, sad woman who used to spend her time typing. According to Wendover Hall, who adopted me, she was very poor, made a living from typing manuscript for a dollar a page, no errors. That’s how he met her. Someone recommended her to type a book he’d written on forestry. It wasn’t long before he put her and me in a beautiful house at Gold Beach in Oregon. She died six months later. That I do remember! I must have been with her when she died, and I wouldn’t leave the body. Kinda like a dog, I guess. She’d been dead for two days when Wendover found us.”

Max blinked his own tears away. “My poor boy!”

“My turn to ask a question,” John said, voice hard, curt. “What was my mother like?”

Closing his eyes, Max leaned back in his chair slightly, as if speaking of his first wife didn’t come easily—as if, indeed, he endeavored never to think of her. “Martita was what these days we’d call a depressive, son. Back in the 1930s, the doctors said she was neurasthenic. Quiet and withdrawn, but as lovely on the inside as she was on the outside. My family didn’t like her, especially Emily—Val’s wife, in case you’re not keeping the names straight yet. I never realized how badly Em got under Martita’s skin until after she left, taking you with her. That was June of 1937, and you were barely a year old. Of course it all came out afterward, while I was scouring the country looking for you and your mom. Em worked on your mom’s insecurities every chance she had to be alone with her—relentless, unbelievably cruel! Convinced her she wasn’t loved or wanted.” The reddish-tan lips thinned. “Emily was punished, but too late for Martita.”

“She’s not here tonight—was she expelled from the family?” John asked uncomfortably.

Max gave a short, harsh laugh. “No! That’s not how most families work, John. Em just got the cold shoulder from the rest of us, including Val. Even Ivan wasn’t encouraged to take her side in anything—and he didn’t, either.”

“So that’s why Emily’s not here tonight?”

“Not really,” said Max nonchalantly. “Em’s grown in her own direction, which suits the rest of us just fine.”

“She won’t like my advent. It must look to her as if I’m going to reduce her son’s share of the family business.”

Max looked into this long lost son’s face with what seemed genuine love. “On that head, John, I can’t thank you enough. It came hard to Ivan to lose half his inheritance to my son Alexis, so to know you’re making no claim on me is wonderful.”

“I have so much money I’ll never be able to spend it,” John said, searching his father’s face. “Ivan can rest easy. I hope you’ve told him that?”

“No chance yet, but I will.”

Someone was banging a spoon against an empty crystal wine glass: Davina.

“Family and friends,” Davina began, each word carefully articulated, “we are gathered here tonight to kill the fatted calf for my darling husband’s prodigal son, lost to him for over thirty years. However, we also kill the fatted calf to honor my beloved Max, who turned sixty three days ago.”

She paused, eyes roaming the attentive faces. “We know why Emily isn’t here, but, dearest John, the absence of Ivan’s wife is equally habitual—Lily says she’s just too shy to face a room that might contain a stranger. Silly girl!”

Startled, John’s gaze flew to Ivan, who was glaring at his step-aunt in furious dislike, and John for one couldn’t blame him. What an awful thing to say! Max must really be under the thumb of this—no, not bimbo. Davina was a harpy, she ate people tooth and claw, slavering.

“On October thirteenth of last year,” the high voice went on, “I gave birth to Alexis. A son for Max at last, an heir to replace his beloved John.” She smiled at Max brilliantly. “And then, a month ago, John phoned from Oregon. He had found out who his family were, and he wanted to return to the fold.”

She emitted a histrionic sigh. “Naturally Max doubted John’s identity, but as the calls went on and the documents were produced in various lawyers’ offices, Max began to hope. And after the ring arrived, who could continue to doubt? Not my beloved Max! John the prodigal son had returned from the dead. So now we gather to celebrate the reunion of Max and John Tunbull. Lift your glasses and be upstanding!”

My name is John Hall, Davina, thought John to himself at the end of this disingenuous, mischievous speech. Not John Tunbull! Now I have to sit here while these people toast us. Prodigal son, for God’s sake! She never quite gets the story right, this eastern European harpy.

Embarrassed to look at any of those faces, his eyes went to the diminutive woman who appeared to be some kind of superior servant, moving among the hired help in smooth command. Clad in a shapeless grey dress with a shapeless body underneath, it was hard to arrive at her status in this menagerie. Her face was flat and suggested a cretin, as did the flat-backed skull, but the black, currantlike eyes were intelligent and the tiny, short-fingered hands deft as she wiped a dribbled speck of food from one plate and rejected another as unfit to be served. He had heard various people call her Uda; from what little he had seen thus far, John decided that she was Davina’s personal servant owning no allegiance to the Tunbulls. Just who was Davina Tunbull?

The meal was fantastic. Iranian caviar and trimmings was followed by the closest Davina could get to a fatted calf, she explained: roast milk-fed veal, lean, pink and juicy, with perfectly cooked vegetables, and an amazing cake for dessert. John ate well—he couldn’t resist such delicious fare.

As they rose from the table Davina sprang another surprise with another crystalline tattoo on a glass.

“Gentlemen, to Max’s study for coffee, after-dinner drinks and cigars!” she cried. “Ladies, to the drawing room!”

And finally, in a kind of foyer that ran between the dining room and Max’s study, John managed to waylay Jim Hunter.

“Do you believe this?” he asked, moving to one side of the traffic flow, six men fleeing from that awful woman.

Jim rolled his eyes, an almost scary expanse of stark white in such a black face. “It’s typical Davina,” he said. “I know the Tunbulls well after this past year and more putting A Helical God to press. But we’ll have plenty of time for me to tell you about that now that you’re in Holloman.”

“It was terrific to reminisce last night when I found you at home,” John said. His eyes, returned to blue, rested fondly on Jim’s face. “You look great, Jim. No one would ever recognize you for the old Gorilla Hunter.”

“For which I have you to thank. I can pay you back for my operation at last, old friend.”

“Don’t even try!” John frowned. “Millie’s still too thin.”

“That’s her nature, she’s an ectomorph.” The big, luminous green eyes, so strange in Jim Hunter’s darkness, swam with tears. “God, it is good to see you! Over six years!”

John hugged him hard, a strong yet manly embrace that Jim returned, then, emerging, saw Dr. Al Markoff glancing at his watch.

“Another hour, and I’ll be able to grab my wife and split. Davina’s hard to take tonight,” Markoff said, leading the way. “Long lost sons crawling out of the woodwork aren’t in her line, no offense, John, but the forestry background makes it an ideal metaphor.” He glanced at his watch again. “Not bad, not bad. It’s just ten-thirty. Muse and I will be sawing wood in less than an hour, ha ha ha. Punsters can’t help themselves, John.”