Эд Макбейн - Love, Dad

“What’s his name, I want to call him.”

“It’s Steven Loesch, he’s on Strawberry Hill in Stamford, I have the number here if you want it.”

“Yes, please.”

He read off the number to her, and then said, “I’ll call you when I know what’s happening.”

“Do you think I should come up there?” Connie asked.

“Well, that’s up to you.”

“I could open the house and...”

“She’s comfortable here, Connie,” he said.

“Still. She might want to be home.”

The words hung there.

“I think it might be best not to move her,” he said.

There was a long pause on the line.

“How was your wedding?” Connie asked.

“Fine, thank you,” Jamie said.

“Congratulations,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. He hesitated, and then said, “I’ll call you as soon as there’s any change.”

“Call me anyway,” Connie said. “Even if nothing...”

“Yes, I will.”

“What drug was it?” she asked.

“I don’t know, hon...” He cut himself short. He had almost called her “honey” through force of habit. Graciously, she did not comment on the slip.

“Thank you for letting me know,” she said, and hung up.

By noon the next day, Jamie was convinced she would never recover. Last year, when she’d disappeared from the face of the earth, he was forced to believe at last that she was dead. Now, he believed again that she was dead, the Lissie he’d known and loved was dead, and in her place there was a paler image, a blurred one, an imperfect casting from the Lissie mold. He had looked in on her at nine, and again at ten and eleven, and as he opened the door now, he realized he was hoping she would be sitting at the dressing table combing her hair, or else singing at the top of her lungs in the shower, or brushing her teeth and spitting foam into the sink — anything to indicate life, anything to indicate his daughter was back.

She was still in bed.

As he closed the door behind him, her eyes opened wide. She turned her head toward him.

“Lissie?” he said, tentatively, cautiously. “How do you feel?”

“I’ve got a very bad headache,” she said.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and listened to her telling him — in her normal speaking voice, and at a somewhat breathless pace — that she really hadn’t taken anything at the wedding although there was all kinds of shit to be had, uppers and downers and speed and green flats and white Owsley and even some smack, but really she hadn’t done anything but smoke a little pot.

What she thought was that maybe somebody had dropped something in her drink as a joke, you know? Kids sometimes did that, like they dropped something in somebody’s drink just for the fun of seeing the person get off. This was usually some goody two- shoes they did it to, so maybe somebody decided she was a bit square and figured they’d do a number on her. But she swore to God she hadn’t taken anything on her own, and she was sorry for any trouble she’d caused him over the past several days especially since it was right after his wedding and all.

Jamie held her close and said he’d only been worried for her, that was all, and he was glad she was back, he was glad his darling girl was back again.

July 6, 1971

Dear Lissie:

When Joanna and I returned from the Hamptons after the long Fourth of July weekend, there was a message from your mother on the machine. I called her back and she told me she’s concerned about whether or not you’ll be returning to school in the fall. As I’m sure she mentioned to you, one of the snags in reaching a settlement sooner was that she insisted I pay for your education until you got your degree, however long that might take you. I refused to do this. The agreement now is that I will pay for your education until you get your degree but only if you begin school at an institute of higher learning this September and “diligently and without interruption pursue a legitimate course of study.”

What that means is that I’m legally (and willingly, I might add) bound to pay for the rest of your college education but only if you start school in September and continue school without any more side excursions. I think you can understand your mother’s concern about this. I don’t normally enjoy talking to her on the phone because it always seems to turn into a screaming contest these days, but this time she was level and calm, and wanted only to know whether you’d discussed your plans with me. Apparently, the last time you talked to her, you sounded somewhat vague. So if you get a chance, would you please drop her a line and tell her what you plan to do in the fall?

And while you’re at it, how about sending me a nice long letter, too?

Love,

July 12, 1971

Dear Lissie:

The letter I sent to your Boston address was marked “Return to sender.” Does this mean that you and Sparky have moved and neglected to give the post office a forwarding address? I’m trying again, but without much hope. If you do receive this, please write or call home, won’t you?

Love,

July 14, 1971

Dear Lissie:

On the off chance that Rusty would have a new address for you, I called the Kleins in Rutledge yesterday and spoke to her. I still don’t know why one of your friends would have your address when your father doesn’t, but she gave it to me when I asked for it, and I’m hoping this will reach you. You seem to change your address as often as you change your underwear.

What do you plan to do about returning to school? Please let me know as I’d like to arrange for an automatic transfer of funds from my bank to yours each month once you begin. There’s still time, this is still only the middle of July. But, come to think of it, the summer will soon be over, won’t it, and I would appreciate knowing what the situation will be. Rusty didn’t have a phone number for you. If you have a phone now, would you please give me the number in your next letter? It’s been too long since I’ve heard your voice.

Love,

July 19, 1971

Dear Dad,

I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner, but Sparky and I were in the process of moving to this new apartment, which now turns out to be a bummer because our neighbors are bringing up all kinds of shit about the “mixed couple” on the fourth floor. It turns out now we should have stayed where we were, even though the place was overrun with roaches and rats. I don’t know how long we will be in this horrible place, because human roaches and rats can be worse than the other kind. In fact, we are thinking of maybe going abroad again. I am eager to introduce Sparky to all the places I traveled through last year, where it doesn’t matter what the color of your skin is. I know he will be accepted in India, where we will most likely end up, if that is what we decide to do.

I thought I ought to discuss this entire school situation with you, since it seems to be a matter of such importance to you and Mom. I have met a girl here who was studying at the Boston University of Fine Arts, but who dropped out after this last semester, and who is planning to go to India in the fall, to study there, to study Hindu and Buddhist painting. Sparky and I have been talking to her, which — combined with the shitty situation here in this new environment — has caused us to consider making the trip, stopping first in London and then Greece for a little while, and then moving on to join Sondra, her name is Sondra, in India.

This is still indefinite, of course, but the plan would be for me to finish studying in India and then either work and paint or go to another school. With my training in Indian art, I should be able to bring much more insight and concentration into my life. In short, when you ask what my plans for schooling will be, those are my tentative plans at least. I would also study yoga while I’m there, really study it, and not just fool around with it the way I did when I was in Greece last year. Anyway, that’s the plan. So you don’t have to worry about sending money to a bank in Boston. I don’t have a bank in Boston, anyway. All my love to everyone.