Carole douglas - Cat on a Hyacinth Hunt

"Effinger was better than single parenthood?"

Matt's laugh was weary. He hadn't really done more than move his Caesar salad around, and Temple was finding even barley too tough to swallow.

"To my mother, in that old-time Catholic neighborhood. Yes. Apparently he became worse with time. And you were right."

"Me?"

"The real mystery, once you see and accept that my mother thought she was doing the best thing for me. She never had any illusions that it was the best thing for her. The real mystery is my natural father. He seemed to be from a Well-to-do family. He'd wandered into the Polish section that night on the eve of leaving for Vietnam. She said he could have been exempted, which I presume means he was a college student. But he thought it was his duty. Their attraction was instant. I guess it happens that way sometimes?" Temple nodded, aware of two times in her own life, neither over yet.

"He died over there. Later, some family lawyers came to see my mom and offered a . . .

settlement, I suppose. Either a lump sum or a support payment until I reached my majority. She took the lump sum, only in the form of a two-flat in the neighborhood of St. Stan's. She . ..

rooted us in the place that most denied us, for security's sake. Her house made her attractive to Effinger on-the-make, before he contracted gambling fever and Vegas dreams. And that was that. I grew up with lies and concealment and confusion and anger, and sought sense in God the Father. My mother paid her price and suffered in silence and finally grayed into aimless middle age. When I left the church, I left her lies to herself and to me. She's going to have to live for herself now. And I think she might finally be able to."

"Matt. That's a horrible story."

He grinned. "Isn't it? But it's the past. From here on in, it's all waiting to be rewritten."

"And that's what makes you feel optimistic?"

"That, and breaking with my mother's past. We've been at odds. I can understand why she did what she did, but I don't agree with it. She wanted me immured in the safety of church approval, the bastard made man of God. I think you're right; I think the story behind my real father is worth finding out. But first I've got to get free of my false father, Effinger, and I think I have."

Temple nodded, and leaned back as her soup was taken away and a large plate of fish placed before her.

"A very Christian dish, I guess," she noted mischievously.

"You're way ahead of me, as always."

"You give me way too much credit, as always."

"Anyway, that's what I feel like celebrating tonight. My freedom from the past, its lies and half-truths, its benign enslavement, its souvenirs like Effinger. There were so many things I thought I had to be; now there are things I've never dreamed of becoming. I'm not going to cut free all at once, but I think, I think I'm finally loose enough to be human again. I feel like I stand a prayer of having a relationship with a woman without miring it in theological debates. I'm on some sort of brink. I feel like I could fly and not dash my feet on the stones below. It's crazy. It's incredible. Let's toast it."

He lifted his glass of blood-red wine and Temple lifted her glass of pallid hue. Brims touched.

Chimed like New Year's bells in miniature.

*******************

"I don't know if we can make two more stops," Matt said when they left Gallagher's.

Temple, ever practical, checked her fragile watch face. "If we pace ourselves. It's just after eleven."

"So did my At Home in Illinois' story inspire you?"

"I'd sure like a line on those lawyers who bought your mother off."

"You think--?"

"For one thing, your natural father might not be dead at all."

Matt stopped in the concourse, frowning. He looked slightly tipsy, as she had never seen him. She wasn't sure whether it was emotion or St. Emilion. It was one thing to have slain the evil father figure from his past; another to admit the possibility of a missing father in his future.

"The family lawyers told my mother he was dead. Vietnam."

Temple shrugged. "His family lawyers aren't her or your lawyers."

Matt, stunned silent by the possibility, finally shook his head as if renouncing Satan.

"Temple, sometimes your imagination runs in overdrive. My mother got a settlement. It's over.

And I've hunted missing father figures long enough."

He pulled out the package brochure. Subject closed. "Hamilton's next. For dessert and an after-dinner brandy. They do believe in mixing spirits, don't they?"

"Where's Hamilton's?"

"Upstairs. We'll have to work our way across the Central Park Casino to the Empire Lounge, then take the stairs or escalator up to Hamilton's."

"I vote for the escalator."

"Hard walking in those heels?"

"Hard walking in this swamp of spirituous liquors. Brandy? And it still won't be midnight?"

"We celebrate the New Year back at the Times Square Bar, with champagne cocktails."

"Ooh, my aching head. Put away your brochure, Robinson Crusoe; it isn't even Friday."

Matt took her arm as they threaded their way through the slot machines and their minions.

Temple couldn't object to the support. She'd thought her ten days in New York had been action-packed. Matt's journey from back-alley Las Vegas to secret-laden Chicago seemed the far more dangerous voyage.

The Empire Lounge was hard to miss with its huge rotating mirrored red apple over the stage. They headed in unison for the escalators, Temple leaping gingerly over the first step in her Midnight Louie high heels.

As they rose, the view grew more impressive. By the time they stood at the entrance to Hamilton's, they could oversee the entire first floor gaming area and the distant walls whose painted New York skyline was limned in sunset shades of rose and purple. Twilight time. Very romantic. Except that they reminded Temple of bruises. Beneath them twinkled the trees of Central Park.

As if heaven-sent, Big Band music swayed in the background. Could Guy Lombardo be far away?

A sign outside Hamilton's requested "appropriate attire" after eight p.m. Temple and Matt exchanged a glance. Could they be any more appropriate?

A maitre d' again accepted Matt's blue chit. They passed a black-and-red gift shop and a walk-in humidor oozing the odor of expensive cigars.

Another glance was exchanged.

Under their feet lay leopard-design carpeting, and black leather banquettes curled around black lacquer-and-chrome tables.

Art deco geometric fabric covered the central chairs; torcheres spiked the walls. Everything was dark and elegant, lit by champagne flutes of light. A soft blue haze draped the ambiance like a feather boa.

Once they were seated, a statuesque female in a slinky strapless gown slunk over with a selection of cigars. His and hers. Temple picked up the tabletop matchbook, whose motto was ITS'S ALWAYS MIDNIGHT AT HAMILTON'S.

They both shook their heads, shocked. Soon a decadent cheesecake dessert arrived, accompanied by brandy Alexanders.

"I don't get the dame with the stogies," Matt admitted.

"I think this is a 'cigar bar.' The latest thing on the Coasts."

"But women--?"

"Light up now, too, in trendy circles. Me, I think trying to act like a man is always dumb. I mean, mouth cancer isn't worth it."

"You do have a way of improving the appetite," Matt said, glancing down at his dessert.

"That's just Heart Attack City. Dive in."

Temple did. Her appetite had revived when faced with something smooth and creamy and sweet. The brandy Alexander was equally agreeable, and she'd had just enough liquor to numb the buzz saws of pain grinding at her face and jaw.

"You're enjoying this, really? Despite my personal recital?"

"Personal recitals are my favorite thing. And, yes, I am. This is the way the real New York should be: all fairyland and no hassle. We don't even have to catch a cab."