that made him wince, hoping his own words had made some sense.
“You don’t want to kill that baby, do you?” Richie said.
“I just want Sunny,” Page said, astounded to feel himself retreating a
little. Richie felt it too and began to think Page wouldn’t spread him
around the living room.
“Then give her another few months,” Richie pleaded quietly. “Till the
child is born and you know they’re both okay. She loves you, Page, she
didn’t want to go. I insisted because every time she saw you she came
all unglued. You weren’t living with her, anyway. You rarely saw her.”
“And I suppose she told you _why_, you—conniving bastard!”
“No, she didn’t. She just said it couldn’t be helped and you loved each
other in spite of it.” Richie lighted a cigarette and continued
seriously, “She talked to me quite a lot, though, when she came in for
her examinations. I don’t think she has many problems I don’t know
about—or couldn’t figure out. Would it help you any to know, Page, that
I think....” He paused, then proceeded cautiously, “... I think this
baby will be normal?” He waited, ready for a wild reaction from Page.
But Page deliberately misunderstood him. “Of course it’ll be normal,” he
said quickly. “She hasn’t starved herself _that_ much.” He covered his
face with his hands for a moment as if he were afraid to comprehend
Richie’s full meaning, as if his hands could hide his thoughts from the
doctor. When he dropped them he said, “I’ll ask you once more: Where is
she?”
“If I told you you’d go straight to her.”
“Do you know what this is doing to me?” Page said roughly.
“You’re not pregnant. She is.”
“I have to know! God Almighty, are you trying to drive me nuts?” He
reached the doctor with one giant step, pulling him up by the lapels and
shaking him.
Richie looked him straight in the face. “No.”
Page gave him a stout shove that sent him walloping into his door. But
Richie caught him on the rebound, plowing a fist into Page’s solar
plexus. Page hit the floor on his knees, struggling loudly for breath
while Richie watched, unwilling to press his advantage.
When Page could talk he mumbled furiously, “You’re in love with her. You
wouldn’t do this otherwise. Damn you! Probably going to meet her
somewhere.”
Richie said nothing. When Page recovered he helped him to his feet and
pulled him to the front door. “She’ll be back as soon as she’s had the
baby,” he said.
“I’ll find her,” Page swore, pushing the tumbled hair off his forehead.
“If you think I’m going to wait two or three months for my wife, you’re
crazy.”
“You’re the crazy one,” Richie answered. “And you know it well enough to
be ashamed of yourself right now.”
For the second time in the past few days, the fight went out of Page. He
loved Sunny and he had to find her. Richie loved her and he had to hide
her. Page understood that suddenly and understanding made him quieter,
less desperate.
He looked at Settick with the clear green eyes so much like his
sister’s, and experienced an irritated gratitude toward this man who had
cared for her.
“If I’d been with her all this time, she wouldn’t have had to turn to
you,” he said, almost to himself. He wondered how he could admit this
without feeling cowardly about it, or humiliated.
“I wish I could hate you for what you’ve done,” he said frankly to
Richie. “I wish I didn’t understand why you did it. I could break your
head then with a clear conscience.” He smiled tentatively. “You think
I’m a dangerous character, don’t you?”
“You were, a minute ago.” And seeing Page collect his wits, control
himself, made an impression on Richie. For the first time since his
arrival, the doctor saw what Page could be like when he had himself in
hand, and it made him jealous; not of a shadow or a name on Sunny’s
lips; but jealous of this flesh-and-blood man facing him now and showing
signs of civilized intelligence at last.
“Does it make any difference if I say I had to avoid her? And it hurt me
as much as Sunny?” Page shot Settick a glance. “Will you tell me where
she is if I give you my word not to frighten her?”
Richie shook his head. “All you have to do is be there, and she’s
frightened,” he said. “I can’t take the chance. She isn’t that strong.”
“I keep my word, Settick,” Page said. It was as close as he could bring
himself to pleading.
“Give her these months, Page. Give her her child safe and sound. After
that, she’s all yours.”
And Page saw that until then, she was all Richie’s; not in any
adulterous sense, but in the sense of safe-keeping. More argument with
the young doctor would gain him nothing.
He left, wondering at his own self-control and perception. Richie
wondered, too, if Sunny hadn’t exaggerated her husband’s difficult
temper. Both men felt a grudging esteem for each other and in different
circumstances they would very likely have been friends.
For Page, in the trial of soul-searching and steadfast love, found
himself changing for the better. He was not yet quite a man, but no one
could call him a temperamental college boy any more, either.
He went home and placed a call to the Rothelis, fingering the library
notes Pat had left on his desk that afternoon. Deliberately, he dumped
the notes into the wastebasket. It would be a while before he wrote
anything more.
Ben answered. It was the first time Page had heard his voice since he
knew Ben was his father, and he listened with new attention, hearing
echoes of his own voice in it.
“Page! Good to hear from you,” Ben said, and Page felt a melancholy
fondness for him. He had been so resentful against the Rothelis in the
months since he had known the truth that it surprised him to feel love
for them now.
“Ben,” he said, anxiety making him brusque. “I’m looking for Sunny. Is
she with you?”
“Looking for Sunny?” Ben said, his tone sharpening. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she left me. I mean—” He couldn’t describe the reasons for their
separation. He couldn’t blurt out to Ben, _You’re my father_! There was
no adequate explanation but the forbidden one. “We quarreled,” he
mumbled.
“What about?” Ben said dubiously.
“I can’t explain it now. Is she there?”
“What makes you think she’d be here?”
“I don’t know. Don’t girls usually go home to their mothers when they
fight with their husbands?”
“Sunny wouldn’t pull a trick like that,” Rotheli answered, fully alarmed
now. “She’s not that kind!” He seemed to be trying to convince them
both.
“Well, she’s not in New York. And if she’s not with you, I—oh God, I
don’t know where to look.”
“She’s all right, isn’t she? She isn’t sick?” Ben asked.
“No, but she’s pretty damn pregnant,” Page said.
“She’s _what_?” Ben Rotheli shouted over the phone.
And Page remembered too late that Ben hadn’t known. Sunny made Page
promise not to tell anyone until their problem was settled.
“Page, is my daughter pregnant?” Rotheli demanded. His anger snapped
over the wires and Page heard June cry out in the background.
“Yes, Ben,” he admitted. “You know how women are when they’re that way,”
he pleaded. “They change, they aren’t themselves. I never dreamed she’d
... Ben, don’t be too hard on me.” He didn’t want to antagonize this
father of his who didn’t know he was talking to his own son.
Ben remembered how June had been when she was carrying her own children
and he relented a little. But his voice was still cold when he said,
“Well, we’ve got to find her, fast. You get in touch with the police
there, and I’ll—”
“The police? Oh God no!” Page broke in, thinking what would happen if
publicity brought the truth out.
“God damn it, Page, you do as I tell you!” Rotheli ordered him. “If
you’re not going to get the cops to find your wife, I’ll get them to
find my _daughter_!”
“All right, all right,” Page said, deferring like a dutiful son, but
only to quiet Ben. He would find Sunny himself, without any help from
the police. “And Ben—if you hear from her, call me right away. I’ll do
the same.”
They ended the conversation on that agreement and Page spent a sleepless
night, waiting for daylight and another chance at Settick. He sat on his
bed and smoked, studying maps, trying to put himself in Sunny’s shoes.
She hadn’t gone home. Was she across the river in New Jersey? Or across
the continent?
* * * * *
He set out early after the doctor, only to discover that Settick made
his hospital rounds in the morning and wasn’t in his office. Page would
have to come back at one o’clock and sit in the waiting room, a lone
buck in a forest of pregnant girls.
No thanks, he thought. And suddenly he began to wonder if Ben had been
lying to him. After all, Sunny had doctor’s orders not to let Page know
where she was. Suppose she had been there at Ben’s elbow, full of
stories about the baby dying, scaring Ben into lying? She would have
made a convincing actor out of a wooden Indian.
Abruptly, Page changed his plans and called the airport. There was
nothing available immediately but they promised him the first
cancellation to Chicago. Restless and worried, aware of his loneliness
like a chronic pain, he packed and went out to wait for a plane. Six
hours later he got a place. He never thought to call the _Sunday
Magazine_ until he was airborne and then dismissed it with a silent
curse.
He timed his arrival in Hillsburg for nine o’clock the next morning,
when Ben would be gone for the day. If Sunny was there it would be a lot
easier to abduct her from her mother than her father.
He drove up and parked his rented car in the Rotheli’s back driveway.
There was no sound, no signal to warn June, who was washing dishes in
the kitchen, that he was coming. She saw him standing in the doorway and
gave a small shriek. A cup hit the sink and shattered.
Page smiled at her, but his eyes searched the room, looking for traces
of Sunny.
“Hello, June,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” At the sound of
his voice she began to cry. “It’s all right,” he said, dismayed at
having to comfort her.
“Page!” she exclaimed at last.
He took her into bashful arms and hugged her.
“Is she here? I thought she might have asked you not to tell me,” he
said, unable to postpone the question.
“I’m so glad to see you,” June wept, making him wait anyway for the
answer. “You terrified us when you called.”
“But Sunny ... is she—”
“No, she isn’t with us.”
His face fell. He looked so completely whipped that she put her hands
against his cheeks, a little caress of Sunny’s that touched him. “I
probably shouldn’t tell you ... but we got a telegram from her late last
night. She’s fine.”
“Thank God!” He leaned heavily against the wall, pulling June with him.
It was all happening too fast. His heart labored like a bellows.
“We tried to call you right away, but you weren’t home,” June said. “And
your office this morning said they didn’t know where you were either. So
then we began to worry about _you_.” She laughed with relief, a laugh
like Sunny’s that made Page ache. He had never before realized how alike
they were.
“Where is she?” he said.
“I can’t tell you,” June said, looking away.
“Now don’t _you_ pull that on me!” he protested. “June, she’s my wife. I
adore her. I’m going insane without her,” he cried passionately.
June had thought she could tell him everything over the phone. Instead
here he was, sweating and desperate, in her own kitchen. His eyes were
on her like two green lights, and he clutched her arms with his hands.
She wanted to tell him. She couldn’t help it. She felt the same
attraction to him that Ben had when they met. But Sunny’s wire was
explicit: “Don’t give Page my address. Very important.”
“She said not to tell you, Page,” June apologized.
“Of course she did, she’s _mad_ at me,” he said, using any argument he
could to soften her up. “June, I’ll die without that girl. I can’t help
it if I sound melodramatic. All I ask is a chance to talk to her, to
explain. How can I when I don’t even know where she is?”
It sounded so logical. June was sentimental and loving, and she wavered.
Page implored her to give him the address. She heard the pain and the
love in his voice and wished Ben were there to handle him instead.
How could two people patch up a marriage if they were a country apart?
she asked herself. Besides, Sunny was pregnant now. June knew how that
went, how miserable you felt, how irritable and unreasonable. And how
terribly you needed your husband.
She thought of her own suffering when Roger was due and how hard she had
leaned on Ben then, calling him names and abusing him. But he had been
strong and patient, and her gratitude had never faded.
She was sure Sunny was being stubborn and silly. Whatever the quarrel,
it didn’t merit a divorce. And yet Sunny was setting up residence in
another state. June knew how the young Pringles loved each other and she
finally broke in on Page’s disjointed tirade.
“Ben will kill me when he finds out,” she said uncertainly, “but I think
Sunny needs you as much as I once needed him.”
Page waited, afraid to speak for fear she would change her mind. At last
she pointed to the telegram in a letter holder on the kitchen table.
Page sprang across the room and grabbed it, scribbling Sunny’s address
on a paper napkin: 4225 Los Feliz, Los Angeles, California.
“Los _Angeles_! What’s in Los Angeles?” he said.
“Sunny.” June smiled.
“My God, the Coast.” He stashed his astonishment in a pocket with her
address. “June, you’re a saint!” He gave her a violent hug and dashed
out. June ran after him, startled at his odd behavior.
“Page, wait! Where are you going?” she called.
“To get my wife.”
“But you haven’t been here ten minutes. Ben will want to see you. What
shall I tell him?”
But Page was already backing out. He waved at her and turned down the
drive.
* * * * *
June went back in the house and called Jack and Laura Mann. She hadn’t
met them but she’d heard Page mention them and knew them second-hand
through Sunny’s letters. She told the Manns where Sunny was and Page was
headed, and they gave her the Pringles’ phone number.
June introduced herself to George Pringle in a friendly voice, assuring
him that Sunny was fine and Page would soon be with her. “And they’re
expecting a baby!” she said cheerfully. “I’m sure they won’t mind if I
tell you.” But she was surprised when her news seemed to aggravate him.
“What’s she doing in California?” Pringle said, in a voice sharp enough
to hurt June’s feelings.
“They quarreled,” she said.
“What about?”
“Sunny didn’t say. But she’s acting foolish. She wouldn’t even give Page
her address—”
“But _you_ did? Aren’t you interfering a bit, Mrs. Rotheli?”
“Mr. Pringle, I didn’t have to call and tell you any of this,” June
replied. “And if you’re going to be unpleasant—”
“Forgive me,” he said hastily. “You must understand that I’m worried.”
“I don’t think you need to be. They’re in love and they’ll work it out.
It’s hard for a man to comprehend what a girl feels like when she’s
pregnant. She doesn’t believe it now, but her husband is the best
medicine for her.”
Pringle understood from the conversation that the Rothelis had no idea
Page was their son. “Mrs. Rotheli, I think this is more serious than you
realize,” Pringle began, but he couldn’t tell her the rest of it. It
would have been brutal, unforgivably impersonal, over the phone.
But he felt something had better be done about it at once. It was his
plain moral obligation to protect Page and Sunny from themselves. If he
could do it only by following them to Los Angeles, that is what he would
do.
He thanked June and hung up, calling O’Hare Field for jet reservations
the moment his line was clear.
“I’m going out there tonight,” he told his wife moments later. “I’m
certain Sunny went there to escape Page and I can’t understand why he
doesn’t take this God-given chance to let her go. I know how much he
loves her. Lord knows it isn’t easy for the boy. But she’s done all a
woman can to help him, and he knows how evil this relationship is.”
“George,” his wife said mildly, “stay home.”
“What?” He stared at her. They so rarely disagreed on anything that it
shocked him to hear her object. “Somebody has to help them, Lucia. They
haven’t strength to help themselves.”
“Don’t you think they have more strength at their age than you have at
yours?”
He left his packing momentarily to explain, “It’s not a question of
physical vigor, my dear.”
“George, I’ve thought about this till my head ached.”
“Of course you did. We agreed long ago their marriage wasn’t valid.”
“_We_ agreed. You and I. _They_ didn’t.”
“They are very young, very much in love,” he said formally. “You have to
remember what that feels like, Lucia dear.”
“I remember,” she murmured. “Do you?”
“Why certainly. Only for a woman, it’s different. They’re not as
reasonable as a man. They have a weaker sense of honor and morality.”
“I am an honorable and moral woman, George,” Lucia said with great
dignity, “and I believe Sunny is, too. She deserves a chance to keep
Page if she can win him away from your stuffy principles.” She stopped,
amazed at herself.
Pringle dropped a handful of underclothes and marched to her bedside to
stamp out the anarchy. “Lucia, do you feel well?” he said, restrained
but not unkind. She began to cry and he added gently, “My dear, I love
both of those children. I’d give my soul to change things, but I can’t.
They have to be separated. They are _not_ husband and wife, they are
brother and sister. Once you understand that, you see at once what must
be done.”
“I can’t believe she meant to leave Page forever,” Lucia said. “I can’t
believe it’s right for us to meddle. They don’t want your help, George.”
“They need it. It’s my moral duty—”
“It’s your moral duty to mind your own affairs!” she cried with the
courage of conviction.
“My son _is_ my affair!” he declared.
“Perhaps they can build a life together, but not if you insist they’re
doing something dirty and terrible. Page can’t take that and you know
it.”
“That’s why I’m doing it,” he said determinedly. He looked at her clear
bright eyes and flushed cheeks; her anger gave her the look of youth he
had almost forgotten. He was inexpressibly shocked at her.
“I lie here alone in this bed day after day,” Lucia said, unable to
return his gaze, “and I think about that boy I love so much: how we
alienated him with our stingy love, our cold, correct home, our speeches
about the grand old name of Pringle.” She caught her breath. “And then I
think what it did to him when we called and told him about Sunny. I
don’t know what’s right and wrong any more, George. I only know in spite
of my love I’ve lost my son. I wouldn’t care if Sunny were his own
mother, I’d want him to have her.”
Pringle finished packing, silent with heavy disapproval. “You’ll come to
your senses in a day or two, and see that I’m right,” he said finally.
“Have Edna call my office and tell them I probably won’t be back until
Monday.” He kissed her cheek. But she was weeping and desolate, and
because he loved and needed her, he sat down on her bed and held her in
his arms. “You’re overwrought, darling Lucia,” he said tenderly. “I’ll
call Dr. Blue.”
“No. No more pills. George, it would almost make me well again if you’d
stay home and let _them_ patch it up.”
He put his hand on her forehead. “You’ll feel better after you rest,” he
said, lowering her into the pillows. He tried to believe that it was
merely a little fever, an excess of anxiety, that prompted her words. To
think otherwise was to admit he didn’t know his own wife after
thirty-four years. And that was preposterous.
He kissed her once again and walked softly out of the room with his
suitcase.
15
“That was about ten days ago,” Jack told Mr. Winkler. “The next thing we
knew, you were on the phone to tell us you’d seen Sunny and Page in
California and Page was having a change of heart.”
“They were driving back to Chicago,” Winkler said. “They ought to be
here in a week or so. I suppose they’re trying to figure out how to
break it to the Rothelis when they get here.” He shook his head.
“Amazing story, isn’t it? The adoption and all. Hard to believe, even
when you know it happened. It sounds like the kind of crazy switch you’d
find in a Gilbert and Sullivan plot, only this one isn’t comical.”
They all sat quietly for a moment: Jack studying his guest; Winkler
looking at the floor as if the weird story had shaken his composure; and
Laura watching the two men in silence.
“Do you think they’ll ever forgive the elder Pringles?” Winkler asked,
his eyes moving slowly up to Jack’s face.
“If the Pringles will let them,” Jack answered.
“I hope it works out,” Winkler said. “You see, I have a son just about
Page’s age. I’ve been thinking while you were telling the story what it
would do to me to lose his respect, his love. It must be hell for
Pringle.” He spoke with paternal compassion.
“I don’t doubt it,” Jack said with a nod.
The clock sounded the half-hour. It was five-thirty in the morning, and
the chime brought Winkler to his feet.
“I have to go,” he said. “I shouldn’t have kept you youngsters up all
night.”
“Our pleasure, Mr. Winkler,” Jack said. “We enjoyed it.”
“If you hear from Sunny and Page again, I’d like to know whether they’re
all right,” Winkler said.
“We’ll give you a call,” Jack offered.
“You ... might have trouble reaching me. Page said he’d contact you at
the end of the week. Can I call you then?”
“Sure,” Jack said, smiling at the dodge.
At the front door Winkler turned. “Thanks for the dinner, Laura,” he
said.
“I’m glad you liked it,” she answered, standing beside Jack.
Winkler hesitated. “Do you think,” he said, “that Page ever really loved
his step-father?”
“I think he still does, very much,” Jack said. “It’s just a question of
pride now. It’s hard to admit you’ve been wrong. And Pringle’s in line
for a few apologies of his own. He shouldn’t have followed them to L.
A.”
“I guess not. He must have had had the best intentions, but ... the road
to hell, and all that. Well!” He brought himself up straight and back to
reality. “Thank you again. And good night.”
* * * * *
“He’s a funny old guy,” Jack said.
“Probably a lot like Mr. Pringle,” Laura agreed. “Aristocratic, high
principles, and all. But Jack, you shouldn’t have told him—”
“But, darling, I wanted to,” he said, turning around and taking her in
his arms. Jack and Laura were about the same height, but he always made
her feel small and feminine. In spite of her own odd nature, she loved
him. He was her home, her refuge. And his love was her security. Through
Jack she could understand Sunny’s need for Page.
“I’m afraid someday you’ll hurt Betsy,” Laura chided. “You don’t _have_
to tell people you’re gay.”
“I had to make Winkler understand,” he said. “It was part of the story.”
“It shocked him, though.”
“He’ll recover.” He kissed her forehead, in a gesture as intimate as
things normally got between them, and said, “Come on. We can squeeze in
a nap before Betsy wakes up.”
* * * * *
Jack was expecting Page’s call, but not the very next day. He was
startled to hear the familiar voice saying, “Jack, how are you? This is
Page Pringle.”
“How are you, old buddy?” Jack answered with a calm he didn’t feel.
Abashed, Page said, “Did you know we were in Chicago?”
“We knew you were coming,” Jack said. “Talked to June. How are you?”
“Okay, thanks. We flew back.” Page, who didn’t deserve Jack’s
friendliness, was grateful and surprised. He talked a little too fast to
cover his emotions. “We damn near didn’t make it, though. Got lost. On
the high desert.” His voice was suddenly terribly tired.
“My God,” Jack said. “Are you all right? Sunny—”
“I am, but Sunny’s over at Wesley Memorial Hospital. She’s in labor.
It’s a miracle that baby didn’t come out there on the sand.”
“It’s premature, isn’t it?” Jack said. Laura was hovering anxiously over
him now.
“About nine weeks. Sunny’s doctor just flew in from New York. He knows
the case and she wanted him here for the delivery. They say he’s a damn
good man.”
“Settick?”
“You know him?” Page said.
“Sure. He delivered Betsy.”
“That’s right, I’d forgotten.” Page couldn’t say more without making
some kind of apology, however clumsy. “Jack ... I want to tell you—”
“Forget it, boy.”
“No, let me say it. I can’t look you in the eye till I say I’m sorry.
You said a mouthful that night, and I behaved like an ass. I guess
because you were telling me the truth and the truth was so damn painful.
Like sandpapering a sunburn. And I know all about sunburns now.