“She was afraid to go home to Ugley Gardens, so she slept in barns all summer and asked for food at farmhouses. She knew all about babies, because her mother had so many. Hers was born in a shack on Chipmunk Road. It was a boy. She called him Donald, but she couldn’t keep him. She put him in a box and hoped and prayed somebody would find him. A policeman found him. Everybody was talking about the abandoned baby. They gave him another name, and she heard about him once in a while – her Donald.”
“Then she continued to live in the area?”
“Yes sir, and she always knew what he was doing – playing football, working in the woods, working at the hotel, winning the gold medal.”
“Does she know he’s suspected of murder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If it’s any comfort to… Betsy… let her know that the best lawyer in the county will handle his case.”
“Thank you, sir…. What if – what if they find out Donald killed his own father?… He didn’t know.”
Qwilleran hesitated just long enough to swallow, “Of course he didn’t!”
“YOW!” came a piercing comment from the top of the refrigerator.
Qwilleran thanked her for the story, said he would consider it for the book, escorted her to the car in the barnyard.
“You told the story very well, Nora – in your own way. Do me one favor; Don’t tell it to anyone else”
“Yes, sir.”
He would not embarrass her by confronting her with the truth – that Betsy’s story was really her own – but Nora knew that he knew; that was evident in the beseeching look in her eyes when she said, “Thank you, sir.”
To Qwilleran, the incredible coincidence was Koko’s persistent interest in ‘Oedipus Rex’, the ancient story of a king who unwittingly killed his own father.
After Nora left, Koko came down from the refrigerator with two hearty thumps, and Yum Yum floated down like a feather. They had a small reward for good behavior, while Qwilleran had a strong cup of coffee and read another Annie-Fanny letter. It was dated November 30.
Dear Fanny –
I wish I could write a cheerful letter as the holiday season approaches, but I’m worried about Dana, and I know you won’t mind if I unload my troubles on you. My dear, adorable husband has just lost his job at the department store. He says they’re cutting down the sales staff, but wait a minute! The Christmas rush has started, and they should be hiring extra salespeople, shouldn’t they? I can’t help wondering if he’s been drinking on his lunch period or, even worse, on the job! I don’t object to cocktails before dinner (although I’ve given them up until baby comes) but Dana has a tendency to drink a wee bit too much when he’s unhappy. I can understand that he’s frustrated by the lack of acting opportunities here, but the thought that he may have lied to me is most discouraging. I must not allow myself to get depressed. I must go on dreaming our dream: an acting career for Dana, a house in the suburbs, and a healthy baby! Dana is going to try for a job as a waiter, and I know he’ll be a good one, because he has great charm and can play any role well, but I worry that he’d have even more opportunities to sneak a drink. Oh Fanny! Please think good thoughts!
Love from Annie
Qwilleran could empathize with the father-to-be. He, too, had succumbed to a drinking problem when faced with a stressful situation. And he could sympathize with the mother-to-be, faced with fears and responsibilities.
He kept reminding himself; This happened more than half a century ago… There’s nothing I can do… Why am I so involved?
He read the letter dated December 29:
Dear Fanny –
This will be brief, just want you to know that I’m really unwell. I’ve missed quite a few days at the library, and today the doctor told me to stay home and take care of myself or risk losing the baby.
Dana is working at a convenience store evenings, and I sit up waiting for him. When he comes home, he’s had too much to drink. What can I do? How will it all end?
Love from Annie
Before Qwilleran could marshal his reactions, the telephone interrupted. Mildred was inviting him and Polly to dinner the following evening. “I know it’s short notice,” she said, “but I thought it would be neighborly to have a little dinner for Mr. Nightingale, just an informal get-together, with cocktails and a casserole. Polly says he’s absolutely charming! Are you free, Qwill?”
“I’m always free for one of your casseroles, Mildred with or without a charming guest of honor.”
Mildred could not hear him muttering to himself about Polly’s discoveries; first the “charming” French-Canadian professor in Quebec City… and then the “charming” hand-kissing jeweler from Chicago… and now the “charming” rare book dealer from Boston.
“What time will you expect us?” he asked, “And what’s for dessert”
Sixteen
Monday, September 21 – ”Tis folly to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.’
