The Fatherby Mel Waldman |
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| part 2 of 3 |
“No, I recall a few ugly facts. I arrived in Kennebunkport before Laura. I entered the old gray house from the back entrance. I knocked on the wooden door and cried out, ‘Hello. Hello. Is anyone home?’ But no one answered. I rang the bell. But no one came to the door. When I turned the knob, the door opened. Thus, I entered and cried out again, ‘Hello, Laura, Mr. Madison, Ellen. Is anyone home?’ No answer. Then I thought, perhaps, that Laura had not run off this time.”
“You could have been mistaken.”
“Yes, but Sheri, I had called Laura from work an hour after I had left her. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. I wanted to feel close to my wife. I got a busy signal. I knew something was wrong. Maybe she was still angry about the argument we had had.
“Well, I left my office and ran home to find my apartment in disarray. Her clothes were strewn about the room. No letter. Nothing. But she was gone and my son too. What was I to do? I made an educated guess that Laura had gone home.
“So I took a plane to Portland and then rented a car at the airport. Afterwards, I drove to Kennebunkport. On the road, I thought about my past, especially the time Laura and I spent together there. I also noticed it was starting to snow lightly.”
Norman interrupted his story and talked about the past. He told Sheri about his early visits to the Madison family.
“Kennebunkport is an enchanting seacoast village. But for me, it is a dark, beautiful place evoking joy and anguish. At first, Mr. and Mrs. Madison welcomed me into their family. Like former president George H.W. Bush, Mr. Madison was not born in Maine. He is ‘from away’. He fell in love with Maine when he met Ellen Flanagan who was, in fact, a native Mainer born and raised in Kennebunkport. After the wedding, he bought a house in his wife’s home town.
“Both the Madison and Flanagan families are old money. Yet Mr. and Mrs. Madison were friendly to me at our wedding and on several occasions afterwards. They tried to hide their true feelings. Unfortunately, they couldn’t.
“I was a middle-class Jewish boy from Brooklyn who wrote murder mysteries. I made a living from my writing but not a very good one. And I had married their precious daughter Laura, an aspiring actress who struggled to survive in a cutthroat business. Our marriage was a formula for failure and poverty and Laura’s parents silently condemned me. Their contempt was a seething cauldron of fury. With all their money, they were still obsessed with the green stuff.
“They may have been anti-Semitic too. I’m not sure. They never said anything to me. Yet Laura confessed that they had made some fleeting but disturbing remarks about my religion. Who knows? When the old man spoke to me, he always focused on how I was going to support his daughter. I never asked him for a cent. And he was filthy rich. I’m a proud man, you see.”
“But you and Laura also shared beautiful moments in that little town.”
“Yes. When we wanted to be alone and not spend mornings with her folks, we used to have breakfast at Alisson’s Restaurant on Dock Square in the center of town. We drank hot coffee and, while waiting for breakfast, we held hands. Then, holding Laura’s gentle hands was an intimate act that thrilled me.
“After having breakfast at Alisson’s Restaurant, we used to take a long stroll through town. We usually drifted across Dock Square past the Copper Candle. Above this quaint store is the Kennebunk Book Port. We often kept walking to Ocean Avenue where we found art galleries and art shops and sundry restaurants overlooking the marinas. Our favorite restaurant for dinner, when we could escape from the Madison family, was The Landing.
“A young married couple desperately in love, we enjoyed walking along Ocean Avenue, taking in the scenic views and making out from time to time. Sometimes we stopped at Green Street and gazed at The Captain Lord Mansion in the distance. When we turned right, we overlooked the Kennebunk River. Nearby was the Arundel Wharf Restaurant we sometimes frequented.
“We usually continued along Ocean Avenue and stopped in front of The Colony Hotel, the largest hotel in Kennebunkport. Laura told me that from the veranda of this majestic hotel, situated on a bluff, one had a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean. Well, we stood in front of the grand hotel, kissed passionately, and took in the magnificent view.
“After taking in the unforgettable ocean view on one of our intimate strolls, I believe Laura told me that Stephen King had stayed in The Colony one winter when he wrote The Shining. Actually, I can’t recall which hotel she mentioned. Maybe it was The Colony or The Breakwater or another hotel... I can’t seem to recall. In any case, Kennebunkport has this dark side too. Even King understood this hidden truth about the little village.
“We seemed compelled to stroll along Ocean Avenue for hours and hours. Perhaps, this was our Lover’s Lane. We often got a good view of Walker’s Point, the summer home of George H.W. Bush, our 41st president. Sometimes we sauntered off to Blowing Cave, a rock formation jutting out into the ocean, and got a closer view. We sat on the rock promontory and enjoyed the waves crashing into Blowing Cave, splashing and anointing us with ocean waterspouts. Two diehard Democrats gazing at Walker’s Point, we were young and foolish and swept away by the romantic moment.”
“It is a beautiful story,” Sheri noted.
“Without a happy ending,” Norman added before drifting off. The past gripped him and he was lost in thought.
A long lonely silence separated Sheri and Norman.
“Where are you, Norman?”
“Somewhere else. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to tell me the rest. Perhaps, it’s too much.”
“No, I want to. I must!”
“Okay, my precious baby.”
Compelled to continue his story of personal terror and loss, perhaps driven by his seething emotions, Norman revealed the horrific details of that fateful day.
“When I arrived in town, it was snowing heavily. Trapped in a November snowstorm, I was quite upset, disoriented, and lost. With little visibility, I passed their house and made a wrong turn. Next thing I knew, I was on Wildes District Road. I passed a fire station, made another turn and was on Turbat’s Creek Road. Eventually, I slowed down and made a U-turn. Miraculously, I found Wildes District Road and headed back to Main Street. Once on Main Street, I drove slowly and saw their estate on the left side of the street.
“It was the Kenneth Roberts estate, Rocky Pastures, owned by the Madison family. From the road, I could only see the old snow-white fence and the white pasture behind it. I parked the car down the block and walked back to the estate. There was a narrow gate in the fence. I opened the gate and walked through. No one saw me and no one cared. November was off-season and the rich folks who lived here felt safe. They didn’t worry about strangers and people ‘from away’ in a blizzard.
“I trudged through the snow. When I reached the old gray house, I rang the front doorbell, but no one answered. I went to the back entrance and... Well, I guess I told you what happened. I went into the house and... it was empty.”
“You should have left immediately.”
“I couldn’t. I was tired and went upstairs to rest in Bobby’s bedroom. He’s the youngest son who had been in Vietnam. When he returned home, he didn’t talk for a long time. He just stared at folks and well... I can’t discuss him now. I always liked him. I liked his smile. Very reserved boy and withdrawn, it took him years, perhaps, to recover from the war. Maybe he never recovered.
“Well, I lay in his antediluvian bed and then, after a while, I don’t know how long, I heard noises downstairs. I jumped up, my throat choking and on fire, the sweat trickling down my armpits, and ran downstairs.
“And there they were: Mr. Madison, his wife Ellen and Jonathan, and Laura. The old man had a wild, crooked grin on his fat face. Ellen’s blue eyes were big and rolling in the heat of the fiery kitchen where we were, a few feet from the backdoor. She held Jonathan in her arms.
“And Laura, a diminutive figure in that seething room although she was as statuesque as her tall, blonde mother, cried out, ‘He’s here!’ And I screamed, ‘I want my boy! Please give me my precious boy.’”
“Didn’t you want Laura, too?” Sheri asked, wearing a quizzical look on her face.
“Of course. But when she saw me, she seemed consumed by hatred and rage, her fierce distant eyes rushing back and forth in frenzied waves of violence. I knew I had lost her.”
“What happened next?”
“The old man shrieked, ‘Get out of here, kid. We’ve got him now. Get out before you get into trouble’.
“I begged them to give me my baby boy. But they attacked me when I approached him. The old man’s fat flesh pushed me several feet back. But finally, I leaped forward toward Ellen and grabbed my boy. They chased me to the living room and, afterwards, they surrounded me near the bottom of the staircase. I held my boy tightly as they screamed and shoved. I held the love of my life. But in one infinite moment of hell, he dropped from my arms. Laura caught him in mid-air.
“I ran upstairs. I was no longer of this world. I can’t recall the rest.”
“You’ve lost him forever. They’ll poison him against you,” Sheri said harshly.
“I can’t remember, Sheri.”
“It’s too late, Norman.”
The lost father looked at Sheri with bewilderment. Then he drifted off.
Soon, Sheri interrupted the silence. “We must get together another time.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve lost Jonathan. Accept it, Norman.”
“I love my son, Sheri.”
“Laura’s sick, Norman. She’s a fragile girl. She needs me.”
“And me too, Sheri.”
“Goodbye, Norman.”
A month passed. And then two and three, and still, Norman had not spoken to Sheri. The pain lingered. Norman took his medication diligently before going to work. He had no contact with Laura or Jonathan. However, he received a legal notice that the divorce trial was set for March 30.
“Hello, Norman. It’s Sheri.”
“Hi.”
“Sorry I didn’t call. I’ve been upset. Can’t get in touch with Laura. She doesn’t answer my letters.”
“Guess she wants to be alone for a while.”
“But I care for her. She’s my dearest friend. You too, Norman. You’re a darling.”
“Thanks, Sheri.”
“Norman, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What is it, Sheri?”
“I’m pregnant!”
“Really?”
“Yes. And the baby’s yours, Norman. It’s your child.”
“But you told me nothing happened that night.”
“I lied. Forgive me.”
“What shall we do?”
“I’ll have an abortion.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, darling. I don’t need a crummy baby to spoil my organized existence.”
“But can’t we discuss this, Sheri?”
“Don’t you worry, my poor baby. I’ll handle the entire affair.”
For several weeks, Norman tried to contact Sheri. She was never home. He called her girlfriends and was informed that Sheri was on another drinking binge.
“She’ll kill the baby!” he cried out.
“What baby?” inquired Diane, one of Sheri’s casual friends.
“But I thought...?”
“She’s a lush, Norman. An old-fashioned drunk who fabricates many tall tales.”
Norman didn’t hear from Sheri for another month. In the meantime, he went to court. He was warned by his lawyer: “If you don’t agree to their terms, you’ll never see your kid again.” Norman never saw the judge. He signed the divorce agreement under order from his lawyer and returned to New York.
Once a month, for a period of five hours, in his wife’s presence, he was allowed to see his son in a hotel in Kennebunkport five minutes from the Madison family by foot. He could not be alone with his son until the Madison family was fully convinced he would not kidnap the boy.
“Norman, why won’t Laura speak to me? I love her.”
“She needs to be alone, Sheri. She’s got Jonathan to care for.”
“Well, Norman, I must tell you the truth. I couldn’t kill the child. Our child is still alive. He’s inside my body.”
“But nothing happened, Sheri.”
“It’s got to be a boy. It’s growing so fast.”
“Can I see you? I’m concerned.”
“No. Not yet.”
“Please, Sheri.”
“I’ll call you, Norman.”
Although Norman tried to see Jonathan, Laura informed him her mother was dying of cancer and that he’d have to wait till things settled down.
A few weeks later, Norman received another call from Sheri. “I’m sorry, my dear boy. I’ve killed your second son. I had to tell you before I went away. I’m sick, Norman. I won’t be around for a while. But I’ll call you when I return. Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of. And P.S., please contact Laura and tell her I love her. Please.”
“Yes, Sheri.”
“Sorry about the kid. However, my body rejected it. Thought I was dying so I had to destroy it. Forgive me. It would have been a beautiful child. You would have been proud of him. He never would have left you except by death. Only by death, Norman.”
“I understand, Sheri. Take care.”
Norman heard that Sheri was in an in-patient detox ward for alcoholics at Bernstein Institute. He got news that she was slowly recovering. But he never saw her again. He also stopped wondering about the lonely night he shared with her. And Laura told him about Ellen: “She’s still receiving radiation treatment for a malignant brain tumor. As soon as she recovers or after her death, you can visit Jonathan. For now, I need time to get adjusted to things, Norman.”
Norman understood. He stopped thinking about that night in Kennebunkport when a young man’s world crashed. Then, existence slipped away as his son was stolen from him, along with the dark memory of those killing moments. But eventually, the real truth wouldn’t matter.
And thus, Norman waited for Laura’s call or letter. And he still took his medication. When things got rough, his family doctor ordered him to take an extra pill. Therefore, everything was quite manageable, even when Sheri called one day and said, “I’ll probably never see you again, Norman, but I’ve got to confess: I lied, my precious baby. I lied to you, Norman.”
And Norman, extremely calm and soft spoken, replied through the receiver, “I understand, Sheri. I really do.”
Copyright © 2010 by Mel Waldman
