Facets Page 4

  The game had gone on for little more than an hour when John burst into the back room. “We have a problem,” he announced to Eugene without preamble. “Your foreman’s stealing stones.”

  Eugene sent his son a dark look before shifting a slow gaze first to Rufus, then to Dwayne. “That’s quite an accusation.” Lips pursed, he looked back at his cards.

  “I’ve been going over the books,” John went on. He didn’t bother to look at Rufus or Dwayne, and Pam was just as glad. The looks he usually gave them weren’t the nicest. “They’re a mess. When was the last time you went through them yourself?”

  Eugene tossed a penny into the pot to match the one Dwayne had bet before him. “I don’t have to go through the books. I have a bookkeeper to do that.”

  “Then your bookkeeper is as crooked as Blaise,” was John’s brash assessment. “We’re taking more out of the ground than is reaching the vault.”

  “Another time, John. We’ll deal with this another time.”

  “Simon knows he’s been found out.”

  Eugene looked up. “You told him?”

  “He was there. I didn’t see the point in waffling.”

  “Did you fire him?”

  “No. I thought you’d want to do that.”

  “Well, I don’t. Simon Blaise has worked for me for twenty years, which is a damn sight longer than you have. What gives you the right to waltz in and start harassing my people?”

  John did glance at the other men then, obviously resentful of being taken down by his father in their presence. Pam wasn’t bothered by it at all. It was John’s fault. He’d started it.

  Apparently realizing that he had no escape, he turned on his father. “You were the one who wanted me here, when I’d rather have stayed in Boston. There’s plenty there to keep me busy. But you dragged me up so you could play hooky with her.” He shot Pam a nasty look. “I have an interest in this company. You’re the one who keeps reminding me of that. So I called a crooked employee to account. Blaise is stealing.”

  “Says you. We’re making money hand over fist, and someone’s stealing our stones, says you. The state gives us an award for fair service, and the books are messed up, says you. Well, I say that Simon Blaise is a good man.”

  Even if Pam had been deaf, she’d have known Eugene was angry from the set of his jaw. In turn, she got angry. This was her time with her father. She didn’t want John spoiling it.

  But John seemed determined to do just that. “He’s waiting. I told him we’d be back. If we take much longer, he’ll have skipped town.”

  All four at the table still held their cards, but none was paying attention to the game. The instant Eugene laid down his hand and stood, Pam was up on her knees on the chair, protesting, “We’re playing, Daddy.”

  “This is more important than poker,” John told her.

  “Only because you’ve made it that way,” Eugene said. Standing at his full height, he was an inch or two taller than John, but still the family resemblance was marked. The fiery eyes, the rigid square jaw, the belligerent stance—the two men were definitely father and son. “You shouldn’a said anything to Simon, John. I’m not in the habit of throwing accusations around, especially when it involves my men. If something strange is goin’ on, there’s a reason.”

  “Greed. How’s that for a reason?”

  “No good. Doesn’t apply to Simon. You should’a known that, John. You’ve been working full-time for this company for two years, summers longer than that. You should know by now who you can trust and who you can’t.” Turning back to the others, he said, “Simon needs talking to. I have to make sure he don’t quit on me. Pammy, Rufus’ll walk you home.”

  “But we just started! I want to play longer!”

  “It’s past your bedtime,” John told her.

  Pam ignored him. “Why don’t I wait here, Daddy, and you’ll come back when you’re done?”

  “Because I don’t know when I’ll be done, thanks to your brother. So long as he’s ruined the night, I might as well take a look at those books.” Stooping down, he gave her a hug. “We’ll play again tomorrow. Right, Rufus?”

  “Yup.”

  Adding his own “Yup,” Dwayne took the lollypop from his pocket, but Pam didn’t want the sweet. She took it so as not to hurt his feelings, but she held it tightly in her hand, fully wrapped, all the way home.

  Once there, she ran inside, but instead of finding Marcy, who would have been sympathetic to her cause, she found Hillary Cox. “John isn’t here,” she yelled and gave the stairs a kick. “He’s making trouble for my father.”

  “Where’s Marcy?” Rufus asked Hillary.

  “She ran over to see her mother. She won’t be long. I told her I’d keep an eye on things while she was gone.” Pam coiled herself into a corner of the bottom stair and refused to say goodbye to Rufus. The instant he was down the walk, as though she’d held her temper in check as long as she possibly could, she cried, “I hate him. I hate him.”

  “Rufus?” Hillary asked.

  “John. He’s a rat. He spoils everything, and I hate him!”

  She punctuated her claim with several more swift kicks to the stair riser. “He should have stayed in Boston. I don’t like it when he’s here. He takes the fun out of everything.”

  Hillary left her post against the parlor arch and sank onto the step above Pam’s. “What did he do?”

  “He got Daddy angry. He’s always doing that.” She turned blazing eyes on Hillary. “Know what I think? I think he was a mistake.”

  “What do you mean, a mistake?”

  “I think he was the wrong baby. He isn’t Daddy’s.”

  “That doesn’t happen.”

  “It does. My friend Sharon was telling me about a baby that happened to, and it makes sense. John and Daddy don’t get along. They’re always fighting.”

  “But they look exactly alike.”

  “They do not. Daddy smiles.”

  “That’s external, like their clothes. Your father’s are older and more worn, because he’s been wearing them here for so long. John isn’t here as much, so his are newer and stiffer. He wears a suit in the city. But if you look at their build and their features, they’re definitely father and son.”

  “Poor Daddy.” She rushed on when Hillary looked ready to defend John. “You like him, but that’s because you think he’s handsome. You came over here to see him, didn’t you?”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “No, and I don’t care! He’s a rat!”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Are you his girlfriend now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do,” Pam cried. “He hates it up here. if you’re his girlfriend now, you won’t be for long, because he’s leaving.”

  “Well, so am I,” Hillary shot back.

  That diverted Pam’s attention for a minute, though it didn’t surprise her. Everyone knew that Hillary Cox was different from most of the people in Timiny Cove. She looked different, for one thing, kind of exotic with her dark, curly hair and her light, light skin. For another thing, she kept to herself. Her whole family did. They were odd, Pam had long ago decided, because she couldn’t imagine any family in Timiny Cove that wouldn’t want to go to the annual spring picnic. Her father said that the Cox family was brilliant, but that still didn’t explain to Pam why they kept to themselves.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To college in Boston. Maybe I’ll see you more often.”

  If not brilliant, Pam was astute. “You’re going there to be closer to John.”

  “I’m going there for an education.”

  “It’s a dumb thing to do! John’s a rat. He spoils everything he gets near, and if you get near him, he’ll spoil you, too.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Hillary said with a smile.

  Pam was not old enough to understand Hillary’s smile. Besides, with the mention of John, she remembered that she wanted to be pla
ying poker with her father, that the game had been ruined, and why. “Well, if you’re stupid enough to go looking for trouble, you can have him! Because that’s all John is! He’s a rat and a spoiler and I hate his guts!” Hurling Dwayne’s candy against the far wall, she bolted to her feet and sped up the stairs to cry by herself.

  Pam’s tears were long dried by the following morning. She had kicked the anger out against her bed and was spent. John returned to Boston, and although Eugene didn’t have as much free time because of that, calm once again returned to Pam’s life in Timiny Cove. When the vacation ended and she returned to Boston, that peace was with her. She was glad to see her mother, and with the ease borne of practice she slipped back into the more formal life that Patricia dictated.

  Pam liked that life, too—her school, her friends, shopping with her mother, going out to eat, going to parties. Her Boston life was busy and full, a fine counterpoint to the casual spontaneity of Timiny Cove.

  What she wished for on the first star each night was that Eugene would come home soon. She missed him when he stayed in Maine, which he did more and more as time passed. He came home for everything important—Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter—and she went north during every vacation, but there were fewer times than ever when they did things as a family, just Patricia, Eugene, and her. Those were her favorite times, the times when she felt the happiest. She loved her birthdays, too, for that reason. When she turned nine, Eugene came home and took Patricia and her to a special dinner at the Ritz. When she turned ten, he came home and took them to New York. John usually managed to be away when Eugene was home, which was just as well. Pam decided she would hit him with the fireplace poker if he dared spoil her birthday.

  Mercifully, he didn’t do that, and for the most part he avoided her. He had his own friends. He worked at the headquarters of St. George Mining in Boston, but on weekends he went to places like Long Island and Newport and Bar Harbor with the sons of judges and lawyers and bankers. Patricia encouraged him, and Pam didn’t mind his absences because when he was around, and when he did talk to her, his words were often cruel.

  Partly because Patricia liked John, and partly because a little voice inside told her not to, she never discussed that with Patricia. Marcy was the one she went to then.

  Marcy Willow was reed-thin and pale, but for all her mousy looks, she seemed to know everything about life. When Pam asked Eugene how someone who was only sixteen could know so much, he explained that Marcy had seen life at its most bare, without any of the frills and cushions Pam had.

  Even without that bid for compassion, Pam would have liked Marcy. For one thing, Marcy was from Timiny Cove, and though her home there wasn’t much more than a broken-down tarpaper shack, Pam adored anything to do with the Cove. For another, Marcy was shy, unassuming, and undemanding, which made giving her little gifts and taking her places a treat for Pam. Although Marcy was in the St. George home to work as a maid, she was like a big sister to Pam. Marcy was the one to whom Pam could pour out her heart when she felt so inclined, the one Pam could count on to help understand John’s mutterings.

  “What does he mean by that?” she asked. She and Marcy were sitting at the edge of the frog pond on the Boston Common. They’d just come from grocery shopping on Charles Street and were eating the chocolate-covereds that Pam had bought from a nearby vendor. “‘A five-month baby.’ He’s said it before. What does it mean?”

  Marcy was a while in answering, which was part of her charm, in Pam’s eyes. She had the same slow way about her that most of the Mainers did, silently mulling over her answer before offering it up. “Has your mama talked to you about that?”

  “She doesn’t talk about babies at all, except to say that she won’t have another one. Does that mean she can’t have another one?”

  Marcy took a slow lick of her cone. “Could be. Could be it means she doesn’t want another one b’cause she knows she’d never get another one so good as you.”

  “I’m not so good, not all the time. So what’s a five-month baby?”

  Marcy leaned against the cement rim of the pond and watched the people who passed. “Has your mama told you about making babies?”

  “No. But I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Melissa and I talk about it. She has a book that we’ve read.” Pam scooted close to Marcy and lowered her voice. “And another one about periods. Janice Brooks just got hers. We thought we ought to know what it was.”

  “Janice Brooks is twelve. You’re just ten.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. The book said that a girl can sometimes get it when she’s ten or eleven.”

  “Not much. She can be sixteen, too. You may have to wait.”

  “Do you get one?”

  Marcy thought about it, then nodded.

  “So you could have a baby now if you wanted to?”

  Again Marcy nodded.

  “And it would take nine months to grow. But the book didn’t say anything about five-month babies. John looks disgusted when he calls me one. So what does it mean?”

  “You better ask your mama.”

  “I don’t think she’ll answer.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t think she will. She’ll probably laugh at me. She doesn’t think John’s so awful. So I’m asking you, Marcy. Come on. You’re my best friend, and you know about things. What’s a five-month baby?”

  Marcy took another lick of her cone before turning her slender body toward Pam. “A five-month baby is a baby born only five months after the parents get married.”

  It didn’t take long for the meaning of that to register on Pam. She was good at math. “Then John is saying,” she began slowly, “that my parents made me before they got married?”

  “Could be.”

  “That they got married because they were going to have me?”

  “Th’ important thing,” Marcy said, “is that they were married when you were born.”

  “Did they have to get married because of me?”

  “No.”

  The conviction behind the word was some reassurance to Pam, but still she had to ask, “How do you know?”

  “B’cause they love you. And they love each other. People who love like that get married whether there’s a baby or not.” When Pam continued to look skeptical, she added, “You know they love you.”

  “Sometimes I think they don’t love each other. Daddy spends so much time in Maine.”

  “That’s on account of the pits. He has to be there.”

  “No,” Pam said, but distantly.

  “Yes’m. If he didn’t spend so much time in Maine, you wouldn’t have all the nice things you do here. Your daddy is a fine man, about as fine as any that comes along. I’m sure that if he had his way he’d be here all the time with you. And your mama.”

  Pam didn’t argue further, though it seemed to her that the last “mama” had been stuck on as an afterthought. She could understand why Marcy would insist that Patricia and Eugene were still deeply in love. Marcy’s own parents had a volatile relationship, if the screaming Pam had heard the one time she’d gone with Marcy to visit was any indication. By comparison, anything was better.

  Pam’s point of comparison, though, was different. Increasingly she could look back on her earliest memories, and, even allowing for the innocence of those first years, she could see the change in the way her parents treated each other. The nice times were fewer and farther between. If Patricia and Eugene were in love, it wasn’t as deep a love as it once had been.

  Pam was convinced that something was wrong, and nothing in the course of the months that followed suggested otherwise. Eugene was in Maine more often than not, which irritated Patricia so much that she made several trips there herself.

  “Do you blame me for wondering?” she asked in a huff one Friday night. She’d taken Pam straight from school and made the three-hour drive without forewarning Eugene.

  In the eyes of a twelve-year
-old, his welcome was one of unqualified pleasure, everything Pam had hoped for. The three of them went out for dinner at the nicest restaurant within twenty miles of the Cove, and when they returned they sat for a time in the den catching up on what each had been doing since last they’d been together. When the talk turned to business, Pam quietly left. But the conversation easily carried up the stairs to the hall, where she leaned against the wall papered with Queen Anne’s lace and listened.

  “Yes, I do blame you,” Eugene argued. “When I say that I’m here because I have to be, that should be enough. There was no need for you to race on up just to make sure I was working.”

  “I raced on up because I missed you. It’s been three weeks.”

  “It’s often been three weeks.”

  “But it shouldn’t be. It doesn’t have to be. I need you there.”

  “You nag me there. You’ve got me dressed up and going out every night to some party or ball or art show.”

  “They’re important.”

  “They’re boring.”

  “Those parties and balls and exhibits are where you can make contacts to broaden your base. That’s what you should be doing.”

  Pam heard the tension in her father’s voice as he said, “My business is taking tourmaline from the earth and selling it, and I’m doin’ pretty damn well.”

  “But you could be doing better. Don’t you see? You’re not making the most of your assets. You sell the stones, pay your crew, buy new equipment now and then, and put the rest of the money into the bank. It’s piling up there, Gene, when it should be earning twice as much in another venture.”

  “This sounds familiar. Have you been talking to John?”