The Four Corners of the Sky_ A Novel - Michael Malone [26]
Just before they’d driven suddenly to Emerald that last time together, she’d sneaked a look at an unstamped mailer that had been slipped under their motel room door; inside it she’d found an Irish passport with a picture of her father but with a different name. Folded in the passport was a street map of Havana, Cuba.
Aunt Sam and Uncle Clark didn’t contradict her when she’d told them her father was a criminal but Sam could or would give her no details other than that in the year of Annie’s birth a card had arrived from Jack, postmarked Key West, with the entirely surprising news that he was raising an infant daughter on his own and that the two were “doing fine.” A year after that, he’d shown up with this baby (Annie) and his single-engine airplane. The two of them, father and daughter, stayed at Pilgrim’s Rest slightly less than a month, during which time Annie learned to walk. He then took Annie away and left the King of the Sky behind.
Afterwards, Sam heard nothing for six years. Then out of the blue he called to ask if he could drop Annie off “temporarily.” Two days later, he arrived with the child asleep in his red Mustang convertible, stayed only long enough to beg Sam for help because he was “in big trouble.” He didn’t explain what kind of trouble, or where the girl’s mother was, or who her mother was, or how he could bear to leave his daughter behind on her seventh birthday, after he’d kept her with him for so many years on the road. He asked his sister to hide Annie if anyone came to the house in the following weeks asking for him, and to say that she hadn’t seen him in years. Then he kissed her good-bye and told her, “Annie’s a great kid. I’ll be back.”
But of course he wasn’t.
In Annie’s early years at Pilgrim’s Rest, she asked Sam to tell her stories about her father’s youth. Sam told her tales of his escapades back when their next-door neighbor George was his buddy and the two boys were always “in trouble.” Stories of how they sold off family heirlooms at a Raleigh flea market and used the money to take the bus to California (the Phoenix police returned them); how they spent months on end digging in the yard for buried rubies and emeralds that they never found. But Sam told only childhood stories. She said that by the time Jack reached his teens, she was in college with her own troubles and knew little of her brother’s adolescence, except that when George’s sister Ruthie ran off with an older married man it had broken Jack’s heart.
Mostly Sam defended him. She denied Clark’s claim that he had robbed his dead father on the day of the man’s funeral, leaving Sam behind to deal with their crazy mother. She assured Annie that he’d always had a good, loving heart.
Pressed to explain why, if Jack’s heart was so good, he had dropped his only child off like an unwanted pet at the pound, Sam would fall back on assurances that he had loved his daughter “more than he could say.”
“Obviously,” the girl agreed as soon as she’d mastered the ironical eyebrow she had learned from Claudette Colbert.
“Let it go,” advised Sam.
In large part Annie did. But one day, in her teens, out jogging alone, she was running slowly along the path that wound through the old cemetery of St. Mark’s Church, where all the Peregrines were buried, and she came across a story her father had never told her. Studying the family grave markings there, she noticed a little marker with small curved wings, sunk in grass and obscured beneath the big purple blossoms of a rhododendron. Crawling under that bush’s branches, she rubbed at the moss and lichen obscuring the name on the grave. When she finally was able to decipher the carved letters, the sight knocked the breath out of her and she slithered quickly backwards, as if she’d been bitten. The small stone said:
John Ingersoll Peregrine
1946–1948
Taken From Me
John Ingersoll Peregrine was her father’s name.
Out of breath after racing across