Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (52 page)

     He had a beautiful voice. It commanded. It persuaded. Just as he himself was beautiful and commanding. Tears streamed down his handsome face while he called upon the world to "show the Lord how much we love that man lying in this here hospital." Philippa began to feel his strength reach out and seize her. Danny Mackay said, "Let us offer ourselves up in the place of our fallen president," and the crowd shouted, "Amen." Philippa felt herself begin to tremble. Danny said, "Let us promise to return to the path of righteousness—for John Kennedy's sake!" and her eyes filled with tears. Danny stood with the sun behind him, his arms outstretched, his slender body shuddering with passion and magnetism, and he cried, "Make peace with the Lord right here and now, my brothers and sisters! Whatever is evil or dark or without love dwelling in your hearts—cast it out in the name of our beloved president!" He spoke to a crowd, but Philippa heard him speaking directly to her. "Promise the Lord right here and now," he said, "that you will cleanse your souls and embrace love and forgiveness and that you will walk a new path from this moment forward."

     The prayer continued, coming spontaneously from an ambitious young man who just happened to be in the right place at the right time in history. While young Danny Mackay on his dented old bus was laying the foundation for his eventual rise to fame and wealth, Philippa no longer listened. He had touched her. He had opened up one of those dark places and shed light into it. And she suddenly saw what she had to do.

     She must find her father. She must make peace with Johnny Singleton.

     "Johnny Singleton," she said into the phone for the third time, impatiently. Since dialing the number, Philippa had been transferred twice, and now this person was no more help than the first two had been. "He's an inmate," she repeated. "I'm his daughter."

     "I'm sorry, miss," the young man at the other end said. "But we don't have a Johnny Singleton here. What was the date of his incarceration?"

     She could give him the year, but not the month or date. As she was put on hold for a third time, Philippa began to wonder if Johnny had been released. After all, it had been nine years since she had called San Quentin prison from Fisherman's Wharf.

     Finally, the man came back on. "Who did you say you were?"

     Philippa's heart jumped; his tone alarmed her. "I'm his daughter. Why?"

     "If you're a close family member, miss, you would have been informed."

     "Informed? Informed of what?"

     A pause, and then, "Just—informed."

     "I don't understand. Was he released?"

     "I'm sorry, miss, but I'm afraid we can't give out any information without verification of ID. If you will contact us by mail, with a request in writing—"

     "Please tell me where he is!"

     But she got no further. When she hung up, she had a dark, sick feeling.

     "Craziest thing about Kennedy's assassination," the private investigator said as he scribbled on the pad in front of him. His belly was so large that he had to stretch his arms straight out in order to reach his desk top. There was a faded green stain on his tie, and Philippa wondered how long it had been there. "It's made people suddenly want to look up old friends, old flames," he said. "To apologize, I guess, to make amends, set things right. His death made people see how quickly we can go—just like that." He snapped his fingers. "If Kennedy can die so suddenly, then what does that say for us mortals? My phone's been ringing off the hook for a week, folks looking for folks." He paused and gave her a leering look that she didn't like. She had found Mr. Dixon in the yellow pages. "So, you're lookin' for your daddy, are you? Awright, let me tell you what it's going to run you."

     Philippa watched as Dixon jotted down some figures and dollar signs. After her futile conversation with the prison officials, Philippa had tried to think of where to turn, how to find Johnny. She was fighting a nameless fear growing inside her—that Johnny hadn't been released, that he had left San Quentin by another route. That he was dead.

     "What was he in for?" Dixon had asked her at the beginning of the interview.

     "I don't know," she had said. "Is that important?"

     "It might be. After all, San Quentin is maximum security—death row, gas chamber. If the officials were as close mouthed as you say..." He had shrugged significantly, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

     "I could write to the prison authorities," Dixon said now, stubbing out his cigar and releasing a loud belch that briefly wafted past Philippa with hints of onion and mustard. "But that would take time—bureaucratic red tape and all. I've got a friend down at the
Times.
I'll see him first thing in the morning, go back through the archives, see what I can dig up. I should have something for you by tomorrow afternoon. Here's my fee," he said as he shoved the notepad across the desk. "That'll be up front," he added.

     Dixon delivered the next day, as promised. Philippa went to his dingy office overlooking Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, where he boasted he held an orgy every New Year's Eve so that the next morning they could watch the Rose Parade "from this very window, best view in town."

     She didn't open the thick manila envelope in his presence, but instead drove to Reseda Park. Despite its being Saturday, few people sat on the grass or visited the pond. An eerie kind of withdrawal seemed to have settled over the San Fernando Valley in the eight days since Kennedy's death. Traffic on the streets seemed lighter, crowds in the stores were thinner, and now the park, which was usually full of picnickers, was strangely deserted. The swings and slides stood empty; there were no rowboats out on the pond. One elderly man was feeding the ducks, but his movements appeared desultory, as if he really saw no point in it.

     Philippa chose a bench beneath a very large old tree whose roots, poking up through the grass, were themselves as thick as tree trunks. She sat for a long moment staring at the envelope Dixon had given her.

     He hadn't said anything about what it contained, just, "Here," shoving the envelope at her as if he didn't want anything more to do with it.

     It occurred to her that she held Johnny's life in her lap, as he had once held hers many years ago. Philippa slowly opened the envelope.

     The news clippings were photocopies held together with a paper clip, in chronological order, starting with 1950. They covered a sensational murder the paper called the Nob Hill Slayings, and she saw with a start that the murders had taken place just days after Johnny had taken her to St. Bridget's.

     She read the clippings one by one: about the police investigation of the slayings, the anonymous tip received by the district attorney, Johnny's subsequent arrest, his trial, the guilty verdict—how all of it had been taking place while Philippa was at St. Bridget's, waiting for her father to come for her, her days of hope slowly turning to days of fear and anger, until that first letter from Italy had arrived. When she thought now of what it must have been like for him—hunted down and caged like an animal, protesting his innocence with no one believing him, her handsome Johnny all alone and unloved...

     Tears fell onto the pages, smearing the ink. When the wind rushed through the park, she could feel November shifting to December, first hot, now cold, as if the wind were trying to find its footing. Only five pages remained, and she was suddenly afraid to read on.

     She looked at the first and read what she had known was coming but what she had not wanted to see confirmed—that Johnny had been sentenced to the gas chamber. The next page contained several small items clipped from the
Times
on different days, all chronicling the legal complexities that delayed his execution. These were from the years that she was growing up in St. Bridget's, having fun with Frizz, not knowing that Johnny was on death row, not knowing that, despite his private anguish, he had somehow managed to have those letters sent to her from various places around the world, always cheerful, always speaking of better days to come.

     She turned to the first of the last three pages, which was dated just one month after the day she had run away from St. Bridget's. When she read the headline—"Johnny Singleton, Convicted Murderer in Grisly Nob Hill Slayings, Dies Tonight in Gas Chamber," she let the folder and remaining two
pages slip from her lap. She couldn't bring herself to read them; she knew they would contain a detailed account of Johnny's execution. The wind swept them up and carried them away.

     Philippa remained on the bench until darkness stole softly through the park, kicking up dead leaves as it went, engulfing her until she could no longer see. And then she got up mechanically and somehow found her way to her car. There was only one place she wanted to be right now. She drove off, leaving Johnny behind.

     As the park lamps came on, spilling pools of light over the brittle grass and murky pond, one of the photocopied pages fluttered out over the water and settled down faceup so that, briefly, the print could be read: "Johnny Singleton received a last minute stay of execution pending investigation of new evidence that has come up in the Nob Hill Slayings." A duck swam up and, thinking he had found supper, pecked at the paper until it sank beneath the surface, the ink obliterated.

     The last page of Dixon's report was carried by the wind until it slammed against a tree trunk, where it was wrapped for a moment, lamplight shining on words that read, "Real Murderer in Nob Hill Slayings Confesses; Johnny Singleton Receives Full Pardon, Is Released Today from San Quentin." And then the wind snatched it away and carried it off for good.

     As Philippa rang the doorbell at 325 Avenida Hacienda, she mentally practiced how she was going to open the conversation, what she would say to get Charmie to listen to her before she slammed the door in her face.
This is important, Charmie. I need to talk to you. Please, before you send me away, hear me out!

     When she was about to ring the bell a second time the door suddenly opened and a little boy of about four or five stood there, sounds of television cartoons blaring behind him. He was skinny and funny looking, and he was clutching a sandwich; there was a great greasy smear around his mouth. "Nathan?" she said, bending over to smile at him. "Do you remember me?"

     He regarded her with big eyes, then he turned and ran into the house shouting, "Mommie! There's a lady at the door! She's wearing a red dress!"

     When she heard Charmie's voice call back, "I'm coming," Philippa felt a lump gather in her throat.
Please, Charmie, just hear me out. You're the only
one I can talk to about Johnny. Just give me a couple of minutes and then I won't bother you again. I'm just so sad...

     The door opened wider and Charmie, wiping her flour-dusted hands on a towel, her cheeks bright from the oven, said, "Yes?"

     But before Philippa could say anything, Charmie cried, "Choppie!" and engulfed Philippa in an embrace that smelled of cinnamon and gingerbread. "My God, it's you! Oh Philippa..."

     "Charmie, I'm so sorry—"

     "Shut up. It was my fault. I was just so confused. You were only trying to help me. I'm
so
glad you're here."

     "Johnny's dead, Charmie. My father. He was
executed.
"

     "Oh, Philippa," Charmie said as she put an arm around her shoulders and led Philippa over to the couch.

     "Why does life sometimes seem so hard?" Philippa said.

     "Tell me about your father."

     "I was stubborn, and I guess in a way I wanted to punish him for abandoning me at St. Bridget's, for not telling me I was adopted. But look where that stubbornness got me. I suppose a part of me kept thinking that I would see him again someday. But time ran out and I lost my chance."

     "Don't blame yourself. You didn't know."

     They talked about Johnny for a while, then about the past, recalling that last night in Mother Superior's office when they had read their files. They sat surrounded by warm baking smells in Charmie's messy living room, while Porky Pig and Daffy Duck cartoons made Nathan laugh on the other side of the thin wall. Gradually Philippa and Charmie inched their way into the deeper waters of what had happened between them two years earlier.

     "I'm really sorry about the way I treated you," Charmie said. "I know you were trying to be my friend. But things are better now, honestly they are. Ron isn't drinking as much these days. He hardly hits me anymore. We're okay. We're going to make it."

     "Can you come back to Starlite, Charmie? I meant it when I said we need you. I'm having problems that only you can fix."

     "You know, I've been tempted many times to go into one of those salons. I have a friend who joined a year ago. She couldn't stop talking about her
damned group. She lost fifty pounds and learned how to dress well. I envied her. And you and Hannah. Sure, I'll come back. I'd love to. But only when Ron is away."

     The cartoons ended and the little boy came running in. When he said, "Are you my Auntie Philippa?" she ruffled the orange hair on his head and said softly, "Charmie, I've decided to look for my real family. I want to find out who my parents were. Maybe I have brothers or sisters. It's something I should have done long ago."