Page 145

“It is a terrible quality in a husband.”

“I am aware.”

“I could have you investigated further.”

“You could.”

“I could refuse.” He picked up the black card and turned it over. “I could make things very difficult.”

“You could.”

“But you would come back.”

“Yes.”

“And so would he.”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” He put the card down. “Then I suppose there is nothing to do but permit it.”

I did not breathe.

“You have my permission,” said Richard Pendleton, stiffly. “For what it is worth. You may marry my son. You may put a ring on him. You may live in my house, if you must, for a limited time, on the understanding that you will keep the door of your room open.” A pause. “I give you these on two conditions.”

“Name them.”

“The first. That you take him to a doctor. A real one. Dr. Ono, in the city. I will not force him. But I want him to have help, and I want you to be the one who asks.”

“I will.”

“The second.” He looked at me steadily. “Do not tell him that I said any of this.”

I blinked.

“He must not know,” said Richard Pendleton, “that I have watched. Or that I have paid. Or that I have sat by the radio.” His jaw was tight. “He thinks I do not care. It is easier. It keeps the peace. When he is old enough, and settled, and strong, I will tell him myself.”

“He is old enough now.”

“He is not.”

“Sir. He would be glad to know.”

“That,” said the old man, with sudden ferocity, “is for me to judge.”

I studied him, the proud, wounded, frightened face and the rigid mouth and the clenched hands. I saw a man who could not say I love you out loud, who had spent thirty years showing it in wire transfers and background checks, and I felt a great pity for him, and a great recognition.

“Very well,” I said. “I will say nothing.”

“Thank you.”

“But I will say one thing to you.”

“What?”

“He asked me, the day we met, whether I believed his father cared.” I paused. “I said I did not know. I do now.”

He looked away.