Sullivan came around the last turn on the stairwell and stopped, looked up at her, stood there catching his breath like he’d been hurrying.
‘When did you get back?’ he asked.
‘This morning, just a little while ago.’
‘And what is it that’s so important you’re hollerin’ at me from the top of the stairs?’ Sullivan started walking towards her. He was already breathless, his face strained and tired. He looked far the worse for wear than she’d ever seen him. His body was fighting, she knew, and for a split second she regretted the promise he’d made. The regret vanished as she realized what he was doing. He was no longer drinking.
Have to be cruel to be kind
, her mother would have said.
‘I wanted to know if you’d found anything out,’ Annie said, and in her voice she could hear the sense of anticipation and expectancy.
Sullivan shook his head. He walked to his apartment door, produced his key and unlocked it. He was inside, Annie following him, before he answered.
‘Your father,’ he started, ‘as far as I can tell –’
‘What?’ Annie prompted. ‘As far as you can tell what?’
Sullivan shook his head and frowned. ‘Your father … well hell, Annie, it seems that your father has no records.’
She laughed, a short nervous laugh.
‘What?’
Sullivan crossed the room and sat down. ‘I’ve gone through every engineering trade association and organization record I could find. I’ve been on the internet. I went down to the library yesterday and scoured most of their engineering and architectural sections. References, indexes, everything I could think of. I didn’t find a thing, so I called up some friends and had them go through newspaper microfiche records for obituaries, and then when that proved fruitless I went to the Department of Public Works, and when I couldn’t find anyone named Frank O’Neill who even came close to the dates you gave me I went to a bar on 114th and had a club soda and a bowl of peanuts.’
‘A club soda?’ Annie asked.
Sullivan nodded. ‘A club soda, Annie O’Neill. Jack Ulysses Sullivan sat in a bar on 114th drinking a club soda, as God is my witness.’
Annie sat down beside Sullivan. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand how someone can’t exist.’
Sullivan smiled, took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course someone can’t not exist Annie. Your father existed as much as you and me … but for whatever reason I haven’t found any records. It really isn’t that big a deal –’
‘Perhaps not to you Jack, but it is to me.’
‘Okay, okay Annie … perhaps that didn’t come out the way I meant it. People can live their whole lives and never really –’
‘Amount to anything?’ she interjected.
‘You’re putting words in my mouth, Annie,’ Sullivan said. ‘All I’m saying is that I’m sure your father did whatever he did, and I bet he was fucking good at it … but he never really figured from a social record point of view.’
Annie was silent for a time.
‘I mean, apart from a few newspaper photos no-one will ever know I existed, except the people that knew me,’ Sullivan added.
‘I don’t know,’ Annie said. ‘I can’t say that I’m not disappointed … I’d hoped that you’d find out something about him.’
‘Tell me,’ Sullivan said. ‘Tell me why it’s become so important all of a sudden.’
Annie shook her head. She looked away for a while, away into the middle of the room. ‘I can’t say,’ she eventually said. Her voice was quiet, a whisper almost. ‘I was thinking about it a while back, a few days ago. I think this thing with Forrester started it up, the fact that there was someone else apart from my mother who knew him. It made me look at the fact that he had a life too, he had friends, people who knew his name, perhaps someplace he’d go and have a drink when he felt down.’ Annie paused, was once again silent for a few seconds.
‘He was my father, a real honest-to-God human being, and there’s absolutely nothing left of him but this wristwatch and a book he left me.’
‘And the store,’ Sullivan said. ‘You have the store.’
‘Yes, I have the store,’ Annie replied.
‘And what do you think it would give you … if you found out?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Christ only knows Jack. A sense of belonging I s’pose, a feeling that I came from somewhere.’
‘Seems to me it’s an awful lot more important to know where you’re going than where you came from.’
‘Except if where you came from could determine where you’re headed,’ Annie said.
‘And where d’you think you’re headed?’
Annie smiled. ‘I want to go on feeling what I’ve felt with David, like there’s someone to come home to, someone to go see –’
‘And someone with whom you can exercise your tremendous vocal capacity,’ Sullivan added with a wry smile.
‘Yes Jack … that too.’
‘So just live life Annie O’Neill … ’cause the fact of the matter is that life will go on whether you live with it or not. And I’ll tell you one thing for free. You sure as hell seem happier these past few days than I’ve ever known you.’
‘I am,’ Annie said. ‘I am happier Jack.’
‘So forget about your father. I know it’s easy for me to say that, but whoever he was, whatever he did, those things don’t hold anywhere near as much importance as what you’re doing now.’
Sullivan squeezed her hand again.
‘Seems to me the one thing that fathers always want, mothers too for that matter, is for their kids to be happy. Comes down to it they always come to terms with decisions their kids make as long as they’re happy, right?’
Annie nodded. ‘I s’pose.’
‘So make this thing with David work, and spend whatever
time you want with Forrester; hear what he has to say but don’t give it any more importance than it deserves. Stories are really nothing more than stories, okay?’
Annie leaned forward and hugged Sullivan. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘Okay Jack.’
She held him for a moment more and then released him.
‘You got plans tonight?’ Annie asked.
Sullivan shook his head. ‘Figured I’d eat half a box of Excedrin and try and sleep off the DTs.’
‘Sounds like fun. Why not come over and have some dinner with me.’
‘Sure I will,’ Sullivan said. ‘That would be good.’
‘We’ll eat and watch a video or something okay?’
‘Good enough for me,’ he said, and smiled.
Annie left his apartment and crossed the landing.
That evening, while preparing food before Sullivan came over, she looked for a particular CD in the rack system. She found it no problem, but it was out of its alphabetical sequence.
She recalled David looking through the CDs when he’d first come by. That must have been it.
Have to educate the man
, she thought, and considered it no further. But then, moments later, having thought of David, she wanted to call him, wanted to hear his voice, and realized that she still had no number for him, no way to reach him if she wanted, or needed, to.
And then Sullivan came across and they ate, and after that they sat beside one another on the couch and watched
The Philadelphia Story
, and Annie fell in love with Cary Grant all over again.
Sullivan didn’t stay long once the movie was over, and Annie – more tired than she believed possible – went to bed, tugged the quilt over her, and fell asleep.
She did not dream.
Her mind was empty.
As empty as the memory of her father.
It was the envelope that did it. The envelope which the courier had brought with the last section of the manuscript. It was there on the counter at the store on Friday morning when she let herself in, when she walked into somewhere that seemed alien to her, altogether different.
She picked it up, turned it over, and there on the back was stamped
SPEEDEE COURIERS
and a telephone number.
She dialed the number, was greeted by Al who asked her politely if this was to order a delivery or a collection.
Neither, she told Al. An inquiry.
Shoot, Al said.
She explained who she was, gave her address, and told him that she’d received a package on the previous Monday night couriered by one of their staff.
Some problem? he’d asked.
No, she told him, but she wondered if it was possible to get a contact number for the person who’d sent it.
Sure, Al said. Hang on there, honey.
Annie waited, watching the street through the window, hoping that she might catch sight of David, fed up with writing reports and feeling like there was nothing in the world he’d rather do than be with her.
Al came back. You got a pen? he asked.
Yes, Annie said, and wrote the telephone number he gave her on the back of the same envelope.
Sent by a Mr Forrester, Al said. That right?
‘Yes, Robert Forrester,’ Annie said. She thanked Al, hung up,
and stood staring at the envelope, a number of scenarios racing through her mind.
Hi there, it’s Annie … I hope you don’t mind but I got your number from the courier company, and I was wondering if you wanted to move our next club meeting to tonight
.
Mr Forrester. It’s Annie O’Neill here. I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous, but I really missed seeing you Monday evening and I wanted to thank you for sending over the manuscript. I wondered if there was any possibility you might be able to bring over the next chapters
…
She felt awkward, a little confused, and no matter how she worded it, no matter what phrasing she used, it sounded artificial and rehearsed.
She reached for the receiver. Lifted it. It felt extraordinarily heavy in her hand.
She looked at the number she’d scrawled down and when she began punching it in it was almost as though she were driven: she didn’t want to do this, but she couldn’t help it.
The telephone rang at the other end. Once. Twice. Three times. A rush of trepidation overcame her, she asked herself what in God’s name she was doing, and just as she withdrew the receiver from her ear she heard the line connect at the other end.
Yes?
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I wondered if Mr Forrester was there.’
There was a pronounced pause.
‘Tell him it’s Annie … Annie O’Neill,’ she said.
She was aware of the heavy intake of breath at the other end. But, then again, perhaps it was her imagination. She was crediting the person with the same nervousness that she herself was feeling. She heard the receiver being set down, the sound of footsteps, and then the murmur of words being exchanged.
Did those voices sound aggressive?
The voices went quiet. Footsteps again. The sound of the receiver being lifted.
Miss O’Neill?
It was Forrester’s voice.
Annie was almost surprised to hear him there, at the other end of the line.
‘Mr Forrester. I’m really sorry about this. I got your number from the courier company you used to send over the manuscript Monday night.’
Ah, yes, of course. How are you my dear? I’m very sorry I couldn’t come over but there was some business I had to attend to
.
‘It’s fine Mr Forrester, it really is, and I wanted to thank you for taking the trouble.’
It’s a pleasure my dear, and I can assure you that I won’t be missing the next meeting
.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
There’s a problem? You have another engagement?
‘No, nothing like that Mr Forrester. It’s just that … well it’s just that –’
What my dear … out with it
.
Annie smiled, almost embarrassed. ‘Well, I was wondering if there was any possibility that I might –’
Get the next chapter before Monday?
Annie didn’t say a word.
Forrester laughed at the other end. It was a warm and engaging sound.
It’s quite a story is it not? I really think that it might have had a chance of being published had it ever been finished
.
‘It wasn’t finished?’ she asked.
No, unfortunately not … but there’s still quite a bit of it left
.
‘And d’you think that –’
You could have it for the weekend?
‘Yes, I was hoping that I might see it before the weekend. I know that there were rules and everything, but –’
But rules were made to be broken Miss O’Neill … that’s what you were hoping, I believe?
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was hoping that there might be an exception made.’
Well, I think it’s only fair considering I was absent from the last meeting. I’ll have someone bring it over for you. What time will you be there until today?
‘Well, I’m usually here until about five or five-thirty,’ she said.
I’ll have it there before you leave … but I still wish to hold our next meeting on Monday if that’s alright with you?’
‘Of course,’ Annie said. ‘Yes, of course.’
Very well then, Miss O’Neill. I’ll send over the next section, and I’ll see you again on Monday. Take care, and have a pleasant weekend
.
‘Thank you Mr Forrester, I really appreciate it.’
Not at all my dear, not at all … goodbye
.
The receiver went dead in her hand, and slowly, gently, she set it back in the cradle.
She breathed deeply. That had been fine. Forrester hadn’t seemed upset about her finding his number. Hadn’t seemed bothered at all. She shrugged her shoulders and asked herself why she’d gotten so worked up. There really was nothing to be concerned about. He’d probably appreciated the fact that someone had called him. He was just a lonely old –
She stopped mid-flight.
Someone else had answered the phone. Another man. Younger by the sound of his voice.
And was there something about his tone that made her feel he was surprised by her call? Or had she imagined it?
Hell, it didn’t matter. Job done. Purpose served. She would get to read the next part of the manuscript that evening.
The day expired in slow-motion. Four customers.
See Under: Love
by David Grossman;
Acts of Worship
by Yukio Mishima;
The Dust Roads of Monferrato
by Rosetta Loy and, finally, a copy of De Lillo’s
Americana
. John Damianka didn’t appear with the customary mayonnaise-drenched sub, and for this she was grateful. She felt content dealing with anonymity, people she had never seen before, people she would probably never see
again. And if she did – perhaps on the subway, perhaps walking ahead of her on the street – she would not recognize them anyway.