The Prodigal Daughter (10 page)

“Where’s Papa?”
she asked.

“He couldn’t
make it tonight.”

“But he
promised.” said Florentyna. “He promised.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she
suddenly realized why Miss Tredgold had told her not to look beyond tile
footlights.

“You must
remember, child, that your father is a very busy man. He has a small empire to
run.”

“So did Saint
Joan,” said Florentyna.

When Florentyna
went to bed that night, Miss Tredgold came to turn out her light.

“Papa doesn’t
love Mama any more, does he?”

The bluntness of
the question took Miss Tredgold by surprise and it was a few moments before she
recovered.

‘~
Of
only one thing I am certain, child, and that is that they
both love you.”

“Then why has
Papa stopped coming home?”

“That I cannot
explain, but whatever his reasons, we must be very understanding and grown-up,”
said Miss Tredgold, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over
Florentyna’s forehead.

Florentyna felt
very un-grown-up and wondered if Saint Joan had beep so unhappy when she lost
her beloved France. When Miss Tredgold closed the door quietly, Florentyna put
her hand under the bed to feel the reassuring wet nose of Eleanor. “At least
I’ll always have you,” she whispered.

Eleanor
clambered from her hiding place onto the bed and settled down next to Florentyna,
facing the door: a quick retreat to her basket in the kitchen might prove
necessary if Miss Tredgold reappeared.

Florentyna did
not see her father during the summer vacation and had long stopped believing
the stories that the growing hotel empire was keeping him away from Chicago.
When she mentioned him to her mother, Zaphia’s replies were often bitter.
Florentyna also found out from overheard telephone conversations that she was
consulting lawyers.

Each day,
Florentyna would take Eleanor for a walk down Michigan Avenue in the hope that
she might see her father’s car drive by. One Wednesday, she decided to make a
break in her routine and walk on the west side of the avenue to study the
stores that set the fashions for the Windy City.

Eleanor was delighted
to be reunited with the magnificent gas lamps that had recently been placed for
her at twenty-yard intervals. Florentyna had already purchased a wedding dress
and a ball gown with her five -dollars-a-week pocket money and was coveting an
elegant five-hundred-dollar evening dress in the window of Martha Weathered on
the comer of Oak Street when she saw her father’s reflection in the glass. She
turned, overjoyed, to see him coming out of the Bank of Chicago on the opposite
side of the street. Without a thought she dashed out into the road, not looking
eithei- way as she called her father’s name. A yellow cab jammed on its brakes
and swerved violently, the driver aware of a flash of blue skirt,
then
a heavy thud as the cab made contact with the body. The
rest of the traffic came 67 to a screeching halt as the cab driver saw a stout,
well-dressed man.
followed
by a policeman, run out
into the middle of the street. A moment later Abel and the taxi driver stood
numbly staring down at the lifeless body. “She’s dead,” said the policeman,
shaking his head as he took his notebook from his top pocket.

Abel fell on his
knees, trembling. He looked up at the policeman. “And the worst thing about it
is I am to blame.”

“No, Papa, it
was my fault,” wept Florentyna. “I should never have rushed out into the
street. I killed Eleanor by not thinking.”

The driver of
the cab that had hit the Labrador explained that he had had no choice; he had
to hit the dog to avoid colliding with the girl.

-Abel nodded,
picked up his daughter and carried her to the curb, not
letting,
her look back at Eleanor’s mangled body. He put Florentyna into the back of his
car and returned to the policeman.

“My name i~ Abel
Rosnov-”

“I know who you
are, sir.”

“Can I leave
everything to you, Officer’?”

“Yes, sir,” said
the policeman, not looking up from his notebook.

Abel returned to
his chauffeur and told him to drive them to the Baron.

Abel held his
daughter’s hand as they walked through the crowded hotel corridor to the
private elevator that whisked them to the forty-second floor. George met them
when the gates sprung open. He was about to greet his goddaughter with a Polish
quip when he saw the look on her face.

“Ask Miss
Tredgold to come over immediately, George.”

“Of course,”
said George, and disappeared into his own office.

Abel sat and
listened to several stories about Eleanor without interrupting before tea and
sandwiches arrived, but Florentyna managed only a sip of milk. Then, without
any prelude, she changed the subject.

“Why don’t you
ever come home, Papa’
?-
she asked.

Abel poured
himself another cup of tea, a little spilling into the saucer.

“I’ve wanted to
come home many times and I hated missing Saint Joan, but your mother and I are
going to be divorced. “

“Oh, no. it
can’t be true. Papa-”

“It’s my fauit,
little one. I have not been a good husband and-”

Florentyna threw
her arms around her father. “Does that mean I w4l never see you again?”

“No. I have made
an agreement with your mother that you shall remain in Chicago while you are at
school, but you will spend the holidays with me in New York. Of course you can
always talk to me on the telephone whenever you want to.”

Florentyna
remained silent as Abel gently stroked her hair.

Some time passed
before there was a gentle knock on the door and Miss Tredgold
entered,
her long dress swishing as she came quickly to
Florentyna’s side.

“Can you take
her home please, Miss Tredgold?”

“Of
course, Mr. Rosnovski.”
Florentyna was still tearful. “Come with me,
child,” she said and bent down and whispered, “try not to show your feelings.”

The
twelve-year-old girl kissed her father on the forehead, took Miss Tredgold’s
hand and left.

When the door
closed, Abel, not having been brought up by Miss Tredgold, sat alone and wept.

I
T WAS AT THE
BEGINNING of her second year in Upper School that Florentyna first became aware
of Pete Welling. He was sitting in a corner of the music room, playing the
latest hit, “Almost
Like
Being in Love,” on the piano.
He was slightly out of tune, but Florentyna assumed it must be the piano. Pete
didn’t seem to notice her as she passed him, so she turned around and walked
back again, but to no avail. He put a hand nonchalantly through his fair, wavy
hair and continued playing the piano, so she marched off pretending she hadn’t
seen him. By lunchtime the next day she knew that he was one grade above her,
where he lived, that he was co-captain of the football team, president of his
class and nearly seventeen. Her friend Susie Jacobson warned her that others
had trod the same path without a great deal of success.

“But I asSUre
you,” replied norentyna, I have something to offer that will prove
irresistible.”

That afternoon
she sat down and composed what she imagined to he her first love letter. After
much deliberation she chose purple ink and wrote in a bold, slanting hand:

My dear Pete, I
knew vou were something special the first time I saw you. I think you play the
piano beautifully. Would you like to come and listen to some records at my
place? Very sincerely, Florentyna (Rosnovski)

Florentyna
waited for the break before she crept down the corridor, imagining every eye to
be on her as she searched for Pete Welling’s hall locker. When she found it
,.
she checked his name against the number on the top of the
locker. Fortytwo-shc felt that was a good omen, and opened his locker door,
left her letter on top of a math book, where he couldn’t miss it, and retumed
to her classroom, palms sweating. She checked tier own locker, on the hour
every hour, expecting his reply, but none was forthcoming. After a week passed,
she began to despair until she saw Pete sitting on the steps of the chapel
combing his hair. How daring to break two school rules at once, she thought.
Florentyna decided this was her chance to find out if he had ever received her
invitation.

She walked
boldly toward him, but with only a yard to go she wished he would disappear in
a cloud of dust because she couldn’t think of anything to say. She stood still
like a lamb in the stare of a python, but he saved her by saying, “Hi.-

“Hi,” she
managed. “Did you ever find my letter?”

“Your
letter?”

“Yes, I wrote to
vou last Monday about coming over to play some records at my place. I’ve got
‘Silent Night,’ and most of Bing Ciosby’s latest hits.

Have you heard
him singing ‘White Christmas”?” she asked, playing her trump card.

“Oh, it was you
who wrote that letter,” he said.

“Yes, I saw you
play against Parker last week. You were fantastic. Who are you playing next?”

“It’s in the
school calendar,” he said, putting his comb into an inside pocket and looking
over her shoulder, “I’ll be in the stands.”

“I’m sure you
will,” he said as a tall blonde from the senior class wearing little white
socks that Florentyna felt sure were not official school uniform ran over to
Pete and asked if he had been waiting long.

“No, only a
couple of minutes,” said Pete, and put his arm around her waist before turning
back to Florentyna. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get in line,” he said,
laughing, “
but
perhaps your time will come. Anyway, I
think Crosby’s square. I’m into Bix Beiderbecke.”

As they walked
away, Florentyna could hear him telling the blonde, “That was the girl who sent
me the note.” The blonde looked back over her shoulder and started laughing.
“She’s probably still a virgin,” Pete added.

Florentyna went
to the girls’ tocker room and hid until everyone else had gone home, dreading
that they would all laugh at her once the story had gone the rounds. She didn’t
sleep that night, and the next morning she studied the other girls’ faces but
couldn’t see any signs of sniggers or stares and 71 decided to confide in Susie
Jacobson to discover if the story had gotten around. When Florentyna had
finished her story, Slisie burst out laughing.

“Not you as
well,” Susie said.

Florentyna felt
a lot better after Susie told her how far down the line she actually was. It
gave her the courage to ask Susie if she knew what a virgin was.

“I’m not
certain,” said Susie. “Why?”

“Because Pete
said I probably was one.”

“Then I think I
must be one as well. I once overheard Mary Alice Beckman saying it was when a
boy made love to you and nine months later you had a baby.
Like
Miss Horton told us about elephants, but they take two years.”

“I wonder what
it feels like.”

“According to
all the magazines Mary Alice keeps in her locker, it’s dreamy.”

“Do you know
anyone who’s tried?”

“Margie
McCormick claims she has.”

“She would claim
anything, and if she has, why hasn’t she had a baby?”

“She said she
took ‘precautions,’ whatever they are.”

“If it’s
anything like having a period, I can’t believe it’s worth all the trouble,”
said Florentyna.

“Agreed,” said
Susie. “I got mine yesterday. Do you think men have the same problem?”

“Not a chance,”
said Florentyna. “They always end up with the best of every deal. Obviously we
get the periods and the babies and thoy get shaving and the draft, but I shall
have to ask Miss Tredgold about that.”

“I’m not sure
she’ll know,” said Susie.

“Miss Tredgold,”
said Florentyna with
confidence,
“knows everything.”

That evening
when Miss Tredgold was approached by a puzzled Florentyna, she did not-hesitate
to sit the child down and explain the birth process to her in the fullest
detail, warning her of the consequences of a rash desire to experiment.
Florentyna sat and listened to Miss Tredgold in silence. When she had finished,
Florentyna asked, “Then why is so much fuss made about the whole thing?”

“Modem society
and loose morals make a lot of demands on girls, but always remember that each
of us makes our own decision as to what others think of us and, more
importantly, what we think of ourselves.”

“She did know
all about becoming pregnant and having babies,” Florentyna said to Susie the
next day with great authority.

“Does that mean
you’re going to remain a virgin?” asked Susie.

“Oh, yes,” said
Florentyna. “Miss Tredgold is still one.”

“But what about
‘precautions’?” demanded
Susie.