A Dad Of His Own. Diana Whitney
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said it hurt, so he was careful not to squeeze Clementine’s hand when he shook it. “You don’t look like a lawyer.” His gaze wandered across to a wall papered with oldfashioned flowers and studded with framed certificates. There were school names he didn’t recognize—Harvard, Stamford, Berkeley—and all kinds of peculiar terms that he’d never seen before. He knew what attorney-at-law meant, but he didn’t know what professor of genealogy was, and some of the other terms confused him as well. “What’s a fid?”
Clementine followed his gaze, smiling. “That’s a Ph.D. certificate, lad, a doctorate degree in psychology.”
Bobby sat up straighter. “You’re a doctor, too?”
“Not in the medical sense.” She settled into a big wooden rocking chair, flinching slightly. “I counsel families now and again.”
“Counsel?” The word evoked an unpleasant image of his elementary school vice principal lecturing kids about chewing gum and homework. “I don’t like counselors. They’re always bawling people out.”
“Bawling people out, are they?” Clementine regarded him kindly. “Well, lad, as my sainted da used to say, if God didn’t want folks to listen more often than talk, He wouldn’t have given them two ears and only one mouth.”
A tubby gray cat peeked out from behind a frilly lace curtain, then hopped onto the woman’s lap. She idly stroked the animal, which curled comfortably under her squishy bosom and purred so loud Bobby could hear it all the way across the room. The animal diverted Clementine’s attention long enough for him to surreptitiously snag another cookie.
“I got a cat,” he announced between bites. “His name is Mugsy. I want a dog, too, but Mom says a dog would be too lonesome, on account of she’s at work all day and I’m at school.”
“Are you now?” Reaching for a manila file on the desk beside the rocker, she retrieved her dangling glasses, slipped them efficiently into place. “And what grade would you be in?”
“Fourth.” Bobby figured she should know that, because he’d filled out a form for the pretty lady who worked in the front office. Deirdre, her name was. She had really nice eyes and a laugh that made him go all wiggly inside. She’d spent a lot of time with him, asking his address and stuff. She’d wanted to know what his birthday was, and that’s when he’d given her the birth certificate that he’d sneaked out of the metal box Mom kept in the back of her closet. Deirdre had made a copy of it.
Squinting at a document inside the file, Clementine ignored the cat batting at the pearl-studded loop dangling from her funny-looking spectacles. “So you’d be nine years old, would you?”
“Nine and a half.” He swallowed, reached for the glass of milk and drained half of it in a single swallow. “I’ll be ten in March.” He started to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, then noticed the stack of linen napkins Clementine had laid by the cookie platter and used one of them instead. “Mom says I’m smart for my age.”
“That you are, laddie, that you are.” Wise blue eyes twinkled over lenses that looked like they’d been chopped in half. “You must be a crafty young man to have found your way into San Francisco all by yourself.”
Bobby shrugged. “It wasn’t no big deal. My teacher got a big bus to take the whole class to the museum today, so when the rest of the kids went inside, I ran around the corner and looked for a cab.”
“Ah, how clever. Don’t you think your teacher might be a wee bit perturbed when she notices you’re gone?”
“Nah. If she asks where I am, my best friend, Danny, is gonna tell her I’m in the bathroom.” Bobby glanced at an ornately carved wall clock positioned between a pair of intricate tapestries. “Only I’ve gotta be back by two o’clock, ’cause that’s when the school bus is gonna be back to take everyone home.”
“And home is—” she adjusted her glasses, peering down at the file “—in Marysville? That’s quite a distance. How is it you decided to visit me instead of enjoying the museum with your class?”
Bobby sucked in a breath. His hands were sweaty and kind of cold, so he wiped his palms on his jeans. “A long time ago you helped my friend Danny get adopted. He told me I should call you, on account of you’re real good at finding parents for people.”
“I see.” Clementine studied the open file. She looked sad, so Bobby figured she was looking at his birth certificate. His whole name was there, Robert James Margolis. So was his mom’s, along with the name of a man he’d never known.
“Can you find my dad?” Bobby blurted.
“Ah, so it’s your father you’re seeking, is it?”
Without warning, Bobby’s throat went dry, and his eyes went wet. He laid the half-eaten cookie aside, took another healthy swallow of milk. His heart was beating really fast, and his hands were still cold.
Closing the file, Clementine rocked quietly for a moment, stroking the sleeping cat in her lap. “Your mum doesn’t know you’re here, does she, child?”
Bobby sniffed, shook his head. “She doesn’t like to talk about my daddy. I think she figures it’ll make me sad.” Actually, Bobby had only asked her once, when he’d been just a little kid. Her eyes had gotten all red and watery. She’d promised they’d talk about it when he was older. Bobby was older now. He was almost grown up. But his mom had broken her promise.
Squaring his shoulders, he hiked his chin, willed his lip to stop quivering. “I brought money.” Digging into his pocket, he retrieved a crumpled wad of bills, $18.65 that represented his life savings. He plunked it all beside the cookie platter, then remembered he’d need cab fare, and stuffed five dollars back into his pocket.
Noting a peculiar expression on Clementine’s wrinkled face, he quickly added, “I got more.” Squirming in the chair, he pulled the boom box reverently into his lap. It had been a Christmas gift from his mother, and was his most treasured possession. “This is worth a whole bunch of money, maybe even fifty dollars. It has real good sound. You can make it so loud that the speakers puff out. It’s got bass and treble adjustments—” he demonstrated with a flick of the slide bar “—and it plays tapes and CDs and all the cool radio stations. It’s really neat.”
Clementine’s smile was kind of sad. “Is it now?”
“Want me to turn it on for you?”
“That won’t be necessary. ’Tis a fine instrument, to be sure.”
“Oh.” Swallowing a stab of disappointment at not being able to play his beloved music one last time, he reached inside his shirt, pulled out a wrinkled envelope with the name of the man he’d yearned for all his life. He touched the smeared ink with his fingertip, then passed the envelope to Clementine. “It’s a letter to my dad, for when you find him.”
She took it gently, cradled it in those gnarled hands as if it were as fragile as a butterfly. “Tell me why you’re wanting to locate him after all these years.”
The request surprised him, made him think for a moment. “’Cause there’s gonna be a father-son picnic next month, and I don’t wanna get stuck with dorky old Mr. Brisbane again.”
“Mr. Brisbane?”
“Yeah. He’s the school janitor, and he always partners up with kids who don’t have dads so they don’t feel, you know, left out and stuff.”
“That’s very nice of him.”
Bobby shrugged. “Yeah, I guess, only I’m sick of borrowing dads all the time. I want my own dad.”
“Of course you do,” Clementine murmured. “Every boy deserves a father of his very own.”
Hardly daring to breathe, Bobby leaped to his feet, clutching the boom box to his chest. “So you’ll do it, you’ll find him for me?”
“I’ll do my best, lad.”
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