The Sea Grape
© copyright 2002 Victor J. Treutel
Chapter One
The morning rose from the cold ground and left a murky fog in its wake. A bird flew into the spring air and disappeared in the mist. It was the morning of Caroline's nineteenth birthday. She lay in bed and watched the fog drift outside her window. There was nothing about this day that attracted her.
A tear escaped when Caroline closed her eyes. It slipped into the air and joined the fog, to help hold the sun at bay. Another followed. Then another. A stream etched its way down her face and carved a canyon into her supple skin. Moments hung in the murk—unable to reach the ground where they could regain momentum. Caroline's heart paused. Moments passed before it understood its required rhythm and beat again. Her lungs clung to their last fog-laden breath and waited while the frozen moments passed before they continued.
Caroline's body froze in the void, except for her tears; they plummeted from under her clenched eyelids and ran down her cheeks and over her lips. Nothing moved under the weight of the fog. The day was motionless.
Emotions filled Caroline's world—anger, resentment, frustration, loneliness, desertion—all directed toward her father, John Smith, who sat behind his desk one floor below.
The fog lost its battle with the mid-morning sun. Its gloomy presence faded into the wakening spring day. The sun devoured the fog and beckoned Caroline to pull her head from under her down quilt to prepare for the day. She didn't. She couldn't. She couldn't face the inevitable day. The pain in her heart would be too great when her father, once again, got on the stage and preached his love for his daughter. He would stand stoically behind the podium and reek of power; his thousand-dollar suit perfectly tailored, his tie cinched tightly under his chin. John Smith would, as he had on every birthday of Caroline's life, preach to the crowd about the importance of family and the love of a little girl. He would draw the crowd into his grasp and hold it, then twist and tug on heartstrings. He would then leave the podium, walk to his daughter's side, and hug her—the first and last of the year. As the morning fog distorts the light, John Smith's actions would distort the truth.
"Caroline!" Margaret Smith knocked on her daughter's door. "Caroline! You're going to miss your birthday party. Are you going to sleep all day?"
Caroline cringed under her quilt. Shivers ran through her. The door creaked inward. Caroline's mother stood outside the room and peered at the quivering lump on the bed. Four corner posts rose in the darkness. Virginal lace ruffles dusted the hardwood floor. The rise and fall of the quilt was the only movement in the room.
Caroline's mother stepped into the room and walked past the bed to the window. She pulled open the blinds. Shafts of light swept across the floor and ran up the wall on the opposite side of the room. Fog hung in the air for a moment and was hammered back to the underworld by the light. Caroline's mother walked across the room and pulled open the blinds on the other set of windows, crisscrossing the blades of light. Caroline remained motionless.
"You have an appointment to have your hair fixed in an hour. Come on. It's time to get up."
A muffled sound came from under the mound of feathers.
"What, Honey? I can't understand you."
Caroline angrily pushed the quilt off her head. "I said, I can't make it!"
"I see you are going to start this year in the same angry fashion as last year."
"Oh Mother, you don't understand, do you? You don't understand me at all," Caroline said.
Caroline's mother sat on the edge of the bed. "Of course I don't understand. You should be happy. Not many girls get to have as elegant a birthday party as you."
Caroline shrugged. "You're right, Mother. I should be jumping out of this bed and cheering for my life. It's so perfect!" Her sarcasm echoed through the room. "I live in a grand house. I have grand friends. I have a grand mother, but something is missing."
"What's that, Dear?"
"I don't have a father."
Caroline's mother looked out the window. A few green leaves sprouted from the giant oak tree outside. Margaret touched the quilted lump and tried to calm her daughter. The two women—one as aged as the oak, the other as green as the new leaves—shared their loneliness.
"I know it's not easy living here. But, you'll be gone as soon as you finish college, and then you can get on with your life."
"I can't make it three more years, Mom."
"Oh, sure you can, Honey. You've made it this long."
Caroline looked at her mother's aging face. Her tired eyes looked back at Caroline.
"Come on, Caroline. You're almost free."
Caroline relented. "Alright, Mom. I'll be down in a few minutes. I need to take a bath first."
"Sure, Darling." Margaret rose from the bed and walked across the cold hardwood floor to the door. "Don't worry about fixing your hair. Lance will do that."
"Yes, Mother. I know."
Margaret closed the door behind her. Caroline looked out the window; the sun had finally defeated the fog. Caroline's telephone rang as she crawled out from under her quilt.
"Hello."
"Hi, Birthday Girl!"
"Hi, Pamela," Caroline replied gloomily.
"Good, God! What the hell's wrong with you? Are you feeling really old today?"
"No, I just hate my birthday."
"I understand. I'd hate it too if I had to wear a beautiful dress and hang out at the Ritz-Carlton all night with Senators, and Congressman, and Judges, and other unimportant people."
"I'll trade places with you."
"Sure, then I get all your birthday presents and you have to baby-sit my snot-nosed little brother."
"That would be better than hanging out with my father all night. I'd give anything not to have to listen to his crap."
"Oh, Caroline, I feel so sorry for you. Poor little rich girl; used and abused."
"Pamela, you don't get it, do you?"
"Yes, I get it. I understand that your father trails the free world in parenting skills. I understand that you have to spend one night a year being adored by all the powerful people in New England. I understand that you are the most depressing birthday girl I've ever known. I understand everything."
"Good. I was afraid my best friend didn't understand me."
"Caroline, you are so pitiful! Let's go get smashed before your party. That might make things a little better."
"I'd love to, but I have to get my hair done."
"Fine. I'll just drink myself silly all alone and spend the night hammered and hang out with my little brother! Talk about a pitiful life."Pamela, you always know how to cheer me up, don't you?" Caroline said sarcastically.
"You're easy. All I have to do is depress you even more."
"Well, don't depress me any more, or I'll have to slit my wrists."
"OK, Miss Cheerful! Forget it. Have fun with your gay hairdresser and at your birthday party. Don't gag too many times."
"Bye, Pamela."
"Bye, Birthday Girl."
Caroline hung up the phone, walked into the bathroom, and filled the tub. She looked in the mirror briefly, then reached into the cabinet—behind the towels—and pulled out a bottle of vodka. She took a long, hard swallow. The alcohol burned her throat as it went down. She slid into the bathtub with the bottle. She drank until the pain of the day began to subside.
Caroline put the bottle on the vanity and toweled herself dry, brushed her teeth, and combed her wet hair. She dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Her mother was waiting impatiently downstairs.
"Let's go! Lance isn't going to wait all day."
"No expense is too large for my baby," her father said every year.
Caroline knew the truth. Her grandparents had felt the way to survive in America was to fit in. When they immigrated, they gave their son the most common American name. John Smith didn't like fitting in; he saw it as camouflage. "Everyone will know who I am, not just my name," he said at an early age. A lifetime of making his name and face known began.
His political career started with Student Body President in High School. The thrill of standing in front of a large crowd and commanding attention was his forté. John discovered the power. He was young, strong, and handsome. His voice boomed out over the large gathering of underclassmen. They had all come to hear John Smith and he would give them a show.
"I hold this school, and every member of the faculty, responsible for our education," he started. John knew the trivial issues of the underclassmen: cafeteria food and the deteriorating basketball court. He wanted to stir something inside them first, before he told them what they wanted to hear.
"Our parents came to this country because they were promised a new life. They were promised a job and an education for their children. They have spent their lives struggling to make a living, to support us so we can go to school. We attend classes all day while they work difficult and dangerous jobs." He paused and looked around to see if he had their attention. "It is the responsibility of this school and of its faculty to provide us that education. To teach us the skills we need to make this new world a better place. To prepare us for high-paying jobs-jobs our parents couldn't do, because they didn't have the education. Our parents have struggled so we could have a better life. And I, John Smith, hold this school and its faculty responsible." He held the crowd and refused to let go.
"The first thing I hold this school responsible for is our pitiful cafeteria." This drew a rumble from the students. "How can we learn when our stomachs ache from the slop they feed us!" Applause erupted. "If elected President of this student body, I will make the cafeteria my number one concern. I will not rest until we get what we and our parents deserve." Again, the crowd applauded. "I won't rest until the things this country promised our parents are delivered!" The students stood and applauded John Smith again.
"Some of you know me, and some of you don't. But, I promise each and every one of you, that by the time I leave this school in the spring, you will all know me!" The final round of applause echoed through the auditorium. Each student rose to give a standing ovation. He looked into the crowd, and watched their eyes as they followed his every move. He walked to the edge of the stage and jumped down. He moved quickly into the crowd and began to shake hands. The students surrounded him, extending their hands toward him. John Smith's political career began.
In college, John worked on the reelection campaign for the Governor of Massachusetts. He learned the people felt the government owed them everything. He learned the power of a politician who could empathize with the people—who could feed their appetites and tell them what they wanted to hear. John Smith's first elected office was on the City Council, where he stirred the people of Boston to unrest. Within five years, he was Mayor.
John Smith spent his entire life making his name known. Now, although he knew his daughter's name, he didn't know her; she was an icon. She was part of the image the people wanted to see—a politician with a heart, a family, a loving wife, and a beautiful child. To the outside world, John Smith was a model father. He took vacations with his family like all fathers. When Caroline and her father played catch beside the lake, a photographer captured it all. When Caroline and her father took a walk in the woods, a photographer captured it all. When Caroline's father tucked her into bed, a photographer captured it all. Every time John Smith pretended to be a father, a photographer captured the moment.
Even though Caroline didn't think her father believed in God, his religious convictions were strong. He went to church every Sunday; he dragged Caroline along from when she was small. They always sat in the first row, thus being the first parishioners to leave. He walked past everyone like a float in the Rose Bowl Parade: waving, shaking hands, and kissing babies. The world was a stage for John Smith, and he always had the leading role. What the world thought of him was more important than the truth.
Caroline's grandmother had called him a "house devil." Outside the house, John Smith was different. He was always smiling, laughing, helping people. But the minute he stepped inside the mansion, as soon as he sealed himself into his chamber, as soon as that door slammed shut, he became the "house devil." Anger filled his world. He yelled at everyone: the servants, the gardener, the carpenter, his wife, and his daughter. Nothing made him happy. All the efforts he made outside the house to help people, he refused to do while inside. Everyone inside his life was left to fend for themselves. Everyone knew they shouldn't ask him for anything. They knew not to request anything from the "house devil," for he would surely put them in their places; make them feel small and unimportant.
"If you can't learn your ABCs by yourself, you will never be anything, Caroline," he had told her during her first year of school. "No one is looking out for you. No one is going to be there to take care of you. You have to learn to take care of yourself," he yelled at her from behind his desk. "Now go, I have important things to do. More important than helping some brat learn her ABCs."
Caroline ran from her father's office, tears on her face, overwhelmed by sobs. She dropped her workbook and pencil in the hall, ran into her room, and hid under her pillow. She didn't come out until her mother called her downstairs for dinner.
When she went downstairs, he was there—at the head of the table—eating, and reading his newspaper. He was more important than his wife and his six-year-old daughter. John Smith was the most important man in the world.
"Consuela, pour me another glass of wine!" he barked at the cook, who was in the kitchen. The wine bottle was on the table, within his reach. Consuela scurried into the dining room, shuffled around the table to the wine bottle, and poured the wine in his glass.
"Anything else, sir?"
He didn't respond. She stood and waited.
"What are you waiting for? Clear these dishes away!"
The dining room was sullen; there were no windows to the outside. The room was dark mahogany: floor, walls, and ceiling. The dangling crystals of the massive chandelier barely glittered, because the chandelier was only turned on when they entertained dignitaries. A small lamp was all that lit the room; it sat in the corner behind John Smith to illuminate his newspaper. Two doors led into the dining room; one from the kitchen, where Consuela prepared their meals. The other door was solid mahogany and swung out to the main hall. Caroline hated the dining room. She hated its darkness and she hated her father.
After Consuela cleared the dishes, John Smith made Caroline and her mother wait until he finished the newspaper. He pushed his chair back and spoke to Margaret. "Tomorrow there is a luncheon at the club. You will be there at eleven forty-five. Wear something formal. I will be speaking. You will sit with Senator Karr and his wife. Don't embarrass me. If you can't say anything intelligent, don't say anything at all." He then got up and walked out of the dining room.
Every meal with her father was the same. When Caroline was older, the instructions were directed at her too. Caroline and her mother couldn't wait until John was out of town or worked late at the office. The reason made no difference. The dining room was always a party when he wasn't there. The chandelier was lit bright. Consuela brought her radio from the kitchen to the dining room and ate with Caroline and her mother. The three women laughed and giggled and gossiped.
At a very early age, Caroline began to dream of the day when her father would no longer control her life. She dreamed a lot in those early years in that big dark house.
Caroline's birthday party was the same every year; important politicians and businessmen from all over the world were invited. Caroline was not permitted to invite any friends. The Ritz-Carlton's grand ballroom—massive in its decadence—didn't smell of little girl's perfume or party favors or bubble gum or cake; the smell was of testosterone. Powerful men of politics strutted around the ballroom. Caroline gagged on the smell.
Tuxedos and evening gowns mingled throughout. Caroline stood at her father's side. His emotionless grip held her hand. Conversation dribbled from John Smith's mouth into the musty air. He only acknowledged Caroline when someone acknowledged her presence, cuing him to be a father. He then moved his head and peered at his daughter with a gleam in his eyes and a smile across his face.
"Senator Johnson. It's so good of you to come."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Mayor. I understand you throw the best birthday parties."
"Thank you, Senator."
"And this must be the young lady in honor at this elegant occasion." The Senator, with his trophy wife in tow, smiled at Caroline, who moved to stand slightly behind her father.
"Senator." John Smith grabbed the senator's attention. "I would like to introduce you and your lovely wife to the center of my life." John Smith pulled the Senator's eyes to his daughter. Caroline gasped for air. She suffocated in the depth of the bullshit.
This process repeated with every politician, every businessman, every celebrity, and everyone with power. Caroline gasped for air with each testosterone-filled presentation, until she couldn't breathe. Her lungs failed to filter out the chemicals manufactured by the bodies of the rich and powerful men. Caroline's heart eventually shut down. It ceased to beat for her father, and lie deathly still; no beat, no thumps, no opening of valves, and no flowing of blood. Caroline's heart would never again beat for her father.
Caroline escaped the ballroom while her father was giving his usual birthday speech. She moved away from his amplified voice while she heard him say how his life would be nothing without his beautiful daughter. She wandered through the glamorous hotel. She watched the guests enter the elevators. She watched the water flow down the sculpture in the center of the lobby. She stood in front of a massive bouquet—a giant vase with hundreds of spring flowers, each reaching in a different direction.
A voice startled her. "They are almost as beautiful as you."
Caroline turned toward the voice, blushing. "Thank you."
"And now you blend in perfectly," the young man said.
Caroline turned back toward the flowers to hide her rosy cheeks.
"My name is Joseph," he said to her back.
"I'm Caroline."
"I'm sorry that I embarrassed you, but I was watching you wander around the hotel and I couldn't help but tell you how beautiful you are."
"If you don't stop saying those things, I may never be able to turn around," Caroline said. The young man laughed softly.
When she finally turned toward him, Caroline saw warmth in his eyes. His hair was black and cut short. He was tall and slender with fair skin.
"What's that on your head?" Caroline asked, in order to break the silence between them.
"Ah, this," Joseph pointed to the yarmulke on his head. "It's a party hat. All Jewish people wear them when we party."
Caroline looked into his smiling eyes and chuckled.
"Be careful. If you smile too much, you will become more beautiful than the flowers themselves."
Again Caroline blushed. "You are certainly a charmer, Joseph."
"No," he replied. "I am brutally honest; my fatal flaw."
"Really?"
"Yes. It started the day I was born."
"Is that so?"
"When the doctor spanked me, it hurt. So, I told him. And I've been telling the truth ever since."
Caroline smiled. "I think you're just full of stories."
"Stories are an easy way to get people to smile."
Caroline smiled again.
"See, it worked. You should hear some of my really good stories."
"I would be honored to hear more of your stories," Caroline replied.
"Shall we walk?" Joseph nodded toward the hotel lobby.
"Sure. I won't be missed."
"That is hard to imagine."
They walked next to each other away from the flower arrangement and into the hotel lobby. The marble floor stretched gray and black across the room. Giant pillars rose from the floor and stood stoically around the lobby. Caroline felt a comfort encircle her body as she walked next to Joseph. His presence calmed her and sent away the tension of her father's party.
"So, Caroline, tell me. What brings you here with all these people?"
"A party. Supposedly for me. But the truth is, the party is for my father."
"What is the occasion?"
"My birthday."
"Happy birthday!"
"Thanks, but you can't imagine how many times I've heard that today."
"Six thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven?"
Caroline giggled.
"More?"
"No. I don't think so. I think you guessed it exactly. Have you been following me around counting?"
"I wish."
They both laughed.
"Your father enjoys your birthday party more than you do?"
"Oh, yeah. But let's not talk about him."
"What shall we talk about?"
"Anything."
"The weather? The Boston Celtics? Or maybe Peruvian independence? Or the valuation of the Ruble?"
"Yes. Let's discuss all of those. They are much more interesting than my father."
"Ouch."
Caroline looked at Joseph with sad eyes.
"How about a cup of coffee?"
"That would be nice."
They walked through the lobby to a small coffee shop that overlooked the courtyard. They both ordered cappuccino and took their coffees to a small table near the window.
"So, what brings you here tonight?" Caroline asked.
"My nephew's bar mitzvah."
"Is everyone wearing those cute little caps?"
"Everyone has a cap, but I'm the only one who makes it cute."
Caroline laughed. "That's probably true. And when you start losing your hair, no one will ever know."
"That's exactly why we wear them; to disguise our bald heads."
They talked and laughed until their coffees were gone.
"Joseph, I need to get back to my prison cell."
"It has been a pleasure talking with you. I don't recall ever enjoying a conversation as much."
"Me neither," Caroline said, looking into his dark eyes. She tingled inside.
"Can we continue it sometime?"
"I would like that."
"Great. How about tomorrow at the Public Gardens? Under the horse statue."
Caroline smiled again. "Under the horse statue it is."
Caroline returned to her father's party. He remained on the podium, preaching his words to the enlightened crowd. No one had missed her.
