His Father's Daughter
... a story written long ago
In going through my files, I came across a story I’d written a long time ago. I’d like to share a slightly revised version (serialized) with my readers here.
Installment 1
His Father’s Daughter
It's time to call the roll. He adjusts his glasses and checks his book. The names march down the left-hand column in remarkable precision. He scratches his head and calls out the first name. "Joseph Mikaides." "Here." "Joseph Mikaides." "Here." "Joseph Mikaides." "Here." The names are all the same. He rubs his hand over his face. The faces are all the same. Swarthy. laughing faces surrounding him. Words echo about his head. "Here's a nickel, Lewis." "Let's get some ice cream." "How's my boy? " "Good-bye, Lewis. So long, son." Another name appears at the bottom of his list. "Avon Meredith Mikaides." "Here," sings out a thin voice from behind the crowd. "Over here!" "Here she is! Here she is!" the young men chorus. "Ain't she somethin' !" They fall back, clearing an aisle for her to pass, but there's no one there. There's no one there at all. He stands alone, roll book in hand, pages flapping. Books fly through the air, stacking themselves about him, walling him into the base of a towering chimney. The roll book crumbles from his hands as he reaches out to the blackness above him ....
Excited voices startled him awake. Lewis blinked his eyes, aware of cold window-glass propping up his head. His mouth felt dry, but a trickle of drool traced a line down his chin. He righted himself, wiping his face, straightening his glasses, his tie, patting his pockets. He shunned the remnants of his dream. It would not bear scrutiny. Even men of fifty-one have things that fright them.
He peered around the corner of his seat for the owners of the chattering voices. A boy and girl, perhaps ten and twelve. laughing and talking about their first train ride. For Lewis. the train was a means for a necessary journey he could not make by car. It held none of the fascination and romance it seemed to for these youngsters.
Brother and sister. he thought.
"Stop squirming. you two!” admonished the woman with them. “It's only a train. These people will think your father and I never take you any place. for heaven's sake!" She glanced about, her sheepish expression pleading indulgence from the other passengers.
Brother and sister.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the letter. It opened in three even sections divided by sharp creases, wrinkled only where it had bent as he stuffed it into his pocket. It smelt faintly of dry-cleaning fluid. He shoved at his glasses absent-mindedly, the old-style horn rims behind whose severity he hides from the brashness of his students.
The letter's handwriting was open and free, with the kind of erratic structure he has come to expect in examination blue books. Stilted wording. Sentences fragmented or picked up and run on with abandon. Even so, the letter had the appearance of a final copy. She must have written more than one draft. Maybe to get the wording right. Maybe to send him a letter neatly written, free of blotches and splotches.
Tears, he thought when he first read it. Somehow he sensed tears behind the awkward words and uncertain writing, and yet there were no tearstains on this paper. How many drafts had they despoiled?
It was this awareness -- itself unlike him -- that prompted him into making the inordinate effort of this journey.
Apri1 5, 2013
Dear Mr. Mikaides,
This letter is very hard to write, because you don't know me, and I've just found out about
you. But Mr. Daniels, the lawyer, said it would be better if I wrote to you myself.
Two months ago, February 9th, Papa Joe died.
Papa Joe was my father. I found your name and address with some papers of his. He had never
mentioned you or your mother before. When I found the papers, I showed them to Mr. Daniels and he
looked everything up for me. Then we decided I should contact you.
I've tried and tried to figure one out, but there is no easy way to tell this. My name is Avon
Meredith Mikaides, and I am your sister. Half-sister actually. We have the same father, my
Papa Joe.
(here a line was skipped, as if she’d paused her writing, then come back to it.)
I'm sure you are as surprised as I was to find this out. I don't know any more about it than that
we are brother and sister.
I wanted to let you know he died. I thought you'd want to know, and I'm the only one left to
tell you. Mama died when I was thirteen. Papa Joe's been all I had. He's been really good to me.
He even paid for an insurance policy so I'd be able to go to college. I will now, because that's what
he wanted, but I'd rather have Papa Joe back.
I thought you'd want to know about his dying. Especially if you loved him like I do.
I'm sorry this letter brings such unexpected news. Maybe someday we can meet. I'd like to know
what my brother (this was crossed out) -- what you are like.
Yours very truly,
Avon Meredith Mikaides
His mind lingered over the word 'unexpected'. An understatement, He'd had no idea where his father was, dead or alive. The possibility of a brother or sister was a thought never considered.
He didn't question the veracity of the claim. No one could gain anything by making it, and, knowing Joseph Mikaides as he took for granted he did, it was utterly, undeniably possible.
Even the name sounded like something Joseph -- the Joseph his mother used to talk about -- would choose. He had loved the sea. Too well, in Lewis’s opinion. 'Meredith' for the noisy animation of the sea, and 'Avon' for river. Joseph, Greek that he was, had a profound respect for the power of names. It was part of his mystical nature, Lewis's mother had been fond of saying. Doubtless it was his way of keeping the sea with him. Avon Meredith.
Lewis sighed. His own name was chosen for strength. Like the French 'Louis', it meant 'famous in battle'.
There had been no battle for him, no opportunity to distinguish himself. His only accomplishment in life is that he has endured. Endured through childhood, college, graduate school and on into his professorship at his small college in New Hampshire. He has survived being the son of a deserting Joseph Mikaides, a shadow left behind when the door shut behind the light of his mother's life.
These fifty-one years have been quiet, stodgy, resulting in a quiet, stodgy man whom no one claims to know. Were it not for his expertise in poetry and language history, probably no one would care to know him. He hasn't minded.
He worked hard to build this shell, this fortress, around himself, using bricks kilned from his resentment of Joseph's departure to block out memories and emotion.
Memories of a four-year-old boy who cried at night for the tall, rough-handed man who'd brightened up his every day; of a boy who hung about the porch searching for a glimpse of a dark-headed father striding up the walk. So many four-year-olds are deserted, the adult Lewis has mused, do they all think it is their fault?
His fortress constructed, finished and trimmed so many years ago, Lewis Mikaides has bided within, waiting for something -- or someone -- to make tearing it down worthwhile.
What made him come today? Curiosity? He's never been a curious man. Responsibility? He holds none for this Avon Meredith.
Was it because there seemed to be an echo in this letter of his own thin, childhood voice? The voice that had called out its plaintive 'Why?' all those years. Joseph (it's been Joseph to Lewis for a long time now, a son's judgment upon the irresponsible father) has deserted her, too, in a way. If there were anything Lewis could do ... It is an obligation he cannot explain or ignore.
He pulled out a bandless wristwatch. Twenty minutes more. He peered out the window at the trees. They were bent and twisted, blown askew by the wind from the sea. Were they that close? No, but even this far inland the sea wields a potent force. He shuddered and looked away. Signs caught his eye. Fresh lobster. Clams. Seafood. Gifts from the Sea Shoppe. There was.no escaping the forced intimacy. The touch of the ocean was everywhere.
The train swung into a tiny station straddling the singular track. He rose to collect his coat and bag from the overhead. He could hear sea gulls calling out as they sailed above the train car.
The family who’d ridden behind him were gathering up as well.
“Hope our two didn’t disturb you too much.,” the father said as he grabbed suitcases and passed them to his wife.
“Oh, no, no they didn’t,” assured Lewis.
“You know how kids are. They’re just excited to be here. Seeing the ocean and all that. Have a good trip, sir.”
“Good day, sir,” answered Lewis faintly, reflecting. The ocean…and all that.
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