have passed as his daughter, and had on several occasions. And then there was always the pleasure he derived from saying
no
to her incessant demands.
“Listening in to brother Eric, were we?” Shoemaker asked.
“At the end, yes. Did you learn anything?” she asked, stepping before a gilt-framed mirror and finger-combing golden strands of straight, shoulder-length hair into place. As always, she was careful to leave a touch of sensuous abandon to the way they fell. At the same time, she haphazardly parted the bangs that dropped to just above her eyebrows, adding a natural wind-kissed look to a face that, though still beautiful, would otherwise have been hard and unyielding. The compression of her lips to ensure an even spread of pink-on-chestnut coloring along the contours of her mouth brought a coquettish smile to her face. The smile quickly evaporated when she turned toward her husband. “Did you hear me, Henry?”
“Yes, Starla,” Shoemaker said with a sigh. “Eric thinks this might be it.”
“God, I hope so,” Starla Shoemaker said as she moved to the desk, shedding the white wool opera coat and revealing a body sheathed in black silk and cashmere. Henry Shoemaker found it almost impossible to take his eyes off the flow of her skirt, cut just enough above the knee to show mesh stockings stretching downward into a pair of black, kidskin leather boots. “If so, I want it. It’s mine. You’d know nothing about it if it wasn’t for me—if it wasn’t for my family, especially my grandfather.”
Turning from the voluptuousness of her body and watching the loading of container ships along the wharves, Shoemaker answered, “That may be, but you still refuse to tell me why it matters so much, especially to your family. Your father and your mother are both dead. Except for Eric, what’s left of your family, like mine, is still in Germany. What difference could it possibly make? I don’t understand. Isn’t all this enough?” He spread his hands in the direction of the wharves.
She moved next to him, careful to avoid touching. The
word father
brought back the memory that had haunted her for the past 42 years. She’d been only ten years old…
Her mother was eight months pregnant with the child who would soon be called Eric. Darkness had fallen, almost time for dinner, when ten-year-old Hedda heard her mother call, “Hedda. Where is your father? It is mealtime.” She saw her father enter the study, a newspaper in his hand. With his latest business a failure, like all the others since the war, his search for odd jobs just to feed the family was never ending. Whenever he closed himself away with the newspaper, she knew he was searching the Laborer’s Marketplace section for work. She also knew he no longer used his real name, in order to ward off the humiliation and scorn that many still held against the family. His face was always sad, no longer smiling. And with a new baby on the way, another mouth to feed…
Always taught to knock before entering, Hedda knocked on the door to the tiny study. “Father? Supper.” She called louder. “Father?” Hearing no response, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. The curtains were drawn; the room illuminated by a single desk lamp. The study at first appeared empty until she looked up and saw her father, his body hanging by an electrical cord strung from a light fixture in the ceiling. She felt as though every muscle in her body had turned to stone until the scream rose from her throat. And she screamed and screamed and screamed.
“Well, isn’t this enough?” Shoemaker again motioned toward the wharves and ships below.
His voice was like an electric shock. It snatched her out of the past, back from her father’s study and her father’s death. Starla shook her head. “The ships, the companies, the money, they’re not mine, not ours, all yours. What’s buried out there, if it’s what I think, what I hope, what my grandfather wrote to my
no
to her incessant demands.
“Listening in to brother Eric, were we?” Shoemaker asked.
“At the end, yes. Did you learn anything?” she asked, stepping before a gilt-framed mirror and finger-combing golden strands of straight, shoulder-length hair into place. As always, she was careful to leave a touch of sensuous abandon to the way they fell. At the same time, she haphazardly parted the bangs that dropped to just above her eyebrows, adding a natural wind-kissed look to a face that, though still beautiful, would otherwise have been hard and unyielding. The compression of her lips to ensure an even spread of pink-on-chestnut coloring along the contours of her mouth brought a coquettish smile to her face. The smile quickly evaporated when she turned toward her husband. “Did you hear me, Henry?”
“Yes, Starla,” Shoemaker said with a sigh. “Eric thinks this might be it.”
“God, I hope so,” Starla Shoemaker said as she moved to the desk, shedding the white wool opera coat and revealing a body sheathed in black silk and cashmere. Henry Shoemaker found it almost impossible to take his eyes off the flow of her skirt, cut just enough above the knee to show mesh stockings stretching downward into a pair of black, kidskin leather boots. “If so, I want it. It’s mine. You’d know nothing about it if it wasn’t for me—if it wasn’t for my family, especially my grandfather.”
Turning from the voluptuousness of her body and watching the loading of container ships along the wharves, Shoemaker answered, “That may be, but you still refuse to tell me why it matters so much, especially to your family. Your father and your mother are both dead. Except for Eric, what’s left of your family, like mine, is still in Germany. What difference could it possibly make? I don’t understand. Isn’t all this enough?” He spread his hands in the direction of the wharves.
She moved next to him, careful to avoid touching. The
word father
brought back the memory that had haunted her for the past 42 years. She’d been only ten years old…
Her mother was eight months pregnant with the child who would soon be called Eric. Darkness had fallen, almost time for dinner, when ten-year-old Hedda heard her mother call, “Hedda. Where is your father? It is mealtime.” She saw her father enter the study, a newspaper in his hand. With his latest business a failure, like all the others since the war, his search for odd jobs just to feed the family was never ending. Whenever he closed himself away with the newspaper, she knew he was searching the Laborer’s Marketplace section for work. She also knew he no longer used his real name, in order to ward off the humiliation and scorn that many still held against the family. His face was always sad, no longer smiling. And with a new baby on the way, another mouth to feed…
Always taught to knock before entering, Hedda knocked on the door to the tiny study. “Father? Supper.” She called louder. “Father?” Hearing no response, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. The curtains were drawn; the room illuminated by a single desk lamp. The study at first appeared empty until she looked up and saw her father, his body hanging by an electrical cord strung from a light fixture in the ceiling. She felt as though every muscle in her body had turned to stone until the scream rose from her throat. And she screamed and screamed and screamed.
“Well, isn’t this enough?” Shoemaker again motioned toward the wharves and ships below.
His voice was like an electric shock. It snatched her out of the past, back from her father’s study and her father’s death. Starla shook her head. “The ships, the companies, the money, they’re not mine, not ours, all yours. What’s buried out there, if it’s what I think, what I hope, what my grandfather wrote to my
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