The Prodigal Daughter Read online

  “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.

  “You don’t need them if you remain a virgin,” Florentyna said, passing on her newfound knowledge.

  The only other event of importance that year for Florentyna was her confirmation. Although Father O’Reilly, a young priest from the Holy Name Cathedral, officially instructed her, Miss Tredgold, resolutely suppressing the Church of England tenets of her youth, studied the Roman Catholic “Orders in Confirmation” and took Florentyna painstakingly through her preparation, leaving her in no doubt of the obligations that her promises to our dear Lord brought upon her. The Roman Catholic Archbishop of Chicago, assisted by Father O’Reilly, administered the confirmation, and both Abel and Zaphia attended the service. Their divorce having been completed, they sat in separate pews.

  Florentyna wore a simple white dress with a high neck, the hem falling a few inches below the knee. She had made the dress herself, with—when she was asleep—a little help from Miss Tredgold. The original design had come from a photograph in Paris-Match of a dress worn by Princess Elizabeth. Miss Tredgold had brushed Florentyna’s long dark hair for over an hour until it shone. She even allowed it to fall to her shoulders. Although she was only thirteen, the young confirmand looked stunning.

  “My Kum is beautiful,” said George as he stood next to Abel in the front pew of the church.

  “I know,” said Abel.

  “No, I’m serious,” said George. “Very soon there is going to be a line of men banging on the Baron’s castle door demanding the hand of his only daughter.”

  “As long as she’s happy, I don’t mind who she marries.”

  After the service was over, the family had a celebration dinner in Abel’s private rooms at the Baron. Florentyna received gifts from her family and friends, including a beautiful leather-bound version of the King James Bible from Miss Tredgold, but the present she treasured most was the one her father had kept safely until he felt she was old enough to appreciate it, the antique ring that had been given to Florentyna on her christening by the man who had put his faith in Papa and backed the Baron Group.

  “I must write and thank him,” said Florentyna.

  “You can’t, my dear, as I am not certain who he is. I honored my part of the bargain long ago, so now I will probably never discover his true identity.”

  She slipped the antique ring onto the third finger of her right hand and throughout the rest of the day her eyes returned again and again to the sparkling little emeralds.

  Chapter

  Eight

  “How will you be voting in the Presidential election, madam?” asked the smartly dressed young man.

  “I shall not be voting,” said Miss Tredgold, continuing down the street.

  “Shall I put you down as ‘Don’t know’?” said the man, jogging to keep up with her.

  “Most certainly not,” said Miss Tredgold. “I made no such suggestion.”

  “Am I to understand you don’t wish to state your preference?”

  “I am quite happy to state my preference, young man, but as I come from Much Hadham in England, it is unlikely to influence either Mr. Truman or Mr. Dewey.”

  The man conducting the Gallup Poll retreated, but Florentyna watched him carefully because she had read somewhere that the results of such polls were now being taken seriously by all leading politicians.

  Nineteen forty-eight, and America was in the middle of another election campaign. Unlike the Olympics, the race for the White House was re-run every four years, war or peace. Florentyna remained loyal to the Democrats but did not see how President Truman could possibly hold on to the White House after three such unpopular years as President. The Republican candidate, Thomas E. Dewey, had a lead of over 8 percent in the latest Gallup Poll and looked certain of victory.

  Florentyna followed both campaigns closely and was delighted when Margaret Chase Smith beat three men to be chosen as the Republican senatorial candidate for Maine. For the first time, the American people were able to follow the election on television. Abel had installed an RCA at Rigg Street only months before he departed, but during term time Miss Tredgold would not allow Florentyna to watch “that newfangled machine” for more than one hour a day. “It can never be a substitute for the written word,” she declared. “I agree with Professor Chester L. Dawes of Harvard,” she added. “Too many instant decisions will be made in front of the cameras that will later be regretted.”

  Although she did not fully agree with Miss Tredgold’s sentiments at the time, Florentyna selected her hour carefully, particularly on Sundays, always choosing the CBS evening news, during which Douglas Edwards would give the campaign roundup, over Ed Sullivan’s more popular “Toast of the Town.” However, she still found time to listen to Ed Murrow on the radio. After all his broadcasts from London during the war, she, like so many other millions of Americans, remained loyal to his kind of newscasting. She felt it was the least she could do.

  During the summer vacation Florentyna parked herself in Congressman Osborne’s campaign headquarters and, along with scores of other volunteers of assorted ages and ability, filled envelopes with “A Message from Your Congressman” and a bumper sticker that said in bold print “Re-elect Osborne.” She and a pale, angular youth who never proffered any opinions would then lick the flap of each envelope and place it on a pile according to district, for hand delivery by another helper. By the end of each day her mouth and lips were covered in gum and she would return home feeling thirsty and sick.

  One Thursday the receptionist in charge of the telephone inquiries asked if Florentyna could take over her spot while she took a break for lunch.

  “Of course,” said Florentyna with tremendous excitement, and jumped into the vacated seat before the pale youth could volunteer.

  “There shouldn’t be any problems,” the receptionist said. “Just say ‘Congressman Osborne’s office,’ and if you’re not sure of anything, look it up in the campaign handbook. Everything you need to know is in there,” she added, pointing to the thick booklet by the side of the phone.

  “I’ll be just fine,” said Florentyna.

  She sat in the exalted chair, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. She didn’t have to wait long. The first caller was a man who wanted to know where he voted. That’s a strange question, thought Florentyna.

  “At the polls,” she said, a little pertly.

  “Sure, I know that, you stupid bitch,” came back the reply. “But where is my polling place?”

  Florentyna was speechless for a moment, and then asked, very politely, where he lived.

  “In the seventh precinct.”

  Florentyna flicked through her guide. “You should vote at Saint Chrysostom’s Church, on Dearborn Street.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Florentyna studied the map. “The church is located five blocks from the lake shore and fifteen blocks north of the Loop.” The phone clicked and immediately rang again.

  “Is that Osborne’s headquarters?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Florentyna.

  “Well, you can tell that lazy bastard I wouldn’t vote for him if he was the only candidate alive.” The phone clicked again and Florentyna felt queasier than she had been when she was licking envelopes. She let the bell ring three times before she could summon up the courage to lift the receiver to answer.

  “Hello,” she said nervously. “This is Congressman Osborne’s headquarters. Miss Rosnovski speaking.”

  “Hello, my dear, my name is Daisy Bishop, and I will need a car to take my husband to the polls on Election Day because he lost both of his legs in the war.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Florentyna.

  “Don’t