Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,3

had a son?”

Banks shook his head.

“Then how could he possibly know?”

“I have no idea,” said Banks. “Probably he just guessed.”

On the flight back to Kansas City, Robert Caine made numerous entries in his diary, worked on the file he had already started on Tom Lund, and contemplated how he might expand his studies to include Luther John Doe who, he wrote, intrigued him. The private one-hour sessions he had conducted with Lund, exploring the abilities of the young man’s brain, were among the most fascinating hours Caine had ever experienced, and he sensed that sessions with Luther would prove to be just as enlightening. Lund’s brain was one that had difficulty with some of the most elementary problems of everyday living, and yet in certain areas of mathematics, he could astound the most knowledgeable in the field.

Caine hoped to have at least six more sessions with Lund before the end of the year, plus another six with Luther, after which he planned to present his paper to Dr. Banks for his approval before submitting it for publication. But Dr. Caine’s plane never reached Kansas City. Ten miles from the runway at Mid-Continent International Airport, it crashed, killing everyone on board.

2

MONTARO CAINE, STILL EIGHT YEARS OLD YET FEELING AS though he had aged a lifetime in the past few days, stood trembling in his family’s kitchen, gazing out at the long, dimly lit hallway that led to his late father’s study. He was surrounded by his father’s friends and by the relatives and colleagues who had gathered to mourn the passing of Robert Caine. And yet Montaro couldn’t recall a time when he had ever felt more alone. From behind him, he could hear the voice of his grandfather P. L. Caine. Montaro’s mother and his grandfather had brought his father’s remains home. An open casket was not part of the tradition in which P.L. had been raised, but he liked the sense of closure that arose from such ceremonies that he had attended in America. Now, Robert Caine’s body was lying on view for a last farewell, and P.L. thought it would be best for Montaro to be alone when he said his final good-bye to his father.

“Go on,” Montaro heard his grandfather say. But Montaro held tight to his mother.

Sarah Caine took her son’s hand in hers. “No, Sarah, you stay here,” P. L. Caine told his daughter-in-law. “Let the boy say his good-bye in private.”

His mother let go of his hand and Montaro walked forward. He felt terrified by the thought of being alone with what would surely be a terrible sight—the dead, mangled body of his father. His mother gave his hand one more squeeze, then ran her fingers through his hair. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’ll be here.”

Montaro looked up into his mother’s eyes for reassurance, then turned to face his grandfather. The child took some strength from the tears that rolled down the old man’s cheeks. “The difficulties of life can lick a man or they can strengthen him. It’s the man’s choice,” P. L. Caine told his grandson now. Montaro understood his grandfather’s words, especially his use of the word “man” instead of “boy”; the choices he would have to make now were the choices that men had to make.

Montaro looked up at his mother once more before he turned and walked out of the kitchen. “A man has to stand up to hard times, no matter what,” he heard his grandfather say. This time, P. L. Caine was speaking to the others around him in the kitchen, but his words were still clearly meant for his grandson’s ears.

The boy walked down the hallway, past his own room, past the guest room where his mother’s brother Uncle Jim and Jim’s wife, Aunt Carol, were staying, then across the living room toward his parents’ wing of the house. He wondered if it would be possible for him to scare himself so badly that he would die like his dad. Die of fear. And now as he reached the massive mahogany door that led to his father’s study, a sudden bombardment of horrible images of what he might find in the coffin exploded inside his head. He felt petrified, unable to move; he stood staring at the forbidding entrance beyond which unspeakable nightmares no doubt awaited.

He could turn back, he thought as he stood before the door. He didn’t have to face his father’s body alone; the choice was his. But then how would he