Gail again looked to Martha for permission. It was not an optimistic indication of how long I was going to live that Martha informed Gail she could tell me everything.

“My father is under arrest in Berlin for his political and artistic beliefs. I’m allowed to write to him and I’ve gotten a few short letters back, but there have been so many rules imposed upon my life this last year. I’ve done whatever I’ve been told to do, in order to get the authorities to permit me to bring him back home. That’s why I wrote Swing. I’m not really an aspiring composer, you know. I’m simply a pianist.”

I croaked, “Gail, are you aware that I was led to believe I might be your father?”

Gail gave a nervous laugh. “What?”

“Did you know that I was led to believe that?” I said, raising my voice.

“But how could you think that?” She looked at me as if I were mad.

I nodded at Martha. “We—” I didn’t want to be coarse in front of my daughter, except she wasn’t. “Martha and I slept together years ago. Nine months before you were born.”

“But—” Gail looked at Martha with a strange expression. “Can I tell him? You’ve let me tell him everything else.”

Martha nodded. “Yes, it’s all right now. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

Gail said, “Martha isn’t my mother. That’s one of the rules: I have to say she is. I’ve even been referring to her as my mother this evening. I can’t break the rules. Being my mother has allowed her to monitor me, check up on me at school, meet my friends, and keep me tethered to her on the weekends without arousing the curiosity of others. It also has given her an identity. You know, a birth certificate, a driver’s license. If I can prove I’m Gail Prentice and I say she’s my mother, then she must be Martha Prentice, right?” Her eyes lowered. “My real mother died many years ago. In Cincinnati.”