Conundrum (45 page)

“I wanted to cry out to him: ‘Why have you been gone so much? Don’t you love me?
Don’t you want to play with me, read me bedtime stories?
’
H
e
move
d
to the door, then put on his coat and hat.
I wanted him to run over and hug me, to tell my how much he lo
v
ed me
.
 
.
 
.
instead
.
 
.
 
.
” Raff choked up
,
and his face
flushed deep red
.

“I came and stood next to Mom and clung to her nightgown. I realized Dad wasn’t staying
;
he was leaving again. And this time he had a suitcase. I thought,
well,
maybe he’s taking another trip. He has to work. Mom says he goes away on trips because his work is important. He builds airplanes and spaceships
,
and he’s very smart.”

Raff’s voice changed as he spoke. He was lost in
memory
and was eight years old again. His eyes
shone with intensity as his words came out faster and more heated.

“Do you know what he did? Do you?” I shook my head as Raff grew more agitated.

“
Daddy, I cried, why are you leaving? Don’t leave me. Don’t!” Raff yelled but his voice was small and far away.
“‘
You have to stay here. You can’t leave!
’
I ran over to him, blocked the door, grabbed his coat and yanked on it, trying to pull him into the room, away from the door, but he didn’t budge. He
.
 
.
 
.
he didn’t even look at me, just
.
 
.
 
.
pried my fingers off him, like I was
vermin
.”

I instantly flashed back to Raff’s words in the hospital. Kafka. Gregor Samson waking up and discovering he’d turned into vermin overnight. Repulsive and loathed by his family, having to hide in his room so no one would see his vile appearance.
Raff was that vermin.

Raff’s eyes snapped to mine, like magnets
that, when brought close together, are
unable to resist
and lock
together with sudden force. “And he said
.
 
.
 
.
‘I don’t want him. I don’t want anything to do with him. Or you!
’
”

He pointed our father’s accusatory finger at me
,
and then his voice broke
into a million sharp pieces and sobs gushed out, a dam of anger and hurt flooded across his desk, across the room, striking me hard.

In that moment of time, a moment that stretched and hovered, I understood. Enlightenment flooded me as if someone had turned on a spotlight. As if the guard had flung open that door he
’
d been guarding.
I could almost hear that heavenly host singing at the top of their lungs in the glorious light of truth.

Heedless of the gun and Raff’s ire, I stood and
walked
over to the desk and took his free hand in mine, ignoring the weapon in his other hand, a weapon that paled in comparison to the
more deadly
weapon Raff mistakenly pointed at his heart.

Th
e
one he wielded in his memory had the fire power of a nuclear bomb. I picture
d
it as an RTG, leaking radiation and contaminating all within its confines. Raff, like our father, had been dying of
toxic c
ontamination.

But it was a mistake. It was all a
grave
mistake.

“Raff, he wasn’t talking about you. He was talking about Neal.”

My brother lifted his head slightly from the table. Tears had soaked his hair
,
and it hung in a soggy mass over his eyes.
He looked like a confused eight-year-old, desperately needing answers.

I had his attention, so I kept talking.
“You thought he meant you. ‘I don’t want him
,
’ he said.
He meant
Ne
al. Dad left because he couldn’t stand it that Neal wasn’t his son.
” I waited, giving a moment for that to sink in, although I wasn’t sure he really heard me through his haze.
“
Raff,
Mom had an affair with Dad’s boss, Ed Hutchinson. Neal is Ed’s son, not Dad’s. That’s what he meant. He couldn’t live in our house, looking at Neal, knowing that baby wasn’t his.”

I was blabbering, thinking I made no sense, that Raff wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t believe me. I knew he had no clue. Our mother hadn’t told him a word, and Neal
h
adn’t seen or talked with Raff in a few weeks.
But something shifted in Raff’s gaze, a focus that brought him back from that distant
place
he had been wandering lost in.

“What?” This time his voice was an adult’s. The boy
was gone.

“Dad tried to stay home as long as he could. But he couldn’t take it any longer.
He had gone to San Diego for a research project, came back and Mom was pregnant. He knew the baby wasn’t his. They hadn’t been sleeping together, Raff. Dad moved in with another woman. He left because
.
 
.
 
.
he couldn’t look at
Neal
, day in and day out, knowing his boss—the man he faced every day—had gotten his wife pregnant. Don’t you see?”

Tears streamed down Raff’s eyes. I hoped
that
rather than tears of pain they were tears that
could
wash away all the lies and misconceptions Raff had suffered
throughout
his entire lifetime
.
I hoped some of this truth had power beyond mere sounds and noises, but I couldn’t tell. I squeezed Raff’s hand and
, to my great relief,
he squeezed back.

“I talked to his best friend a few days ago. He said
Dad
loved you more than anything. It was Mom he couldn’t stand. She betrayed him, lied to him. Drove him into depression. He had to get out. But he never stopped loving us.
Loving you, Raff.
”

I
paused, letting
my weightless blanket of words settle down upon him, coat him
,
and w
rap
him with new understanding. He sniffled and swallowed, then looked at me. Something had shifted. I couldn’t tell what, but his shoul
ders lifted and his head straightened.

I sighed and gave him a smile that I hoped would somehow convey how much I loved him.
The love that poured out of me was so thick and potent I imagined it coating him
like a second blanket
, encasing
and protecting
him against all the waves of hurt beating up against the shores of his sanity.
He was on an island, so very far away, and I could see him, so small, so alone. I waved and caught his eye. After a moment, he lifted his hand and waved back.

He saw me. I cleared my throat.

“
A man walks into a nondescript restaurant tucked away in an alley. It’s taken him years to find such a place
, and he’s now old and broke, having spent every penny on his search
.
 
.
 
.
”

Raff’s eyes
br
ightened with recognition. “The conundrum
.
 
.
 
.
”

I continued.
“His agitation is palpable. He orders albatross—broiled. With trembling hands, he picks up his fork and knife and slices off a piece of the seared white flesh. The juices drip onto his plate as he brings the morsel to his mouth. The aroma nauseates him as he squeezes his eyes shut and bites down.”

A shudder escaped Raff’s chest—one that seemed to have been locked inside for twenty-five years. He
wiped his face with his
expensive
white shirtsleeve and loosened his grip on the gun. I kept speaking, looking only at Raff
.

Now I saw the desperation of a man yearning for a lifeline. He was ready, more than ready, for rescue. He had been waiting for someone, anyone, to hand him his vorpal sword so he could kill the Jabberwock.
In
a
encapsuled
moment of clarity,
I realized
Raff had thought the Jabberwork was
our
father, but he had been mistaken. The beast with the fiery red eyes that waffled through the tulgey wood was a fabrication, a phantasm of misunderstanding. It had no substance.
It could be easily vanquished.

I
then
looked past my brother
, and the
words came out of my mouth of their own volition.

“The man’s weathered face relaxes. He sighs, sets the knife and fork on the starched linen tablecloth, and places a hand over his heart, as if to calm its beating.
He smiles at the waiter, who bows politely and attends to the other diners. Relief washes in absolution. He raises his eyes to heaven and whispers, but no one hears him
.
 
.
 
.
”

I waited, and, right on cue, Raff opened his mouth and whispered in agreement with the man in the restaurant, the man who had spent his life searching
for
the answer
, searching for the door to enlightenment
.

“Thank God, I’m free.”

As the words tumbled out, Raff
spilled
into my arms, his elbow knocking the gun to the floor. He pressed his head against my head and wept, running his fingers through my hair in a mindless manner, the way our mother used to stroke my head on that rare occasion when I’d be in bed with a fever.

I let Raff
hold me there, and
his touch
no longer felt like the desperate grasp of a man sinking under the waves. It felt
liberating
and weightless
—
like soaring, like flying.

Like freedom.

Chapter 28

“Here, I picked up more at the store,” Jeremy said, kicking open the front door with his shoe. Flattened cardboard boxes tumbled onto the floor as
he
failed to notice the neat stack of boxes I had positioned to take out to the truck.

“Oops, sorry,” I sai
d
, “Guess that wasn’t the smartest place to put those.”

He scooted my stack over with his foot and surveyed the living room, where I sat pulling books off the bookshelf and load
ing
them into more boxes.

“Looks funny. The room so empty. It look
s
bigger without all
our
stuff.”

We had already moved
most of
the furniture—the couches, table
s
,
beds, appliances
—and they were
fitting
nice
ly
in the rental.

“Do you want some lunch? I have sandwiches in the ice chest that I brought back from the new place.”

“Yeah, I’m starved.” Jeremy carried an armload of boxes into the kitchen and set them on the counter. Yesterday
—
Sunday
—
he had brought over four big guys from the feed store—employees who spend much of their day hauling, loading, unloading
,
and stacking hay, straw, and fifty-pound bags of feed. Just the right kind of muscle for moving refrigerators and
unwieldy mattresses
. We treated the guys to
pizza—four extra-larges with the works, and they polished off three gallons of lemonade.
It almost felt like a festive occasion, and we got everything moved faster than we’d hoped.

But today, Jeremy seemed out of sorts, pensive, irritable. He had been so cheerful and positive these past weeks, trying to
buoy
me up, no doubt still feeling guilty for his little
tumble
over the highway railing. Neither of us had mentioned the accident after Jeremy got out of the hospital. I wanted to forget it ever happened, but I kn
e
w it ate at Jeremy’s gut. He had never fallen apart like that before, and he took pride in being strong and capable. Surely, this black mark on his soul was costing him psychically.
Yet,
what could I say to him, to reassure him? I could only hope that,
in
time, he would forgive himself and chalk it up to being human.

“You think your brother will show?” he asked from the kitchen.

“He said two o’clock. Why wouldn’t he?”

Jeremy came into the living room and plopped on the floor next to me. He picked up a large photography book I had set aside (because it didn’t quite fit in the box I was presently packing), and flipped through the pages of estuary birds while chewing his sandwich.

“Just
.
 
.
 
.
well, I can’t see Neal offering to help us pack. He never lifts a finger to help anyone.”

“Oh, give him a chance. Maybe he’s trying to change.” I reached for the packing tape and
sealed
my box. I still had two more long shelves full of books to go
. “Maybe he just wants some company. It’s gotta be weird for him. My mother forced him to sell his house, then kicked him out of hers. Two nice houses and now he’s in a small studio apartment in San Rafael
, staring at the freeway. Takes some adjusting.”

Jeremy only grunted and stuffed the crusts in his mouth. He taped together a box and started loading it with books, working beside me in silence. I would have put on some music, but we already moved the stereo and records to the new house. And my tape Walkman needed batteries—which were packed somewhere . . .

“So, have you talked at all about things? What he and his
father
said to each other? And how it
all came down with your mother? That’s a story I’d like to hear.”

I picked up animosity in Jeremy’s voice. Maybe this move was starting to hit him. Now that the rooms were emptying—like our lives
draining
out of the place we loved so much—the stark reality of our circumstance stared us down.
There was no denying that t
earing up roots caused pain; my heart hurt every time I took a box out to the truck. These things
—
our things
—b
elonged here. So much of what we’d bought over the years we had picked out to
sit
in a special spot. Every
shrub and tree
on the property had been
planted
in a specific place, to add color or shape to the landscaping
we had painstakingly designed
.

I wouldn’t get to look out my windows to my pasture or to the pond, but I coated all those regrets with gratitude. Gratitude for having Jeremy back in my life, gratitude for a beautiful new home to live in
. Gratitude for our health, our work, for peace and simplicity. I never realized how entangled and complicated my mother had made our lives. So many demands, unspoken expectations, pressures. We had been more slaves than family. Jeremy always called over to fix something,
tolerating my mother’
s way of ordering him around. Me, always cleaning up after her, running errands for her, taking care of family get-togethers—things I gladly did, acts of love that were never appreciated, only expected as dutiful behavior.

Jeremy got up and went over to the front door. He opened it and stood there a moment, listening and looking down the road.

“What?” I asked. “Someone here?”

“A
light
-
blue BMW, just running their engine, parked halfway down our driveway
.
 
.
 
.
”

Before I could say anything, Jeremy was
marching down the front steps
toward the car. I didn’t know anyone
who
owned a car like that.
I pulled on my sneakers and trotted after him
, and the dogs followed after me, running over from the barn
. No one ever came down our driveway, aside from an occasional delivery truck
. Maybe it was one of Jeremy’s employees, although the car was a bit pricey for a feed store grunt.

“Hey, wait up,” I yelled, but Jeremy ignored me, intent on questioning the inhabitants of the vehicle. Just as he came alongside the car, two doors opened, and a man and woman, nicely dressed, maybe fortyish, got out.
I whistled to the dogs and called them to my side so they wouldn’t accost the visitors.
The woman, who had her hair pulled back in an austere bun and was a little overly made up, entwined her arm around the man’s and
seemed to be taking in the property with a pleased expression on her face
.

The man extended a hand to Jeremy, who shook it, although I could tell Jeremy would rather have not. “I’m Bill Fisher. This is Wendy.” The woman only nodded
and offered a polite smile
.

“Are you lost?” Jeremy asked. “What
address
are you trying to find?”

The man hesitate
d
. Jeremy’s tall stature overshadowed his barely six-foot-tall frame
, and Jeremy’s strong manner did not set him at ease.

“Uh, Mr. Blake gave us this address
.
 
.
 
.
you’re Mr. Bolton, right?”

It only took a few seconds to piece together the situation. I watched Jeremy’s stance change into a protective, almost antagonistic
,
position.
“What do you want?”

The man looked at the woman, then back to Jeremy. “We were told we could drop by, take a look at the house
—
”

“No, you can’t.” Color rose to Jeremy’s cheeks
,
and his words came out tight and threatening. I held onto the dogs’ collars, and almost wished I had one for Jeremy, to yank him back.

Jeremy mumbled. “I can’t believe this
.
 
.
 
.
” He turned to me. “They can’t even wait until we move out. They have to start sending people over, just to shove it in our faces.”

He stared at the man, maybe hoping to discourage any thoughts of moving into our house. “Just
.
 
.
 
.
go. Get out of here. And tell Mr. Blake he does not have permission to send anyone over here. We have until the fifteenth, so I don’t want to see you or anyone else drive up for a looky-loo. Got that?
”

Clearly, these people weren’t expecting such a cold reception. Harv Blake should have known better than to send potential renters unannounced. What was he thinking? That we’d invite them in for tea? Jeremy had to be right—this was Blake’s way of rubbing our noses in our mess. And I had no doubt he
’d been
prompted by my mother to do so.

As Jeremy stormed to the barn, I shrugged apologetically and watched the couple get in the
ir
car and back down the driveway.
Buster and Angel escorted them to the county road.
By the time I looked
over
at Jeremy, he had disappeared. I ran over to the barn and found him sitting on the edge of the hay pal
l
et, his face buried in his hands.

He star
t
ed to talk, and I leaned my head closer to hear him as he spoke through his hands.

“You know what I wish I could do? Take a baseball bat and smash all the windows and doors. Even
torch
the place.” He looked up at me
,
and his eyes were both fire and ice. “Why should anyone get to live here? We put in all the work; we built everything, planted everything
.
 
.
 
.
ten years, thousands of hours. And what do we get out it? What! Nothing. Not one
damn
thing we can call our own
.
”

I laid my hand on his shoulder
,
but couldn’t think of anything to say. The truth of his words, their raw honesty, set off my own pain, and I tried hard not to cry. I listened to my husband sob, knowing tears were streaming down his face, knowing he didn’t want me to see him like this but
was
unable to control the
tears
.
I thought of consoling phrases
—
that we had each other, that we’d buy our own house someday, but Jeremy
already
knew these things. It still didn’t assuage any of the pain.