Family Interrupted (37 page)

“But don’t make a big deal about it. Okay?”

Chapter Four

She made a big deal. For the next few days she walked around humming, and that was a clue all by itself. Neither of us can carry a tune, and Mom never sings or hums except in the shower.

On the day of the game, Steve pulled up in his big Buick. What a waste. For that money, he could have bought a ‘Vette. Wendy was with him. She even looked like him with the same dark hair and gray eyes. Mom had packed a lunch loaded with Wendy’s favorite foods, including chocolate mint cookies which were not my first choice. I threw my baseball stuff in the back and climbed in. Somehow, Wendy was already there, and Mom was in the front seat.

Steve’s daughter did not look happy. She kept eyeballing the back of Mom’s head.

“Knock it off,” I said. “She made you a good lunch.”

Wendy turned her head and looked out the window. “I always sit in front,” she finally said.

“Well, so do I.”

She swiveled in her seat and gave me the once over. “I suppose so.” Then she sighed and remained quiet. Maybe I’d given her something to think about. Me, setting an example? What a joke.

It was a relief to finally get to the game. Kids played against adults on Father's Day, and Mom always enjoyed it. No pressure. Just fun. Frankly, I preferred playing my regular games, but Mom suffered through every pitch I threw, worrying I’d hate myself for a bad performance. Or that the other parents would criticize. I didn’t care about any of that. When I was working my game, I saw nothing, heard nothing, and thought about nothing except the batter at home plate and my next pitch. On Father's Day, however, everyone relaxed.

Until today. Starting from the moment I faced Steve Duggan from the pitcher’s mound.

He stood at home plate, knees bent, bat up, like he was ready to blast one to China. His eyes met mine, and they sparkled that glinty gray, and I wanted him to strike out so badly, I started to shake. I took three deep breaths to calm down, eyeballed him and wound up for the first pitch. He swung and missed. I couldn’t believe it. He fouled the next ball. Didn’t swing at the third. I was pitching like a dream, but I still couldn’t believe it possible for Duggan to strike out. But that’s what he did. Completely stunned, I lost my concentration after that.

But when it was my turn to bat, that shaky feeling came over me again. I wanted to blast the ball out of the park. Just to show him. To show Mom. To show them…what? That I could compete? That I was a man? That I was better than Steve Duggan?

All of the above.

Steve stood in center field, and I wanted to send the ball right over his head. The first pitch was high, the second one low. Damn! I didn’t want to walk. I wanted to hit. My prayer was answered. The third pitch was perfect, and I swung with all that was in me.

Crack! What a sound. I started running to first and then heard some shouting and applause. Twenty-five feet from his original position, Steve was rolling on the ground, his glove clasped to his stomach. I knew the ball was in it. He jumped up then and held it over his head. A fabulous catch, but I felt robbed.

With unblinking eyes, I stared right at him. I was angry all right, and letting him see how I really felt, how I resented him. For once, I wanted him to know that I not only felt robbed of a hit, but of a mother too.

He saw. I’ll give him credit for that. He jogged down the field right to me, and he wasn’t smiling either.

“You’re a good player, Bobby,” he began slowly, “and I bet that inside that good player is a good kid.”

I stiffened up, ready to give him a lot of lip, but he beat me to it.

“I love your mother, Bobby, and nothing’s going to change that. Not your anger. Not your fear or imagined grievances. I love her, and I want to be friends with her son, but somehow it’s not turning out that way. Your mom and I are very unhappy about it.”

Man, he wasn’t dancing around the point. I looked at him hard. “Are you going to get married?” Geez, I hadn’t planned on asking that. It just sort of popped out.

“I want to. I’m asking her, in spite of everything.”

He meant me and Wendy.

“But-but you can’t be my father!” I shouted. My dad appeared so clearly in my mind’s eye, that wonderful man I had lost.

“But I can be your friend, Bobby. We could be a good, strong family. Your mom loves you fiercely. I can’t steal her away from you and wouldn’t want to. So think about it. What kind of home do you want? Friendly or unfriendly?”

He clapped me on the shoulder and started to walk away. The first thing I realized was that during the whole time we were talking, his eyes weren’t glinty at all. They were dark, quiet eyes. Serious. He was right about at least one thing—I had plenty to think about.

#

I watched him walk towards our blankets and chairs, and I scanned ahead to where Mom and Wendy waited. Mom stood leaning against a tree, but her body looked droopy. Wendy sat ten feet away, her back toward my mother. I trudged closer.

Steve faced my mom and tipped her face up toward him. He stroked her cheek, and it got pink. And then in front of my eyes, he kissed her. Right there. In the park.

And she—my own mother—kissed him back. And when they stopped kissing, they stared at each other. I don’t think they knew or cared about Wendy or me watching them. They probably didn’t even realize we were there.

I kicked Wendy’s foot and got her attention. “See that? I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. So, for the record, my mother is a really, really nice lady. And you’d better sweeten up.”

“Or what?” She had more attitude than I used to have.

Squatting down next to her, I held the back of her head, and she didn’t have a chance. “This is what. See that bog over there? I’m going to push your face into it.”

Before she could cry out or complain to her father, I said, “We’re going to be a family, Wendy. A friendly one. That’s what your dad wants, too.”

She snapped her head around. Her own glinty, gray eyes pierced me. “But you don’t. You don’t even like us.”

“Sure I do.” And I guess it was true. Steve loved my mom. Even I could see that. He was nothing like the guys in school. As for Wendy…I suppose we’d get used to each other.

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “Let me see you tell him it’s okay. I dare you. Just go over there and….”

“No problem.” So, I’d choke a little. A small price to pay. I sauntered to the beaming couple, their hands now clasped. Mom glanced at me and smiled wide, the lines in her forehead gone. And suddenly, it really was okay.

“Your daughter needs to hear the talk,” I said to Steve.

His brow contracted, and he looked confused.

“The friendly-family talk.” I extended my arm. He reached out, and we shook hands in the way that men do. Strong and sure. This time, when I looked up at Steve, his eyes shone with pride. My heart took a slow tumble and a weight I’d been carrying disappeared.

“She’ll get the talk right now.” He beckoned Wendy over.

I figured this was only the beginning. We’d probably have lots of talks in the future—the four of us. I didn’t know if that’s the way it was done in all families, but I was pretty sure Mom and Steve would work it that way in our new family.

But I could live with that now. Yeah, I definitely could live with that.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Talk to me, Bobby.”

Her favorite sentence hadn’t changed, and I grinned. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Mother’s…?” And then she hugged me. “Thanks, Bobby. I am very happy. All because of my amazing son.”

Amazing? I definitely could live with that too.

The End.

Chapter 1

Long Island, NY 2007

“Love is not for cowards.”

Rose Shapiro whispered the words with conviction as she sewed another row of sequins onto the new ivory silk jacket she’d wear the following evening. Ivory silk. Appropriate for celebrating a sixtieth wedding anniversary, and so different from the plain navy suit she’d worn to the wedding. She closed her eyes, shutting out that memory, shutting out the pain and confusion that accompanied her second marriage. Her marriage to Charlie.

Love is not for cowards.
She understood that now, but she hadn’t in the beginning when Joe had been the love of her life, and cotton-candy dreams beckoned them as they whispered their “I do’s.” She’d grown up a lot since then.

She sighed and opened her eyes, once again stitching carefully. Not many couples reached sixty years of marriage. But she and Charlie had. She knotted and cut her thread, then viewed her efforts with a critical eye.

Cataract surgery last year had turned out to be a boon to her sewing skills, not that she’d thought of sewing as an art form. Using a needle had been a measure of economy during her girlhood, and she hadn’t been able to break the habit later on when her pockets were fuller. Especially not with the prices of manufactured goods. In amused tones, her three children blamed her “Depression mentality.”

“The jacket is beautiful, Rosie mine,” came a warm voice from the bedroom doorway. “But not as beautiful as you.”

“Maybe it’s your turn to have a cataract removed.” She glanced playfully at Charlie’s sparkling green eyes, also noting his recent haircut. Her partner of sixty years was ready to party.

“There’s nothing wrong with my vision,” he replied, reaching for her hand. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to practice our moves. Don’t want to make fools of ourselves on the dance floor tomorrow night.”

No chance of that—at least not when she was wrapped in Charlie’s arms—but she didn’t argue. She replaced the jacket on the padded hanger and stepped toward him.

“Ah, Rosie...” He held her close and began to hum “La Vie En Rose.”
Her
song. He’d been singing it to her in two languages ever since they got married…after the war. In fact, Charlie had been romancing her since he’d met her. She hadn’t always appreciated it; he wasn’t Joe.

But they’d gotten past that, not easily, and not quickly. Which was why she’d planned a special surprise for Charlie tomorrow.

She kissed him on the cheek, inhaling his woodsy cologne. “Hmm...I’ve always loved that fragrance.”

“You think I don’t know?” His laughter was deep and carefree. “Life is good, Rosie, huh?”

“As good as possible for a couple of creaky octogenarians,” she replied. She had no complaints, except...

Love is not for cowards.

Her heart lurched. If she was blinking rapidly now to stave off tears, they were not for herself, but for her beloved granddaughter and the young husband who adored her. Pregnant Elizabeth. Devoted Matthew. Matthew - who was about to be deployed to Iraq.

She inhaled deeply. Gathered her thoughts. The children would have to find their own way, of course, but the irony struck Rose who’d been in the same position—pregnant with Susan, Elizabeth’s mother, when Joe shipped out.

Keeping silent would kill Rose now. But she would not turn Liz’s phantom worries into concrete reality. When Joe died, Rose had fallen apart; Liz didn’t need to hear the details. Matthew would
not
die. At least, he probably wouldn’t.

She would not have Liz thinking Charlie was second best in Rose’s eyes. He didn’t deserve that. War was war. Some returned and some didn’t, and life had to begin again.
God help them all
.

She smiled up at Charlie and reaffirmed her original answer. “Life is good, Charlie. Very good.”

Her voice quivered this time, and Charlie squeezed her hand. “Matt’s a doctor. He won’t be in danger.”

“Now you’re a mind reader?”

“Only with you.” He kissed her quickly and added, “Paul drove over. He and I are going for a walk. Want to join us?”

A leisurely stroll with Charlie and their son-in-law tempted Rose, but she hesitated.

“It’s a gorgeous autumn day,” Charlie cajoled.

“I need to press my fancy-schmancy suit. Can’t show up with more wrinkles than I have to!”

But that wasn’t the real reason she stayed behind. The past had taken hold. Visual memories. Sense memories. Battles. Letters. Tears. Weddings. Children. And laughter, too. A kaleidoscope of her eighty-five years. Maybe preparations for the anniversary party had provoked them. Maybe Matthew’s looming deployment…. She’d certainly been maudlin since the day Liz and Matthew had announced “their” pregnancy last month right in the living room of Rose’s Long Island home.

“We’re very happy,” Liz had said to the assembled family. “We both want children, and the timing’s lousy, but....” She lifted her chin, her dark eyes burning.

Fear turned her granddaughter inside out. Rose saw it. Heard it. And took a shaky breath. Pregnant! Rose’s head pounded, and her heartbeat ricocheted.
Been there, done that, my darling girl. And survived
. But she didn’t want her sweet Lizzy to suffer that same heartache.

Keep your wits about you, Rosie. The children need you.
But the children had been focused only on each other at that moment. Just as she and Joe had been lost in each other before he went off to war.

She’d glanced at her daughter. Pale, too pale. Susan had never met Joe, her natural father, and although she loved Charlie deeply, she’d never forgotten that fact. Her eyes had flashed with anger—her daughter pregnant and Matt deployed—but Susan had merely shifted over to Paul and remained quiet.

“Nothing will happen to me,” Matthew had declared, placing a serious kiss on his wife’s mouth. “I love you, Liz, with everything I’ve got, but I owe Uncle Sam for my education and after a year in the Middle East, I’ll be stateside again.”

“I know,” Liz had whispered, snuggling closer to Matt.

“God willing.” Rose had uttered at the same time. She repeated the words silently now as she smoothed her long skirt before going to her walk-in closet. She turned on the light, hung the new suit and reached overhead for a familiar large rosewood box. Carefully wrapped in plastic, it was a six sided piece with a silver filagree knob in the center of the cover and a garland of roses inlaid around the edge. Rose polished the wood as regularly as she did her furniture; the rich patina glowed.