Good Harbor (25 page)

Joyce woke up early the next morning and lay in bed thinking about Kathleen. It was
the eighth. Maybe she should go over there.

At seven-thirty the phone rang, and Joyce dove for it.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Frank asked.

“No,” Joyce said, catching her breath.

“Look. I’m coming up tonight. I should be there by six.”

“Oh, really?” Joyce said, trying to sound as if it were no big deal.

“We have to talk,” he said flatly.

Joyce felt her stomach drop. How had he found out? She got up and started sweeping
the kitchen, even before putting on coffee. She washed all the floors in the house.
She called Kathleen, who sounded a little breathless but claimed that Buddy was on
his way home. Joyce went to the supermarket and bought too much food, and flowers
for the table. She headed outside to clip stray blades of grass at the edge of the
driveway. Anything to keep herself occupied.

Joyce was in the shower when Frank arrived, earlier than announced. She found him
running his hands over the kitchen walls. “Very professional,” he marveled, pointing
at a silky stretch that used to be badly cracked.

“And you even cleaned up the yard. Those lilies you planted will be pretty next summer.”

He looked pasty and exhausted. The stray gray hairs at his temples had multiplied.
Joyce kissed his cheek lightly and said, “I’m making pasta.” He smiled but avoided
meeting her eyes and reached into the refrigerator for a beer. The kitchen clock ticked
overhead. Joyce thought she would scream if he didn’t say something.

“Frank, what’s going on? What do we have to talk about? I’ve been going nuts since
you called.”

“Oh. Sorry I made it sound so dire. Let’s sit.” He lowered himself into a chair.

Joyce ran down the list of possible bombshells. He knows. He’s dumping me. He’s dying
of cancer.
He’s
having an affair.

“First of all, I want to apologize,” Frank said, peeling the label off the beer bottle
with his thumb. He was nearly whispering. “I’ve been very distant. I’ve kind of abandoned
you this summer.”

“No,” Joyce started, but he gestured for her to stop.

“Just let me get this out. Things are bad at work. Really bad. It turns out that Harlan
has a serious drinking problem and Tran wants to move back to San Jose to be near
his family. All the potential investors opted out, and I think the company’s going
to fold within a week. Maybe two.” He put down his beer.

“I ignored the warning signs, and for a while I thought maybe we could squeak by until
the financing came through. I’m sorry, Joyce, but I’ve been working without pay for
a few weeks now, hoping it might help. I think we may end up in a real financial bind.”

“It’s okay,” Joyce said softly. “The way you walked in here, I thought you were going
to tell me you had a week to live. Or that you were dumping me for a cute programmer
chick.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, keeping his eyes on the beer bottle. “The other thing
is, I don’t want to keep doing this.”

Joyce felt her face flush. He does know, she thought. He wants a divorce. “Keep doing
what?” she asked, trying to sound calm.

“Working in high tech.” He started to talk more forcefully, as though he’d rehearsed
this part. “I realized that what I enjoyed the most about my last couple of jobs was
teaching people how to do stuff, how to write code, how to program. And the thing
I like doing best in the rest of my life is coaching soccer — being around kids.

“I hope you won’t be too upset about this, but I’ve been looking in the help wanteds,
and I applied for a job at a junior college outside of Worcester. I’d teach a few
programming classes and act as assistant dean in the new technology department they’re
starting.

“I had one interview last week, and today they called back for a second one. The pay
isn’t so good, Joyce, but I’m . . .” He finally stopped and looked her in the eye.
“I can’t go on like this.”

Joyce was so relieved she was afraid she might laugh. She put her hand on his. “You
take the job when they offer it. That’ll take care of health insurance, right? I’ll
make more money this year. We could even sell this place if we have to.”

“I hope it won’t come to that.” Frank looked so pathetically grateful that Joyce had
to turn away. She got up, emptied a box of spaghetti in the boiling water, and stirred,
keeping her back to Frank. He wants me to forgive him?

I’m risking my whole life — Nina’s life, Frank’s life — for a roll in the hay with
a man I barely know? What do I know about Patrick after all? That I love the way he
smells? That I love the way he doesn’t stop kissing me until I’m on the moon?

Is it really just about sex? God, I am such an asshole. Besides, it’s over. He hasn’t
called in a week.

They ate dinner without saying much. “I’ll wash the dishes,” Joyce said and watched
through the kitchen window as Frank walked around the yard.

Maybe I’ll go down to Belmont for a few days, Joyce thought. I should call Mario.
I should get back to work.

What am I waiting here for anyway? Patrick isn’t calling. And the next time he does,
I’ll tell him it’s over. That’s what I’m going to do. If he ever calls me again.

KATHLEEN PUT ON
the old pants she wore for gardening and said good-bye. Buddy offered to come back
after he dropped Jack at the train. She told him no. “Joyce is coming by,” she said,
and waved them off.

Kathleen hung up after Joyce’s phone call and sat at the kitchen table as the coffee
cup cooled between her hands.

Finally, she stood up and walked into the den. She pulled out the one album with all
the photographs of Danny and leafed through it, as she did every year, page after
page, remembering the way he waddled, the way the little toe on his right foot turned
in, his giggle, his passion for mashed peas.

Kathleen remembered the smell of his hair when it was wet. The way he twisted his
hands, like a Balinese dancer, whenever he was excited or tired.

She began to weep and closed the book, taking her tears down to the basement, to the
laundry room, where she lay down on the cold cement floor, letting herself fall all
the way down to the bottom of her grief.

She cried, loud and hard, until she had no tears left, until her back ached and her
bones were chilled. Then she went upstairs and took the coldest shower she could bear.
Wrapped in a towel, she sat on the edge of the tub, her limbs heavy, her head throbbing.

An involuntary shudder took her to her feet.

She went back to the den, to the desk, to the check register, to see that Buddy had
performed his annual ritual, too: $100 to the Sisters of Saint Joseph Retirement Fund,
for Pat; $100 to the Jewish National Fund, for Mae and Irv; $500 to the Daniel Levine
Memorial Fund, so that no one should ever have to buy a coffin for his own little
child. She found a few more tears.

Buddy came home at four, with daisies. They walked around the block, holding hands.
After a dinner made from Jack’s copious leftovers, they sat on the deck and talked
about their sons: Was Jack just sparing their feelings with that story about him and
Lois? Would Jack make a good enough living to afford a decent apartment in Boston,
now that rents were so high?

They tried to guess what Hal was up to. Was he looking for a job? Were they way off-track
about his interest in the rabbi; they’d been plenty wrong before. Maybe he had a girlfriend
in the city.

“I hope he finds something to keep him nearby,” Kathleen said. “I don’t suppose he’d
actually live up around
here
.”

“Why not?” Buddy said. “It’s a great place to live.”

They fell silent and Kathleen felt Danny’s memory settle over her again. She closed
her eyes and remembered the day Buddy had taken him for his first haircut. She thought
the barber had cut it too short, and they had quarreled.

Buddy took her hand in the gathering darkness and cleared his throat.

“Are you catching cold?”

“No,” he said, blowing his nose. “I’m okay. And you?”

“I’m okay, too.”

ON FRIDAY MORNING,
Hal and Jack returned with a carful of groceries. As Jack ferried bags into the house,
Hal presented Kathleen with a small brown package: “This is from both of us.”

She unwrapped a signed, first edition of Sendak’s
In the Night Kitchen
. “Hally, it’s wonderful. But what’s the occasion?”

“Occasion? Let’s see. How about the end of your treatment? How about, oh, I don’t
know, the beginning of my course as a paramedic at Northeastern? How about me checking
out the MCATs schedule? Is that enough to celebrate?”

“Oh, my,” she whispered, holding the book to her chest. “I’m so glad. I can’t believe
you’re both going to be close to home again.”

“Leave it to Jack to steal my thunder and do it the same month.”

“Oh, Hal.”

He put his arm around her. “Just kidding. And I’m sorry I was gone so much this week.”

“That’s all right, hon. I really don’t expect you to spend every day with me.”

But Hal exploded. “What are you talking about? Of course I should have been home.”
Kathleen stared. Hal, still angry but embarrassed, walked out of the room as Jack
walked in with the last of the bags.

“Hal and I went to Brookline,” Jack said, “which isn’t Brooklyn by a long shot, but
I got a nice kosher chicken. And three challahs so we can have a taste test. Save
your appetite.”

That evening, Hal sang the long blessing over the wine, as Jack stood in the kitchen
door, waiting to serve the meal. During dinner, Hal explained the details of his “master
plan.” He would get certified as a paramedic and work as an EMT. Meanwhile, he’d take
refresher courses in chemistry and physics to prepare for the MCATs. “I figure I’ll
apply to U. Mass. in Worcester, BU, Tufts, and maybe Harvard, just for the heck of
it.”

Jack raised a glass. “To my brother the doctor. But why didn’t you try the marinated
calamari I put out before dinner?”

“I don’t eat shellfish anymore.”

“You’re kidding,” Jack said. “Why not?”

“I don’t eat pork, either.”

Buddy whistled. “You really are going religious on us.”

“I just don’t eat shellfish or pork. No big deal. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Kathleen. “To each his own, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked.

“It means we love you guys whatever you eat or don’t eat,” Kathleen said, raising
her glass in Jack’s direction. “And here’s to the success of the Bay State Seafood
Café and its brilliant, handsome new chef.”

“Here, here,” said Hal.

“I suppose you can eat fish when you come,” Jack said grudgingly.

“I love fish. And all the desserts,” Hal offered.

“The dessert chef makes those, not me.” Jack was still put out.

“For goodness’ sake,” Kathleen said, getting up from the table.

“Sorry,” Jack said, starting to clear the table.

“Sorry, Mom,” Hal said, adding, “Are you and Dad coming to services? Jack is.”