Home Song (35 page)

“Maybe because you're guilty of something, Claire.”

“I'm not, but we'll have to put that on hold. I have to talk to you about Chelsea.”

“What about her?”

She told the whole story, watching his face grow more and more drawn with concern, watching his back come away from his chair.

“Oh, God,” he said when she finished. They sat awhile in silence, sharing a common guilt. Then he closed his eyes, fell back, and whispered, “Drake Emerson.” He gulped once so loudly she could hear it from where she sat. “Do you think she's telling the truth when she says she didn't do anything sexual with him?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh God, Claire, what if she did? Who knows what she could be carrying?”

They both thought about the range of possibilities.

Claire said, “I guess all we can do is believe her.”

“And the drinking . . .”

“I know. . .” she said softly, followed by silence. He looked very sad and his eyes got glisteny.

“I remember when she was born,” Tom said, “how we'd lie on the bed with her between us and kiss the bottom of her feet.”

They sat separated by a desk, longing to go to each other, needing to hold and be held, drawn by mutual love for their children and the call of their consciences to put things right. But each had been hurt by the other. Each was afraid, so they remained where they were. Claire got teary-eyed too, and left her chair to go stand at the window staring out above the family pictures. It was nearly November. The sky looked as though it held snow, and the grass on the football field had gone brown.

With her back to Tom, she dried her eyes and turned to
face him once more. “I didn't know what to do exactly, so I told her she's grounded for today until you and I could talk, and I made her give me her car keys.”

“Do you think that's the right thing to do—punish her?”

“I don't know. She did break the rules.”

“Maybe we're the ones who broke the rules, Claire.”

Distanced by the room, their eyes met and held. Their need for each other had amplified tenfold since they'd been in this office together.

“Did you,” she asked, “with Monica?”

“No. Not in the last eighteen years. Did you with Handelman?”

“No.”

“Why can't I believe you? It's all over school that the two of you are flirting with each other every night at play practice, and that your two cars are the last ones left in the parking lot.”

“Why can't I believe you? I saw you with her yesterday when she walked into the gym, and you were laughing together like old friends, and it's obvious that something's put a sparkle in her life. She looks like a new woman.”

“What can I say?” He raised both palms and let them fall, then rolled back his chair and pushed to his feet. The defenses were back up between them, firmly in place. “I guess we'll just have to sort it out at counseling. We have to go now or we'll be late.”

“What about Chelsea?”

“I'll have a talk with her.”

“Without me?”

“Whatever you prefer.” His politeness wounded her as they left his office. She missed the touch of his hand on the small of her back as it would have been in the old days. She missed looking forward to encountering him in the halls and
exchanging intimate jokes in voices too quiet for others to hear. She missed his kisses and lovemaking, his reassuring weight on the other side of the bed at night, and listening for his car to pull into the garage. She missed the sound of their children's laughter in the house, and the four of them around the table at supper time talking about what had happened at school that day.

She missed the happiness.

While they were walking to their first conference he said, “I want you to know that Kent has been out to Dad's house. He's met everybody, even Ryan and the kids. I thought he should have the chance to know them all.”

Oh, what have I done
, Claire thought, stunned by a wave of remorse. Ryan had tried to reach her by phone this week, but she hadn't called him back.

“Also, I've found an apartment I'll be moving into. As soon as I have a phone number I'll let you know.”

Claire's shock redoubled as she realized the tables had suddenly turned. She had thrown Tom out to express her hurt; had withheld her forgiveness, refusing to work toward healing the relationship and denying him any outward display of affection.

So he had turned to others for it, to his newfound son and probably to that son's mother, who appeared to be responding to the attention in a most impressive fashion. Now he was getting an apartment.

If not for privacy, why else?

Claire sat down across from the first teacher with her emotions in such turmoil she was having difficulty keeping dry-eyed. As if the first half hour in the school building hadn't brought enough distressing news, the conferences with Chelsea's teachers brought more. Most of them reported that Chelsea had let her schoolwork slide, had failed
to turn in assignments, and had done poorly on those she had completed. For the first time ever, two teachers reported that she had skipped some classes.

Tom and Claire stood in the hall afterward, feeling shell-shocked.

“All this . . . because we separated?” Claire said.

Their eyes met—fearful eyes admitting they had done everything to bring this on themselves.

“You didn't know she was letting her homework slide?” he asked.

“No. I've . . . I guess I've been busy with the class play and everything, and . . . well, I . . .” Her admission trailed away.

“And I haven't been coming over as often as I should.”

They wanted, needed to hug, touch, something more than stand there with their guilt and longing laying their emotions bare. But they had stopped in the cross fire of traffic as parents came in and out of the gym. Office staff stood nearby, welcoming the parents who were just arriving. Furthermore, Tom and Claire Gardner had this rule about intimacy in the school building.

But if there was one thing they were united on, it was the fact that they loved their children and would do whatever it took to raise them right.

“I'm coming home with you when conferences are over,” Tom said, with sudden decisiveness.

“Yes,” she agreed, feeling her heart lurch to life. “I guess you'd better.”

But neither one of them ventured a guess about whether he meant
home to stay
.

T
HAT
Saturday morning, the last day of conferences, Robby got up late and washed his football jersey—Claire had taught him years ago how to do that himself—because it had to be turned in. The Senators had lost their last game, killing their chances of going to the state tournaments.

End of the season, end of his high school football career.

The thought made Robby scuff around the house disconsolately.

Finally, at midafternoon, he decided to run his jersey over to school and work out in the weight room a little while. It was depressing at home. Chelsea was grounded and had barely poked her head out of her room all day. Mom wouldn't get home from conferences until around six, and Dad was ostracized from the house. Heck, he'd only been back a few times since he'd moved out to Grandpa's, and both times Mom had been so bitchy and cold to him that he hadn't hung around long.

It was hell looking at his dad's haunted face every time he drove away. Even in school he wasn't the same. He just wasn't cheerful like he used to be. Sometimes Robby got so
mad at his mom that he wanted to yell at her, ask her what the heck did it matter anymore if Dad had been unfaithful to her before they were married! After all, it
was
before. So what was the big deal now? Heck, Robby admitted to himself that he'd even gotten used to the fact that Kent Arens was his half brother. The kids at school had stopped being so bummed out about it and no longer pried him with questions.

The truth was, Arens had turned out to be an okay guy. He'd even been pretty respectful about the fact that they shared the same father. He had a way of standing back and not pushing, just minding what they were supposed to be minding about their game, doing what Coach Gorman said, and not letting their personal differences interfere. Besides that, the coach was right: he was a good athlete.

It was hard for Robby to keep from noticing similarities between himself and Arens in terms of their athletic ability. No question, they'd inherited it from their dad, and sometimes when Robby handed off or threw a short pass to Kent, it was almost like watching his dad catch the ball and run with it. Those moments brought the most peculiar catch to Robby's throat, almost like love.

Sometimes, especially when he couldn't sleep at night, Robby would wonder about Kent's life, and how it had affected him, not knowing his father. He'd replay his childhood memories and imagine telling Kent what it was like growing up with Tom Gardner as your dad. If he did that he thought it might make up in some small way for Kent's not being there to live it firsthand.

Sometimes he'd fantasize about the two of them going off to the same college, playing ball together there, hanging out at the same pizza joints, driving home together on weekends. When they got older, got married, and had kids—wow,
that'd be something, wouldn't it? Their kids would be first cousins!

The realization never failed to put a lump in Robby's throat.

He'd been thinking about all of this that Saturday afternoon on his way to school to turn in his uniform. It was still on his mind as he jogged down the locker room stairs, yanked open the door, and heard it hiss shut behind him. For once the coach's office was dark, the door locked. The long varnished benches were bare. Somebody had left a single overhead light on. It shed a few dismal rays from inside its metal cage, but the whole place held a postseason gloom, with its ever-pervasive dank smells conjuring up reminders of the sweat and camaraderie exchanged here. In the corner beside the office, three large blue plastic barrels were labeled in the coach's slanty scrawl:
Uniforms, Shin Pads, Shoulder Pads.
Robby's rubber soles squeaked as he crossed the concrete floor and tossed his uniform and gear into the proper containers.

He turned around . . . and halted in his tracks.

There stood Kent Arens at the opposite end of the bench. As surprised as Robby. And as cautious.

Both of them scrabbled around in their minds for something to say.

Robby spoke first. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I didn't know you were here.”

Kent thumbed over his left shoulder. “I was in the lav.”

Again a void while they searched for more to say.

“Turning in your uniform?” Robby asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“Same.”

“Hate to see the season end.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They both drew blanks and wondered where to rest their eyes.

“Well . . .” They were forced to pass each other to get to their respective lockers, and did so making sure they stayed on separate sides of the bench. They poked around inside their lockers, took things out, stuffed them into their duffel bags, never glancing at each other, even once. A loud clatter told Robby that Kent had tossed some pads into a plastic barrel, and he leaned back an inch to peer past his locker door and watch him return. Their eyes met and he immersed himself in the depths of his cubicle again.

Then Kent left his locker and stood behind Robby. “Could I talk to you about something?”

Blood seemed to pound frantically up Robby's neck, very much like when he'd first kissed a girl, the same scary, exhilarated, fearful, hopeful, awful need to face this thing; scared to break down, scared not to, needing to have it behind him at last so that he could get on with the next step of his life.

“Sure,” he said, trying to sound natural, pulling his head out of the locker but leaving one hand curled over the open door because he wasn't sure how steady his knees were.

Kent swung a leg over the bench and straddled it. “Why don't you sit down?” he asked.

But sitting down face-to-face was still a problem for Robby. “No, I'm . . . I'm okay here. What's on your mind?”

Looking up, Kent told him, “I met our grandfather.”

The immense relief of alluding to their common parentage, in even so circumspect a fashion, finally took the starch out of Robby's legs. He straddled the bench too, a good six feet from Kent, meeting his half brother's gaze head-on.

“How?” he asked quietly.

“Your dad took me out there and introduced us.”

“When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. I met our uncle Ryan, too, and all three of his kids.”

They took a while to adjust to the idea of sharing those relatives, nudging closer to the idea of forming some relationship of their own.

But both of them were afraid to initiate it.

Finally Robby asked, “What'd you think?”

Kent waggled his head in wonder. “It was pretty awesome.”

They sat awhile, picturing it, both of them.

Robby admitted, “It's funny, I was thinking about that on my way over here, about my cousins, and that you never got to know them, you never got to spend time out at Grandpa and Grandma's with them the way I did, and how it was too bad you had to miss out on that.”

“You were thinking that? Really?”

Robby shrugged. “That was a pretty great part of being a kid. I guess I didn't realize it until I thought about you never having it.”

“I don't have any other grandparents. I used to when I was small, but I don't remember them very well. I've got one aunt here, and she's got two kids, but they're practically strangers to me. I never expected to be meeting a grandpa when we moved here. He's really great.”

“Yeah, he is, isn't he? He stays with us sometimes when my mom and dad go away alone together. At least . . . they used to. They're not . . . well, you know . . . I mean, not living together anymore.” Robby's voice faded and his gaze had dropped to the varnished wood.

“I guess that's because of me and my mom moving back here.”

Robby shrugged. With the pad of one index finger he rubbed and rubbed one brighter strip of gold hardwood, up and down, up and down, until the oil from his finger had dulled an area the size of a Popsicle stick. “I don't know. My mom, she just sort of went crazy, you know? She threw him out, and he moved in with Grandpa, and Chelsea got all screwed up and started running around with wild kids, and . . . I don't know, our family's just really messed up right now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah . . . well . . . it's not really your fault.”

“I feel like it is.”

“Naw . . . it's just . . .” Robby found himself unable to express his feelings. He quit rubbing the bench and sat motionless, staring at the dull spot. Finally he looked up at his half brother. “Hey, could I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You won't get mad?”

“It takes a lot to get me mad.”

“Oh yeah?” Robby let a hint of teasing play around his eyes. “Like that day you came storming into our house?”

“Oh that. Sorry about that. I kind of lost it.”

“Yeah, we noticed.”

“I knew I shouldn't have done it, but
you
try finding out who your father is and see how
you
react.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Sort of like getting shot with a stun gun, isn't it?”

For the first time ever their gazes held the hint of a grin, and the silence between them became a little more comfortable. This one grew lengthy before Kent brought himself back to the gist of their conversation.

“So . . . what were you going to ask?”

“Oh . . . well, it's kind of a hard thing to say.”

“This is all hard to say. Say it anyway.”

Robby drew a deep breath for courage. “Okay, I will then. Do you think my dad and your mother are having an affair?”

Much to Robby's surprise, Kent took no offense. He answered forthrightly, “I don't think so. I'd know if she was.”

“My mother thinks so. That's why she asked him to move out.”

“Honest, I really don't think they are.”

“Does he . . . like, hang around your house or anything?”

“No. He was there only once that I know of, and that was when he first suspected who I was and came to ask my mother about me.”

“So you don't think they go out on dates, or . . . or meet secretly or anything?”

“No. The truth is, my mom doesn't date much. All she lives for is work. And me, of course. She's one of those high achievers who really gets off on it.”

“Then my mom's all jealous and bent out of shape for nothing?”

“Well, there's still me. She's not too happy about me showing up in this school, I can tell you that.”

“I wasn't at first either, but I got over it. Why can't she?”

“You got over it?”

Again, the shrug. “I guess I did. You never rubbed my nose in it or anything, and by the end of the season we were getting along pretty well on the football field, and I don't know . . . I guess I just sort of grew up a little and started putting myself in your place. I guess if I were you, I'd want to get to know my dad and my grandfather, too. I mean, who wouldn't?”

They sat on, absorbing the newness of being frank with each other, even beginning to project into a future in which
they might actually become good friends, more than good friends.

Kent took a stab at what was on both of their minds. “You think we could ever, I don't know, like maybe do things together? Not really like brothers but . . .”

“You think you'd want to?”

“Maybe.” And after a pause, “Yeah, I guess I would. Sure. But your mom probably wouldn't like it.”

“Mom might have to get used to it.”

“Your sister wouldn't like it, for sure.”

“Hey, listen, she liked you a lot when she first met you. I don't know what happened, but she thought you were the greatest.”

“I'll tell you what happened. I kissed her one night. That's what happened.”

“You kissed her!”

Kent threw his hands wide. “Well, heck, I didn't know we were related! How could I have known a thing like that! I liked her. She was pretty and bright and really friendly and we got along really well together, and one night after a football game I walked her home and I kissed her. Right after that we found out we were related, and ever since then, whenever we run into each other in the hall, we can't even
look
at each other, much less stop and talk. It's like we both run the other way. Heck, I don't know. . .” He stared gloomily at his right knee.

Robby's lips hung open, then he reiterated in an awed whisper, “You kissed her. Jeez.”

“Yeah,” Kent replied, as if unable to believe his own stupidity.

In a moment Robby recovered and asked, “That's all?”

“What do you mean, ‘that's all'? That's enough!”

“Well, if that's all you did, heck, I mean, it was an honest mistake, wasn't it?”

“Of course, but I've been scared to death to talk to her ever since. I mean, what kind of a pervert kisses his sister?”

“Oh, come on, you're no pervert.”

“Well, maybe not, but I feel so stupid. Trouble is, I
really
liked her, I mean, not just as a girlfriend, but as a friend. We talked about things that mattered, and I thought it was pretty great to move into a new town and find a friend like that right away. You won't believe it, but one of the things we talked about was your dad.
Our
dad, I guess I should say. Can you believe I once admitted to Chelsea that I was jealous of her for having Mr. Gardner for her dad? Pretty ironic, isn't it?”

They mulled awhile, trying to puzzle together the fragmented pieces of their lives.

Pretty soon Robby said, “What do you think would happen if you came home with me?”

Kent recoiled. “Oh, no. Nothin' doing.”

“No, now wait a minute.” Robby reached out persuasively. “I've got to tell you something about Chelsea. She's been totally freaked out since Dad moved out, and she's started to do all these weird things that really scare me. She hardly ever sees Erin anymore, and instead she's running around with this sleaze-woman named Merilee, and dressing in these grungy clothes, and in general hanging around with some pretty degenerate types. Last night she went to Mississippi Live with Drake Emerson.”