Home Song (38 page)

“Yes, that's true, but we're going to start counseling next week.”

“That's good. But when you do you should know exactly how things stand between Tom and me. There's absolutely nothing between us, and you've got to believe that. The
truth is, there never was. The night we went to bed together was a one-night stand, plain and simple. I have no excuses for it, and neither does he. But if you let the past or anything you suppose is happening between us
now
, stand in the way of your marriage, you're making the biggest mistake of your life.”

Relief hit Claire like a giant breaker. She was still tumbling in its backwash when Monica rushed on, “You can ask me anything you want about the times I've seen and talked to Tom since we moved back here, and I'll answer you absolutely truthfully. What do you want to know? If I ever saw him? I did. Where? At my house, which was absolutely an arbitrary choice. All we ever did was talk about Kent and what was best for everyone involved.”

Claire's heart was hammering so hard the top of her head was palpitating, but she seized the opportunity to clear up a detail that had stuck in her craw ever since she'd been told about it. “My neighbor said she saw you with him in a parked car in front of a restaurant right around the time school started.”

“Yes, she did. It was another one of those days when we were caught in the exceedingly emotional tangle of trying to decide whether or not everyone should be told about Kent. Maybe we weren't wise to meet there, but at the time we just fumbled through it, doing whatever we could to figure out how to deal with the mess we'd created. If you want to blame someone, you can blame me. I made a major mistake years ago by choosing not to tell Tom that I was pregnant or that Kent had been born. Now, in the years since, we've all been enlightened, and we know that it's not just the woman's prerogative to decide whether or not a man has rights to his child when one is born out of wedlock. But in those days these things were often kept a secret, and a lot
of fathers never had the choice about what part they'd play in their children's rearing. I was wrong. Let me say it again, and ask your forgiveness along with Tom's and Kent's. If I hadn't hidden the truth, this breakup between you and Tom never would have happened, and your family would still be together.”

Tears sprang into Claire's eyes. Abashed at the idea of Monica detecting them, she turned her face to the passenger window. “I don't know what I expected when I saw you standing beside the car, but I guess there was still a part of me that thought maybe you were going to . . . to tell me that . . . well, that you and Tom were in love and that I . . . I should set him free.”

“No, never.” Monica reached over and lightly touched Claire's coat sleeve, bringing her face around. “Please believe me. If I loved him that's exactly what I'd be saying, because that's what I'm like. I don't back down from anything.” She removed her hand and sat sideways in her seat, studying Claire's profile against the dimly lit square of window behind her.

“There's something else I need to say, and this is the hardest part of all. I'm saying it for two reasons—because you need to hear it and because I need to say it after all these years.” She paused a beat before continuing. “That night, the night of Tom's bachelor party, what we did was wrong. I knew it then and I'm admitting it now. Just don't let it carry too much weight, after all these years. I know that's a big order, but there's a lot at stake here. Try to realize that he was young and disillusioned and under a great deal of stress, having to get married. But I'll tell you something you probably never knew before. When I moved back here, the first time Tom came to my house—the
only
time he came there—he told me how much he loves you
and that since he's been married to you, every year of his life has gotten better and better.” Monica's voice faded to a sincere whisper. “Your husband loves you very much, Mrs. Gardner. I think you've broken his heart by forcing this separation. You have two very beautiful children, who want their mother and father together so badly. Won't you please take him back and beat the odds?”

Claire lifted her tear-filled eyes to Monica, who went on with her appeal.

“There are so many families breaking up today, and so many single-parent families like mine. I really don't have to tell you that, working in the school the way you do. But even though I have nothing to apologize for as far as my parenting is concerned, I realize that families like yours are still the best kind—a mother and a father with kids they've raised together. That remains the true American dream, but it's becoming obsolete. If I had the history you do with Tom, and two beautiful children, and all those good years behind me, I'd fight to keep my husband, not throw him away. There. I've stated my case. Do with it what you will.”

In the luminous silence that followed, the two women sat motionless, bound by this baring of souls. Claire found a tissue in her coat pocket and used it, then sat gazing at her lap, letting her emotions play out their fanciful dance—relief and gratitude and a great deal of respect for the woman beside her; hope and a huge stew of tumult as she anticipated the moment she'd walk into the house and face Tom again. Finally she released a sigh and swung to study her companion. “You know, I've always been prepared to dislike you.”

“That's understandable.”

“I tried to find fault with you at conferences yesterday, but I couldn't. It actually
irritated
me that I couldn't. I wanted you to be . . .” Claire shrugged. “I don't know . . . to
be lacking in some way. Rude maybe, misguided or haughty, so I could criticize you, if not openly, at least to myself. Now, though, I see why Kent is the kind of boy he is.”

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps we should talk about him, too.”

“If you want to.”

“We should have at the conference and I knew it.”

“But that would have muddled our parent-teacher relationship, wouldn't it?”

“Yes, but that's no excuse.”

“Oh, don't be so hard on yourself. We're talking now and that's what's important.”

Claire reassessed. “Actually, we did quite well yesterday, considering what was going on beneath the surface, didn't we?”

“Yes, we did.” Had they been friends, this admission would have been accompanied by a grin. As it was, they knew they would never be friends. But they could be allies in a different sense.

“About Kent . . .” Claire said.

“He's understandably hard for you to accept, I realize that.”

“But I must. I know that.”

“Yes, for your children's sake.”

“And Tom's.”

“And Tom's. I know all three of the children want it, and I believe Tom does too. You probably know he's been seeing Kent since the two of you have been apart. They're trying to establish some sort of father-son relationship. But it'll take time.”

“Time and cooperation from me, that's what you're saying, isn't it?”

“Mmm . . . well, yes . . . yes, it is.”

Silence fell once more. At the end of it, Claire was feeling even more comfortable with Monica. “I'll tell you something I haven't even told Tom yet. I've had a lot of time to think about how I'd handle it if I ever got back together with him, and I realized that this school year is really only a very small increment of time in terms of the years we'll have in the future. Once the school year ends and Kent moves on to college, I think it'll be easier for me to be objective about him. And I won't lie to you and say that the wishes of my children don't matter, because they do. If they want to get to know their brother, who am I to stand in their way?”

“Are you saying he'd be welcome in your house?”

It took some time to come up with an answer.

“Oh, Monica, you do put me on the spot.”

“Then, strike that question. Take it a day at a time.”

“Time . . . yes. Good old time. It really does heal, doesn't it?”

“I think it does, if you let it.”

“I guess it's only fair to ask you—how did you feel about my children coming to your house?”

“Stunned. Then after I had a chance to get used to the idea, it didn't seem so threatening anymore, especially given the fact that all three kids had already decided they were going to become friends anyway, no matter what their parents said. And by the way, since you've offered me a compliment on my kid, I should do the same for yours. They seem very nice.”

“Thank you.”

“So . . . it's up to you and me to smoke the proverbial peace pipe here.”

“And what good will it do us not to? We'll only hurt ourselves.”

“Exactly.”

Claire blew out a breath: she was feeling better and better.

“What a couple of days these have been. Do you realize that just a little over twenty-four hours ago you walked up to my table in the gym with a pretty new hairdo and perky new makeup and I took one look at you and thought,
If this woman's not in love with my husband, I'll eat my grade book.
”

“What in the world does a new hairdo have to do with it?”

“It's silly. Someone told me once that you can always tell when a woman falls in love because she gets a new hairdo and starts looking prettier.”

“I got a new hairdo because I needed an emotional pick-me-up. It's been pretty tense around our house too. I have to admit, it feels really good to have talked to you about all of this. Now if you'll just say you're going to go in there and patch it up with Tom, I'll go home a rather satisfied woman.”

“Of course that's what I'm going to do.”

“Good.” For the first time Monica offered a smile. It kindled in the luster from the dash lights while her eyes rested easy on Claire.

Claire smiled too. “Thank you, Monica.”

“Thank our children. They were much more courageous than me. I had to be led by them before I'd do the right thing.”

It was difficult to find a parting remark. Claire put her fingers on the door handle and looked back at the other woman. “Well, here goes.” She opened the door.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. And good luck to you too. I really mean that.”

Their smiles took on a touch of verity now that they were parting. It struck them both that if they had met under any other circumstances, they would indeed have become very
good friends, for in this short meeting they'd found much to respect in one another, a lionheartedness tempered by vulnerability, which—in both their minds—made them strong women capable of deep understanding.

“Take care,” Monica said, and Claire slammed the door.

She did not watch the car pull away but turned toward her home, where the three most important people in her world waited for her to come inside and make their lives right again. Dry autumn leaves were cartwheeling across the driveway. The stars were out, and she realized that tomorrow was Halloween. She'd neglected to get a pumpkin carved and set out on the front step, nor had she dug out the skeleton wind sock that usually waved from the bare branches of the ash tree, or bought corn husks to surround the light pole the way everyone on the block did at this time of year—things she and Tom had always done together at this time of year.

Well, maybe tomorrow
, she thought, for tomorrow they would awaken together.

Please, Lord
.

 

Inside, Tom was cooking supper. She stepped into the aroma of sandwiches browning on a griddle and the sound of a table being set. The moment she walked in, all motion ceased. Tom turned from the stove with a towel in his hands. The kids stalled with plates and silverware only half distributed.

Tom spoke first. “I hope it's okay that I started making some grilled-cheese sandwiches.”

“Of course. It's fine.”

“I couldn't find anything else in the house.”

“I guess I haven't been cooking much lately. I sort of lost my heart for it.”

They spoke with the breathlessness of a man and woman feeling their way, separated by an entire kitchen but locked in rapt absorption with each other. The children could have been on Mars for all the attention they received from their parents. Claire's cheeks took on spots of pink. Tom had removed his suit jacket, and through his close-fitting white shirt the sharp rack of his breathing was clearly visible. He finally flinched and cleared his throat, as if realizing how long he and Claire had been staring at each other.

“Ah . . . children . . .” He glanced at them. “Would you please excuse your mother and me for just a minute?”

“Sure,” Chelsea said meekly, and very carefully set down the stack of plates.

“Sure,” Robby seconded, and set down his handful of silverware.

They left the room like a pair of obedient servants, nearly tiptoeing. In their wake the kitchen remained silent but for the quiet sizzle of the sandwiches on a Silverstone griddle and the sound of two people trying to control their breathing.

Claire stood just inside the entrance from the family room, still wearing her coat. Tom waited with the stove at his back, unconsciously gripping the small terry towel.

“What did she say?” he asked at last, in a voice like that of a prizefighter who's just taken a kidney punch.

“She said, in essence, that I've been a damned fool.”

He reached without looking, to drop the towel on the enamel stovetop behind him, but she was the one who did the running, straight into his arms, throwing him hard against the handle of the oven. They kissed the way immigrants kissed who had crossed oceans and prairies, endured hardships and separation to be together again. The embrace
was filled with wordless promise, and the pressure of tears withheld.

When the kiss ended, she clutched him against herself, blinking hard at the ceiling while her tears made silver tracks on her face. “Oh, Tom, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”