Love All: A Novel (4 page)

But while Hugh was falling in love with Cooperstown, he did wonder if, for Anne, moving here hadn’t been a mistake. She wouldn’t reach out to her high school classmates, many of whom still lived in the village. She wasn’t eager to accompany Hugh to their neighbors’ cocktail and dinner parties. She argued with him about joining the country club—Anne hadn’t been a member as a child, why did they need it now? She worked ungodly hours in a town twenty-five miles away, and Hugh couldn’t understand why she’d suggested moving back if she was only going to spend all her time running away.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Anne confessed. “My mother asked me to.”

This was just after Julia was born. Teddy was having a sleepover at Nonz and Poppy’s house, while Hugh and Anne, exhausted, had gone to bed before twilight with Julia breathing softly in her bassinet at Anne’s side.

Anne rested her head on Hugh’s chest and traced his ribs with her finger. “Maybe we could go back to Boston,” she said, “or try somewhere new.” Virginia. California. She poked him and said, “Kuala Lumpur.”

Hugh could feel her wet cheek against his skin and he wiped her tears but hesitated to respond. The truth was, he didn’t want to leave. Even Anne would have to agree that their lives here made sense. The Seedlings School was growing and Anne was set to make junior partner that year. Without Poppy and Nonz to care for the kids, Julia, at least, would have to start day care. And in some ways Anne
was
happy here—that very morning, she’d let Teddy play “jungle gym” on their bed, then helped him hold a bottle for Julia while all three of them leaned against Hugh, cradled in his arms.

But in other ways, Hugh knew something was wrong. His desire for an extended community, outside their home, beyond their nuclear family, upset her. It had been the same way in Boston. Anne didn’t need to host parties or join clubs, and she seemed to resent that Hugh did. But in Hugh’s experience it was risky to have only one person to depend on—what was so wrong with making friends? Anne brushed off these kinds of questions.
Nothing’s wrong with it
, she’d said, though clearly something was, because the more Hugh reached out, the more Anne withdrew, until sometimes they went entire days—early to school, late home from the office—without even seeing each other. In the mornings, Teddy and Hugh dropped Julia at Nonz and Poppy’s house, then walked to Seedlings while Anne drove to her office in Oneonta. Whenever one or the other still asked, they always agreed that they were happy in their work, happy with their children. Good, good. Everything was good, but not really, not entirely, because now Hugh had done the unthinkable—the thing he had vowed never to do—and he couldn’t defend it because he couldn’t understand it. Hugh thought of himself as an upstanding family man, a devoted father, and a good husband, but Hugh wasn’t the same person he’d been when he married his wife.

*   *   *

Back in his office after the carpool line emptied out, Hugh chased two Advil with a sip of coffee, then swiveled away from the many phone messages and unopened envelopes on his desk blotter. The picture window in Hugh’s office showed a playground teeming with children in light spring jackets already unzipped beneath warm red faces, the girls toiling at the monkey bars while the boys stormed the small grass yard, kicking and throwing foam balls. In his week away, Hugh had truly missed Seedlings. Conceived in his mind, born of his labor, his preschool was his third child, and it would stay with him long after Teddy and Julia had gone.

Hugh recalled watching his children on this very playground thirteen, fourteen years ago. He had never been totally comfortable having them as students—what if he favored them or, alternatively, gave them a doubly hard time? In fact, he’d observed them closely in the years since for signs that he’d scarred them at an early age. So far he hadn’t spotted anything too worrisome.

His recent activity with Caroline might change that, should it come to light. Hugh could hardly bear to think of hurting his children—it would be reason enough to forget what he’d done. But Teddy was eighteen and Julia just two and half years younger. In a matter of months they’d be leaving for college, returning only on holidays and for a few weeks during the summer. It occurred to Hugh that the main act of parenthood was almost over. Soon he and Anne would be in a side tent, thinking longingly of their kids.

Teddy was affable and popular, a second-semester senior who had been recruited by Oneida College to pitch for their Division I team. Although Teddy’s grades weren’t very impressive, lingering in the low eighties no matter how hard a time Hugh and Anne gave him, Teddy’s pitching arm more than compensated for his report cards. Even as a child, when school had been about pictures hung on refrigerators and gold stars in place of grades, Teddy had spent his energy on the playground, organizing grand competitions of kickball and kick the can. But Teddy’s strengths were also his weaknesses: he knew his comfort zone and he hesitated to leave it. Theoretically, it was a good strategy—look before you leap—but because Teddy hardly ever leaped, he had limited exposure to failure, and because he’d rarely failed, he was often afraid to try. Still, Hugh couldn’t help being charmed by his sought-after son, though he did have concerns about Teddy’s character. He was vain, moving easily—and possibly irresponsibly?—between girlfriends. They called at night and Teddy would give muted one-word answers or, worse, make Hugh say he couldn’t come to the phone.

Julia, fifteen, was wry and clever and almost nothing like her brother. She was smarter than Teddy, no question, and spurned her brother’s high school grandstanding for more intimate clusters of close friends. Occasionally Hugh did worry that Julia was isolated. Her best friends, Sam and Carl, were good kids—it wasn’t that—but Julia hid behind them, in a way. They had their own language, which no one understood, and parent-teacher conferences often ended in complaints that Julia and her friends were exclusive to their detriment. It was an odd thing, really. Teddy was only too happy to explain how weird everyone thought his sister was, but you couldn’t convince Julia of that. As far as Julia, Sam, and Carl were concerned, they were the only people worth knowing.

The latest Julia problem was this business about not trying out for her high school tennis team. It was a decision made more ridiculous by the fact that she continued to show up at the practices, hanging around the courts while Sam and Carl ran the drills. Hugh couldn’t understand it. Julia had taken tennis lessons at the country club, been promoted through the skill groups right alongside her sporty brother, and consistently earned a spot in the club finals, losing only to a pixie whose Prince Junior was a cudgel against Julia’s second serve. And now suddenly she’d given up the sport. Anne’s opinion was that it was up to Julia. If she didn’t want to try out, that was her choice. “You’re always prodding the kids,” Anne had said. “They’re almost adults.” Maybe so. But Julia needed a push, and Hugh had privately decided to give her one.

At eight thirty, he slunk from his office and stationed himself in the small vestibule to the side of the teachers’ room—the supply closet—where he could observe the flow of traffic, unseen. It was a temporary solution. He’d have to come out eventually, but not until he was certain of avoiding Graham Pennington and his mother. Hugh watched and waited. Soon parents and students began to stream by: mostly moms, some dads; mostly with one child, some with two.

Hugh sensed Caroline before he saw her, felt his body thrill to the sound of her voice asking Graham if he’d remembered his lunch box, then to her scent—soap and turpentine and a hint of Earl Grey. She was standing less than ten feet away—the cuffs of her jean jacket turned back, her brown hair knotted loosely on top of her head. Hugh held his breath as Caroline passed, ushering Graham into Mrs. Landon’s classroom, then turned back toward the exit alone.

Hugh remained frozen in his hiding place for another five minutes, until he saw Barry Klawson—Julia’s tennis coach—charging down the hallway with his nephew in tow. Familial duty: at the last second, Hugh fell into step beside them, clapping Klawson’s shoulder in a friendly hello.

“Mr. Obermeyer.” Klawson stopped to offer his hand but Hugh steered them on. “Debbie’s at her aerobics class this morning,” he said.

“Right, right,” said Hugh. “Jace, it must be so nice having your uncle bring you to school.”

The boy buried his face against his uncle’s work jeans, his legs scissoring in time with Klawson’s.

“I realized,” said Hugh, “I think you know my daughter, Julia, from the tennis team.”

Klawson stopped outside Miss Melanie’s classroom. “Jace,” said his uncle, “go in and say good morning to your teacher. I’m right behind you.”

Klawson stuffed his hands in his pockets. Thick, muscular arms, paint-splattered jeans: Barry was a Klawson of the overpriced Klawson’s Hardware on Main Street, where Hugh had spent fifty-seven dollars yesterday on cleaning supplies for his in-laws’ house.

“Julia’s mother and I are concerned that she didn’t try out for the tennis team,” Hugh began. “I wondered if maybe she’d talked to you about it.”

Klawson shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “Though she keeps showing up.”

“Right,” said Hugh apologetically. “She has a hard time with … well.” Julia would kill him if she knew he was having this conversation with her coach. She would see it as a betrayal, but Hugh saw it as parenting. Hugh leaned close to Klawson and said, “I know she didn’t try out for the team, but I wondered if maybe—I wondered if you could ask her to.”

“Well,” said her coach noncommittally, “I’ve already made cuts. Our first match is Thursday, and the lineup’s set.”

Hugh nodded and rubbed his chin as though he were reconsidering. “I know this is asking a lot, and I really don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but if it happens that there’s an exhibition match or something…” Hugh sighed. “She wants to play, but she’ll never tell you that.”

“Okay,” said Klawson, “but, like I said, I already cut people. And technically there’s an alternate who should get first chance at any exhibition matches.”

“I see,” said Hugh. Then he surprised himself by saying, “You know, not too far down the road Seedlings is going to be expanding. One or two new buildings, probably. I keep meaning to get over to the hardware store to talk to your dad about ordering supplies.”

Klawson regarded Hugh, and Hugh thought he saw the man’s eyes narrow but he couldn’t be sure. In any case, he was in with both feet. “It’d be a big order, more expensive, I know, to do it locally, but what’s it all about if we can’t help each other?” Klawson cocked his chin and Hugh forged on, wondering if he’d lost his mind. “Maybe I could come down to the store this evening and talk to you and your dad.”

Klawson’s eyes locked on Hugh’s. “Yeah?”

“Sure,” said Hugh.

“Okay.” Klawson nodded slowly. “And maybe I could talk to Julia about an exhibition match.”

Hugh nodded faintly, then whispered, “Away from her friends, if you can manage it.”

They agreed to meet at six o’clock, shook once, and Klawson left to join Jace at the tactile station, the boy’s fingers deep in a lump of Play-Doh.

Dizzy, unsure what he’d done, Hugh turned on his heel and froze when he saw Caroline standing at the main doors, waiting for him. There were still several mothers between them but by eight forty-five all would’ve cleared out, which left Hugh about two minutes to decide what to do. His stomach dropped. His pulse hammered in his ears. Anne had once called him “adecisive,” and it was an apt description, but in his mind Hugh pictured himself crossing the hallway, cupping Caroline’s breast under her jean jacket and pinching her nipple through the soft fabric of her T-shirt, a fantasy he’d spent a week trying to squelch. He’d had crushes before, but nothing this all-consuming, nothing this potent.

Imperceptibly, Hugh began to drift: one step toward her, one step toward his office. Thirty more seconds and they’d be alone together. But just as Hugh started to speak, to say he was glad to see her, to ask her how she’d been, Caroline turned and beat a retreat. She smiled sadly, held open the front door, and followed another mother out, leaving Hugh to wonder what decision had been made.

2

Easter Sunday, the last day of spring break, we all piled into the car to help Poppy pack his bags. It was a short drive from our house to 122 Chestnut Street, but no one spoke. Dad drove while Mom rested her head against the window; Teddy reached between them to change the radio dial; and I pictured Sam and Carl with their families, barreling up the highway toward home. So far there’d been only one postcard from Sam, written his first night in Myrtle Beach:
Dear Jules, I got a speeding ticket trying to make it to the Corner Cone before 8. Carl and this random girl Megan said I could make it in 3 minutes if I went 30 in a 10. What a bunch of tardmores. And we never got the ice cream. Guess what I was going to order?
Mint chocolate chip, but that didn’t begin to answer the questions. Had he kissed her? Hooked up with her? Megan. Not so random that she didn’t have a name.

At my grandparents’ house, I touched everything: bottles and brushes, curlers and soaps, moisturizers and powders; I stroked the curtains, the needlepoint pillows, the terry-cloth robes in Nonz and Poppy’s closet; I hefted the silver, splashed the perfume, and drank from the crystal, my senses alive to the possibility of Nonz.

Less than a week ago, I’d walked over here from 59 Susquehanna to spend the day with Nonz—everyone else I knew was out of town: Katie, Em, Sam, and Carl in Myrtle Beach; Paige and Hilary skiing in Utah. Only Teddy’s friend Dave, who’d made me a mix tape in January—heavy on the Smiths—had called to say he was around, but I wasn’t hanging out with Dave. I already missed Sam and Carl and preferred my grandmother’s uncomplicated company.

Nonz sat at the kitchen table in her coral reading glasses and denim apron and read aloud from a cookbook while I measured, mixed, chopped, and stirred, in a game we’d been playing for years. “Eight tablespoons unsalted butter,” she began.

“Oatmeal cookies.”