Man, Woman and Child (14 page)

"Sheila?"

"Bob—is everything okay?"

"Uh—yes and no. We ran into an incredible traffic jam. We're still not at Logan and the flight's already taken off."

"Oh."

'^Listen," he said, "there's only one sensible solution. We should stay over in Lexington so he can take the flight tomorrow. Don't you agree?"

She hesitated and then said:

"I suppose it makes sense."

"How are the girls?"

"A bit calmer."

"I'd like to say something to them. Will they talk to me?"

"I doubt it."

Just then a nasal voice intruded on the line.

"Deposit another forty cents for the next three minutes."

"Okay. Listen, Sheil," Bob said hastily. "Ill call you again when I get to the house."

"All right."

"I love you," he said quickly, just as the phone went dead. He hoped she had heard him. Because he had done a lot of rehearsing before making the call.

He put the receiver on the hook and started back

into the dining area of the Wellesley Howard Johnson's on Route 128.

Jean-Claude was sitting in a comer booth, picking at his fried clams (it was eat-all-you-want fish night). Bob sat down across from him.

"How would you like to stay another day?'' he asked. "We could sleep over at our house in Lexington. What do you think?"

"Oh, yes," said the boy.

J70R ONCE THE GIRLS NEEDED NO CAJOLING TO GET

them to bed. They had earlier accepted the news of Bob's absence with apparent equanimity. Or at least emotional exhaustion.

But Sheila could not keep herself from feeling resentful. Even when he had called the airline, Bob seemed to be looking for excuses to stall. Maybe he had deliberately missed the flight. To steal another day with his son.

She was also angry because he had left her alone to deal with the girls, taking for granted, as usual, that she would handle it. He didn't even sound apologetic about staying away for the night. Don't we matter anymore? Where the hell are his priorities?

Gavin Wilson arrived at the stroke of nine-thirty. For some reason he looked slightly different. And then she realized: he was wearing a tie and jacket.

"Hello, Sheila." The tone of his voice matched the formality of his dress.

"Come in,'' she said. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Please. Scotch and water, if that's convenient." He followed her inside.

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"Ice?"

Tes, please. Fve been thoroughly Americanized."

When they entered the living room, he glanced around uneasily.

"Uh—Bob had to stay in Boston/' Sheila said, and tried to sound as casual as possible.

"Oh? Any problem?"

*'No. Of course not Just a last-minute delay."

"Oh."

"Please sit down, Gavin. Til get the drinks."

It came upon her unawares as she was opening the fridge. Suddenly the strain of all the pretense was too much for her. She closed the door, leaned on it and began to cry. Softly, steadily.

It was a relief. Now she realized just how much she'd wanted to break down. And for how long.

Suddenly she felt someone's arms around her.

Gavin had come into the kitchen without her even hearing him.

As he continued to hold her, he whispered, "Now, Sheila, are you or are you not going to tell me what the matter is?"

She could not move, trapped by the crosswinds of emotion.

"I don't know you," she said without turning.

"If it will make it any easier," he answered gently, "I've been checked for security by the FBI. That means I can be trusted with the most vital secrets."

She gave a little laugh. He was still holding her. She neither turned nor tried to move away. His voice now trembled slightly as he said:

"Anyway, for what it's worth, I think I'm falling in love with you."

She did not reply.

"Please answer me. Sheila. I had to work up a lot of courage to say that."

"Don't be silly, Gavin," she replied. He was still holding her.

"'I know you've got every reason not to believe me. WeVe just met. And then of course I made that ridiculously clumsy pass in the restaurant. You don't know how sorry I am. I was so furious afterwards that I walked for nearly two hours along the Charles. I must really have looked miserable—even the muggers avoided me."

Is this man trying to say he really cares for me?

"I mean, dammit, it was awful of me not to realize that something was troubling you."

"If s all right," she said. It was merely an affirmative statement of her feelings, not a precise reply to his remarks.

"Listen," he continued, "I came here not just to apologize but to try and comfort you. Do you feel a littie better now?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now then, go back to the sitting room and ril fix us both that drink. Then maybe we can talk about what's bothering you. You having Scotch as well?"

She nodded yes.

^'Then oflF you go."

He handed her a glass and sat down in the chair opposite her.

"Well?" he said.

"Well what?"

"You did understand what I was saying to you just now?"

She nodded.

"And?"

She looked down into her glass and then again at him.

"Gavin, I don't fool myself. You're—how can I

put it?—a kind of intellectual pinup. I, on the other hand-"

"Don't finish that sentence, Sheila. You are not only intelligent and beautiful, you're extremely sensitive, and, if my instinct is correct, like myself a member of FOBS."

"What's FOBS?"

''The Fellowship of Bruised Souls. Uh—I'm the founder, actually."

"You don't seem at all wounded to me."

"I've just learned to hide it better. A little cynicism goes a long way."

He paused. "I didn't really tell you the whole story the other night at dinner. When I left England and my wife didn't, it wasn't exactly Oxford she preferred as much as a certain Oxford don. A very nice professor of philosophy. So you see my being a 'pinup,' as you so flatteringly call it, can't really compensate for the fact that my own wife didn't think so."

Now his eyes betrayed the memory of unhappi-ness.

"Oh," said Sheila. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say except that I think I know the feeling. How did you get over it?"

"I really haven't. I'm not quite sure I ever will completely. But time does help—regenerates one's capacity for hope. After a while you begin to believe you might actually meet someone you trust."

He looked at her.

"I really don't know where I am," she said. "I mean, so many things have happened to me all at

once."

He took a breath and then asked gently, "Is there someone else in your husband's life, Sheila?" She was dumbfounded.

"I understand/' he said. 'Tou can't talk about it. I'm sorry I brought it up."

But she had to say something.

''Gavin, things aren't quite the way they look. I mean—" She shook her head, unable to find words. '1 mean I just couldn't explain it if I tried."

''Sheila, I withdraw my question—with apologies. It's really none of my bloody business."

She could not even say thank you.

"Some other time," he added, "when you feel you can. Or want to."

He stood up.

"Look. I know I should really go now. . . ."

She was about to protest, when he added:

"Really, it's the right thing for both of us."

She hesitated, and at last said, "Thank you, Gavin."

He took out his address book, tore a page from it and began scribbling.

"Now I'm giving you my home number in Washington and my White House extension. And I'm warning you—if I don't hear from you by the end of the week, I'll call you. I have to know you're all right."

She thought. Should I ask him to stay?

"I'm going tq plan on spending a week in Cambridge right after Labor Day. But in the meantime, promise me you'll call. Even to talk about the weather. I just want to hear your voice. Please. Promise."

"Yes."

"Mommy, I can't sleep."

It was Paula, standing there in her pajamas.

"Oh, honey, I'll be up in a second," Sheila responded. And then introduced the stranger. "Gavin, this is my daughter Paula. Paula, this is Dr. Wilson from Washington."

''The one who wrote the books who's not as conceited as you thought?'* Paula asked.

'Tes." Sheila smiled. And Gavin laughed.

"Hello, Dr. Wilson/' Paula said.

*'How do you do/' said Gavin.

"It's past my bedtime/' she added, by way of elucidation.

"Then you must hurry back to bed/'

"Dr. Wilson is right/' Sheila added.

"Will you tuck me in. Mom?" asked Paula.

"Of course."

"Great. I'll be waiting. Night, Dr. Wilson." And she was off to prepare for Sheila's visit.

"She's a lovely little girl," said Gavin. "Now are you sure you'll be all right on your own?"

"Yes," she answered.

She went with him to the door. He stopped and looked down at her.

"I would like very much to kiss you, but this is not the time. Good night. Sheila. I hope you won't forget anything I've said." He gently touched her cheek.

And walked out into the night.

Sheila watched his car drive off and thought, I wonder what would have happened if he'd kissed me.

JjOB AWAKENED SLOWTLY TO THE SOUND OF RAIN. At

first glance it seemed like a winter day. And felt like it, as he closed the window. The outside thermometer actually read 58 degrees. Winter on the Fourth of July. A statistical impossibility—except in Boston.

He padded down the hallway and peered into Jessie's room, where he had put Jean-Claude to bed for the night. The boy was still sleeping peacefully. The events of the previous day had clearly worn, him out. Oh, God, thought Bob as he stared at the tranquil face. What am I going to do?

When Jean-Claude woke, they shared some rolls and coffee. And since the energetic rain showed no signs of fatigue, Bob abandoned plans to tour the sights in Lexington and Concord. Instead he drove to Cambridge and parked in the MIT faculty lot.

''This is where I teach," said Bob, as they splashed toward the entrance of his building.

Their footsteps echoed as they marched down the corridor to Bob's door.

Bob unlocked the office. It smelled musty as they entered.

"Is this where you do your mathematics?" the

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boy asked, gazing at the wall-to-ceiling shelves of books.

''Some of it," Bob smiled.

''May I sit at your desk?''

"Sure."

The boy plopped onto Bob's chair and began to swivel from side to side. "I am Professor Beckwith/' he pronounced in a kind of soprano-baritone. "Would you like to ask me some statistics, sir?''

"Yes," replied Bob. "What are the chances of this damn rain stopping today, Professor?"

"Mmm," said Jean-Claude, pondering earnestly. "You'll have to see me tomorrow about that." And then he giggled, enjoying his own joke. And sitting in his father's leather chair.

Bob sat down opposite Jean-Claude, in the seat usually reserved for his student visitors, and smiled at the boy. He seemed minuscule behind that desk, today preternaturally neat. Bob had swept away the clutter before leaving in June. In fact, all that was left besides the telephone was a picture of Sheila and the girls.

"I like it here," said Jean-Claude. "You can see all the sailboats on the river. Look—there are even some out in the rain."

Bob was usually so wrapped up in work that he rarely glanced out of the window. But the boy was right. His view was wonderful. It was almost 3 p.m.

"I have an idea," said Bob. "If you don't mind a little walk, we could visit the Museum of Science. I think you might like it." "Okay."

Bob found an old semi-operative umbrella and together they went out to brave the elements. Tliey crossed Memorial Drive and walked along the river to Science Park.

As Bob expected, the museum was paclced because of the bad weather. Jean-Claude stood hypnotized by the gaze of Spooky the Owl, the avian host of the place. Bob bought him a Spooky T-shirt. Which he immediately put on.

''On top of your other clothes?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

They then waited their turn so that Jean-Claude could explore the lunar surface and climb up into the Apollo landing module. He waved at Bob, who now stood several hundred thousand miles away.

''Salut from the moon."

Bob smiled. He offered Jean-Claude his hand to help him out of the spaceship, and after that the little boy did not let go. They went up to the second floor, bought ice cream cones and engaged the plexiglass Transparent Woman in conversation. Bob was impressed with how much anatomy the boy already knew.

"Do you want to be a doctor when you grow up?" he asked.

"Perhaps. Or maybe a professor."

A man's voice rudely dispelled their reverie.

"How're you making out?" he asked.

Bob turned. He was being addressed by a middle-aged man with a boy and a girl in tow.

"Isn't it a bitch, these custody days?" he continued. "At least if it wasn't raining I could take 'em to a parade or the ball game. I bet they're as sick of this museum as I am."

Bob did nothing to encourage dialogue, but his very silence seemed to inspire the bore.

"My ex took 'em here last week, can you believe it? I thought she'd already ripped off everything I had. Now she's after my last option to entertain the

kids. By the way, my name's Phil Harlan. Interested in joining forces?''

Bob looked at Harlan. And Harlan's kids. They seemed as miserable as their father. And then he thought of his daughters. We could never come to this, he told himself. Harlan and his lifestyle made him shudder.

''Sorry, we've got other plans," he answered coolly, and started to walk off with Jean-Claude.

''Well, catch you some Saturday in the fall, huh?" Harlan was undaunted.

"Maybe," Bob muttered without turning.

In the museum souvenir shop, Jean-Claude asked Bob to buy him a postcard of the lunar surface. To send to his friend Maurice in Montpellier. He dictated the message, which Bob dutifully transcribed: