Other Plans (23 page)

To his surprise, Keith laughed and said, “You're right. I was only putting you on, anyway. Tomorrow we do a number on what I think of as home sweet home, right? I've got plenty of soap and stuff to swab down the floors with. I appreciate your help, John. I really do. You're a good friend.”

Just when he was ready to blow his cork, Keith had a way of saying something that got to him.

“That's okay,” he said.

“Why don't you bring Emma along? We can let her scrub the tub. Then after, we could all sit down and play strip poker. I've got a special deck I use for strip poker with female provocateurs.” Keith also had a way of giving with one hand, then taking away with the other.

“She's gone,” was all he said.

“She coming back?”

He shrugged. “I doubt it. Les didn't say anything about her coming back. She's in North Carolina riding to the hounds.”

“Hey, I knew my father would like her. He's very big on riding to the hounds, stuff like that.”

“I've gotta go. I'll wait for you tomorrow outside study hall. I'll be the one with the mop and the broom. See you.”

The house was empty when he got home. He prepared a gargantuan sandwich, using five slices of bread and all the leftovers he could find in the refrigerator, and carried it up to his room. On his way, he let his imagination soar, settled Emma cosily on his sofa bed, waiting eagerly for him. They had a tryst. Tryst was a word he was fond of and had little opportunity to use. He set the sandwich down and divested himself of his straight clothes to get into his camouflage suit. That suit was definitely an aphrodisiac, he figured. It sure had turned Emma on. He'd promised he'd see if he could get one for her. Size small. Right at the minute, he didn't feel much like following through. Maybe later. He'd see how he felt. Maybe she could buy a custom-made camouflage suit. He'd read someplace that General MacArthur had worn one. Maybe the general's tailor could whip one up for Emma. It was a cheering thought.

Emma was a tryst type. No doubt about that. He ate his sandwich, belching loudly to show his Chinese friends how much he'd enjoyed it, and wondered what he should do next. He didn't feel like reading. Instead, he slitted his eyes so he could barely see out of them, and contemplated his sofa bed. Even through those eyes, he could tell Emma wasn't there, would not be there. Emma was lost, perhaps forever, to him. She had been his brief encounter with romance. Sex. Do sex and romance go together?

“Tryst,” he said aloud, and went to look out the wobbly paned window, checking to see if the willows showed any yellow. They were brown. It was barely March, three weeks until the first official day of spring. Under the waters of the pond, circled now by a ribbon of mist as wide as a watchband, he imagined the slugs stirring hopefully, getting geared up for the coming season. One small boy, fishing pole over his shoulder, hurtled down the hill to the pond, looking furtively over his shoulder, checking for the fish and game warden who was famous for handing out stiff fines to people who dared to drop a hook before he blew the whistle saying it was okay.

The kid tucked himself onto a rock and assumed the position of a thinker. Chin in hand, he stared down at the water, probably sending up a few prayers for a big one. He thought of knocking hard on the window to scare the kid, then thought better of it. At that age, nine or ten, hope sprang eternal. It was only when encroaching age got a good grip on you that you knew the fish were as elusive as most everything else in life. Prayers didn't help much, once you hit your teens. Let the kid find out for himself.

He thought idly of dropping Emma a line. “If you're ever in the vicinity, drop in. My mother would love to see you.” Signing it “Faithfully Yrs.,” he sighed deeply. He would never be a letter writer. They'd never get him for breach of promise. Never put anything on paper, he always said. That way you were safe from designing females.

He heard someone moving around downstairs. Maybe the burglar he'd been expecting for so long had finally arrived. His heart beat faster as he crept toward the stairs. If ever a camou flage suit came in handy, now was the time. He had always wondered if he would rise to the occasion if confronted by a burglar in a stocking mask and carrying a gun. Would he tackle the intruder, put him in a chicken-wing or a half-nelson, then, bringing the old Boy Scout knots into play once more, secure the bandit's arms and legs and call the police, telling them to hurry on over, he had a live one for them.

Whoever it was was in the dining room. He could hear the faint clink of glass against glass. Probably toasting each other before they filled their sacks. What if there were two of them? Caution was indicated. Maybe he better call the police before he tied up the buggers. Suppose they were armed?

He leaned over the stair rail and looked into the dining room. A man was standing at the sideboard with his back turned, pouring out a drink.

“Dad? Is that you?”

He bounded down the last few steps, somewhat relieved he hadn't had to be a hero, after all. “How come you're home so early? I thought you were stealing the silver.”

His father took out his pocket handkerchief and carefully wiped his mouth. “I thought you were at soccer practice,” he said. “I thought the house was empty. What's that you're wearing?” His father's eyebrows went up.

“It's my army surplus camouflage suit. I wear it when I don't want anyone to see me.”

His father tossed back his drink and laughed. “Get one for me, will you?”

Amazing. He'd expected a monologue concerning the weird and wasteful dress habits of the young. That was one of the most amazing things he'd ever heard his father say.

“Sure, Dad. I'll see what I can do.” He never knew what to get his father for his birthday. Now he did. All he had to do was figure out how to pay for it.

They stood looking at each other.

“John,” his father said, as he'd said plenty of other times, “I'd like to talk to you.” Only this time his voice was different.

Oh-oh. What now? He felt himself tense up. What had he done? He racked his brain. My God. The thought hit him. Maybe he found out about Emma. My God, what do I do now. Maybe he thinks I took advantage of her. Had my way with her. In spite of himself, he smiled.

“Sure, Dad.” His voice trembled ever so slightly. “What's up?”

His father stood looking at his glass.

“My mother lost a baby who was born when I was two and Ed four. It was a girl. My mother never got over losing that baby.” Deep lines appeared at either side of his father's mouth as he spoke. “For a while, she want to a sanitarium, a rest home, they called it. She'd had a nervous breakdown, you see. We had a housekeeper, a woman named Mrs. Quirk. She was a terrible cook, but she was kind to Ed and me. My father didn't tell us much of what was going on. Ed and I thought our mother was never coming back. My father said she was resting, regaining her strength, but we were convinced she had gone forever. In those days, parents didn't tell their children everything, the way they seem to do these days. They thought children should be protected from painful things so they kept the children in the dark, thinking they were doing them a kindness.”

Where was all this leading to? What was his father trying to tell him?

“Nowadays,” his father continued, “it's very much the fashion to let children in on all family events, to spare them nothing.” His father frowned at him and he smiled back.

“I'm not sure that's a good idea, John. What do you think?” His father put down his glass abruptly and waited for his answer.

“Maybe somewhere in between would be good,” he said. “I think kids should be let in on things if they can do anything about them. If they can help, I mean.”

“You may be right, John.” His father looked at his watch. “I've got work to do, John, and I don't want to be disturbed.” Then, instead of going into the study, his father went up and shut the door of the bedroom quietly behind him.

Some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you. Ain't it the truth.

By the time he made another sandwich to tide him over until dinner time, and trudged back up to his room to eat it, peering out the window, checking the pond again, the little kid with the fishing pole had disappeared.

20

There was something going on. He heard them, late at night, when they had every reason to think he was asleep. Furtive footsteps passed his door, going down the stairs. The sounds of crying; terrible, ragged sounds that brought him out of his warm bed to listen at the door, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Maybe Les had sprung her Saudi Arabia scene on them after all, although she told him she hadn't. She'd gone back to college early, to finish a paper, she said. He thought she'd left because of the oppressive atmosphere in the house these days, the fact that he didn't approve of her defection, the way his mother and father were acting; as if something heavy was happening.

They'd asked her to stay, wanting more time to talk to her, they said. But she insisted she had to get back. He was glad she'd held off telling them, glad of the part he might have played in her decision. But even Leslie's announcing she wanted to quit school wouldn't be reason enough for those awful, tearing sounds that came from their bedroom. In the daytime, his mother maintained her composure, avoiding his eye, moving about the house, almost the same, but with a nightmarish, sleepwalking way about her that was new. His father said very little, spent long days at his office, cleaning up a lot of things, as he put it, coming home to eat his dinner, and excuse himself early, saying he'd had a hard day and was whipped. He
looked
whipped, that was for sure.

A night came when the sounds of crying woke him and he crept to his door, opened it a crack, and heard his father say in a harsh, almost unrecognizable voice, “He should be told. He's old enough to know.” And then his mother's voice bit off the word “No!”, leaving no room for doubt.

It hit him with the force of a stone. They were getting a divorce. Just like everybody else. Like Keith's father and mother. Like the parents of lots of kids he knew. He'd been proud of his parents because they were still married to each other after all those years, putting them in the minority. They had staying power, a virtue his father was always plugging. He'd had them pegged for a lifetime trip. They were going to make it, go hand in hand into the sunset, a couple of white-haired stalwarts.

Not that he wasn't aware of plenty of tension between them—filling the house, at times. Sometimes he caught a look on his mother's face that told him plenty about her, stuff she probably didn't want him to know. But you can't live in a family and not get clued in to things that would be better kept secret.

His father had had a monkey on his back for some time, he figured. It could be any one of a number of things: his job, the fact he hadn't forged ahead the way he'd planned, would've liked; or, more likely, money problems: tuition bills for him and Les, mortgage payments. That everyday shit that tried men's souls. Lots of times his father was testy and irascible for no reason. It's me, he decided. He takes one look at me and Wham! he gets sore. What was this strange power he wielded, he wondered, wishing he could change things.

They thought he didn't notice the battle of wills his mother and father often waged. Once, when they'd had a fight, his mother had left the house before his father got home and hadn't returned until late. He'd heard her come in. The light was already out in their room. She slept in the guest room. The next morning he'd asked her where she'd been. He'd been younger then, more forthright, less cautious.

“To the movies,” she'd said, giving him the brush-off. She never went to the movies, hated them, as a matter of fact.

“What'd you see?” He was like a detective in a two-bit mystery, checking his witness's alibi.

“I don't remember.” She hadn't even bothered to make up a story. “My mind was elsewhere.” For days after, his mother and father had prowled the house, not speaking, feeling their way back to the norm. He and Les discussed their parents endlessly, trying to figure out what made them tick.

During one of those discussions, he'd hit upon a likely explanation. “I figure,” he'd said solemnly, “the bloom is off the rose. I read in the paper today that romantic love only lasts three years. Did you know that?” Leslie hadn't known that. “That means theirs flew out the window long ago. You know what?” He snapped his fingers, inspiration at hand. “I think Ma has the hots for Mr. Wilson.” Well, that had thrown them into such spasms of merriment they'd almost hurt themselves bouncing around the room, thinking of their mother and Mr. Wilson locked in carnal embrace.

Mr. Wilson was the principal of their elementary school. He had an intricate network of dark warts on his face and neck, and a breath that would bring a dragon to its knees.

After they'd calmed down, Leslie said, “They still hold hands. And last week I caught them with her sitting on his lap.” Les then studied the ceiling and he the veins in his wrists, trying to figure that one out. Lap-sitting, for parents, that is, was pretty heavy stuff, they both knew. “And Daddy thinks she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen,” Les tossed in for good measure. “He told me so.”

He was always reading statistics about the numbers of married men and women who had affairs. It interested him that this was no longer called “committing adultery.” As far as he could figure, adultery was obsolete. An anachronism. He wondered if the
Reader's Digest
condensed version of the Bible said “extra marital affair” instead of “adultery,” although three words as against one technically broke the
Digest
's code. He made a mental note to check on this. Thou shalt not commit an extra marital affair didn't sound too hot, when you thought about it.