Patricia Gaffney (27 page)
Authors: Mad Dash
How did it happen that Sock sleeps with me? At first I’d find her at the foot of the bed in the morning, then she began to jump up even when I was looking, now she has
her spot
beside my left hip. I like it, though. I like to put my hand on her back—she always faces away from me; some kind of modesty, or perhaps I snore—and feel the soft up and down of her breathing.
The clock dial glows red in the dark: 9:52. Behind my eyelids I see silent pictures, scenes I’m either imagining or remembering from today, lots of people, all strangers, in perfect Technicolor, walking, talking, gesturing, laughing. This happens once in a while, and usually presages a sleepless night.
Sock moans, burrows deeper when I turn on the light. I’m reaching for the hand cream, but at the last second my hand veers to the phone. I punch in Chloe’s speed-dial number.
I hope she’s not in the library. She’s such a good child, she turns her phone off when she’s there, lest she disturb other students.
“Hello?”
“I want you to major in drama.”
“Mom, hi. I was going to call you.”
“Darling, erase everything I said, I don’t know what I was thinking. I desperately want you to major in drama, or anything else you feel passionate about. Actually, I sort of do know what I was thinking.”
“What?”
“But it doesn’t matter now. I got mixed up, that’s all, I reversed you and Greta.”
“Me and Greta?”
“Do you think she’s still awake? Oh, she would be, it’s early. I have some names to give her, photographers I know who might want their websites redone.”
“Mom.”
“Sweetheart, I just want you to know you can do anything you want. Why would you ever listen to my advice anyway, you’re a hundred times smarter.”
“Well, in this case, I wasn’t going to.”
“So I noticed. What if I’d said I was going to cut off all funds?” She laughs gaily. “Where are you?”
“Walking back to the dorm.”
“Is it a nice night? It’s beautiful here.”
“Did you talk to Dad?”
“Not lately, why? Oh—he didn’t talk me out of anything.”
“Okay. I just thought—”
“No, no, I came to this brilliant realization all by myself, your father had nothing to do with it. I gave…I think…I sort of reversed…I gave the right advice to the wrong people. I made Greta myself and—well, I don’t know what I did with you. I was trying to be practical for you. Really, really motherly, trying to make up for…” Oh God, trying to make up for not being daughterly enough? This was all about
guilt
?
“Practical, Mom. I don’t know.”
“I know. Not my strong suit.”
“And you should know, I might change my mind again. I could decide to major in anthropology.”
“Oh, you’d be
fabulous
at that.”
“Or archaeology.”
“They’re not the same?”
“Or French.”
“Ooh,
formidable.
”
“Hi,” she says to someone, then back to me. “So how’s your vacation going? Have you bonded completely with the land yet?”
“We are as one. I had lunch with Cottie, she asked all about you.” I tell her about the movie we saw.
“Sounds great. Hey, you still miss
me
, though, don’t you?”
“My best movie pal? Are you kidding?” She is, but I’m not. If she knew how much I miss her, it would ruin this conversation. “Okay, babe, I’ll let you go, I can hear you’ve arrived.” Chatter, doors slamming. “I love you the most.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“And honey? I just want you to know, even though I didn’t see it coming, it makes absolutely no difference to your father
or
to me that you’re a thespian.”
She hangs up groaning.
E
xcept for a couple of brisk, all-business conversations about how things are going this week at the studio, Greta and I haven’t spoken to each other since our fight. She sounds spacey when she answers the phone. “Uh-oh,” I say, “did I wake you?”
“No.”
“Did I…get you from something—”
“I was playing a computer game. What do you want?”
“Um…how are you?”
“Fine.” I picture her at her computer, zapping aliens or piloting some virtual heroine through a maze. I see her in her nightgown, her carrot hair sticking out like candlewicks. After a pause, she says grudgingly, “How are you?”
“I’m fine, too. Hope I’m not calling too late.”
“No, I told you.”
This is going to be harder than I thought. Well, nothing to do but plunge in. “Okay, here’s the thing. I’m very glad you’re marrying Joel.”
“Oh, Dash.” In two words, she sounds tired and dubious.
“No, anyone can see he’s nuts about you. You’re
perfect
for each other.”
“You don’t have to say this.”
“But I mean it. I think you’ll be great, and twenty-five is
not
too young to know what you want.”
“Well,
I
don’t think so.”
“And…I’m proud of you for knowing what you want to do with your life. It’s me I feel sorry for, I’m the one who’s losing you, but I really admire you for knowing your mind and…well, I just wish you happiness, that’s what I’m calling to say. And success, and satisfaction, and a long, long life with Joel and little—shit, I can never remember—”
“Justin.”
“Justin. You, Joel, and Justin, a ready-made family. It’s so right, and…I was so wrong.”
“Thanks, Dash. It means a lot, you saying that.”
“And I apologize for all the other things I said.” Might as well make it official. “Just disregard all that, please. I wasn’t in my right mind.”
“No problem.” Her laugh sounds big and relieved. “Totally forgotten. But how come, I mean, where did…”
“I was crazy, what can I tell you? Temporary insanity.” I can think of no kindhearted way to explain to Greta that, basically, I made her up. It would be insulting to tell the truth: that from the moment we met, I took her for a person she’s so far from being (me) that I couldn’t see her at all. And then I wanted her to make all the decisions I didn’t make twenty years ago. What willful blindness, what monumental ego. I’m ashamed. “Let’s have a party.” What a
brilliant
idea. “Would you like to?”
“A party?”
“To celebrate your engagement! We could have it at the studio. With men if you want, or it could be more like a shower, all women. But I think men, don’t you? Then we can drink more.”
“Um…”
“All your friends, and Joel’s, Mo would come, some clients, some of the neighbors…” I start naming people we know in common. “We could do it outside if that’s too many people, it’ll be warm by then. And…I know, a group photo, something fun and creative, not just bodies lined up. A keepsake, something really special for you and Joel. I’ll put on my thinking cap.”
“Wow, that would be
so cool.
”
“I know, and afterward, after you’re all hitched and everything, I’ve got a million photographer pals and they all need new websites, most of them. Whether they know it or not, and I know exactly who to tell them would be
perfect
for the job.”
“Dash.”
“What?”
“Thank you. Thanks for—”
“For nothing! This is all for me, a hundred percent my pleasure. Truly.” Guilt and regret are wonderful motivators. So is hearing Greta laugh like a conspirator—like a friend. Like someone I’d love to get to know.
andrew
eighteen
A
ndrew dreaded Wednesdays. His only class ended at eleven—it should be his favorite day. But, being the shortest, it was also the day he’d designated at the beginning of term as the one on which he drove out to Olney and visited his father. So he hated it.
He circled the well-tended grounds of Meadow Grove, closing in on the low, handsome brick building, Grove One, that housed his father and eleven other elderly souls in need of assistance with living. Whose white car was that?
Dash’s?
Yes—he recognized the license plate as he idled past, pulling into the last spot in the row. Dash was
here
? She used to come with him once in a while, but visiting Edward was even more oppressive for her than it was for him, so he assumed she’d quit when she moved out of the house. He shouldn’t be surprised, though. How like her to come. How kind. He hadn’t seen her since the night he brought the tax returns to her office.
He glanced in the rearview mirror to see what he looked like, what she’d make of him—and at the same moment the front door of Grove One flew open and she came striding out.
She looked fit, strong, preoccupied. She had on turquoise jeans and a yellow pullover. Running shoes. She tipped her head back to see the clear sky, and her shoulders rose as she took in a deep breath. He knew exactly how she felt. His reaction after visiting Edward was the same: huge relief; a fresh appreciation of freedom.
He got out of his car.
“Andrew!”
If he had a hope that she’d come today,
his
day, on purpose, her obvious surprise at seeing him dashed it. She gave him an air kiss before they had to move aside for an incoming car. “Can you stay and talk?” he asked, gesturing to an empty bench in a patch of shade near the building.
“No, gotta get back. I just came up to get something—it’s still my free week. Greta’s handling the office and she says everything’s fine, we’re making money.” She leaned against his car and folded her arms. They could talk here, her posture indicated, just not for long.
He didn’t like her bringing up money. It wasn’t her style, and he was afraid it was because of what he’d said the last time—something offhand and thoughtless, possibly sarcastic, about how he’d be
working
while she was down in Virginia finding herself. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, “we have plenty.” She looked at him strangely. Now
he
was saying uncharacteristic things. “What about veterinary school?” he couldn’t resist asking. “How’s that going?”
“I decided against it. There’s too much science.”
He bit his lip. “Em, I’d imagine there would be.”
“So now I’m thinking of the Forest Service. I could be a forest ranger, I’m good at nature.”
Her face was turned from him. He ventured an uncertain laugh. She was joking, wasn’t she?
“Oh—Edward’s mad at me because I made him sit outside.”
“Did you? I’ve given up on that.”
“I know, but it’s such a beautiful day.”
He glanced around. She was right; he hadn’t noticed before. A fresh, warm May day, seventy-five-ish, no humidity. Flowers everywhere. “Chloe thinks he’s gone down,” he said. “I see him so often, I can’t tell. How did you find him?”
“Well…he did seem weaker…more frail,” she said carefully. She was softening her report so as not to alarm him, a well-meant but unnecessary kindness. “His mind wasn’t quite as sharp. He talked about his mother—I’ve never heard him do that before. But he’s still himself. That’s for sure,” she said with a quick laugh, as if recalling something he’d just done or said that was more typical, a slight, some put-down, a deliberate hurt. “I guess I would say, all in all,” she finished gently, “he seems to be failing.”
“Thank you for coming to see him.”
“I couldn’t stay long.”
“But I appreciate it.”
“I should’ve come sooner. I’ve been remiss.”
“It doesn’t matter. Sometimes he doesn’t remember
I’ve
been here.”
“You’re a good son, Andrew. No, you are—you always have been.”
He shook his head, shoved his hands in his pockets, looked off in the distance. How nice they were being to each other. It flustered him.
Her new hairstyle made her look athletic. Younger, too—he should tell her that. He’d bungled it the last time, said the wrong thing, as usual. He blamed it on shock. Her hair had been long for so long, that blowsy, droopy style. He missed it, that was all. Missed the way she would shove her hands in it to lift it up, then let it fall.
“Where’s Hobbes? Didn’t you bring him?” She stood on her toes to see his car.
“Hobbes died.”
“Oh, Andrew. Oh
no
, I’m sorry. When?”
“About a month ago.”
“A month! Why didn’t you
tell
me?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable. “No reason. I suppose I didn’t think of it.”
“You—” She stared at him.
He held her gaze. They were stepping up to a new level of detachment, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. “Sorry,” he said, knowing that was inadequate. It wasn’t even true that he hadn’t thought of telling her about Hobbes. But he’d known she would be sad for him, sympathetic, warm, and he hadn’t wanted any of that. He’d wanted to do without her.
An old man in a motorized chair with a flag on it waved to them as he glided by. “Hi,” Dash called to him with her sunny smile. She should be a nurse, not a forest ranger. Activities director, that was it. She’d cheer the place up.
But now she was angry, rigid. She adjusted her shoulder bag and withdrew a step. The sun, backlighting her hair, blinded him. “Chloe has her English exam today,” he said to keep her. It worked; for a while they talked about their daughter.
“Are you all right?” Dash said finally. She sounded ever so faintly anxious. Didn’t he look all right? No, she was just taking care of the last bit of business before she could leave.
“Yes, fine. Are you?”
“Yes.” She took another step back.
Here it was slipping away again, and they were letting it. He was letting it. This was how their phone calls went: long pauses, mutual dissatisfaction. “We should talk,” he ventured. “About things, someday.”
She made a vague gesture; a safe answer, since she couldn’t know any better than he did what
things
meant. Breaking up? Getting back together? She was the one who used to take charge of this kind of business.
Andrew, we need to talk
, she’d say, and they would hash out whatever was bothering her. About him, usually. If anything bothered him about her, he simply put up with it.
He followed her to her car. It had a new inspection sticker on the windshield, he noticed. That was his job, getting the cars inspected. They were both learning all sorts of new things, weren’t they? The neighbor who always trapped Dash into collecting for the March of Dimes had trapped him this year.
“Is that your enlarger?” The contraption inside a big cardboard box in the backseat. Alongside yellow boxes marked
KODAK
and sealed with black tape, more boxes of trays and containers and amber-colored jars. Darkroom equipment.
“Yeah, I went to the house this morning and got all this stuff out of the attic. I’m going to do some developing,” she said with satisfaction, buckling her seat belt and slipping the key in the ignition. “I can’t wait. I just hope I remember how!”
“I see. So you’re down there for the long haul, are you?”
“I don’t know, Andrew.”
“It’s a long commute.”
“Yes, it is.” She fiddled with the miniature silver camera on her key ring. “I’ve thought of getting a place, something small. Closer in.”
“That makes no sense.”
She shot him a fierce look.
“It doesn’t. You should live in the house. I…I should get a place.”
Silence.
“Is that what you’d like?”
“Andrew—don’t ask me what
I
want when you never say what
you
want.” She waited a few seconds. It was his time to say what he wanted, but he couldn’t think what it was. The engine turning over sounded like an explosion. He got out of the way.
This is really happening, he thought. This is now, the present moment. It’s real.
