Promises (8 page)

“Thirteen, eleven, and nine.”

“Do you have a picture with you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You mean you don’t carry a picture in your wallet? I don’t believe you.”

Suddenly, he reversed himself. Suddenly, he felt an urge to display his handsome children, the happy proofs of what, in spite of her rejection, he had achieved without her. And handing Randi the snapshot of his family with himself included, the one that had
adorned their Christmas cards, he felt a small thrill of pride along with a touch, a mere touch, of revenge.

“Beautiful,” she said wistfully. “How lucky you are.”

“I think so.”

“You know what I’m thinking, don’t you?”

Indeed he did, but he was not going to be inveigled into any poignant reminiscences.

“Things will work out for you, too,” he said. “You’ll find someone.”

“It had better happen soon. I’m thirty-seven.”

“People are starting families later these days. Maybe it’s even better,” he told her, not meaning it.

Placing her elbows on the table and her face in her hands, she leaned forward. A gap forming between the buttons on her blouse gave him a glimpse of cleavage; then into his memory there leapt a picture of her breasts; he recalled them exactly, the size and the feel.

And again, he looked toward the Japanese, who had risen to depart. One of them had two cameras slung around his neck.

“Why do you look away?” asked Randi.

“Did I? I wasn’t aware of it.”

“You do keep looking away. You think I’m going to bite you or something.”

“You’re talking foolishly,” he said, feeling the heat mount into his cheeks.

“You’re right. I am, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease you.”

He frowned. “No, you shouldn’t. I’m too old for that sort of thing, and so are you.”

“You win. I sometimes get into a silly mood, that’s all it is. Shall we have a refill?”

“No. I have to get home.”

“Of course.”

There was, then, nothing to say, which made for a difficult moment. He certainly was not going to make any of the usual remarks, such as
I’ll call you
, or
call me when you can.
It’s too bad, he thought ironically, that my mother taught me to be gracious. Otherwise I could just grab my coat and get away.

With grace, therefore, he helped her on with her jacket, saying, “Good luck, Randi. I’m sure you’ll have it.”

She gave him a rosy smile. Flower face, he remembered. Damn her.

“Wait. Take my card. It won’t be official till my license comes next month, but here’s my home address and phone in case you come across anybody who’s house hunting. I’d appreciate the business.”

“Glad to,” he said, and they parted.

On the way home he felt confusion. Should he mention this encounter to Margaret or not? Mulling it over, he decided not; to do so would give the matter an importance that it definitely did not have.

It angered him that his mind, which had for so long been wiped clean of any thoughts about Randi, was now wasting itself on absurd conjectures. It was ridiculous for him to be considering even for the space of an instant what course his life would have run if he had married Randi. And yet, in spite of his will, his mind persisted. He would probably not have taken the job in Elmsford, he would have wanted to flee from here, from all the embarrassment.… Then Megan and Julie and Danny would not exist. And he recalled those miserable days when he had fought with himself, had so desperately sought a decent way to tell Margaret that
he no longer wanted her.… He wondered whether she might possibly have felt a lack in him then, or worried that something was wrong. If she had, and he hoped she had not, he had certainly made up for it all these years. He was certain that all men must speculate about their old love affairs, but he had never asked anyone. There was a basic privacy in him.…

He made a loose fist and pounded the steering wheel. Idiotic thoughts!

The car turned the corner and moved down the street toward home. In the warm old kitchen Margaret would be preparing their dinner, the girls helping. Sometimes when she had a huge pile of papers to correct, the girls made dinner by themselves, and it was always a good one; their mother brought them up well to be competent. On the white lawn he saw Danny, with his great sheepdog Rufus, waiting for his father. And the lighted house, the boy, the snow-hushed evening, the first stars, all filled him with a thankfulness for which he had no words. He was close to tears.

D
anny needed a new desk. He was nine and a half, and very tall, almost tall enough to use Nina’s desk, which still stood in her room between the windows. But Margaret had objected, “I don’t want anything disturbed in Nina’s room.”

Nothing had been changed there. The striking plaid carpet that Nina had chosen for her birthday present when she was fourteen—a carpet that had horrified Margaret until she had seen how right it was—looked new. The Monet prints still hung on the wall, and the stuffed kangaroo still sat on the white bed.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if Danny were to take the desk,” said Adam.

“That’s not the point. This is still Nina’s room until she marries and has one of her own.”

She knew she was being unduly sentimental, that Nina would never be coming back to this room and no longer considered this house to be home. Yet there was something in her own heart that could not let go all the way, even though it had been she herself who had urged
the girl to take her independent path into the world. And she knew that the “something” was her own indelible picture of the child in the dirty dress, the tiny waif whose mother was dead and whose father was unknown.

“Louise told me about a man who makes wonderful pine furniture,” she said. “It’s sturdy and not at all expensive. He’s upriver on this side in Santee. How about riding out there Saturday morning? We could take a picnic lunch and visit the Indian museum. There’s a new exhibit, I heard.”

It turned out to be a day that pleased them all, with something for everyone. Danny chose a table desk, large enough to accommodate his many paste-and-cardboard projects. In the museum shop the girls bought white leather moccasins with Indian beading. At the side of a country road they all ate roast beef sandwiches, oranges, and Margaret’s chocolate brownies. The midday sun was filtered through new leafage, a tender apple-green. Not very high above them came Canada geese in a great V-formation, speeding with their long necks thrust forward toward their summer home. Their deep honk cut the noon quiet.

How sweet my children are, thought Margaret, watching them as they craned their heads up toward the sky. So clean, so decent, so miraculously untouched by evil or pain, considering the world of the 1990s. They are my work of art, she thought. I grew them. And that, too, is a miracle.

“It’s nice to see hills,” Megan remarked after a time.

“These are nothing,” Adam said. “They’re only little slopes, only a beginning. If you want to see real hills,
you have to keep going north. North or west. A long way.”

“Hear the wind,” said Julie, who was the more sensitive sister.

“There’s no wind,” Danny said scornfully. “Look at the trees. They aren’t even moving.”

“Yes, they are. Look up yourself.”

“One inch. That’s just a breeze. It wouldn’t make a sound.”

“Who knows what kind of trees these are?” asked Adam, interrupting.

“Pines, of course,” said Megan.

“Yes, but what kind?”

No one knew, so naturally Adam was left to explain. He has such a skillful way of deflecting arguments, Margaret thought. He could have been a marvelous teacher. Indeed, within the family he
was
the teacher. And she thought as always how curious it was that he who was usually so reserved, so unwilling, in social situations, was totally expansive with children, any children, not just his own. It was as if he felt completely secure with them. Yet why should a man of Adam’s quality be insecure anywhere?

“These are red pines, and fairly young. They grow much taller than this, up to eighty feet.”

“I guess they’ll be very old by that time,” said Megan, who was factual and exact.

“Not very old. About two hundred years or a little more.”

“Two hundred years!”

“That’s not old for a tree. Why, hemlocks can live more than five hundred years. And,” Adam continued,
obviously enjoying himself, “sequoias in California can live—who knows anything about them?”

“Two thousand years or maybe more,” Megan said.

“Why don’t we go see them?” Danny demanded.

“California’s a long way from here,” his father answered.

Danny argued, “But Cousin Gil and Cousin Louise went there.”

“Cousin Gil is a rich man. He has his own business.”

Margaret wished Adam wouldn’t say things like that. He sounded bitter, although he could not have wanted to sound that way, and there was no reason why he should be bitter. It was not as if he or she had any craving for luxury that they were unable to fulfill. Did he not even disparage what he took to be Nina’s “materialism”?

“We don’t have to be rich to take the Jeep across country,” she said. “There are lots of cabins and motels that don’t cost a fortune. I think it would be great fun, important, too, to see our country.”

“Maybe next summer,” Adam answered. “We’ll see.”

“Why not this summer, Adam?” she suggested gently. “Start at the Badlands, then Utah—Mom and I were in Salt Lake City once, and it was fascinating—then Yosemite, and maybe San Francisco if there’s time.”

“I don’t know. You forget, I’m not my own boss.”

“I don’t forget,” she said quietly. “Come, people, let’s gather up the papers and soda cans. Leave the place the way we found it and start home.”

Danny wanted to know when he was to have his desk.

“Dad will bring it home next week, when it’s ready.”

On the way the children suddenly demanded Cokes.

“We can stop off in Randolph Corners,” Margaret said. “We came through it, didn’t we? I didn’t pay attention.”

“It’s Randolph Crossing,” said Adam, who had certainly paid attention.

And remembering now as he drove along, he began to feel ashamed of this unaccustomed rudeness. Furthermore, it was a stupid way to behave; it was as if he were afraid of the woman.

Yet, what did she want? On the one hand, he thought perhaps he knew very well what she wanted. On the other hand, though, he might be all wrong, merely a conceited fool who thought he was irresistible. He probably was all wrong.

“This is a pretty little town,” Margaret remarked when they arrived at the soda fountain. “Look across the street. There’s a florist, a dress shop, and an attractive bookstore. There didn’t used to be much here, as I remember.”

“There isn’t much now,” Adam said. “There haven’t been more than a dozen cars passing through in the last five minutes. Something tells me that they’ve picked a bad time to gentrify the place.”

“Oh, ‘gentrify,’ ” said the waitress, joining the conversation. “It’ll be great when it happens, we can sure use the business. I know we sure can, but there’s no sign of it yet, that’s for sure.” A large woman, poised between middle age and old age, she spoke with authority. “Up there in The Grove, that’s what they call those new houses on the hill, mighty nice houses, too, I wouldn’t mind having one, ha-ha. Me! Fat chance. Up there, half of them aren’t sold. They can’t move them.
Well, it’ll take time, I guess. Things’ll pick up. Want a refill on those Cokes, kids?”

“I think they’ve had—” Margaret began, when Adam interrupted.

“Things’ll pick up. They always do. But it must be hard on the real estate people, waiting around for the pickup.”

“I guess so. Those women next door, they come in here every day for lunch, and I hear them talk. Mind, they’re not starving, but it’s slow, that’s all. Well, you want the check.”

“Talked your head off, didn’t she?” Adam said when they were in the car.

“She was lonesome.”

Margaret was always quick to catch impressions. She really noticed people. I do not, he thought.

“I had the feeling that she’s a widow. I imagine she has children who’ve moved away and whom she never sees. She lives alone and doesn’t get much chance to talk. A sad, abandoned woman.”

“All that in two minutes’ worth of conversation? You ought to write novels. Sad novels.”

Of course, he was teasing her. And yet there was truth behind the teasing: Margaret had
heart.

Everyone else in the family being occupied on the following Saturday, Adam went alone to fetch the desk. On the way back he took the route that led through Randolph Crossing. The other way was more direct, but the day was brilliant, and the road on this side of the river went past pleasant scenery through diminishing hills down toward home.

After a while, as he neared Randolph Crossing, he
turned the radio off to examine his motive without distraction. The scenic route was certainly the more enjoyable, and it was quite possible he might have taken it even without any other consideration. Still, he had to admit to an element of—should he say “curiosity”?—in his choice. It would be interesting to learn what she was doing with that helter-skelter life of hers; that is, it would be interesting if by any chance he should encounter her. That, however, was most unlikely. In that case, no harm done. And if he should not encounter her, why, no harm done either. He was really making much ado about nothing.