Stranger, Father, Beloved (9 page)

“Yep, I do.” Jill grinned.

“What should we do?”

“I've wanted to take you to an energetic movement class with me for so long. I think you'll love it. I know, you think it's hokey, but just give it a try.”

“What in the world is that?”

“It's a Japanese healing art. Very intense.”

“I have no idea what a ‘healing art' is. Don't expect me to like it. How long is the class?”

“An hour and fifteen minutes. It's a mix of yoga, Reiki, and energetic realignment. If you don't like it, you never have to go again. I just want to share it with you.”

While the pie was baking, they went into the living room and sat on the couch. It was almost ten, and the rain had picked up. Ryan could not imagine leaving now.

“I want to settle in for the night and sleep here, okay, Jill?”

“Will you call your parents and let them know?”

“I'll explain tomorrow,” she said, yawning. It would be the first time she had not called home, but she had a feeling it would be no big deal. Her parents never called her out on anything. And Jill would let her sign up for a trip to the moon if Ryan asked her.

“Jill, get me something to sleep in, okay?”

Jill rose heavily from the couch, and they went up the stairs slowly, careful not to wake Carol. In Jill's room, Ryan took the over
sized T-shirt and shorts offered and pulled off her clothes right there. She felt she had never in all her life been this relaxed. This was why people drank and why people needed other people to live with, no matter how irritating they were—someone to watch you and know you were alive each day.

She stood in her bra and underwear, and Jill looked away. With great satisfaction she unhooked her bra and reached for the T-shirt. She saw Jill stare at her once in the mirror and then look away, picking up some laundry from the corner of the room. Unlike the rooms in her own home, the rooms in Jill's house were cozy and livable. She felt that this was where she was supposed to anchor herself at the end of the day. She would do anything to be able to stay here and claim it for her own.

“Good night, Jill.” With the large shorts and shirt hanging over her frame, she went downstairs to the basement to go to sleep. From the couch, she could smell the berry pie that was cooling in the kitchen upstairs.

She wondered what her family would be doing at that moment. Dinner would be finished, and Max would be in the bath or in bed, being read his bedtime story by her mother. Her father would be in his study, and the house would get quieter and quieter. Vacancy would chill the halls. Her mother would be asleep already, and the house would get quieter still, until, at last, nothing. If she were home, she would become more and more aware of the fact that only she and her father were still awake in separate parts of the house. He always had something to occupy himself with at night, a book to read or some work to finish in his study for the next business day.

When she was younger, she and her father would often read together. They had had so many rituals that excluded the rest of the family. Surrounded by books in the study, she used to sit in one of
her father's leather chairs, adjacent to him as he sat in the other chair. Her mother had never bothered them while they were in her father's domain.

Now that she no longer joined him for nightly reading, she imagined that he probably left certain work unfinished, work that could easily be completed between the hours of nine and five, solely for the purpose of having it to fill the hours at home. She realized that his days were constructed very carefully, with intense deliberation. If that careful structure were abandoned, she felt certain something would happen—the walls would buckle, or their front door would refuse to close and seal them safely in. Ryan remembered that this was the time of night when he would be having his glass of scotch. To know that they had both been having drinks at the same time soured her experience of it.

Ryan felt a chill pass through her as she suddenly remembered one evening several months ago. Her father had had a little too much to drink and had leaned over and, while hugging her good night, his face in the nape of her neck, had grazed her neck for a moment with his teeth. When the teeth went into the skin, she paused, freezing their embrace. Her arms seemed to lock themselves in place, and when he pulled away, she felt a slight moistness on her neck. Feeling began to return to her body and the nerves attempted to try to realign themselves. He had smiled and walked up the stairs to his bedroom, as if nothing had happened. He was normal Dad in his own mind, she thought, though he was gripping heavily on the banister as he trudged upward. He stumbled once on the stairs. The light from the hallway lit up half of his face and left the rest in darkness. When he had shut the door to his room, she was still standing there, frozen.

It had all happened so quickly. What was a bite, really? This moment was utterly obscure and indescribable to her. But the “bite”
had plagued her mind for days, tensing up her body. As the years passed, her father seemed to become more like a clock that was slowly wound tighter and tighter. He had used to be funny and happy when she was very young, smooth in his manners, but now he was just awkward and his mind was elsewhere, his eyes searching for something.

The brief bite must have been an accident, the result of pills and alcohol, but when she thought of the bite at this moment, her body began its tensing, and yet, and yet, the vodka was erasing it. The memory was becoming sloppy now and sliding away. This vault of a room in Jill's basement seemed to crush memories into harmless little jars full of ugly liquids that could be put away.

She went into the bathroom and started a bath. She brought her glass in and sat it on the edge of the tub. The room had the sterile feel of a hotel bathroom—it belonged to nobody, and she loved that about it. She felt there was nothing more wonderful than to be left alone at the end of the day. How grateful she was for this little pink-tiled room, for Jill, going to sleep two floors above, and for Carol, for not interfering with her coming to this place.

As she lay down in the hot water, she rested one of her delicate feet under the spout and mindlessly let the water fall on it. This gentle pounding calmed her, and she closed her eyes. In a state of deep peace, she thought immediately of Max and felt a swell of guilt. She was well aware that Max idolized her and that it pained him to be left in the house without her. Maybe I can bring him here, she thought, where nothing is forbidden.

She drifted off to sleep on the couch around eleven thirty and then awoke to noises overhead. The refrigerator door slammed. Ryan wrapped the throw around her shoulders and went to see what
Jill was up to. She found Carol sitting in the kitchen with a plate of food—chicken, beets, and french fries, steaming hot from the microwave. Carol was clearly surprised to see Ryan emerging from the basement. She quickly looked down at her food, embarrassed for eating such a large amount before bed. It could not be passed off as a “snack.”

“What are you still doing here?”

“I was too beat to go home, so I'm crashing on the couch—you don't mind, do you?”

“No, I just didn't know you were here.” Ryan noticed that Carol didn't take a bite but held on to her fork and stared down at the table. She had noticed Carol's eyes flash with recognition at seeing that Ryan wore one of her mom's old T-shirts, gray and worn down very thin over the years. It was see-through and showed off Ryan's chest, and she knew that Carol was jealous of her figure. No one really stared at Carol's figure.

“Do you want some food?” Carol asked.

“No, thanks. Go ahead.”

Miserably, Carol began to eat her chicken. Ryan just stood there with her hands on the counter.

To ease the tension, she said, “I'll make myself a chocolate milk,” as she knew Carol would rather she do something than just stand there.

“I don't eat like this every night . . . there are—”

Ryan cut her off: “I understand why, you work out more than most people, you need extra calories . . . I couldn't do all the sports you do . . . I mean, I would probably pass out or break my ankle.”

“Yes, you probably could, it's not rocket science,” Carol responded. Ryan had always loved the dry style of her friend's humor, and after silly comments like this she yearned for her company again.

“That's a silly thing to say. Not everyone can be an amazing athlete.”

“I'm not that amazing,” Carol responded.

They both blushed and looked down. “Why won't you just admit it? Not everyone can do as well as you do. Oh, never mind, I'm just rambling.”

“You always were the kind who rambled,” Carol said, suddenly grinning.

She finished eating and seemed embarrassed to get up from the table in her sheep-patterned pajamas.

“Do you want to watch a video? I can't fall asleep right away at night anyway,” Ryan offered as Carol took her dishes to the sink.

“Sure,” Carol replied without thinking. “I took my nightly Nyquil before eating to help me sleep and it should kick in soon, but I could put something on until my eyes start to close.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember now you take that to help you sleep.” Ryan studied her friend as she moved around the kitchen. She had gotten so bulky and boxy over the years, as if she were one big muscle with no bones or angles mixed in.

Carol stopped and turned to Ryan, seeming to know she was being watched and judged. Her little troll face snapped back to defensive anger that burned behind her tired eyes.

“I know that spending time with me is your number-one priority and that it means the world to you, and therefore your invitation is very important to me,” Carol said, pursing her lips and frowning dramatically. “But I have to decline—I know you wanted to feel like a good person, a good friend. Sorry. I know your heart is broken.” She gave Ryan one last dirty look.

Ryan stood there, shocked, as Carol walked out of the kitchen, and she considered going home. But then she realized that whether
or not she left was of no consequence to Carol, as Carol would not notice one way or the other.

“Okay, good for you, back to your chamber of misery, Carol,” she called in response. The words lingered after her in the empty hallway. Ryan took her milk down to the basement and clicked on the TV. She was once again alone, but her anger toward Carol evaporated soon enough, squished into a different jar—deep down, it was clear to her which of them was better.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Michael's mother, Marilyn, had visited the Peninsula only once. The drive from his hometown in Greenwich, Connecticut, took her almost three hours. The visit was a painful memory, as everything had been one degree off the mark, and, except for her time with her grandchildren, it was a minor disaster. The weather had been unforgiving, showing her the worst side of the Peninsula. Persistent rain and fog had chilled the house and made traveling anywhere dreary and unpleasant. Nancy had been nervous the whole visit, trying everything to impress her mother-in-law, but it hadn't gone over well. Her opinion of Nancy was fixed and would not be altered by a fancy breakfast or a well-decorated guest room.

Marilyn preferred instead to have Michael come to visit her, and he did so regularly. She was fragile, plagued with severe osteoporosis, and he traveled to take care of her for a weekend every couple of weeks. It was clear she was reaching the end of her life as she was shrouded in a subtle but constant depression due to the death of her beloved sister. When he wasn't there with her, she had a nurse day and night looking after her. She liked them well enough but was weary around them, and had a hard time not snapping at them when
they made a mistake. Michael knew all the subtle things she liked, the amount of silence and conversations she required, and the nurses seemed forever to be trying to figure out how to win her approval. She anticipated Michael's visits for days before he arrived.

It gave Michael a secret thrill to sleep in the bedroom of his youth, disconnected as it was from his current life. His room had soft red carpeting, which he enjoyed walking on without shoes or slippers. His mother had redecorated all of the rooms, and except for the furniture, lamps, and paintings, everything was different—new wallpaper and a brighter and fresher feeling. The room was therefore unburdened with childhood memories, and the past few years contained restful visits, with reminders of the old in the notches on the staircase and the same chandelier that hung in the entry room.

This time, as he always did when he was going to visit her, Michael left work early on Friday and got on the road. It was mid-June, and the yard was being reconfigured. Things were changing, so there was nothing he had to do. He knew the drive by heart, so he was able to make all the turns without thinking, to daydream about his time at the university or to imagine himself as an aging professor instead of a wealthy, soulless businessman.

As he chugged along the highway, Michael saw the same chain restaurants, the many towns that contained families similar to his own, but the houses lacked character, all lined up in rows, the grass an unnaturally bright green due to the chemicals doused over them once or twice a year. Michael stopped in the small town of Milford, which was his halfway mark, and got himself some coffee, and then drove to Katie's Deli and bought his mother a rotisserie chicken and a container of their famous macaroni and cheese. On his way out of
town he made his final stop at the local bakery for a coconut cake. From there, it was only another hour on the road, and the drive was particularly pretty and scenic as it wound through a sequence of small towns in the hilly country. Michael took the road off the highway and enjoyed seeing trees and stone fences, with fewer houses and people in sight.

As he got nearer and nearer to Greenwich, Michael thought about his father, Howard James, the beloved judge of the town. Michael had grown up in a respectable house in Connecticut, and his father had always stayed up late in his room with a glass of scotch and a huge biography or massive book retelling true stories from the World Wars. Howard had been in World War II, and on the ledge behind him, he had photos of himself standing on sunny beaches, looking intense and prideful, with canopy tents in the background of the photos. He had a sharply featured, handsome face with deep, almost black eyes. His expression was often stoic, yet a mildly flirtatious smile usually played about his lips.

When Michael would trudge downstairs for a late-night snack, he would walk past the open door and hear the ice move in the glass and a page turn. His father had been successful as a judge, but reading and painting were his secret passions. He had a little studio attached to his room (Michael's parents had stopped sharing a bed and had separate bedrooms when the kids were young, five and seven). Michael admired him immensely. When he was younger, he was able to sometimes step inside the room where his father sat in a chair with a little table in front of him that held one of his huge books and his glass of scotch. His father seemed pleased to tell him about the book he was reading, about the history of the world, and about what made this particular writer engaging. It was clear to all that Howard had a fine mind.

Michael had been paid exactly one compliment by his father, and he never forgot it: “Your mother showed me your paper on the Great Depression. She and I lived through that time, obviously, so we know how it was and we learned how to save money by living through it. Your paper was very good. Work hard, Michael. You're smarter than your sister, as you know, smarter than most, actually, and you could go far.” After that he turned back to his book and began reading, ending the conversation.

Michael's sister, Sarah, was half pretty, and into boys and concerned with fitting in. She had sandy blond hair that she wore in a ponytail with a brightly colored ribbon. Michael's father was affectionate with her and protective of her safety, but he seemed dismissive of the idea that she would ever do anything of import. When Michael had received that compliment from his father, he had taken it inside his heart and nursed it there. Many a time, when he had struggled with his neuroticism, he thought about giving up—school, his career—but the compliment from his father had presented itself several times along his path as a reminder, and that reminder prevented him from failing. As he got older, his father seemed uncomfortable when Michael would enter his room, so he did so less often and then not at all.

Michael arrived at dinnertime, starving, and went right to work heating the food. His mother lay in bed, camped as she was in the dining room by the kitchen. She could no longer go up and down the stairs with ease, and the dining room was convenient, as it was between the kitchen and the front hallway. She had the bed raised and her reading glasses on, yet she was asleep. The chandelier, which used to shine onto the polished dining room table, now shone down on the worn
oriental rug in the center of the room. Her bed was several feet from the zone of twinkling light. The dining table and chairs had been moved down to storage after his mother had cracked her hip for the second time. Her crossword puzzle lay untouched, a wrinkled mess in her lap. Looking at her sleeping face, Michael saw that it had a dignified, though no longer stunning, kind of beauty to it, and he could still see traces of her younger face in this one.

When she awoke, she glanced at him and then at the clock. She smiled with a deep satisfaction, as one of the qualities she loved most in Michael was his punctuality. It was a sign of intelligence, she felt, when a person's internal clock was wound as it should be and could match the tempo of the external world with its many events.

Her osteoporosis had caused her spine to curve inward to such a degree that it pushed into her lungs, making it difficult for her to breathe or even move around. The constant pain of it caused her hours of silent agony. She had arthritis in her fingers, a condition she was used to after so many years, but on cold mornings, the ache was another strong punishment upon waking. Michael knew she concealed from him just how painful it was all becoming for her, so as not to worry him, and he wondered if her day-to-day existence with her nurses depressed her. It wasn't clear to him how long she had left, and at home he would often worry that she might slip away in the night with him hours away, not there to hold her hand.

Marilyn had never quite gotten over her older sister, Elizabeth's, death. Even though it had happened five years ago, it still affected her strongly, even more profoundly than her husband's passing. Elizabeth had been “a wit” and had had a wild independence that was so much a part of her no one challenged it. She had adored Marilyn, and the two had been close with a feverish kind of possessiveness similar to the bond lovers share. Their affection had not lessened when each
had gotten married. Now that Marilyn had so many empty hours, her mind wandered back to Elizabeth easily and the memories caused her much pain.

With Aunt Elizabeth gone, Michael felt he now had a special place in her life; he was her only love left. He knew that she cared for her friends, but she never loved them, for to her, family was the only source of real love and devotion. Marilyn lit up every time upon seeing him, and their already strong bond seemed to deepen as she entered the final phase of her life.

Michael had always been her favorite child, and, although they quarreled, it was clear that each pleased the other in a basic way. His sister, Sarah, lived out in Nevada and kept only the most minimal kind of contact with the two of them. To everyone's astonishment, Sarah had refused to finish college and had become deeply religious. For their intellectual family, this was the worst kind of sin. She called them once every couple of months, and they endured the tense brief conversations as best they could. His mother rarely mentioned her, for there was really nothing to say about her that didn't elicit a baffling kind of shame. Sarah had married a deeply religious Christian. She sent them all pamphlets in attempts to convert her parents and brother to her faith. She had had child after child while living in a tiny house in rural Nevada and sent a photo once to her parents of herself and her husband standing on a dirt “lawn” littered with rusty toys, with the unimpressive house behind them. She had drifted off into her new family and lost touch with Michael and her parents, and it was just as well.

Michael brought out her tray and sat down in his chair across from his mother. They ate together, teased each other, and made insignificant remarks.

“You're copying me again,” she said with a straight face, as she brought a piece of chicken breast to her mouth. She was referring to his eating the chicken first, a habit they both knew they shared.

“Maybe you're the one copying me, since I'm the one who started eating first,” he replied. She gave a short laugh and went back to chewing.

“What's Ryan up to?”

“She's a little full of herself these days,” Michael heard himself say, and the ugliness of his response pained him. He felt momentarily paralyzed and then shook it off and his thoughts resumed their regular flow.

“She has every right to be. That is one precious girl. Bring her with you next time.” Michael quickly wondered if his presence alone was not enough for her, then dismissed the thought and concentrated on his food. How could he tell her that Ryan despised him and would never agree to spend time with him? He was careful to preserve the atmosphere of peace. They would retire early, and, unlike in his own house, he would sleep well here. He could feel it in his bones.

“How's work been?” she asked between bites, her antique face still beautiful in its own way.

“Just fine,” Michael answered. He thought about what would happen were he to get fired. It wouldn't matter, as he had saved up so much money over the years from working there. He wouldn't even need to work anymore, considering the inheritance he would receive when his mother died. Money was not an issue and never would be, but he found none of it enjoyable. He had hundreds of thousands of dollars in the bank. He thought of John, who probably had thirty thousand saved up at most. He wondered what John would do with all of Michael's money were he to possess it.

Michael thought about tomorrow morning, when Marilyn's two closest friends, Betty and Anne, would come by. He would play bridge with them, and the women would have a great time teasing him and beating him out of money. He would make many trips to the kitchen while they played, refilling the ladies' teacups and bringing out cookies and pecans. These simple acts were appreciated by all, and he never felt so useful.

Michael could hear the familiar sound of Betty's deep voice in his head. “Doll, bring me a teaspoon of sugar,” she'd say, her eyes on her cards, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

After he did the dinner dishes, he and his mother played gin rummy for a while, and then he went upstairs to his room. Once in his room, he checked his mother's answering machine to see if he had received any calls. There were none. He was surprised, as Nancy usually called him on the first night of these visits.

The next morning, Michael was up before his mother and, instead of waking her, he made her breakfast, knowing she would eventually awaken from the noise.

He was looking forward to the day ahead. It always unfolded without their noticing the passage of time. After breakfast they read the paper together and did the crossword, and then Michael set up the card table in the living room for the group of ladies. Betty showed up first, a plastic container of Virginia ham in her hand, and helped Marilyn make her way into the living room with her walker. Betty still wore elegant shoes over her swollen feet, even though she would have been more comfortable in orthotic shoes.

“Great to have you here, Michael,” Betty called to him as she passed the kitchen, and Michael smiled to himself as he made her
usual cup of orange spice tea with a lemon slice. When he set it on the coaster by her place at the card table, Betty looked up at him and remarked, “Still so handsome, isn't he, Marilyn? You always were a real doll, Michael. Such a well-formed face.”

“Well, I had a good gene pool to work with, didn't I?” Michael said and gave his mother a playful smile.

Anne showed up fifteen minutes later, as she always did. Older people had such lovely, predictable routines—the same schedule, the same beverages, and similar conversation. Everyone knew his or her place—all was in order.