The Distance Between Us (11 page)

Paul seizes the handle of the screen door and flings it wide. Cold air pours around me into the house.

“Hello, sweetheart.” I make my voice pleasant. “How kind of you to come see me.”

“Let me in, Mother. We need to talk.” He sounds more like Arthur with each passing day, down to the threatening growl and the petulant, clipped syllables his father trots out whenever he feels he’s not being shown proper deference. “It’s freezing out here.”

His head swings to Alex and he falls silent for a moment as he studies him. “So this is your new tenant, I suppose? How convenient. He’s one of the main things we need to discuss.” He continues scrutinizing the boy for some time with an odd expression on his face.

I make no move to allow him in the house. “I’m really not in the mood for company today, Paul. Why don’t you run along home, and come back again in the spring?”

He leans one beefy paw on the door frame and towers over me. “I don’t have time for this. Are you going to allow me in, or not?”

I pick some sleep residue out of the corner of my eye with a pinky finger. “That depends. Can you keep a civil tongue in your head?”

He pauses. “You have the gall to speak to me about civility?”

I motion for Alex to stand back and I begin shutting the main door. “Wrong answer.”

Paul rears back in disbelief. “For God’s sake, Mother.” His breathing quickens. “Don’t you dare close this …”

The rest of his sentence is lost and Alex and I stare at each other in the entryway. He looks uneasy. There’s a second of silence, then Paul begins beating on the door and cursing.

“Goddammit, Mother!” His words are somewhat muffled through the wood, but still easy to make out. “I will not be treated like this! Open this fucking door this moment!”

“He knows full well it’s unlocked, and he could barge right in if he wanted to,” I tell Alex. “But of course, being Paul, he’d rather make a scene on the porch for the entire neighborhood to see.”

BAM BAM BAM! “Mother!” BAM BAM! “Goddammit!” BAM BAM BAM! “Let me in, right now! You’re behaving like a four-year-old!”

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!

The noise abruptly stops.

Alex crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat nervously. “Is he going to leave now?” he asks.

“Wait,” I whisper.

A minute passes. Suddenly a soft knock sounds on the curtained panel window to the left of the door. I raise the curtain and Paul’s forehead is pressed against the glass. He says something I can’t hear.

I raise my voice to carry. “What, dear?” I cup my hand to my ear. “Say that again, will you?”

He grimaces but stays silent.

Alex shuffles his feet. “I think he said, ‘Please, Mother,'” he mumbles.

“Really?” I pull the door open and beam at Paul. “I’m so proud of you, dear. You’ve learned some manners! Who’s been tutoring you? Annie Sullivan? Goodness, first Helen Keller, now you.”

He eyes me with distaste. “Very amusing. Are you done playing games now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul.” I let the smile fall from my face. “I’m having far too much fun to stop, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. For an instant there’s a flash of something in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time—a deep, aching sadness I remember noticing quite often when he was a child. Pain flares momentarily in my chest in response, but I push it away.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” I step back and wave him in. “Welcome home, son.”

On the night he turned sixteen, Paul wandered into the kitchen, long after Jeremy and Caitlin had gone to bed. Arthur was out of town on tour, and Paul, who’d spent the bulk of the evening practicing in the music room with the new—and ludicrously expensive—Hill and Sons cello bow we’d bought him for his birthday, took a break around midnight and came to find me as I was finally getting around to cleaning up the supper things in the sink.

“Want help?”

“Of course.”

I washed and he dried, and we had the radio on as we worked. It was semi-dark in the kitchen, with the only light in the room coming from the shaded bulb over the window above the sink. The station we were listening to was playing a Boccherini symphony, and Paul snorted after a few minutes and growled, “Is this stupid piece
ever
going to end?”

I rewarded him with an approving smile. His intolerance for dull music was beginning to rival mine.

“Soon.” I rinsed suds from a plate and handed it to him. “But first there will be a fatuous deceptive cadence, followed by an insipid coda, and then—assuming the orchestra is still alive, of course—there will be a flourish in the violins, announcing the arrival of the last three utterly predictable chords: tonic-six, dominant, tonic.”

I rubbed my chin on my shoulder. “It just occurred to me that Boccherini has almost certainly been reincarnated as Barry Manilow. Someone in authority should be notified, don’t you think?”

He grinned. “So why are we still listening to this?”

“Good question. The sad truth is I was too lazy to change the station, but please do so at once.”

“Nah.” His smile widened. “I want to hear you rip apart the next
piece they play, too.” He handed the plate back. “You missed a spot.”

I grunted. “The imbeciles who run classical music stations could be giving air time to Brahms or Stravinsky, and instead they choose
Luigi Boccherini.
It’s enough to make you want to open your wrists in the bathtub.”

He shook his head in mock disapproval. “You’re a snob, Mom.”

“Of course I am. The only people worth knowing are snobs, dear.” I pause to look down my nose at him. “Incidentally, if you’re not a full-fledged snob by the time you’re an adult, I intend to disown you.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t worry. With you and Dad as my role models, what are the chances I’ll be anything else?”

I chuckled. “Good point.”

We worked for a while in companionable silence, then I remembered something and glanced over my shoulder at the table. “I see you received a letter from the admissions office at Yale today.”

Paul was due to graduate high school a year early, and colleges and universities around the country were already beginning to court him.

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t want to go there. It’s too far away.”

We had been arguing for months about what schools he should apply to for his undergraduate degree. He wanted to stay in Bolton and take lessons at Carson with the same cello teacher he’d had for the last four years (Martin Duvitsky, a talented pedagogue—and, alas, a second-rate performer), but Arthur and I both believed his career would best be served by placing him with a well-known teacher in a larger city. I didn’t want another disagreement that night, but his stubbornness about staying in Bolton at all costs was starting to annoy me.

I pretended to return my attention to my hands in the soapy water. “Yale is close to where I grew up, you know. You might actually like New England if you gave it half a chance.”

He wasn’t fooled by my attempt at nonchalance. An edge worked its way into his voice. “I said I don’t want to, Mom, okay?”

I darted a look at his handsome face. “Don’t pout, Paul. I was just making a suggestion.”

“I’m not pouting, I’m pissed off. There’s a difference.” He tipped his chin down in the same way I do when I’m irritated. “And I’m only pissed off because it’s a shitty suggestion. What’s wrong with me wanting to stay here in Bolton and go to the Conservatory? Are you that anxious to get rid of me?”

“Right at this moment, you mean?”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

I put a damp hand on his wrist. “If I thought Carson Conservatory was the best place for you to go to college, I’d tie you to the radiator to keep you from leaving, even if you wanted to go someplace else. But it isn’t the best place for you, so …”

He made a face. “That’s fucked up. What about what
I
want? It’s my life.”

“Your vocabulary is getting much too colorful for my taste.” I let go of him. “It’s your father’s fault. He’s been swearing around you children ever since you were born.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

I put the last pile of silverware in the dish drainer and pulled the plug in the sink, then I took the towel from him when he was through with it and dried my hands.

“I’m sorry to sound like a cliché, son, but it’s my responsibility to make decisions for you until you’re old enough to make them for yourself.”

“I’m not five, Mom, I’m sixteen.” He leaned against the counter. “As of today. Remember? I’m not a little kid anymore.”

I studied him. He was taller than me by a good six inches, and all the baby fat had long since left his face. His eyes were passionate and bright, like Arthur’s, and his shoulders and chest were filling out daily, so fast I could almost see it happening. The peach fuzz on his face was also getting noticeably darker.

He was right. He wasn’t a child anymore. But he was wrong, too, because when it came to making crucial decisions about his future, he was still very much an infant.

I walked over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey and two glasses. He eyed me with distrust as I poured us each a double shot and gestured for him to sit across
from me at the kitchen table. He hesitated for a moment before acquiescing.

“Your father would kill me if he knew I was doing this with you.” I pushed a glass in front of him.

He stared at me. “You’re not serious. You want me to drink this?”

His voice, too, was now a young man’s, and it still startled me sometimes to hear how deep and husky it had gotten. Just a few short months ago people used to mistake him for me on the phone.

I smiled. “We’re having a drink together to celebrate your birthday. You’re old enough that a shot or two of whiskey won’t kill you.” I looked into his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten drunk with your friends before.”

He shook his head. “I haven’t. I tried a beer at Tony’s one time but I didn’t like it.” He blushed a little. “I poured it out when I went to the bathroom.”

He saw I didn’t believe him and got exasperated with me. “Honest to God, Mom. I’m telling the truth. Besides that crappy white wine you let me taste last Christmas I’ve never had anything else to drink.”

I blinked. “I see. Good for you.” I cleared my throat. “Well. This isn’t beer or wine. In truth, you probably won’t like it, either, but it’s far more efficient.” I raised my glass to him. “Cheers, my love. And happy birthday.”

He didn’t lift his glass. “Why are we doing this? What are you up to?”

I shrugged. “No reason, really. I just want to acknowledge that you’re getting older, as you said.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth the way he always does when he’s thinking. “So is this your way of saying that you’ll stop bugging me about where I want to go to school?”

“Absolutely not. It just means you’re getting older. Now shut up and drink your whiskey like a good boy.”

He looked away and sighed. “Figures.”

I kept my arm in the air. “My shoulder is getting rather tired, dear.”

After a long moment he finally raised his glass, too, and clinked it against mine.

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “I guess I’ll take what I can get.”

“Some joker’s been urinating on St. Booger.” Paul steps through the door and storms past me. He makes a beeline for the living room, impaling Alex with a glare on the way.

I close the door and lean against it. “Stray dogs have always treated poor old Booger abominably.” I raise my eyebrows at Alex and he flushes. “I believe they see him as a fire hydrant with legs.”

Paul reaches the fireplace and turns so his back is to the blaze. “If that’s the case, then there’s a mutt running around the neighborhood who knows the alphabet.” He takes off his black ulster overcoat and tosses it over the arm of one of the chairs. “The letters ‘c’ through ‘f’ are scribbled in piss in the snow covering Booger’s feet.”

Alex kicks at the rug and mouths the word “sorry” at me.

I push off from the door and gesture for him to follow me into the living room. He trails along behind me, and when I sit in my chair he stands at my side like an overly attentive waiter. Paul eyes him with ill-humor, and Alex studies the floor.

“So.” I break the silence with a cold syllable. “What did you want to speak with me about, Paul?”

He crosses his arms and rests them on his substantial paunch. He gives Alex yet another black look, then drops his gaze to my face. “We need to discuss this in private, Mother, don’t you think?”

Alex makes a small noise and turns to leave.

I catch his wrist, and I’m amazed at how warm his skin is. He must have an oven for a heart. My own fingers are freezing.

“Stay put, dear.” I look into his pale, expressive face. “Please.”

His eyes dart to Paul and then back to me. He’s terribly uncomfortable, but after a minute he favors me with a feeble attempt at a smile, then nods.

I release him and turn back to Paul. “Alex is fine right where he is, son. He lives here, unlike someone else I could name.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Paul snaps. “Stop being so goddamn childish. I’ve come to see you about a personal family matter, and this …
this barefoot street urchin you’ve taken in has absolutely no business hearing any of it.”

I sigh. “I don’t think you’re going to say anything Alex hasn’t already heard from your unconscionably rude father.” I pull at my ear. “For instance, you’re going to tell me that this house doesn’t
legally
belong to me, right?” I stress the word “legally” in an imitation of Paul’s pompous tone. “And I had
absolutely
no right to rent the attic apartment to Alex, and therefore I’m a
horrible
person.”

I bestow a pleasant smile on him. “How am I doing?”

He bares his tobacco-stained teeth. “You’re a mind reader. But you left some things out, too.”

“I can’t imagine what.”

“Oh, no?” He leans forward and the floor creaks. “For starters, how about the wanton destruction of Dad’s table?”

“Good God.” I yawn. “Not that again.”

“That table was worth a fortune, not to mention the sentimental value it had for Dad.”