The Husband (18 page)

The children recognized the cue. “I guess we can go out,” said Jonathan.

“There’s quite a bit of cleaning up to do,” said Peter, who wanted them to stay.

“I could get a garbage can down to the basement,” said Jonathan, “and stuff all the burned things in it.”

“You can take a can down,” said Peter, “but you’d better let Mom make an inventory of the things before they’re thrown out. The insurance company will want to know what was damaged and how much each item cost.”

Rose seemed genuinely grateful for his practicality.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Sure,” he said.
Sure, what?
It sounded stupid.

“Peter?”

“Uh huh.” He was completely unprepared for what she said.

“Could you arrange to move your things back this evening?”

She was out of her mind.
No she wasn’t; this was a natural response for Rose. Like the virgins in school who after the first time want to know when the engagement will be announced. Was it the fire, the momentary threat of danger to the house, that brought them together?

No, for Rose it was the near-sex, or whatever it had been in the bedroom, his going along, lending himself to Rose’s design. Did she think it committed him to anything?
Not on your life
, he was tempted to say. That kind of thing doesn’t have the force of union, much less marriage.

Rose wouldn’t understand.

Peter was silent for a time, taking in the room as if with a camera, snapping this wall, that wall, recording familiar objects, storing the views away for later.

“Were you about to say something?” asked Rose, her tone mellow. He even thought there was a note of pleading in it.

Could he tell her—hadn’t he already told her through word and deed—that their marriage had been a mistake which they now had a chance to rectify? Partnerships made sometimes had to be dissolved. Few friendships lasted a lifetime. Few lasted over the years. Was marriage so different from a friendship that didn’t last? You didn’t have children with friends; yet that wasn’t completely true. Sometimes you’d get close to a friend’s kids, and some of that closeness would remain when you saw the kids or thought of them, even when the friend himself was rarely seen and rarely thought of.

“Are you feeling all right?” asked Rose. “Is the smoke still bothering you?”

He shook his head.

Peter didn’t want to be rude. But above all, he didn’t want to lie now, not a fundamental, soul-crushing lie. He gathered himself together. He closed his eyes for a split second so that the camera would stop recording, lifted himself from the chair, and went out the door without saying a single word.

Through the closed door behind him he could hear Rose crying, not the fake tears he had heard from time to time in the young years of their marriage, but sobbing grief because she had been so certain and her hopes had been so high.

As he went down into the subway, he realized he hadn’t said good-bye to the kids. There were lots of other things he hadn’t said or done, not only today but over the years.

The past is past, he thought, knowing it wasn’t. If it were, why would he be thinking now of his own childhood, and his parents, who had stayed together as most parents did in another age?

He put the token into the turnstile and hurried his steps because he could hear the roar of the incoming train below.

Chapter Eleven

“When’s the son of a bitch getting here?” said Jack. Rose watched Jack pace on the far side of the living room. She had noticed his glances at the bar. This late in the afternoon the whiskey mechanism was rumbling in his head, wanting that first after-work drink. She had not offered Jack a drink. Work would not be over until after Peter left.

“When’s the son of a bitch coming?” repeated Jack.

Rose sighed. “Please don’t call him that.”

“Call him what?”

“Son of a bitch,” said Rose a bit hesitantly.

“Why the hell not?”

“I don’t like that word.”

“You just said it.”

“I want him to come back.”

“Well, you won’t get him out of the sack with Miss what’s-her-name by sitting around the house moaning.”

“It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen him.”

“You’ve got to leave things to me,” said Jack.

“He just walked out of here without saying a word. A word.”

“Look, Rose,” Jack said, taking her hands in his, “why don’t you buy yourself a new hat or girdle or low-cut dress or something? Isn’t that what women do when they’re down?”

Rose gently took her hands out of his. “Do I look that bad?”

“Jesus, Rose, you look fine, fore and aft. I’m no close-range expert.”

He was getting ready to take her hands again. Rose quickly said, “You’re close enough, Jack.”

He slumped into the nearest chair. “I didn’t mean to rush things.”

Rose came around behind the chair and put her hands on his shoulders. “You’re galloping.”

“At my age,” he said, and Rose had never heard his voice so linty with weariness, “all you see at the end of the line is the glue factory.” Jack was tempted to look around at her, but it was safer not seeing her reaction.

“I’ve had a yen for you for a long time,” he said without turning.

Your job
, Rose thought,
is to get Peter back here with the kids and me
.

“Remember when you sat in my lap that time?” asked Jack, his voice subdued.

“I remember.”

“Well, my lap didn’t forget.”

Rose had always thought she was good at pity for other people, but pity for herself so filled her now it was no use trying.

“I guess I’m blunt,” said Jack.

“A little.”

“I guess I’m fat, too.”

“A little.”

“I guess I just don’t cut a figure like Peter.”

“I wish he’d get here,” said Rose.

“What time’d he phone?”

“Ten. That’s when I called you.”

“I don’t like the two of you talking on the phone without witnesses.”

“Oh, Jack, please! He’s my husband.”

Jack stood up, a high color in his face. It was barely a whisper when he spoke. “You’re an exciting-looking woman, Rose.”

“We’ll find somebody for you, Jack. Just give us time.”

He looked forlorn.

“I need your help, Jack.”

Slowly he let the lawyer’s mask slip into place. “Okay, kid,” he said, “but leave things to me. Promise?”

“I have to.”

“If he’d done this to me,” said Jack, the gristle returning to his voice, “I’d have killed him.” He pursued Rose to the corner of the room. “I don’t understand you, Rose. Don’t you want to punish him?”

“There’s still a lot of feeling left.”

“For that half-assed idiot?”

“I can’t get the cobwebs of that many years out of my system in one sweep.”

“He did.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“You’re soft, Rose.”

It was a moment before she said, “If I were soft, he might not have left.”

They froze at the sound of footsteps outside. “You better let me do the talking.”

The doorbell rang.

“Okay?” asked Jack.

The instant she kissed Jack’s cheek, she knew she shouldn’t have, but there was no reversing. “Okay,” she said, trying a smile that was supposed to convey a promise of good behavior.

Jack let Peter in. Peter closed the door of the cage behind him.

“Hello, Jack,” said Peter.

Jack ignored Peter’s extended hand.

“Hello, Rose,” said Peter.

“Hello, Peter.”

“You feeling all right?” he asked her.

“I suppose,” she said. “Under the circumstances.”

“Now, Peter,” said Jack, “sit down over here.”

Jack gestured at a chair Peter never sat in.

“You mean exactly here?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “it’ll be better if you sit there and Rose sits here and I sit in between you.”

“Sounds like a properly run dinner party,” said Peter. He thought he saw a flicker of appreciation in Rose’s eyes for the lightness of his comment.

“Now this isn’t a time for levity,” said Jack. “I’m here as Rose’s attorney, but she’s asked me to act as a friend also, and to see if some attempt can’t be made at—reconciliation, see.”

“You really hate that word, don’t you, Jack?”

“I thought with your being away three weeks,” said Rose carefully, “you might have had some second thoughts.”

“I’ve had many thoughts, Rose. I didn’t mean to give you pain. I didn’t mean to have any pain either, and I’ve had a lot of it these past three weeks.”

“Well,” she said, “if you’re genuinely sorry—”

“I am,” said Peter.

“And if you’re through with your fling—”

“It isn’t a fling. You were pretty rough on her.”

“Look what you did to me. I was desperate. I was fighting for—”

“Was it that much of a surprise? Was everything so great between us?”

“—for my life,” said Rose.

“Not your life with me, you weren’t.”

“Hey,” Jack intervened, “don’t you start turning things around.”

“Shut up, Jack,” said Peter. “Keep out of this. Rose, you’re feeling alone, but not because of me.”

“You’re out of your mind. There’s no one else—”

“Anyone who’d take on the job here. You want a breadwinner.”

“Of course,” said Rose.

“A man around the house.”

“Of course.”

“Someone to go to bed with.”

“Is there anything wrong with—”

“Someone to take you to the movies, serve as an escort, change the snow tires on the car, someone, anyone, but not necessarily me. Rose, you don’t love me. I mean me in particular. You’re just used to me in the job of husband around here.”

“That’s not true!”

“Well,” said Peter, toning down, “I was used to the same thing till I met Elizabeth.”

“What has she got to do with us?”

“I love her. Her. She loves me. Me.”

“Then what right do you think you have to come back and talk about reconciliation? Do you think I’d take you back while you’re carrying on with that woman?”

“I didn’t come to talk about reconciliation,” said Peter. “I wanted a chance to say I’m sorry about what happened on the day of the fire.” He caught the puzzled look on Jack’s face; she hadn’t told him. “And I’m sorry I brought Elizabeth here. It was stupid of me. I’m sorry about that scene. Most of all, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize us sooner. Fifteen years sooner. Mainly I came because the thing that’s killed me most, Rose, is not seeing the kids. Are they upstairs?”

The kids?” Rose whispered.

“Yes.”

“Not me?”

“Seeing you still hurts.”

“You do feel guilty.”

“Of course I do!”

“Cut the psychology crap,” said Jack, “both of you.”

“Wait a minute, Jack,” said Rose. She was very close to Peter. She spoke as if Jack weren’t in the room. “Isn’t there anything left?”

Peter, his hands clasped, saw his knuckles whiten. “You don’t just slide out of one life into another, Rose. Sure, there are memories. Feelings. You may not stay in your hometown, but you never forget it.” He turned toward the stairs. “Can I see the kids now?”

Rose quickly looked at Jack. “No,” she said.

“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Peter, but Jack had already reacted; his hand was on Peter’s shoulder. “No,” he said.

“I’m going upstairs.” Peter shot a fierce look at Jack’s hand. Jack removed it.

“They aren’t upstairs,” said Jack.

Peter turned to Rose. “Are they up there?”

“No,” said Rose, glancing anxiously at Jack, wishing he would take charge.

“Outside?” asked Peter, his anger rising.

“No,” said Rose, imploring Jack to speak.

Jack said, “Now look here, Peter, the fact is, you’re not going to see the kids.”

“What the hell—you said—”

“I wanted you to come by to get some important things straightened out. That’s why I told Rose you could come out. And Rose needed to get this reconciliation crap off her mind.”

“Please don’t talk that way,” Rose’s voice begged.

“Jack,” said Peter, facing him, “you don’t have to try to win the vulgarity cup. You’re a natural.”

“I don’t give one damn what you think about me. I’m here representing Amanda….” His voice choked its error. “I mean Rose.”

Peter turned to Rose. “You sure you want this kind of representation?”

“Jack’s a very good lawyer.”

“Our problem has very little to do with the law.”

“You’ll find out,” said Jack.

Peter flicked a murderous glance at Jack and asked Rose once more, “You sure you want him representing you?”