The Times Are Never So Bad (11 page)

Before writing the letter, she talked to Fran, then Gary. The night she got back from vacation she told Fran; they talked until two in the morning, filling the room with smoke, pursing their lips, waving their hands. As sophisticated as Fran was, she agreed with Jackie that her father was wrong, that her parents' marriage was in danger, and that her mother must be delivered from this threat of terrible and gratuitous pain. Again and again they sighed, and said in gloomy, disillusioned, yet enduring voices that something had to be done. The next night she talked to Gary. There was a movie he wanted to see, but she asked him if they couldn't go drink beer. I have to talk to you, she said.

They sat facing each other in a booth at the rear, where it was dark, and using fake identification cards they drank beer, and she watched his eyes reflecting the sorrow and distraction in her own. Her story lasted for three beers; then, as she ended by saying she would write her father a letter, her tone changed. Now she was purposeful, competent, striking back. This shift caught Gary off guard, nearly spoiling his evening. He had liked it much better when she had so obviously needed his comfort. So he nodded his head, agreeing that a letter was probably the thing to do, but he looked at her with compassion, letting her know how well he understood her, that she was not as cool as she pretended to be, and that a letter to her father would never ease the pain in her heart. Then he took her out to his car, drove to the stadium and parked in its shadow, and soothed her so much that, on the following Saturday, she went to confession and told the priest she had indulged in heavy petting one time.

By then, she had written and mailed the letter. It was seven pages long, using both sides of the stationery, and she had read the first draft to Fran, then written another. Five days later she had heard nothing. When she mailed the letter, she had thought there were only two possible results: either her father would break off with the woman and renew his fidelity to her mother, or he would ignore the letter (although she didn't see how he could possibly do that; the letter was there at his office; her knowledge of him was there; and—this was it—his knowledge of himself was there too: he could not ignore these things). But after a week she was afraid: she saw other alternatives, even more evil than the affair itself. Feeling trapped, he might confront her mother with the truth, push a divorce on her. Or he might bolt: resign his position at the bank and flee with the other woman to California or Mexico, leaving her mother to live her life, shamed and hurt, in Chicago. She thought of the awful boomerangs of life, how the letter—written to save the family—could very well leave her a scandaled half-orphan; as the last unmarried child, she saw herself bravely seeking peace for her mother, taking her on trips away from their lovely house that was now hollow, echoing, ghost-ridden.

Then, at seven o'clock on a Wednesday morning, exactly one week after she had mailed the letter, her father phoned. He woke her up. By the time she was alert enough to say no, she had already said yes. Then she lit a cigarette and got back in bed. From the other bed, Fran asked who was that on the phone.

‘My father. He's driving down to lunch.'

‘Oh Lord.'

When he arrived at the dormitory she was waiting on the front steps, for it was a warm, bright day. He was wearing sunglasses, and he smiled easily as he came up the walk, as though—trouble or not—he was glad to see her. He was a short man who at first seemed fat until you noticed he was simply rounded, his chest and hips separated by a very short waist; he kept himself in good condition, swimming every day in their indoor pool at home, and he could still do more laps than she could. Jackie rose and went down the steps. When he leaned forward to kiss her, she turned her cheek, receiving his lips a couple of inches from hers.

He followed her to the Lincoln, opened the door for her, and she directed him to the bar and grill where she and Gary had talked, then led him to the same booth, where it was dark even in the afternoon and people couldn't distinguish your face unless they walked past you. He wanted a drink before lunch, and Jackie ordered iced tea.

‘Nothing stronger?' he said.

‘They won't serve me.'

She thought now he would wait until his Scotch came.

‘You said you saw her at the train station,' he said.

She nodded and put her purse on the table and offered him a cigarette; he said no, they were filtered, and she lit one and looked past his shoulder.

‘When I was getting off I saw you nod your head to somebody, and I looked that way and saw her getting into a taxi.'

Then she tried to look into his eyes, but the best she could do was his mouth.

‘She's a blonde,' she said.

‘A lot of blondes nowdays. When I was a kid—before TV, you know—the blondes in movies were always bad. If a woman was blonde and smoked, you knew right away she was bad.'

The drinks came and she told the waiter she'd have a hamburger with everything but onions; her father ordered a salad, then winked and patted his belly, and she thought of him naked with that blonde, whom she would see forever in a black coat stepping into a taxi.

‘Then you heard me on the phone. On Holy Saturday, you said.'

She nodded and sipped her tea. She was smoking fast, deeply, knowing she would need another as soon as she finished this one, while he sat calmly, drinking without a cigarette, and it struck her that perhaps he was a corrupt, remorseless man. She tried to remember the last time he had received Communion. Of course at Easter he had stayed in the pew while she and her mother went to the altar rail; returning to the pew, she had kept her head bowed, hoping he was watching her. She didn't know about Christmas because, while she was on a date, her parents had gone to midnight Mass. She couldn't remember the Sunday of Thanksgiving vacation, but she knew he had received last summer, kneeling beside her. So apparently he still had the faith, but he sat calmly, enclosing a mortal heart, one year away from fifty: the decade of sudden death when a man had to be careful not only about his body but his soul as well. Now she was shaking another cigarette from her pack.

‘How much do you smoke?' he said.

‘A pack.' It was a lie, but one she also told herself.

‘I should have paid you not to, the way some parents do.'

‘Or set an example,' she said quickly, but then she flushed and lowered her eyes. She wasn't ready to fight him and, looking into her glass of tea, she thought if her own husband was ever unfaithful, she didn't want to know about it.

‘I suppose that's best,' he said. ‘What if you made a mistake?'

‘Did I?'

‘No, I just wanted to see if you'd be disappointed.'

‘That's sick,' she said, ‘it really is.'

‘Suppose your mother had seen that letter.'

‘I sent it to the bank.'

‘Letters get seen. Suppose I was sick or something, and they'd sent it home?'

‘People get heard talking on the phone too.'

‘That's right, they do. And I sounded like a—wait a second.'

He took her letter and a pair of glasses from his inside coat pocket, put on his glasses, and scanned the pages.

‘Here it is: “That voice on the phone was not yours. I might as well be honest and say it was the voice of a silly old man. I was so ashamed that I couldn't move”—'

‘Daddy—'

‘Wait: “I would think at least your respect for Mother would keep you from making a phone call to your mistress right in our home”.'

‘Well it's true.'

‘True? What's true?'

He took off the glasses and put them and the letter in his coat pocket.

‘What you just read.'

‘You think I don't respect your mother?'

‘I'd think if you did you wouldn't be doing what you're doing.'

His smile seemed bitter, perhaps scornful, but his eyes had that look she had seen for years: loving her because she was a child.

‘So you want me to stop seeing this woman before your mother gets hurt.'

‘Yes.'

‘And go to confession.'

‘I hope you will.'

‘Just like that.'

‘Don't you still believe in it?'

‘Sure. Do you?'

‘Of course I do.'

‘Are you a virgin?'

‘Me!' She leaned toward him, keeping her voice low. ‘Oh, that's petty. That's so petty and mean and perverted.
Yes
, I am.'

‘What, then? Semivirgin? Never mind: I didn't come for that. Anyway, I went to confession.'

‘You did?'

Now the waiter was at their booth, and she was thankful for that, because she felt she ought to be happy now, but she wasn't, and she didn't know what to say next. She watched her hamburger descending, then looked over her father's shoulder, blinking as though looking up from a book: a group of boys and girls came in and sat at a long table in the front. When the waiter left, she said: ‘That's wonderful.'

‘Is it?'

‘Well, of course it is.'

‘I don't feel so good about it.'

‘I won't listen to that. I'm not interested in how
hard
it is to break up with some—'

‘Wait—I didn't feel good while it was going on, either. You think I
like
being involved with this woman?'

‘But you're
not
involved, Daddy. Not if you've been to confession.'

‘You sound like the priest. I told him the first mistake was sleeping with her. He bought that, all right. But he wouldn't buy it when I told him I felt just as sinful about leaving her. She's alone, you know. She didn't cry when I broke it off, she's too old for that, but I know she hurts now. It's not love, it's—'

‘I should hope not.'

‘It's a lie. Don't you know that?'

‘What is?'

‘Adultery. A sweet lie, sometimes a happy lie, but a lie. You know what happens? We'd see each other for an hour or two, and that's not real. What's real is with your mother. The other's just a game, like you and that boy in a car someplace.'

‘Would you
please
get over this compulsion of yours? Accusing me of what
you're doing
?'

‘Compulsion—that's a good word. Now I'm compulsive, old, and silly. Is that right?'

‘Well, you have to be old, but you don't have to be silly.'

‘That's absolutely right. And you don't have to be selfish.'

‘Selfish?'

‘Sure. Why did you write a letter like that and hurt your father?'

‘I didn't want to hurt you.'

‘Come on.'

‘I was worried about Mother.'

‘Come on.'

‘I
was
.'

He finished his salad and pushed the bowl away; then, smoking, he watched her eating, and now the hamburger was dry and heavy, something to hurry and be done with.

‘You did it for yourself,' he said.

‘That's not true.'

‘Sure it is. It's okay for Richard Burton but not your father.'

‘It's not okay for him either. I think they're disgusting.'

‘Not glamorous and wicked? Not silly, anyway. Or old. You think your mother doesn't know about it?'

‘
Does
she?'

‘Probably. The point is, we've been married twenty-five years and you can never know what we're like, mostly because it's none of your business. You know what she said two nights ago? After dinner? She said: You must have broken up with your girl friend; you're not being so sweet to me anymore. Joking, you see. Smiling. So I smiled back and said: Sure, you know how it is. That's all we said. Last night I took her out for beer and pizza and a cowboy show—'

In her confusion Jackie thought she might suddenly cry, for she knew the story was sentimental, even corny, but it touched her anyway. She looked at her watch: she had missed gym.

‘I'll tell you this too, so you'll know it,' he said. ‘I don't know one man who's faithful. Not in here anyway.' He tapped his forehead. ‘Or whatever it is.' His dropping hand gestured toward his chest. ‘Some don't get many chances. Or they're afraid to see a chance.'

‘That letter didn't do a bit of good, did it? Come on, I've already missed one class.'

‘I told you, I broke it off. And you know why? For you and me.'

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I'm not one of those daughters.'

‘Jesus—don't they teach anything but psychology around here? Listen, Jackie: we'll have a good summer, and I don't want suspicious looks every time I walk out of the house.'

‘I don't believe you anymore. I don't think you even broke it off. '

‘That's right: I drove two hundred and fifty miles to lie to an eighteen-year-old kid.'

‘All right. You broke up with her.'

‘But I'm not saying it right. I should be happy, I should be thanking you and blowing my nose. Right, Peter Pan?'

‘What?'

‘You used to read Peter Pan, over and over. That's what you were playing: Peter Pan, make everybody happy, save Wendy and Tiger Lily. Or maybe you were Tinker Bell. Remember? She flew ahead because she was jealous and she wanted the boys to shoot Wendy.'

‘Oh
stop
it.'

‘Okay. That was mean.'

He reached across the table and touched her face, then trailed his fingers down her cheek.

‘It just happens that I don't like to tell people goodbye, especially if it's a woman I've slept with. It reminds me of dying.'

‘I have to get back,' she said. ‘I have a class.'

He signalled the waiter, paid, and left a two dollar tip on the table. She slipped out of the booth and walked out, feeling him behind her as though she were being stalked; on the sidewalk she stopped, blinking in the sun. Then his hand was on her arm and he led her to the car. As they rode to the dormitory she watched students on the sidewalks, hoping to see Gary, for she could not be alone now and she could not go to math, which was the same as being alone, only worse. They passed the classroom buildings and, looking ahead now, she saw Fran climbing the dormitory steps; when her father stopped, she opened the door.