The Widower's Tale (51 page)

18

The women around Ira were losing it. Their grip, their composure, their stamina, their footing--each falling out of balance in some essential way. Begin with Joanna, his high-finance sister, who'd lost her job two months ago and had fallen into major debt, maxing out credit cards on consolation shopping. For the moment, she'd moved back in with their parents, leading to calls of complaint and worry from his mother.

Evelyn was the easiest to deal with: she was simply freaking out about holding E & F's first auction in this new location.
(Freak
, as in
control freak
, was part of her job description, so in a perverse way she was behaving responsibly.) Her first concern was how to situate a party tent on the sloping lawn between the house and the barn. The one truly level bit of land was the fenced area, down near the pond, that held the swings and play equipment, but you could hardly ask young masters of the cosmos to dance in and around the miniature castle-with-moat or duck beneath the monkey bars en route to the hors d'oeuvres.

Her second concern was food. Years ago, this event had been a potluck supper; then, for several auctions in a row, a caterer mom had contributed a lavish spread. When the last of her kids outgrew the school, no one could bear going back to noodle casseroles and vats of gazpacho. Nowadays, someone with bottomless pockets shelled out for professional food. In keeping with the Woodstock theme, the auction committee had wanted "sixties food," but what did that mean? Sloppy joes and deviled eggs--or tofu stir-fry and eggplant stuffed with barley?

So they'd settled on Thai, from the restaurant in Ledgely, the only place around that served decent food with any kind of panache. (As Marguerite's mom put it, "Anything Eastern is sixties, right?
Siddhartha
, TM, sitars ...") Evelyn's current worry, looking over the approved menu, was that so many dishes included nuts. E & F was a "nut-free zone," and didn't this mean they had to honor the ban 24/7?

"I'm sorry, but you cannot have decent pad thai without peanuts," declared Ezra's mom, head of the Refreshments Committee, as Ira passed Evelyn's office on his way out the door.

At least the classroom projects were complete. Heidi had photographed them so that pictures could be uploaded to the online auction catalog Clover would send to all the parents. Ira was pleased with the Birches' self-portrait milk bottles, tucked in their tall rustic case; as an object, it felt like Joseph Cornell with a dash of Warhol. He had secret hopes that it would outprice the ikat quilt, the decoupage toy chest, and the set of ceramic nesting bowls glazed with footprints and flowers. (Would you really want to eat from a bowl imprinted by actual feet? Hands, okay, but the crinkled feet of dirt-loving, shoe-loathing children?)

"Oh Ira, I'm so glad you're still here." Clover stood just inside the door to her tiny office. She looked wan and fretful.

"You okay?" said Ira. "Don't let this silly auction eat you alive."

"God, Ira, it's not the auction. The auction is keeping me from jumping off a cliff. I never thought I'd see cocktail napkins and barware and folding chairs as life preservers, but that's the pathetic truth."

He had no choice but to step into her office and ask what would tempt her to jump off a cliff--even though he could already guess.

The walls of the tiny room were crazy-quilted with charts and lists pertaining to the Big Event. The only window, a perfect circle, contained a view of the house and the lawn. It hadn't occurred to Ira till now that if, in the course of a day, Clover wanted visual relief from her work, her only resort was to look at her childhood home. Claustrophobic or what?

"My husband got married, just went ahead and did it."

Ira ignored the absurdity of her statement. "That must feel awful."

"And the worst fucking thing is that I had to hear it from my own sister. Or
her
husband." Clover laughed bitterly. "Actual, not ex."

She told him how she'd summoned the courage to ask her brother-in-law's advice on mediation for custody. She was running out of money to pay a lawyer, and now it turned out--again, her
sister
knew this first!--that she wouldn't even have her son for the usual two months of summer. Without consulting her, Todd had enrolled him in some tutorial program.

Her eyes filled with tears. "And get this. My nephew--Robert, you know him; Robert who I always thought was completely on
my side
--is going to be living with them in New York!"

Ira saw her plaintive look and knew what it meant. She wanted him to call Anthony to her rescue. "Clover, I'm so sorry. That sucks. But Robert will be hanging out with his cousins, remember that, and he's one of your biggest fans."

"And so?" Clover's voice rose, petulant.

Ira glanced at the board behind her, unable to look her in the eye. His gaze landed on a list of items for the silent auction: symphony tickets, a harbor cruise, eye surgery, architectural advice, a lava lamp, a Lalique decanter, a Derek Jeter dartboard.... He forced himself to focus.

"Clover, don't you get to a point where you just want to make the very best of what you have? And you have so much. You do."

Not surprisingly, her frown deepened. "What?"

"I know this place you're in feels terrible. I can't imagine being away from my kids so much--I mean, of course I don't have kids, so I can't really--"

"No. You don't. You don't, and you can't. You're right about that."

Ira felt as if he could see her indignation rising like a vapor from her face.

"I don't know you that well, Clover, but I do know you're an attractive, talented woman with great kids who are doing fine even in the face of--"

"Of my having deserted them. Right?"

"No. Of their parents having decided to make separate lives but still respecting each other's--"

"And how can you say they're 'doing fine' when my son is apparently in danger of flunking out of school? That's something you do know about--school performance. As related to
home life."

Ira folded his arms. "What do you want me to do? Tell me. I'm clueless."

"Be a friend. Don't call me on the carpet. I have a therapist to do that. I have
life
to do that."

Ira stood and held his arms open to Clover. What else could he do? She stood and let him hold her. It felt insincere to him, the coward's way out, but it was all he had to offer. He gazed miserably at the wall, over her fragrant hair.

... a tour of the WGBH studios in Boston, a set of Bose speakers, six sessions of equine massage (what?), a child's bike, a silver tray ...

When she stopped crying, she said quietly, "I wish you weren't gay."

"Sometimes I wish that, too," said Ira, "though it's mostly when I have to deal with the car mechanic."

She laughed. Thank heaven.

The hardest by far was Sarah: partly because Ira's attention had to stay on Rico, partly because her determination made it hard to tell how sick she really was, and partly because Ira couldn't figure out what was going on with the two men in her life--and he didn't dare ask.

Since Sarah had started her treatment, Ira had seen Gus a couple of times at dropoff and pickup, but then he came along with Sarah for the springtime parent-teacher conference. He was the kind of guy you'd describe as rugged or strapping, built for an outdoor life of chopping down trees and turning them into cabins. He had pink, oversunned skin, carroty hair, and a shrub of a beard. He dressed in new jeans (his "dressy" ones, Ira imagined) and wore dainty, old-fashioned spectacles that harked back to Henry Thoreau.

He spoke with scholarly precision, and though he seemed to have sprung from nowhere, like a genie from a bottle, he also seemed to know Rico as well as Sarah did. In fact, he spoke of Rico as if the boy were his son.

"We're concerned," he said, "that Rico might feel markedly different from the other boys and girls because of his mother's cancer--even ashamed of that difference." And when Ira asked Sarah how Rico was sleeping, Gus was the one who answered, "He's become acutely reattached to his snake, Balboa. When he stays over at my place, he drags that creature into my bed at two or three in the morning. But I haven't noticed nightmares, no terrors or accidents, no talk of death or dying."

"Balboa's stuffed," Sarah said.

"Well, phew!" said Ira. Snakes, stuffed or not, were the least of Ira's concerns about Rico. During the conference, Sarah spoke less than Gus did. Sometimes she just watched him talk about her son as if she were an impartial witness, a home-study consultant or a distant cousin.

That night, Sarah phoned him at home. Few parents took advantage of Ira's accessibility; this was a first for Sarah.

"I owe you an apology," she said. "You must have wondered what the hell was going on there. I didn't know Gus would be coming along until this morning. He insisted."

"Well, you might have noticed my double take." He was grating cheese for Anthony's asparagus risotto.

"I don't know how to explain this," she said.

Ira waited.

"Okay, Gus and I are married--but it's so I can have his incredible health insurance. My treatment is going to be long and expensive. Gus has known Rico since he was tiny, and he really cares about him. They really care about each other. I mean, they're genuine friends. We're all ... friends."

He tapped the grater for the last flakes of cheese. "So Gus is like a godfather."

She did not agree with this statement but said, "You must wonder about Percy, too."

"I do, but it may be none of my business," said Ira. What he thought was, Young lumberjack trumps elderly librarian; what's there to wonder, honey?

"Anything that affects Rico is your business, right?"

"That's Evelyn's line, but it's not so simple." Ira handed the bowl of cheese to Anthony, who stood at the stove, stirring the rice.

"I'm hoping Percy will still be a big part of our lives," she said, "but for now he's very angry at me. Which I understand. And I have to fix. But I think Rico hasn't noticed yet."

"Noticed ...?"

"That Percy and I are in a ... hiatus."

Hiatus! It was perfectly clear that Gus regarded himself as Rico's de facto dad. "Sarah, children see a whole lot more than we think--or than we want them to see. You know that." Did he sound harsh? He added quickly, "Whatever you have to do to get better, to get through this ordeal, you do it."

"I wish it were that easy."

"Please," said Ira. "No judgments here. Just keep me in the loop."

"I will."

He waited for her to say good-bye, but she said, "Rico adores you, Ira."

"Thank you."

"No. Thank
you."

As soon as Ira hung up, Anthony said, "No judgments on what?"

Ira started to think about how he would tell the story of Sarah and Rico and Percy and Gus. Had he even mentioned Sarah? Anthony had met Clover and Evelyn and two of Ira's fellow teachers, but none of the parents. "Anthony, you know what? You've got to come to this auction."

Anthony sprinkled the cheese into the pot. "Did I ever object?"

Ira crossed the kitchen and leaned his head on Anthony's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry for all the craziness."

"I'm glad you're sorry," said Anthony. "I won't lie. But please set the table--and refill the peppermill, would you?"

Considering his level of exhaustion, Ira felt oddly cheerful. He obeyed.

"Oh--my turn to apologize," Anthony said as they sat down. "I forgot to tell you your mom called before you walked in. I spoke with her. Not urgent."

"Joanna?"

"Joanna."

"Good news?"

Anthony shook his head. "She's going through retail withdrawal. Driving your mom insane. You should probably call her back after dinner."

Ira sighed. "This is delicious. You've outdone yourself."

"I might have to agree," said Anthony.

Ira realized that what he felt wasn't cheerful, or not entirely. What he felt was safe.

19

On the morning of May first--children were beribboning a maypole down by the barn--Maurice Fougere stepped from his shiny blue low-emissions chariot onto my driveway with all the confidence of a New Age pacifist warrior. Not to be outdone by the Toadstools, June-bugs, and Nightshades frolicking and trumpeting their pagan joy, he pressed both hands to his chest and exclaimed, face toward the sun, "How perfect a day is this!" He then aimed his blue eyes and his right hand in my direction. His advance was so sure that I nearly beat a remorseful retreat. I'd only happened to be outdoors, inspecting damage to a shrub that looked like the work of a very large woodchuck. In the disagreeable contemplation of how to deter one of these clever, undeniably winning creatures, I'd let the appointment slip my mind.