Twilight Child (10 page)

 Besides, she
had made peace with the idea, for which she took equal responsibility despite
the fact that it had been Peter's suggestion in the first place. It wasn't that
Peter was cruel or jealous. He hadn't a mean streak in him. He was thinking of
their new life, and he had every right to begin without the problems of
yesteryear. Hadn't he spent years in purgatory because of a terrible first
marriage? And hadn't she done the same? Of course, it had hurt to make the
break, knowing Charlie's and Molly's attachment to Tray. But it had to be done.
There was simply no sense complicating Tray's life, confusing him. Not now.
Perhaps someday. She granted that possibility. But not now. Not yet.

 Logic
temporarily assuaged emotion. Surely she and Peter could not consciously have
dismissed the possibility that Molly and Charlie would react in some way. They
simply had not prepared themselves to deal with it. Well, they'd have to now.
Deal with it they would, she thought pugnaciously. After all, Tray and their
little immediate family were the number one priority. Not Molly and Charlie,
however one might understand—even sympathize with—their point of view.

 It was hard
enough for the child to bear another man's name. Nor was it easy for Peter,
either. But she had drawn that line herself. There was no way to erase Tray's
father. She did not have that right. Right? The word from the lawyer's letter
jumped into her mind. Well, she also had rights over the life of her child.

 Her mind was
so far away from her present task that at first she did not see that Baby Mark
had fallen asleep, his lips losing their hold on her breast. She eased him
upward over her shoulder and patted him gently until he let loose a contented
burp. She held him for a moment more, savoring his warmth, as she squeezed him
gently. Why can't people get their priorities straight? she thought. Certainly
a mother knows what's best for her own child.

 She carried
the baby upstairs and put him in his crib, then came down and briefly stood
behind Tray while he watched
Sesame Street
with intense concentration.
Frances got down on her knees behind him and enveloped him in her arms. Her
chest heaved in a stifled sob. Her eyes misted, and she sniffled and brushed
away an errant tear. Tray, oblivious to his mother's anguish, continued to be
absorbed in the program.

 “Never,”
Frances said, releasing Tray and standing up.

 “What,
Mommy?”

 “I said
never.”

 He looked up,
confused, then turned again toward the television set. Frances rose and went
back to the kitchen. By then rage had turned to resolve, and she picked up the
letter and read it through.

 “I have been
retained by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Waters to secure by legal means visitation
rights with their grandson, Charles Everett Waters III.” She paused and allowed
herself a deep breath. She read on:

 “Forty-nine
states, including Maryland, now recognize the right of grandparents to petition
the courts to seek legal access to the natural offspring of their progeny
whether divorced or deceased when it has been denied. Before we petition the
court for a hearing on this matter . . .”

 Something
seemed awry. A red flag rose in her mind. He is trying to be cunning, she
decided, telescoping what might be coming next. She was right.

 “. . .
my clients believe that this matter can be settled amicably through reasonable
negotiation of the parties, and given a cool appraisal, it may not be necessary
to pursue protracted and costly litigation. My clients have urged me to make
this view known to you and to implore your cooperation.

 “With this in
mind, they have asked that no action be taken by this office for two weeks from
the above date so that you may have sufficient time to consider this proposal.”
At this point, she expected the homily and was right again. “Domestic
relationships are often complex and entangled with emotion which can sometimes
translate good intentions into inadvertent and preventable destructive
patterns. In this case, it would seem that loving grandparents, who have
already suffered the devastating trauma of a child's loss, should not have to
bear the additional burden of losing the comfort of their natural grandchild.

 “Surely, the
loving interest that can be provided by sincere grandparents cannot possibly be
interpreted as being adverse to the child's interest. Indeed, most
psychologists would agree that the grandparent relationship greatly enhances
the child's mental environment and should not be withheld. My clients are
hopeful that, in the light of what has been presented and your own compassion
and awareness of what is truly in the best interest of your child, you will reconsider
your position and agree to an arrangement whereby my clients can visit their
grandchild on a regular basis.

 “Sincerely
Yours, Robert Forte, Esq.”

 On second
reading, her agitation accelerated. She felt put upon, victimized. They were
setting the big guns in place behind a smokescreen of reason, elaborately laced
with guilt-provoking subtleties. Behind the smokescreen was the very real
threat of expensive litigation, emotional trauma, a whole gamut of hurtful and
time-consuming events.

 She fingered
the expensive stationery, in itself an implied threat, noting that the address,
in the complex overlooking the rejuvenated Baltimore port area, was a further
persuader that this was not a law firm to be taken lightly. So they had
generously given her two weeks to mull things over, she thought bitterly,
folding the letter and slipping it back in the envelope. Time enough for that,
she decided, bravely slapping her thighs as she stood up. Dizzy suddenly from
rising too fast, she braced herself for a moment against the table, remembering
her pregnancy and the hopefulness with which she had looked forward to dinner
tonight.

 “They're
ruining everything,” she whispered, as she brought the wooden bowl filled with
salad to the dining room table. It was annoying to be forced to deal with this
new aggravation, she thought, a notion that only increased her anger. Before
leaving the dining room, she poured herself a glass of Beaujolais from the
opened bottle and gulped it down like medicine.

 Peter, who
was compulsively punctual, arrived at seven. Tray popped up from his seat on
the leather hassock in the den and rushed to embrace him, his eyes searching
for the “tingies” that Peter frequently brought. Tingies were toys and computer
games and athletic equipment that, by now, had filled all the chests and
shelves in Tray's room. If there was an element of bribery in it, Frances let
it pass without comment, pleased that Peter balanced his largesse with ample
helpings of discipline, dispensed fairly and nonviolently. He never raised his
voice to the boy in anger or lifted a hand to inflict punishment. Indeed, it
was he who advised leniency when she chose a harsher mode of discipline.

 Peter and
Tray went through a ritual of guessing before the new tingie was presented.

 “You'll spoil
him,” Frances rebuked, a gesture that was also part of the ritual. They both
watched Tray tear off the wrapping.

 “Chess,” Tray
squealed, unveiling the computer game currently being pushed on television.

 “Isn't he a
bit young for that?” Frances asked. She, too, had appeared for their mutual
homecoming embrace, which meant more tonight than ever, and she stayed tucked
in Peter's free arm.

 “Mozart wrote
his first symphony at the age of three,” he countered. “Let him get an early
start. It builds confidence and mental agility. Right, Tray? And it's a lot
better than Pac Man.”

 “Right,
Daddy,” Tray said, going off to his room to try out the game on his Atari.

 While Peter
went off to the bathroom, Frances put the steaks on and checked the baked
potatoes. She had, she realized, forgotten to freshen her makeup, a new habit
she had acquired in this marriage. With Chuck, her appearance had almost become
a matter of indifference, and his absences had accentuated her tendency to
forget what she looked like. Her private prenuptial resolution was to keep her
physical assets well tuned and polished, more as a gift to Peter than an
expression of insecurity.

 “You're
beautiful,” he told her often.

 “You're not
so bad yourself,” she would shoot back.

 The fact was
that he was very well made. It irritated her to make clandestine comparisons
between Peter and Chuck, but she simply could not help it. After all, she had
known only two men in her life. Where Chuck had been heavily muscled from a
strenuous outdoor life, Peter was thin, more delicate, and shorter, with a flat
belly and fine hair on his arms and legs. Peter's hair was jet black, his eyes
dark; Chuck had had hair the color of spun gold and eyes cobalt blue like his
mother's, both genetic gifts handed down to Tray.

 Some physical
comparisons were, well, embarrassing, almost odious. Chuck had begun to develop
a hard, pooching gut and his body had bulk and heaviness, which emphasized his
rather bovine indifference in their infrequent lovemaking. Peter was wiry, less
to hold, but far more agile and original, as well as considerate, in his
approach to her. Chuck took. Peter shared. To put it another way, when she
gave, Chuck accepted it as if it were his rightful tribute. Peter accepted with
gratitude and warmth.

 There were
times, she confessed to herself, when the physicality of the two of them became
a bit jumbled in her mind and the differences blurred, but those were becoming
less and less frequent. Intellectual comparisons were simpler.

 It was in the
emotional area that she had felt the largest discrepancy. With Chuck she had
never felt needed and, except for a brief period after they got married,
certainly not desired. He had never been consciously cruel, and it had actually
been a shock for him to learn that she bitterly resented his absences. Even in
the early days of their marriage, she had assumed that men like Chuck were
supposed to go on extended male-only hunting and fishing trips, drink beer with
the boys, and generally pursue a whole range of womanless, and therefore
wifeless, activities. Hadn't his father done that, and hadn't Molly accepted
such activities as a fact of life with that type of man?

 Well, Frances
hadn't. She had merely endured. If she faulted herself, it was not for the
blind acceptance of such loneliness, but for her lack of courage in not
communicating her feelings to Chuck. Not that it would have changed anything.
But at least it would have been more honest than pining quietly and letting
bitterness grow like mold on their marriage. With Peter, she had promised
herself to always say what she felt and meant and let the chips fall where they
may.

 When he came
back to the den, she had already mixed the martinis and popped in the olives.
Actually the amount of alcohol was of less importance than the ritual, and the
most they ever drank was one.

 “Interesting
meeting,” Peter said, lifting his feet to the hassock that Tray had just
vacated. “For once Evans was not the best salesman in the room. Sanders aced
him out in ten minutes. . . .”

 His small
talk washed over her without comprehension, although she tried to remember the
words. Another prenuptial resolution of hers was not to be indifferent to his
business life, to listen and react. Where else could he deflect the tension,
lay off his fears and apprehensions, share the little victories, and work off
the pain of the defeats? She expected him to do the same for her.

 But this
evening she was not being true to her resolve, and apparently it showed.

 “You're not
listening?” he asked gently, squinting with exaggerated scrutiny.

 The first sip
of her martini had brought on a slight nausea, reminding her that ingesting
alcohol held some risk for the fetus. She put the glass down on the end table
beside the couch where she hung back with more room between them than usual.

 “I'm afraid
not, darling.”

 What the
debate had come down to was what to give him first, the good news or the bad.
Shrugging, she decided to convey the thought. Earlier, the coming baby had been
definitely good news to her.

 “I've got
some good news and some bad news,” she said. Her stomach tightened, and she
forgot her nausea.

 “Is the baby
okay?”

 “He's fine,”
she said, adding quickly, “nothing like that.”

 The frown of
concern on his forehead quickly disappeared. He sipped his martini and
continued to hold the glass, his fingers steady, a mischievous smile on his
lips.

 “Well then,
what's the catastrophe?”

 She knew he
wasn't being patronizing. Home and hearth, his principal priorities beyond his
work, seemed to be in good shape.

 “We're going
to have a snowflake,” she blurted.

 “A
snowflake?”

 He seemed
genuinely confused.

 “Well, that's
the part they give the girls in Tray's play.”

 She watched
comprehension dawn. He drew his glass to his lips and upended it.

 “You're
kidding.”

 She wondered
if he was offering her the real face of panic or simply joking. If he took this
as the bad news, she wondered how he would characterize the other news.

 “I never kid
about conception,” she said lightly.

 He slapped
his forehead.

 “All I have
to do is hang my pants on the bedpost.”

 “A bit more
than that, darling.”

 His face lit
up with a broad smile.

 “You're
sure?”