Water from Stone - a Novel (13 page)

“You’re back,” Malcolm nods. “That’s good.”

Jack looks off at the court, watches a particularly good fake out, a spin and then a spectacular steal. Stunned, the boy watches as the thief runs off with his ball and then a wide grin spreads across his face and he charges off to steal it back. “I’m here.”

“Hey there, Duane!” the priest calls out to a group of spectators waiting for their time on the court.

“Yeah, Father Mac?” a tall boy, Duane, whose newly stretched limbs haven’t yet learned how to accommodate forward motion, stumbles up to the fence.

“You tell DeJon, if he shows up, to come in and see me, OK?”

“Sure thing. You want me to go get him?”

“No, no, that’s fine. I expect he’ll show up sooner or later. Just send him my way when you see him.”

“No prob.”

“I don’t want him seeing you suddenly,” Malcolm explains after Duane has taken off. “It’s probably better if I warn him first.”

“Shit.”

“There’s nothing for it. You’re a good man, Jack. He knows that. He’ll understand.”

“He’s too young to understand.”

“He loved her, too.”

“I should have come around.”

“Should have, should have, should have. No one made you a saint, Jack. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Him,” he nods at the sky. “He took her when He shouldn’t have and left us mortals to deal with the mess. Now come on, there’s potatoes to peel and carrots to chop. We can talk while we work.”

The simple act of peeling a potato does more to calm Jack’s mind than any pills or therapy or the endless hours he’s been spending on the racquetball court.
Schneep, schneep, schneep,
it becomes a bit of a meditation once he gets into the rhythm of it. The background noises, the other workers calling back and forth, telling a story, sharing a laugh, the hustle and bustle of the busy kitchen as a meal for the needy is prepared, turn him away from himself and ease a bit of the tension that has fused the muscles in his shoulders so tightly. Malcolm comes by several times and nods favorably at his progress or chides gently about not taking such big digs into the spuds, leaving some for the stew, but mostly leaves him alone to his contemplations.

A few hours later, the potatoes peeled, diced and dumped into the simmering pots, Malcolm shows up and invites Jack to join him on the rooftop, where it is time to feed his homing pigeons.

The weather on the rooftop is a bit brisk in the late afternoon light. Jack, raised on a farm, had grown up with the cold, had milked cows in pre-dawn snowstorms and baled hay late into bitter cold nights. The cooling wind is refreshing and he takes a seat on the rickety metal folding chair that Malcolm keeps up there and turns his face into the fading sun. From experience, he knows that Malcolm won’t need his help with the birds and the birds themselves wouldn’t want him anywhere near them anyway.

“They could use you again down at Legal Aid,” Father Mac breaks through Jack’s reverie.

Guilt washes over Jack. “I’m sorry…” he begins.

“Wait. Stop. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty, Jack. Guilt’s garbage. It’s unproductive.”

Jack smiles. “I thought you Catholics live for guilt.”

“Ha! Always the smart one! No, Jack, what I mean is you’ve been carrying this burden too long. It’s time to put it down.”

“I just think if I’d been there…”

Father Mac shoos a bird away. “You think too much,” he cuts in. “Stop thinking. Act. You’re a good man. Lindsey, God rest her soul, was a good woman. You were lucky to have her. For whatever reason, though, He called her home.”

“I just wish I could believe that, that she’s in a better place.”

“Believe it. Without that,” Mac waves his arm, taking in the entire world, “all this is nonsense. You’ve got a gift, Jack. You’ve got a heart and you’ve got smarts. Lindsey saw that and loved you for it. If you cared anything about her, you have to recognize that and be the man she’d want you to be.”

“And what about Mia?”

“Ah, well then, that’s a different story. She’s out there, Jack. I’m sure of it. You can never stop looking, never give up. She’ll come home when the time’s right.”

“And when will that be?” Jack hears the bitterness in his own voice and shakes his head. He’d promised himself he’d edit that out.

The little priest shrugs. “I don’t know. But ask yourself this, if she were to come home today, are you the man you’d want to be? Are you ready to help her recover from whatever she may have been through?”

It is a rhetorical question and Jack knows it. No, he isn’t ready.

Malcolm lets Jack stew on that for a bit while he tidies the cage. “DeJon showed up while you were in the kitchen,” he finally says. “He’s angry and hurt and about all what you’d expect from a thirteen year old.”

Jack focuses on his hands. They are large hands, strong hands, made that way by life on a farm. They’ve grown soft during the years he’d concentrated on his career. Now they are cracked and calloused, strong again, from countless repetitions at the gym. This, now, is the biggest step he’s taken by far to return to life. His hands are shaking. “Is he still here?”

“He’s out in the yard.”

“Does he want to see me?”

“Jack, that boy wants to see you more than he wants to breathe. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“What do I say to him? The kid’s been dumped by every adult he ever cared about. I made a commitment to him.”

“You didn’t dump him.”

“I haven’t seen him in more than a year.”

“OK, so he’s hurting. He’s been hoping you cared enough to come find him.”

“Christ, Malcolm.”

The priest shrugs and shoos the birds to the other end of the cage. “These birds here? They come back because that’s what they’re trained to do. They come for the food, for the warm nest. I love them, but I don’t for a minute think they love me. Now that boy, he loves you and he’s going to know you came back because you love him. That’s what’s going to make it OK.”

“You think?”

“You should remember something else. He loved Lindsey. He went a little nuts when she died, but eventually he got it together and, in his way, tried to help. All that time you were waiting with the FBI, thinking maybe that ransom call would come, he was out on the streets showing the picture of that woman around. The one from the security camera? He was out for days trying to find anyone who might’ve seen her.”

Jack drops his head into his hands. “I’m a total fucking shit, aren’t I?”

“Ha! Always the guilt with you. Come on, time’s up. He’s waited long enough.”

Twenty-Two

Mar.

The ringing of the phone demands her attention. Once. Twice. Three times. But the music is playing and she is detailing a thin line with Mars Black and Mar really can’t think of anyone she wants to talk to enough to stop working. After the fourth ring, it stops and she relaxes back into the line. Dave is singing and she is going with it, swaying to it, moving with it, adding her voice, which is pretty much overkill, but enjoying it anyway. Her mind just going with the music, her brush following its path.

The phone rings again. “Dammit!” she stomps her foot. At the third ring, she looks up at the wall clock and realizes Diane must be out picking up Lizzie. And then the guilt hits her, knowing that this is the third day in a row that she has missed the pick up. Knowing it is OK because that’s what she and Diane have worked out, but feeling a dose of mother guilt just the same. On the fifth ring, she snatches up the phone, all of a sudden wondering if maybe Diane has gotten to the day care center and found Lizzie sick, or worse, injured. Or, even, god forbid, dead. Maybe she choked on something? Kids are always putting things in their mouths.

“Hello?” Mar gasps into the phone.

“Mar? Is that you? What’s wrong?” Shirley asks, concern in her voice.

“Oh. No, nothing’s wrong. Is something wrong with you?”

“No, but you sound shaken up.”

“Ah, crud! No, just working and then the phone was ringing and I was thinking that maybe something happened to Lizzie. Forget it. Hey, Shirl, what’s up?” Mar collapses back into her armchair and gives into the phone call.

“Nothing. Everything’s cool over here. We were just wondering if you wanted to go out tonight, grab dinner and a movie?”

“What about the kids? Lizzie’s getting too big to sit through a whole movie. Anyway, it’d be a little late for her.”

“No, we got a babysitter.  Charlene’s coming over and you could bring Lizzie by. Let her and Derek spend some time together.”

“What, Miracle Baby is already up for entertaining company?” Mar laughs. It seems that every time she speaks with Shirley, there is some new magnificent feat of excellence performed by Derek the Miracle Baby. Dylan is even worse.

“Nah, you know. Whatever. Stop laughing. In fact, you hardly ever shut up about Lizzie, Miss Perfect this, Miss Incredible that. Sheee-it, girl, I never heard so much nonsense as ‘natural-born-artist’ and ‘wall-paintings’ and such when all she’d done was rub her dirty diaper all over the place. I mean, come on!”

“OK, OK, I give up. What movie, which restaurant?”

“I don’t know and I don’t know. Dylan has a friend of his, a visiting professor, coming over and we’re going out with him. I’m letting them work it out.”

“Um, so is this kind of supposed to be a blind date or something? A foursome?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Shirley protests, because she knows that Mar is anti anything-that-resembles-a-relationship-or-reasonable-facsimile. “It’s just that he’s a friend, you’re a friend…”

“This is not sounding good, Shirl. I’m really not ready yet.” Mar glances off at her painting, letting her disinterest in the conversation melt into interest in the canvas and the colors. From the distance, she takes in the overall effect and then zeroes in on an area that needs work, that demands her immediate, undivided attention.

“It’s a movie, for Christ sakes, not a commitment. It’s not like you have to sleep with him!”

“Well, thanks for that, at least.”

“Listen, Mar honey, and I say this with all the love and respect I feel for you, but, you’ve got more walls around you than Red China. You need to start loosening up, child.”

“I am loose, Shirley. I’m fine.”

“I know you are, but weren’t you just telling me the other day that Dr. Frank thinks you need to start dating? Take some chances?”

“Aha! So this is a blind date!”

“No, Mar, don’t change the subject.”

“I thought that was the subject.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

Mar sighs. “I know, Shirl, I know I know I know. It’s been years and it’s time to move on, time to grow up. Shit happens and people deal with it all the time.  I know it all. God, I’m paying my shrink enough, I should know it by now. I guess I’m just comfortable with the way things are.”

“Safe.”

“Hell, yeah, safe. There’s a lot to be said for it.”

“Babe, there’s a lot to be said for love and excitement, too. For having a warm body next to you at night. For having someone else go out and get the firewood and mow the lawn. Now, I’m not being sexist here, but that’s the way it is. AND, there’s a lot to be said for sex! You do remember sex, don’t you? If not, you should try it sometime.”

“I remember sex,” Mar says tiredly.

“And oral sex. You ever heard of oral sex in that cave of yours? It’s when a man does this thing with his tongue and…”

“Jesus Christ, Shirley! Shut up!” But she is smiling.

“You know, as the good friend I am, I’d lend Dylan to you, break you out of your funk, but the poor man can’t get enough of me. He’s like a lovesick puppy. That means you’re gonna have to go out and find your own man.”

The conversation is getting too long and Mar is distracted. “Look, I’m kind of in the middle of a painting and I really gotta go.” Mar gets up and heads back toward the easel. The paint on the back of her hand is drying and as they say their goodbyes, Shirley’s full of disappointment, Mar dips her brush in water and adds it to the glob of paint, re-working it to a usable texture. By the time the phone is back in its cradle, she has already forgotten the call.

***

Later that afternoon, after she and Lizzie have eaten and Picasso has cleaned the floor beneath the high chair, Mar puts Lizzie down for a nap and decides to take one herself.  After five hours of standing in front of a canvas, grooving to a little music, being absorbed in the colors, textures and sounds, and opening herself up and turning herself inside out to her work, she is ready to drop.

Mar closes the blackout shades in her bedroom, turns on the air-conditioner, checks that the baby monitor is on, shuts the door and crawls into bed. She closes her eyes and wills herself to fall asleep. She can’t. She turns over, sticks her head under the pillow, and her mind returns to the conversation with Shirley. She flips onto her back. Just half an hour, she prays, an hour, and then she’ll be good to go, can spend the afternoon chasing Lizzie around the park, maybe paint some more later.

It is no use. She needs to relax. Finally, giving into the urge, she reaches out and finds the bottom drawer of her bedside dresser, pulls it open and reaches in. She had long ago abandoned the conventional penis-shaped, battery-operated vibrators for an electric back massager. Clitoral stimulation works for her and anyway, it is easier to explain if anyone ever finds it. An old back injury. I fell off a ladder, a house. A man. Besides, she isn’t interested in having a relationship with the damn thing, not enough to pretend it’s something it isn’t.

She turns it on low and brings it under the covers to her panty-clad clitoris. Mar shuts her eyes and lets her mind drift to Joaquin, tries to picture him over her and then realizes that she is trying to picture him. She is having trouble seeing him in her mind, having trouble imagining him there, really there, with her. She takes a deep breath and tries to change the picture of this hazy figure, tries to bring it into focus.

“Dammit!” It’s no use. More and more lately, she is having trouble remembering him. He is a great, wonderful memory, but he is becoming more of a memory than a reality and she isn’t sure she can handle thinking about that. She isn’t sure she is ready to let him go yet.

Mar switches off the vibrator and stares up into the darkness, willing the itching between her legs to go away. It stays there, a soft throbbing, a need demanding to be met.

In frustration, she finally reaches out and grabs up the bedside phone, dials it by its fluorescent light. “Hello? Shirl? It’s me. Yeah, listen, what time? OK, we’ll be there.”

Mar hangs up the phone and lays back in the darkness. This time, when she turns on the vibrator, she gives into the fact that the man she pictures on top of her, the man she pictures entering her, is a mystery, is maybe someone from the future rather than from her past. She climaxes before her mind quiets to the pull of her body’s exhaustion.

Twenty-Three

Mar

“You look horrible,” Diane tells Mar over cups of coffee.

“I know. It was The Dream again. Or, at least a version of it. This time, the water came for me first, and then the sharks. I don’t know.”

“You haven’t been having those nightmares for awhile now.”

“I know, I can’t figure it out. Usually, they start up when I’m stressed, but I’m not now. In fact, I feel great. I mean, things are great in the gallery, my painting’s coming along, Lizzie’s healthy and happy, my dad is doing fine. What else could it be?”

Diane looks past Mar at the photos of Joaquin that decorate the refrigerator. “Could it have been your date last night? Are you feeling a little guilty?”

“Oh, that,” Mar laughs. “It wasn’t really a date. I mean, I went out with Shirley and Dylan and one of Dylan’s friends. It was really just friends, not a date.  I’m getting more coffee. Want some more coffee?” Mar feels Diane’s eyes on her as she fills her mug with water and heats it in the microwave. When it is ready, she nukes Diane’s mug, adds instant coffee and places it in front of Diane. As she takes her place, she looks up. Diane is still looking at her, a bemused smile on her face.

“What? What’s that look supposed to mean?” Mar squirms.

“You, I’m just looking at you. If it wasn’t a date, how come you’re blushing?”

“I’m not blushing!” Mar insists, although she can feel the burn. She begins playing with some bread crumbs that litter the granite counter top.

“You’re blushing. You are. So tell me about it. What’s going on? What’s he like?”

Mar covers her face with her hands and rubs furiously at her eyes, trying to clear her vision, clear her mind. “OK, it was fun. We were going to go to an early dinner and then catch a movie, but we were having such a good time, we just stayed at the restaurant.”

“And his name is?”

“Kevin. McDermott. Kevin McDermott.”

“Irish.”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, yes. He’s from back East, from Bahstun. Typical Back Bay accent – you know, pahk the cah and all that. He was nice, and funny. We laughed a lot.”

“What’s he do?”

“He’s a visiting professor. He developed some sort of theory about adolescence and how it’s changed over the years. You know, like hundreds of years ago childhood ended and adolescence started around the age of ten. And now, childhood stops way too early and adolescence continues for a much longer time – sometimes for more than a decade until people are out of college. He says that the change is so dramatic that unless society makes plans to deal with it, we’re setting ourselves up for some pretty big socio-economic problems.”

“I don’t know if I’d think of a twenty-five year old as an adolescent.”

“Well, right, I mean, he thinks that it’s a whole new stage of life that we haven’t had to deal with until now. Kind of a new phase between adolescence and adulthood. And because we’re not dealing with it, we’re kind of just dumping it all together and we’re not making real provisions for it, economically speaking.” Mar looked up, realizing that she is sounding a bit more enthusiastic than usual. “I mean, well, it was an interesting idea.”

Diane won’t let her off the hook. “So what’s he do with this idea?”

“He’s here for the semester and maybe the summer. He’s meeting with the psych, sociology and economics departments to show them that they need to re-vamp their programs and kind of merge in some areas.”

“And then?”

“Then he goes on to some other schools, Wharton, then somewhere in England. And he’s on some sort of taskforce in Washington that the President wanted put together to study his ideas.”

“Impressive. It sounds, though, like he spent the whole night talking about himself.”

“No, not at all. Most of that I got from Dylan. I guess he consulted on some of Kevin’s work and is a big fan.”

Mar moves to the fridge for a Diet Pepsi. “Want one?”

“No, I’m going to stick with coffee.”

“Anyway, most of the night he was trying to get me to talk about myself. It was weird. I’ve kind of forgotten how to have a conversation. I mean, like a personal one. You know, one that’s not with you or Shirley or Lizzie? Where someone’s interested in your thoughts and ideas? I felt like I was groping to even have any. I mean, it was like, Music? OK, Dave Matthews Band. Work? Painting. Hobbies? Painting. Interests? Painting. I felt pretty one dimensional.”

“You’re not, and I’m sure if he’s as intelligent as he sounds, he figured that out pretty quickly. I guess he’s your age?”

“Forty, I think.”

“Marital status?”

“Never married. Shirley told me he had a live-in girlfriend who was cheating on him and when he found out, it really freaked him out.”

“His looks?”

Mar grins. And blushes. And then she laughs ruefully. “Good. Great even.”

“Sean Connery’s great, Mar. Anyone else can’t be that good.”

“Well, yeah, OK. Maybe a young Sean Connery. Rugged, you know? Crinkly around the eyes, like he laughs a lot. Outdoor skin. By the way, he’s a mountain climber in his free time so I guess that’s why he’s in such great shape. AND, he does look like he’s in great shape!”

“Arms?”

“Strong, not ape-like testosterone strong, just,
mmmmm
, strong enough.”

“I like that. Legs?”

“Good! Long and cut. But again, not the gym-freak-I’m-so-hot look. Like he earned his.”

“OK, he’s getting better. Butt?”

“Very nice. Very, very nice.”

“Face?”

“Good. Lived in. His eyes are maybe a little close together, his nose maybe a bit too big.”

“It works for Richard Gere.”

“Exactly. Exactly, that’s what I’m thinking. You put it all together with this great smile and it works. Oh! And his eyes are blue, this gorgeous sky-blue-on-a sunny-day kind of blue.”

“Mar.”

“I know, I know,” Mar groans. “I sound pitiful, don’t I?”

“No, honey, it’s good. It’s good to hear you talking about a man. I take it you like him?”

Mar’s eyes slide to the full scale painting of Joaquin and then quickly away. “I do,” she takes a deep, shaky breath. “I really do.”

Diane and Mar catch each other’s eyes and begin to laugh. “Oh, hell,” Diane says, regaining her breath. “He sounds good. Good for you! Now, when am I going to meet him?”

Mar looks at the clock. “Uh, in a couple of hours?” she admits. “I kind of invited him for lunch.”

“Well, then,” Diane moves to the refrigerator, “let’s get busy.”

Twenty-Four

Jack.

The Grand Ballroom of The Pierre Hotel is alive with the many voices of the well-heeled and well-connected. The thirtieth anniversary party put on by Weisman, Tannenbaum and Carruthers is a must-do for the New York social set. Guests include past clients and the politically and financially elite who will probably at some time or another become clients of the successful law firm.

From his place beside the bar, Jack stares unhappily out at the jewel-bedecked and designer-dressed crowd. It is a far cry from The Farm, as Father Malcolm calls the shelter and youth center he oversees. Truth be told, Jack would much rather be up there, peeling potatoes or out for a movie and pizza with DeJon. It had been difficult at first but DeJon is a decent kid and hasn’t made Jack grovel too much for abandoning him. In fact, he is showing signs of trust again and that is a damn good thing that Jack won’t screw up. For anything.

But now, he hasn’t moved or spoken with anyone other than the bartender for the past twenty minutes. In fact, if his bosses hadn’t insisted that he make an appearance, he wouldn’t be  here at all. He drains the last of the Rum & Coke and holds his glass out for a re-fill.

“I hadn’t heard that you were much of a drinker,” murmurs a husky female voice by his shoulder. Jack turns toward it and offers a weak, but obligatory, smile.

“Sharon, uh, Karen, right?” he asks, reaching out his hand to shake hers.

“Nope, sorry, slugger, you’re not even in the ballpark,” she looks at him, irony twisting her full lips into a quasi-smile. “Want to try again?”

Jack drags his free hand through his hair, shrugs his shoulders and gives up. “Ah, crap, I’m sorry, I’m just not good with names.”

“Caroline. Caroline Carruthers. We met last week.”

Suddenly Jack remembers. In a long dress, with her hair down around her shoulders, she only faintly resembles the more severely dressed new associate who had joined the firm the week before. The fact that she is one of the founding partner’s granddaughters should have made more of an impression on him, if only to keep up with office hierarchy. “Yes, Caroline. Right. Sorry,” he fumbles.

Caroline laughs, amusement dancing in her eyes. “It’s OK, don’t worry. Actually, it’s pretty much refreshing. As you can imagine, half the associates at the firm want to tear my eyes out. The other half want to be my new best friends. They either think I’m just one more stumbling block on their way to partnership or that I’ll put in a good word for them with Grandfather.”

Jack looks fully at her now, startled by her candor. She is right, of course, the competition among associates is fierce. Generally, it takes between five to eight years of intense, long, billable hours, a high percentage of “wins” and little, if any, social or family life to be invited into one of the seats of power – partnership. Some never make it and they are politely asked to leave the firm or are banished to the archives to act as flunkies and researchers for those who are invited in. For a few, overachievers like Jack, like he had at one time been, that glory is achieved slightly ahead of schedule. In any case, most associates would probably feel that Caroline’s ancestry makes her a shoo-in, thereby taking up one of the precious few opportunities that open each year.

“You’re right. They probably hate you,” he agrees amicably, noticing that the eyes they would tear out are an interesting shade of hazel, changing from green to blue to gray as they sweep over the ballroom. Noticing also the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her sculpted nose. And being shocked when he realizes he’s noticed.