Good Harbor

by Anita Diamant

  “Thanks, hon. But what’s in the truck?”

  “I should have called, I guess, but I didn’t want you to worry. Where’s Hal?”

  Hal, Buddy explained, had taken his mother’s car to Boston to run some secret errand. “Do you know what he’s up to?” Kathleen asked.

  “No clue.” Jack had already turned the kitchen upside down, a griddle set out and pancake batter ready to go.

  “And the truck?” Buddy asked again.

  The truck, Jack explained, was full of his stuff because Lois had gotten the lead in a touring production of The Music Man, and the sublet in the apartment was up.

  “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry,” said Kathleen.

  “It’s not that big a deal.” He shrugged.

  “Separating with Lois isn’t that big a deal?”

  “Separating? We were roommates. Friends.”

  “You were?” said Buddy.

  “You were?” Joyce said.

  “You didn’t think we were, oh.” Jack shook his head. “No, no. We’re good friends. She still wants to meet you guys.

  “But jeez, parents, aren’t you curious about why I’m here with all of my stuff in a truck?”

  “No guessing games, Jack,” Buddy said. “Not today.”

  “Okay, okay. Do you remember Ed Frisch? He was on the wrestling team with me in high school? Big guy with kinky, blond hair? Anyway, he’s a developer in Boston now, and he’s opening a new seafood restaurant in the new waterfront hotel downtown? And” — Jack paused for effect — “you are looking at its new executive chef.”

  “Wow,” said Buddy, who hugged Jack and started pumping him for details. “When do you open? Do you get to design the whole menu?”

  But Kathleen only smiled and nodded. She was still on the verge of tears and ashamed that she couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for her son’s news. She fled to the bedroom and, when Buddy checked on her a few minutes later, pretended to be asleep.

  Life was crowding in on her. Jack was home. Hal was home. She had finished treatment. So many prayers answered. And here it was, August 8, again. Tomorrow.

  Every year, Buddy asked whether she wanted him to stay home. Every year she told him to go to work, assuring him that she would be all right and that they’d be together on the fourteenth. He always stayed home on the fourteenth.

  She listened as Buddy and Jack banged in and out of the house, carrying boxes into the basement and garage. In the bathroom, Kathleen locked the door, unbuttoned her blouse, and forced herself to look in the mirror.

  The scar wasn’t quite so red, the skin no longer chapped, but the breast didn’t seem to belong to her anymore. She stared at it. Her babies had nursed there. Buddy had fallen asleep there. Now, it looked like a war zone. “Armistice Day,” she whispered, buttoned her blouse, and readied a smile.

  She walked into the kitchen but found Jack on the deck, ordering Buddy to wash down the weathered picnic table.

  “Where did these come from?” Kathleen asked, fingering a set of peach-striped linens.

  “Souvenirs from the big city.” Jack grinned. “I’m making you a fabulous dinner tonight.”

  “So what else is new?” Kathleen smiled.

  As the day’s heat faded into a cool seaside evening, Jack set out an old brass storm lantern he had brought with him, lit it, and pulled out a chair for Kathleen.

  “Should we put that on the menu?” he asked about the grilled-eggplant appetizer, the marinated swordfish, the garlic mashed potatoes, the roasted asparagus.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” said Kathleen. “It’s all delicious, Jack. You’ll be a big success, no doubt about it.”

  “Can you get bread like this in Boston?” Buddy asked, twisting off another piece of the crusty baguette Jack had brought from Manhattan.

  That launched them into a discussion of suppliers. Buddy asked if Jack would be part owner of the restaurant. “If you need a lawyer, David Koch has always been a stand-up guy for me.”

  Kathleen watched the two of them talk business, approving of the way they listened to each other, seriously and generously.

  “Earth to Mom,” Jack said gently, and put his hand on hers.

  “Dessert?” he repeated.

  “You had to ask?”

  As Jack served warm peach upside-down cake, the phone rang. “It’s Hal,” Buddy announced, and handed the phone to Jack. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Jack returned ten minutes later and announced that Hal probably wouldn’t be back until Friday.

  “What’s Mom supposed to do without a car until then?” Buddy sputtered. “What the heck is he doing down there?”

  Jack shook his head and shrugged, but couldn’t help smiling.

  “Oh, so you know?”

  “Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t. I’m going to take the train into the city tomorrow and hook up with him. And if it’s okay, I’m going to use Mom’s car to check out some local produce vendors and a baker or two. Hal and I will probably drive back together, by Friday at the latest.”

  “It’s okay about the car,” said Kathleen. “So we’ll all be together for Friday-night dinner?”

  “Do you know that your brother is going Hasidic on us?” Buddy said.

  “That’s overstating it a little,” Kathleen objected.

  “I’ll get a kosher chicken,” Jack said. “They really do taste the best.”

  Kathleen smiled. “Hal will approve. But if you two moguls will excuse me, I think I’m going to lie down.”

  Jack walked her down the hall and gave her a long hug. “You’re going to be fine, Mom.”

  “It’s great to have you home, hon.”

  She lay down on top of the bedspread and looked at the ceiling. What had she been doing twenty-five years ago, right this minute?

  WITH THE WEEKEND behind her, Joyce started waiting for the phone to ring. Frank called. A telemarketer called. The mail arrived. She walked with Kathleen. Frank called again. She wrote to Nina. The day passed.

  After dark, Joyce drove to Rockport and passed Patrick’s apartment. The windows were dark. She went around the block two more times, but no one was home.

  The next day, Kathleen called to say Jack had arrived: her house was in an uproar and she wouldn’t be able to walk. Joyce thought about killing some time at the mall, but in the end she painted the stairwell to the basement. At night, she drove to Rockport, past dark windows, again.

  Joyce woke up early the next morning and lay in bed thinking about Kathleen. It was the eighth. Maybe she should go over there.

  At seven-thirty the phone rang, and Joyce dove for it.

  “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Frank asked.

  “No,” Joyce said, catching her breath.

  “Look. I’m coming up tonight. I should be there by six.”

  “Oh, really?” Joyce said, trying to sound as if it were no big deal.

  “We have to talk,” he said flatly.

  Joyce felt her stomach drop. How had he found out? She got up and started sweeping the kitchen, even before putting on coffee. She washed all the floors in the house. She called Kathleen, who sounded a little breathless but claimed that Buddy was on his way home. Joyce went to the supermarket and bought too much food, and flowers for the table. She headed outside to clip stray blades of grass at the edge of the driveway. Anything to keep herself occupied.

  Joyce was in the shower when Frank arrived, earlier than announced. She found him running his hands over the kitchen walls. “Very professional,” he marveled, pointing at a silky stretch that used to be badly cracked.

  “And you even cleaned up the yard. Those lilies you planted will be pretty next summer.”

  He looked pasty and exhausted. The stray gray hairs at his temples had multiplied. Joyce kissed his cheek lightly and said, “I’m making pasta.” He smiled but avoided meeting her eyes and reached into the refrigerator for a beer. The kitchen clock ticked overhead. Joyce thought she would scream if he didn’t say something.

  “Frank,
what’s going on? What do we have to talk about? I’ve been going nuts since you called.”

  “Oh. Sorry I made it sound so dire. Let’s sit.” He lowered himself into a chair.

  Joyce ran down the list of possible bombshells. He knows. He’s dumping me. He’s dying of cancer. He’s having an affair.

  “First of all, I want to apologize,” Frank said, peeling the label off the beer bottle with his thumb. He was nearly whispering. “I’ve been very distant. I’ve kind of abandoned you this summer.”

  “No,” Joyce started, but he gestured for her to stop.

  “Just let me get this out. Things are bad at work. Really bad. It turns out that Harlan has a serious drinking problem and Tran wants to move back to San Jose to be near his family. All the potential investors opted out, and I think the company’s going to fold within a week. Maybe two.” He put down his beer.

  “I ignored the warning signs, and for a while I thought maybe we could squeak by until the financing came through. I’m sorry, Joyce, but I’ve been working without pay for a few weeks now, hoping it might help. I think we may end up in a real financial bind.”

  “It’s okay,” Joyce said softly. “The way you walked in here, I thought you were going to tell me you had a week to live. Or that you were dumping me for a cute programmer chick.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, keeping his eyes on the beer bottle. “The other thing is, I don’t want to keep doing this.”

  Joyce felt her face flush. He does know, she thought. He wants a divorce. “Keep doing what?” she asked, trying to sound calm.

  “Working in high tech.” He started to talk more forcefully, as though he’d rehearsed this part. “I realized that what I enjoyed the most about my last couple of jobs was teaching people how to do stuff, how to write code, how to program. And the thing I like doing best in the rest of my life is coaching soccer — being around kids.

  “I hope you won’t be too upset about this, but I’ve been looking in the help wanteds, and I applied for a job at a junior college outside of Worcester. I’d teach a few programming classes and act as assistant dean in the new technology department they’re starting.

  “I had one interview last week, and today they called back for a second one. The pay isn’t so good, Joyce, but I’m . . .” He finally stopped and looked her in the eye. “I can’t go on like this.”

  Joyce was so relieved she was afraid she might laugh. She put her hand on his. “You take the job when they offer it. That’ll take care of health insurance, right? I’ll make more money this year. We could even sell this place if we have to.”

  “I hope it won’t come to that.” Frank looked so pathetically grateful that Joyce had to turn away. She got up, emptied a box of spaghetti in the boiling water, and stirred, keeping her back to Frank. He wants me to forgive him?

  I’m risking my whole life — Nina’s life, Frank’s life — for a roll in the hay with a man I barely know? What do I know about Patrick after all? That I love the way he smells? That I love the way he doesn’t stop kissing me until I’m on the moon?

  Is it really just about sex? God, I am such an asshole. Besides, it’s over. He hasn’t called in a week.

  They ate dinner without saying much. “I’ll wash the dishes,” Joyce said and watched through the kitchen window as Frank walked around the yard.

  Maybe I’ll go down to Belmont for a few days, Joyce thought. I should call Mario. I should get back to work.

  What am I waiting here for anyway? Patrick isn’t calling. And the next time he does, I’ll tell him it’s over. That’s what I’m going to do. If he ever calls me again.

  KATHLEEN PUT ON the old pants she wore for gardening and said good-bye. Buddy offered to come back after he dropped Jack at the train. She told him no. “Joyce is coming by,” she said, and waved them off.

  Kathleen hung up after Joyce’s phone call and sat at the kitchen table as the coffee cup cooled between her hands.

  Finally, she stood up and walked into the den. She pulled out the one album with all the photographs of Danny and leafed through it, as she did every year, page after page, remembering the way he waddled, the way the little toe on his right foot turned in, his giggle, his passion for mashed peas.

  Kathleen remembered the smell of his hair when it was wet. The way he twisted his hands, like a Balinese dancer, whenever he was excited or tired.

  She began to weep and closed the book, taking her tears down to the basement, to the laundry room, where she lay down on the cold cement floor, letting herself fall all the way down to the bottom of her grief.

  She cried, loud and hard, until she had no tears left, until her back ached and her bones were chilled. Then she went upstairs and took the coldest shower she could bear. Wrapped in a towel, she sat on the edge of the tub, her limbs heavy, her head throbbing.

  An involuntary shudder took her to her feet.

  She went back to the den, to the desk, to the check register, to see that Buddy had performed his annual ritual, too: $100 to the Sisters of Saint Joseph Retirement Fund, for Pat; $100 to the Jewish National Fund, for Mae and Irv; $500 to the Daniel Levine Memorial Fund, so that no one should ever have to buy a coffin for his own little child. She found a few more tears.

  Buddy came home at four, with daisies. They walked around the block, holding hands. After a dinner made from Jack’s copious leftovers, they sat on the deck and talked about their sons: Was Jack just sparing their feelings with that story about him and Lois? Would Jack make a good enough living to afford a decent apartment in Boston, now that rents were so high?

  They tried to guess what Hal was up to. Was he looking for a job? Were they way off-track about his interest in the rabbi; they’d been plenty wrong before. Maybe he had a girlfriend in the city.

  “I hope he finds something to keep him nearby,” Kathleen said. “I don’t suppose he’d actually live up around here.”

  “Why not?” Buddy said. “It’s a great place to live.”

  They fell silent and Kathleen felt Danny’s memory settle over her again. She closed her eyes and remembered the day Buddy had taken him for his first haircut. She thought the barber had cut it too short, and they had quarreled.

  Buddy took her hand in the gathering darkness and cleared his throat.

  “Are you catching cold?”

  “No,” he said, blowing his nose. “I’m okay. And you?”

  “I’m okay, too.”

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, Hal and Jack returned with a carful of groceries. As Jack ferried bags into the house, Hal presented Kathleen with a small brown package: “This is from both of us.”

  She unwrapped a signed, first edition of Sendak’s In the Night Kitchen. “Hally, it’s wonderful. But what’s the occasion?”

  “Occasion? Let’s see. How about the end of your treatment? How about, oh, I don’t know, the beginning of my course as a paramedic at Northeastern? How about me checking out the MCATs schedule? Is that enough to celebrate?”

  “Oh, my,” she whispered, holding the book to her chest. “I’m so glad. I can’t believe you’re both going to be close to home again.”

  “Leave it to Jack to steal my thunder and do it the same month.”

  “Oh, Hal.”

  He put his arm around her. “Just kidding. And I’m sorry I was gone so much this week.”

  “That’s all right, hon. I really don’t expect you to spend every day with me.”

  But Hal exploded. “What are you talking about? Of course I should have been home.” Kathleen stared. Hal, still angry but embarrassed, walked out of the room as Jack walked in with the last of the bags.

  “Hal and I went to Brookline,” Jack said, “which isn’t Brooklyn by a long shot, but I got a nice kosher chicken. And three challahs so we can have a taste test. Save your appetite.”

  That evening, Hal sang the long blessing over the wine, as Jack stood in the kitchen door, waiting to serve the meal. During dinner, Hal explained the details of his “master plan.” He would g
et certified as a paramedic and work as an EMT. Meanwhile, he’d take refresher courses in chemistry and physics to prepare for the MCATs. “I figure I’ll apply to U. Mass. in Worcester, BU, Tufts, and maybe Harvard, just for the heck of it.”

  Jack raised a glass. “To my brother the doctor. But why didn’t you try the marinated calamari I put out before dinner?”

  “I don’t eat shellfish anymore.”

  “You’re kidding,” Jack said. “Why not?”

  “I don’t eat pork, either.”

  Buddy whistled. “You really are going religious on us.”

  “I just don’t eat shellfish or pork. No big deal. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Kathleen. “To each his own, right?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked.

  “It means we love you guys whatever you eat or don’t eat,” Kathleen said, raising her glass in Jack’s direction. “And here’s to the success of the Bay State Seafood Café and its brilliant, handsome new chef.”

  “Here, here,” said Hal.

  “I suppose you can eat fish when you come,” Jack said grudgingly.

  “I love fish. And all the desserts,” Hal offered.

  “The dessert chef makes those, not me.” Jack was still put out.

  “For goodness’ sake,” Kathleen said, getting up from the table.

  “Sorry,” Jack said, starting to clear the table.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Hal said, adding, “Are you and Dad coming to services? Jack is.”

  “I’ve got to see this lady rabbi he’s raving about,” Jack said, waggling his eyebrows, à la Groucho.

  “Not tonight,” Kathleen said. “Next week. We’ll all go then. You know” — she paused — “for the anniversary.”

  “I only go if she goes,” Buddy said.

  Hal’s smile evaporated. Kathleen remembered how, as a little boy, he would put his pinkies into the corners of his mouth and pull them down into a deep frown when she said no to his request for a later bedtime or a second bowl of ice cream.

  “I’m sorry, Hally. I’m just worn-out. Don’t be mad. Please?”

  He shrugged.