by Dan Lawton
“You have a son. When were you planning on telling me?”
“It never came up, I guess.”
She laughed. “Please, Randolph. Don’t patronize me.”
“Listen, I’m sorry if—”
“He’s my age!”
He snuck a peek toward the hallway. “Please, keep your voice down.”
“Why, so I don’t wake up your grandson, which I also knew nothing about? Goddammit, Randolph!”
“Please, Sheila. I said I was sorry. I wasn’t trying to hide it from you.”
“Yet here we are.”
He sighed. “I never brought it up because it didn’t matter.”—she laughed again, but not a real laugh—”Bruce is a grown man with his own life a thousand miles from my own. I did my job. I raised him, and now he’s gone. That’s it.”
Sheila shook her head, but Randolph could tell the tension in her muscles had loosened.
“I have a son, yes, and a grandson. But they live here and I live there. I see them once a year if I’m lucky. But I should have told you. I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
He watched her for any signs of the lowering of the shield she held in front of her. He felt bad, but he could only imagine how she felt—an obviously unwanted houseguest in a place she knew nothing about with a man who lied to her about the son and grandson he had. When put that way...yikes. He messed up bad.
“This was a bad idea,” he said. “I don’t know what I was expecting. I haven’t seen him in over a year, haven’t called in months, and yet I expected him to welcome me into his home with open arms in the middle of the night. I was a fool.”
“You’re not a fool.”
He looked at her.
“Okay, you’re kind of a fool.”
He laughed, then so did she. The tension faded.
“Should we leave?” he said. “We can go right now if you want.”
“Then what? How will you explain that? We’re staying. You and your son obviously have some important things you need to discuss.”
She was right. “What about you? Are you going to be all right? I’ve put you in an impossible situation—which wasn’t my intention, just so you know.”
“I know it wasn’t. Your heart’s in the right place. But don’t worry about me. Janet is a peach. We’ll get along just fine.”
He leaned back, felt more relaxed. “Well, all right. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“But you do have to promise me one thing, though. Deal?”
“Anything. What is it?”
“No more secrets. We’ve got nothing if we don’t have trust. Am I right?”
“Completely.”
She smiled. “So what else do you got? Spill your guts.”
He thought. His daily life was basic, simple. No addictions or bad habits. No secret stash of anything illegal. No foreign bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. He was up to date on his taxes and his vaccines. No criminal record. She knew everything else there was to know.
“There’s nothing,” he said. “I promise.”
She nodded, satisfied.
“What about you? Anything you’re not telling me?”
O’Reilly.
“No,” she quickly answered. “There’s nothing.”
You sure?
“Well, all right then,” he said. “It’s settled. No more secrets.”
“No more secrets.”
She leaned forward and crawled across the sofa and kissed him. His eyes involuntarily closed as a frenzy of feels overtook his lips and ran through his core.
“I love you,” she said after she pulled away.
He had no choice but to believe her. About everything. “And I love you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Randolph was the first one up. Not because he felt well-rested, but because he could not sleep. His mind roared with thoughts he could not turn off. More than anything, he wanted to sit with Bruce and explain everything that had happened. Needed to. The look on his son’s face was not one he ever wanted to see—the hurt, the pity, the betrayal. He owed him a truthful explanation. Most importantly, he did not want to force a wedge between Bruce and his mother—that was not what it was about. But sometimes the truth hurt, and Bruce would learn that. He was man enough to handle it and make his own determination about the situation once he heard the facts.
Randolph slipped outside when the sun came up. Sheila was asleep, though with a crooked neck that could pose a problem later in the day. The rest of the house was dead quiet as if it were a monastic silence. He needed air.
Clouds lined the sky with melancholy. It was going to be a dreary day in all iterations of the word. It smelled like rain. A headache pulsed behind his eyes where the sleep failed him. He sighed and rubbed his temples. What was he doing?
Where would he start? Trying to find a balance between being fair and honest and spilling the truth without shredding the character of Patricia was important to him. She was not all bad. Part of him knew he would always love her. Being in love was different than loving, and while the latter was typically more than enough, that only lasted for so long. Was it okay if he still missed her sometimes? He struggled with the answer. They spent most of their lives together—many good years, countless happy moments. They made and raised a beautiful, intelligent, courageous son who was a great husband and father and even a better man; from that, there was another beautiful, intelligent smaller version of that man who would one day become like his father. There was so much to be proud of.
He did not want to admit it to himself, but he missed his old life. He wanted to cry about it sometimes, just to let it out. But then he thought about what Patricia was up to—the shady business with the money—and the sadness quickly fell. Anger rose with ferocity and he wanted nothing more than to strip her of everything, to leave her with nothing. Part of him still loved her, but another part despised everything about who she had become.
The air did not help.
He retreated into the house.
Sheila was gone from the sofa. Gentle voices emanated from the kitchen. Randolph folded the quilt into the best, most precise square he could and stacked the pillows on top. Then he smoothed the sofa cushions to remove the wrinkles and joined the chatter in the kitchen.
Sheila and Janet shared a pot of coffee, each with a steaming mug at their fingertips. A plastic tray of fruit-filled supermarket Danish sat between them. Napkins caught the crumbs that missed their mouths. Janet saw him when he entered and smiled, and she made her way toward him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into her. She felt so warm and comforting, and it was exactly what he needed—it must have been that motherly instinct, even though the roles should have been reversed. He felt a tug on his belly from Janet’s as he hugged her back. The urge to never let go was fierce.
Janet released him and pulled away. “It’s so good to see you. I’m sorry we didn’t get to chat last night.”
“No, please,” he said. “It’s my fault. We showed up unannounced. I put you in an awkward position. I’m sorry.”
“Nonsense. You’re family.”
He smiled at her. “Thank you.”
“So, are you hungry? We have coffee and Danish. Blueberry.”
“No coffee for me. But don’t mind if I do indulge in one of these things here.” He leaned over the counter and snatched a Danish from the tray.
He chewed. The women sipped. The quiet was peaceful, not at all uncomfortable.
After the Danish disappeared, he wiped his face with one of the napkins on the counter and used hi
s tongue to pick chunks of blueberry from his teeth.
“How are you, Janet?” he said. “What’s new?”
“Tired. But very happy. You raised a good man. He’s so good to us.”
That warmed him. Though it hurt too, because he felt so disconnected from Bruce these days. Distance tended to do that to relationships.
“The cravings are so strong this time,” she said, laughing. “Maxwell was nothing like this.”
Huh? Is she?...
“This time? How do you mean?”
Janet gasped and threw her hands over her face. “Oh, God! I thought he told you. Oh no! I’m so sorry!”
The gut punch almost took his breath away. Janet was pregnant. He was going to be a grandfather again, and he did not know until now. He forced a smile to hide the hurt he felt. “How far along?”
Her hands were still over her mouth. “Twenty-four weeks.”
He was angry. Not with Janet, with Bruce. Why had he not told him? Did Patricia know?
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I wouldn’t have said something if I knew Bruce hadn’t told you yet.”
He walked over to her and kissed her cheek and pulled her into an embrace. “It’s all right, darling. Congratulations.”
When he turned back, Sheila was hiding behind her mug, cradling it as if she would have rather been anywhere but there. This visit was a complete disaster.
Thankfully, there was a commotion down the hallway to interrupt what was about to become the most awkward three-way conversation imaginable. Janet’s face lit up.
“The boys,” she said.
Randolph stood next to Sheila and placed a hand on the small of her back. She set down the mug and leaned against him. He felt at ease with her.
“Hello, hello,” Bruce said as he entered the kitchen. The same droopy outfit from the night before hung from his widening frame.
Randolph melted when he saw Max. He had gotten so big since the last time he saw him. His back was to him, his torso draped over his daddy’s shoulder. The curl of a nighttime diaper peeked above the waistline of his pajama bottoms—tiny dump trucks and fire engines and police vehicles. The last time Randolph saw Max he was crawling, just barely able to shuffle the equivalent of a step or two before toppling over. Now, he imagined he was running circles around the kitchen island. Sammy and Max must have been the best of buds—Sammy was the family dog, a gentle and lovable Irish Setter. She must have been ten or eleven now.
Speaking of, where was Sammy? He had not seen her yet, or heard her. Nor had he seen a bed in the living room, or any toys. Dare he mention her?
As much as Randolph wanted to rush over and squeeze his grandson, he held back. Would Max even recognize him? A photo of him and Max from last year hung on the refrigerator door, which surprised him, and he wondered if children could place the real thing after only seeing someone in photos for so long. He did not know. It had been so long since Bruce was a boy; his knowledge had gotten rusty.
Bruce kissed his wife and offered his good mornings. She smooched their son after, who was still content hanging onto his daddy. Randolph was proud of how well Bruce did with him.
“Coffee?” Janet asked him.
“Please, thank you.”
She leaned in and whispered something to him, then he turned and faced Randolph and Sheila.
“Hey,” he said. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Sheila said.
“Good morning, Son.”
Bruce shifted his body so Randolph could see Max’s face, which was sick with sleepiness.
“Maxy,” Bruce said with a calm, soothing tone. “Do you know who that is?”
Randolph felt the smile overtake his face.
“It’s Grandpop. Remember?”
Max looked at Randolph for a few seconds but quickly dug his face into his daddy’s shoulder and grunted.
“It’s okay,” Randolph said. “It’ll take him a bit to warm up.” He smiled to show he meant what he said. But he did not. Not really. His grandson did not recognize him. And it hurt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The three remaining Spiers males—Randolph, Bruce, and Max—were outside gathering grassy dew on the bottoms of their footwear, or in Max’s case, his bum. It was three generations together again, as if it were just another day. Except it was not, because the tension was high. It weighed on Randolph as if it were an impending avalanche that would inevitably give way before long.
Max had loosened up. His daddy was no longer his sole protector but instead a hindrance to exploration. He giggled as he ran in circles in the lawn, occasionally slipping where the dew was most slick. The rain held out so far, but Randolph sensed it was only a matter of time before that changed. A dull gray loomed overhead. They did not have long. The women were inside doing whatever it was women did, probably gossiping. As much as Randolph genuinely loved Janet, the imminent conversation was best had without her—a heart to heart between men, father and son. Max helped bring levity that was sure to be needed.
“Can we talk now?” Randolph said.
He and Bruce stood on either side of a makeshift box, their not so nimble limbs the walls that would keep Max from straying too far beyond Bruce’s comfort zone.
While Bruce’s attention was on Max, he said, “What do you want to talk about?”
Everything.
“There’s so much, really. To be honest, I’m not sure where the best place to start is.”
“How about with that strange woman half your age who’s inside my house right now?”
It was fair. Not the beginning, per se, but it was somewhere to start. “Her name is Sheila.”
“I know.”
“And she’s not strange. Be nice. You don’t know her.”
“Do you?”
He thought about that, as he had on many other occasions. Perhaps for the first time, he felt comfortable with the word yes. While it was not possible to know everything about someone else, he knew her in her heart. Understood what made her tick. Shared love with her.
“Your mother and I are getting a divorce.”
Bruce looked at him. “Does she know this?”
“It was her idea.”
Bruce studied him. For a lie, perhaps. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“We’ve been unhappy for many years.”
“You haven’t seemed it. Every time I’ve been around, you’ve been fine.”
“That was the idea. We didn’t want you to notice.”
Bruce looked away, refocused on his son.
“I admit Sheila and I haven’t known one another for very long, but we have a strong connection. I know this may be difficult for you to hear, but it’s the truth.”
“It’s not about her, Dad. It’s really not. She seems nice enough.”
“Then what is it about?”
Bruce leaped to his right and redirected Max, who tried to wander too far. “It’s that you didn’t tell me. And that the way I find out is by you bringing your new girl...or woman...or, what should I call her? Your new someone to my house without so much as a courtesy to give me a heads up about what’s been going on.”
“I’m sorry about that. It was a lapse in my judgment.”
Bruce looked at him again, and Randolph thought he knew what he was thinking. It’s not the only lapse in your judgment.
And maybe he was right.
Max slipped and fell and giggled about it. Randolph watched with pure joy as his grandson popped to his feet and smiled through a surprisingly full set of t
eeth. He saw Bruce in Max’s expression, and Janet. But he also saw Patricia in his eyes—deep emerald and enthralling. Max was going to break someone’s heart one day with those eyes, just as Patricia had done with hers.
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” Randolph said. “We didn’t want to worry you.”
“I’m not a child. I could have handled it.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense in retrospect. You would have found out, eventually. I guess we weren’t sure how to tell you.”
Not like this.
Rain began to trickle. The gray clouds surrounded the house.
“Are you happy?” Bruce asked.
It was a simple question, and not one he expected. Coming from Bruce meant he wanted to know, which meant he cared, which meant all was not lost—which meant maybe, just maybe, Randolph had not screwed up too badly.
“I am happy. Exhausted, but happy.”
“Why are you exhausted?”
“Short version: Lots of driving, lots to figure out with the divorce, lots of newness.”
“You drove all the way here from Iowa?”
“Sure did.”
“When do you go back to work?”
“Oh, I haven’t told you. I don’t.”
“Pardon?”
“Early retirement.”
“When did this happen?”
“About the same time as everything else.”
Bruce looked at him good. This time with less anger and judgment; more concern instead. He bent over and scooped up Max, who had started to dig in the lawn.
“Are you all right, Dad?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you having a midlife crisis or something?”
Randolph laughed, though even he thought it sounded dishonest. That was the second time he had been asked that question. What was up with that?
“Well?”
“No, I’m not having a midlife crisis. Just a lot of changes all at once.”