Fiona Range

by Mary McGarry Morris

  Terry appeared at the top of the stairs. “Fiona,” she whispered in a thin voice. “I think you better leave.”

  She called Terry the next day, not to apologize but to say she hoped she hadn’t caused any problems between Terry and Tim. Seeing Glidden had just brought everything to a head.

  “That’s okay,” Terry said so numbly that Fiona knew she had lost her last friend. For the rest of the day she kept thinking of Rudy. If she felt this isolated in her own hometown with her family so close by, then she could just imagine how alone he must feel. They might as well be lonely together, she thought as she dialed his number, but then hung up before it could ring. She felt afraid, but didn’t know why. That was silly, she assured herself as she called again. This time she let it ring. What was there to fear? That he’d be busy or misinterpret her call or know by her tone that her cousin was being unfaithful to him? Finally, when he didn’t answer, she hung up, surprised at her disappointment. And then when she realized that he was probably working, she was even more confused by the relief she felt.

  Uncle Charles called a few days later to remind her of their fall party. It always took place the weekend before Thanksgiving, just long enough before everyone’s nerves got frazzled from too much shopping and too many holiday parties. He made a point of telling her that Rudy would be there with Elizabeth. Then as if as an afterthought, he suggested that if she wanted to invite someone, that would be just fine.

  “I don’t know, I’ll see,” she said, amazed he could so easily overlook everything he’d said in their last conversation. But that was typical. Ignore it and it would go away.

  “Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “What about George Grimshaw?”

  “What about him?” She recognized the captious tone. Once again ostracism hadn’t worked. Anger and ultimatums unsettled him more than they did her. He could manage her better if he could keep her right under his nose.

  “Why don’t you ask George? It would be so nice seeing all you young people together again.”

  “Oh yah?” She couldn’t help laughing.

  “Fiona, I just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

  “I am. I’m happy,” she said coldly.

  His voice dropped to a shaky whisper. “Then let’s just start over again. Let’s try. Let’s both try really hard.”

  Aunt Arlene called the next day to ask if she might need some cash for “a pretty dress” to wear. Fiona thanked her, but said no. She said she didn’t know if she’d be going. “Please come.” Her aunt sounded genuinely alarmed. “Elizabeth will be so disappointed if you don’t. She’s counting on your coming. You don’t know how much she’s looking forward to it.”

  Strange, she thought as she hung up. Why would her cousin care if she were there or not? In a gathering of her parents’ friends Elizabeth would be in her element, admired and petted.

  The next call was from Elizabeth, suggesting that Fiona stay over the night of the party so she wouldn’t have to drive home alone. Now the shepherding was complete.

  “Maybe I won’t be alone,” Fiona said, with the phone propped on her shoulder while she painted her nails. “Maybe I’ll ask someone.”

  “Yes, I think you should,” Elizabeth said. She paused. “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think, Lizzie, who should I ask?”

  “I don’t know. Is there someone you’re interested in?”

  “Umm, maybe,” she said, blowing on her nails. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, who?” Elizabeth persisted. “Who would you ask?”

  “Well, I was thinking of George. I mean, you know, just as a friend.” She smiled, listening to her cousin’s shallow breath through the silence. Let her squirm. Poor Rudy. How long could she keep up the charade? Soon everyone would know but him.

  “I don’t know, he’s not much of a party person. He might feel uncomfortable.”

  “Why would he feel uncomfortable?” She shifted the phone and began to polish her left hand.

  “I don’t know. I just think he might. It’s been a long time since he’s been here.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.” Fiona sighed as she blew her nails dry.

  “So are you going to?” Elizabeth said after a pause. “Are you going to ask him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” she said before she hung up.

  When her nails were dry she began to fold the basket of laundry that had been on the couch all week. She was halfway through when there was a knock on her door.

  It was Rudy. “Well, speak of the devil!” she said, inviting him in to watch her fold clothes. He said he’d been going by and had seen her light on so he decided to pop in on her.

  “It’s ‘drop in,’ isn’t it?” she asked, resuming her folding.

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t that suggest something aeronautical, you know like down from the skies?” he said, gesturing.

  “Maybe, but ‘pop in’ just sounds so kind of feminine, you know, like something a woman would say.”

  He laughed. “So I’m a cross-speaker. My lord, Fiona, I thought you were a lot more tolerant than that.”

  “That’s what happens when you’ve talked to too many Hollises in the past hour.”

  “I see,” he said, nodding. He touched his chest. “Thus the devil to which you referred.”

  “Actually, no. I was just talking to Elizabeth, but not about you. In fact your name never came up.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he said, then explained how Elizabeth had called last night to apologize for the way she’d been acting. She’d had a long talk with her father, who had helped her put things into perspective. Elizabeth and Rudy had agreed to slow down. For the time being there’d be no more wedding talk. If it happened on schedule, fine. And if it didn’t, well then, they’d just pick another date. There wasn’t any point in rushing. They had their whole lives in front of them. What they should be doing now was having fun, enjoying one another, and helping Rudy feel more like a part of the family and the community.

  “So is that why you’re here? You’re trying to feel more like part of the family? Or am I the community?”

  “You’re both!” He laughed.

  “Well, under the circumstances you don’t seem very upset,” she said, trying to hide her irritation behind a raised towel.

  “What would be the point?” he asked.

  “Well, to find out where you stand, at least.”

  “Why?” He chuckled. “I think I’m better off not knowing.”

  “What the hell kind of a life is that?” she blurted. For one so passionate herself, so short-fused, she was confounded by his calm acceptance.

  “The only one I got!” he said, idly turning the pages of a magazine on the coffee table.

  “Well I think it’s ridiculous,” she said, watching him.

  “I don’t know,” he mused. “It makes sense, I suppose.”

  “Well maybe to you!”

  “The thing is, I’ve been alone a long time. I mean, a really long time.” He closed the magazine and looked up. “In certain respects I’ve almost always been on my own. So when someone like Elizabeth came into my life it was like I knew instantly. I just knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That I didn’t want to be alone anymore. That I couldn’t let her get away.” He chuckled. “You know how you’ll hear an expression all your life, and you never give it a thought, and then one day it suddenly seems so relevant. It becomes so meaningful, so personal. ‘It’s too good to be true.’ That’s what I kept saying to myself. Every time I saw Elizabeth I’d think, my God, she is! She’s so good. She’s so sincere and so kind and thoughtful. But then I’d get this strange feeling, and I’d think, what if she is too good to be true? Is it possible? Can a person be too good? So kind and good they can make everyone else happy, but never themselves?”

  “I don’t know, doc, you got me there.” She sighed. This had been George’s mistake. By idealizing Elizabeth he cou
ld ignore the reality. “My problem’s just the opposite. I seem to make everybody pretty miserable, and most of the time I don’t even have to try.”

  Laughing, he got up and stood by the table. He watched her shake out a sheet from the laundry basket and hold it high in front of her. “You know why, don’t you? Because you’re too true to be good.”

  “Thanks, Rudolph.” She folded the sheet into sections. “You could’ve at least pretended to disagree. It would have been the polite thing to do.”

  “But that’s what makes you so interesting, Fiona. You’re very real. There’s such honesty about you. It makes you very comfortable to be with.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I guess I’m just so well broken in.”

  “I hope George appreciates you,” he said, buttoning his jacket.

  “George?”

  “George.”

  “Oh! George.”

  “How’s he doing?” he asked, as he bent to tighten his bootlaces.

  “He’s fine,” she said, unable to even say his name for fear she might blurt out the truth.

  “Your uncle said you’re inviting him to the party.”

  “And how did he happen to mention that?”

  “It just came up, I guess,” he said with a shrug. “So are you?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Don’t tell me you two have a relationship like ours.”

  “No!”

  “Well that’s good.”

  “I mean, we don’t have a relationship.”

  He seemed confused, unsure what to say next. He tied his scarf around his neck. He never looked warm enough, she thought. He said he’d better get going. He couldn’t risk making her sick of him too, he said as he opened the door.

  “Wait!” she called. “So what are you? Are you still engaged?”

  He paused as if trying to decide. “I think so. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Well, I guess that’s the whole point of taking it easy and giving Elizabeth some space, a little more time.”

  “A little more time!” she scoffed. “She either loves you or she doesn’t! Have you even asked her that? Why don’t you?”

  He closed the door and stepped back in. “Why?” he said, his stricken look turning all her frustration with her cousin to anger. “Why are you getting so worked up?”

  “Because I don’t understand why you’re putting up with it!”

  “Putting up with what?”

  “With the way you’re being treated!”

  For a moment his dark eyes held on hers. “What do you mean, Fiona?”

  “What I just said.”

  “No. You want to tell me something, don’t you? Please, I wish you would. I need to hear it.” He stared at her. “That’s all right,” he sighed when she didn’t respond. “I think I already know.”

  No, she thought, standing by the window, watching him hurry through the parking lot to his car. He couldn’t possibly know and still stay.

  Chapter 13

  Patrick looked out the window then sat back down to finish the lasagna Fiona had brought. Clutching his fork in his fist, he hunched over the table. He glanced up, then looked away. He wasn’t used to sharing his table. Her attempts at conversation had only made him more fidgety. He put down his fork with a little grunt, then pushed back his empty plate. Head cocked, he sat very still for a moment. “You hear that?” He got up again.

  “No,” she said as he peered out the window. She asked if someone was coming. Did he expect company? He was just nervous, he said. That’s what he did sometimes when he was nervous.

  “What, go look out the window every two minutes?” She laughed as she cleared the table.

  “No, I just look to make sure no one’s coming, then I feel better,” he said.

  “Same difference,” she said, filling the sink with warm soapy water.

  “It’s a bad habit I got. Once I get started I can’t help it.”

  “Speaking of bad habits, maybe you can tell me. Did my mother ever bleach her hair? I just heard that the other day. Is it true?” She looked back to find him staring at her and wished she hadn’t said anything. Especially not tonight when he was so edgy. “Want some more coffee?” She reached for a towel. “There’s some pie—”

  “I think you should go now.”

  “Why?” Wiping her hands, she turned, startled to find him so close. “What is it?”

  “It might snow,” he said.

  “I don’t think so. It’s not predicted anyway.” She had to step aside to take off her apron. “But if you want to be alone, that’s—”

  “I don’t want to be alone. It’s not that.”

  “What is it then?” She stared back, waiting for him to say it hurt to talk about her mother. She could see it in his eyes, all that pain and longing. All those wasted years when he at least could have been close to his daughter.

  His mouth opened, then closed as if he’d changed his mind. He shook his head. “I guess maybe that’s it.”

  “That you want to be alone?”

  He nodded and bit his lip.

  “That’s okay,” she said quickly. She touched his arm. “I understand. I get like that. Sometimes I feel like some kind of rabid dog, that just wants everyone to stay away.”

  He looked at her hand, and she pulled back. He didn’t want to be touched. Just because she was determined to have a father didn’t mean he was ready to be one. He could only take her in small doses and then he needed to be alone. He’d begged her to come, but bringing dinner had been her idea, and now she was getting on his nerves. She regretted mentioning her mother. But that was all right, she told herself as she put on her coat. She could understand if he was feeling awkward. She did too, though she wasn’t sure why. Everything felt strained; she had been trying too hard, laughing uproariously at things that were barely funny, exaggerating the simplest facts to get his attention. Her exuberance had made him self-conscious, then when she had tried to be quiet and let him eat in peace he had grown even edgier and more watchful. It was almost, she thought, noting his clenched fist on the knob, as if he had just realized how much he disliked her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said before closing the door.

  The locks clicked as she cut across the frozen grass to get to her car behind the garage. She pulled down the driveway and waved before she turned onto the road. He was in the window, watching.

  She hadn’t heard from Patrick in days. In a fit of loneliness tonight she called Rudy, thinking he might have a few minutes to kill before work, but he wasn’t home. She put on her jacket and hurried out to the car. A light snow had begun to fall, but was melting as soon as it hit the windshield. All the lights were off in Patrick’s house. She was about to turn around when she saw the flickering glow of his television.

  The house was a mess. She started to pick up empty beer cans from the floor, but Patrick insisted she sit down. The cheese-encrusted lasagna pan was on the coffee table, with a fork in it. She’d been here for almost an hour and he was still talking.

  “College, yah. I tried, but I just couldn’t hack it. I was a . . . ” He hung his head, chuckling. “I was gonna to say I was a lousy student, but I was just lousy. That’s what it was.” His voice drifted through the half-darkness. “It was the same thing then too. Too many people, too many people, just too goddamn many people,” he muttered, the words trailing off, dying like a feeble engine. He sighed.

  The acrid sweetness hung in the air. He was stoned. He said he’d been smoking on and off all day. He hadn’t gone to work since last week. He’d had a fight with the head janitor, and he was sick of it, sick of seeing people, talking to them, being around them, smelling their stink. “They just walk by, and these little bits and pieces fall off,” he said, rubbing his fingers together. “It gets in the air, and nothing can wash it off. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I never talk to them, never ever.”

  “Why did you want to work there then?” She pulled her coat sleeves over he
r hands. It was freezing in here.

  “Who said I wanted to?” he asked, grinning. He leaned close and whispered, “Maybe I had no choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that.” He sat back.

  “Well you asked for the job, didn’t you?”

  “Is that what he told you? Is that what the good Judge said?” He shook his head, laughing. “He just wants to keep me off the streets, that’s all. Keep me out of trouble. Keep me near him.” His eyes widened. “And away from you.”

  “Why did you take it then?” she asked guiltily.

  “Because I hate it so much. I hate it. I hate their faces. I hate the way they look at me. Or maybe I just hate my own face,” he hissed, the whispered intensity erupting in giggles.

  She closed her eyes. She felt dizzy, oddly disoriented. The air around her swarmed with his agitated presence. He had never been this willing to talk about himself. But each reflection seemed to end in increasing bitterness.

  “So what did you do after you left school?” she asked to return to a safer subject. He had gone to Boston College on a track scholarship. From what she could tell of his disjointed tale he had quit after three months. Though she knew better than ask right now, she wondered if he had returned to be near her mother. Natalie would have been a senior in high school that year.

  “Came home, hung out. There wasn’t much going on, I know that. I worked a few places, the gas station for a while. Then some snow-plowing for a while.” His hand trembled as he reached for the joint. He took a drag and the tip swelled in an orange glow. He inhaled with a gasp that sounded like a bone snapping in his chest. His head bobbed while he held in the sweet hot smoke. The only light came from the ceiling bulb behind them in the kitchen. She could see dirty dishes piled in the sink. He had been disappointed that she wouldn’t join him, but the thought of sharing a joint with her father repulsed her. He exhaled with a wheezy cough that seemed to weaken him. His head dropped back against the piled pillows.

  “I did deliveries. You know, in and out of Boston. Some kinda courier service you’d call it today. But then it was just, ‘Hey, give Patrick a call. He’ll run it in for you. He ain’t got nothing else to do.’” He laughed. It was quiet for a few moments. He lay sprawled the length of the frayed divan. Afghans were heaped on the floor.