Evening News

by Marly Swick

  When Cathleen broke up with him, just last week, she had said she loved him but was giving up on him. She said it was too much work to love him, to love someone who thought he didn’t deserve to be loved. And Teddy had thought of his mother. Somehow she had managed to love him all these years. Even though he didn’t always enjoy being around her, he loved his mother more than anyone. He worried sometimes that he would never be as close to anyone as he was to his mother. They were like the last two living veterans of some terrible, senseless war.

  Teddy takes the elevator down and enters the lobby just as his father is kissing his mother hello, telling her she looks great, which she does. She is wearing a killer black dress and heels. His father, by comparison, looks like he just stepped off a tractor, but he’s still a big, good-looking man with a thick head of shaggy hair. Somewhere along the way — Teddy doesn’t remember exactly when — the turquoise earring disappeared.

  “And this must be Sean.” His mother is squatting on her heels looking into Sean’s benign but puzzled face with tears in her eyes. “You were just a baby the last time I saw you. This big.” She holds her hands a foot apart.

  Sean looks up at his dad, who gives him a reassuring squeeze on the back of the neck, just the way he used to do to Teddy. Then Sean catches sight of a water fountain and veers off, shouting, “Water! Water!” like someone who has been lost in the desert for a week. Everyone laughs as Ed excuses himself and walks over and lifts Sean up so that his mouth can reach the faucet. His mother pulls a tissue from her purse and dabs at her eyes with a faintly self-conscious smile. As they walk outside, Teddy glimpses their reflection in the mirror. Like a family portrait. Another one of those odd, complicated, patchwork families.

  ***

  At the restaurant, a casual but upscale pasta place called The Kitchen, there is none of the awkwardness that Teddy had worried there might be. The place is bustling, there is plenty to talk about (even though his dad is not a big talker), and a perpetual-motion, revved-up five-year-old is an entertaining distraction. At first Teddy thought that his father had decided to bring Sean along for the trip because little kids were always a good buffer, but now he thinks it was because his dad just couldn’t stand to be away from him for that long. Teddy can’t decide how he feels about seeing his dad so gaga over this kid. Then he remembers something his dad told him on the phone: “You know, when you were Sean’s age, you were off in California. It used to kill me not seeing you. I feel like I’m making up for what I missed out on.” And Teddy had felt both touched and miffed, as if any five-year-old would do. He knew that this was something his mother would never feel.

  When Sean announces that he wants to switch places in the booth and sit next to Teddy, instead of his father, Ed makes a big show of being jealous. He pounds his heart and says, “I’m wounded to the quick.” Sean manages to knock over a glass of white wine as he wriggles underneath the booth. Some of the wine splashes on Giselle, who says it’s no big deal and smiles indulgently as she dabs the napkin at her dress. Teddy thinks how when he was Sean’s age, she’d have whacked him with the folded napkin for behaving like this. At least before the accident. After the accident she was more polite; she hardly ever yelled at him, even when he wished she would.

  “Hey, settle down.” Ed finally wags his finger across the table at Sean. “What’s your problem? You got ants in your pants?”

  Teddy remembers his dad saying the same thing to him when he was a kid. Sean giggles and wiggles his butt.

  After they order their food — plain spaghetti with butter for Sean — they attempt to have an adult conversation, which isn’t easy with Sean interrupting every few seconds. But maybe it’s just as well. Things can’t get too heavy. Not that they probably would. Although they don’t have much contact anymore, his parents have remained friendly. He waves to the waitress and pantomimes needing another glass of wine.

  His mother is talking about Phoenix, how bad the traffic is getting to be. She had moved there to edit a magazine called Southwest Lawyer that some friend of her old friend Laura was starting up. The job offer had come at the right time. She was tired of private practice, tired of winter, and Teddy was about to go off to college. He has always suspected that his father’s new baby might have also had something to do with it. Maybe his mother wanted to have her own new beginning.

  The waitress, a pretty Asian girl with short angular hair and lots of earrings, brings their food. The conversation ceases while she shuffles the plates around, trying to match the right order to the right person. Teddy thinks she must be new and flashes her an encouraging smile. The place is really crowded, and she looks about ready to run screaming into the night. Teddy knows how she feels. Although he loves his parents, the whole scene is just a little too weird. He excuses himself to go to the men’s room.

  When he gets back to the table, the waitress is clearing away the dishes. Sean has eaten maybe three noodles, and Giselle hasn’t done much better. The waitress asks her if she’d like it wrapped up to go. His mother says yes, then turns to him and says, “You can eat it for lunch tomorrow.” As if she’s worried he’s wasting away from malnutrition, even though she was never that sort of mom. Her worries always seemed darker and more mysterious. Sean suddenly conks out as they are waiting for their desserts to arrive, like the Energizer Bunny whose battery suddenly ran out of juice. He slumps against his dad, with his head wobbling, his eyelids fluttering as he struggles to keep them open just a second longer. Teddy’s eyes meet his mother’s and bounce away; he knows they are both thinking of his sister. Ed reaches over and smoothes Sean’s hair out of his eyes.

  “This guy’s had it,” he says. “I’m going to take him back to the motel.” He reaches for his wallet, but Giselle motions for him to put it away. He hesitates and then shrugs and says thanks. One thing about his parents he always liked, Teddy thinks, was how they never argued about money. Unlike Cathleen’s parents. The one weekend he spent at their house in Des Moines was like switching channels between Moneyline and Crossfire.

  His father turns to him and says, “You eat my dessert.” He pats his belly, which is still impressively flat. Then he gently hoists Sean, like a big sack of potatoes, onto his shoulder. “Dead to the world.” He claps Teddy on the shoulder. “How about breakfast before we get on the road?”

  “Sure.” Teddy nods. “How ’bout I pick you guys up around ten?” His mother’s plane leaves at 8 A.M. She has already insisted upon taking a limo so as not to inconvenience anyone.

  “How ’bout nine?”

  Teddy heaves a sigh. “Nine-thirty?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  After they leave, his mother stifles a little yawn. She looks tired and older than she did this afternoon. “We could get the dessert to go,” he says.

  “I’m okay. It’s just such a beautiful night out.” She looks out the window. “I’d like to get some fresh air.”

  “We could go back to my place and sit on the porch swing,” he suggests almost shyly, as if he’s asking her out on a date.

  “That sounds perfect.” Her face lights up. “The one thing I always loved about the Midwest was the porch swings.”

  They ask the waitress to wrap up the desserts — an apple tart and some sort of fudge pie that his father ordered. His mother extracts a slim wallet from a svelte little bag and sets her credit card on top of the bill. The waitress whisks the card away. While they are waiting for her to return with the slip, his mother says, “Your father seems to be doing well.”

  Teddy nods noncommittally. He has never much liked talking about one of them with the other one, even though they only say nice things about each other. And besides, now that they are alone, he’s getting nervous. There’s something he’s been wanting to tell her but not in the presence of his father. It is something about his stepfather. Talk about an incredible blast from the past.

  The drive to his house is short, six blocks, and he doesn’t say anything about it. He waits until they are settled on the dar
k porch with some citronella candles burning and a jug of cheap wine on the railing next to the porch swing. His roommates are at a concert at Hancher Auditorium and won’t be back for at least a couple of hours. He feels anxious and keeps changing positions as if he, too, has ants in his pants, but his mother doesn’t notice. Or more likely, pretends not to notice, as she asks him questions about the courses he will take during his first year of medical school. And tells him a couple of amusing anecdotes about her first year of law school.

  Finally he clears his throat and says, “There’s something I want to tell you.” He feels her body snap to attention beside him. Her hand crawls up to her throat. She holds her throat as if, if she doesn’t like what he’s saying, she can silence him by squeezing her own larynx shut. “It’s about Dan. He called me. I talked to him on the phone. Maybe a month ago.”

  “He called you?” she asks after a brief pause. “Just out of the blue?”

  “Well, no, not exactly out of the blue.” He pauses for a slug of wine. He knows that his mother and stepfather, ex-stepfather, haven’t spoken in a decade. He can feel the shock waves radiating from his mother’s brain. “What happened is, I came across this book of poems of his at Murphy-Brookfield, you know, that used-book store we went to yesterday?” She nods. “I recognized the name, of course, but thought maybe it was just a coincidence or something. Then I opened the book and saw his picture on the back flap. It was kind of a jolt, to say the least.”

  “What was it called? I mean the title.”

  Oh, God, he thinks. He should have known she’d ask, and he can’t bring himself to say it. “I’ve got it in my room,” he says. “I’ll go get it.” He’s relieved for an excuse to get away for a moment. He can feel the adrenaline pumping as he takes the stairs two at a time. The book is lying next to his bed on the floor.

  When he walks back outside, his mother isn’t there. He thinks for an instant that maybe she just took off. It isn’t as if they had these cozy little conversations about the past every day. But then he hears the toilet flush inside and hears her high heels tapping on the wooden floor as she makes her way back to the porch. He thinks she looks a little pale as she takes the book from him and examines it. First the dust jacket, the inside flap that describes the poems, then the back flap with the photo and bio.

  Daniel Trias teaches literature and creative writing at Ohio College in Athens, Ohio. His poems have appeared in Antioch Review, Ploughshares, Kenyon Review, and Virginia Quarterly. He is the author of Constructing the Self: The Confessional Novel, published by the University of Connecticut Press. This is his first book of poetry.

  “Ohio!” She smiles, amused at the irony of his being in the Midwest. “I wonder how long he’s been there. He used to brag he never owned a winter coat.”

  The bio mentions nothing about his personal life, and Teddy knows what she’s wondering. He saves her the indignity of having to ask. “He’s not married. Never remarried.”

  His mother nods her head vaguely. She is hunched beside one of the citronella candles, leafing through the poems in the book, pausing now and then to read a phrase. He suddenly realizes that he has left out an important link in the story. “So after I read the book, I wrote him a letter, a note really, care of the college. And he called me the next week. And we talked for a while. He asked me about myself and about you, what you were doing, and I sort of filled him in on the last ten years.” His mother is just looking at him now, waiting for more, looking as if he hit her with a stun gun. “He said he was really happy to hear from me.”

  She shuts the book and starts to cry. When Teddy takes an awkward step toward her, she waves him away. “It’s just so ironic. The thing that drove us apart was this book he was going to write about the accident. I couldn’t stand it. I thought it was a terrible, selfish thing to do.” She fishes a tissue out of her purse and blows her nose. “I guess he never actually wrote it.”

  Teddy shrugs. “I don’t know. He didn’t mention it.”

  “Did you read the poems?” she asks, handing the book back to him.

  “Yeah. You know I’m not that into poetry, but they seemed pretty good. I mean, it won a prize and everything. But it was kind of hard to be objective, under the circumstances. You want to borrow it?” He holds the book out to her. She hesitates and then shakes her head. He doesn’t blame her. The book is called Raising the Dead: Confessions of a Childless Father.

  “Maybe someday,” she says. She reaches up and touches the side of his face. “I’m glad you spoke with him.”

  “He said he’s giving a reading in Ann Arbor in the fall. He suggested maybe we could get together for dinner.” Teddy watches his mother closely to see how she really feels about this prospect. Her face is in the shadows, but he can sense rather than see her smile.

  “That’s good,” she says. “Good for him.”

  Teddy doesn’t know if she means it is good of his stepfather to see him or if it is good for his stepfather to see him. Either way, he’s just relieved to have got it off his chest.

  The phone rings and Teddy excuses himself to go answer it even though he’s sure it is for one of his housemates. It seems a good idea to give his mother a couple of minutes alone. It’s Keith’s girlfriend calling from California. Even though it’s not that late, Teddy feels annoyed. She frequently forgets about the two-hour time difference and has woken him up on more than one occasion, then laughed about it as if she thought such dimwittedness was cute. He scrawls a message on the blackboard — Keith, Call Christy — and then stops in the downstairs bathroom to take a piss. As he washes his hands, he stares moodily at his reflection in the mirror and imagines that Cathleen is outside on the porch, talking to his mother. He imagines the two of them teasing him until he blushes and begs for mercy. But when he goes back outside, he is surprised to find his mother lying on the porch swing, her head propped up by a nest of dirty throw pillows, sound asleep. Or passed out. He picks up the wine bottle and sees that it is almost empty. That plus all the wine at the restaurant. The rusty chain squeaks as the swing sways back and forth under his mother’s weight. He stands there with his hands in his pockets trying to decide whether to wake her up. He knows she would be more comfortable in her hotel room with its queen-size bed, but it seems a shame to wake her when she’s sleeping so peacefully. He goes inside, runs upstairs, grabs the comforter off his futon, runs back downstairs, and drapes the quilt over his mother. The night is warm, but he wants to keep the mosquitoes away. Then he sits down on the front steps, like a guard dog, and waits.

  When Giselle wakes up it is dark and raining softly. A cat mews plaintively, asking to be let in or out. The porch swing lurches as she sits up and stretches the kinks out of her stiff bones, particularly her neck, which feels as if some deranged chiropractor has wrenched it out of alignment. Teddy has fallen asleep in a decayed armchair in the corner of the porch. All the furniture looks as if it was salvaged from the curb. It makes her nostalgic for the college days she never really had.

  The sky is just starting to brighten, and the air is fresh, cool. Despite the kinks, she feels surprisingly rested. Then, with a jolt, she remembers her early-morning flight. She tiptoes over to the edge of the porch, where there’s more light, and peers at her watch. She can still make it. The limo is scheduled to pick her up at the hotel in an hour. Teddy appears to be sleeping so soundly, she hates to wake him. She knows what an effort he’s been making all weekend to hide his heartache. His arms are crossed over his chest as if he were attempting to protect himself in his sleep. She has always thought of him as something fragile, just barely mended, someone for whom rest does not come easily. Besides, she feels like walking, and it is only five or six blocks back to the Holiday Inn. The whole town is small enough to be a movie set.

  She looks around for something to write a note on. Normally she carries a large shoulder bag with all kinds of supplies, but last night she used this silly little bag just big enough for some money, a comb, a lipstick, tissue, and a pen — but
no notepad. She sees the book of poems sitting on the floor next to the steps with a piece of paper sticking out. Thinking maybe it’s scrap paper, she picks up the book and slips the paper out. It is folded in half. With something typed on it. She opens it up and skims the first couple of sentences and stops breathing. It is Teddy’s essay for his medical school application. It begins:

  I know what it feels like to take a life. When I was nine years old I was playing with a gun and I accidentally shot my two-year-old sister, Trina. My whole life, my family’s whole life, has been one long painful process of recovery, and we’re not fully healed yet. Now I want to learn what it feels like to save a life. I realize that there’s no way to undo what I’ve done. How many lives would equal my sister’s life? One hundred? One thousand? Ten thousand? At a young age I learned the hard way what every doctor needs to know: that every life is unique and irreplaceable. Part of me died with my sister. It has been difficult living with myself even though my mother and father have given me more than any kid has a right to ask for. If given the chance, I will work as hard as humanly possible to be the best possible doctor I can be. For me it’s not just a profession but a salvation. In my case, I think of that old billboard or bumper sticker that says the life you save may be your own.

  The letters blur on the page as she reads the last couple of lines of the first paragraph and then tucks it back into the book of poems. She looks over at him slumped in his chair, his head dangling at an awkward angle, and has a sudden clear image of him as a toddler in his car seat. What a sweet, tender boy he was. During the past decade she has rarely flashed on Teddy as a small boy, as if Trina’s memory has somehow usurped those early years. Since Trina was stuck in the role of eternal toddler, like a permanent kitten or puppy, Teddy had — in her mind — somehow forfeited his claim to babyhood. It was as if Giselle’s memory were a photo album with limited space, so she had made a judgment call to toss out all of Teddy’s cuddly, innocent baby photos. And anyway, he wasn’t innocent. At least not completely. Under the doctrine of strict liability, if you did it, it’s your fault.