by Nancy Geary
But older people retired to Florida. That’s what they did. So if he went there, no one would question the decision. He wouldn’t have to explain. He wouldn’t suffer humiliation or scorn. He’d climb aboard a flight at Logan and fly off into the sunset, leaving his possessions to follow in an interstate moving van.
He wasn’t even sixty yet. If he hadn’t taken early retirement, he’d still have five years to go. She tried to imagine Bain settling into his new locale, a two-bedroom condominium with a distant view of the Intracoastal, the kind of high-rise with a marble elevator, a doorman in a short-sleeved shirt, and an assigned parking space in a covered lot. She tried to imagine his reincarnation as an aging Jimmy Buffett fan drinking a frothy mixture with an umbrella in the glass or the fourth in a bridge group of men wearing white leather shoes.
It wasn’t Bain. A transformation didn’t seem possible; he was who he had always been. But Florida did hold one appeal. He could rewrite recent history—and, without her, there would be nobody to correct him.
Bob nodded and pursed his lips. “Sure, good choice. I got to admit, the winters around here are getting to me, too.”
She could tell Bain struggled to keep his voice sounding casual. “January and February are brutal. Much worse for Grace than for me, but we travel as a team. Plus we’re thinking of spending summers in Portofino. You know, a little European atmosphere to keep us all young.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” Bob said, shifting his cane to the other hand. “I envy you, Bain. That life sounds pretty darn good to me. You should let some of us in on your secret.”
Bain smiled and put his arm around his wife. As he squeezed her, she knew he was hoping for one thing: that this story would travel as fast as the news of the house sale, and neither of them would have to explain anything again.
Chapter Nineteen
Grace stood over the stove, poking at the scum that had congealed on the top of the cream of asparagus soup. She’d planned lunch for twelve thirty, but Hank was late by more than an hour. The salad she’d dressed had wilted, and the baguette slices were hard. Her meal was ruined, not that she cared. Neither the presentation nor the taste of food mattered, and most smells made her nauseous.
Had it been only four days since she’d learned of her illness? Her physical condition couldn’t have changed much in so brief a period of time, but knowledge had changed everything. Being conscious of her disease made her body ache in a new and eerie way. She imagined the worst—hungry black cells gobbling her flesh, and evil signals flashing through her neural systems. Destroy. Destroy. Destroy. She wished she could shed her skin like the magical seals of fairy tales and slip into the sea as a free spirit or a transformed mermaid.
The pantry door swung open. “Where the hell is he?” Bain said as he stepped into the kitchen. He glanced into the pot on the stove. “Is that soup?”
Grace nodded. “It needs to be reheated. That layer on the top will disappear, but I thought I’d wait until he gets here.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, the heat melts that—”
“Not the soup. I meant the whole thing. This meeting, this lunch was at his insistence. You think I wanted a confrontation to discuss a decision that doesn’t involve him?” Bain shook his head, disgusted. “You know what’s particularly interesting to me?” he asked, reaching into a box of Wheat Thins and popping a cracker into his mouth.
“What’s that?”
“A couple of years ago when I tore that ligament in my ankle and was on crutches, remember?”
“Of course.”
“I heard you on the phone to Hank, to Erin, too. I heard you several times asking them to come visit. You wanted them to ‘bolster my spirits.’ Those were your words.”
Grace felt a rush of heat in her face. She hadn’t realized he’d overheard her pleas. Bain was a decidedly bad patient, and she’d thought the boys could help.
“Funny thing is, I don’t remember anyone showing up. No doubt they had a million excuses, were too busy with family and kids and whatever it is they do to waste time. But it still interests me that a Monday in June is suddenly free and clear. I guess when he’s got a personal stake in the outcome, he can find the time.”
“Maybe we can all have a pleasant visit. It has been quite a while.” She forced a smile.
Bain glanced at his watch. “You’d think he’d have the courtesy to be on time.”
“I could try his cell phone. He might be stuck in traffic.”
“On a Monday morning coming south?” Bain raised his eyebrows. “I doubt it. Susan probably insisted he finish his flash card sequence with Henry. ‘Parents magazine says that if the father participates in the exercise, the child has a sixteen percent greater chance of retaining the information,’” Bain said, imitating Susan’s high-pitched voice. He shrugged his shoulders. “What is with those two?”
“They’re doing the best they can, I’m sure,” Grace said, not necessarily intending to defend them. Bain was right. Hank was incredibly selfish and self-absorbed. But she did empathize with Susan. She was struggling to make all the right decisions for her son, just as Grace had tried to do for Hank. She hoped her daughter-in-law would have better success. “Parenting has changed a lot. It’s more of a science, a skill, than it was in our day. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
“With the way she pressures that kid, he’ll either be the next Einstein or a serial killer.”
“Bain, what a way to speak of your own grandson.”
“I’m only voicing an opinion. But mark my words. He’ll snap one of these days. Run the lawn mower over a cat or something.”
“Oh, stop. She’s just encouraging him to reach his full potential. Maybe he’ll be president someday.”
Bain raised his eyebrows. “No matter what she does to the kid, he’s still Hank’s son.”
Just then they heard the sound of tires on the gravel. The time had come. Grace turned the knob on the stove and relit the burner while Bain went to answer the door.
They’d been at the table for several minutes without anyone saying a word. Before lunch, Hank had toured the house. Although his remarks had been casual, his swagger had been territorial, and Grace had the distinct impression that he was marking his turf.
“Didn’t Grandpa give you this when I was born?” he asked as he stood before an oil portrait that had been done by a protégé of John Singer Sargent. It was an elegant painting of a man in tortoiseshell glasses perched on a stool with a green glass and brass lamp glowing on a table behind him.
“No,” Bain replied. “He did not. It was given to me and I had it in my office for years.”
Grace understood Hank’s insinuations, and she didn’t disagree with Bain’s method of responding, although the truth was somewhere in the middle. It had been a gift from her father, and it had been given around the time of Hank’s birth, but Bain had adored it and kept it with him at work until his recent retirement. Neither of them had considered it then or now as a gift to Hank.
The dance had continued as Hank wandered from room to room, asking questions about origins and making an elaborate mental inventory of what his parents were likely to take with them, what Erin might want, and what he could rightfully claim.
His conduct reminded her of an article she’d read years before, an exposé on an estate resolution gone amok, when the heirs of a household went through the entire mansion with color-coded stickers—one color for each grown child—and marked what they wanted just a week after their parents’ deaths. As to be expected, the valuable antiques got numerous stickers, but what was shocking was that one heir put a round red sticker on the half-used roll of toilet paper in the master bath, while a blue sticker was attached to an opened box of cornflakes in the pantry. The newspaper had used the apt term vultures.
Now, as she listened to the clink of soup spoons against the bowl rims, Grace stared at the tablecloth, noticing a small stain just to the right of her plate. She wished
she could remember when it had gotten there, but she couldn’t even remember when she’d acquired this particular cloth. It might have been years before. She wanted the irregularly shaped brown mark to have come from a dinner with Ferris. Back in those days, she still cooked. Perhaps in his animated conversation, or his enthusiastic way of gesticulating, he’d dripped his fork or accidentally hit the edge of his plate, and gravy had dripped onto the fabric.
She missed Ferris. Thinking of him made her think of Prissy, too. She wondered if there would ever be a time again when she didn’t associate one with the other.
If he’d never met Prissy, Ferris’s life might have followed a completely different course. He might not have been so restless or unstable. He might have fallen in love or even married. All it would have taken was the slightest change of direction. An entire life might have evolved in a different way. A better way. He might still be alive.
It was horrible to think that one choice set forth a sequence of events that rolled inexorably to a horrid end. If she’d never befriended the clammer, if she hadn’t made the introduction to her brother, if both of them hadn’t come to her aid after the tragedy of Sarah’s death, Ferris might be here now. In fact, if she’d never hired a nanny, if she hadn’t cared about her hairstyle for a cocktail party, then Sarah would be here now, too.
She wanted them both. She’d be able to talk to Sarah, to explain her fears, to ask for her care. And she’d be able to ask Ferris for advice. Then he could smile and tell her everything would turn out all right in the end. Doesn’t it always? She imagined his voice. His lies.
Was a life simply the accumulation of consequences that resulted from a single choice? Looking at hers, it was easy to identify the source. Everything stemmed from Bain. It was impossible to even imagine what might have unfolded if she’d never attended that fateful party at the Crimson.
“You’re making a mistake to take the photos away.” Hank’s comment interrupted her thoughts. “A house shows better with personal effects on display,” he said, breaking a slice of bread in two. “It makes the place feel livable.”
“Your mother was more concerned about privacy.”
Hank gave her a baffled expression. “Privacy? You’re selling the house.”
“That doesn’t mean we’re on display,” Bain insisted.
“We’re selling walls, windows, floors, a roof,” Grace added, wondering when Bain might mention that they’d accepted an offer. Although she’d decided to leave that announcement up to him, it did seem surreal to discuss the manner of showing the house when the showings had accomplished their purpose.
“Absolutely right. Not our lives,” Bain said, obviously pleased with her remark.
Hank glanced down at the spoon in his hand. Then he rested it on the side of his dish. “Part of selling a home is convincing the buyer that they want your life. They need to think they’re buying into a myth of something else, something better. That’s the point. If I were the broker, I’d insist you put them back.”
“Well, you’re not.”
“You don’t need to remind me of that, Dad.”
She passed him the salad bowl.
“You need to understand that what you’re doing is very upsetting to both Erin and me. We may not have been vocal enough about that before, but I’m here to tell you now. Erin wanted to come, too, so that I wouldn’t be speaking for both of us. He feels as strongly as I do about the house, but he couldn’t make it.”
“A sure sign that something’s important, setting priorities,” Bain mumbled, although Grace knew he was relieved that he didn’t have to face both sons at once.
“I would think you’d cut him some slack given the mess he’s in. You couldn’t honestly have expected him to leave home under the circumstances.”
“What mess is it this time?” Bain asked.
“You don’t know?” Hank looked from his father to his mother. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. His smug expression indicated he was quite pleased to have information that they didn’t. “Marley’s moved out.”
“When did that happen?” Bain asked without a hint of alarm in his voice as he dipped his spoon into his soup.
“About two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks!” Grace felt her pulse race. Her son’s wife had left him and she hadn’t heard a word. Her mind flashed to Ferris, the despair she’d seen on his face and the sorrow she’d heard in his voice the last time they’d been together as he’d spoken of Prissy and her decision to say good-bye. She couldn’t bear for there to be such pain again. “Is Erin all right?”
“Look, Ma, I didn’t get into details with him. Our conversation was mostly about the house. We all know that woman is weird. Look at the crap she talks about—faith healing and pansexuality. It’s BS if you ask me. For all I know, she’s finding herself and will come back after there’s been some revelation in a week or two. Erin’s a lot better off without her.”
“That’s not for us to say,” she replied, although her voice sounded foreign. “Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think Erin does, either.”
“People don’t just disappear!” Grace heard the desperation in her own voice. Images of Ferris and Prissy swirled in her mind. Now Marley was gone, too. “What about the children?”
“They’re with Erin. Marley walked out on the whole kit and caboodle. She even left that mangy dog she seems so attached to. The mutt slept in their bed.” He made a face to indicate his repulsion.
What character trait allowed people to simply walk away from everything they’d known, everything they’d made, and everything they’d loved? Did the past haunt them, or could they truly purge themselves, as if a giant vacuum cleaner had consumed their memories in a single whoosh? Marley and Erin had been together since freshman year, nearly half his life. For better or for worse, it had been his choice, her choice, a choice they’d made together.
She thought of Erin, alone in his tiny house, trying to care for three small children while navigating around her purple healing table. Maybe he could feed the children on it. Faux leather cleaned up nicely.
“Why didn’t he tell us?” She might have done something to help, although at this particular moment she couldn’t imagine what. She chastised herself. The distance—the estrangement—was her fault. After the school tuition conversation, her telephone calls with Erin had been more brief and distant than ever. Making excuses about how they needed to be with Marley’s family, he hadn’t come for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Maybe Marley hated her in-laws and that’s why she’d left. Maybe she’d had it with the whole Alcott clan. Maybe Erin didn’t say anything because his parents were responsible for the breakup. Maybe Erin hated his parents, too.
“I have no idea.” Hank took a bite of salad. “It wouldn’t have done any good.”
“We’re his parents.” The sentence seemed as lifeless as Grace felt. She reminded herself of all that she kept secret from her sons, and even her husband. Why would she have expected Erin to be more open or forthcoming?
“Have you any idea what happened?” Bain asked.
Hank nodded. “Probably what always happens: People realize they’ve spent years together, still aren’t happy, wonder if they ever were, and start looking for something else. Even if they don’t find it, just the thought that it might be out there, and that they might be missing something, is enough incentive.”
Grace looked at her son, wondering whether he’d arrived at that theory from personal experience.
“It’s astounding to me how many people Susan and I know who are getting divorced or having affairs. A life together like the two of you have is becoming extinct. Your marriage is a relic.” He laughed.
Bain did not.
The image was apt: a fossil with the flesh and blood gone but the skeletal imprint remaining, an enduring marriage captured and preserved in layers of sand and rock. Some archaeologist could come along in a thousand years and dig it up, mount it in a mus
eum as a testament to longevity, and students could ponder what it might have looked like when it was alive.
“Susan has her opinions on the matter, believe me. I think it’s about plain old boredom. But my advice to Erin was to contact a good lawyer. I could see that woman being vicious if she wanted to be.”
Grace felt the urge to get up from the table and call Erin immediately. But as soon as she made the suggestion, she could see in Bain’s eyes that it was out of the question. He did not want to be alone with Hank and forced to face Hank’s real concern, which wasn’t his brother. “You can try him this evening, after the kids are in bed,” Bain offered.
But Grace felt agitated, and so instead got up to pour coffee from the carafe she’d set out on the sideboard. As she placed a cup and saucer in front of Hank, she noticed that the handle was chipped, and a replacement was impossible. The china pattern had been discontinued years before. Since she’d been in its registry, Shreve, Crump & Low had sent her a notice to that effect.
The pharaohs of ancient Egypt had been buried with belongings they’d need in the afterlife. Maybe the broken demitasse, another relic, would be an appropriate object to insert in her coffin.
Hank took a sip and grimaced slightly. “Look, despite what else is going on, you two need to understand that Erin and I are strongly opposed to the sale of this house. We want you to take it off the market immediately so that you won’t be liable for a commission if a ready, willing, and able buyer comes along. The last thing you need is to be sued for five percent of the sale price.”
“This is not your decision to make,” Bain said, sternly. “This is my home. I’ll decide when it’s time to leave. And that time has come.”