The Cure

by Athol Dickson

  The time came for them to leave for work and school. Hope tried to wake him, shaking his shoulder, calling his name, but he kept snoring. She decided to let him be. She left by the side door through the mudroom with Bree. Halfway to her car Hope turned back. She reentered the kitchen and slipped the cooking sherry into her briefcase before walking out the door again.

  All morning Hope kept thinking she had made a serious mistake. She endured three meetings in her town-hall office while wondering if he was emptying her house of valuables to pawn. She broke the speed limit driving home over lunch, only to find he had not moved a muscle. Even the rhythm of his snoring on the sofa had not changed.

  Hope felt a little better in the afternoon, but still it bothered her to think he was in the house unsupervised. She cut her workday short and left for home at four-thirty, driving up Main below a series of banners dangling from the street-lights—snowflakes, gift-wrapped boxes, Santa, and a manger scene purchased from a company in Chicago after much debate with Jim Rylander, a town councilman and a Unitarian who objected to the manger scene on the grounds it was divisive and unconstitutional. She sighed at the memory and turned from Main onto the street that climbed up to her house.

  Minutes later, entering the living room Hope saw the blanket neatly folded on the sofa. She called Bree’s name, and then Riley’s name, and got no answer. She hurried up the stairs to Bree’s room and knocked on the door. Still no answer. Nervously she grasped the doorknob. To open it was a major breach of protocol that could infuriate her daughter, but Hope had to know. She inched the door open just enough to see Bree’s broad little back across the room, swaying to the rhythm in her headphones as she typed on her computer. Relieved, Hope closed the door again. She stood in the stair hall listening. Was that the sound of water running? She entered her own bedroom. On the far side of it the bathroom door was closed. She called, “Riley, are you in there?”

  “Ayuh. Out in just a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  She stepped into her little walk-in closet to change out of her work clothes. Kicking off her shoes she pulled the door closed for privacy and found herself in total darkness. She had forgotten that the light went off automatically. She opened the door enough to turn the light back on, but that made her feel exposed when she got down to bra and panties, so she quickly put on the first things she saw: a pair of blue jeans, an old sweater, and her favorite worn-out moccasin slippers. Riley was still in the bathroom when she came out again. She went downstairs to linger nervously in the kitchen. She wiped the counters with a sponge. She checked the pantry and refrigerator for supper ingredients, though she knew exactly what was there. She had begun to sweep the floor when she finally heard the familiar squeaking of him walking down the stairs. She would have known that sound anywhere, even after all the time gone by.

  Riley entered tentatively. Hope had to smile in spite of herself. He had shaved and done his best to cut his hair. His naked face was gaunt, and the dense shadow of his whiskers contrasted darkly with the unnatural paleness of his chin and cheeks, but he did look almost like himself again, like one of those men who didn’t bother with their hair or clothes and did not even know that they were handsome.

  He said, “There was a package of razors in the cabinet. . . .”

  “Okay.”

  “I cleaned up everything. You won’t even be able to tell, except for the razor.”

  “It’s okay, Riley.”

  His eyes searched the kitchen for a place to rest, looking everywhere except at her, just as he had that morning. The awkwardness was contagious. She found herself wiping down the counters again.

  “Shower was a little cool,” said Riley. “Is the water heater working?”

  “Barely.”

  “I could, uh . . . maybe help with that.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Does my hair look all right?” He turned around to show her the back of his head, asking her opinion, making himself vulnerable. “I couldn’t see what I was doing.”

  “You could use a touch-up by a proper barber, but it’s better than it was.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m sorry about . . .” He paused, as if searching for the words. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I wasn’t drunk, I swear.”

  “I know it.”

  “I hadn’t been to sleep in a real long time.”

  “Why not?”

  He seemed unwilling to answer.

  Still needlessly wiping the countertops she said, “It’s none of my business.”

  “That’s not it. It’s just . . . I’m not sure you’ll believe me.”

  “There’s been a lot of lies, Riley.”

  “Ayuh.”

  Surprised at the simplicity of his confession as she had been surprised that morning when he admitted his drunkenness the day they buried Brice, Hope paused in her busywork to look at him. Somehow, his clean-shaven face and short hair made his dirty clothes look worse.

  He said, “There are a lot of people after me.”

  “After you? What does that mean?”

  “Some of them think I have something, or did something.”

  His vagueness annoyed her. “If you want to tell me, tell me. If you don’t, don’t. But please don’t waste my time.”

  “I don’t want to get you involved, is all.”

  “Fine.”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “Right. Just like when you left for my own good.”

  “You kicked me out.”

  “You left a long time before that!”

  “I couldn’t help it, Hope. I—”

  “Couldn’t help it? Oh, please. That’s what you always say!”

  He hung his head, saying only “Ayuh,” again.

  Suddenly she saw through his surprising confessions and uncharacteristic vulnerability, saw it for the passive aggression that it was. Enraged at her naiveté, Hope felt herself sucked back through time, trapped in the worst moments of her past, doomed to repeat them as she had so many times before. How could this have happened? After all the intervening sanity, how could she be standing here again? How could she be screaming these same things at him again? How many times was she supposed to endure this? Seventy times seven was too much. Hope scrubbed the kitchen counter furiously, teeth clenched tightly against the same old arguments and accusations, the hopeless words she knew would lead to nothing. She would not let him drag her back into the powerlessness of all that. Faster and faster the sponge swirled on the counter, until at last she burst out with a cry of rage and threw it at the sink.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man behind her. “I’ll go.”

  It was what he had always said, and she had always let him go, knowing he would return in a few days, knowing he could not do without her, until that last time when he had gone and stayed gone for three long years.

  Still facing the sink, still unwilling to look at him, she heard the soft sound of his footsteps as he crossed the kitchen. She remembered the next part of this disgusting little drama, the infuriating guilt that she would feel after he left, the acid irony of a senseless shame that would surely hound her days until his return. She felt helpless in the hands of her own history. She had to do something, take control somehow.

  Turning, she snapped, “Riley!”

  He stopped.

  She said, “You wait right there.”

  She left him standing and she charged back up the stairs to her room. Entering her little walk-in closet she selected a heavy cotton shirt and corduroy trousers from a wide assortment of men’s clothing hanging on a rod behind the door. She stooped to pick up a pair of leather shoes and crossed the bedroom to an antique bureau where she found a pair of men’s underwear and a tee shirt and a thick pair of men’s black nylon socks in the upper drawer. All of this she laid out on the bed so he could come and change. Then she went back down to turn the other cheek right then and ther
e, even if it killed her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RILEY KEEP SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE and watched Hope and Bree prepare supper. The two of them moved around the kitchen with an easy grace, each accomplishing necessary tasks without prompting, each aware of the other’s next move and ready to support it or make space for it without comment. Hope, stepping aside from the silverware drawer at the light touch of their daughter’s hand on her back; Bree, opening a cupboard to remove a pot at the sight of the box of pasta in Hope’s hand; the two of them a perfect team, the two of them, alone.

  It felt strange to be clean and well-groomed. Underneath the kitchen table, Riley’s hands rested on his knees. He touched the ridges of the corduroy trousers and wondered again whose clothes they were. He should not have been surprised at this, and yet he was. Hope had always been a woman of strong faith, a righteous woman, ready to follow without question when the Lord led them to Brazil, but the presence of an entire man’s outfit here at Hope’s house could only mean that she had taken a lover. Riley’s stomach churned at the thought. He felt the weight of these fine clothes pressing down on him. He wished to shed them for the humble ones he had received at the shelter, but did not know how to say as much to her. The words that came to mind could easily seem unjust, as if he presumed to sit in judgment, and that was not the case. If he had learned anything the last few years it was that he had no right to judge anyone, except of course, himself. Yet he had not fallen so completely that he could accept charity from his own replacement without awareness of the shame involved.

  Riley heard gravel crunching under tires outdoors, followed by the slamming of a car door. Moments later a man entered from the mudroom. Hope and Bree continued their work side-by-side at the kitchen counter while Riley rose to face the man uncertainly.

  “Hi ya,” said Hope over her shoulder.

  “Hi yourself,” replied the man. He turned toward Riley. “You’re Riley, right?”

  The man came closer to extend his hand. Riley took it, trying to place him. The man said, “We played a little pond hockey way back when, but it’s okay if ya don’t remember. You were a couple of years ahead of me in school.”

  Riley searched his memory. “Dylan Delaney?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You were in Hope’s grade.”

  “Ayuh. Had ta look at her every day for twelve straight years.”

  “You best watch it, mister man,” said Hope.

  Bree stifled an unseemly giggle.

  Dylan Delaney smiled. “Got ta look at her is what I meant ta say.”

  Hope rolled her gorgeous eyes and turned her attention back to the work at hand.

  Riley felt his heart constrict. Here was the proof he had feared ever since that Communion moment when it occurred to him his ex-family might be independent of his fantasies. Here was the tangible cost of his crime: a man his height, but broader in the shoulders and deeply tanned, with kind eyes (curse him!) and a stalwart jaw, whose entrance to this house without knocking caused no interruption in the supper preparations. The fact that he made no effort to greet Hope with a kiss only underscored their intimate familiarity. Worse, it showed an irritating sensitivity to Riley’s uncomfortable position.

  Bree approached to place a bowl of pasta on the table. She did not look at Riley. “Hi ya, Vachee,” said Dylan. “How was your day?”

  Vachee, or “little girl” in the language of The People. Only Hope or Bree could have taught him that. So they had opened up the past to him. The best and worst of everything.

  Bree answered, “Awful.”

  “Yeah? Mine too.”

  Bree returned to the counter. “How come?” Showing much more interest in the guy than she had shown in Riley.

  “Same ol’ same ol’.”

  “Bad catch again?”

  “Thirty pounds.”

  Hope turned to face the man. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  If they were talking lobstering, Riley knew thirty pounds was a very poor catch indeed. One full trap alone could weigh more than that.

  “Well, the day wasn’t a total loss,” said Dylan. “I got your water heater in the truck.”

  Bree clapped her hands. “Finally!”

  “Maybe Riley could help you bring it in after supper,” said Hope.

  Dylan looked at Riley. “That’d be great.”

  Riley said, “Okay.”

  The meal was total misery. Hope and her lover kept up a steady chatter, with Bree smiling at the man’s incessant teasing of her mother even as she studiously avoided any hint of a glance in Riley’s direction. Riley tried to concentrate on the food, the best he had eaten in years, but the meal was wasted on him. He watched Bree’s profile and remembered the birth-control pills she had bought at Henry’s pharmacy. He was helpless before that memory just as he was helpless before the handsome man across the table, knowing what any decent father would do and knowing he was no decent father. Riley was conscious of the lives being lived before him, yet he was not really there. He was a departed spirit feasting at his own wake, back from the brink but still missing from himself. Though Riley had no urge to drink, no physical compulsion, even so he longed for the familiar hiding place he had always found before. But the path to that familiar place had been lost since his awakening in the Dublin alley. Since that resurrection, Riley had been helplessly exposed to everything.

  “Some of the fellas down at the landing are saying it’s this global warmin’ thing.”

  As Riley’s attention refocused on the supper conversation, he realized they were discussing lobstering again.

  “It’s changin’ the Gulf Stream. Drivin’ ‘em out farther and down deeper than they ever went before. Some of the others have been sayin’ Dublin’s under some kinda curse, what with all these street people showin’ up at the same time.”

  Hope said, “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know it. Pure superstition, is all. But ya hafta admit it’s queer the way these street people started comin’ in right when lobsters started goin’ out. Awful bad luck all around.”

  Riley was acutely conscious that he was one of the street people this man viewed as a plague on the town. It occurred to him that here was a chink in this man’s armor. Hope was nothing if not kind, and would not abide a man who insulted a guest in her house. But then he remembered that he was clean-shaven and properly dressed now, so this man had no way of knowing he was part of Dublin’s strange decline.

  “Guess I shoulda stuck with lawyerin’,” said Dylan.

  Hope said, “Not much difference between lawyerin’ and lobsterin’ far as I can see. Either way you make your livin’ off of bottom-feeders.”

  Dylan groaned. Bree giggled. Riley swallowed the food in his mouth and dared to speak. “You’re a lawyer?”

  Hope’s lover turned to him with a generous smile. “Used to be. My pop always wanted us kids to get away from buggin’. Said seven generations runnin’ traps was enough. Sent me over to Bowditch for a law degree.”

  Riley wanted to say “I used to teach at Bowditch,” but knowing that meant less than nothing he said instead, “And you’re a lobsterman now?”

  “Ayuh. It’s what I always wanted, so when Pop passed on I sold out to my partner and took over the Delaney ground.”

  Riley had forgotten what the expression meant. His confusion must have shown on his face, because the man said, “It’s our territory, I guess you’d say, where us Delaneys have been trappin’ lobsters since the seventeen hundreds.”

  Riley thought about such a heritage, the continuity of it, the steadfastness of it, the unbroken chain of trust passed down through generations. He tried to remember when he had lost the ability to take comfort in such things.

  Hope said, “That’s a long time.”

  “Ayuh. And it ends with me.”

  “Oh, Dylan, surely not.”

  “I can’t keep buyin’ diesel and makin’ payments on the boat on thirty pounds a day. Gonna have to give it up sooner or later.”r />
  Bree stood all of a sudden, her chair’s legs scraping loudly on the wide pine floor planks. Riley watched her leave the kitchen and longed to follow. After she was out of the room Hope said, “I think she’s weary of bad news. You hear Sam decided to close the printshop?”

  Dylan nodded. “Ayuh.”

  “And there’s Simmons Chandlery and now Henry’s store, and that’s just this month. If it keeps up this way the whole downtown’s gonna be shut by summer.”

  It was Dylan’s turn to say, “Surely not.”

  “There’s a critical mass you have to keep for a town to stay alive. We just barely had it; then I took over and we slid on down past the point of no return.”

  “Ya can’t blame yourself for that.”

  “Who else should I blame? I’m in charge. It’s my job to keep this town up and runnin’.”

  Hope sat staring at her plate. To Riley she suddenly seemed smaller. He couldn’t bear to see her pain. He felt sick to see it, responsible for it, ashamed of it. He blurted out the words without thinking. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked up at him. An emotion he could not identify flashed in her eyes. Was it anger? Disappointment? She said, “It has nothing to do with you,” and Riley knew he had taken too much on himself again, and he felt ashamed of that as well.

  After supper Riley went outside with Dylan to carry in the water heater. The lobsterman took the heavy end where the oil burner was and left Riley with the top end of the empty tank. Even so, Riley feared he would drop his burden as he went backward up the porch steps.

  “Ya got it?” asked Dylan.

  “Sure,” said Riley.

  Inside, when they reached the door at the top of the basement stairs, Dylan said, “Lemme go first,” and Riley knew what he was doing: taking the steps backward even though his end was much heavier because he could see that Riley probably would not make it otherwise. At the bottom they crossed the basement and set the tank on the stone floor beside the old one.