by Sally John
“Business isn’t exactly your cup of tea.”
“No. It was obvious Neva had a crush on Max.”
“What woman doesn’t? He’s charismatic and good-looking.”
“I still don’t know why he chose me.”
“Moving right along.”
“But it’s part of the story, Tandy. I was in the basement of self-esteem. I’d given up music, the only thing I was good at. I was totally incompetent when it came to business. I couldn’t even cook very well. Then the money situation got so bad I offered to give violin les-sons at night and on Saturdays. Max thought it was a great idea.”
Tandy touched her arm. “Let’s sit.”
Claire noticed they’d reached a park. They headed to a bench.
Tandy said, “Is that when you taught students at Creighton’s Music Shop?”
“Yes. He had those classrooms upstairs and a long list of parents wanting private lessons for their children. It was easy to get started. One day I met this guy there named Petros. He was from Greece, here as a visiting artist. He played the trumpet.” She smiled. “He was extraordinarily gifted but nowhere near as handsome or mag-netic as Max. Still, the thing was . . . we spoke the same language.”
“Music.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What happened?”
“We connected. We’d go for coffee or drinks or dinner, usually after my lessons. Before he became better known, we’d go to places where there was live music. He let me cry on his shoulder. Max had no idea. We hardly saw each other. Our hours were crazy.”
Tandy nodded. She’d heard that part of the story. “He was building the business.”
“I had no clue what I’d signed up for. During the day I worked in the office.”
“Ineptly.”
“Yes. I managed to answer the phone. ‘Beaumont Staffing.’” She wrinkled her nose. “And I could hand out application forms to people who came in looking for jobs. Neva did the rest. She took orders from clients and filled them with just the right workers.”
“Where was Max?”
“He was out calling on clients. He’d show up at closing time. Then he and Neva worked on the payroll after hours.” She shook her head.
“It sounds like a tough gig.”
“It was. These past thirty years were nothing like those first two. We were married but not exactly living together.” She shrugged. “I was so jealous of Neva. She helped Max succeed in ways I couldn’t.”
“Did you tell him how you felt?”
“I tried. He usually said things like it wouldn’t last forever and did I mind not whining. He got enough of that from clients. When I mentioned the Neva relationship, he would remind me that he was married to me. What was the problem?”
“Hmm.”
“Anyway, once I started working at the music shop, I decided I’d made the wrong choice for a husband. Why would I stay with this guy who didn’t know the first thing about music? Or care to explore it? Or even pretend to be interested in my passion? At least I attempted to live in his business world.” She shook his head. “Petros wanted me to leave with him, go to Greece. In the end I couldn’t. Hindsight says I was just stubborn enough to stick by my commitment to Max. I had vowed my marriage would not resemble my parents’ miserable situa-tion, and that I would, no matter what, make it work.”
“Did Max know about Petros?”
“Eventually. After Petros went back home, I was a basket case. A mother of one of my students noticed. She kept inviting me to church. Finally I went.” She closed her eyes briefly. “And I learned that Jesus loved me and forgave me. But I couldn’t live with myself until I confessed to Max. It shook him up so badly we went to the pastor for counseling. He helped us see how we were pushing each other away. We got through it. We promised never to leave each other.”
“Whew. Max forgave you?”
“Not just like that, but yes. He said he did. I mean, there wasn’t that much to forgive. I had a friend I almost ran away with.”
“Friend?”
“We didn’t sleep together. Well, not exactly. I mean, there was plenty of kissing and—Do you want details?”
“No, that’s okay.”
At last Claire looked at Tandy. She realized then that she’d been avoiding eye contact through the whole story, afraid of seeing condemnation. What she saw now, though, was sheer compassion.
“Max never believed I didn’t have sex with him.”
“For a guy, that’s the worst betrayal.”
“Petros and I shared something far more intimate than a physical relationship. Our hearts connected.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tandy sighed. “Well, I think this explains why Max always avoided going to the symphony.”
“You think?”
“Definitely.”
“That’s what I thought. I’m a little slow.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Claire’s respite screeched to a halt a short time later as she pushed open the gate in the tall privacy fence that surrounded Tandy’s back patio. There, on the concrete stoop, sat Jenna, a sea of luggage surrounding her, her eyes like those of a scared child who’d lost her way.
“Jenna!”
“Mom!” Her daughter flew into her arms.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Oh, Mom! Oh, Mom!” Great sobs swallowed the rest of her words.
Over Jenna’s shoulder, Claire met Tandy’s gaze.
Suddenly life didn’t feel so good anymore.
Forty
Jenna lay in Tandy’s guest room on the mattress her mother had warned her about. She said it made camping with tents and sleeping bags sound not that bad at all.
But a lumpy, saggy bed was the least of her concerns.
She felt encompassed in a body cast and propped in front of a television, forced to watch a rerun over and over and over. The show was not Leave It to Beaver.
It had started with a phone call.
“Jen.” Kevin’s husky voice dropped a notch.
She heard two beers in his voice. Hesitancy started with number three. Slurring came at number five. Loudness accompanied shots of tequila. He had a ways to go.
“It was bad. So bad.”
“Oh, Kev. I’m sorry.”
“These guys. Young guys. Kids. Arms gone. Legs gone. A face . . .”
Tears seeped from her eyes. She’d known it would be bad. Kevin and his ex-Marine buddies had gone to visit the facility for wounded soldiers on the base at Camp Pendleton. Why on earth he and his friends had thought they had anything in common with Florence Nightingale escaped her.
He said, “The thing is, these kids are dying while I sleep with my beautiful wife. I play football with teenagers and teach PE classes to bunches of lazy kids. It’s not fair.”
“Life is not fair, hon.”
“Nope, it sure isn’t.” He sighed. “Anyway, we’re hanging for a while, me and Stead.” He referred to Heath Steadman, best man in their wed-ding. “Wilks, Miller, a few others.”
“Okay.” She squelched the urge to remind him about the last time he and Stead had “hung” together.
“Don’t worry. We’re not into getting hammered. We just need to . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Decompress?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I’ll put dinner on hold.”
“Jen.” He exhaled noisily. “I can’t think about dinner. I can’t think about you holding dinner. Just don’t wait for me.”
After a calm good-bye, she disconnected and looked at the phone. “Jerk.”
He arrived home very late that night, after she’d gone to bed. From the sounds he made, he was sober. Still miffed at his earlier comments, though, she didn’t get up or reply to his whispered hello as he climbed in beside her. He touched her shoulder and within moments was fast asleep.
The next morning she should have known. She should have known. He got up before she did and fixed breakfast, whistling the entire time.
; It was not his usual Sunday morning routine.
“Jenna, my pretty lady.” He wrapped her in a bear hug. “Let’s talk before we eat, okay?”
She let him steer her from the kitchen to the front room couch and imagined his apology.
Apology. Yeah, right. Talk about a head in the sand.
“Jen.” The corners of his wide mouth curled upward; his eyes danced. “I had to do something yesterday. It’s going to change things for us next semester. Stead says you won’t understand, but you will.”
Her heart pounded in her throat.
“It’s good.” He scooped her hands into his. “I reenlisted.”
“What?” The heartbeats resounded in her ears now, muffling all other sounds.
“I can’t ignore it any longer. Ever since the war started, I’ve known somewhere deep inside myself that’s where I belong.” He smiled.
He smiled.
“Semper fi. I have to help. The country needs me. These kids are going off to fight. They don’t know squat. I can lead them. I’ve stayed in pretty good shape, so it won’t—”
“You joined the Marines?” She screeched the words. The whole apartment building would have heard. “Kevin!”
“Jen.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I had to. It’s who I am. If you’d seen these wounded guys—”
“You can’t! You can’t do that! We’re married!”
“Come on, Jen. I thought you’d understand. I counted on it. I figured you’d be proud.”
“You’re a husband! You’re not a Marine!”
He laughed.
He laughed.
“Hold on, Jen! You know one doesn’t cancel the other. Obviously you haven’t been paying attention.”
She screamed at him. He stopped laughing and shouted back. She called him despicable names, vulgar words she had never said aloud before. He matched them.
She threw clothes and cosmetics and school paraphernalia helter-skelter into bags.
And then he had the gall to say, “You have no clue what loyalty is, do you?”
The tears didn’t burst until she reached Tandy’s. There they fell fiercely until at last her mom gave her a bowl of soup and one of Tandy’s sleeping pills and tucked her into the lumpy bed.
“Honey, I promise you, things will look better in the morning.” Her mom shut the blinds against the slanting sun rays and kissed her forehead.
Jenna succumbed to the sleeping pill.
Forty-one
I hope you’re happy.” Max growled the words, his lips mashed together. His jaw muscle convulsed.
On another day, Claire would have melted in the heat of his anger. Not so now. She propped her hands on her hips. “Oh, I’m happy, all right. As a matter of fact, I’m happy as a lark because my daughter refuses to put up with the likes of her dad in a husband.”
“Whoa!” Tandy formed her hands into a T, palm atop fingertips. “Time-out, guys.”
Max swiveled his glare toward Tandy. “All due respect, butt out.”
The three of them stood in a circle around the kitchen table. Jenna had gone to bed with the sunset, and Claire had phoned Max to give him their daughter’s news. He had a right to know. To her surprise, he appeared on the condo’s doorstep forty minutes later.
Tandy said, “Hey, my house, my ground rules. There will be no attacking. If you want to tear each other apart instead of console and make a plan, go someplace else to do it. This is about Jenna, not you two.” Tandy glowered at him and then at Claire. “Got it?” She turned on her heel and walked from the kitchen, pausing only long enough to pull shut the sliding door between rooms.
Claire pulled a chair from the small table and sat. She really asked too much of her friend. It was time to find her own place.
“Geesh.” Max sat across from her. The scowl had not quite left his face. “Sometimes I have no question as to why Trevor checked out of his marriage to her.”
A wave of heat surged through her. “Now you’re attacking my friend?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “In all candor, I’m probably attacking you.” He lowered his hand. “You’re starting to resemble her. Bold and brassy. It’s not becoming. It’s not the Claire I know.”
“Let’s see. The opposite of bold and brassy would be . . . hmm . . . timid and mousey and dependent and controllable.”
“Claire—”
“Admit it. You want me to wear beige and—”
“Wear beige?”
“Metaphorically speaking. Be nondescript. And kowtow.”
“You’ve never been timid or mousey, and if you’ve kowtowed, it’s your own fault, and I didn’t notice. The point is, we always agreed to present a united front with the kids.”
“United behind your opinion. Okay, it’s my fault I kowtowed. I hereby officially quit.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. For starters, I cannot unite with you behind your opinion concerning Jenna and Kevin. He enlisted. He did not tell her he was going to do that. He did not even mention he had any desire to do that. Now, in a heartbeat, she’s facing months and months of separation and the very real possibility of him getting injured or killed. What do you expect her to do? Sing the national anthem?”
“He’s a Marine, through and through. It’s his duty. He was still in uniform when they got married. She should have known him better.”
“He could have mentioned his plans to her!”
“How could he? Apparently he didn’t know them himself!”
Claire slumped against the back of the chair. No, it seemed he hadn’t known them. He’d gone with buddies to visit the Wounded Warrior facility at Camp Pendleton, to offer support to servicemen recovering there from war injuries. According to Jenna, the visit did a number on him and his friends. They proceeded to a bar to take the edge off with a few beers. To reconcile, Jenna said, that world with their own. It didn’t happen. He and one of the others reenlisted that afternoon. He swore he wasn’t lit at the time.
“Claire, her moving out is not going to change his decision.”
“Maybe not, but she will prove to herself that she’s not a doormat. That her opinion counts. That all of his put-downs, especially about her teaching, and his disregard for her feelings are unacceptable.”
Max blinked. “Is that what it’s doing for you?”
She met his somber gaze. “Yes, I think it is.”
He opened his mouth and closed it, as if deciding against speaking.
She offered a guess. “No, it’s not finished with me yet. I still stumble over the memory of your subtle put-downs and disregard. The second-fiddle position.”
“I didn’t mean to . . .” He blew out a breath.
She waited a long moment, giving him time to finish the half apology. He didn’t.
“Max, I know you didn’t mean to, but you did.”
He stood abruptly. “This isn’t about us. It’s about Jenna. And I think you’re wrong. You were wrong to teach this attitude to her. Walking out never solves a thing.”
With that he went to the door, pushed it open, and walked out of the kitchen. A moment later she heard the front door open and shut. Everything went quiet. Evidently he’d walked out of the condo.
“Yeah, well, you’re wrong, Max. Walking out solves one thing right now: we don’t have to talk to each other anymore.”
Bile rose in her throat.
Oh, what had she turned into? An ugly, foul-mouthed shrew. A horrid woman who felt only anger while her daughter cried herself to sleep and her husband walked out.
Self-loathing flowed through Claire, bending her in two until her forehead lay against the table.
Forty-two
September 9.
It was a glorious summer morning. Royal blue sky. Dry heat thick with the scent of sage. Birds still praising the Holy One.
He gives and takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Indio laid a bouquet of sunflowers on the ground near the boulder with the carv
ings and said, “Happy birthday, BJ.” Tucking the folds of her denim jumper beneath herself, she sat on a dried patch of wild grasses.
Ben stooped and set a tiny wooden figurine next to the flowers. His bolo tie dangled. “Happy birthday, Son.” Straightening, he squeezed Indio’s shoulder and then moved aside to lean back against an out-cropping of rocks. He hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. A puff of wind lifted a wisp of white hair.
Indio smiled softly at him. He gave half a nod in return. It was a gentle exchange of love. How grateful she felt for the sustaining power of that love. Through the years it had indeed divided sorrows.
Indio watched Claire add flowers to the memorial and then sit beside her on the ground. Her daughter-in-law’s quiet presence comforted her. The woman had never even met BJ. Never heard his voice, never received a letter from him. Yet she came, year after year, to pay tribute on his birthday.
Indio noticed a crease between Claire’s brows and touched her arm. “He’ll come.”
The crease remained. Claire was blaming herself for Max’s absence. Indio, though, knew he was only late. He could miss family celebrations and recitals and games and even Christmas, but he would not miss the traditional September 9 gathering.
They came for BJ’s birthday, just for a short while, first thing in the morning. Not to mourn. No. The keening and wailing was saved for January 10. That was done in private, each in their own way recalling the descent into darkness.
Today they remembered his birth and the joy he had given them for twenty-three years.
The memorial was made of stone and dirt and native plants and sky. Only the carving was man-made. Ben had started it on January 27, 1973, the day the Paris Peace Accords were signed, seventeen days after BJ was declared missing in action. He dulled countless knives and chisels and at long last his grief. Far from the house, on a boulder with a flat face toward the east, he’d grooved out a cross. Later they hired someone to add “Benjamin Charles Beaumont Jr.” and his birth date.
They did not want a tombstone. They did not want a death date. Not that one was known. After thirty-four years, they could only assume his remains were in Vietnam.