An Irreconcilable Difference

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  Roger was studying my face. He must have seen my dismay. “Did I mark you down wrong?” He ran his finger down the page of his appointment book.

  I had already begun my stammered apology when he said, “No. Here you are.” His voice was loud enough for the whole room to hear. He glanced at his watch. “A few minutes early, but what the hell.”

  He began herding me toward the changing closet. “Go slip into something indecent, and I’ll be right with you.”

  The last thing I saw before he shoved me in the closet and closed the door was a broad wink.

  I took my time changing into my terrycloth, wondering what exactly had brought me here. Did I want a closer look at Roger’s gayness in the light of my mother’s words? Or did I want to be pampered after the emotional battering I’d taken in the last few days?

  I found no answers in Roger’s little closet, nor did I give it another thought once I stepped out the door.

  Two hours later, a smiling me stepped into the noon sunshine.

  My next stop wiped the smile off my face. My father was fading quickly. His eyes were only half open when I let myself into the room, and he seemed as unaware of me as he was of the television droning softly overhead.

  My mother was nowhere around. The air in the room was close and stale, making it hard to breathe. At least, that’s what I blamed it on.

  I spent a few moments massaging my father’s hands and saying things I desperately wished he could hear, but the room was too oppressive. I simply had to get out of there. It seemed as my life these days revolved around hospitals, and I was growing to hate it.

  Jules was talking to his sister when I left. He greeted me with cool civility. It was as if a switch had been thrown on our budding friendship. Or maybe there never had been a budding friendship.

  My reception was warmer at the office. I only stopped by to tell them about Darren’s accident. Klee, who was comfortably ensconced in Sam’s office, had already filled them in. I hadn’t seen his car. Either he had walked from “his” hotel, or he had finally started parking in back. Maybe our last front driveway standoff had paid dividends.

  I also wanted to know if the hydraulic door closer I’d ordered had arrived. It had, Sam and Klee informed me, and Jeff had installed it.

  “Jeff?” I repeated, incredulous. All the architects of my acquaintance fancied themselves master builders. Darren was one of the few I knew who could wield so much as a screwdriver with predictable results. Jeff didn’t know a Phillips head from a hair barrette.

  Sam nodded. “This morning.”

  I hurried into the kitchen to see this wondrous feat for myself. The hydraulic arm appeared to be attached to the door and door frame, but sitting next to the still-folded (and I was certain, unread) installation instructions were a screwdriver and three screws.

  Klee followed me in and stood leaning in the doorway, legs crossed and arms folded. Sam, the coward, had vanished. I gestured at the screws. “He didn’t finish.”

  “He thinks he did,” Klee drawled. “Maybe they’re extras.”

  I opened the door a bit and shook my head when the arm wobbled. “I don’t think so.”

  Klee watched me in silence.

  “All right,” I said with an exaggerated sigh. I pulled a kitchen chair over and grabbed the screwdriver.

  As I climbed on the chair seat, Klee reached up and plucked me down. “Now, there’s no need for you to go climbing all over when you have capable men in the place. Let me get my tools from the trunk and I’ll take a look at it.”

  I had issues both with the word “capable” and his blatant gender bias, but I was more than ready to turn the job over to him.

  He started toward the back door and I went in the opposite direction. I hadn’t taken more than ten steps when I heard a crash that sent me flying back into the kitchen. Klee was flat on his back on the floor with blood on his forehead. Next to his head was the heavy steel contraption he was supposed to be tightening.

  “Oh, my God.” I was on the floor beside him in an instant trying to figure out what to do.

  “Lou,” he said weakly.

  I leaned down and before I knew what was happening, his lips were on mine.

  His kiss wasn’t violent, but it was no starter kiss, either. I was too stunned to react at first. He deepened the kiss. It was probably thirty seconds later that he pulled back and looked at me. A lot of emotions passed over his face and, although I didn’t know him well enough to read them all, I recognized the last one well enough.

  Resignation.

  “Nothing, huh?”

  Surprisingly, I didn’t feel anger, or even a sense of outrage. “Klee, I….”

  He was watching me closely. “No bells. No surge of lust.” It was a statement.

  I smiled at him. “No bells. I’m sorry.” In a strange way, I was. It had been fun as well as a little flattering to fight him off. He was good looking, wealthy and, in his own way, a good man. What in the world was wrong with me?

  He lay there another moment, looking at me while blood dripped on the linoleum. Then he sighed, shaking his head.

  That brought a groan from him and sent me into action.

  I got a wad of paper towels and dampened them slightly. When I turned back from the sink, he was sitting up. I took the risk of kneeling beside him to wipe the blood off his face. He was docile as a lamb. I pressed the towels against the cut and covered them with his hand.

  “Hold that,” I ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, a little smile quirking his lips.

  I got more towels and mopped up the floor. There wasn’t so much blood that I felt he needed to go to the hospital. All mothers have that level of diagnostic skill. Besides, I’d seen enough hospitals for one day. I checked the cut. With the alarming blood cleared away, I could see that he would survive without further medical attention, and I told him so.

  “Lou?” he said as I turned to go.

  I turned back.

  He walked over to me and reached out to stroke my hair, stopping just short of his goal. For an insane instant I feared he was going to kiss me again, but instead he reached out and took my hands.

  “I just wanted to tell you that you’re a hell of a woman,” he said. “I know about Darren.” When I opened my mouth to speak, he said, “I mean I know about Darren—and Russ Pierson.”

  My mouth closed.

  “I’d call him a fool, but I suppose there’s nothing he can do about it.” He squeezed my hands. “That would’ve done in a lesser woman, you know, but not little Lou Graham. She hangs in there and makes it all work out.”

  I averted my eyes, afraid he might see the tears that sprang into them.

  “Oh, I know it shook you up and broke your heart, but you have sense, gal. You’re a beautiful and desirable woman and you know it. Or you should know it. You’ve got the face of an angel and the body of—” He looked me up and down. “Well, you’ve got a body that’s a real joy to look at, all tiny and compact with exactly enough of everything. And on top of it all, you’ve got spirit. You’re a little spitfire, and there isn’t anything that’ll get a man’s blood heating up quicker than that.”

  I could feel the color climbing my neck, and I was getting a little concerned as to exactly where this lavish praise was taking us.

  With a final squeeze of my hands, he released them. “You’re going to make some man mighty happy, and I want to say it’s a damn shame it won’t be me.”

  I met his eyes then, and what I saw told me he’d meant every word he said. I leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thanks…Gideon.”

  * * * * *

  I arrived home still a bit under the influence of Gideon Klee’s lavish praise. Josie made no secret of how happy she was to see me. All around, I was feeling very loved.

  It was a glorious late spring day. The sky was that brilliant blue that almost burned your eyes. Wisps of clouds floated high above, propelled by a breeze aloft. I heard children playing in the distance. I caught s
nippets of their over-loud conversation, most of which I couldn’t make out. No need, really. They were the voices of my past, of all our pasts.

  “Get it!”

  “Catch it!”

  “You’d better not or I’ll tell Mom.”

  I felt happy and philosophical, and I decided I couldn’t bear to be inside a moment longer.

  After I changed into skuzzy clothes, Josie and I played ball in the backyard until her tongue was hanging out of her mouth like a wet, pink bib. I fixed a glass of tea and took it and her into the living room. And I stopped. And stared.

  I had lived in this house for more than twenty years and spent time in this room every day, but I felt as if I were seeing it for the first time. In those twenty plus years, little had changed. Fresh paint on occasion, a new piece of furniture now and then as growing kids took a fatal toll on what was there. New pictures as the years had passed. The mantel was littered with them. Mine and Darren’s wedding portrait held place of honor. Then there were half a dozen full family shots. On the bookcase just inside the room was our wedding album. It was a pretty room—and a shrine to my marriage.

  Suddenly Jules Proctor’s face filled my mind, the warmth in his eyes when he arrived unannounced on my doorstep that day, the distance that had crept into his manner during his brief, singular visit.

  I sat down in the recliner that used to be Darren’s, idly stroking Josie’s head as I pondered friendship and romance and mistaken impressions. I recalled the look on Gideon Klee’s face when I kissed him on the cheek, his words of praise.

  “You’re damn right I am,” I answered him belatedly, sitting up straight.

  Chapter Twenty-F ive

  Josie jumped to her feet, anticipating another ball game. She was highly insulted when, instead, I headed upstairs and even more so later when I put her out in the yard. Guilt caused me to throw her a few treats. If I wasn’t careful, my neuroses were going to make her fat.

  I had spent an absurd amount of time freshening Roger’s handiwork and choosing my hunting gear, well-fitted slacks and a pale yellow silk blouse, open at the throat. I studied my reflection in the mirror, and then undid another button. Walking out of the room, I caught sight of my wedding ring, still on my left hand. I went back to the dresser and slipped it off. I felt no sorrow. I realized it was a symbol of something that had been, like a movie ticket stub or a program from a play seen long ago. It belonged to the past, and it was time to put it there.

  As I drove east on Stone Mountain Freeway, I wondered if it was callous to primp before heading to a rest home where my father lay nearly comatose. Was it shallow to head back there, not to see my father, but on a mission to snare his doctor? Was it wrong to want life when so many around me were either hurting or—yes, losing theirs? If it was, then I would agree to be wrong. I had put my life on hold the day I found out about Darren. Waiting. Waiting to see if he could be “fixed,” waiting for the right time to tell my children. The waiting was over. I wanted my life back, and I understood my mother as I never had before.

  The visitor’s parking lot was deserted when I arrived. It was three-thirty. Most of the visitors, I had learned over the months, were cleared out by three and few returned until after the early dinner hour. This was rest time for the residents.

  Jules’ sister’s smile was as warm as I had come to expect. “He’s in the dayroom,” she told me in answer to my inquiry.

  I spotted him across the empty room. His face lit up when he saw me. As I watched, the flame flickered and died. My courage almost failed me then.

  He was standing at a window, backlit by the brilliant afternoon sunshine. There was such solidity in his frame, such strength. He towered over me, much as Darren— No. No comparisons.

  This was a good man, a special man, who had given up a lucrative surgical practice to treat the elderly. I had no idea what he made now, but I didn’t doubt it was a great deal less than before, and he gave more time away working at Grady and assisting with research.

  His wasn’t a young face, but it was marked more by kindness than age. I thought the lines in his face beautiful. He wasn’t what I would call classically handsome. His nose was a bit long, his forehead high enough to hint at hair loss somewhere in his future. His lips and chin were beautiful, though. And his eyes.

  I felt more staring at his face than I’d felt when Klee had kissed me. Why hadn’t I realized it before?

  I saw confusion creep into those gray eyes. I had put it there, and I considered it an advantage.

  “Hi.”

  “If you’re looking for your mother—”

  “No.”

  “Your father—”

  “Is the same as when I was here earlier.”

  “Then…”

  I took a deep breath and blurted, “I wanted to ask you to have dinner with me.”

  He looked stunned. “Dinner?”

  “Tonight if you’re free,” I added before I could chicken out.

  “I—uh—” He ran his hand over his face. A deep crease had formed in his brow. “Tonight?”

  “If you’re free,” I repeated. It took every bit of my courage not to drop my eyes so that I wouldn’t have to see his answer before he made it. I would sink into the imitation Berber carpet and die if he turned me down. I’d never be able to face him again. I’d have to write notes and have Mother read them to my father, because I’d never be able to set foot—

  “I’d like that,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up in a tentative smile. “Where?”

  “My house.” Was I crazy?

  “Your house?”

  Was the man going to repeat every work I uttered? “I’m a very good cook, if that helps.”

  The smile broadened until it transformed his face. “What time?”

  Suddenly the room was brighter. It was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. “Seven?”

  I hadn’t lied. I was a very good cook, and an efficient one, and I had the shopping complete and dinner in the oven an hour after I left Bradford Manor. Cholesterol or no, Jules was getting lasagna because it was the quickest thing I could prepare that didn’t come out of a box.

  I still had three hours before he was due. I had faced a lot of demons in asking him out, both cultural and personal. It felt damn good to have fought and won. And I wasn’t done yet.

  * * * * *

  “Hello, Mrs. Graham,” Diane said when I called.

  I couldn’t have called her if she and I hadn’t become friends of a sort earlier on, but I had come to trust her good sense. “Diane, I need to speak to my son. Is he there?”

  There was a long pause, probably while she decided how to handle the situation. Finally, she said, “Yes, he is. Hold on, please.”

  I heard muffled voices, his angry, hers determined. After several moments, Greg came on the line. “Hello.” Was there fear in his voice, or was I imagining it?

  “I need to talk to you, Greg.”

  “But, I—”

  “Now. In person.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not negotiable. I want you here in 15 minutes.”

  I could tell he covered the receiver. Muffled voices. Then I clearly heard Diane say, “Why don’t you quit hiding, Greg?” I could have hugged her.

  “I’ll come later.”

  “You can’t come later. I have a dinner date.”

  “A dinner date.” Voice flat.

  “Yes.”

  Silence stretched. Was he waiting for an explanation? He damned sure wasn't going to get one. Then, finally, “All right.”

  It was half an hour before he arrived. A minor rebellion, but one I could live with. For the first time in his life, he rang the doorbell. I wasn’t sorry.

  I led the way into the living room. The move was calculated; the effect, instant. I had done a bit of clearing out and rearranging while I waited.

  Greg stopped and looked around. I wondered if he would remark on the absence of memorabilia. He didn’t.

  He settled ten
sely on the edge of a chair. “I called the hospital,” he began. “They said he’s better.”

  “No thanks to you?”

  He stared at the carpet.

  Josie whined at the back door, but I was keeping her outside. I wanted no distractions. It’s all my fault. Those had been his words, and I wasn’t sure what they meant. If he had shoved Darren off the scaffolding, if he had left his father bleeding in the dirt, could I ever forgive him? If he had, did I even know him? As much as I feared the truth, I had to know.

  “Was it no thanks to you, Greg? Did you mean what you said at the hospital? Was it all your fault?”

  He mumbled something under his breath.

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  I felt the first stirrings of anger. “What do you mean you don’t know? You went to see him. Russ told me that. Did you fight with him?”

  “I don’t know.” he burst out. “I don’t remember. I was—” He stared at the floor. “I was drunk.”

  That stunned me. I had expected denials or furious confirmation. But this? “You don’t drink.”

  “I know. I mean, I don’t usually. But I did. On the plane. And I—” He looked up at me, not quite meeting my eyes. “I came to tell him to leave me alone. He was calling and calling, day and night. It was making me crazy. He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  I waited. When he said nothing more, I demanded, “You flew all the way across the country to tell your father to leave you alone?”

  “Dianne flew me on a buddy pass.”

  The absurdity of his words caused me to choke on a laugh, but the humor was gone in an instant. “Good God,” I groaned. “So you may or may not have tried to kill your father.”

  “I didn’t!” He jumped up. “I wouldn’t try―I couldn’t.” He ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture so like Darren that I closed my eyes.

  Then he spun on me. “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  He waved his arm around the room. “He’s in the hospital and you pack his pictures away like he’s—like he’s dead or something.”