I mentioned that I’d be coming with a friend, and when I told her who the friend was, she asked if I was shitting her or what. She reminded me about how smitten she’d been with Triangle (she remembered that Seana had been one of my father’s students), so was I just making this up in order to get past her hi-tech security system and into her pants again, or would Seana O’Sullivan really be coming with me?
When I said that Seana would really be with me, Trish said to come anytime we wanted, early or late, and if we felt like roughing it, we could stay over. She wouldn’t ask and wouldn’t tell, she said, but she congratulated me on my conquest, and said I was proving to be more like my father than anyone had imagined possible—anyone but her, of course, and she trusted she’d get credit for having seen my potential at a time when few others had.
I said that Seana was just a friend, and when she said something about knowing what the word ‘friend’ could mean to a guy like me, I pointed out that Seana had moved in with my father before I’d returned from Singapore.
“Well, based on her books, I figure she’s into sharing,” Trish said. “So congrats again—and to your old man too—and we’ll see you soon, buckeroo. But one favor, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Do your best not to look surprised when you see me. It’s been a while, and I had another child, and I’ve become what some people might call plump.”
“Plump is good.”
“But know this: that I do look forward to seeing you, Charlie. You’re essentially a good guy, no matter what you think and no matter what you did.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“No,” she said, and she hung up.
“Oh my god!” Trish exclaimed as soon as we entered her house. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”
“Who else could I be?” Seana replied, clearly delighted by Trish’s uninhibited exuberance, and by Trish herself, who, though overweight, as promised, was as lovely as ever, her long, soft brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her cheeks flushed, her slate-gray eyes aglow with eagerness and enthusiasm.
“Did Charlie tell you that Triangle is my very favorite novel of all time, and that I could recite most of it, word for word, my favorite scenes anyway.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” Seana said even as she knelt down slightly and smiled at Gabe and Anna, who were standing next to Trish, Anna holding on to Gabe’s sleeve.
“So you’re Gabe,” she said. “And this is your sister Anna, right?”
“That’s correct,” Gabe said. “I’m ten years old, going on eleven—ten going on twenty-three is the way my mother often puts it—and my sister Anna is seventeen months old, but she can walk already, and she can talk when she chooses to.”
Trish wore black carpenter’s coveralls on top of a button-down light-blue shirt, but they didn’t do much to hide the fact that she’d gained a considerable amount of weight since the last time I’d seen her—twenty to thirty pounds, at least—and I was glad she’d warned me so that I didn’t gape. The house looked the way it always had—as if the people who worked the local flea markets were storing their stuff there: clothing, suitcases, backpacks, dishes, pots and pans, Mason jars, wicker baskets, hat boxes, lamps, catalogs, magazines, and books piled everywhere.
What I wasn’t prepared for, though, and I saw that it pleased Trish to see my surprise, was Gabe. He looked more like Nick than ever and, the shocker, seemed very sturdy. The constant restlessness that had brought on various diagnoses—ADD, ADHD, autism, Asperger’s—seemed gone. His blue eyes were nearly as black as his hair, which fell to his shoulders—a shock of it lay at a diagonal across his forehead like a crow’s wing—and he stared at me without blinking. I couldn’t shake the feeling—I recalled that this had been so even before he was a year old—that there was a fierce and determined old man inside him that was staring out from a little boy’s head.
“Hey Gabe,” I said, and put out my hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You’re Charlie,” he said.
“I’m Charlie,” I said.
“I don’t remember you, but my mother showed me your photograph.”
“I’m Charlie,” I said again, “and I remember you from when you were a little boy.”
“My father’s dead,” he said.
“Sad to say, yes—your father’s dead.”
“You saw him die,” he said.
“I saw him fall,” I said.
“That’s accurate,” Gabe said, “and I accept the correction. But it’s not useful information.”
“Your father was my closest friend,” I said.
“I know that already,” Gabe said. “Would you be interested in seeing his ashes?”
Trish leaned toward Gabe, but without touching him. “Not yet, sweetheart,” she said. “Be patient, all right?” She turned to us. “Lorenzo—Mister Falzetti—gave the ashes to me—brought them here in a box one day, said he’d decided they’d mean more to me than to him, and I didn’t have the heart—or strength—to argue. With Lorenzo, it’s always easiest to let him have his way.”
“Like father, like son?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Trish said. “Who cares really?”
“Did you bring us any presents?” Gabe asked.
“Oh Gabe!” Trish scolded, but softly. “I’ve asked you not to…”
“It’s okay,” Seana said. “Yes, we brought gifts for you and for your sister.”
“Perhaps we can accept the gifts now and you can see the ashes later,” Gabe said.
“Sounds like a plan,” Seana said.
“But before we get too far into gift-giving,” Trish said, “how about a loving hug for the grieving ex-wife?”
“Of course,” I said. “Sorry I didn’t…”
I moved toward Trish, but Seana was there first, and when she embraced Trish, Trish collapsed as if a strut inside her had snapped.
“I’m sorry too,” Trish said, and she started crying, her body convulsing in small spasms. “In fact, I’m very sorry. I’m damned sorry. I’m one sorry, sorry girl. Sorry… sorry…”
Seana pulled Trish closer to her, even while Anna, thumb in mouth, was pillowed between them.
After a while, Trish caught her breath and stepped away. “Now it’s your turn, Charlie,” she said, and she came to me and rested her head against my chest.
“You are plump,” I said. “Plump and warm.”
“You used to say you preferred women who were ample.”
“Still true.”
“I do well on amplitude tests,” she said.
“No one better,” I said, and a moment later: “And hey—I am sorry about Nick.”
“He never saw fatherhood as a vocation, I suppose,” she said. “I mean, he was a real bastard—mean as shit when he was wasted—and a lousy father even when he tried in his half-assed way. Still, he was all the father Gabe had.”
“And Anna? I mean, what about Anna’s father, if I can ask?”
“Several of the usual small-town suspects,” Trish answered. She wiped at her nose. “I cooked supper for us. You’re in for a treat.”
“That’s correct,” Gabe said. “My mother and I made several of our best recipes—baked stuffed haddock, string beans with mushrooms and onions, candied yams, and another potato dish, I forget its name.”
“Dauphinoise,” Trish said.
“That’s correct,” Gabe said. “And for dessert, we’re having a blueberry crumble, which you can have with or without ice cream.”
“I fussed,” Trish said proudly. “I like to fuss. I was happy fussing—getting ready for your visit—and Gabe was a big help.”
“That’s correct,” Gabe said. “My mother calls me her sous-chef.”
“And sometimes he’s my Sioux chief,” Trish said.
“Ha ha,” Gabe said, his voice flat. “That’s very funny. So now can we have our gifts?”
“Probably,” Seana said.
“Probably?” Gabe cocked his head to the side. “You’r
e teasing me, right?”
“I’m teasing you,” Seana said.
Gabe smiled for the first time. “I like it when people tease me,” he said, “although they’re not always successful at it the way you just were.”
Seana took a stuffed animal from the canvas bag she was carrying—a brightly colored parrot into which you could slide your hand to make it into a puppet—and handed it to Anna, and then she gave Gabe the model airplane kit we’d bought for him: a Glenn Martin Bomber.
“Thank you,” he said. “My grandfather makes excellent model ships, but I prefer airplanes, especially those from World War One. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Seana said. “And I consulted with Charlie here. He’s an expert at gift-giving.”
Gabe eyed me. “I know!” he exclaimed. “My mother told you about my hobby, and she told you I’d been hoping to get a Glenn Martin.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“After supper, I can show you the models I’ve already made. I have Fokkers, Aircos, SPADs, Junkers, Vickers, Halberstadts, and a Sopwith that’s a triplane with three wings, which is quite rare. My grandfather helps me build the planes sometimes, and he’s quite patient with me. Even though I’m the smartest student in my class, I also have a large temper for a boy my age. I can be difficult at times.”
“Self-knowledge is a wonderful thing,” Seana said.
“At school, I’m required to have my own teacher with me all day, in addition to the regular teacher for the other students,” he explained to Seana. “It’s called special education.”
“Figures,” Seana said.
“Figures?”
“Special education for a special guy, and you’re pretty special, aren’t you?”
“I certainly hope so,” Gabe said.
After we helped Trish put the children to bed—Gabe showed us his model airplane collection and then read a story to Seana while I read one to Anna—Trish took down a small metal box from a cabinet over the sink, and asked if we wanted to smoke some funny stuff with her.
She pushed away a bunch of clothes and laundry so we could sit side by side, and stuffed what looked like pencil shavings into a small clay pipe. She lit the pipe, inhaled, held the smoke down in her lungs, exhaled, and passed the pipe to Seana.
“Sweet,” Seana said after she’d taken a long drag.
“Lovely, lovely,” I said after I’d let the smoke permeate my lungs and float up toward my brain. “This is quality stuff.”
“That’s because some of it’s Nick,” Trish said.
“Nick?!” I said.
“Did you really?” Seana asked.
“Uh-huh. Just a small sprinkling, though.”
“How wonderful,” Seana said.
I felt nauseated, dizzy. “You actually put some of Nick’s ashes in here?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” Trish said. “I thought of doing this—what we’re doing now—I mean I had it in mind ever since your phone call—as being a kind of private memorial ceremony Nick would appreciate, wherever he is. He’s part of us now…”
This was when Seana’s cell phone rang. “It’s Max,” she said, looking at the phone’s display screen and grinning. “His timing has always been impeccable.”
While Trish and I passed the pipe back and forth, Seana talked with Max, and told him we’d visited with Nick’s parents, were now visiting with Trish and her children, and that she’d found another home away from home—a quiet place where the two of them could be happy campers while working on their books. She told him we’d already paid for a room at an inn we weren’t going to use, and suggested he drive up and be our guest there.
“That would be so cool,” Trish said. “Even though I only met your dad a couple of times, I fell in love with him, Charlie, and used to wish he’d been my father. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I mean, it’s like I miss him because I wanted to know him and never did, and maybe now my chance has come. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” I said again.
“We all miss you, Max,” Seana was saying. “We do. And that includes me because I become very sad when I’m away from you.”
“Me too,” I said, and I asked Seana to ask my father if he wanted to say hello to his beloved son.
“He says he only called because he misses us and that I should say ‘Goodbye and good luck’ to you,” she said a moment later.
“That’s the title of my favorite Grace Paley story,” Trish said. She rested her head against Seana’s shoulder. “But you’re still my favorite author, so there’s no need to be jealous.”
Seana was asking Max to repeat something, and she held the phone near us so we could hear him.
“Good night, my dear children,” was what he said then. “And don’t forget to be kind to one another.”
I heard a clicking sound, and then a dial tone.
“Is that all?” I asked.
“That’s it,” Seana said.
“Well, that’s his hang-up, I suppose,” I said.
Trish laughed. “You always had a way with words, Charlie. Even Nick used to say so, and he could really put out the word-play stuff when he got rolling.”
“Do tell,” Seana said.
“All grass is flesh,” I said while I massaged the back of Trish’s neck. “That was one of Nick’s lines. All grass is flesh.”
“Okay then,” Trish said. “And now I have an important question. Does what you said before about the room at Ocean House mean you’re going to crash here tonight?”
“Of course,” Seana said.
“Oh I do love you,” Trish said, and she kissed Seana on the cheek.
Seana placed the pipe on my lap, took Trish’s face between her hands, and kissed her on the mouth.
“Wow!” Trish said when they separated. She took the pipe from me, closed her eyes and inhaled. Then she and Seana flicked tongues with each other for a while, after which, while they kissed and hummed, I filled the pipe again, and tamped the good stuff down without spilling any.
“Essence of Nick,” I proclaimed some time later. “A new fragrance for a new generation!”
I thought my inventive sloganeering might inspire words of praise from Seana, but she was too deep into Trish—without my having noticed, Trish had unbuckled her coveralls and let the shoulder straps hang down—to be aware of me. And I was too stoned to be surprised or shocked by what was going on, or to wonder much about why it had never, until this moment, occurred to me that the relationship between the mother and daughter in Triangle might have been based on experiences Seana had been having through the years with women.
“What about me?” I asked quietly.
“Your time will come, sweetheart,” Seana said, but without turning away from Trish. “Be patient.”
“Patience is one of the cardinal virtues,” Trish said. “She’s also one of my friends—Patience Roncka. She grew up in the Portuguese community, and she’s my best friend here. She met Nick early on, but she never really knew him—not in the biblical sense, I mean.”
“Neither did I,” Seana said. “Did I miss anything?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh Charlie, you’re wonderful too,” Trish said, and she turned to me, her eyes on fire with happiness.
In the morning, Trish was first to wake up, and she whispered that she could hear Anna talking to herself in her crib, and would have to leave us for a while.
“This is like a dream come true,” Trish said. “Correct that. It’s not like a dream come true because it is a dream come true since I imagined the whole thing—well, some of it, anyway—before you ever got here.”
“So which was better,” Seana asked, “the dream or the reality?”
Trish laughed. “I’m not telling,” she said.
“Smart girl,” Seana said.
“I feel like I’m living in a book you wrote just for me.”
“For us,” I corrected.
“For us,” Trish said. “Even better
.”
“My pleasure,” said Seana, who was spooned against my back, her breasts warm against my skin.
“God, I hope so!” Trish said.
I took Seana’s hands in mine, at my chest, and pulled her closer while I tried to take in what was going on—what was actually happening. My head was clear, and my senses alert—I’d rarely if ever had hangovers from smoking pot; rather the opposite—I’d usually woken up especially clear-headed after a night of smoking the stuff. I knew, of course, that I’d been drawn to Seana from the first time I’d met her, and had often fantasized moments like this, but now, even though the moment I was living in seemed a dream come true for me the way Trish said it was for her, there was a difference, I wanted to say: because of the fact that I’d known Seana for more than twenty years—for most of my life!—what had happened and what was happening seemed very natural somehow—as least as inevitable and familiar as it was wonderful…
“And oh—wait a minute,” Trish said. She was propped up on an elbow, facing me. “Before I go, I have to tell you something—a secret I’ve been saving. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” Seana said.
“Okay. Here it is: Before you came, I took a chance and went off my meds—my anti-depressants.”
“Me too,” Seana said.
“You went off your meds?” Trish said.
“Yes, and a good thing too, to judge from the results.”
“I mean, are you really on meds?” Trish said.
“Many of our finest writers are on meds,” Seana said. “Mine’s Celexa—twenty milligrams, once or twice a day, depending. RPN, as they say. And you?”
“Cymbalta—sixty milligrams a day, and it’s a killer—wreaks havoc with my sexuality and my digestive system.”
“Sixty is too much,” Seana said. “Try going down to forty.”
“I’m not on any anti-depressants,” I said.
“Poor Charlie,” Trish said, kissing me on the nose. “So forlorn. But we love him anyway, don’t we?”
The Other Side of the World Page 6