by John Herbert
“Will do. Then I’m out of here.”
“Dave, I don’t know what to say. Other than thanks.”
“Don’t have to say anything,” Dave replied, cutting me short.
“Yes, I do. I should’ve been there with Jennie. I know that. Supposing you hadn’t been able to come over?”
“Well, I was, so there’s no problem.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Look, I gotta get back to bed. I’ll see you over the weekend.”
“Sure. Hey…thanks again.”
I waited for a reply, but I heard a dial tone instead. I hung up the phone and walked back into the living room. Nancy was awake by now, lying on her side, her chin in her hand. “Who was that?” she asked.
“That was Dave. Jennie’s sick and has a temperature of 102.8. So I better get home. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly,” Nancy said. “But why did Dave call you? Why didn’t Loretta call you?”
I snorted and shook my head in frustration as I started to get dressed. “Dave called me because Loretta called him. She thought Jennie had a fever and took her temperature, but she couldn’t read the thermometer. So she called Dave over to read the damn thing, and Dave called me. Is that not something?” I shook my head again and rubbed my forehead. “If this doesn’t tell you how screwed up my life has become, I don’t know what does. My little girl gets sick, and my best friend has to get up in the middle of the night and come over to my house to read a thermometer for my housekeeper because I’m not there.”
Nancy reached out and took my hands in hers. “You didn’t know Jennie was sick when you came over tonight, did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then you didn’t do anything wrong.”
I disengaged my hands from Nancy’s and began to button my shirt. “I just feel like a really lousy father, Nan.”
“You’re not a lousy father. You’re a wonderful father who’s caught in the middle of a lousy situation. But things will work out. You just have to be patient.”
“I should’ve been home with the kids tonight, but I had to come here. You know that. So either way I lose. Either I see my kids and don’t see you, or I see you and don’t see my kids. That’s the choice I’m faced with, and that’s a choice I can’t make.”
Nancy reached out again, pulled one of my hands down to her lips and kissed the back of it. “You don’t have to make a choice,” she said between kisses. “You see your children, and you see me. Maybe not as much as you’d like in either case, but that’s all right. The children will survive, and I’ll survive. Like I said, just be patient.”
I put on my ski jacket and then bent down to kiss her good night. “I’m trying, Nan,” I said as I straightened up. “Believe me, I’m trying.”
I gave a little wave, and a moment later I stepped out into the cold, silent night.
Eighty-Four
My parents and I had just finished lunch and were sitting at the dinette table on Sunday, March 16th, when my father asked me an odd question. “Have you ever seen Center Island?”
“No. Why?” I replied.
“No reason, really,” he said. “Kind of surprising, though, when you realize we’ve lived in Mill Neck for seventeen years, and Center Island’s only four miles away.”
“I suppose so. Never thought about it.”
“We should go there after lunch. Today’s a beautiful day, it’s a nice drive, and the area’s like another world. The wealth of the people who live there is unbelievable.”
“Isn’t it gated?” I asked.
“Yeah, but they’ll let us in. We’ll tell the guard we’re from Mill Neck and that we just want to drive around the island. Leave that to me.”
He turned to my mother before I could reply. “Do you mind if we leave the kids with you for a little bit?”
“Not at all,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Just give me a hand clearing the table, and I’ll take care of the dishes while you’re gone.”
Within minutes our chores were done, and I found myself leaving for what I thought was an impromptu Sunday afternoon drive. We arrived at the gatehouse guarding the entrance to Center Island less than fifteen minutes later and slowed to a stop in front of the white wooden barrier gate blocking our lane. A uniformed guard stepped out, clipboard in hand, and came up to the driver’s side of the car.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said cheerily. “May I ask who you’re visiting?”
“Well, actually, no one,” my father responded, equally cheerily. “I’ve been promising myself for months to take a drive around the island, and I thought today would be a great day for it. Is that possible?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” the guard replied, genuinely apologetic. “No one’s allowed on the island unless they’re a resident or the expected guest of a resident. In which case we enter their name in our approved visitor’s log.” He held up the clipboard in his hand for us to see.
“I understand,” my father said, “but could we maybe make just one loop around the island and then come right back out? I live over in Mill Neck, and I wanted to show my son the area. Shouldn’t take very long.”
The guard looked over the roof of the car for a few seconds and then leaned down so he could look into the car and over at me. “How long would you need, sir?”
“Ten minutes,” my father replied with his warmest smile. “Fifteen at most.”
“Tell you what. I’ll take down your license number so I know who you are, and you take your loop around the island. But you need to be back here in no more than fifteen minutes. Okay?”
“Not a problem. Thanks very much.”
We waited while the guard went to the rear of the car and recorded the license number. When he was done, he gave us a wave and went back into the gatehouse to raise the barrier gate.
“Nicely done,” I commented as we passed under the raised gate.
“All depends on the presentation,” my father answered, feeling quite happy with himself.
Center Island, it turned out, was not an island at all, but rather a small peninsula joined at its northwest corner to the north shore of Long Island. Its southernmost end protruded into Oyster Bay Cove, with Cold Spring Harbor on its eastern shore, Oyster Bay on its western shore and Long Island Sound on its northern flank.
As we drove along on the narrow, two-lane road that made a meandering loop around the peninsula, I was disappointed to see that many of the homes were hidden from view, the only evidence of them being driveways that disappeared into woods and mailboxes at the end of those driveways. But every half mile or so we came upon a house visible from the road, typically nestled deep within a veritable forest of oak, black walnut and hickory and surrounded by acres of grass already green. Each house was more magnificent than the next—Tudors with stone turrets and leaded glass windows, center-hall brick colonials with slate roofs, and ultra modern concoctions of concrete, stainless steel and glass—each of them enclosing thousands of square feet of living space for the pleasure and egos of their invisible owners.
I was admiring one particularly huge Tudor, wondering what someone who could afford such a home did for a living, when my father’s voice broke into my thoughts.
“You seem to be getting pretty involved with Nancy, son.”
“What?” I asked, not certain I’d heard him correctly.
“I said you seem to be getting pretty involved with Nancy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You see her three nights a week. You must be getting pretty involved with her.”
I shrugged my shoulders and looked out the side window, trying to decide how honest to be. “As a matter of fact,” I said, turning back toward him after a moment of deliberation, “I am getting involved with Nancy. Very involved. Why?”
I waited for his answer, not sure what to expect, but he didn’t respond for several seconds as he maneuvered the twists and turns of the road. I could tell he was thinking, though, choosing his words carefull
y.
“It’s none of my business,” he said finally, “and I hope you’ll forgive me for asking you this, but aren’t you concerned about getting serious with someone so soon after losing Peg? I mean, Peg’s only been dead for seven months. Isn’t it possible you’re getting involved with Nancy on the rebound?”
“Sure, it’s possible. Theoretically. But that’s not the situation.”
“How can you know that if you’re not seeing other people?”
“I’ve gone out with a few other people—you know that—but I don’t need to date anybody else to know what Nancy means to me.”
“What does she mean to you?”
“Wow. We’re really getting serious here, aren’t we?” I said, taken aback by his directness and by the realization that he had an agenda for this drive.
“I’m worried about you, John.”
“Why?”
“Because hearing you talk, I think maybe you’re in love with Nancy. Are you?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very much so.”
“Well, again I ask, aren’t you afraid to get so involved with her this soon after Peg?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Maybe you should be.”
“Why? What’s the problem? What am I missing here?”
“I don’t know how to say this, son, so I’m simply going to tell you how I feel. And that is that I don’t see Nancy as being your kind of girl.”
For a moment, I just looked at him, too dumbfounded to speak. Then anger and hurt rose to the surface, demanding expression. “What the hell does that mean, Pop? ‘Not your kind of girl.’ What’s my kind of girl?”
“Don’t get upset. I didn’t mean to get you upset.”
“Well, you did. Now answer my question. What do you mean when you say Nancy’s not my kind of girl?”
Again he waited several seconds before answering me, but this time I got the impression he was using the time to summon the strength to say what he wanted to say rather than to find the right words. When he finally began to speak, he spoke slowly and deliberately.
“Nancy’s not like Peg, son. She’s not like Peg at all. Peg graduated from college. Nancy didn’t. Peg was an officer at a major bank. Nancy’s a secretary. Peg was sophisticated. Nancy isn’t. Peg was always so poised. Nancy isn’t. I could go on and on, but don’t you see what I’m trying to say? Nancy isn’t the same kind of person Peg was. She’s completely different from Peg. And I don’t understand how you could have loved Peg and married Peg and now be attracted to Nancy. She’s a delightful girl, but…” His voice trailed off.
“Jesus Christ! I don’t believe you’re talking to me like this,” I practically shouted. I stared at him, waiting to see if he had anything else to say, and then I turned away, shaking my head in disbelief.
“You know, you’re right,” I said after several seconds of silence. “Nancy isn’t at all like Peg. She didn’t graduate from college. She is just a secretary. She’s not sophisticated. And when she’s around you and Mom, she’s not—what did you call it? ‘Poised.’ That’s it. She’s not ‘poised’ around people who make her feel uncomfortable and awkward. So you’re right. She is totally different from Peg. But I’ll tell you something. There’s a warmth to Nancy, an ability to love, totally, that you’ve never seen, and I love her for that. More than you can imagine. And she loves me and makes me forget what I’ve lost. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” my father replied. “I didn’t mean to imply there was.” He paused. “Does Peg’s mother know you’re dating Nancy?”
“Yeah, she knows.”
“How did she find out?”
“I told her one night when she was at your house to see the kids. Before I moved back home. I told her I was going out that Saturday night, and she said that was a good thing for me to do because I was still a ‘young man’ or something like that. I was surprised she took it so well, but then I wondered if maybe she thought I was going out with one of the guys. That’s when I told her I was going out with Nancy.”
“How did she react?”
“She got real quiet—didn’t say anything other than ‘I see’—and went to bed a few minutes later.”
“Why did you tell her? You must’ve known it would tear her to shreds.”
“I had to tell her. If I didn’t, I’d be acting like I was ashamed of going out with Nancy.”
“Did she ever mention Nancy again?”
“No. Never.”
“Let me ask you this. What do your friends think of your relationship with Nancy?”
“Why do you ask?” I replied defensively.
“Well, I don’t hear you talk about any of them anymore like you used to, other than Beth and Dave occasionally, and I can’t help wondering if there’s a connection.”
“You really have a way of getting to the nub of things, don’t you?”
“Not really. But like I said, I’m worried about you. That’s why I’m asking these questions.”
I sighed and again wondered if I should answer honestly.
“To tell the truth,” I said, “I think they’re all pretty turned off by the whole situation. I haven’t asked anyone what they think about us, and no one other than Beth has volunteered an opinion; but in their own way, some subtly, others not so subtly, they’ve each made it pretty clear they don’t approve of us. And who can blame them? I mean, come on. I know how it looks—my getting involved with Nancy so soon after Peg died—and if positions were reversed, I’d be totally pissed off at someone for doing what I’m doing. But I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t plan Peg’s death. I didn’t plan on taking Nancy out. That just happened. And I sure as hell didn’t plan on falling in love with her. I don’t know how any of this happened. But it has, and I can’t change that. So if my friends have a problem with Nancy and me, or if anyone else does, for that matter, it’s just too damn bad. I’ve played by the rules all my life, Pop. You know that. But sometimes rules get broken.”
“That’s true,” my father agreed, “but sometimes people get broken too.”
“Yeah, they do. I’m one of them. And all I’m trying to do, if the world will let me, is put myself back together again.”
“I’ll say no more,” my father said, as he slowed and then stopped at a stop sign. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Me too, Pop. Me too.”
A left turn and the gatehouse appeared a few hundred yards ahead of us. Our drive through Center Island was over, and so was our first and last conversation about Nancy.
Eighty-Five
August 3rd, 1981, was Jennie’s fourth birthday. Now a birthday for any little girl is a big day, but a little girl’s first birthday without her mother is somewhat off the charts in terms of everyday experience and something I felt ill equipped to handle. But after much discussion on the phone one Tuesday night two weeks before Jennie’s birthday, my mother and I decided the best thing to do would be to have a party for Jennie as if nothing had changed and to have it at my house rather than at my parents’ house in order to give Jen as much a sense of normalcy as possible.
We also decided that, weather permitting, we’d have cocktails and dinner in the back yard and would open Jennie’s presents out there as well. The picnic table could seat six, and I had four lawn chairs and four folding snack tables, which would give us seating capacity for ten, not counting John in his high chair. That would be enough for my mother and father, Maureen Reilly, two of Peg’s sisters—Erin and Kathleen—Dave and Beth, Nancy, me and, of course, Jennie. I’d have to scare up one more chair and snack table for Loretta, but otherwise we’d be fine.
We debated whether or not to invite the rest of the family or any of Jennie’s friends, but resolved we should limit the party to ten so we could seat everyone and easily move everything indoors if the weather decided not to cooperate. Ten people, we reasoned, would make the party small enough to be manageable and yet large enough to be special for Jennie. I would grill hamburgers and hot dogs,
and my mother would bring her German potato salad, macaroni salad and the bittersweet chocolate cake that was Jennie’s favorite.
Having established the location, the guests and the menu, I was ready to move on to another topic. My mother, however, was not.
“Are you inviting Nancy to the party?” she asked.
“I already have,” I replied.
“Is she going to come?”
“Of course she’s coming. Why wouldn’t she? And why are you asking?” I added, sensing we were on the verge of having one of those in-depth, no longer appropriate parent-child conversations.
“Well, I was just thinking about Maureen Reilly and how she’s going to feel.”
“She knows I’m dating Nancy,” I said, as if that solved everything.
“I know, but I think seeing Nancy in her daughter’s house will upset her. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’d give this some more thought if I were you.”
“Well, I appreciate the concern, but it’s a little late for that. We discussed this July 4th weekend. Don’t you remember? We were all sitting out on the pool deck, and Nancy told you I wanted her to come to the party, but she didn’t think she should. You asked why, and she said she thought her being there would be difficult for the Reillys, Maureen in particular. And we all said she was silly for worrying—that we were certain Maureen would understand her being there. Do you remember that conversation?”
“Of course I do. I’ve just been having some second thoughts.”
“Well, that may be, but I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to convince Nancy to come, and she finally said she would. She still thinks things are going to be awkward, but she knows Jennie wants her there, and she knows I want her there, so she’s coming. Against her better judgment, I might add. But now that I’ve convinced her to come, there’s no way I can ask her not to, Mom. No way.”
“I understand. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I’m just concerned.”
“I’m not angry, and to be perfectly honest, down deep I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing either. I don’t want to do anything that’ll hurt Maureen or get her upset, but more is involved here than Maureen’s feelings. Jennie knows I invited Nancy, and she knows Nancy said yes, and she wants Nancy to come. Plus the fact that I want Nancy to come. Call me silly, but I don’t want to be at my daughter’s birthday party alone. I’d like Nancy with me. So I’ll consider myself forewarned, but I’m not going to uninvite Nancy to Jennie’s party. Because she belongs there. Okay?”