Never Too Late

by Jo Barney

  “Like?”

  “Music, lots of local art. I’m in tech. Me and my partner just got venture capital to work on a new invention.”

  “Venture capital?” What language are we talking here?

  “Yeah, we’ve a plan that will let people like you get on public transportation without a ticket, just a magnetic strip on your credit card. Save a lot of time and maybe make money for the city. Oops, here’s where I get off.” The young man moves to the door and glances back at me. “Remember you knew me when…”

  Damn. Who couldn’t like an attitude like that for a change? I’m feeling a little optimistic myself. I need to get off at the next stop, and I walk the block and a half to the restaurant. Seth is waiting for me at the door.

  Magnolia is low-lit and flowing with soft, indeterminate music. A wooden bar lines one wall, and a long upholstered bench and small tables line the other; placemats and napkins are laid out on each. Larger tables covered with green cloths are scattered in the space between the walls, and every table, even the small ones, holds a pint-sized canning jar filled with blue and yellow wildflowers. Candles flicker under the flowers, making them glow in the soft light. At the few occupied tables, old milk bottles hold water, the water glasses the squatty barrels I remember from my mother’s cupboards.

  Seth leads me to a small table near the window, and as I slide behind it on the bench, I feel the soft brush of mohair. “Like my grandma’s sofa,” I say. I’m taken back sixty years. “The whole place feels like grandma.”

  Seth grins. “Just what I wanted. My grandma, too. Wait until you see the menu. Magnolia is down home. Like we remember it when we were kids. Most everything slow cooked, roast chicken and dumplings, pot roast, homemade sauerkraut and pig knuckles, vegetable soup simmering on the back of the stove, apple and rhubarb pie just out of the oven.”

  “Liver and onions, mashed potatoes?”

  “Certainly. The only up-to-date items on the menu are the wines. Our bar is prepared to make any drink you crave from way back then, including one my father called “hootch,” fermented from unsold potatoes from the farm, which a local distillery has modified to produce a similar, but better tasting, product.”

  I’m sent for a moment into a back seat of a Plymouth, two young people reeling from desire and homemade gin, going at it. I blink the memory away.

  Seth sits across the table from me. His remarkable eyes take me in, slowly. I can hardly hear what he’s saying, but I can tell from the ring of his words that he is joyful. How long has it been since I’ve used that word to describe someone? And his joy is spilling over into me, filling me up until I say, “I’m so glad I know you.”

  I haven’t planned to say that. It just comes out. And it is true. But I am embarrassed, and I add, “And to be invited to your wonderful restaurant.”

  Seth’s suddenly solemn. He leans toward me, says, “And I’m very glad to know you, handsome lady.” Then he signals to the waiter lingering behind us. “We’re ready, Jeff. White wine, and then we’ll order.” I’m glad he hasn’t ordered hootch. I have a feeling it would be even worse than red wine, headache-wise, middle-of-the-night-bad-memory-wise.

  Magnolia fills up by seven o’clock, and Seth excuses himself to greet people at their tables. When he comes back, I’ve finished my liver and onions (my mother never doused hers with wine, I’m pretty sure…a pity) and I thank him and leave as the second seating is arriving. He’s busy. That’s good. I’ll get out of the way, and as I leave, he tells me he’ll call me in the morning. This time I believe that promise.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  And he does.

  “I left you stranded last night. We didn’t have time to talk about whatever upset you the last time we sat down to dinner, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the creamed mushrooms. I hope you’re feeling better about things.”

  I’m glad that he leaves the things part unstated. He must know that my dead husband, my son, and Latisha have all landed onto my daily list of things to obsess over. He’s sensitive enough to let me do the talking if I want to. I do. But not over the phone. “I’m understanding it all a little better, but it’s not over yet. After I walked out of the Hilton, I must have left you with the impression that I was angry at you. Isn’t there a saying about killing the messenger? That’s why I called you yesterday.”

  “To check to see if I’m dead?”

  “To apologize. Hearing the truth is hard sometimes. I’m not good at it. But I’m learning. I know you’re busy, Seth, but I’d love to talk to you sometime soon. Here, at my house, lunch, glass of wine? Next week?” I’m not sure why I put our meeting off almost a week from now. Maybe I hope that everything will be okay by then.

  So we agree on breakfast on Monday, the day Magnolia is closed. I’ll cook, and we’ll talk, and who knows what else?

  I don’t hear from Lynne after Brody and I have walked, and I do the wash, which is a lot smaller now that there is only one of us. I still fold the clothes on the bed, watching Perry Mason, but my hands miss folding the seven or eight tee-shirts I used to get so riled up about and the jockey underwear, bleached white, the holey ones tossed away every so often. Perry is only half finished and I’m done when the phone rings.

  “So, how was it? The food, the little purse with supplies, the good-looking man? Tell me everything.”

  I don’t want to disappoint Lynne. “It was pleasant,” I answer. “I left at about seven when the crowd started arriving. He is a nice man.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Except that he’ll come for breakfast next week.” I try to change the subject. I don’t want to let the anticipation that has lingered behind the scenes since his call evaporate in small talk. “Is your Wednesday/Saturday man gone? Finally? Now what?”

  “Breakfast? A good, subtle move. And yes, he’s gone, and I’m about to clean the house. Life goes on, even after the Wednesday/Saturday man. Our routine is a little like being married, you know? Boring at times. Only he leaves instead of lying about in his lounger for days. Which reminds me. What is happening with your search for Art and the mysterious young lady?”

  I don’t like the joking tone of Lynne’s question. “Not funny, friend.”

  “Sorry. I guess I’m a little upset about being out of the loop. We haven’t talked for a while. I’ll start again. How are you?”

  “You’re right, it’s an exclusive loop, three persons: me, Art and Brian. Out of the loop, Kathleen is asking for a divorce. Brian has chosen to hide a secret, two secrets, about his father and about himself and the ‘mysterious young lady,’ as you called her. Latisha, who is a relative of some sort to me.”

  “Kidding!’

  “I can’t tell you even though I know you are the best person to talk to because I’m waiting for Brian to do what he needs to do.” Again, I’m holding back from my friend, because of the silent dread that lurks behind each word.

  “I promise that you and I will share several glasses of wine and the whole story when the time is right.”

  “And I’m worrying about being bored with my Wednesday/Saturday man.” I know Lynne is raising her eyebrows. “I love you, friend. Be strong. This is just another Mt. Hood, only not so cold. I’ll wait for your call and the chardonnay.”

  “We’ve come to walk Brody and maybe have mac and cheese.” Kathleen stands behind Meg and Winston and mouths, “Okay?”

  “Sure, we need some company here.” I reach for the screen door knob as Kathleen says, “I’ll be back early this evening.” She turns away so quickly I don’t have time to do anything but open the door wider and let the kids in. “So, besides surprising your grandma, what have you been up to?”

  Both children go silent for a moment, then Meg says, her lips quivering, “We helped Daddy pack. He’s going away for a while.”

  Winston gives her a knock on the shoulder. “Shut up. Mom said not to say.” His brows lower as he glares at her. Then he recovers. “Dad is going on a little trip. He’ll be back soon.” I can�
��t stand the lie wriggling under his words.

  “Well, I’m just glad you are here. I’ve been a little lonesome lately, me and Brody. He needs some energetic walking and ball tossing. Maybe I do, too.” I throw on the sweater that hangs on a hook in the hall and open the door. “Let’s go. It’ll do us all some good.”

  It’s all I can do to keep up. Poor Brody. He has to put up with walking with an old lady when I’m sure that he prefers running with two much younger leash holders. “Wait at the corner!” I call, not for safety as much as for me to catch my breath. “Let’s go to the dog park. You guys can run there, and I can watch.” The dog park also has an umbrella and a bench for doddering owners like me.

  The kids find a ball, mangy-looking, left behind by a careless dog or owner, and they throw it again and again, and Brody brings it back like an obedient four-legged yoyo. They want me to throw it, but the ball is mushy with dog saliva, and while I don’t mind a thin layer on my ankles, I don’t like a cup of it in my hand. “You do it.”

  The three of them finally are finished with the game, the children pushing their hot bodies next to me on the bench, and the dog allowing his long red tongue to ventilate him. We are quiet for a while, watching a huge, hairy, black mastiff gallop into a cluster of Labradoodles and scatter them in all directions. A dog that big would take over the house, the sofa, and the kitchen, and the bed. I look at Brody and know he’s the right size for me. He lowers his head and licks my ankle.

  “Grandma?”

  This title is again precious and two earnest faces turn my way, not smiling, needing something from me. “Yep.”

  “Why is Daddy going away?” Even her brother’s elbow does not stop her. “I don’t want him go anywhere.”

  My answer comes easily, like a lie. “Sometimes parents have to go places, Meg. They return after a while. You’ll see.” Am I lying? Yes. “Your daddy loves you so much, both of you. He told me so many times.” This is lying, but it also is the truth. “So, he doesn’t want you to worry. He wants you to keep your mother company because she probably will miss him, too.” Damn. Why lay that on them? These children have no responsibility in the disaster their parents are creating. “What they really want is for each of you to…” What? Be unaffected by what is happening to their families? To deny that something is indeed changing drastically in their lives? No.

  “What they really want you to do is to ask them the question you just asked me. Because they love you, they will tell you the truth.” I touch a cheek ready for a tear, pat a head as it drops toward a chest. Time to change the subject. I breathe, make my voice perky. “Grandmas know a lot, but they don’t know everything. We do know how to make mac and cheese and to find Princess Bride on the TV, which I suggest we do as soon as we get home. But let’s walk a little slower this time, okay?”

  I am exhausted not by the idea of walking back home but by the cheery positivity I’ve forced, like a magician, out of the foreboding chill that has filled me.

  Kathleen, tearless and unsmiling, picks up her children’s coats “He’s moved out,” she whispers. The children are asleep on the sofa. Princess Bride has wiped them out. She sorts sleeves and pushes her children’s limp arms into them.

  “It’s going to be okay, Edith,” she says as she walks them, their eyes wanting to close as they stumble, to the car. Kathleen looks back, adds, “Really, Mom.” and I don’t believe her. Or Brian, who has tried to assure me with the same words. Nothing will be okay for a long time, maybe ever, unless my son screws his courage to the sticking point and tells his wife the truth. Where did that phrase come from? Sophomore English, the Shakespearean quote that spoke to a timid, uncertain girl who didn’t have a clue what courage was, but who knew she could use some.

  So can Brian, child of my upbringing and my genes. It is time to make an adjustment, if not in genetic correction, in my parenting. A forty-seven-year-old son is still a son, may need a surge of upbringing even now. In the morning, I call Kathleen to find out where he is.

  Kathleen doesn’t answer her phone. This may take a little longer than I expect.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  In the meantime, I don’t have to call Latisha again. She calls me. Did I describe myself as anticipatory once? This girl is definitely in that category.

  “I’m going to meet my birth mother.”

  “Is that good?” I must sound shocked.

  “I’ve always wanted to. And now someone has called me and told me that he can help me find her.”

  “What kind of someone?” Couldn’t be Brian. He doesn’t work that way, offering unexpected gifts. He’d…what would he do? “Did he ask for money?”

  “Only his expenses. Maybe $500 he said. He has friends in the Children’s Services Division, and they are willing to search through closed files for a few hundred dollars and find out information that will help him find her. I really want to do this, to know, you know? About me? I don’t want my parents to be a mystery any longer. I don’t care what she turns out to be like, I just want to know.”

  So Brian hasn’t told Latisha. The father she’d gone out with a few days ago was a different father, Mr. Wright, maybe. And I’m assuming since I haven’t heard from her, Brian hasn’t talked to Kathleen. It’s been four days since he confessed to me. What’s he waiting for? Does he hope that I’ll do the dirty work? I consider it. Absolutely not. My son needs to face his truth, his wife, and his daughter. I have no part in this. Except, perhaps, to remind him of his responsibility, like a mother would. To take him by the ear and scream into it. I tell Latisha to wait a day or two. I call Brian’s office.

  I hope to be calm, supportive, mature, but when I open my mouth the words spew out, hot, uncontrollable. “Brian, Latisha is about to pay some sleazeball to find her mother, her drug-crazed, sick, whore of a mother. For God’s sake, wouldn’t a thoughtful, penitent, only slightly-deranged father be better to find? What in the hell are you waiting for?” I would have gone on raving, but Brian orders me to stop, to catch my breath. So I do and I can hear him breathing a little himself.

  “Okay,” he finally says. “I’m coming by. For lunch. Fried egg sandwich, please. Over easy.”

  I try to calm myself by recalling past egg sandwiches. They go back a long way. He used to like them juicy, the yolk runny and dripping down his chin. Mayonnaise. He’ll have to deal with the whole wheat bread that has replaced the white fluff I used to buy.

  Strange how food rules change over the years. As I take out the egg carton, my thoughts drift in a distractive swarm. Wonder Bread was expensive compared to the local brands, but I wanted the best for my child. I bought butter instead of margarine and Crisco instead of lard. To help him grow, we ate red meat at almost every dinner, along with potatoes and gravy and always a dessert, cake or pie. Then after Brian moved out and I started buying pants with elastic waists, a slew of diet books came out promising healthy hearts and low body fat ratios. Sounded good to me. I haven’t cooked red meat for years, except in a stew or two. For a year, I quit eating eggs, but gave in about the same time I also discovered that olive oil was okay. Art grumbled at my weekly stir fry, but I now understand that in that last year, he got his starches elsewhere, maybe at Boo’s Soul.

  Sometimes it seems as if there are no old rules anymore, only new ones, like the no-sugar, eat-greens, drink-gallons-of-water that Kathleen runs her kitchen by, and the rules change with every new scientific study. Everyone is looking for some kind of certainty in life. The only certainty that I can detect at this point is that there is no certainty. One, maybe––that one will never know when she will wake up dead. Or he.

  When I say that out loud to Brody, he puts his head on my thigh and nudges me. Perhaps he’s telling me that he doesn’t want to hear any more dismalness. Or, more likely, he’s reminding me that I have butter close to burning on the stove. I return to the task at hand, crack the eggs into the pan.

  I’m flipping the fried egg onto the mayonnaised bread when Brian knocks and comes in. I’ve p
ulled myself together and I say, “Here you go,” as I hand him his sandwich and glass of skim milk. That’s another thing, I almost say out loud. Blue non-fat milk. But instead, I pour myself a cup of coffee, good for me, according to the latest report, and sit down at the table, my mouth shut.

  Brian ummms once or twice, takes a huge bite and washes it down with the milk, just like he used to. Some things don’t change. Like the boy-innocent look he gives me as he pushes the empty plate away.

  “So this is what is happening, Mom. When Dad and I talked that last night, one of the last things he said was that he didn’t know how a person like Patsy could live such a life. ‘We need to help her,’ he said. I thought about that after he died. By then, I thought I’d done everything I could do, including paying for rehab, and I got repaid by her trying to blackmail me. I wanted to forget her, to get back to living the life I was supposed to have. I tried to, coming home on time, getting involved with the kids, with Kathleen.” Brian shrugs, finishes his milk.

  “It worked for a few weeks. Then I started worrying about another child of mine, a girl Dad really cared about. We’d worked out the college money stuff, and our attorney took over the trust management. But the whole situation didn’t feel right. Dad’s words, the ‘we’ part, kept coming back, making me feel even more guilty.”

  “Too many secrets can curdle a plan,” I suggest. “You said you would be talking to Kathleen. Have you?”

  Brian looks over my shoulder, as if the answer is somewhere behind me. “It might be too late.” After a moment, he manages to meet my eyes. “Kathleen asked me to move out, to take time to evaluate what we are doing and what we want, and I have. She seems so sure, so ready to move away from our marriage. I couldn’t tell her about Patsy and Latisha because especially now, with the mess almost all cleaned up, that information would push her away even faster.” Brody lays his chin on Brian’s knee and gazes up at him. Brian’s thumb gently brushes the dog’s forehead, as he continues: “I can’t imagine not being married to Kathleen.”