Patricia Gaffney

by Mad Dash

  Eventually we head back to the house, the uncanny moonlight limning every rut and crevice in the lane. I’m pondering my strategy for cheering him up when Owen says, “It’s not just Miz Bender. Danielle’s leaving.”

  “Leaving?”

  “She told me today when I called her from the hospital. It’s her job, they want her to transfer to Atlanta. She’ll take Matthew with her, and that’ll be it.”

  At last I can ask him, “Do you still love her?”

  And he says, “Yeah,” with no hesitation.

  We walk along in silence.

  “But she…” I don’t know how to phrase this kindly. “She doesn’t…?”

  “She says she loves me, too.”

  “Oh. Well, then—”

  “But she won’t live with me, so how could she?”

  “She won’t live with you?”

  “She says she can’t live here. Can’t live here. What does that tell you?” He picks up a stone in the road and sidearms it into the woods. The clatter when it lands frightens the dog, who scuttles backward against my legs.

  What does it tell me? That Danielle likes the high life in Richmond. Or Mom and Dad cramp her style, especially Dad. Or she hates Dolley. Or she thinks the schools are better in Richmond, or she’s afraid of commitment, she’s allergic to tobacco fields—who knows, and what difference does it make? Danielle says she loves Owen: That is the salient fact, and news to me.

  “Why don’t you go with her?”

  We’re home. He collapses on the porch stoop, leaning back on the old boards with his elbows. He makes a hopeless, amused face.

  “Owen, it just seems like you’re all jammed up, and one of you needs to remove one obstacle, one log, to get the stream flowing again.”

  “Go with her and do what?”

  “Anything! I’ve never known such a jack-of-all-trades as you. You could do anything, or keep doing what you’re doing now. Don’t they have farms in Georgia?”

  “But this is home.”

  “Not to her.”

  He doesn’t hear that. “If she really wanted to be with me, she’d be with me.”

  “She’s probably saying the same thing. ‘If he wanted me, he’d come and get me.’ Like Shevlin went and got Cottie. He didn’t think and mull and sulk, he just got her. Did she ever tell you that story about how one night he sneaked—”

  “Snuck in her daddy’s house to see her. Yeah.” He leans over, unlaces the work boots he’s had on all day, and toes his feet out of them. It’s a tribute to our friendship, I suppose, that he not only doesn’t ask if it’s okay, he groans with relief while he massages one foot and then the other, as if he were by himself, sitting on the edge of his bathtub. “Yeah,” he says, “but then Shev jumped out the window and ran off. He didn’t face up to the old man.”

  “No, but he set a tone. He let Cottie know she was it.”

  He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, scratches his fingers through his thinning hair. Thick-shouldered and indecisive in his holey socks, he looks like an overgrown boy.

  “A woman wants to know that,” I tell him. “A person wants to know it. It’s such a lonely world. If somebody has to have you, you’re not alone, you’ve got a partner, someone to go through it with. Cottie and Shevlin, they’re partners. I don’t know Danielle, but if she’s like either one of her parents, she understands how it is with them and she wants to have that, too. She’ll want you to want her, Owen. So much that you act out of character. She’s yours if you do that. I really think so.”

  I feel drunk. This is just the kind of intense personal certainty I feel about someone else’s life, and don’t mind telling them, when I’ve had too much to drink.

  “What do you mean, act out of character?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I know you have to be yourself, of course, who you are is who you are, but…Who did she fall in love with? What were you like then? Were you the exact same man you are now?”

  “People change,” he says, defensive.

  “Sure, and sometimes they don’t change at all, and those are two good reasons why they split up. But if Danielle used to love something in you and it’s gone, or it’s hiding…”

  Sock is a very empathetic dog. She’s been sitting on the porch, alert to all the nights sounds, oblivious to us, but now she pads over to Owen and looks up into his face with limpid, searching eyes. “No pressure,” I start to say, to acknowledge the comical obvious—but I don’t really want to lighten the mood. I’m trying to make a point.

  “I guess I was…” Owen straightens up and puts his hands behind his head. “Looser. Maybe she liked that?” he asks the moon. “Maybe I didn’t work as hard. I had, you know. More time.”

  “For her and Matthew.”

  “Yeah.”

  That’ll be one hundred dollars. The friendship discount. I have nothing more to say, but I stay with Owen, watching the moon and the lightning bugs and listening to the frogs. I feel as if I’m half gone, as if I have one foot here and the other dangling in space. Here, but not here. My other half is in limbo, and it’s driving me quietly nuts. I can’t wait to put my halves together. I can’t wait, but I have to. Inside this pure paradise of a night, I feel as if I’m full of amphetamines or steroids, Mexican jumping beans. “Be right back,” I say finally, and drift into the house.

  I know I can be presumptuous, that I’m not shy about dispensing advice to people who haven’t asked for it. It’s probably a flaw, although I think the fact that no one ever complains is a point in my favor. Immediate family excluded. And Owen did come over for counsel, whether he knows it or not. So I’ll let myself off the hook on that one. Now all that worries me is…there’s probably a psychiatric name for it. Not transference. When you say things to your client that actually relate to you, not necessarily him. When you mistake the patient for yourself.

  Oh well. La-la-la. I fold the last load of laundry with a light heart, because even if I did give Owen advice that applies to my life, what’s to say it doesn’t apply equally to his as well? It’s not as if either of us is so damn unique.

  My, I’m full of moods tonight. As I set my clean, folded clothes at the bottom of the steps, a little cloud falls over me. Wrong: I wasn’t giving advice to myself via Owen, I was giving advice to Andrew. I want him to sneak in the house. He can jump out the window afterward, in fact I’d expect him to, but first I want him to set that tone. I want to believe he has to have me. Like the time he came and got me at my mother’s house. I never—it hits me for the first time—I never gave him credit for that. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life, scary, horrible haircut and all, and yet I never appreciated what it must’ve taken for Andrew to do that—come and get me. The pride he had to swallow. I took it for granted. Oh God, I want to make amends.

  Now I want Owen to go home. It’s late, this party’s over. Could I just flick the porch light on and off? I’m tired of talking and listening and being sympathetic. The doctor is out.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. Owen has moved from the stoop to the wicker rocker and fallen asleep. Well, that’s just great. Now what? If I wake him up, I’ll have to talk to him some more. He probably shouldn’t drive yet, anyway. I go in and get the flannel blanket from the living room, bring it back, and tuck it gently around his shoulders. He looks pretty cute, I have to say, with his feet crossed in their holey socks, arms folded, bristly chin on his chest.

  I move out into the grass, yawning. The dog has gotten into the habit of not peeing unless I’m with her. “Okay, babe. Business.”

  Successful, she scampers up the steps and waits for me at the door. She likes our nighttime routine as much as I do—a strange man asleep on the porch can’t interrupt it. “Snack?” We go in the kitchen. Her snack container is an old tin tea box. She gets one biscuit and one chewy thing, and I’ve taught her to sit politely until I set them on the floor, not maul me for them. “Good girl.”

  Lights out in the kitchen, the living room. I’ll leave the porc
h light on for Owen. And I guess I’ll leave the door open. Night, pal. Get up in about thirty minutes and go home, I advise him telepathically.

  God, what now? Lights, car lights coming up the driveway. Oh, impossible. It’s Shevlin, who else could it be. Well, he’d better not be drunk! This is really getting…

  The car comes out of the tree thicket and turns; through the screen door I see it in profile before it turns again and the headlights momentarily blind me. Not Shevlin. Andrew. Oh! He read my mind!

  I punch the screen door open, laughing. I just want to get my arms around him. He climbs out of his car without turning the lights off, so unlike him, and he doesn’t even close the door. I’m thrilled. I wait for him in the yard, hunching my shoulders and clenching my hands, a shivering ball of pent-up welcome. How often do we get to have our heart’s desire? At the very moment we want it most?

  The dog, still inside, is barking like a maniac. I glance back and see Owen shuffle down the steps in his socks. Big and sleepy looking, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

  Oh.

  “Hi, Andrew,” I call gaily, and start toward him. He looks funny. Grim, not glad. He’s pale as an egg, sweat gleaming on his forehead. Why is he walking like that? He’s got his hand in his belt, why is he…Oh my God.

  “Andrew!” No. No, he’s empty-handed—what was I thinking?—but his face is so strange. “Andr——”

  “I forgive you.” I think that’s what he says before he shoulders past me, glittery eyes on Owen.

  “Wait, now. Honey? Hey, no, this isn’t at all what it—wait!”

  Even if sleepy-eyed Owen wanted to defend himself, both of his hands are full of flannel. But he’s missed all the signals I am now overloading on. He has no idea what’s coming, and all I can do is shriek in a helpless, girlie fashion as Andrew draws his fist back and socks it into Owen’s chin. The blow doesn’t look that hard, and it’s all but silent. Owen’s feet never leave the ground, but he falls straight back and lands on his behind in the grass.

  “Sonofabitch had it coming.”

  Owen’s all right, sitting up and rubbing his jaw. I don’t have to run over and hold him up or anything. You see that so often in the movies. And I’m supposed to glare furiously at Andrew and say, “How could you?” but my sentiments are mixed. Especially since Owen is all right.

  Andrew sounds out of breath. “You’re coming home with me, Dash.”

  “Okay.”

  He waves his hand at poor Owen. “I’m better than this guy.”

  “Well, for me.”

  “So you’re coming?”

  “Yes.” I feel shy. “I was coming anyway.”

  I’m not sure he hears that, though. His eyes are rolling back, showing the whites. His knees buckle and he folds rather than falls, like a ladder or a tall scaffolding with lots of hinges and joints. I have time to scream again and reach out two futile hands before he drops, with a sound like bones cracking, in a slack pile at my feet.

  the batemans

  twenty-five

  “But the sonogram wasn’t conclusive because his liver is swollen and it was hiding his gallbladder. So then they did a CT scan, and between that and the blood tests they finally figured it out. It took half the night.”

  “His liver is swollen?” Chloe’s voice was anxious.

  “Yes, but that’s not serious, apparently—it’s his gallbladder. He’s got a stone the size of a golf ball.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “And don’t you know he already loves saying that. It’s going to be the big analogy this year.” Dash pursed her lips at Andrew in a jokey kiss from the edge of the empty bed next to his. He rolled his yellow eyeballs at her. “He’s got a lot of bruises, too, but luckily he didn’t break anything when he fell.”

  “Is he in pain?”

  “Not now, they’ve got him on an IV with painkillers and antibiotics.”

  “But he was before?”

  “Yeah. It was pretty awful.” Chloe didn’t need to know how awful, the unstoppable vomiting, the nightmare race to the hospital in the backseat of her car, Owen driving. Or the sight of Andrew doubling up in pain in the ER while they did test after test, with interminable waits between them. “He has acute cholecystitis, which means inflammation, caused by this stone. Which, did I mention, is big as a golf ball?”

  “Let me talk to her,” Andrew said.

  “I was reading this pamphlet on gallstones in the waiting room—you know how they have all those leaflets on diseases that got you in the ER in the first place—and I know exactly why he has his stone.”

  Andrew made a sighing sound and held out his hand for the phone.

  “Ice cream. Fatty foods, that’s a cause of gallstones, and it’s the only profile he fits. He’s not a woman, he’s not overweight or old, not diabetic, not a Native American. I’m telling you, it was the ice cream.”

  “

  “May I please speak to my daughter?”

  “Dad eats ice cream?”

  “Like a child at the beach.”

  “Dash—”

  “Mom—”

  “He wants to talk to you. Sorry to call so late. Love you, babe—I’ll call tomorrow, right after the surgery.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “And don’t worry—the doctor said it’s strictly routine. Here’s Dad.” She handed Andrew the phone.

  He wedged it between his ear and the pillow, because his left arm had a needle in it and he was afraid of pulling it out. “Hey, kiddo. When are you coming home?”

  “Daddy! Oh, poor you! How do you feel?”

  “A lot better now. A lot better, I feel practically well.”

  “Was it terrible?”

  “No, your mother exaggerates. A little discomfort, all gone now.”

  “And the operation is really routine?”

  “Absolutely, they’ve done it a thousand times. I’m not at all worried.” Nerves fluttered in his stomach at the same time a rush of blood surged to his neck. For years he’d lived in fear and dread of what was going to happen tomorrow. Thirty-two thousand people a year never woke up from surgery. They died unconscious. They went under, they never came up. “So how’d you do on your last exam?”

  “It’s tomorrow.”

  “Oh no, that’s right. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have had your mother call if I’d remembered.”

  “It’s cool, Dad. I was still studying, I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

  “Well, you better turn in soon, it’s after two o’clock. If you don’t know it by now, you never will.”

  “So how come you’re down in Virginia with Mom?”

  “Em…”

  “Are you two back together? Pretend you’ve been kidnapped—just say yes or no.”

  “Well. Em. I think so.”

  Across the room, Dash raised her eyebrows like antennae.

  “Oh my God! Since when? Daddy, this is so great!”

  “It’s quite recent. Ongoing, you might say.”

  “Okay, I’m hanging up.”

  “No, don’t do that. I just called to say…to hear your voice and say…you know.”

  “I know.”

  “That I’m proud of you. How happy you’ve made me, all your life. I couldn’t have invented a better daughter.”

  “Oh, Daddy.”

  “So, that’s it. I just wanted to tell you, make sure you know. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He looked over at Dash, who had tears in her eyes. She beamed at him as they trickled down her cheeks.

  “Good luck tomorrow,” Chloe said. “They just do it through a little hole in your belly button, right?”

  “Right. Laparoscopy.” His testicles retracted. “Nothing to it. Recovery’s a breeze.”

  “And I’ll talk to you right afterward.”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ll be home on Saturday.”

  “Oh, I’ll be home by then, too,” he said confidently. “We’ll pick you up.”

&nbs
p; “Both of you? You and Mom together?”

  “I don’t see why not. Currently.”

  Chloe’s laugh was pure joy. “Daddy, this is the best news.”

  “I know.”

  He handed Dash the phone and shut his eyes for a moment, to think about his good fortune, having his wife back, and his bad, the circumstances under which it was occurring. Diarrhea had never figured in his vision of their reconciliation. Nor jaundice, nor a semiprivate room. Dash wasn’t taking him back out of pity, was she? He must ask. He could hear her low, intimate voice, telling Chloe something about bile, something about liver enzymes. When he opened his eyes again, the nurse named Amika was fishing his arm out from under the covers and wrapping a blood pressure cuff around it.

  Then she was gone and Dash’s face was in his, practically nose to nose. “It’s going away. The yellow.” She pulled down on one of his eyelids. “Must be the medicine kicking in.”

  “Do you have to leave?”

  “Now? No.”

  “Tonight. I wish you could stay.”

  “I already asked them. Unless you get a roommate in the middle of the night, I can sleep in that bed. They were very nice about it.”

  He closed his eyes again. His blood seemed to pump more freely. Warmer.

  “Slip over.” She had lowered the bed rail and was sliding under the sheet. He obliged, not minding the muffled stabbing sensation when he moved, a mere ghost of what it had been. “I like drugs,” he murmured, trying to settle on his left side to give her more room. Whatever drug was dripping into his vein right now, they should put it in the water.

  “It would be a better world,” Dash agreed. Oh, he’s said that out loud. She lay on her side too, facing him, one arm light across his stomach. “This okay? Does anything hurt?”

  “Not now.” He studied her face, looking for changes since the last time he was allowed to be this close to it. Tiredness was new. The circles under her eyes were partly smeared mascara, partly fatigue. He stroked his finger over her cheekbone and watched her closed lashes flicker, the corner of her mouth twitch. “How are you holding up?”