by Nancy Moser
“Not many people know that one.”
“Just Mama.”
Cass stood with her hands in her jeans pockets. “Do I get a hug from you too?”
It was beyond awkward, but he opened his arms and she filled them. Her smell was sweet, with a bit of spice to it. It wasn’t a perfume. It was just Cass. Was it possible that a scent memory from fourteen years ago could remain intact? Yet there was good reason he would remember her scent. She’d been the sister who’d often sat beside him on the couch, wanting him to help her with her reading. The fall their mother had killed herself, Cass had been on a Ramona the Pest kick.
Cass pulled away but kept her arm around his waist as she turned toward the house. “This is Grandpa’s old place, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“After Mama died I think I was here once. Doesn’t it have a shop out back?”
Becky piped in. “It does. Like I told you on the phone, Bobby’s a wonderful furniture maker.”
“Very cool.” Cass looked up at him. There was a good six inches difference in their height.
Bobby wished Becky hadn’t brought up the shop. “I fiddle with stuff. That’s all.”
“He does more than that,” Becky said. “Bobby, go show Cass the shop.” She headed up the porch steps. “I have to check on the kids.”
Brother and sister were left alone.
***
Cass stood just inside the doorway and inhaled deeply. “I remember this smell.”
Bobby sidled past her, suddenly noticing the sawdust on the floor. Since he hadn’t been working that much, he hadn’t really cared if things were tidy. “Sorry it’s such a mess.”
She moved to the table he was sanding and ran her hand across the top. “This is beautiful. I love the inlay.” She looked up, wiping her palm on her jeans. “Who’s it for?”
“Nobody.”
Becky came into the shop with Teresa and Tanner in tow—now dressed in comfortable play clothes. The kids moved to a box of wood scraps and began building towers. “The table’s for sale,” she said. “He’ll give you a generous sister discount.”
Cass’s eyebrow lifted. “So you do sell to the public?”
“Occasionally. When he wants to,” Becky said.
“I sold a few pieces to friends.”
“But you could sell to anybody. Everybody.” She accepted his scathing look with, “Sorry. I just get excited about your work. It’s stunning.”
“Yes, it is,” Cass said. She looked pointedly at Bobby. “Do you want to open a store?”
“Oh no,” Bobby said.
“I think he should,” Becky said. “I could run it so he could work on his art full-time.”
“It’s not art, Beck. It’s just furniture.”
“It is not just furniture,” Cass said, stroking the table again. Suddenly she looked up. “Do you at least have a website?”
Bobby laughed. “To do what? Show off furniture I haven’t made?”
“To show off furniture you have made so people will order more. You can’t have a business if no one knows what you do.”
“I don’t have a business,” Bobby said. “I can’t have a business. I need jobs that pay the bills.”
Becky slipped her hand through his arm, touched her head to his shoulder, but kept her eyes on Cass. “Your brother has three jobs that keep him from doing what’s in his heart.”
“What do you do besides driving a cab?”
“I work at the concessions stand at a theater and at a burger joint.”
“Jobs way below his expertise,” Becky said.
Bobby shook his head. “I’m not proud. I’ll do whatever it takes to care for my family.” He nodded toward Becky’s burgeoning belly. “My expanding family.”
Cass stood silent, chewing the end of her thumb. “But this is what you need to do.”
Bobby turned toward the door. “Maybe when I have time, when I retire. Come on, kids. Let’s go inside for lunch.”
Cass seemed reluctant to leave the shop, but Bobby waited for her to go first, letting himself be the one to turn off the light and shut the door.
***
You’d think Cass and Becky had known each other their entire lives. The two women made lunch and set the table with an ease that was enviable. It was a moot point that fifteen minutes earlier they’d never met. The fact that Bobby had been to blame for them not even knowing of each other’s existence was handily set aside in the quest for a family meal.
Set aside until later. He would have to explain himself. The truth would come out.
It always did.
But thanks to the deep-seated gift of grace in his sister and wife, it was postponed until after dessert.
“So,” Becky finally said, sitting back in her chair in the dining room. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister, many sisters, two brothers?”
“And why didn’t you keep in touch with me, Katie, and Vicki?”
Bobby wanted to be anyplace but here. He took a drink of iced tea. “Why didn’t you keep in touch with me?”
“You’re passing the buck?”
“I wasn’t the only—”
“We were little girls, Bobby.”
“I was only fourteen. Still a kid.”
Cass hesitated a moment then added, “We are both to blame—and neither to blame. All six of us went through a lot.” She pushed her plate that held the last few bites of pumpkin cheesecake out of the way. “Do you know where Martin and Chuck are?”
Bobby shrugged, but as soon as he did, he wished he could take the action back. “They ran away when I moved in with Grandpa. I haven’t seen Martin since.”
“But Chuck?”
Bobby traced the rim of his coffee cup. “He got into drugs, came back wanting Grandpa to give him money. When Grandpa refused, he trashed the shop, then left town. He died of an overdose a few years later.”
Cass’s mouth dropped. “One dead and one missing?”
What could he say? He changed the subject. “Are Katie and Vicki okay?”
“They are. They both live in Chicago with our parents—Aunt Judy and Uncle Ben.” She looked at Becky. “Technically they’re our aunt and uncle, but we call them Mom and Dad. They legally adopted us the year after Mama killed herself. They’re wonderful.”
Suddenly Becky raised both hands in front of her, palms out. “Killed herself?”
When it rains…
Bobby knew it was his secret to tell. “Our father was a drunk and got killed by walking in front of a car. Our mother was so distraught that a few months later she did the same thing. On purpose.”
“She left her children without a parent?”
“She was upset.”
Becky’s head shook back and forth, back and forth. “I don’t care. She had no right leaving six kids to fend for themselves or to be pawned off on relatives.”
“Mama tried dealing with it,” Bobby said. “But with there being six of us, and considering she’d never held a job outside the home, she couldn’t take it.”
Becky pushed back from the table and stood. She took a couple dessert plates toward the kitchen.
Bobby was left looking at his sister, who said, “You should have told her. About all of this.”
“I didn’t want her to think badly of me.”
“None of it is our fault, Bobby. It’s just our life. It is what it is.”
She went to help Becky with the dishes.
***
Playing the part of a mother was not a part Abigail had often played. But today—like it or not—it was hers.
When Abigail entered the auditorium, the director, Tony Novotny, stood, clapped his hands together once, and hurried toward her. “Ms. Buchanan!” He took her hands in his, kissing both cheeks. “I’m so glad you’re joining us.”
“My pleasure.”
A young woman with a clipboard followed close behind the director. She held out her hand. “I’m Sandy, Tony’s assistant. So nice to officially meet you, Ms. B
uchanan.”
“Nice to meet—”
“Wow,” Joey said. “There are tons and tons of chairs in here.”
“Shh!” Hayley said, taking his hand.
Sandy looked at the children. “Are these yours?”
There was the slightest hint of disapproval in her voice. Abigail was tempted to take possession of them, creating some fascinating story about having had an affair with a twenty-something Frenchman during her last play, but Hayley took the opportunity away from her.
“He’s my brother. I’m Hayley Wilson. I’m one of the orphans. Abigail’s taking care of us today because my father was shot last night. He’s in the hospital.”
Tony and Sandy both looked to Abigail for confirmation. Stories of young French lovers were usurped by the truth. “It’s true. Their father is a night watchman. There was a burglary. Their mother brought the kids to my house in the middle of the night.”
Some women sitting nearby came close. “You poor things. Come sit with us. We’ll take care of both of you.”
The kids were herded into a row of chairs where some other actors closed ranks.
Abigail realized she should feel relieved. So why was she disappointed?
“Come sit up front with us, Ms. Buchanan,” Tony said.
There were no other actors in the director’s row. Abigail reveled in being singled out. She took the seat offered, but then Tony and Sandy excused themselves for last-minute preparations. They said the meeting was due to start in five minutes.
Abigail felt a tad uncomfortable sitting there alone, and busied herself by removing her sweater and draping it just so in the next seat, then getting a tissue out of her purse. She waited for her fellow thespians to come greet her and pay their respects. But they did not.
Intimidated. That’s what they are. Remember, Abigail, this is volunteer theater. None of them are professionals like you are.
This rationalization made her feel a little better, yet still unfulfilled. One did not embrace the theater as a profession without acknowledging a desire and need for attention.
As she rummaged through her purse—for nothing specific at all—she heard two women a few rows behind her, talking softly. One said, “Do you know who that is?”
“No.”
“It’s Abigail Buchanan.”
“So?”
“She was famous once,” said voice number one.
Ouch.
“She’s playing Miss Hannigan,” the woman added.
“Don’t you think she’s a little old?”
“You know Tony. Always looking for a way to sell tickets.”
“Miscasting a part doesn’t do anyone any good.”
Abigail couldn’t move. Realizing she’d frozen in place, she forced her hand to continue its excavation of her purse. Act nonchalant.
The moment was broken when Margaret Timmons started down the row toward her seat. Margaret Timmons who’d tried out for Miss Hannigan. Who’d been very good at reading for Miss Hannigan. But who hadn’t been chosen for the part of Miss Hannigan.
Margaret smiled and took the seat next to Abigail. “Well, here we go,” she said.
“Here we go.”
They shared an awkward pause. Then Margaret said, “I want to congratulate you on getting Miss Hannigan. I know you’ll steal the show.”
It was hard for Abigail to get out the words that had to come next. “Thank you. You’re very kind.” Beyond kind.
At that moment Tony strode across the front of the stage, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. But Abigail had a hard time concentrating on his introduction. Margaret’s words haunted her:
“You’ll steal the show.”
She’d stolen something all right.
***
After coming home from his lunch with Philip, Ken turned on the TV. He sat in the chair where he always sat. He flipped with even more zeal than usual because every channel reminded him of his troubles.
The advertisements for dating services reminded him he was alone.
The golf shows reminded him of past glory, now gone.
The how-to shows reminded him of the home he gave up in the divorce.
The Travel Channel reminded him of places he’d never seen and had no desire to see alone.
The car advertisements reminded him of cars he couldn’t afford.
And the pharmaceutical ads reminded him his son had HIV.
Round and round we go…
When he turned the television off the sudden silence spooked him, surrounding him with a nothingness that was worse than the mindless chatter and mocking condemnation of the tube.
And yet, it was an apt representation of his life.
Nothing.
Nada.
Void. Over and out.
The sudden ring of the phone jolted him upright and made his heart race. His feet left the ottoman and hit the floor, poised to answer it.
But he didn’t move. He just sat there, frozen in place while the rings sliced through the air.
He stared at the phone in the entryway, willing it to stop its torment. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now.
Maybe never.
Mercifully, after four rings the answering machine clicked on. He heard his own voice: “This is Ken. Leave a message.”
How appropriate that the message he left the world was short and without embellishment or personality.
Ronnie’s voice yanked him out of his thoughts. “Hey, Ken. I’m just calling to find out how your lunch with Philip went. I’m so glad you got together. It’s a good thing, Ken. Really it is.”
Her voice stopped and the machine clicked off. He looked at the phone, incredulous. Good thing? Their son having HIV was a good thing?
He threw the remote toward the machine, where it ricocheted into a cup of pens, sending them flying.
Whatever.
***
Bobby was watching the late news in the family room when he realized Becky wasn’t around. He’d noticed her go upstairs a half hour before but had expected her to return.
He shut off the TV and went to look for her. He found her in bed, the lights off.
It was a relief.
Cass had stayed the day and somehow Bobby had managed to keep the additional conversation away from the Mann family history. Then after dinner Tanner had spilled some finger paints all over the kitchen floor, and once that was cleaned up the evening had slipped by with giving the kids baths, reading to them, and tucking them in. He hadn’t had to deal with why he’d kept his past secret from his wife. He didn’t want to talk about any of it.
As quietly as possible, Bobby got undressed and eased himself onto the bed, gingerly lifting the covers just enough to slip in and—
“Why the farce, Bobby? Why didn’t you tell me?” Becky turned toward him, adjusting an extra pillow around her belly.
So much for not talking about it.
“I was ashamed, Beck. Once I moved in with Grandpa I created a new life for myself. Even my friends in school didn’t know about having a drunken father and a suicidal mother. You should have been here when Chuck came back. I wasn’t thinking how great it was to see him again. The whole time, I was just hoping he’d leave town ASAP, so no one would even know I had a brother—much less a druggie brother. It wasn’t just you. I never told anyone. I was ashamed of the truth.”
She studied him a moment. In the moonlight her pink cheek was a beautiful contrast against the baby blue of the pillowcase. “Never be ashamed of the truth, Bobby. Let the past go, move on, rise above it. But don’t be ashamed of what was. Sometimes we have nowhere to go but on. What happened in your past is all a part of where you are today, and what makes you you.”
“What makes me me is you,” Bobby said, touching her arm.
Instead of taking his hand and kissing it—as he hoped she would do—she pulled away. “I can’t be your everything, Bobby. I don’t want to be. That’s too much responsibility. I’m here for you, I hope to complement you. B
ut beyond that…”
“You’re the only good thing that’s ever happened to me, Beck, and—”
She pushed herself to sitting. “That is a lie. Before the tragedies your family was good. Your siblings were good. Even your brothers were good before bad choices dragged them down. And your grandpa was certainly good, taking you in like that.” She looked straight at him. “He’s a big reason why you are the good man you are today.”
Bobby felt the threat of tears. “But I don’t feel good. I feel like I’m spinning without direction. I’m in the middle of a big intersection and I don’t know which way to turn.”
She gave him one nod, then said, “‘I have swept away your sins like a cloud. I have scattered your offenses like the morning mist. Oh, return to me, for I have paid the price to set you free.’”
“How do you do that?” he asked. “Bringing up just the right verse at just the right time.”
She did it again. “Tor everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.’” She shrugged. “I look for God’s answers. And I find them.”
She did not say, “You should do the same!” She didn’t need to.
Bobby held his hand in the space between them. “I love you.”
This time he got the reaction he hoped for.
***
“The director sure is happy you took the part.”
Hayley’s sincere words followed Abigail through the rehearsal, nudged her past the children’s reunion with their mother (their father was expected to come home from the hospital tomorrow), and dogged her to the edge of sleep. The words were true. Tony Novotny gushed and oozed over Abigail’s presence in a way that normally would have filled her attention cup to overflowing. But after surreptitiously overhearing the two women’s opinions of her, and after enduring her competition’s gracious congratulations, the gushing hadn’t elicited gratitude or pride but embarrassment and shame.
She rolled onto her back, took another pillow, and pressed it over her face. What had she been thinking, trying out for a part in a community play? She didn’t belong there. She’d only tried out because Tony had pressed her pride button. Deep down she’d known she was too old for the Miss Hannigan part. The character should have been no older than forty-five, preferably thirty-five. She would be seventy-seven on her next birthday. The makeup job they would have to do on her would surely test the skills of the most experienced Hollywood makeup artist. And even if they got her looking far younger, anyone who knew who she was would do the math and realize she was pushing the part. They’d even guess the truth—that she’d gotten the part to help with ticket sales.