The Returning

by Ann Tatlock

“But”—he sniffed and cleared his throat—“don’t you think your friends are going to wonder why an archeologist is working as a busboy?”

  She didn’t know what to say. Finally she muttered, “Who cares?”

  “Well, I care, and I think you care too. Somehow, word’s going to get out what really happened, and then your friends are going to wonder why you told them I was in Peru.”

  Not even David knew where her dad had really been. In the three months they’d been seeing each other, they hadn’t talked about her dad very much. She’d given him the dig-in-Peru story, but he hadn’t seemed very impressed. What seemed to matter most to David was the fact that Rebekah didn’t have a father around to interfere in their lives.

  But now her father was here, and he was right—David and everyone else would eventually know he’d been serving time. Word got around in a small town like Conesus.

  She wondered how David would take it and what it would mean for them. She didn’t want to lose him because of her father. She would have to do something to make sure she didn’t lose him.

  “Listen, Beka,” her dad was saying, “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not going to change what happened, though, is it?”

  “No, nothing’s going to change what happened, but—”

  “Then save your apologies for someone who cares.” There, that should do it. That should make him go ballistic. She would enjoy listening to him yell, even if it crushed her brain like a vise. She was tired of being the only angry person around here.

  But when he spoke, his voice was tender. “Beka,” he said, “I never meant to hurt you.”

  To her surprise she felt an aching in her chest, as if something heavy had suddenly crash-landed there.

  Her dad went on, “You were always the special one. You were always special to me.”

  Good thing her eyes were shut; her lids could catch the tears. It was the headache, the hangover. Feeling sick always made her weepy.

  “I never meant to hurt you,” he said again.

  “Well,” she replied, “for not meaning to, you did a pretty good job of it.”

  Silence. And then footsteps. And then the squeaking of the screen door as it opened and shut.

  Now she could go back to getting rid of the pain. God knew she wished she could get rid of the pain. In her head. In her heart. Everywhere.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The long-suffering fan by the open window in the kitchen was no match for the humid heat of summer. Here it was the eighth of June, and it was already—as Billy would put it—“hotter than blazes.” One of the chores made more miserable by the hot weather was washing the dishes, all of which had to be done by hand. Andrea wore rubber gloves to buffer her skin from the steaming water in the sink, but her hands felt sticky inside the gloves, and beads of perspiration gathered on her forehead and trickled down her temples. The hair so recently colored and styled was a stringy mess, held out of her face by two large barrettes.

  She chided herself now for spending the money to have her hair done. Selene had given her a discount—but never mind that. The point was, her effort had gone right past John. She had hardly expected to dazzle him, but she had hoped he might say something, whatever it is men say when they’re trying to compliment their wives. Hey, your hair looks pretty, or even, You do something different to your hair? Anything to tell her he’d noticed.

  She patted her face with a damp dish towel, then went back to washing the bowls and plates that had accumulated throughout the day. She didn’t know which bothered her more, the heat of summer or the cold of winter, which here on a lake in upstate New York was a brutal and relentless cold. But when she was in the midst of one, she always longed for the other.

  She remembered the rhyme her mother had so often recited:

  As a rule, man’s a fool,

  When it’s hot, he wants it cool,

  When it’s cool, he wants it hot,

  He’s always wanting what is not.

  That fit her, she figured. Always wanting what was not.

  “Can I dry those dishes for you?”

  Andrea looked up with a start. She was surprised to see John standing in the doorway, even more surprised by his offer. Her momentary joy, though, was swallowed up by her own self-consciousness. She was all too aware of the apron, the rubber gloves, her tired body wilted and damp in the moist heat.

  “You don’t have to,” she said shyly, “but if you’d like . . .” She pulled a dry dish towel out of a drawer and handed it to him.

  He picked up a plate from the drying rack and rubbed circles on its surface. “I’m sorry this old cottage doesn’t have a dishwasher.”

  She shrugged. “When Beka’s home, she and Billy are my dishwasher. She washes, he dries. They don’t say much to each other, but they get the job done.”

  “That’s good.” He nodded. “I’m glad they help out around here.”

  “Of course they do. They’re good kids, John.”

  “I know they are. You’re lucky to have them.”

  They’re both of ours, she thought. We’re both lucky to have them. But she didn’t say the words aloud.

  “Well,” he went on, “things at work went a little better today than yesterday. At least Billy didn’t drop a bin full of dishes.”

  “That’s good. You know how hard he is on himself when he makes mistakes or even thinks he’s done something wrong.”

  “I remember.”

  John paused, and Andrea realized he didn’t know where to put the plate. “In the cupboard above you,” she said.

  He opened the cupboard. “Thanks.”

  They went on working quietly. Finally Andrea said, “I know it’s not easy for you, John, working at the restaurant. Not exactly what you’ve always dreamed of, is it?”

  He exhaled heavily. “It’s only temporary, until I can find something better in Rochester and get us settled back up there.”

  Andrea kept her eyes on the soapy water in the sink. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you about that.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “Well, the kids—Billy and Rebekah, anyway—they want to stay here till they graduate. I can’t say I blame them, John. I hate to uproot them, and . . . well, maybe you can understand how they feel.”

  He didn’t respond right away. Then, “There’s not many job opportunities around here, Andrea.”

  “Something better is bound to come along.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know. But . . . something.” She wished she had an answer, but John was right. Not many opportunities in Conesus. “It’s just two years, and then they’ll both be graduating.”

  “You expect me to bus tables for two years?”

  “No.” She shook her head. She didn’t want their conversation to dissolve into an argument. “No, I don’t. But I don’t like the idea of uprooting the kids either,” she repeated. “They’ve got friends here.”

  “They had friends in Rochester.”

  “Years ago. That was another life. Anyway, Rebekah’s seeing someone.”

  “She is? Who?”

  “A boy named David Morgan.”

  “How’d she meet him?”

  “School.”

  “Is he a nice kid?”

  “From what I know of him, he seems like a nice boy.”

  “I bet.”

  “What’s that?”

  She glanced over at her husband. He seemed agitated. “I can’t say I like the idea of Beka and some boy going out together.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say they’re going out. They mostly just see each other at the amusement park because they’re both working there for the summer. He’s taken her to a movie once or twice. So don’t worry. It’s nothing serious. And anyway, they’re both good kids.”

  She heard him sigh. He was worried. So was she. But she was more worried about Rebekah’s relationship with her father than her relationship with the boy.

  “Anyway,” Andrea went on, “I think
it’d be a mistake to disrupt the kids’ routine at this point.”

  John polished a fork, held it up, and raised his brows at Andrea.

  “In the drawer just to your right there,” she said.

  He opened the drawer and dropped in the fork. He grabbed a handful of flatware and wrapped it in the towel. “Maybe I can find something in Rochester and commute back and forth.”

  “How do you plan to do that when you can’t drive?”

  She heard him mutter quietly. Then he said, “I almost forget about that sometimes.”

  So maybe, she thought, maybe you could just go on up to Rochester and live there. Find a job and a small apartment on the bus line and send us some money every once in a while.

  It wasn’t the first time the thought had gone through her mind. After just two full days with John around, she knew it would have been better for Rebekah if her father had been gone two more years. By then Rebekah would be off to college or working full time. Either way, she’d most likely be living somewhere else. She wouldn’t have to deal with a father coming home from prison.

  The thought rose, flashed across her mind, then swam off like a goldfish descending into murky water. John was home, and Andrea wanted him here—in spite of what it meant for Rebekah. Rebekah had the whole of her future ahead of her; the one thing Andrea had was this second chance and the irrational but persistent hope that she could make a marriage with the one man she had always loved.

  John finished drying and sorting the flatware and shut the drawer. “Well,” he said, “not to change the subject, but I’ll be starting A.A. meetings next Wednesday night. The closest meetings are up at Grace Chapel, where Billy goes to church.” Then he added, “I can just walk there.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “that’d be best.”

  “Maybe through the people I meet in A.A., I can start networking—find out what opportunities there are as far as work around here.”

  “Sure, maybe.” Though she hoped he wouldn’t strike up any partnerships with someone who was also a former drunk. Working with Jared, his brother and drinking buddy, had been one of the worst decisions he’d ever made. “And then you have to report to a probation officer? Let him know you’re going?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m on unsupervised, remember?”

  She lifted her head in thought. “Oh yes. They’re just going to trust you to go to A.A.”

  “They can trust me.”

  “And you’re on probation for a year?”

  “That’s right.”

  Andrea pulled the plug in the sink and let the dirty water go down the drain. She dried her hands on her apron, then took it off and hung it on a hook by the refrigerator. She turned and looked at her husband. “You have an interesting year ahead.”

  He caught her gaze. “I’m not going to mess up, Andrea.”

  “If you drink—”

  “I’m not going to drink. I’m staying clean.”

  She nodded. She wished she felt as sure as he sounded.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  John sat in the bluish glow of the television set watching the eleven-o’clock news. Andrea had put Phoebe to bed as soon as they’d finished washing the dishes and then had gone upstairs to read and unwind before falling asleep. Billy too had retreated to his room early with a set of headphones tucked into his ears. He said he was listening to music Rebekah had earlier helped him download from the computer into what he called an iPod. John hadn’t seen one before, and Billy tried to tell him about it, but the whole thing made John nervous and uncomfortable. Half a decade locked away with no computer and little television had left him in something of a time freeze. He’d had to stand still while the world spun rapidly forward into strange new technologies and unfamiliar forms of entertainment and communication. Kids downloaded music into hand-held contraptions, and people talked with each other via cameras embedded like the eye of Cyclops into the hardware of their computers. John had emerged into a world eerily like the world of science fiction he had known in his youth. He didn’t know how he was going to keep pace with the culture again, or whether he even could.

  At least he still knew how to use the remote control for the television, since it was the same one they’d had in the cottage before he went to prison. His thumb rested on the volume button, which he’d turned down low. The front room was dark except for the flickering shadows coming from the TV screen. With no way to shut off the front room from Billy’s hallway, John didn’t want to disturb his son while he slept. He listened to Billy snoring softly and was pleasantly surprised at the sense of satisfaction running through him. Everyone in his care was asleep and safe. Except for Rebekah, who wasn’t yet home from work.

  John moved his thumb to the power button, thinking he might just as well turn off the news and go to bed. But before he could follow through, he heard the sound he’d been waiting for: the tires of the Volkswagen Jetta rolling over the graveled drive. He heard the car door open and close, heard footsteps up the slanted walkway to the porch. Then a key in the kitchen door.

  “Beka?”

  Silence. Then more footsteps, hesitant now, across the linoleum floor. Rebekah stopped in the doorway, her unsmiling face half hidden in shadow as the kitchen light shone behind her.

  “You know,” she said, “you don’t have to wait up for me.”

  “I’m not. I’m just—” He sounded apologetic, or embarrassed, or maybe just plain weak; he wasn’t sure which. What he did know was that he didn’t sound like a father. But then, technology wasn’t the only thing that had changed while he was away. His daughter had moved from pliant child to unpleasant teen, and he’d fallen out of step with her. He had no idea how to jump in at this point and be the parent she needed. Fidgeting, he tried to smile. “I guess I’m just a night owl.”

  Her whole body seemed to slump at that. “Well, that’s just great,” she murmured.

  And then she was gone.

  John switched off the television, stood and stretched, then walked quietly across the room. He treaded softly in his stocking feet up the steep stairs to the garret room. Waiting for Rebekah to come home was one reason he’d stayed up late watching the news. He knew he’d never fall asleep until everyone was in and accounted for. But that wasn’t the only reason he stayed up. For the third night now, he wanted to make sure Andrea had had enough time to fall asleep before he climbed up to his own bed.

  He paused at the top of the stairs, listening for Andrea’s rhythmic breathing. Yes, she was asleep. She didn’t stir as he slipped quietly around her bed to his own. He figured, though, that if he ever did wake her when he came to bed, she wouldn’t let on. She’d pretend to be asleep so they wouldn’t have to acknowledge each other’s presence. Since that was how she wanted it, best to play along. He was lucky to have a place to come home to. Beyond that, he didn’t want to stir the waters.

  He squeezed between the foot of his bed and the overstuffed chair beside the window. He eased himself down on the edge of the mattress, not wanting the box springs to squeak too loudly. He sat there for a while, feeling the cool breeze that drifted into the room from the two open windows. The temperature had finally dropped a few degrees. A waning moon gave off just enough light so that when he turned toward his wife, he could see the contours of her face. She looked almost pretty lying there, her hair spread out against the pillow, one bare arm thrown up over her head. Sleep had drained her face of tension, and she looked peaceful and yet somehow expectant, as though she were waiting for something good to happen.

  Andrea. John mouthed her name silently. He had so much to tell her, and he didn’t know where to begin. He felt the burden of it inside, five years’ worth of words, and he knew that among them was an apology, but it was an apology that was so fractured and for so many different mistakes, he didn’t know how to piece it all together and make it presentable.

  He had tried to express his remorse to her when she first started showing up for her twice yearly visits to the prison. The setting was l
ess than ideal, as they were never alone in the visiting room. Once a year she brought the two older kids with her. But even those times when she came alone, the room was busy with other prisoners and their families milling about, talking, sharing snacks, listening to everybody else’s conversations—or so it seemed to John.

  Finally one day, in exasperation, he had blurted, “Listen, Andrea, you deserve better than this. I think you should go ahead and divorce me. I won’t contest it. I promise. Take the kids and start a new life. When I can, I’ll start sending you child support.”

  She didn’t speak or even move for what seemed a long time. She looked stunned, as though someone had slapped her hard across the cheek. At last she asked, “Is that how you want it?”

  He shook his head. “What kind of life is this for you? Coming down here twice a year to visit your husband in prison. Taking care of three kids by yourself—”

  “But I don’t want a divorce, John.”

  They looked intently at each other, the way an art student studies a sculpture from every angle, hoping to unveil the message chiseled in stone.

  “But why, Andrea?” John asked quietly. “Why stay with me?”

  She sat up straighter. One muscle in her jaw twitched as her mouth grew firm. “Because I love you, John,” she said. The words were strong—fortified, he sensed, by something like anger. But the firmness subsided to pain as she added, “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

  He cringed at her words now, just as he had then. What did he know about love? Apparently, for most of his life, very little. What he knew most about love was that it never satisfied. Maybe for a while, but then the hunger returned, and the loneliness, and the void that was somehow larger than any tangible thing.

  John remembered with regret the series of brief affairs he had had. There’d been a number of them over the years—he couldn’t recall how many. They weren’t so much affairs as simply flings. A burst of infatuation that quickly dwindled. Roman candle relationships, Jared called them. John thought of them more as duds, hardly worth the stress of cheating on his wife. The initial flash of excitement wasn’t what he was looking for anyway. Not really. That flash and burnout seemed to be the pattern for his life, though—had even been the case with Andrea back when they were dating. With her, though, Billy had been conceived before the candle had burned itself out, so by the time the dust settled, John found himself married to someone he didn’t know how to love.