by Ann Tatlock
As the family pulled up to the cottage after church, John noticed Rebekah’s car wasn’t there.
“Beka’s still not home,” he remarked. “Did she say what time she’d be back?”
He looked over at Andrea, who was shifting the Volvo into park. She shook her head. “No telling. She doesn’t have to be at work until four o’clock. Other than that, I don’t know what her plans are.”
“Shouldn’t she let us know?”
“She will. She’ll call, when she thinks about it. Otherwise, she’ll probably show up around three o’clock to shower and get ready to go.”
“What do you know about this friend she’s with? Lena?”
“She’s a nice girl. You’ll like her.”
“If I ever meet her. Anyway, I want to talk to Rebekah about not driving the car too much until we can have some work done on it. I’m sure it needs a new battery, and we ought to have the fluids changed, maybe have the tires rotated, and—”
Billy interrupted from the backseat, muttering, “Why are we just sitting here? I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving, Billy,” Phoebe chided.
“What’s for lunch, Mom?”
“I’ve got pork chops thawing in the fridge,” Andrea said. “I guess I’d better get to work.”
All four doors of the sedan opened at once as the family piled out. John stood, stretched. He wished he had enough money in his pocket to suggest they go out to eat. They could eat for free at Laughter’s Luncheonette, but he sure didn’t want to go there. He wished he could blow fifty dollars taking his family to Denny’s or Applebee’s, but that was going to have to wait until he was something other than a busboy.
He stepped toward the cottage, thinking about pork chops. Before he was halfway across the drive, Rebekah’s car pulled off the road and came to a sudden stop.
“Hey, there’s Beka,” Billy announced. “She must have heard us talking about lunch!”
John chuckled, but the amusement slid off his face as he watched his daughter get out of the car, slam the door, and stomp toward him. Then, before he could even react, she was pounding his chest with her fists, screaming, “I hate you! I hate you!”
He heard Andrea call out their daughter’s name, heard his other children give off puzzled cries, but their voices were drowned by Rebekah’s screams and the flailing fists that hammered him again and again. He finally caught her wrists and held on tightly, though he was surprised by her strength as she struggled in his grip.
“Beka, what are you doing?” he demanded.
He searched her face; her mottled skin was moist with tears. Strands of hair clung to her cheeks. As he tightened his grip, she relaxed her arms but resorted to kicking his shins. He fought the temptation to push her away, to throw her to the ground.
“Stop it, Beka,” he yelled. “Stop kicking!”
Then Andrea was there, shaking the girl by the shoulders. “Beka, are you crazy? What are you doing? Stop! Stop it now!”
With that, Rebekah seemed to lose her momentum, like a child’s toy winding down. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. Her eyes shifted and blinked, then settled on him. Fresh tears streamed down her face.
As their eyes met, a groundswell of love rose up in John for his daughter. The feeling was so intense it left him lightheaded. “Beka, sweetheart—” he began, but she interrupted him.
“Let go of me.”
He loosened his grip but didn’t let go. She swore at him. “I said, let go.”
“Are you done hitting me?”
She looked away.
He let go of her wrists, took one step back.
She turned and ran.
“Beka!” he shouted.
Andrea made a move to go after her, but John laid a hand on her shoulder. “Let me go,” he said. “I’m the one she’s angry with.”
By the time he reached the road, she was already a good stretch ahead of him. Vaguely aware of the next-door neighbors watching from their back porch, he sprinted after his daughter. He loosened his tie as he ran, fumbled to undo the top button of his shirt so he could breathe easier. The smooth soles of his loafers beat the blacktop but offered little traction over the occasional gravel in the road. Twice he stumbled, but he pushed on, his eyes fixed on the figure in the road ahead of him. He speeded up as he saw the distance between them growing shorter. Finally he came up from behind and threw his arms around her. She struggled, tripped, almost fell over, but John found his own footing and held her up.
“Beka, stop,” he said quietly. “Just stop. Please. Settle down.”
She squirmed another moment before giving up. The two of them stood there by the side of the road in a twisted embrace, winded, red-faced, defeated. She cried openly.
“If I let you go, will you talk to me?”
She nodded.
He slowly let go. He waited.
Finally, moving slowly, Rebekah turned around to face him. When she spoke, he had to strain to hear. “You’re cheating on Mom.”
He thought—hoped—he had heard wrong. When he didn’t respond, she said it again, louder this time. “You’re cheating on Mom.”
“What?” He staggered backward, as though he’d been punched in the gut.
“You’re having an affair with Mrs. Jarvis—”
“No, I—”
“How could you do it?”
“Beka, I—”
“Don’t touch me!”
“Listen to me—”
“I hate you!”
John shut his eyes, nodded. He didn’t speak.
“How can you cheat on Mom?” she asked again. “With my best friend’s mother?”
He opened his eyes, tried to focus on his daughter’s face. “What did you say?”
“Mrs. Jarvis—she’s Lena’s mother. Lena knew her mom was seeing someone but . . . how could it be you?” The look in Rebekah’s eyes spoke of betrayal.
“Rebekah,” John said firmly, “who told you this?”
“No one had to tell me. She has your picture on her phone. Lena’s mother has your picture on her phone.”
John felt his jaw tighten as anger surged through him. She had lied when she said she erased it. His mind worked frantically, looking for a way out, finally spotting a small window he might wiggle himself through. “Well,” he said, “yeah, we go to the same meetings and for whatever reason she took my picture there. That doesn’t mean I’m having an affair with the woman.”
Rebekah looked at him hard. “But you are, aren’t you?”
“Beka,” he whispered.
“You’re having an affair with her, aren’t you?”
His breath left him, and his legs felt weak. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m sorry, Beka. I’m so sorry.”
He reached into the pocket of his trousers and felt the handkerchief that Andrea insisted belonged there. He dug it out, looked at it, couldn’t help thinking of how it had been cleaned and ironed and neatly folded. That was what brought tears to John’s eyes—the thought that, in spite of everything, Andrea had simply gone on cooking his meals, making his bed, folding his handkerchiefs.
He offered the handkerchief to Rebekah. She resisted a moment, sniffed hard, and then gave in. She took it and blew her nose, wiped her eyes. John wiped at his own eyes with the palm of his hand. A minivan approached, slowed down as it passed them, then sped up again.
John nodded toward the church, empty now after the morning service. “Let’s go on up to the church, find a place we can talk.”
For several minutes they walked in silence, both staring straight ahead. When they reached the church, John tried the front doors and found them locked. They settled on the concrete steps, hard and sun-warmed, though still partially shaded by the trees in the front lot.
While John searched for words, Rebekah said, “You’re going to leave us again.” It was a statement, not a question.
John took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “No, Beka, no. I’m not going to leave you.”
“How
can you not, now that you have someone else?”
“Listen, I’ve tried to end it. I’ve—”
“Why’d you start, Dad? Why’d you ever see her in the first place?”
“Because I’m human. And I’m weak. And I always seem to end up doing things that hurt people—the people I love.”
“You don’t love Mom.”
John swallowed hard, set his jaw. “Honey, I’ve tried.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve always known you had to get married because of Billy.”
“Yes.” He turned to look at his daughter. “That’s true.”
“Then everything—Billy and me and Phoebe, we’re all just a mistake.”
“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “No, you were never a mistake. Never. You three—you were the best things I ever had. Especially you, Beka. When you came along, you brought something really good into my life for the first time.”
She tilted her head back and looked up at the sky. One tear escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down her temple. She brushed it away. “Why didn’t you just divorce Mom a long time ago, let her find someone else?”
“I offered, Beka. When I was in prison, I told her she should file for divorce, make a new life for herself. She didn’t want to do it.”
“She wanted to stay with you?”
“Believe it or not, yeah, she did.”
“And then you came home and found someone else.”
He drew in a sharp breath. “Look, Beka—”
“Do you love her?”
“Pamela? Lena’s mom?”
Rebekah nodded.
“Yes,” he said. Then, “No.” Then, “Honey, I just don’t know.” Finally he said quietly, “You know what, Beka? I don’t even know who she is.”
For a long while neither spoke. John could hear the activity on the lake—the roar of outboard motors, laughter, the lilting cry of gulls. At length he said, “Listen, honey, I’m going to break it off.”
“Forget it, Dad. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. I’m going to break it off. I mean it. You’re more important to me than she is.”
Rebekah looked at him doubtfully. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“We can never be like a real family, Dad.”
“We can try. We have to try, Beka. It’s what I want.”
“Are you sure, or are you just saying that?”
“I’m sure. I’ve made a mess of things, but I want to try again. If that’s what you want.”
Rebekah turned away. John thought she might never answer, but she finally turned back and said, “Yeah, it’s what I want. I don’t want you and Mom to get divorced.”
“We won’t, honey.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“You’re going to break it off with Mrs. Jarvis?”
“Yes, Beka. I will. I promise.”
She nodded. “I hope Mom never finds out about her.”
“You know, Beka, your mother probably already knows.”
“How?”
John sighed deeply. “Because she knows me. She knows who I am. But that’s not the person I want to be anymore.”
“Well, if you want to know what I think, I’m not so sure people can change. Not really. I mean, we are what we are.”
“No. I thought that way once, but I think now—well, maybe we can change by letting ourselves be changed.”
“Yeah? By what?”
“I don’t know near enough about it, but it’s something called grace. I hear it can change you, if you let it. I’m going to hope I can let it.”
“If you’re talking about God, I’m not so sure about all that stuff.”
“I know, honey. I know just how you feel. There was a time when it made no sense to me at all, and much of the time even now it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But then again, there are moments when I get the feeling everything’s all right, even in spite of how things look. I’m hanging my hat on those moments, trusting that’s God telling me He’s there.”
She lifted her chin in a small nod. “So what are you going to do, Dad?”
“Like I said, I’m going to put an end to things . . . tell her it’s over. And then I’ll have to add it to the list of things I hope your mom will forgive me for.”
Rebekah looked thoughtful. “I bet that’s a pretty long list.”
John smiled sadly, nodded. “You got that right, honey. From where I’m sitting I can hardly see the end of it.” Several seconds passed before he added, “And, honey, I’ve got to ask you to forgive me too. I hope you will.”
Her eyes grew small as she shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m ready to do that.”
“Fair enough. Take your time. I’m willing to wait.”
She looked at him, seemed to be studying him. He returned her gaze, hoping she found in his face what she was looking for.
Then she said, “I think I want to go home now.”
“All right.” He stood, held out a hand to help her up. She accepted it, but as soon as she was standing, she pulled her hand away.
“I do love you, Beka,” he said. “I want you to know that.”
She looked away. “I know,” she said, her voice small.
He hoped she would say she loved him back, but she didn’t. He was going to have to wait for that too. For however long it took, he was willing to wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
She would have to get a lawyer, of course. Owen could recommend a good one. He’d already given her several names, years ago when John first went off to prison. She’d thrown the list away. She’d had no intention of filing for divorce.
Andrea leaned back in the overstuffed chair in the bedroom and closed the book on her lap. She’d read the same paragraph over and over, and she still didn’t know what it was about. There would be no escaping into these pages tonight. She had too much on her mind, too many decisions to make.
She turned to the window and saw her own face reflected in the glass. How tired she looked, and faded. Life was passing, moving inexorably forward. Her children were growing up, and she was growing old. There was a time once when she thought life owed her something, but that was long ago.
She would let John go now. It would be best. For him. Maybe for her. She looked back across the years that he had been gone and realized, with a comforting sense of satisfaction, that she had survived. She would manage alone again, and without the hope of his ever coming back, it would be easier.
Andrea heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see who it was. Billy paused halfway up and peered at her through the railing. “Hi, Mom,” he said. “Is it okay if I come up?”
She smiled at her son. “Of course, Billy. What’s the matter? Are you hungry?”
He shook his head as he moved up the stairs and across the room. “Naw, I’m not hungry. I just wanted to ask you something.”
“All right.”
He sat down on his father’s bed and rested his chin in his hand. Then he said, “How come Beka was so mad this afternoon, Mom?”
“Well, I don’t know, really. She’s a teenager. She’s full of emotion.”
“Well, I’m a teenager too, but I don’t act like that. She’s really mad at something. But I guess you don’t want to tell me.”
“It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you, Billy. It’s just that—I honestly don’t know. Dad wouldn’t tell me what they talked about. He just said they had worked it out and everything was okay.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “So I didn’t press it.”
Billy looked thoughtful. He narrowed his eyes and drummed his fingers on his cheek. Andrea waited, giving him time to think. Finally he said, “I worry about Beka, Mom.”
“I know, Billy. I do too.”
“I wish . . . I wish I could . . . I’d like to help Beka feel better.”
“That’s awfully good of you, son. I wish I could make Beka happy too, but we have to let her work out some things on her own. That’s how it is when y
ou’re growing up.”
“Do you think when Beka’s finished growing up she’ll be happy?”
Andrea drew in a deep breath. “Let’s hope she’ll be happy then, Billy. Some people are when they get past the teen years. You know, they find themselves, they settle down and marry. . . .” Her voice trailed off as her thoughts wandered. But she pulled herself back and tried to smile at Billy. She hoped her unfinished answer had somehow satisfied him.
He was studying her intently. “Mom?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you happy?”
“Oh! Well . . .” She blinked several times, folded her hands together over the book in her lap. With false cheer, she said, “I have you, don’t I?”
“Well, yeah.” He spread his arms. “Here I am.”
“Then I’m happy.”
Billy smiled at that. But then he looked serious again and asked, “Do you think everyone in the family will ever be happy at the same time?”
Andrea hesitated. She reached out and patted Billy’s hand. “Of course, Billy. Someday we’ll all be happy at the same time.”
Billy smiled again broadly. “That will be a good day, won’t it, Mom?”
“Yes, Billy.” She nodded. “That will be a very good day.”
Billy stood then, bent over her, kissed her cheek. “Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, dear.”
“Have sweet dreams.”
“I’ll dream about you, Billy, and what a nice young man you’ve grown up to be.”
He grinned modestly, then brightened. “Oh, and sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!”
“Okay.” She smiled at him. “You too, son.”
Andrea followed Billy with her eyes as he stepped across the room and disappeared down the stairs.
As long as a part of him was still a child, she thought, he should still believe in happy endings.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
At the north end of the lake, the town of Conesus had long ago carved out a public park complete with swimming beach, picnic tables, grills, a playground, and numerous benches. The park was always busy on summer days, filled mostly with out-of-towners who came to the lake for sport but didn’t own a cottage there. On any given afternoon, the beach might be cluttered with sunbathers, so those headed out to swim had to walk gingerly, winding their way along paths created by the haphazard tangle of towels. On many occasions the picnic tables were full, and people resorted to spreading blankets on the ground like gypsies on the outskirts of a town. By evening, though, when dusk came, the crowds began to thin, and by nightfall the last cars were generally pulling out of the lot.