The Dinosaur Club

by William Heffernan

  Trisha stared at him for a moment. “I guess I thought you’d be more upset.” There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Disappointment, Fallon thought.

  “Good-bye, Trish.”

  Trisha drew a breath. “Good-bye, Jack.” She turned quickly and walked out of the room.

  Fallon watched her leave. She moved nicely in the slacks she had chosen. He turned his head away, not wanting to watch any longer. His stomach was sitting in his throat, choking him. He fought it; closed his eyes. Jesus, he thought.

  The telephone jarred him awake before the alarm clock. Then the alarm went off, the two sounds beating at him. Fallon rarely drank, an occasional beer or glass of wine with dinner, but the previous night he had put a serious dent in a bottle of bourbon. Now his head felt like an overripe melon, his mouth as though a cat had been living there.

  He grabbed the alarm; shut it off, then stared through blurred eyes at the digital readout. Seven A.M. He swung his legs out and the photo album he had taken to bed went crashing to the floor. A picture of Trisha stared up at him, and he was hit with a sudden sense of self-disgust; wondered if that was what the future held: becoming a maudlin drunk. The phone rang again, hurting his head, and he picked it up, fumbled with it. “Yeah,” he said. His voice sounded like a croak.

  “Daddy? Are you okay?”

  His daughter’s voice came across the line, sounding small, worried.

  “Yeah, baby. I’m fine. Whatsup?” The final word came out slurred, sounded more like catsup.

  His daughter hesitated, then blurted her message out. “Mom called last night. She told me she’d left, and I worried about you. She called Mike, too. He’s on the extension.”

  Fallon’s mind froze. At first he thought she meant his son was there, at home, on another extension in the house. Then he realized she meant he was at the apartment she rented in Bennington.

  “Hi, Dad. You sure you’re okay?”

  His son’s voice came across fuzzy, like his sister’s. Because they were both on the same line, he thought. “I’m fine, Mike,” he said. “Not great, but I’m okay. How come you’re in Bennington? Were you down visiting Liz?”

  “He came down because we were worried. And we thought it would be better to talk to you together.” It was Liz again, answering for her brother. Just as she’d been doing since she first learned to talk.

  Fallon envisioned his children sitting in the second-floor apartment, just off the Bennington campus. Liz: tall and slim and beautiful, just like her mother. But even more so, he thought. With her mother’s blond hair and blue eyes—a younger, even lovelier version. Mike: built like his father—or like his father had once been. Six feet of muscle and bone. But with his mother’s blond hair and more delicate features. They must be worried, Fallon thought. It was a long drive from Middlebury to Bennington. And it was seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. Christ, he thought, inexplicably. Why the hell had he set the alarm the night before? He must have been drunker than he’d thought.

  “Daddy, what happened?” It was Liz again, and Fallon sat for a moment, wondering what to say. Christ, just tell her the truth, he decided. What else can you do?

  “Your mother found somebody else. And she’s moving in with him.” Moved in, he told himself. She’s already moved in with him.

  “Who is he?” Liz asked. “Mom didn’t say a lot, mostly that she’d explain later.”

  Fallon hesitated, wondering if he should leave that explanation for Trish. The hell with Trish, he decided. If the kids wanted to know, he’d tell them what little he could. He wasn’t going to be dragged into Trish’s game.

  “His name is Howard,” Fallon said. “Howard … Nowicki.” Now the name comes, he thought. “He’s a dentist. Somebody we played tennis with.”

  “Jesus.” It was Mike this time, and there was a hint of disbelief in his voice. Fallon was grateful for it. Yeah, but he’s also repositioned himself, Fallon thought.

  “Look, kids, there’s not much more I can tell you, except that your mother and this Nowicki guy will be living in Manhattan.” Are living in Manhattan, Fallon reminded himself. Why was he playing this game? “I don’t even have the address. But I’m sure she’ll tell you.”

  “She already did.” It was Mike again, blurting it out. Then he was silent—they both were. Probably embarrassed, he thought. He wondered if Trisha had asked them not to give him the address.

  “Yeah, well anyway, I can’t tell you much more. I just found out about it yesterday.”

  There was a pause—long and very pregnant, Fallon thought. Then Liz got them rolling again.

  “Mom said you’re having some trouble at work, that you might be leaving.”

  Shit, Fallon thought. Why the hell did Trish have to get into that? He drew a breath, felt the cotton in his mouth again, and wished he had something to drink. Anything but bourbon. “Yeah, there’s some talk about downsizing, and things are tough right now. But your old man’s not out the door yet.” Yet. The operative word.

  “Mom said the tuition and stuff would still be okay.” It was Mike again, blurting out the real issue—the real reason for the joint call—in his inimitable, bumbling, honest way. It made Fallon feel slightly sick. Somewhere deep down in his gut.

  “Yeah, well, let’s not worry about that now,” he said. His voice was sharper than he had intended, and he immediately softened it. “Look, if worse comes to worst, you might have to earn some of your spending money.”

  “Jeez, with my course load that would be hard, Dad.” Mike again, and Fallon felt his gut tighten.

  Yeah, well, life’s hard, kid, he thought. He took another breath. “Let’s not worry about it now,” he said. “We’ll work things out.”

  “It’s just that we should know, Dad.” Liz this time. Her voice slightly fearful.

  “Hang on a second,” Fallon said. He placed the receiver on the nightstand, went into the darkened bathroom, grabbed a glass of water, drank it down, then filled the glass again. His barely visible reflection jumped out from the mirror, the anger in his eyes shocking him. When he returned to the phone the anger, and the cotton in his mouth, were under control.

  “Look, maybe it wouldn’t hurt if you checked around for some parttime jobs, just in case. Just to cover your living expenses.”

  Silence again. Liz’s voice sounded cool when she finally spoke. “I don’t know if I could manage that with my course load.” Another pause. “Maybe I could apply for a student loan for next semester.”

  “Yeah,” Mike chimed in.

  “For spending money?” Incredulity hung heavy in Fallon’s voice. When he had returned from Vietnam, and had enrolled at NYU, he had worked thirty hours a week in a Varick Street warehouse to cover everything the GI Bill had not. The thought of borrowing money to cover the time he had spent in gin mills and pizza parlors had never occurred to him. But he had created these ideas in his own children, he realized now. He had been a successful, doting father, who had never forced much reality into their lives. Now the situation demanded that he do so, and he wondered if it was too late.

  “Why don’t we just let everything ride for now?” he suggested, buying time.

  “Are you sure?” Liz asked. There was a note of disbelief in her voice.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Look, the summer courses you’re both taking will be over in a few weeks. I’ll have a better picture of what’s going on at work then, and we’ll sit down and talk it all over. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, Dad.” It was Mike, suddenly uplifted, or at least sounding so. Putting problems off to a later date was Mike’s forte.

  “Maybe I should put in a student-loan application just in case,” Liz said.

  Fallon let out a long breath. He was starting to feel like a beaten prizefighter, fists slamming at every vulnerable spot. He fought to keep anger from his voice. “If that’s what you want. You’re twenty. I’m not about to tell you what to do.” He hesitated a moment, carefully choosing his words. “Just give some thought about how you�
�re going to pay it back. After you graduate, a student loan can take a heavy bite out of a paycheck.”

  He was greeted by momentary silence again, and he let it play out. “I thought you and Mom would handle that,” his daughter said at length. Her voice held a slight tremor, and he wasn’t certain whether it was from anger or renewed fear.

  “Honey, I can’t tell you what I can do or can’t do right now. And I sure as hell can’t speak for your mother.” He fumbled with a pack of cigarettes he had gone out and bought the previous night, lit one, and blew a stream of smoke into the phone. He realized his voice had become harsh, and he tried to soften it. “Honey, listen to me. You do what you think best about a loan, but keep in mind that between my job situation and an upcoming divorce, I don’t know what I’ll be able to do for you and your brother. And that includes paying back loans.”

  He was met with silence again and hurried on, another accusation of failure suddenly draping his shoulders. “Look, why don’t you wait it out a couple of months and see what happens?”

  “Do you think you and Mom might work things out?” It was his son this time—naive to the core.

  “Your mom’s moved in with someone else, Mike. Reconciliation doesn’t seem realistic.”

  Momentary silence again.

  “But if you did, would that change things?” Mike finally asked.

  Fallon smiled, shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a real option, Mike. So don’t hang your hat on it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you sad?” It was his daughter, now. The romantic.

  “Sure I’m sad, Liz.” Maybe numb is a better word, he thought. Perhaps there’s even a harsher word. But how do you explain that? How do you tell your daughter you haven’t made love to her mother in a long time? That her mother hadn’t wanted to? Probably because she was too busy repositioning herself under Howard. And doing it with her wedding ring still on her goddamned finger.

  “Maybe if you let her know you still loved her, still wanted her, she’d come back,” Liz added.

  She doesn’t know that? Fallon thought. After twenty-four years, after all the things they’d been through together raising two kids, she doesn’t know?

  “Sometimes you just have to respect people’s decisions, honey. Have to know when to let go,” he finally said.

  Silence. Then: “I’m just saying maybe you should try.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay, Dad.” It was Mike, now eager to get off the phone, Fallon thought.

  “Dad, it’s just that we’re worried,” Liz added, still hanging on to it. “We’re worried about you, and we’re worried about us too.”

  Fallon stared at his feet, naked against the carpet, then squeezed his eyes shut. There was something terribly vulnerable about a man without shoes, he decided. “There’s nothing more I can tell you about either situation. We’re all just going to have to hang tough for a while,” he said.

  There was a hesitation, then his daughter said, “Okay, Dad, we’ll do what you want. And please take care of yourself.”

  “I will. And you guys, too. I love you both, and I’ll talk to you both soon.”

  Fallon replaced the phone, stubbed out his cigarette, then immediately lit another. Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit.

  He considered falling back into bed, then gave up on the idea. He’d only lie there and stew, rerun the conversation with his children; belatedly come up with the wise, fatherly comments he should have made. He stared across the room. The bedroom draperies were drawn, only the faintest light seeping in; the room attended by countless shadows. He pushed up from the bed and shuffled back to the adjoining bath, switched on the light, then closed his eyes against the sudden glare.

  When he opened them again, he was standing before the large mirror that covered most of the wall behind the sink. He stared at the ruin that looked back, the face puffy from the previous night’s pity party of bourbon and photo albums. Still, it wasn’t that bad, at least from the shoulders up. The hair was still thick and dark brown and wavy, with only a touch of gray at the temples. The face, sporting some lines now, was still a good one—handsome even, according to some. It was craggy, with a strong jaw and a hint of world weariness, not the smooth innocence it had carried for so many years. So, too, with the green eyes—bedroom eyes, Trisha had once called them—only a bit bloodshot now. And the shoulders were still wide, matching the broad chest. But each had lost the definition they had once held. And from there down, the ruin took over—the small, soft protruding gut, complete with love handles. Christ, how had it happened? he wondered. He wasn’t a couch potato. He skied in winter; swam and hiked in summer. He shook his head. Sure you do. Maybe a half dozen times each, each year. Then you sit on your ass, even have a riding mower to cut the goddamned grass. But you did play tennis, he added to himself.

  Fallon drew a long breath, then turned sideways, sucked in his gut, and let it out. The view was depressing. And the company even has a gym available to employees, a room filled with exercise machines on which you’ve never laid hand or foot. But Tuesday, when you go back to work, you’ll start working some of it off. No, you’ll work all of it off, damn it. Get the most out of the place before they boot your ass out the door. And you’ll throw away the damned cigarettes, too.

  Fallon turned back to the mirror and opened the cabinet that held his shaving kit, hesitated a moment, then opened the adjacent one that had always held Trisha’s endless supply of creams and oils and other mystifying paraphernalia. The cabinet was bare. Even the dust motes had been carefully removed. He stared at the barren space. Not even a hint she’d be coming back. But you knew that already. And you don’t want her back. Not after all the sneaking around with Howard. Not after moving in with him and turning you into the village cuckold. He drew a long breath, felt his oversized gut rise and fall. Except maybe you do. Maybe, deep down, you’re that big a fool.

  Fallon closed Trisha’s cabinet. Shut it away. Just shut the door and don’t open it again. He reached for his toothbrush, squeezed toothpaste on it, and began brushing his teeth so hard that it hurt.

  Screw her, and screw Howard, too. Life doesn’t end at forty-nine, just because one woman says you’re a schmuck. Even if it’s a woman you’ve listened to for twenty-four goddamned years.

  He stared at the mirror and his foam-draped lips, closed his eyes again, and wondered if he was still lying to himself.

  When he reentered the bedroom, the photo album he had taken to bed stared up at him from the floor and he kicked it out of the way. It slid several feet and miraculously closed itself. He stood momentarily transfixed by the posture it now presented, the smooth leather cover shutting out all the images of his earlier life. A small, sour grin formed on his lips, then faded, and he felt a small shiver in the center of his back.

  Fallon turned away, averting his eyes from the album, and pulled open the large armoire that held his clothes. He hesitated; tried to decide what he’d do that day. He certainly didn’t want to remain at home. The commuter towns of Westchester County were endless gossip mills, and his own quiet little town of Bedford would soon turn the marital triangle of Jack and Trish and Howard into a central topic of conversation. He could go to a ball game, he thought. Sure. Why not? The Yankees were playing a doubleheader against the Red Sox, and he knew the company’s box seats weren’t being used this holiday weekend.

  “Yeah,” he said aloud. Call Wally and team up with him for the day. Wally’s been divorced for almost a year now, and he’s probably sitting in his small Manhattan apartment trying to decide which bartender he’ll favor with an afternoon’s tale of woe. Fallon forced determination onto his face; shook his head. The hell with that, Wally. Not for you, and not for me, either. No, indeed. Call Wally, persuade him to swing by the office and pick up the tickets, then meet him at the stadium. Hell, maybe he can even recommend a good divorce lawyer. Fallon nodded to himself. The idea suddenly seemed to possess great merit. But first coffee. So
me java to clear away the cobwebs, then get on the phone and start making plans.

  Fallon slipped into the brightly patterned, Bill Blass terry-cloth robe that Trisha had given him the previous Christmas. The thought crossed his mind that it might be one of the things on her list—might be one of the items the packers would toss into a box for delivery to Howard the dentist. The thought continued to gnaw at him as he moved down the curving staircase that Trisha had always loved, and that had always reminded him of some outlandish scene from Gone With the Wind.

  Maybe she’ll want the staircase, too, he thought, as he reached the foyer and turned into the living room. An image of packers cleaning out the entire house flashed through his mind as he passed into the adjoining dining room, and he wondered which items he’d find missing when he came home one day to a half-empty house. Suddenly, everything seemed of value to him; each item some part of the stability he had built into his life. He stared at the dining-room furniture that now surrounded him. His mother’s—something that went all the way back to his childhood—which they had brought to this house when his mother had entered the nursing home where she now lived. There was his father’s mahogany desk. The ancient grandfather’s clock that stood in the hall—the one he had battled for at an estate auction, finally outbidding a well-heeled banker. He paused just inside the kitchen and thought about having the locks changed; of letting Trisha’s packers arrive, keys in hand, only to find the house locked and barred against them. It was a pleasantly vindictive thought. No, the hell with it, he told himself. Let her take any damned thing she wanted. She’d already taken what mattered. Taken it and trashed it. Let her have the rest, too, if it was so damned important to her. He hesitated again. Except my fish. He thought about the ancient sailfish that hung in his study, the one he had caught as a boy on one of the many fishing trips he had taken with his long-dead father. No, not the fish, he told himself. Everything but that.