The Dinosaur Club

by William Heffernan

  At six o’clock Fallon started dinner. He was at the grill, dealing with the ritual of the chicken. He tried to recall the last time he had done this. It would have been for Trish—perhaps Trish and the children. Now he was here with another woman; telling her about his life; even talking about a war he had refused to discuss for over twenty years. It suddenly hit him how much everything had changed.

  Samantha watched him from across the patio. She rose from her chair and moved quietly to his side, then leaned toward him and kissed his cheek.

  “You look sad,” she said.

  He turned and placed his hands at her waist. “Not sad. Reflective, maybe.” Her returning smile was soft, caring, and he was again seized by an impulse to kiss her. Slowly, he lowered his lips toward hers.

  “Daaad!”

  A chill went through Fallon’s body, freezing him in place. He momentarily closed his eyes, then turned and looked into his daughter’s horrified face. Two steps behind stood his son, Mike.

  “Uh, hi, Dad.” Mike was staring at Samantha, his face filled with uncomprehending awe. Slowly, a small smile began to threaten the corners of his mouth. Fallon felt sudden certitude that his son was about to say: “Wow.”

  Fallon removed his hands from Samantha’s waist and stepped back. Uncertain what to do with his hands now, he placed them awkwardly on his hips.

  “Jesus. I didn’t know you were coming home,” he said. He forced a smile, trying to fight his way through the moment. He looked back at his daughter. She had struggled for composure—found it—and was now staring at him coldly. Another vision appeared, as his own adolescence again flashed to mind. Instantly he was standing before Sister Urial, his high school principal, a Dominican nun who could render you hell-bound with one withering look.

  Liz fought off a slight tremble in her lower lip. “Can I speak to you, Dad?” Ice-blue eyes went to Samantha, taking her in from head to toe. Mike continued to stare, uncertain what mischief he had discovered, but fascinated by it. Fallon suddenly wanted to grab his shoulders and shake the look from his face.

  Instead, he straightened, sucked up all the internal organs that seemed to have fallen into his shoes, and began floundering for some semblance of normalcy. “This is Samantha Moore, a friend from work,” he said lamely, praying there was no guilt in his voice. He turned to Samantha, who seemed inexplicably calm. “These are my children: Liz and Mike.”

  “Hello,” Samantha said.

  “Dad, can I please speak to you?” Liz repeated, then spun on her heels and marched back into the house.

  “Uh … Hi, I guess.” Mike said. He glanced at his father as if asking what he should do next.

  “Excuse me,” Fallon said. He started after his daughter, grabbed his son’s arm as he moved past, and pulled him along. “Close your mouth,” he hissed, as they entered the kitchen.

  Liz stood with her back to him, shoulders trembling as she stared out a side window.

  “Look, honey,” Fallon began. “Let’s not overreact to this.”

  Liz spun on him, eyes glaring through a film of tears. “Is this the reason Mom left, Dad? Because of Her?” The jaw quivered again.

  Fallon’s own jaw dropped. Then he caught hold of himself. “What?”

  “That’s certainly the way it looks,” Liz snapped. Another quiver of jaw and lip.

  Fallon stared at her, incredulous. “I never even met Samantha until your mother left. Until she ran off with Howard.”

  Liz’s jaw began a foxtrot. “That … that was less than a … a week ago. And y … y … you’re … already … making … 1 … 1 … love to her … in … the … back … yard.”

  Fallon stood thunderstruck. Words formed in his mind: I wasn’t making love to anybody. Your mother’s making love to somebody. She’s moved to Manhattan with Howard. They’re making love all the time—or at least whenever Howard isn’t flossing someone’s goddamned teeth, or driving my goddamn lawn mower through Central Park.

  Instinctively he knew he could say none of it, that it would only inflame the situation, so he choked the words back before they made it past his lips. Instead, he said: “Look, Liz, you’re acting like you walked in on something flagrant. All you walked in on was a display of affection between two friends. If I’d known you were coming home—if you had called first—you wouldn’t even have walked in on that.”

  Liz straightened and glared at him. “Is that what we’re supposed to do now? Call first before we come to our home?” She stared at his face, trying to see if he realized how unfair his comment had been. “And we did try to call,” she said, hurrying on. “You forgot to turn on the answering machine.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Fallon said. “Your mother took it. Along with the rest of the furniture.” He watched his daughter’s lip begin to tremble again.

  “Oh, Dad,” Liz intoned. “How … how can you do this? And how can you say things like that about Mom? Her heart’s probably broken.”

  Fallon’s jaw dropped again. He stared at his still quaking daughter, shook his head, and drew a much needed breath. Again, he knew what he wanted to say: Her heart’s not broken, Liz. She’s too busy moving furniture to have a broken heart. She’s too busy cleaning out bank accounts and maxing out credit cards. She doesn’t have time for heartbreak. Right now, she’s probably sitting in her Manhattan condo with a needle and thread, making alterations to my goddamn Bill Blass bathrobe, so Howard can wear it.

  His son saved him. “What happened to all the furniture, Dad?” he asked.

  Fallon turned to his son, shook his head again. “Mike. Have you been listening to any of this?” he asked.

  “Sure, Dad.” Mike, tall and lean and handsome, blinked.

  Fallon stared at the floor. “The furniture’s gone, Mike. Your mother took it. I came home from work one day, and it was gone.” He raised his eyes to his son’s still blank face. “The furniture was gone. The lawn mower was gone. Even my goddamn bathrobe was gone. You got all that now?”

  “Did she take the Mustang?” Mike asked.

  Fallon turned in a slow circle, then placed his hands over his face. He drew another breath, then dropped his hands to his side and stared at his son again. “Yeah, Mike. She took the Mustang, too,” he said.

  “Jesus,” Mike said.

  Fallon momentarily closed his eyes again, then turned back to his daughter—weary now. “Look, I’m sorry you guys walked in on something that upset you. But there was nothing wrong with what you saw. I’m just trying to get on with my life, and I had no idea you were coming home this weekend….”

  “We were worried about you,” Liz moaned.

  Fallon nodded. “And I appreciate that. I really do. And I certainly wouldn’t have invited anyone for the weekend if I had known you were coming home.”

  Both mouths now went to half mast, both sets of eyes bored in on him. Fallon drew another guilty breath.

  Liz recovered first. “The weekend! Oh, Dad! How could you do that to our mother?”

  Before he could speak, Liz stormed past him. “I’m going to stay with Mom!” she snapped.

  “Now, wait a minute, Liz. Liz?”

  Mike watched his sister go, hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess I better go, too,” he said. He shifted his weight awkwardly. “Liz is driving,” he said, by way of explanation. “Gee, I’m sorry about this, Dad.”

  Fallon squeezed his son’s shoulder. “Yeah, me too,” he said. “Look, try and talk to your sister.” He paused, then shook his head. “No, forget that. I’ll talk to her myself. Later.” He drew a long breath. “Look, this time, just make sure you call before you go to your mom’s apartment, okay?”

  Mike blinked. “Wow,” he said. “This is getting really complicated.”

  Fallon returned to the patio, a slightly bewildered look on his face. Samantha had overheard much of the conversation in the kitchen, and the unfairness of it had angered her. She moved toward him, struggling to hide it.

  “Jack, I’m sorry,” she said.

 
“It’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault.”

  “Look, I couldn’t help overhearing some of that. Maybe it would be better if I just left.”

  He stared at her, shook his head, then placed his hands back on her hips. “Like hell,” he said. “I just hope you’re willing to sit by while I deal with an outraged phone call in about an hour or two.” He allowed her questioning look to settle in. “They went to my wife’s apartment in Manhattan,” he explained.

  “Maybe she won’t be home,” Samantha offered. “Your children could turn around and come back. It might be better if I just leave.”

  “No. I don’t want that. Please stay. Liz will wait for her mother. And Mike will do whatever his sister wants. He has since he was two.” He forced a smile. “I only hope Trisha and Howard are dressed. Or at least have a doorman who’ll give them time to get their clothes on.”

  Samantha laughed softly. “Oh, God. I shouldn’t laugh. That would be awful if they weren’t. For your children, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Fallon said. “It could be the end of civilized parenting as they know it. Noncelibate parents. Who would have thought it?”

  Samantha slipped her arms around his neck and smiled. “I should tell you something,” she said. “When I was a little girl, if someone accused me of something I hadn’t done, I immediately had to go out and do it.” She pressed against him, gave him a long, hard kiss.

  When she pulled back, Fallon grinned at her. “I just thought of a few more wrongful accusations I’d like to make,” he said.

  She returned the grin. “Go slow, Mr. Fallon. And be careful what you wish for,” she said.

  The phone call came two hours later. Trisha’s voice was cool and reproachful—the return of Sister Urial.

  “I have to say that I’m really shocked, Jack. This time you’ve truly outdone yourself.”

  “Hello, Trisha,” Fallon said. He and Samantha had just finished dinner, and were enjoying snifters of brandy on the patio. Fallon had placed a portable phone next to his chair in anticipation.

  “The children were equally shocked, Jack. I mean, really shocked.”

  “Weren’t you and Howard dressed?” Fallon asked.

  There was momentary silence; then outrage reasserted itself.

  “That’s not funny, Jack. But I suppose I should expect that kind of callous remark.”

  “That’s me, Trish. Callous to the core. By the way, how does Howard like the lawn mower? I bet he’s tearing the hell out of Central Park.”

  Silence hit the line again.

  “That brings me to something else, Jack,” Trisha said at length. “Howard wants me to tell you that he’s very disappointed in you.”

  This time the silence came from Fallon, broken finally by soft laughter. “Howard’s disappointed? Oh, Jesus,” Fallon said. “What happened? Did I forget to put gas in the lawn mower?” He glanced at Samantha. Her mouth was hidden behind her hand. She, too, was laughing.

  “That’s very funny, Jack,” Trisha snapped. “But you know exactly what I’m talking about. I got a bill from the movers yesterday.”

  “Hey, movers do that, Trish. They send bills to people who hire them.”

  “That’s not what happened in this case, Jack. I spoke to a woman in their office. They left a bill for you. Just as they were supposed to. The woman said you came by and threatened them—claimed they had entered your house without your permission, and that they took things they had no right to take.”

  “They took my mother’s furniture, Trish. I want it back. I don’t want to have to tell her that it’s being used to furnish your boyfriend’s condo.”

  “Jack, you know very well that your mother always said the furniture would be mine.”

  “She’s not dead, Trish. And I think she said that with the expectation that we’d still be living together when she finally did croak. You can’t just take her stuff away from her—no matter how much Howard wants it.”

  Trisha ignored the final remark. Her voice became condescending. “Oh, Jack. What would you do with it?” She let out an exasperated breath.

  “I might sit on it,” Fallon snapped. “I might take her plates and put them on her goddamned table and eat dinner. I might even do what I promised to do, and keep them for her.”

  Trisha fell silent, then forced herself back to the issue. Her voice was softer now. “All right, Jack. Maybe I should have discussed it with you before the movers came. But it seemed like the right thing to do. After all, Howard’s wife got all his furniture, and the lawyer Howard found for me said I should take ours.”

  “And, of course, Howard agreed with that.” Fallon tried to keep the snarl out of his voice, but failed.

  “Oh, Jack. Let’s not turn this into a big macho thing. You know your mother would want me to have her things, because she knows I’d care for them. And that’s why Howard suggested you pay for the movers. After all, we only needed them to carry out your mother’s wishes.”

  Fallon turned red; his hand tightened on the receiver. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you have Howard stop by and discuss that with me? I’d really like to hear his views on my mother’s furniture and the moving bill, and any other philosophical wisdom he’d like to impart. You see, I have some things I’d like to impart to Howard as well. I’d also like to give him a chance to go through the goddamned house, to see if there’s anything your movers missed.”

  A longer silence came from her end now. “Why don’t we just stick to the issues?” she finally said. “Why don’t you tell me what you intend to do about the movers? And also what you intend to do about the children?”

  “I’ve already dealt with the movers, Trish. And I don’t intend to do anything about the kids, except explain that we each have our own lives now, and that they’ll have to accept that.”

  “Jack! I can’t believe you’re saying that. I can’t believe you expect your children to come home to a house where their father is shacked up with some woman they’ve never even seen before.”

  “Trish, their mother is shacked up with a goddamned dental philosopher. If they can handle that, I expect them to handle anything I might do.”

  “Oh, Jack. That is so callous. Their summer classes will be over in two weeks. What do you expect them to do? Stay with me?”

  “I think that would be lovely, if that’s what they want. Hell, they could get to know Howard better. And their grandmother’s furniture would make them feel right at home.”

  “Jack!”

  “Look, Trish, the kids are welcome to come here anytime they want. It’s their goddamn home. As far as I’m concerned they live here. But they’re adults, and they’ll have to accept there is a new life going on for each of us.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t have room for them here, Jack.”

  A slightly evil smile came to Fallon’s lips. “Sorry, Trish. I guess you’ll just have to earn some points toward your mother-of-the-year award.”

  “Jack, you sonofabitch!”

  “Bye, Trish.”

  Fallon placed the phone on a table next to his chair, looked across at Samantha, and shrugged.

  She fought back a smile. “Did that make you feel better?” she asked. The smile broke through.

  “Much better,” he said.

  Samantha took a small sip of brandy. “Perhaps you should consider what your lawyer would say about my spending the night here,” she said.

  Fallon thought about Arthur C. Grisham and his ominous warnings about mutual marital infidelity. “I know what he’d say. I’m just not going to worry about it.”

  Samantha studied his face. It was craggy and world weary and quite handsome, she thought. Still, despite the attraction, it surprised her how much she wanted this man, and she wondered just how much his daughter’s accusations played into that. She smiled inwardly. Those accusations had angered her, still did to some degree. But it was far from an overwhelming consideration. She weighed the possibilities—considered the consequences and tradeoffs, just as
she had been taught to do in law school. The hell with law school, she thought. Everyone seems to be screwing this man. Both at work and at home. Maybe you should screw him the right way.

  Samantha put down her drink. “Well, apparently I’ve already been labeled a brazen hussy,” she said. “And you’ve certainly been denounced as a libertine.”

  Fallon grinned. “Indeed.”

  “That being the case, I think we’re entitled to live up to those expectations, don’t you?”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  Samantha returned his grin. “Then you’d better take me up to your bed, Jack Fallon. Otherwise, we’re liable to scandalize the neighbors.”

  Samantha awoke first, slipped quietly out of bed, and went downstairs. She was wearing a short silk robe she had brought from home. It went to mid-thigh and there was nothing but panties beneath it. A cup of coffee in hand, she curled up on the chaise longue and took in the sultry July morning warmth that spoke of oppressive heat yet to come. She looked down into the oracle of her coffee. Her mind was filled with the man, with the previous night and his surprising gentleness. It hadn’t been that way at first. Then, he had been eager, perhaps even anxious. But so had she, and they had devoured each other, as though both knew the chance might never come again. But later, when they had made love a second time, he had become the generous lover she had always wanted. Then the tenderness had come forth—soft and giving.

  She stared into her coffee. Why did it always surprise women when men were tender and giving in bed? Samantha smiled as she answered her own question. Because so few ever were.

  She stood and walked out into the garden—leaves, flowers, and grass still moist with dew—then turned and came back to the chaise. She wanted to think about the man, to make sure she wasn’t building up an image that really wasn’t there. Years of working in the upper levels of competitive business appeared to have spared him somehow—had failed to eradicate the romance of his soul, had not turned him into a self-absorbed narcissist for whom self-gratification and recognition were the ultimate goals. She had heard him speak about the men who worked under him, had seen him—albeit briefly—with his children, had watched him deal with the initial brutalities of divorce, and even listened as he dealt with a wife who had wounded him as badly as one could be hurt. The thoughts became more personal. Yes, and she had felt him, felt his hands and lips and tongue, seeking to give her pleasure without a need to self-aggrandizingly prove his abilities, or to simply take—selfishly—all there was to be had.