He felt he should have made more of an effort to introduce John to the others the night of the party. Trying to imagine John as a student at his old university, his mind produced no image. He would probably consider the classes to be a waste of time, with all their abstractions and intangibles.
He loves what’s practical, not what’s abstract, Michael thought. Why can’t I have more of that? I wonder if practical men are better in bed? Are they more vigorous lovers because their minds are turned off? He felt that John would commit himself to the task of lovemaking with the same diligence he would bestow upon removing the weeds from Michael’s garden, completing a task without distraction. It was possible to imagine the type of lover John might be, eager to please, kind, and surprisingly long lasting. His unassuming nature would create a better lover. Michael himself had never been able to commit himself to the task in the right way, except for a few times when drunk. He always wanted to get it over with at a certain point, and rhythmic movements could be maddening. A man like John would get the job done and done well. Michael would give credit where credit was due. When he picked, he picked well. Good for Nancy, he thought, only the best for her.
Looking through the fridge, he found a bag of oranges in one of the bins. He began squeezing them with energy and pouring the juice into cups. With bacon frying in the microwave, he began to make fruit cups. There were enough berries in the fridge to make a nice assortment of colorful cups for everyone. Michael imagined the pleased expressions on their faces when they came down the stairs, and he relished his own happy feelings that morning.
Maybe he could create something beautiful to leave behind for his daughter. If his novel was a success, he could redeem himself in her eyes. She loved books, loved to lose herself in a good story, just as he did. Perhaps she would see that he could indeed brighten the world with some beauty instead of always bringing darkness. He placed a fruit cup in front of Ryan’s plate—the most colorful one.
Michael had used to think a lot about how he first met Nancy. He had stopped thinking about it because it became far too disturbing to remember those days. He felt that there had been a real succulent innocence to their involvement, actually, and it startled him to remember it. It was too painful to recall how they had been then, knowing what they had become now.
He knew he was indebted to Nancy for her loyalty through the series of events that had taken place when they were in their early twenties. He had acted out his rage several times in front of her, and she had still stayed up all night to sit beside him while he finished an important essay. She was the only person who had seen him turn into a monster, and she had loved him through it all. He used to consider her a saint; the depth of her kindness was immeasurable. Despite all his academic achievements, Michael felt he was nothing next to her in those moments. They were two ends of the spectrum colliding at the center and resting there. She didn’t judge him, and she was the only one who knew how far his mind could stretch toward the unsavory, as well as the unreal.
He knew he would have been happiest had he stayed in the academic world; he knew he was nothing without his intellectual prowess being carefully cradled and nursed. It would have been so easy for him to have become a professor, so natural, that it was horrifying that he had given it up. His mental problems would have been overlooked there, as all professors are seen as slightly crazy; it even added to their charm.
And my family, he thought in the empty kitchen. They would have been a hell of a lot happier if I were happy. A miserable father brings down the whole crew.
It was almost eight. Where was everyone? He crept up the stairs and into his bedroom. Nancy’s robe was draped on a chair outside their bathroom door—she was in the shower. He went back out and into Max’s room, which was shockingly cold. Max was still nestled under the covers, his face not visible, his raspy breath audible. Nancy usually woke Max before her shower. Today she had not. The door’s hinges squeaked as he opened it. Max’s body did not move, but his breath continued—slow inhales and rough, fast exhales.
Michael felt odd standing there, so he laid a hand on his boy and roused him. Disorientation colored Max’s face as he looked up. After his son was born, Michael had known there would be no more children. His physical condition seemed to be some sign that what they were doing was wrong in some way and that they should not continue.
“Time to get up,” he said awkwardly, his hand still on Max. Max got out of bed so quickly that it occurred to Michael that maybe his son was afraid of him. Heading straight to the neat pile of clothes Nancy had laid out for him the night before, Max wouldn’t look at him.
“Do you need any help?”
“No, Dad.”
Michael wanted to go into Ryan’s room but thought better of it. She had been up late the night before talking on the phone. He couldn’t hear what she was saying but was sure she was talking to a new boyfriend of some kind because of the incessant loverlike murmuring sounds. He could scarcely picture who the boy would be, but it was undoubtedly some horny pimply type of kid. He wondered if she’d bring him back to the house. No doubt he’d been briefed on dear old Dad. Michael was sure that the boy had to know he was strange; Ryan would have told him.
Back in his own bedroom, Michael sat on the stool in front of Nancy’s vanity table and looked at all of her cheap cosmetics. He wondered why, after all these years, she still insisted on buying drugstore makeup. They could afford department store brands.
Michael remembered how his parents had had a good laugh at her expense when Nancy had thrown her first dinner, celebrating their engagement. The event had taken place at Nancy’s small apartment, and she had cooked the dishes she felt were appropriate. God only knew how it had ended up looking like a smorgasbord of cafeteria food: macaroni and cheese, peas and carrots, even a basket of potato chips on the corner of the table. The effect of the evening had been that his parents thought he had lost his mind to marry her—someone so common, so unrefined. Although he would have been just as ashamed to present a woman like Alex’s Meg to his parents, whose imitation of elegance would have been immediately clear to them. She was a bauble next to a gem like Michael’s mother.
* * *
Michael went back to the kitchen and poured the pancake batter into the frying pan. A stack of three or four pancakes had accumulated before he noticed Max sitting at his seat at the table. He had his head bowed and was swinging his legs back and forth.
“Hungry, son?”
“Mom usually cooks.”
“She’ll be down soon. Doesn’t Mom deserve a break?”
Michael went to the stairs. “Nancy!”
Upon seeing Nancy’s smiling face, Michael became excited, ushering her to her chair and placing two pancakes on her plate.
“Tea, Nancy? I know you love tea. Well, guys, I am not even half as good a cook as your mother,” he said in Nancy’s direction, and she smiled, “but I am trying. Hopefully, it will be edible.”
“Michael, this looks great!” Nancy said in her cheerful way, and he smiled to himself. She loved him, and he wanted to give something back to her.
He brought her a cup of herbal tea and gazed out impatiently into the yard.
“John should be here soon. He doesn’t have the day off, does he?”
“No, as far as I know, he’ll be working here. Thank you for this. This is such a rare treat, Michael.” She looked up at him, and again it struck him that although she spoke with sincerity, she also appeared mildly frightened of him as well. Was she? He wasn’t sure.
Am I such a monster that my family is afraid to make a move or ruffle my feathers? he wondered.
Ryan came down and gave him a nasty look, making no effort to appear happily surprised.
“Please have some food, Ryan.”
“I’m not really hungry. I’m just going to head out.”
“Please.” It came out a little more forcefully than Michael h
ad intended. Desperation was evident on his face. She stood looking at them, her hand resting on a banana. Michael wondered why everyone was being so silent.
“Ryan, your father would appreciate your sitting down,” Nancy interjected. “He’s treating us to a meal—let’s enjoy it. Look at all this food.” Nancy had had a talk with him earlier that week and let him know they both had to really work on being harder on Ryan. She had been acting lately as if there were no boundaries, and they needed to get on her case about it. He admired the way Nancy was taking control; he admired the strength in his wife.
But now Michael could feel the joy draining out of the situation; his attempt at parenting was falling flat. Ryan looked at him as if she were studying him for a moment, wondering whether or not she should show him mercy. She looked calmer and happier than he had seen her in years. She picked up the banana and said, heading out the door, “Sorry, I’m going to be late. You guys enjoy.”
Michael could not get the look on Ryan’s face out of his head. She was too young to be doing stuff like sneaking around with boys. He had prayed that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen until college—that she would save herself until then. But kids were doing that less and less. High school was the time for it these days. Michael reassured himself by remembering that this was most likely the hardest part of his life. Having a teenage daughter who hated him and was having sex was the toughest thing he would ever face. That and his faulty career choice—there would be no bigger struggle.
CHAPTER TEN
A few days after the first class, Ryan had woken up early and felt pulled to go to the energetics class secretly, without Jill. She left the house undetected a little after six thirty, a mug of coffee in her hand, and she felt very adult drinking it in the car in the early morning by herself. During the class, she could feel Dari’s eyes on her. They all stretched in the darkness, and she lay limp while Dari realigned her legs and arms in relation to her spine. Lying there like a rag doll in confident hands, she went into a kind of half sleep while she was moved into and out of positions. After class, the two girls stood in the sunshine as the day awakened. Ryan clung to her mug of coffee from earlier, taking sips. Dari talked about backpacking out west, about camping in the desert.
“You want to hang out sometime?” Dari had asked her, for the first time her voice losing its casual nature.
“Yes, I would,” Ryan responded, and they both looked out at the rocky beach spreading ahead of them behind the little rickety studio. The sea was alive that day, jumpy at the surface due to the wind. Sailboats were out, as well as the many fishing boats that always chugged out from the shore to sea and back again, unloading lobsters, bluefish, cod, and striped bass from black mesh nets on a mechanized belt that brought them up to ground level for visitors to see. Gulls hovered around the port to the girls’ left, screeching with delight and taking little airborne dives to try to get at the fresh fish. Both girls watched the vibrant ocean and the busy boats and quietly sipped their coffee, savoring the new friendship and stealing smiles at each other.
Ryan returned to the class often and a few times she was late for school because of it, but when she walked through the front doors, the hallways were empty. And when she slipped into her classroom, no one paid any attention, not even the teacher. It was odd, this looseness and this tolerance. She felt it from all the adults she knew. The doors at the end of each hallway were propped open, fresh air pouring in, and the brightness of the sun outside glittered on the windows that lined the shadowy hallways. Everything was emptied out—it was the end of the school year, and everyone had their minds focused elsewhere.
She quickly retreated to her own mind and thought of Dari, petite little Dari with her easy smile and her bony body. That morning the two of them had sat outside drinking coffee together from a thermos Ryan had brought. Dari was a couple of years older, yet she had that ageless creature appeal, an almost elfin look to her that made her seem childlike or androgynous. She asked none of the typical questions, demanded no formalities or pep. The two of them had an unspoken agreement that they would see each other often, as often as was possible. It felt as if no matter what they ended up doing, they would somehow find their way back to each other. They spoke on the phone at night, right before bed. Ryan found it the perfect way to be sent into sleep, curled up in her bed in the dark, their voices low, saying whatever came to mind. Life itself seemed to have changed over the past couple of weeks—never had she known such peace. She felt tolerance toward her mother for the first time in years. When it came down to it, her mother was harmless, after all, and there was no use in harboring anger toward a harmless person.
Dari had graduated a year before from the same school, and had been a universally liked person. So when she showed up at the end of the school day to spend time with Ryan, Ryan felt a surge of pride to be connected with such an easygoing, pretty, and likable sort of person. Dari always wore her brother’s bomber jacket, half hanging off her tiny frame, and her hair was disheveled in an attractive kind of way. The girls stared at her with a mix of puzzlement and envy—she was thin, and there was something lovely about her.
Ten minutes before her last class got out, Ryan would sit, excitement growing inside, and feel as if she might explode out of her seat. At the end of class, she would seek out her friend loitering in the halls, and they would leave the school together. The weather was balmy and windy as they drove through Orin and stopped for fries and a Coke at Sammy’s on their way out of town to sit by the water. The owner, Rick, tall and ruddy-faced, still came over to talk to Ryan because he had seen her grow up over the years. He brought their food over himself and beamed at the two pretty girls. It was getting close to summertime, and they anxiously discussed options for spending the upcoming days well. Sometimes Dari would sit behind her on the rocks and would place one hand on Ryan’s forehead and one at the base of her throat. They would sit that way as Dari balanced out her energy, and although Ryan often felt skeptical that anything was happening, she knew only that the touch felt right on her skin.
It seemed that Dari produced delight after delight, for not only was she wonderful company, but her family, whom Ryan had come to know shortly after they met, was the shining example of what a family should be. The Winstons possessed that magic of easy living that was so enviable to those who don’t have it and so natural to those who do. They were unlike any other family she had ever encountered. They lived up Route 38 several miles in a wilder part of the Peninsula’s forest. Dari’s father and mother had designed the house themselves, a massive wooden structure with an intricate system of wooden beams, supporting many staircases, levels, floors, and half-floors. The tiny kitchen had low ceilings and a slate counter at its center, around which the entire family sat on stools upon coming home, eating whatever was around and chatting about whatever they felt like. Dari’s mother, Lydia, owned an antique store down the road that rarely got customers, and her father was often out of town derigging bombs in the Middle East. Quite an unusual job, but no one discussed it as if it were anything out of the ordinary.
Seven in total, they seemed to thrive as a group, feeding off each other’s vitality. Dari had two brothers and two sisters. There were several family photos showing them all perched on some mountaintop, grinning into the sunlight, healthy and strong. All of the children were remarkably beautiful. The eldest brother, Tanner, lived in another town and hadn’t yet been to visit while Ryan was there. Yet there he was in the photographs, with striking blue eyes and tan, muscular arms.
Dari had learned yoga from her mother, who had taught it in the 1970s, when she was still living in California. Lydia had once been beautiful before her body gave in to the arduous task of bearing five children. Ryan could see her, slim, smiling with Mr. Winston in the backyard of their house in California when they had first been married. Her firm flesh had become like dough over the years, tired from all the endless creating of life. It must have been incredible to have made o
ther people who now existed in the world, who then felt like separate, individual beings. You create and then suffer, while your creations forget where they came from. You had to have a bottomless kind of tolerance to forgive that kind of neglect.
The magic increased each day that Ryan spent with the family. This kind of productive contentment had always been absent from her own family, and here was the proof that a family unit could work, that things did not have to be bleak and muted as they were in her own household. Ryan was careful never to take Dari back to her own house, because of some vague fear that if Dari were exposed to her demented family, the wonder of their relationship would dissolve under the weight of her own home’s malcontent. Her father would find a way to ruin their intimacy just as he did everything else, if only by existing near it, and that idea was unbearable to her.
Ryan luxuriated in the bizarre little space that was Dari’s room, up two and a half flights of stairs on a little platform area at the back of the house. Different-colored scarves hung from the rafters, and her bed had a red velvet bedspread and numerous soft pillows decorating its plush surface. A large wooden bookcase in the corner of the room was filled with books of every kind. Ryan often found several lying open on Dari’s bed. They were a mixture of fiction and spirituality books, and books of love poetry as well.
Ryan loved the solemn way Dari would pick up a book, her tiny hands clasped around the spine, staring at it, delicately holding it, sweeping her eyes lovingly over the words. Dari had just turned nineteen and was still living at home because she had little interest in college and was unsure what to do now that she was out of high school. She didn’t seem to mind that she was three years older than Ryan, and the two girls seemed to grow closer as each day passed.
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