They had last seen each other at lunchtime. He had been downright jovial as they split the money three ways from their exhaustive excursion and had talked about taking Ava out on the town the next day.
“Blew up how?”
“Didn’t my father tell you?”
“No. All he said was that it was a . . . ‘humdinger of a situation’. So fill me in.” Jonathan pulled himself up off the table and slid partially down the back of the chair, crossing his arms.
“Elyse showed up here. This afternoon.”
“What in hell?” he breathed. Jonathan had no idea Aryl’s eyes could get so big. Jonathan stared at the tabletop, giving his friend a moment to absorb. “Why, in God’s name, would she show up here?”
Jonathan gave him an ominous, sobering expression.
“To make a delivery.” He stood and Aryl followed. He turned on a low light to reveal Jean’s tiny form sleeping; his cheek resting on his two hands on the arm of the sofa, dark hair falling into his eyes. Jonathan immediately noticed the dried tear streaks on his plump cheeks. Aryl’s face went white, and he gawked a few seconds before he remembered how to speak.
“Holy shit. Please, Jonathan, tell me he has blue eyes.” Jonathan nodded, dismissing his friend’s first concern being for his own hide.
“He’s mine,” he said, staring at Jean with no expression.
“Now this qualifies as a mess.”
Jonathan turned to see Caleb; glad his father had had the sense to fetch him as well. He stood behind them, staring, just as stunned. Jonathan turned off the light and returned to the kitchen, his shoulders slumped. Caleb set a bottle of whiskey in the middle of the table.
“Your father sent this in with me. Said to drink it up before they get back. Something about your mother not knowing he had it,” he said as he poured three glasses.
“Where’d they go?” Jonathan asked.
“Didn’t say.” Jonathan quickly threw three shots and waited a moment with closed eyes.
“Careful there. You haven’t had a drink in a while,” Aryl warned as he poured a second shot for himself. “Hey, listen, sorry about my reaction. I just thought maybe you were easier to find and, since you sent for me . . . .”
Jonathan shook his head. On an empty stomach, the whiskey wasted no time numbing the edges of his mind and the dead hole he felt in his chest.
“No, it’s all right. Understandable. But she was already pregnant with him when you–”
“I remember now,” Aryl interrupted, “but I’m sorry just the same.” He sat back, rubbed his eyes, and ran his hands through his hair. Still holding a handful of loose, brown curls at the back, he leaned an elbow on the table and tried to measure up the situation.
“You remember that feeling,” Jonathan started, interrupting himself with a fourth shot, “that we had that day, sitting there after it all imploded? Bloodshot eyes, numb with shock, holding onto a shot glass for dear life, scared to death.”
“Yeah. Not likely a feeling any of us will ever forget.” Aryl slid the bottle toward Caleb, out of Jonathan’s reach.
“I certainly won’t. No matter how hard I tried to hold onto everything that day, it all shattered right in front of me. Shattered like glass. I was helpless to do anything but watch. After everything vanished, I couldn’t see the next step I was about to take. I was only amazed after the fact that I was able to take it.”
“Is that how you feel now?” Aryl asked with a wary eye, wondering the current risk Jonathan posed to himself.
“Yes,” he whispered, “and no.”
“How no?” Caleb asked.
“Well, everything is gone again. And I watched it. Couldn’t do a damn thing, but watch it shatter.”
Aryl did a quick mental inventory of Jonathan’s life. Best friends - check, parents’ support - check, boats still floating - check, a roof over his head - check, a small but precious savings tucked away - check. That left one thing. And that one thing was everything.
“Ava,” Aryl said quietly. Jonathan leaned into a reach for the whiskey. Aryl pushed it away. “Whoa. Let’s see how you feel in five minutes. I’ve only had three and my head is spinning.”
“Bona fide lightweights. That’s what we’ve become.” Caleb laughed then turned to Jonathan more seriously. “How did she take the news?” Jonathan rolled his eyes, then his head and began recounting.
A moment later, Aryl interrupted him. “Wait. She’s–”
“Told me minutes before Elyse showed up,” Jonathan said, nodding slowly.
Aryl leaned back with his hands on his head. “Shit,” he muttered at the ceiling and thought that this time there may be nothing he could say or do to help his friend.
Jonathan finished recounting every detail. His face was like stone, emotionless until the end, when he suddenly looked like he would break in half. “She used the same words I had said when she agreed to have a baby.”
Silence reigned for a long time as all three men felt unsure of what to say and wondered whether there was anything to say that would have made a difference.
Finally Jonathan looked up at Caleb. “What would you do? With this dropped in your lap, what in the hell would you do?”
“Well, if it were me sitting over there, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Huh? How the hell could you not worry about it?” He leaned forward, pouring yet another drink.
“I wouldn’t because I’d be dead.”
Aryl cast Caleb an incredulous look. Knowing about Jonathan’s past attempt, it was a damned stupid thing to say, in his opinion.
Much to his surprise, though, Jonathan started laughing, lightly at first and then harder. “You’re right,” he said, wiping his eyes and still laughing. “Arianna would claw your eyes out and hang them around her neck.”
“No,” Aryl said straight-faced. “Those aren't what she’d hang around her neck.” Jonathan doubled over, desperately trying to smother his howls. Caleb laughed but instinctively crossed his legs.
“And no worries of it happening again, you’d be, ah, what’s the word? Barren?” Jonathan slurred slightly as he finished his drink.
“No, that's women,” Aryl said. “Sterile–or is that with bulls?” He tapped his fingers, concentrating.
“Same difference,” Caleb said.
“No, that’s castrated,” Jonathan corrected “That’s what they do to bulls. Caleb would–”
“Caleb would like to talk about something else,” Caleb said, shifting in his seat, feeling the joke had run its course.
“Regardless, I take it you’re still intact?” Aryl’s deep brown eyes drooped with a whiskey induced haze.
“Yeah, not that it matters anymore.” Jonathan shrugged loosely.
“What’s your plan?” Aryl asked, joking aside. The air was again heavy with reality.
Jonathan let out a deep sigh. “Damned if I know, Aryl.” He glanced toward the living room. “I have no idea how I am going to raise him when I’m gone all day. And I don’t know anything about kids. You usually get to start sort of slow. Get to know them from birth and make mistakes before it counts. This one is–”
“Potty trained. At least there’s that.” Caleb interrupted with a raised glass as if to celebrate the continence of Jonathan’s illegitimate child. Jonathan smiled lightly.
“I’m glad you came, Caleb.” He squinted across the table at his friend. “I’d say you’re fairly lit over there.”
Caleb nodded slowly. “I do believe so.” He was still nodding when Aryl asked Jonathan again.
“What’s your plan?” He wouldn’t leave until he knew Jonathan could at least see the next step he was about to take.
“I’ll try to talk to Ava, although I don’t think she’ll listen tonight. I think I’ll ask my mother to help with Jean while I’m gone. I won’t ask anything of Ava regarding him. Not just yet.”
“You have the same name. That’s gotta be awkward.” Caleb raised his eyebrows.
“Spelled differently. The French
version, of course.”
“I think you’re right to ask your mom to help. Let Ava warm up to him on her own.”
“What if she never does?” Jonathan feared out loud.
“I don’t know. But I would concentrate on getting her to warm up to you first.”
“That, my friend, will take nothing short of a miracle.”
“Miracles happen,” Aryl reminded.
Jonathan instantly thought of St. Brigid’s, Maura, and all of the unexpected turns his life had taken. With words now exhausted, they swayed slightly around the table, comforted by each other’s presence.
“One more for the road,” Caleb said, smiling and, upon hearing a car pull into the drive, hastily split the remaining whiskey between the three glasses and tucked the empty bottle under his shirt. Just before drinking, Aryl’s head jerked toward Jonathan.
“You son of a bitch!” Aryl said in accusation. Jonathan’s wobbly head turned and he raised his eyebrows in question.
“You beat us!” Aryl said with a laugh.
“Huh?” Jonathan blinked twice.
“Your son will be the oldest. You beat us, after all.”
An intoxicated smile spread across Jonathan’s face, and he held up his glass. “So I did.”
Jonathan remained at the table for almost an hour alone; staring, sighing, hand wringing, regretting, letting a few tears fall when the fissure in his chest ached and bled.
Well after midnight, he stood somewhat unsteadily as the blood rushed from his head. He took the stairs slowly and paused at the bedroom door, looking down at a blanket and pillow Ava had thrown into the hallway. Pushing them aside with his foot, he tried the knob but found it locked. He sighed and leaned his forehead on the door.
“Ava . . . Ava, please.”
He waited several moments before scooping up the bedding and turning away. He lay on the couch, not really noticing how uncomfortable it was and stared at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. A noise from the other side of the room startled him, and he remembered Jean, who was still sound asleep, leaning on the arm of the smaller sofa. Squinting in the darkness, he wobbled and carefully moved him to lie more comfortably. He reached for the afghan draped along the back of the couch and when he touched it, he immediately recognized it as his childhood blanket. He spread it over Jean and watched him sleep for a moment. Without doubt, they shared more than the same name; the shape of the eyes, shape of the eyebrows, even his lips puckered in sleep were Jonathan’s. The nose and ears were Elyse’s. But there was one thing that was Jean’s and Jean’s alone, Jonathan realized, and his heart ached. The loss. That was all his.
He astounded at how this small child, who just said goodbye to his mother forever, had remained calm as his whole life tore away from him. And then, Jonathan nearly choked on guilt. He had sat just twenty feet away with his friends, drinking, crying, and even laughing, while Jean fell asleep alone on the couch in a houseful of strangers.
Well, I’m off to a great start, he thought and reached out to brush a lock of hair from Jean’s forehead.
March 23rd 1930
Jonathan stirred and touched his head. “Damn.” He grimaced at the ache in his temples and squinted against the bright room. His fuzzy vision focused on Jean, who sat on the couch, staring at him.
“Er, good morning,” Jonathan said awkwardly, sitting up slowly.
“Good morning, Monsieur.”
Jonathan rubbed the scruff on his face and tried to smooth down the wild chunks of hair on his head sticking in every direction. It was Sunday morning, at least he thought, and he hadn’t bathed since the night before the extended fishing trip. He sniffed himself and recoiled violently. Jean grinned shyly.
“I don’t normally look, or smell, like this,” he explained. “I’m a fisherman. Lobster. And I, uh, just got back from almost a week out.” Jonathan’s stomach grumbled loudly. Eating, along with bathing and changing clothes, was something else he forgot to do yesterday evening, when the world had stopped. He looked at Jean again, who was slightly wide-eyed and studying him. “Are you hungry?”
Dear God, I forgot to feed him last night, too, he thought.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“Okay. I think I can handle that.” He stood too quickly and swooned slightly. After getting his bearings, he went to the kitchen to find food to make breakfast. For his son. The word was as foreign to him as the pots and pans that he clumsily tilted out of the cabinet, clanging loudly on the floor. Jean peeked hesitantly around the corner.
“Come on in,” Jonathan said. “Have a seat.” He pointed to the table. Jean wiggled up in the chair and sat waiting with his hands tucked under his legs, watching Jonathan’s every move. Jonathan glanced curiously over at him several times.
“Well, they aren’t the best eggs in the world, but–” He put a plate in front of Jean, feeling awkward pressure to be a polite host. He sat across from him with his own plate.
“Merci.”
“You're welcome.” Jonathan watched as Jean pulled his hands out from underneath him, sit straight, and neatly placed his napkin in his lap. “Why do you do that?” Jonathan asked. “Sit on your hands, I mean.”
“So I don’t knock anything over,” he said casually. He looked down at the plate and smiled. “This is nice,” he said. Jonathan nodded with a full mouth. “There is only one fork,” Jean said and held it up.
Jonathan remembered then, fine dining. “Makes it easier not to get confused, doesn’t it?”
“My nanny slaps my hand when I choose the wrong one,” he said with a little frown.
“Well, we don’t slap hands around here. And generally we don’t have more than one fork at a time. And if we do–” Jonathan shrugged and took a bite. “I don’t care which one you use.” He gave Jean a slight smile.
The kitchen darkened a few shades, as if a partial eclipse had stolen a few rays of sunshine. Jonathan looked up to see Ava standing in the doorway, taking in the scene.
“How sweet.” Her voice was flat and her eyes were swollen. He stood up quickly and tried to get close to her, but she moved away, getting a piece of bread from the cupboard and a small glass of water.
“Can I make you something, Ava?” he asked meekly.
She turned her cold eyes back to him. “Looks like you have your hands full.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s no trouble at all.”
She stared at Jean’s plate of food. “Tell me, Jonathan. When did you make me breakfast?” She turned to him, waiting for an answer. “Ever?” she asked and pushed past him roughly. He sat back down at the table and sighed.
“She does not like me.” Observant could be added to Jean’s list of above-average talents.
“It’s isn’t that. She’s just surprised.”
“You were surprised at me. But you’re nice.” He struggled to jelly a piece of toast with the big butter knife.
“Well, it’s going to take some time, you know, to get used to each other.” He kept his eyes low to his breakfast, flickering every now and then up at Jean.
“Will you tell me when I can call you by your name?” Jean asked, staring almost cross-eyed as he levered the toast, heaping with jelly towards his mouth.
“Oh, right. You don’t need to call me Monsieur. You can call me Jon, I guess.”
“Will you tell me when I can call you Dadee?” Jean, for a brief moment, looked his age, letting his guard down along with his manners, as he tried to reach his tongue to his nose where a drop of red jelly dotted.
“Good morning,” Margaret said and smiled tentatively as she crossed the room to the coffee pot. Jonathan raised his head, grateful for the interruption.
“Morning.”
She sat down with her coffee and smiled at Jean. “I’m Jonathan’s mother,” she said. Jean thought about this for a moment.
“What may I call you, Madame?”
Margaret grinned at Jonathan. “That little accent is so adorable,” she said in a hushed voice. “Well, now.” She lea
ned back as if deep in thought. “My name is Margaret. He calls me Mom,” gesturing to Jonathan, “and being his mom, I guess that makes me your grandmother.” Jean looked very serious, folding his little hands in his lap. Margaret looked over him, every inch a ghost of Jonathan over twenty years ago.
“I’ve never had a Grand-Mere,” he said softly, looking up at Margaret, almost afraid, as if he had spoken out of turn.
“Then it’s settled,” she said and smiled to relieve his fear. “You’ll call me Grand-Mere.” She sipped her coffee and then turned to Jonathan. “I talked with your father last night. Today we can clean out the spare room. It’s chock full, and it will take most of the day, but it should be ready by evening for Jean.”
“That’s nice of you, Mom, but I think it would be best if we started looking for a place right away. Aryl offered to dip into the business funds–”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she scolded. He rolled his eyes, swallowed and continued.
“The money we brought from New York to help us out. And I’ve got some saved.”
“I don’t think that’s the best idea, Jon.” She turned to Jean who was finished eating, waiting to be excused. “Why don’t you run in the living room and turn on the radio?” she said and smiled at him. He nodded and slid off the seat. “Jon. I don’t have to tell you that this isn’t sitting well with Ava. Do you really think it’s a good idea to be gone all day, the two of them left alone? She’s upset and don’t forget her condition.”
“You think I’ve forgotten for one second her condition?” He leaned back and crossed his arms, his appetite gone.
“No. But I think it’s best if you stay here a while longer. Let things settle down. Let me and your father help with Jean so he’s not forced on Ava.”
“Look. Staying here with my wife is one thing. But now it’s my pregnant wife and my illegitima–”
“Your son. Regardless of how he came to be, he’s your son. And he’s you to his shoes, Jonathan.” She paused a moment, trying to organize her words. “Your father and I don’t have a problem with where he came from. Ava does. We know very little of this woman that showed up, and we don’t care to know more. What’s past is past. Right now, that sweet little boy in there has just lost everything he knows and loves. It’s going to take a while for you to get to know him, and you can only be with him so much. You have to mend things with Ava, and that’s going to take time and energy. So, let us help.” He looked reluctantly at her and sighed.
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