by Noah Bly
We inspect each other in silence, and Janet calls out to me.
“You want coffee, Hester?”
I shake my head. “Tea, if you have it.”
“Sure thing, hon. I’ll bring it right over.”
There’s a hum of conversation from the other diners in the background, and no one is sitting close to us, so we have more privacy than I thought we would. But neither of us says a word. He watches me and I watch him, like strangers on a subway train. His beard is tangled and his hair is dirty, and I would wager he hasn’t slept or showered in several days.
Janet plunks down a mug of hot water and a bag of Lipton tea on our table, then exits again after checking our supply of sugar and cream. Her stockings have runs in them, and her old ankles are puffy above her scuffed shoes. She may even be older than I am.
Paul fiddles with his coffee mug, but doesn’t pick it up. “So how are you?”
I shrug. “Well enough.” I become preoccupied with dunking my tea bag in the steaming water. “And you? How’s your head?”
His mouth twitches. “Fine, considering.”
I expected bitterness in his tone but there isn’t any. Just a touch of rueful amusement.
“I’m sorry,” I find myself saying. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
His turn to shrug. “From what I gather, I didn’t leave you much choice. I don’t remember any of it, but the cops have filled me in.” He looks out the window at the parking lot. “How are Alex and the other kid doing? I tried to find out at the hospital when I went to visit Dad, but no one would tell me anything.”
I can’t tell if he’s legitimately concerned, or only being polite, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Both are recovering. Eric is in traction, of course, but he seems to be in good spirits, more or less. And Alex is basically fine. He has about forty stitches in his feet, but he’s healing.” A thought occurs to me. “You might offer to pay the emergency room bill for him, by the way. He won’t take money from me.”
His face darkens, but after a moment he nods. “All right. I’ll speak to my lawyer about it.”
His lack of resistance to this idea is shocking, and I pause. Is it possible he’s actually attempting to be agreeable?
I can’t help but test him. “Alex was dismayed to hear of your release. He was worried you might do something rash.”
He rolls his eyes. “Tell the little dick he can relax,” he growls. “I promised Sam when he let me loose that I’d behave until my trial.” He finally picks up his coffee and sips at it. “It’s the only reason he let me go, by the way.” He grimaces. “That, and he knows I’m not much of a flight risk.”
I’m unable to suppress a tiny smile. Anybody who knows Paul in the least bit is aware of his extreme travel phobia.
He sees the smile and sighs with uncharacteristic grace. “Yeah, I know. It’s pretty pathetic.” He tugs a cigarette out of his coat pocket on the booth seat and lights it. He must have been here for some time; the ashtray at the end of the table has several butts in it already. “The only good thing about being sent to the state pen is that I’ll finally be forced to move out of Bolton.”
For some reason, I find myself thinking of Paul’s last faculty recital. On the second half he performed the Bach Cello Suite in G Major. I snuck into the balcony after intermission so he wouldn’t know I was there; we were barely speaking at the time. I found a dark corner and sat alone, and chastised myself for my weakness at being unable to stay away.
But I had to come. No one plays Bach like my son.
He came out on stage in his tux, looking like a scruffy, bipedal orca, acknowledged the applause, and sat down with his cello. I put my head back on my seat and closed my eyes, and I didn’t open them again for twenty minutes, after he’d finished the Gigue and was receiving a wildly enthusiastic standing ovation. Unable to help myself, I, too, rose to my feet, and joined the rest of the audience in their praise.
Paul’s behavior this past week was monstrous, and for the past few years he’s been perfectly detestable. He’s boorish, and irresponsible, and unkind, and I will probably never be able to forgive him for his attack on two innocent boys in my house. Or for the way he’s treated me ever since Jeremy’s death.
But the man can play the cello.
When it comes to music, he’s a Donovan, through and through, and an absolute wonder. The richness of his tone, the depth of his emotional control, and the stunning accuracy of his technique are all top-notch; the clarity of his phrasing and the ingenuity of his articulations are masterful. He loves to play; he lives to play, and when he picks up a bow he becomes a thing of beauty, an artist on a par with the greatest composers who have ever lived.
And it’s just now occurring to me that he will probably not be allowed to have his instrument with him in prison. And if he’s to be incarcerated for twenty-five years, he may never have the chance to play again.
Ever.
Without warning, my eyes are filled with tears. Paul flushes and stares down at the table.
“Please don’t, Hester,” he asks, in a tight, surprised whisper.
For his sake, I force myself to put aside this grief for now. I wipe my eyes and nose with a napkin, and after a lengthy pause I clear my throat.
I do my best to make my voice breezy. “So you’re going into detox, you said?”
He relaxes and blows a plume of smoke at the ceiling fan. “Yeah. My lawyer said it was the only chance I had of getting some leniency in my sentencing.” He hesitates. “I personally don’t believe there’s much chance for leniency, but I’ve decided I should sign myself in, anyway. Recent events have made me think I may actually have a bit of a drinking problem.” He manages a grin. “Either that, or I should give up caffeine.”
I haven’t seen him like this in years. His sense of humor died with Jeremy, but he’s almost his old self at this moment. I feel something stir in me in response, but I choose to ignore it, for fear of giving him too much credit.
He chews on his lip for a minute, then leans on the table with an earnest expression. “Look, Hester, I guess we should cut to the chase.”
I nod, suspicious again. “Cut away, then.”
He stares into my eyes. “I asked you here to tell you I’m sorry.” He says this bluntly, almost rudely. “I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance to do it, and I wanted to see you before I chickened out.”
The grief is back in an instant, rising in my throat. I try a poor joke because I don’t know what else to say. “Which transgression are you apologizing for? I’ve lost track.”
My tone isn’t lost on him. He snorts. “Take your pick.”
He snuffs out his cigarette and his smile fades. “Mostly for Jeremy, I guess. I mean for blaming you for what he did.” There are tears in his eyes, now, too, which is unimaginable. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I know that, absolutely. But it hurt so much when the stupid shit killed himself that I couldn’t stand it. I had to have somebody to blame, and you were the easiest target. I … loved him a great deal.”
I can’t answer. I wasn’t prepared for this kind of honesty from him. My throat isn’t working, and my vision is blurred.
He sees my distress, and tries to lighten the tone. “Oh, yeah. I’m also sorry for tossing the toaster out the window.” He sighs. “I kind of feel bad about that, too.”
Somehow I find a way to laugh at this. He knew it would make me laugh; after all these years he still knows me, inside and out.
I blow my nose on the napkin and shake my head. “Yes, well, you were having an off day.”
He sobers as he fiddles with his ashtray. “When Alex moved in last month, he reminded me so much of Jeremy, and something inside me just snapped when I saw the two of you together. It was as if …” He stops and fumbles for words. “It was like you’d forgotten Jeremy, and moved on. I know you didn’t forget him, of course, but I couldn’t handle it anyway.” He looks into my eyes. “It tore me up inside, Mom. It felt lik
e losing him all over again.”
I try to respond, but nothing comes out. His face blurs, and he falls silent.
We take a few moments to compose ourselves. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and nibbles at his toast, and I stare out the window at a small pine tree sticking out of a snowdrift next to the diner. Some joker has adorned the top of the tree with an upside down Pepsi can, and tied an old mitten to one of its branches. I listen to Paul swallow his food, and he watches the side of my face as he finishes eating and lights another cigarette.
There’s so much else to say to each other, but it seems neither of us has the strength left to say it. I want to tell him about that last day on the roof with his brother, and how awful it was. I want to tell him how much I’ve missed his father, and him, and Caitlin; I want to tell him about the healing conversation I had a few days ago with Arthur. I want to ask him why he decided to be truthful with me and apologize today, and if he’s afraid of going to jail.
But I can’t. I assume he has things he wants to ask and tell me, as well, but he can’t, either.
There may come a day when we can speak to each other again, as mother and child, or at least as friends, but it won’t be today. We’ll have to let what we’ve already said suffice for the time being, for fear of going too fast and risking another damaging argument. So we fall back into silence, and we drink our drinks, and after a while he puts money on the table, and stands up to go.
I reach for his hand, then, on impulse, and for an instant he takes it. It’s not much of a connection, but it’s something, and far more than I ever hoped we’d have again. I watch him leave a moment later, following him with my eyes as he walks out into the cold. I see him through the window as he gets into his Volvo and drives away.
Janet shows up at my elbow and offers me another cup of tea, free of charge. My voice trembles as I thank her, and she pats my hand on the table before leaving me alone. I stare back out at the pine tree, and find myself wondering who owned the mitten before it ended up as a forlorn ornament.
Oh, Paul.
I’ve lied to Alex twice, it seems.
Once was today, when I said Paul wouldn’t hurt me if I came to see him.
And the other time was a few weeks ago, when I said I didn’t love my son anymore.
CHAPTER 25
I step out of the bright, cold sunlight into the relative darkness of Higdon Hall, turning as I do so to wave at Alex, who is watching from the car in the parking lot. He insisted on driving me to Pritchard this afternoon, claiming the roads were too dangerous for me to make the journey by myself. In truth, I think he wanted more time to talk me out of my plan to visit Caitlin.
He saw the shape I was in yesterday after my visit with Paul, and he’s afraid I won’t survive another conversation along those lines with my daughter.
He may be right.
But I’m sick to death of being at war with my family, and the recent talks with both Arthur and Paul, though terribly painful, have made me believe I can no longer allow things to go on as they have between Caitlin and myself. For better or worse, we’re part of each other, and it’s long past time for me to make an effort to reconnect.
I check my watch and see I only have five minutes before she finishes with her afternoon class. Alex told me where and when I would be most likely to find her, and I walk up the stairs toward her classroom like a condemned prisoner ascending a scaffold. Higdon Hall is hot and quiet, and my footsteps echo around me as I make my way down the hall to her room.
The door is open, and I can hear her lecturing as I approach. I reach the doorway and find her standing at the front of the room, addressing about twenty students. She’s dressed in a striking green skirt and suit coat, and she’s leaning her back against the chalkboard.
“You can say whatever you want about Dickens’s political views and his scathing critiques of society,” she’s saying, “but it’s his unique narrative voice, just as with Austen and Tolstoy, that makes his work …” She sees me in the doorway and falters. “… that makes his work timeless.”
She frowns at me and seems to lose her train of thought, and after a moment she glances at the clock above her head and abruptly dismisses the class. I step inside the room and her students, studying me with curiosity, file out singly and in pairs. She remains by the chalkboard, silent, until we’re alone.
“What is it, Mother?” she asks at last. “Why are you here? Has something happened to Dad?”
“Hello, Caitlin.” I force myself to relax my grip on my purse. “No, your father is fine. I just wanted to speak with you for a moment. Is this a bad time?”
She hesitates. “As a matter of fact, it is. I have an appointment in my office in about five minutes.” Her voice becomes sardonic. “Are you here to pick up Alex’s homework for him?”
I let this pass. Alex seems to upset her almost as much as he does Paul.
“I’m not here about Alex, although we probably should discuss him sometime. You and he have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I believe I’m at least partly responsible for that.”
She makes a face. “Don’t flatter yourself. Alex Pearl is more than capable of annoying me all on his own.”
“How so?”
“As I said to you at the grocery store, he doesn’t take his work seriously, and he’s disrespectful, and he seems to believe he has the right to intrude himself in our family’s business, simply because he rents a room from you.”
I sigh. “I can’t speak to his behavior in your classes, of course, but that last bit is unfair. He hasn’t intruded himself at all. He’s just been unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And whose fault is that?” she snaps.
I remain silent. I didn’t come here to fight.
She pauses when I don’t answer, and when she finally speaks again it’s with visible reluctance. “Anyway, suffice it to say that the only reason I haven’t yet revoked his writing scholarship is because he has a great deal of talent, and I would hate to see it go to waste.”
I digest this. “Truly? Alex is gifted?”
“I’m afraid so.” She grimaces. “He’s already a better poet than any of my grad students.”
I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. I’m tempted to pursue the subject, but she’s looking at her watch again, so I let it go. There’s so much more I need to say to her before she leaves.
I step closer. “I came here today because I was hoping we could talk about us.”
The afternoon sunlight is coming through the windows on the far side of the room in vertical shafts, lighting the floor in squares and rectangles.
She begins to gather some papers together on her desk. “Yes, I hear you’ve been making the rounds this week. You must have been visited by the ghost of Christmas past, or something to that effect.” She raises an eyebrow. “Did Tiny Tim enjoy his turkey?”
The humor in her voice is tinged with acid.
I bite my lip. “So you’ve spoken to Paul?”
She shakes her head. “Just to Dad. But he told me Paul called him yesterday after the two of you got together.”
I blink. “And?”
She shrugs. “And you somehow managed to have a civil conversation. I was spared most of the details.”
I gather my courage. “Caitlin, I’m here to make peace with you, if we can.” My voice breaks a little. “I don’t know how we’re going to do that, but I wanted to tell you I’d like to try.”
She looks away. “I see.” Her hands come to rest in front of her. “I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?”
Her tone is cold, but her chin is trembling.
I take a deep breath. “Your father and I have buried the hatchet, and Paul and I are at least speaking again. Surely you and I can do as much?”
She stares out the window, frowning, for a long time. I begin to think she’s not going to answer when she turns to face me again.
“Do you remember that awful fight Jeremy and
I had right after he started teaching at Carson?” She’s now tentative, for some reason. “The one where he told all of you about discovering me with my friend’s husband?”
I nod, wary. “Of course I do. He was being horrible that day.”
“Yes, he was,” she agrees. “But do you know what he did to apologize the next week, when I was back in school? Did he ever tell you?”
“Not that I recall.”
She plays with a pen for a moment. “God, I was angry at him, remember? He was being such a bastard.” She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I was in Chicago again, and I came back to my dorm one morning after class. I stepped into the hall on the way to my room, and I saw a long-stemmed white rose on the floor. A few feet farther on there was a red one, and then a yellow, and as I got closer to my door, there were dozens more, all lined up one after another, all the way to my room.”
She sets the pen down and doesn’t move to catch it when it rolls across the desk and falls to the floor. “When I opened the door, my entire bed was covered in roses. Just flowers this time, no stems. The whole room smelled like heaven, and there was a note on my pillow.” She laughs a little. “The note was unsigned, and all it said was, ‘Sorry I’m such an asshole.’”
She looks at me again with an odd half-smile. “I found out later he hired three people, including my roommate, to help with everything. It must have cost a fortune.”
Somebody passes by in the hallway behind me, whistling.
I search for words. “That’s a lovely story.” My heart is aching now. “I can’t believe you never told me about this before.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t want to. It was just between Jeremy and me.”
I study her. “So why tell me now?”
“I don’t know,” she says. Her voice has a tremor in it. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
I find myself remembering the phone call I made to her last year, after Arthur finally told me about Martha, and about his part in Jeremy’s death. I thought, foolishly, that when she heard these things, she might hate me less, but all it did was make her equally furious with Arthur—and me just as furious with her, after she revealed she had been aware of her father’s affair for nearly a decade.