“But, Ma, I told you,” she said, her heart already sinking, knowing she had lost. “He comes from a big family. He’d be fine with it.”
Charlotte nodded. “Well, I’m sure he would be. But, I think it’s important that you spend it with your family, and he spend it with his. Families need to stay together.” she said. And then she started in talking about gravy.
The Saturday after Thanksgiving Charlotte had cooked spaghetti. Gave Ford a big welcome at the door. No one else was there except for Diana’s father, Paul; her little sister Lucy, big dark eyes and hair in a ponytail; and her brother Stephen. Charlotte was subtly insulting throughout the meal, regularly reminding them she had to go to the four o’clock mass at Saint Rocco’s, and Ford was polite but quiet, and spent most of the dinner sizing up Diana’s younger brother Stephen. Stephen was nineteen. Stephen wasn’t confrontational, but he was always high, or looking to be high, and because of this he could never be trusted. His hair was blond, and his eyes were wild and blue. He was skinny as a rail. Too much heroin. Speedballs. He rarely ate, and that’s how you could tell if he was actively using. If he was using he wouldn’t eat, and he wasn’t eating today; he kept complaining that his stomach was hurting.
“I had too much for breakfast, Mummy,” he said. “Those sausages were delicious.” His hands were shaking, and his skin looked waxen, clammy. He had told Ford he was an artist, and when Ford mentioned astronomy, Stephen had lit a cigarette and kicked back.
“I like to paint a lot of pictures of the night sky,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t even have to paint them. I just compose them in my head, and there they are, stuck with me for eternity. It’s kind of hard to explain. But I think art is art whether it is an idea, words, or paint spread across a canvas. Once it exists, it exists, whether it be for ourselves or for everyone to share. Because we all share everything anyway, right? I mean we’re all connected. We just don’t understand how to use the connections. Our brains haven’t evolved enough. But someday we’ll all just be able to share ideas without even speaking. I know it. It’s going to be incredible.”
“Well,” Ford said, “I think that’s what separates art from science. There is nothing subjective about science. Science is concrete. Measurable.”
“I like astrology,” Stephen said, blowing the smoke from the corners of his lips. “That and astronomy go like hand in hand, but astrology is subjective, right?”
“It is,” said Ford. “That’s why it can’t be considered science.”
“I hear ya,” Stephen said. “I still think it’s all connected though. It’s wild. It’s beautiful. Makes me kind of teary-eyed sometimes. Makes me start to cry.”
Ford looked at him a second, frowned. “Astrology?”
“Stephen is an incredible artist,” Charlotte chimed in. “Just last month a man who runs one of the galleries on Newbury Street called asking if he had any paintings available for a showing.”
Stephen snubbed his cigarette out. “Really? You didn’t tell me that. That’s amazing.”
“I meant to tell you,” Charlotte said. “I even wrote myself a note, but I must have forgot. I left the note by the phone, and I think your sister must have thrown it out.”
“Wow,” said Stephen.
“I’ve never seen any of his paintings,” Diana said.
“He practically has his own gallery upstairs,” Charlotte said.
“I have a couple things,” Stephen added. “I did some nice stuff back in high school. A couple miniatures. And I did a clay sculpture of Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is madness. He writes some serious shit. Crazy shit, though. Crazy.”
“Stephen, watch your mouth,” said Charlotte.
“Sorry, Mummy. Stuff. I meant he writes some serious stuff. I don’t know what happened to the sculpture though. I think Roger broke it. He might have sat on it or something.”
“I keep telling him to stay out of your studio,” Charlotte said.
Diana’s father had been watching CNN on the little TV on the shelf above the counter. “What studio is this?”
Charlotte patted his hand. “Upstairs, dear. I keep telling you about it.”
“Well,” said Ford, “I’d love to see some of your work.”
Stephen lit another cigarette. “I’ll make something to show you. I’ve got a lot of ideas.”
He stood up then and asked Charlotte if he could have five dollars to run to the store and get a pack of cigarettes. “I’m almost out of cigarettes,” he said.
“You still haven’t eaten anything,” Charlotte said.
Stephen put his hand on his stomach. “I told you, I’m not really that hungry. I don’t know what it is. I think I should probably see the doctor or some shit like that. Can I have five dollars though? Cigarettes make me feel better.”
Charlotte stared at him a moment, and then went for her wallet.
“He must have that stomach bug,” she said as he headed out the door. “I heard it’s going around.”
Samantha had climbed up on Ford’s lap, and Charlotte just stared, watching and measuring. After a moment, she got up to fix dessert. Samantha was wearing a long plaid dress with a matching bow in her hair. Long hair with streaks of blonde, and wide brown eyes. Diana never talked to her much about her father, and Samantha was too little to ask. And now it seemed she was taking to Ford. But how could she not? He doted on her whenever they were together.
“So what do you do for work?” Diana’s father asked after Stephen had left.
Ford cleared his throat, sipped his beer. “I work as a retail consultant at Benjamin’s Paint Store, but I’m scheduled to take the postal exam next month. It’s a lot of studying though. It’s pretty hard. I’m also going to Harvard.”
“Harvard?” said Diana’s father. Diana had hoped her father would just stay focused on the television. “What the hell are you taking the postal exam for if you’re going to Harvard?”
“Harvard is more for my own personal growth,” he said.
“Harvard is pretty expensive for personal growth.”
“Well, I’m just taking a course or two. I want to keep my options open.”
“That is why I asked Stephen to have lunch with us,” said Charlotte. “Diana told me about your interests and I thought you two might have something in common. Stephen is very focused on school.”
Ford cleared his throat. “Well, he seems like a nice guy, I enjoyed talking to him, but if he wants to put any of his ideas to good use, I hope he can find someone to talk to about his problem.”
Charlotte just looked at him. “What problem?”
“Well, Diana tells me he has a substance abuse problem.”
Charlotte turned her stare on Diana, and Diana felt herself go hollow.
“Everyone has problems,” Charlotte said.
“They do,” said Ford. “But heroin is serious.”
“I know it is serious.” Charlotte stood then, started to gather the dishes. “And Diana tends to remember things that never happened. I don’t know what she’s talking about. If someone in my house, had a problem like that, I would think I would know about it. Now, it’s been very nice meeting you, but I promised Father Turkowsky I would get some new flowers for the altar before the four thirty Mass, and I need to get going. So I’m afraid you do, too.”
Ford was silent all the way back to his apartment, cranking Supertramp on the tape player. “Goodbye Stranger.” They had left Samantha back at the house with Diana’s father.
When they reached the apartment Ford popped open a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator, the cork bouncing off the ceiling. He took a swig, then offered the bottle to Diana. “Want some?”
“I thought we were saving that for our anniversary,” she said.
Ford stared at her, but looked more to be looking past her. “We can get another one. What did it cost? Ten bucks?”
“It was forty dollars.”
He shrugged, took another belt. Lit a cigarette.
“I’m sorry about my mothe
r,” Diana said.
Ford snickered. “Yeah, she kind of didn’t like me, huh?”
“She pisses me off,” Diana said. She’s in denial about Stephen, in denial about everything, and she’s got this thing about anyone coming into the family. She’s always been like that. I don’t get it. It’s like she wants to contain her immediate family just like it is, for good. Like we’re still all little kids.”
“That’s okay,” he said, “because I don’t think I’ll be going over there anymore anyway. I don’t need to put up with that.” He walked into the living room and took a seat on the couch. Old and beige and sunken in the middle. He put his feet up on the coffee table and flicked on the television. Swigged from the bottle, and nestled it into his lap. Diana hesitantly followed him into the room.
“Well, she was being rude, but it’s not like I want you staying away from my home. I mean, I want you there. I want you to feel comfortable coming by. I live there.”
Ford focused on the television. A Sanford and Son repeat. Fred was chasing Lamont around with a frying pan, one hand holding tight to his suspenders as he did. The sound was down. “Well, then don’t,” he said.
“Don’t?”
“Move in here.”
“Ford, I can’t,” she said. “I have Samantha.”
“She can come too. We can all live together.”
Diana hesitated, and then she went to the couch, sat down beside him, turning sideways and pulling one leg up beneath her. “Do you mean that? I mean, I don’t think there’s enough room.”
On the television, Ester had arrived, positioning herself between Fred and Lamont, staring Fred down, one eye shut and her chin jutting forward, lips pursed. Diana looked at Fred, reading his lips. “’Cause you so ugly,” he said to Ester.
“We can make room,” said Ford, “and then after we save a little money, we can look for a new place. A bigger place.” He took her hand. “Just for us.”
4
Ford got up, bare-chested and still in his briefs, and looked out the back window over the graveyard. A canopy was up in the distance, the artificial carpet of grass, draped over an empty hole. A funeral coming later. A woman was out there jogging—blue sweatpants, gray sweatshirt, headphones. You didn’t see many people out there this time of year. Sometimes in the summer he liked to sit on the back porch, or out on the balcony, and people watch, sip a little scotch. There were often people out there then—exercising, pushing baby strollers, or vacationers stopping to look at the weather-worn graves from the century before—but not much this time of year. The jogger stopped, hands on her hips to catch her breath. She was young, blonde, hair in ponytail. Probably kind of hot—it was hard to tell from the distance.
He went to his bureau, checked his reflection in the mirror, ran his fingers up through his hair, and then squirted some Visine in his eyes. He lit a cigarette and placed it on the rim of the ashtray on the bureau—surprised it was still there; every time he brought one up, Diana moved it back out, didn’t want him smoking in the bedroom, she said, and dropped hints about not smoking in the house in general. Funniest thing he had ever heard—his bedroom, his house, and she was going to tell him, try to tell him, he couldn’t smoke in it. Call the cigarette police. There was a note from her on the bureau weighted down with his bottle of Aqua Velva.
Picking Sam up from school, then need to run a few errands in Vineyard Haven.
Hope you had a good sleep.
Love, Me.
Signed with a lipstick kiss.
Running a few errands. The female code for spending money. That’s all she did—he made it, she spent it. It wasn’t just her though. He knew that. They were all like that. Tara before her had been like that, too. But Tara had been special. A voice that melted his heart when she sang. That short cropped hair and brown puppy dog eyes. And such great tits. He had loved those tits. He loved her, too, but it wasn’t meant to be—they could never get along. They had gone through too much together. But he had really loved her.
And he loved Diana, too. If he didn’t, they never would have come this far.
And he liked her, usually. He had liked her the moment he met her. She was quiet at first, but she was casually watching him, figuring him out. He could tell. He was playing cards with her brother and his boyfriend, and some fat guy from New Orleans, the first time they met. The fat guy had a girlfriend who was even fatter than he was, and supposedly the two of them liked to strap on some leather and whip each other and shit like that. Ford had met him a few times, and he talked like that a lot, but he didn’t talk like this in front of Diana; when she was there, he just sort of looked at her the way a serial killer might size up his prey, or maybe a rapist. He was having dirty thoughts at least, and it bothered Ford a little—fucking fat scumbag—and it was then that Ford realized that he himself liked her. He liked her a lot. And he wanted to protect her.
Diana didn’t laugh when Ford said something funny, or at least when he was trying to be funny, but she did smile, and he liked that. If she laughed too much, he would have probably questioned whether she was sincere, or was just trying to make an impression. Being phony. No, the little smile was better, and then later, when they were alone, she looked like she was really listening to him, like she really cared. She didn’t even know him then, but she seemed like she cared.
He wondered if he would have even hooked up with her if they hadn’t met when they did. All the shit just falling through the floor with his family, and his old man on the lam. And of course, he and Tara had broken up not long before. He and Tara were like fire and ice—things were getting heated and he loved her way too much. That was his problem half the time—he loved people too much, too much, and then expected too much from them, expected them to love him just as much in return. He realized this; he prided himself on being insightful. Raw intelligence, his old aunt had once said. Anyway, that’s probably why it went bad with Tara, he figured, what pushed him to the brink, the love. And when people loved each other that much, that shit sometimes happened. It got out of control sometimes. He knew that, and he didn’t want it to come to that with her. Didn’t want to be like his father, Big Daddy. And with Diana, he knew, he would be able to keep his cool. He liked her, and he loved her, but it wasn’t a love that whacked him in the face every time he saw her like it did with Tara. It could be more comfortable. Quiet. And that’s what he needed, quiet. And besides, she liked to please him. At least she said she did. And he deserved that at this point in his life, all he had been through.
And he did love Samantha.
She might not be his blood, but he loved her, and she loved him. Ever since they met, he had tried to do whatever he had to do, to be a good father. And once a father and daughter created a bond, it could be pretty tough to break. And he would never let that happen.
But Diana’s family thing was bothering him again a little lately, too. She didn’t have to see all of them, didn’t miss all of them. But she wanted to see some of them. It was only fair that she could see some of them, she said, and maybe she was right, a little bit. But her mother was a crazy bitch—he had pegged her for one from day one—and he knew in his heart that if he gave her the okay to see some of them, sooner or later it would lead to all of them. And that wouldn’t be good. They were all better off away from them. He sometimes felt bad about it, but he knew it in his heart to be true. It was just fortunate that he could spot a pedophile like her little brother coming a mile away—having spent the first eighteen years of his life in a house with that and worse pretty much made him an expert—and all he needed was ten minutes with her brother Stephen, and he had that whole little situation summed up pretty neatly. It was a toxic atmosphere, and one better left behind them. Better for him, better for Diana. And better for Samantha, of course. The way it worked out, none of them even came to the wedding. Nobody from either of their families was there—just their friends. And it didn’t matter. Not then. Not now. It was all for the better. As was the island.
Ford was
n’t stupid, he knew the separation from her family was bound to bother her, but he could make up for it. Once she saw the house here, he knew that would make up for everything. It was like the house was meant for them. He figured he would look the other way if she wanted to stay in touch with her brother Phillip and her little cousin, allow her a little contact, and maybe even his sister Cybil, but that would be enough. They had their own little family now. And that was all they needed. They just needed one another.
He looked at the note a minute longer and then dropped it in the trash. He liked an uncluttered room. Liked things neat. Liked them to stay just the way that they were. Order. Life only worked when you had order. That was one thing he liked about the PO, separating the mail. It gave you a sense of order.
He pulled on a T-shirt and shorts—the house was warm, the heat cranking; he was going to have to talk to her again about cranking the heat—and then he stopped in the doorway and listened. He thought he heard a scraping noise. A chair on the floor? Diana? Sam? And then hurried footsteps on the old hardwood floor, bowed up in the middle, in the back parlor. A door closing. Going by the note, he didn’t think Diana would be back yet. But maybe she was, maybe she was back. But it didn’t make sense. And if not …?
He picked up the baseball bat Diana kept behind the bedroom door—she sometimes got scared on the nights when he was working—and he stepped quietly, carefully, as he made his way down the stairs to the first floor. Always better to step quietly, senses on alert. If there was someone in the house, someone other than Diana or Sam, he was going to surprise them, and not the other way around. But when he reached the first floor, listened, there was nothing. The only sound was the quiet hum of the dishwasher still running in the kitchen; and if the dishwasher was still going, Diana couldn’t have been gone that long. He made a tour of the house, quietly, checked the closets and empty rooms, checked outside the windows. Nothing. The doors were all locked and there was nothing. The bolt on the cellar door was still pulled tight, too, and that was good. The last thing he wanted to see, that he could handle, was seeing the cellar door unlocked and open. He didn’t need that. Not now.
In the Midst of the Sea Page 4