No Coming Back

by Jessie Salisbury

  Jewel didn’t know if the shine had worn off. Wendy had seemed no different, but she was determined to find out, if only for her own satisfaction.

  She knew that Ken had a romantic interest of some kind, that he was meeting someone on weekends, although he had said little and had not offered to bring a young woman home to meet them. But he was spending a lot of time up north.

  She hoped she was totally wrong in her suspicions.

  Parties were an effort and Jewel did not need to plan an elaborate affair. Wendy liked roast pork and Jewel knew she could trust Vi to have everything exactly the way Wendy liked it. Jewel invited no other guests, but did ask Ken to extend the invitation to Richard. “Tell him this would be a perfect way to come back.”

  Ken agreed to deliver the message but gave her no hope that Rich would come.

  On Friday night, Jim came home early, and Ken, having to drive down from his project, arrived a little later. He brought with him two small boxes, one of them tied with a polka dot ribbon, which he said was from Rich. “He said to tell Wendy Happy Birthday.”

  She took the boxes without comment and put them with other packages on an end table.

  She seated Ken and Wendy opposite each other where she could see them both. They rarely spoke, to each other or anyone else. That wasn’t odd: Frank was monopolizing the conversation as usual, and Jim appeared to be giving Frank his undivided attention.

  She assessed Frank guardedly, his sandy hair, his thin sensitive face, the tortoiseshell nerdy glasses. Probably thinks that is promoting his image of himself. But he can’t help it. He’s always had all the advantages and isn’t adjusted to the realities of life. I don’t know why Wendy hasn’t been able to make him unbend a little.

  Frank was describing something to do with his work.

  Jim laughed. “Too complicated for me. Now take a bulldozer . . .”

  Frank smile was irritatingly smug. “It takes all kinds.”

  Jewel looked around the table. Wendy was apparently listening to Frank, but she glanced occasionally at Ken, who was not looking at anyone. Archie was fidgeting but attending not too sloppily to his dinner. She kept her eyes on Ken until he looked up at her. She wondered at the fleeting expression that crossed his face, but it seemed to confirm her suspicions. There was, or maybe had been until recently, something between him and Wendy.

  At the end of the meal, Viola came in with an elaborate chocolate frosted cake, Wendy’s name in pale green icing, and put it in front of her, prompting a total change in the atmosphere. She handed Wendy a silver knife. “I’ll get the ice cream.”

  Wendy almost squealed. “Oh, you shouldn’t have. This is like when I was a little girl.” She glanced at the side table and the brightly wrapped packages there. “Mom, you shouldn’t have, this is too much for you.”

  “Not really. You aren’t here nearly often enough.”

  Wendy opened the packages slowly, admiring each gift and smiling appreciatively at the giver: Ken’s gift of a silver bracelet, Archie’s scarf, a glittery pin from Jim, a sweater from Jewel, and chocolate roses, known to be her favorite, from Vi. Then Wendy picked up the box with the polka dot bow.

  She read the attached card and put it aside.

  “Who is that from?” Frank asked.

  “Rich.”

  “Really?” Jim asked. “Did he bring it or send it?”

  “Ken brought it when he came home tonight,” Archie said loudly.

  Jim glanced at Ken. “You know where he’s living?”

  Ken nodded, not looking at him.

  “What is it, Wendy?” Jewel interrupted.

  The party atmosphere was gone. Wendy opened the box quickly, pulled out some pale blue tissue paper, and unwrapped a ceramic cat about three inches high, glossy black with glittery green eyes and a gold collar.

  Frank snorted. “Another cat? And why one like that?”

  She sighed and put the figurine back into its box. “Probably because he thought I’d like it.”

  “Have you seen him, talked to him?” Jim asked, a sudden hardness in his voice.

  “Not really. I met him at the movies once by accident.” She looked around the table. “This is so weird. Rich gives me a little cat like the one he broke years ago and everybody goes ballistic. What’s wrong with everybody?”

  “We’re just concerned about Rich,” Jewel said calmly. “Wendy, cut the cake, will you?”

  “Who wants coffee?” Vi asked from where she was watching the gift-unwrapping.

  Some of the party mood returned, but Wendy declined the coffee and asked if she could take a piece of the cake home with her. “We really need to get going. Frank has to catch an early flight tomorrow to New York.”

  Jewel stopped her as the others were leaving the dining room. “Wendy, when’s the baby due?”

  “December.” She stepped toward the doorway to follow the others. “I just found out for sure a couple of weeks ago. How did you know?”

  “Mothers can tell.”

  Wendy fidgeted.

  “You haven’t told Frank?”

  “I don’t know how. He never wanted children.”

  Jewel took a deep breath. “Is it Frank’s?”

  Wendy stared at her. “Of course it is. Why would you think . . .?”

  Jewel sighed, wondering what to say, just how far the relationship with Ken had gone. “Frank seemed to think there was a problem. But tell him tonight, before he goes on this business trip.”

  “I’ll try, but sometimes he is so hard to talk to.”

  “Try, dear. You have to.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Later, Jewel found Ken reading alone in the living room. “Do you have a minute?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  She studied him covertly for moment, did not see any signs of distress, and decided on a small fib. “Wendy says you have a new girlfriend. You haven’t mentioned her. Who is she? Somebody your father wouldn’t approve of?”

  He smiled. “I was planning to bring her here on a weekend when I’m not so tied up with High Meadow.” He leaned back in his chair. “Susan Randall. You know Pete? Rich’s friend? I met her when Rich fell in his apartment. She was the one who called here to say he was injured and I left to see what had happened, if I could help.”

  Jewel recalled that, and that no one had really told her what had happened. “I would like to meet her. I don’t think I ever have, just Pete.”

  “You will. Very soon. I promise.”

  After a short pause, she asked, “You know Wendy’s pregnant?”

  He shook his head.

  “But you were seeing her.” She stated it as a fact, not a question.

  He expelled a long breath, his finger still marking the place in his book. “A couple of times. She said she needed me, back in the spring, that she was having a problem with Frank. She knew that I had always . . . cared . . . about her.”

  “And now?”

  He smiled at her, genuinely she thought. “Now there’s Susan. I didn’t want to hurt Wendy, but I did.” He added slowly, “I always loved her, and I guess I still do. It just could never be and I didn’t accept that, even after she married Frank, until I met Sue.”

  Jewel patted his arm. “We all make errors of judgment occasionally.”

  “But Wendy knows it’s all over, that I won’t talk to her again that way, or meet her somewhere, secretly.” He glanced at her and then away. “I actually only met her a few times, when Frank was away for an evening, places like the library, perfectly public.”

  “Then I guess no harm has been done.”

  “No. No harm was done.”

  29.

  On the fifteenth of July, Rich took a day off from work to undergo a complete physical examination and a reevaluation
of his injured hip and knee. He didn’t want to go through all the discomfort, and wondered if it was really necessary. He was obviously, if slowly, recovering more mobility. But Laura had persuaded him that he needed to know all the details of his current condition and get a precise prognosis before he could make any plans for the future, immediate or long term. She agreed to go with him, but unfortunately on the day it was scheduled, her shift was changed. A co-worker called in sick and Laura was asked if she could cover.

  Rich was disappointed. He wanted her company, someone who could ask the right questions, but he assured her that he could manage quite well by himself. “I’m a big boy,” he told her. “I can handle this, even if I don’t want to go.”

  “I’ll be thinking of you all morning. Give me a call when you get back home.”

  A few days ago he had moved into his newly rented, partially furnished Cape Cod-style cottage on a quiet back street in an older section of the city, a house Laura had spent many of her off-duty days finding. Then she had spent another week choosing a few pieces of necessary furniture at a used goods place, then buying new curtains and a set of cheerful dishes. “We’ll pick out other things as we need them, or see something we like.”

  He liked the sound of the “we.” She had helped him move in but she would not join him there. “Not yet. I have to make arrangements for my father and Willie before I can do that,” she said. “See to their needs. Keep an eye on them.”

  Rich was mostly content with that. She was usually with him on the days she didn’t work, and on an occasional night when she did, when she came to him totally exhausted and simply lay in his arms.

  His own job, although he had moved up in the scheme of things to assistant manager, was not at all satisfying. It did not leave him tired, only frustrated. He had more responsibility, with some added salary. It used more of his management abilities, but it was not what he wanted.

  ~ ~ ~

  The orthopedic examination was early in the morning and went well, in spite of the painful poking, prodding, stretches, and strength tests. Rich drove back home hurting in several places but relieved to know the healing progress was continuing as the doctors had hoped. In the kitchen, at home, fixing a cup of tea, he noticed the calendar, saw the date, and stopped, staring at it. How could I have forgotten? I never have before.

  He called Laura. “Everything is fine,” he told her, “except . . .”

  “What?”

  He heard the alarm in her voice and reassured her. “I forgot that today was my father’s birthday. I have always gone to the cemetery.”

  “You scared me for a moment. You can go now, can’t you?”

  “I just wanted you to know where I was in case you called.”

  “Go and ease your mind.”

  He wondered what else she intended to say, but didn’t ask. Maybe today is the one for me to take a step back? He knew that was what Laura wanted him to do, kept quietly urging it, and what she probably meant to say. Maybe I could go see Mother. As long as I don’t see Jim. I can’t let him ruin today, all my good memories.

  On an impulse, and wanting some reassurance that it was a good time, he picked up the phone again and punched in the number for the Weston Construction Company. When Anita Fontaine’s cheerful voice answered, he said, “Hi, beautiful. How’s it going?”

  He heard her gasp of surprise, quickly hidden. “Hey, handsome, long time no see. How are you?”

  “All right, mostly. Is my big brother there?”

  “No. These days he spends most of his time up north on a job.”

  Rich had forgotten that. Ken had told him about High Meadow. Then he heard Jim’s voice in the background, “Is that Ken?”

  “No. It’s Rich.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  Rich put the phone down before Jim’s voice reached him.

  Saddened and angry, Rich went outside. It was a beautiful summer day, not too hot with a nice breeze. He stood on his front steps for a moment, breathing deeply of the heady scent of old-fashioned roses and newly mown grass, and let the fresh air clear his mind and calm his anger. He was not yet familiar with this neighborhood with its narrow streets, graceful trees, and older houses. He decided, after a moment’s calculation, he could walk to the cemetery. A leisurely amble would be exactly what the doctor had ordered.

  As he strolled, he recalled his father: laughing, playing games, telling stories. He teased, but never hurt. He was always there to help, to comfort, to provide strength. He would listen to reasons, consider circumstances, but he meant it when he said no.

  Rich considered his stepfather. He had never actually compared the two in his mind. They were from two separate worlds and he wanted to keep them that way. Jim did not sing or tell stories, rarely joked, and never teased. But he did play games, cards, chess and checkers, and he played them well. And Jim had also been there to help with a problem, with homework. He really wasn’t a bad person, but in the end, Jim Weston had to right.

  And that’s the problem. Sometimes I’m right, too.

  Eventually Rich stood at the foot of his father’s neatly tended grave with its plain granite marker. It had only his name, Philip Richard Summers, and the dates. At thirty-nine, his father had been much too young to die. There were no flowers on the plot except a small lilac bush he had planted some years ago, no new flowers, and he wondered why. Why didn’t I bring some on Memorial Day? I was well enough by then.

  “I’m not sure of myself anymore,” Rich said softly. “You always told me that if I took a stand on something I should stick to it no matter what. Jim said that, too, and you couldn’t both be wrong, could you?”

  He stopped speaking aloud, although there was no one else to hear him. You always told me to think about a problem and if I thought there was a better way to do it, to try it and see, that I could always go back and try it another way. I’m not sure if I’m doing this the right way, but I don’t know any other way to do it. I’m sure I’m not going to go back and do it Jim’s way.

  And you always said if you give a person enough time he’ll show his true colors. Is that what Jim did that day? Or was he just upset? Have I been wrong about him all these years? He hurt me too much to forgive, and I can’t forget.

  “Dad,” he whispered, “I need advice and I don’t know where to get it.”

  But he did know. He stood still a moment longer, regarding the grave somberly and recalling his beloved father buried there. How much do I really remember him? Is what I remember just what I want to remember? What I have held onto all these years, through everything?

  Still wondering, he turned away and walked through the lines of old granite markers to the street. One corner of his mind told him, No, don’t go there, you’ll just be hurt more, but he ambled on, having chosen this course. He found a cross street that would shorten his walk. When he got there, he stopped and considered the big two-story house with its wide many-paned windows and four white columns across the gracious front entry. It sat back from the street behind a circular driveway, several old maple trees, a spacious lawn, and well-tended beds of bright flowers. This is home! He squelched the thought. It could never again be home.

  He walked around to the back of the house and went in through what he and Ken had always called the servants’ door, although they had never had any. Viola Evans was in the kitchen.

  He stopped behind her and put his hands over her eyes. “Guess who?”

  She started, squealed, spun around to see who it was, and gathered him joyfully into her arms. “Rich! It’s so good to see you.”

  “And you, too, Vi. I’ve missed your cooking.”

  “You’re here for lunch? I’ll get something special, one of your favorites.”

  “I can’t stay. I just need to see Mom for a minute.”

  She sobered instantly. “She’s on
the sun porch. Rich, this isn’t right.”

  He smiled at her to hide his sadness. “I can’t help that.”

  He walked through the dining room with its dark furnishings, polished mirrors, high ceiling with elaborate crown molding. He kept his eyes away from the door to the hall and the library. There were too many bad memories that way. The sun porch was as he remembered it, cheerful, full of sunshine and flowers, and his mother was, as usual, on her chaise with a book, her wheelchair at one side. He stood in the doorway watching her until she looked up.

  Her mouth formed “Richard,” but she didn’t make a sound. She held out both hands and he went to her, took her hands, and kissed her cheek, which he found damp.

  “Richard, I’m so glad you’re here. I worry so much about you.”

  “Don’t. I’m doing all right.”

  “But you are so thin. Vi will have to fatten you up.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t stay. I came to see you, that’s all.” He paused a moment. “I was at the cemetery. It’s Dad’s birthday and there were no new flowers.”

  “You weren’t here to take any.”

  He understood. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, ask anyone else. He pulled a chair closer and sat down. “I just wanted you to know I’m okay, and to ask you, is it wrong for me to want to stand on my own? To do things my way? Be independent?”

  She met his eyes and he saw the tears there. “Is that all you’re doing? You’re not just defying Jim, daring him?”

  “I don’t think so. My quarrel with Jim is about something else.”

  She held his hands tighter preventing him from moving. “He didn’t cause your accident, Richard.”

  He kept his voice under tight control. “I think he did.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t know what he did to me?”