The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  It was a wonderful moment. Everything was going according to plan; Lew would be proud of him. Mack closed his eyes in a brief moment of pure satisfaction. But, when he opened them, he got a jolt: Reuben Lister walking the line, talking to marchers, and a woman with him, half a step behind, small, thin, dressed in an expensive suit and high heels, heavy makeup, her eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses. Lister wasn’t paying much attention to her, but she was with him, step for step, never taking her eyes off him, like her life depended on it.

  The noise of the demonstrators was too loud for Mack to hear anything, and he could not move closer without being seen. Frustrated, he pounded his fist into his palm, and shifted his feet back and forth, hating the huge sound he had reveled in a few minutes before, hating Lister for trying to turn people against him, hating Lew Corcoran for forcing him to stay invisible, hating Sara for being secretive about Lister so Mack couldn’t figure out how to deal with him; hating his mother for refusing to set a date to see him even after she’d said she would; hating his father for leaving him in the lurch, doing a disappearing act when Mack was strung out on drugs and owed money to everybody and needed help getting the fuck away from the mess he was in; hating Doug and Carrie and Abby because they were so fucking happy they’d never understand the problems he had; hating the marchers for making so much goddamn noise, for talking to Lister, for having a good time.

  Mack was always amazed at how much there was in the world to hate.

  He saw Lister look his way, and sprang farther back into the trees. Lister didn’t see him; he couldn’t have seen him. And anyway, what difference would it make if he did? He didn’t know who Mack was… unless Sara had shown him a picture? Those pics Carrie had taken a few weeks ago…they could be all over the place by now. Lew would hate him for letting anybody take his picture; Christ, why had he done that? But why would Sara want to talk about him to her lover-boy? Didn’t they have better things to do? But even if he’d seen a photo, he wouldn’t be able to see into the trees… except that it was a sunny day…and he’d been looking straight at him…

  Entangled in too many scenarios, Mack could not stand it; he turned and stumbled through the trees, doubling back to find his car. Let Ted handle the march and the TV cameras and the rest of it; he’d been a pain in the ass lately, pushing to do things his way without being held back; well, let him find out how hard it was; Mack Hayden was getting the hell out of there, and fuck Reuben Lister and whoever was with him.

  Reuben saw the shadowy figure move deeper into the woods, and disappear. Curious, he thought, with all the activity out here, and attention from newspapers and television, why would anyone skulk in the shadows?

  To avoid being seen.

  To keep tabs on the action.

  To watch for… what?

  Maybe the kid, the one they talk about when I ask who’s doing the organizing. “The kid. He and Ted; they do everything.”

  But for what? There was real organization here. Someone sent the kid to do the dirty work, told him to stay out of the limelight and deal with only a few key people. And report back.

  To someone who was even more invisible. Someone who wanted to kill Carrano Village West.

  Because…?

  Because he wanted the land for himself.

  For…?

  It was not clear that anyone here knew the real answer. When Reuben talked to Ted, he heard well-memorized, well-polished phrases about traffic congestion, too many kids, sky-high taxes for new schools, trash pickup, roads, the wrong kind of people moving in, seeing the prairie filled up with concrete and stores and houses, when the people around here wanted lots of open space.

  But Reuben knew it would be a safe bet that open space would not be what the people got if Isaiah dropped Carrano Village. What they would get was some unknown developer with a hugely profitable development in the works. There would be no other reason to go to the trouble of organizing weekly demonstrations and paying whoever had been hired to run them.

  “What is it?” Ardis asked. She raised her voice to be heard above the crowd and the throb of the helicopters overhead. “Is someone spying on us?”

  “I don’t know.” He turned back, once again facing the line of marchers. “Someone was hiding in the trees; I have no idea if he was watching us.”

  “I hope not. I’m not ready. I mean not quite. I mean, to face the public like a wife you’re proud of.”

  Reuben kept silent. Later, he told himself. Not here, not on the street. Wait until tonight, at dinner. Tell her then.

  Two weeks without Sara. Two weeks without any kind of conversation with her. But, in fact, infinitely more than two weeks. A span of time without measurement, a bleak vista empty of everything her presence had come to mean to him: the timbre of her voice; her quiet smile and rich laughter; the sharing of thoughts and ideas and the smallest details of their days; her body stretching along his, welcoming him, their eyes meeting in recognition; the languor of their breakfasts, bridging the night that had been theirs and the days they gave to the rest of the world.

  He had not done much work in those two weeks; he had not slept much. Ardis moved about the guest room and bath at all hours of the night, noisily, so that he would hear her, be conscious, always, that she was in his home. When he had flatly, rudely, refused to let her share his bed, she had taken it with surprising grace, but then embedded herself everywhere else that she could: in his study, in the hallways of his house, in the sunroom and kitchen, where, improbably, she was up and waiting for him each morning, hair combed, makeup on, wearing a shimmering silk robe that softened her gauntness, offering him toast and coffee (more than she ever had done before in a kitchen). He had not been able to sit and eat under her bright gaze; each day he had claimed an early meeting and left, but she had beat him there, too, standing at the door on tiptoe, kissing him good-bye (aiming for his lips but each time meeting his cheek instead).

  To his amazement, as far as he could tell, she was not drinking. She consumed great quantities of ginger ale, diet colas, black Italian coffee, and chocolate, putting enough caffeine in her diet to knock out the most dedicated caffeine addict. She did not look healthy, but neither did she look on the verge of collapse. She was almost pretty again, in spite of her still-drawn face; her hair was expertly cut and styled, her clothes beautiful and well chosen to make the most of her petite body, and disguise the sharpness of her bones. Her skin was still sallow, but she was clever with makeup. She had developed a subtly pathetic look that, with her pretty face, caused men in the march to look twice, and throw envious glances at Reuben, and, for a moment, it seemed to him that the intervening years had vanished and once again he walked with her, newly married, manly and protective of his rare and precious creature whom every male predator would grab if given the chance.

  His pride and protectiveness had not lasted long into their marriage, but now, as he looked down on Ardis’s bowed, blond head, her neck’s frail downward curve, and the sad tremor at the corners of her mouth, and thought of what she was going through to avoid drinking, the urge to protect rushed through him once again, and he put his arm around her in a generous gesture that he would regret from the moment he did it.

  Ardis spun around, reached up to encircle his neck with her thin arms, and kissed him on the mouth. “Oh, Ben, I knew this would work. Didn’t I tell you? I knew it, I knew it. We’re so right together. Whoever she was, I forgive you, it doesn’t matter; you were alone and lonely and I know how that is, God knows I know that, and I should have come to you a long time ago, but I had…work to do.” She gave a small laugh that was almost a giggle. “On myself.”

  Reuben took an abrupt step backward, appalled that he had let himself be sucked in once again. It was no one’s fault but his own; he knew better; he had had more than enough time to review his years with her, to see his weaknesses as well as hers, and to work out ways in which they could amicably bring their marriage to an end. Instead, like a child putting off an unpleasant task, he had avo
ided it, losing that perfect, ruthless moment when he could have forced it through: the moment he moved out and began his own life.

  Which now included Sara. Had to include Sara. If she would have him again. He had called once, just once, in the past two weeks, and Abby had answered, but Sara had come to the telephone. “I won’t ask you to talk about this now,” he said. “I’m ashamed of what I let you in for, and of what I did to us, and no apology can make up for that. I’ve been wanting to tell you where I was in my life, but it was not an attractive story, and I delayed…well, you know that. I’ve wanted to end this marriage for years, which doesn’t speak well of me, but there never seemed to be a compelling reason. Now there is, but I had no right to wait until…until I did a terrible thing to you. I’ll try to make it up to you, if you’ll let me, but I have to finish this first. I promise you, I’m doing that. And I’d like to call you again, if I may.”

  There was a long silence. “When you’ve…finished it,” Sara said.

  He let out his breath; he had not been aware how rigidly he had been holding himself. “Thank you. I miss you. I love you.”

  “Benny, let’s get out of here.” Ardis smiled gaily at him, the same curving smile that had first captivated him. “We’ll go somewhere and have fun. Maybe”—her eyes were bright, wide, giving way to little flashes of desperation—“we’ll go home and have some special time together. Love in the afternoon. It’s been a long time, Benny.”

  Reuben fought with contradictions: disgust at her offering herself, throwing herself against him even as he distanced himself from her; and then a rush of memories of a warm, tantalizing Ardis, adventurous and exciting to the very young husband he had been. He wanted nothing to do with her, but memories wrapped them in a kind of cocoon, bound to each other, or simply to the past.

  “Benny?”

  When you’ve finished it. He spun about, so clearly had he heard Sara’s voice.

  “Ben!” Ardis cried, her voice grating.

  He gave a short, angry laugh. Like a French farce. One man, two women. But no contest. “I’ve told you,” he said, so softly Ardis had to strain to hear him, “that is not my name.” He handed her the car keys. “I’ll be here awhile; you can wait in the car or drive somewhere. Please be back in an hour.”

  She stared at him. “How do you know I’ll come back?”

  He shrugged.

  Her face contorted…and there before him was the woman she had become within a few months of their marriage, wiping out, exactly as before, everything else. Jangling the keys, she stalked off, not easy in stiletto heels, but Ardis always had known how to walk away.

  Reuben sought out Ted, and found him near the speakers’ platform. “Quite a turnout,” he said. “You’re as good as a professional organizer.”

  Fiddling with a microphone, Ted did not look up. “I work at it. You want something? I’m kinda busy here.”

  “Could you give me a minute? I have a couple of questions.”

  He looked up. “A minute.”

  “What’s the name of the guy who’s helping you organize these marches?”

  “You ask me that every time. I told you: Matt.”

  “He has a last name.”

  “He never said. What difference does it make?”

  “Is he paying you?”

  “What?”

  “For doing all this. For not asking questions about who he is. Is he paying you?”

  “None of your goddamn business. I’m helping my neighbors, my neighborhood. We don’t want traffic congestion, all those kids, sky-high taxes for new schools, people who aren’t—”

  “I’ve heard all that. I know what you don’t want. What do you think you’ll get if we walk away from here?”

  “Damn it, I’ve told you a few thousand times. Open space. How many times I hafta say it? Now go on; I’m busy; just leave us the hell alone.”

  Reuben shook his head. “You won’t end up with open space. You’ll have something else.”

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  “If we don’t build here, someone else will. Why do you think someone is spending money to get your people out every week? Whoever he is, he doesn’t live here; he doesn’t give a damn about traffic congestion or higher taxes in River Bend; he wants the land for his own development.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not, and you know it. It must have occurred to you to wonder why you’re getting paid for—”

  “I never said I—”

  “You’re getting paid and you’re spreading some of that money around. And for what? For something you can’t even predict. It could be apartment buildings, even a factory or—”

  “SHUT UP! YOU’RE A GODDAMN TROUBLEMAKER!”

  “I’m trying to build a terrific village here, with playgrounds and a gym and swimming pool and baseball fields you’ll all use. I’m trying to protect acres of open space—”

  “What’d you say? This guy’s gonna build… what?”

  “I don’t know. I told you, it could be a factory, anything. But I guarantee you, this will not stay open space. You’ll be stuck with—”

  “You don’t know. You haven’t got a fucking piece of information we haven’t got. You got a hell of a nerve, buddy, coming here and trying to scare the shit out of decent people fighting for their homes. We’re fighting here, buddy, so get the hell out and let us do our thing.” He swung around, concentrating on the microphone.

  “When will you see Matt again?” Reuben asked.

  Ted shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  “Would you call me when you hear from him? I’d like to meet him.”

  “Well, he don’t want to meet you. You got a nerve. Asking me to call you? Like I got nothin’ better to do?” He looked at his watch. “Christ, ten minutes late.” He waved to someone on the platform, a small woman who stepped smartly up to one of the microphones and began to speak.

  “Hello! Hello? Hello! I’m Margie Partopulous…hello? Hello!” The crowd quieted. “Thanks, thanks, guys, I’m a little nervous, you know? I mean, I’m not a…I don’t make speeches, I’m not real good at this, I just take care of my family, but, you know, that’s what I’m worried about, like, MY HOME and MY KIDS and my HOME VALUES and what I’m here for, you know, marching and all, why I’m here today, is, I’m here to PROTECT THEM!”

  As if on cue, the crowd roared, banners waved, newspaper photographers and marchers alike snapped their cameras, and that night, on the ten o’clock television news, Doug and Carrie saw Reuben, standing beside the speakers’ platform, scowling.

  “Sara!” Doug yelled, and jumped up. They were in a room they almost never used anymore, a playroom still filled with toys and games, a rocking horse, a few dozen LEGO kits, dominoes, Scrabble, jigsaw puzzles, and a deep couch and two shabby armchairs near a large television set. Long ago, Doug and Carrie and Abby had painted each wall a different color—buttercup, pale green, rose, and deep blue—making the room at once kaleidoscopic and, unexpectedly, warm and comforting. “Like our house,” Abby had said happily. “Nobody else could live here; it’s just ours.”

  “Sara!” Doug yelled again, back on the couch.

  “Don’t,” Carrie said sharply. “I think they broke up.”

  But Sara was there, coming upstairs after making dinner for the next night. “What’s going on?”

  “Uh, nothing,” Doug mumbled. “Sorry.”

  “Doug just got excited,” said Carrie.

  Sara came into the room, and saw the River Bend demonstrators on the television screen. On the speakers’ stand, a small woman was shouting and shaking her fist, and, in the corner of the screen, Reuben stood alone, surveying the crowd. The perspective changed as a cameraman in a helicopter showed the view from above while the reporter talked about “thousands of angry neighbors.” And then, without a pause, the picture switched to a murder in a North Shore suburb.

  “That looked like Reuben,” Sara said casually. “I guess those demonstrations haven’t st
opped. Don’t stay up much later, you two; you have camp and summer school tomorrow.”

  Puzzled, Carrie was scrutinizing her. “You’re staying home an awful lot, I mean at night.”

  Sara laughed, amused, as always, by Carrie’s transparency. “You’re right. Most of my friends are on vacation this month, and Reuben and I aren’t seeing each other.”

  “Ever?” Carrie asked anxiously.

  Doug spoke without looking up from the television screen. “We kind of liked him.”

  “So did I,” said Sara, aching inside. “I don’t know about ‘ever.’ He has some things to work out; so do I. So I can’t make predictions.”

  “He never made us feel dumb,” Doug said sadly.

  “He talked to us like grown-ups,” said Carrie. “And he was nice, you know, I mean he stayed nice, he didn’t flop around, nice and then not-nice.” She frowned at Sara. “Don’t you love him anymore?”

  When did I ever say—? Sara gazed at Carrie. And then she simply told the truth. “Yes, I do.”

  And am I happy about that, or not? I don’t know.

  “Well, then,” Carrie said with finality.

  “It isn’t always enough. When things get complicated between two people…”

  “But what’s so complicated? You love each other and you like to be together. What else matters?”

  A wife. Months of secretiveness. An unwillingness to share. Loss of trust.

  “All the things that make up two lives.” Sara tried to smile, but she felt hollow and lost, and all she wanted was to curl up in her room, alone and silent, not having to explain anything, especially things she could not understand. “There are so many layers to our lives, Carrie, so many things going on at once—”

  “Like plots in a book!” Carrie cried. “But if it’s your own story, you can solve all the plots and have a happy ending.”

  At that, Sara did smile. “When I figure out how to do that, I’ll let you know. I’m pretty sure it’s not quite that simple.”