The Best of Good

by Sara Lewis

  “I’m right here,” I said. Ellen looked up, disappointed. You’d think she’d never seen a walkie-talkie before. “Here.” I gave the radio back to my mother.

  She put it back into its place. Then she put the box on the table and stared at it as if the box might explode.

  My mother was thinking about Jack. I was sure of it. He and I used to have a pair of walkie-talkies. They were kind of frustrating because you had to hold down a button to talk, but while you were holding down the button you couldn’t hear the other person. We spent most of our time talking simultaneously, missing what the other said, and yelling at each other for doing it wrong. I loved those things. There was nothing better than hearing from my brother from the other side of the house or upstairs, even if I never quite got what he was saying. It seemed miraculous. That was about forty years ago. But our mother was thinking about it now, I could tell. I folded my hands across my knees and looked at them, guiltily, as if I were personally responsible for not keeping track of and maintaining those walkie-talkies in perfect working condition.

  “That was just so thoughtful,” said our mother softly.

  I wanted to go.

  “Tom, you’ve only been here fifteen minutes,” my mother said suddenly.

  “What?” Had I accidentally said out loud that I wanted to get out of here?

  “Stop looking at your watch!”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

  There was an ugly little pause.

  Then our father said, “Let me show you what we’ve been doing in the yard!” Another ritual.

  “Great!” Ellen said, as if this were not the most boring part of the whole visit.

  We followed our parents outside for a tour of their plants. Their yard was an ever-changing project. Frankly, it always looked about the same to me: bushes, flowers, patio. But they worked on it; every week they did a lot of hard labor to get it the way they wanted it, digging up plants, eradicating pests, weeding, building structures to hold in dirt or elevate flower beds.

  Our father was talking about compost, and I wasn’t listening. I tried not to be rude, but honestly, I had heard far more about compost and mulch than any one person should ever be subjected to.

  “All right, Tom,” my mother said. “You can go! You’ve put in your time.”

  “What?” I said, “I wasn’t—”

  “You just looked at your watch again! I understand. You’re busy. And you should be!”

  “I did not. Did I?” I turned to Ellen.

  Ellen said, “Dad, could I have a couple of lemons?” Always the diplomat.

  “Sure, honey!” Our dad walked briskly to the corner of the yard to pick a couple of lemons. Nothing pleased him more than giving away his produce.

  “Oh, Mom,” Ellen said. “Look at that rose! It’s perfect.”

  “Let me go get my clippers, and I’ll give you that for your desk.”

  “No, don’t you want it? I mean, I love it, but you might want it for the dining room or something.”

  “I’ve got plenty!” Mom bustled inside the house and got her clippers for the rose. “There you are, dear. Now, do you have something pretty to put it in?”

  “I’m sure I’ll find something, Mom.”

  “Oh, you’re very resourceful.”

  “I’m going to have to get back. I have these two cases I have to review before tomorrow.”

  “Do you? On a weekend? Poor you! Well, you know, I have some wonderful soup to give you both. It’s all packed up. It won’t take me a minute.” She hurried off to the kitchen and came out with two containers of soup. She handed them to me because Ellen was driving.

  We climbed back into the car, with me in charge of balancing the soup and the flower.

  I waited. She was going to say, “Why do you do that? It’s just for an hour. A lousy hour, Tom. Why do you have to make it so clear to them that you don’t want to be there?”

  We passed the grocery store. We got on the freeway. She didn’t say it yet. She was waiting to get her stride, and then she would let me have it.

  “What kind of soup is it?” she said.

  “Lentil.”

  “Oh, good.”

  We drove some more. “Do you have to work tonight?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Who’s playing?”

  I thought. Nothing. “I can’t remember. Want me to find out and call you? Want to come?”

  “No,” she said. “Thanks, though.”

  When we got all the way down the 8 and she hadn’t said anything about my bad behavior, I knew she wasn’t going to. She didn’t have to. Not necessary. I should have been more patient, let them tell their news, thought up something to tell them. I should have just settled in for a visit. In an hour, hour and a half, I’d be free to go. Was it so hard to do that for them? Yes, it was. Clearly. I was a selfish person.

  • • •

  At work that night, when I started cutting lemon wedges, they reminded me briefly of my dad. A small burst of guilt fired off in the back of my neck and then faded, a mere aftershock.

  I went to the pay phone. “Diana?” I said when she answered. “It’s Good again.” There was a pause. For some reason, it sounded as though I were talking about some situation or condition or maybe even relationship. “As in Tom Good?”

  She said, “I got that. And I got all your messages.”

  “So I was wondering if you’d had a chance to think about things… if you’d maybe decided to see me, after all.”

  “No,” she said. “I haven’t. I’ve been busy.”

  She sighed, and somehow I knew there was hope.

  “OK,” I said. “Take your time.” I would keep calling until she said yes.

  fourteen

  I was sitting in a restaurant with Diana. I had finally talked her into it. OK, I made a complete nuisance of myself, wearing her down until she caved. While I was pleased to get my way, we were starting out the dinner with her already irritated from all the pestering.

  She looked the same, only, I guess, older, though I couldn’t see exactly where this showed up. Her hair was about the same, straight and multishaded blond, to her shoulders. Her eyes were the same, a sort of yellowy brown. True, she did have little crinkles at the sides when she smiled, which she was not doing now. But did she have these before? I wasn’t sure. The crinkles looked as though they belonged there.

  “Does he ask about me?” I wanted to know.

  She looked at me, pressed her lips together, head tilting to one side. She wore lip gloss, no color.

  “Jack,” I reminded her. “Your son, Jack,” I said. He was my son too, but I didn’t want to push it.

  “Sometimes. Not often.”

  “What do you tell him?”

  She sighed. She didn’t want to get into this. “I just tell him that you were someone I used to know, that we had different plans about our lives. Having a baby was part of my plan, but it was not part of yours. I tell him that I really, really wanted him, and that nothing was going to stop me from having him.”

  “Oh. That—that’s excellent. I mean, that’s what you should say, really. That probably makes him feel very—” She cut me off with a glare, meaning she hadn’t asked for my opinion about what she should or shouldn’t tell her kid. Who was my kid too. Biologically.

  “That’s it,” she said. “That’s what I’ve said. When he asks. Which he doesn’t very often.”

  “Did you tell him that I play guitar?”

  “No, Good. I haven’t. I really haven’t gotten into any personal details.”

  “Why?”

  “What would that accomplish? Think about it. I just want him to know that you exist, but that we’re not in touch anymore.”

  “But now we are.”

  “This minute we are. Only because you wouldn’t leave me alone. Only because you kept calling and calling. But I don’t want to be in touch, Good. I think I’ve made that extremely clear. So ask your questions now, and then we’re done.”

/>   I looked at her, swallowed. “Sure,” I said. “Fine.”

  She bit her lip and looked out into the room. Was she going to cry? Was she conflicted about this? Was she thinking maybe she did want to be in touch with me after all, now that she saw me? Maybe she was having doubts. Were those doubts I saw crossing her face?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I just wanted to—”

  “It just stirs up a lot of old…”

  I waited, but she didn’t finish. “Old what?” I said. Feelings, maybe? Longing? Desire?

  “Old crap,” she said. “Painful old crap.” The dam burst. She wiped her hand across her face, but there were enough tears to get both her face and her hands wet. She picked up her napkin, but then she put it down again. It was cloth. Maybe she was too polite to mop up her tears and snot with a cloth napkin that someone else would have to wash.

  Oh, God, what have I done now? I was thinking. And, This is bad. I didn’t cry myself, and I hated it when other people cried. I did not do well with crying. “Diana?” I said. “Diana? Do you want to get out of here? Should we go?” I wanted to go. Personally, I wanted to get up and run.

  She nodded. I took some money out of my wallet and tossed it onto the table without even counting it, just like in a movie. I took Diana’s hand and walked her out. She didn’t pull her hand away, but then maybe she was just trying not to make a scene.

  Outside, she said, “I didn’t want to do this, remember? I didn’t want to get together. I said it was a bad idea, and I was right!”

  “You were right,” I said. “You were right, and I was wrong.” I find it’s a good idea to say this, maybe more than once when someone is crying. Sometimes it really does rescue the situation and pull things back from the direction they were going, which is toward crying and yelling, which I enjoy even less than plain crying. I repeated the phrase once more for good measure, softly this time, “You were right and I was wrong.” Then I added, “I’m sorry. OK?” in a whisper. I swear I didn’t know this was going to happen next. She sort of leaned into me, and I could smell her shampoo, or no, I guessed it was the conditioner, a different kind now. We were standing next to a planter at the entrance to the restaurant. The planter contained a geranium with red flowers. You know that kind of sharp dirt smell that geraniums have? I discovered then that the geranium smell combined with the conditioner smell is an aphrodisiac. I put my arms around her and didn’t dare move.

  “Let’s go, OK?” she said. She twisted away and started into the parking lot.

  “Sure,” I said. “Should I drive you home?”

  As we walked toward my car, she brushed a few tears away. Mascara was now smeared across her face, giving her a wrecked look that, unfortunately, just made me want to touch her as gently as possible.

  “I’ll get you home,” I said. “This was a bad idea. You need a tissue, and I don’t have any, of course. Here, use my shirt.” I pulled my shirt out of my pants.

  She looked at me sideways, and I worried for a second that I had just done something really disgusting. But next to my car, she actually wiped tears on my sleeve, dabbing carefully under her eyes to get the mascara. She looked up at me for half a second before she dried her dripping nose. “I’ll get you home, OK?”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Sorry, that’s going to be kind of wet—”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “Least I can do. Don’t give it a thought. OK.” I unlocked her door, and she got in. I went around to my side. “Let’s take you home.” It was the third time I’d said it. I knew that. But now instead of wanting to get her there as fast as possible, I was hoping that she would say she didn’t want to go home, after all.

  “Could we just drive around for a while? I don’t want Jack to see that I was crying.”

  “He would—you think he’d be able to tell? He must be really, God, attuned.”

  “Well, yeah, he would. And he’d worry about what was wrong.”

  “Did you tell him it was me you were meeting? I wouldn’t want him to think that his father—”

  “Of course I didn’t!” she snapped. “Why would I?”

  I had just ruined a nice, soft moment. “No, of course not. You wouldn’t want him to—”

  “He doesn’t even know you live here or anything. That just wouldn’t be helpful for him to know. Why do you—why do you always have to…” She couldn’t find the words to describe the stupid thing I did, had always done, every single time, even though it was more than ten years ago, the last time I did whatever it was.

  “Because I don’t know any better,” I said. “Because I’m an idiot.” She hadn’t named the thing, but I was sure she was right about whatever it was.

  “No, you’re not.” Now she felt guilty. “You’re not, Good.”

  “I am. Really,” I insisted. “Don’t feel bad about it. I know. I’m fully aware of my many flaws.”

  “I’m sorry. I should know better. Really. What’s wrong with me? I’m thirty-nine years old!”

  I was getting on the freeway now, going north. I had no destination in mind. We passed the Family Fun Center and its miniature golf course on the right. The place always depressed me. Whenever you see “fun” in the name of something, you can bet it won’t be. The excessive use of lights made it look even sadder than it was, with families trying to enjoy themselves, despite the nasty frustration of trying to get a little ball into a tiny, distant hole on the other side of many complex obstacles. The Ferris wheel turned with no passengers.

  “Jack adores that place,” Diana said.

  “What? Oh! Right! I bet he does! It sure looks like a lot of— well, fun!” Now I pictured myself on the Ferris wheel beside a small boy with glasses. We were never going to do that. I knew that. I probably didn’t even want to do that. It was just one of those thoughts that comes to you.

  “He had his last birthday party there.”

  “Really?” I said. “Oh, wow. How fun!”

  We didn’t talk anymore. The sun was going down in that slow, drawn out way it has getting toward summer, rinsing half the sky in orange. This always happens to me. I see something really beautiful when I’m in an ugly situation. Then I don’t know what all that beauty is trying to tell me. Maybe it’s saying, “You could do better. Check this out.” Maybe it’s saying, “If you were more in touch with life and love, this is what the world could look like all the time.” I don’t know. Whatever it is, I never get it.

  “What a sky!” Diana said next to me. And then she started crying again. Why? Do you see why I keep myself isolated? I can’t decipher what happens with people.

  Now we would have to wait even longer before I took her home because of her fresh tears and her even redder eyes. Again, I started longing to drop her off somewhere. This was too hard for me. It had too many layers. I wanted to rewind the whole evening, and start over more simply. Maybe I could find the place where I’d lost track of what was going on. Or maybe I could put in a different tape altogether.

  “Should I—do you want to eat or drink something?” I said. “Would that help?”

  “No,” she snuffled.

  “Do you want to drive by the beach or something?”

  “No thanks.”

  I mean, this was hard. And I had asked for this, practically pleaded. What was I thinking when I kept calling her and asking her to get together with me? What had I wanted? I tried to remember. I wanted two things:

  I wanted her not to be mad at me.

  I wanted to see the boy.

  Now here I was with this crying woman beside me and I wasn’t any closer to what I wanted.

  “Why did we do this anyway? Why did you want to see me?” She was thinking the same way I was; maybe we had a common ground after all.

  “I wanted to know about Jack,” I said. “I wanted to ask you about him.”

  “What did you want to ask me?”

  “Oh. Well, what he likes, what he’s like,” I said. “I mean, I just wanted to know what—�
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  “It’s hard to sum up a person like that,” she said.

  One minute she was being accommodating, and the next she snapped. Now she leaned her head back on the headrest, and I sensed that she was going to try to give me a little something. “He’s smart, he’s funny. He likes maps. He’s kind of messy.”

  “What’s he good at in school? What’s his best subject?”

  “He doesn’t like school very much.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s good at video games.”

  “Music? Does he like music?”

  “Not much.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why do you want to know all this?” she said. She turned her head to the side to look at me. “All of a sudden, you appear out of the blue and ask all these questions! You didn’t get in touch with me for ten years! I just want to know what you’re planning.”

  “I’m not planning anything. I didn’t know I was the father of a kid before, or I’m sure I would have gotten in touch with you.” That didn’t sound right. “I mean, it’s not as though I forgot about you or anything, I thought you—I mean, we broke up. You moved, and I…” I gave up. I was making her cry again. “You didn’t like me, remember? You got really fed up, and you left.”

  I sat there looking through the windshield at the truck in front of me. I looked into the left mirror, even though I wasn’t going to change lanes.

  “Well, you were wrong,” she said quietly.

  I nodded. “Of course. Wrong. Sure I was. I admit it.” I thought a minute, to review what I was so wrong about. “Wait. Which part?”

  “You were completely, totally wrong. I did like you. I was in love with you.” She looked at me. “If you say you didn’t get that, then I will know that you’re lying. I Just wanted you to say, ‘Diana, let’s stay together. Let’s get a bigger place, where you can have a closet to put your clothes away.’ Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t know, because I won’t believe you.”

  I didn’t say anything. To be perfectly honest, I was having enough trouble just breathing out and breathing in and keeping the car on the road.

  Finally, after several miles, when Diana had composed herself, she said, “I knew I shouldn’t have done this. I told you this was not a good idea, didn’t I? So, was there anything else you wanted to know? Any other reason you wanted to get together?”