"That night your father-in-law slept with his underpants on. He has never slept with his underpants on. Even when we had family visiting, or other guests. He had never done it before that night, and never did it again. And there were other things that night that were different between us."
She screwed up her mouth, as if the memory were still on her tongue, sour and biting. She straightened in her chair, an attempt to regain a dignity she had momentarily sacrificed to a greater good. "But I knew who it was then. I knew who the woman was."
Susan left that morning. She packed up her bags and drove back to Cottonwood Falls in the new Range Rover she had bought to replace the Land Cruiser.
She found John working in his office. He smiled up at her, and she thought she read an eagerness in his eyes that looked a little like apprehension, and she felt a faint stab of fear.
She leaned down and kissed him on the lips.
"You're back," he said.
"Yes. You moaned loud enough."
"I'm glad," he said. "I've missed you."
"Have you had lunch?"
"No."
"Tuna sandwich sound good?"
"Sounds very good."
Around one in the afternoon she took a tuna sandwich in to his office. As usual, she quietly set down the tray and started to leave, but he turned away from his work and asked her to wait a minute, said he had something he wanted to discuss.
She sat down on the arm of the sofa.
"Yes?"
"I've given a lot of thought to all this," he said.
"You mean Will."
"Yes."
He told her he thought he could finish his paper this weekend, and then they could bring Will back home.
"This isn't a discussion, then."
"Let's just get him back. See how things go. I'll have more time now. I can help out. I'll look after him."
"And if it doesn't work out?"
"I think it will."
Then he turned away, back to his calculations. Susan felt an odd relief, as if she had been expecting something else, something much worse than this. She sensed this was not the time to contradict him, thought it perhaps best to placate him a little for now. She would find time over the next few days, draw him out, make him see how impossible it was.
She rose and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You really want him badly, don't you?"
"Yes. I do."
She gave his shoulder a slight squeeze, a conciliatory sign, and turned to leave.
"Wait," he said. Then, rifling under a sprawl of papers, he held out a postcard to her. "This came in the mail yesterday."
She took it from him. "What is it?"
"An invitation."
She glanced at the postcard, a rather spectacular image, lightning splitting the skies over open prairie, then turned it over and read the handwritten message.
"A barbecue?"
"Memorial Day. That's this weekend."
"Who's Billy Moon?"
"Sarah Bryden's boyfriend."
"I didn't know she had a boyfriend."
"We don't have to go. I just thought..." He shrugged. He had still not looked up to meet her gaze. "She's done a lot for Will. It would be a nice gesture. To accept."
"Will she have the baby with her?"
"I'm sure she will."
Susan gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. "God, this is so uncomfortable."
"We don't have to go. Your call."
"Let me give it some thought."
Over the next few days Susan observed him closely and concluded her mother-in-law was wrong. She noticed nothing unusual about her husband's behavior. He was as he had always been: preoccupied with his work, distracted around the house, little inclined to make love.
CHAPTER 29
Billy Moon's Memorial Day Barbecue Bash was a kind of institution among his friends and family. It was rivaled in popularity only by Wayne Tonkington's Fourth of July Bullfrog Fry. Maude's protracted illness and death had brought about only a hiatus, not an end to the tradition, and Billy was determined to make it as grand as ever this year. His elderly aunts and uncles came shuffling in, and his grown daughters trailing their current beaux, and his cousins with their teenagers and toddlers. The entire faculty at Chase County High was always invited, as were many of the steer ropers and wrestlers he met year after year on the rodeo circuit.
Billy's place sprawled down the backside of a hill, backed up onto one of those many crooks and crannies that rivers carve out of the land. In the drier months of summer the Cottonwood kept to a deep and narrow course along the south bank, leaving a playground of exposed sandbars on the north. When Billy was of a mind to mount his tractor mower and trim the tallgrass, you could walk right down that slope and across the sandy riverbed to within a stone's throw of the south bank.
As Susan and John marched down the gravel drive and rounded the house—John with a six-pack of chilled Coronas under his arm—they could hear children's muffled shouts and laughter from the pool. Near the back door two little boys looked on while one of Billy's daughters sprinkled rock salt into the barrel of an icecream maker. Under the trees, two women were spreading a plastic tablecloth over a sun-warped picnic table. On the patio, an older set brooded over a game of rummy in the shadow of a white-fringed parasol.
There was a deep metal tub of iced beer and sodas under an umbrella on the back patio, and when John stepped up to bury the Coronas in the ice, one of the rummy players looked up from his cards and welcomed them, introduced himself as Billy's uncle, said to make themselves at home.
John took Susan by the hand and led her across the closely clipped lawn toward the river. It was a peculiar gesture—the first of several she noticed that evening— because John was not the romantic type, did not generally hold her hand in public. It felt awkward to both of them, and he wished he hadn't done it, but it was too late.
Billy had seen fit to engineer all kinds of paraphernalia to tempt one to play. There was a rope-and-tire swing suspended from the limb of a mammoth cedar where kids could swing out over the river and drop into the water. A few old tractor inner tubes, heavily patched, still survived, and as John and Susan made their way across the lawn they were met by a gang of children racing up the hill while a young man in a bathing suit dragged a canoe onto the shore.
He did not see Sarah at first, did not pick her out from the mothers kneeling around the plastic wading pool, not until she rose to her feet and with a flick of the hand brushed her hair back from her face. She caught sight of them and waved.
Susan was all smiles and charm then, walked up to Sarah and thanked her effusively for all she had done, said she was looking forward to getting her baby home, gestured to her arm covered wrist to elbow in a brace (she wore her sling that day although she hadn't worn it in a week), and said she would be getting this off soon and then would be able to cope. Then she squatted at the edge of the wading pool and pretended an interest in the little boy, pretended to be so very pleased with how well he looked, so healthy and active.
John glanced at Sarah, hoping to catch her eye. But her attention was focused on Will, and the expression on her face pinned him to the ground. It was a kind of rapture that shines from the inside out, the kind of bliss that comes only from loving a child.
That was exactly what Susan saw when she looked up, and that's when she knew. It was peculiar the way she realized it, because Sarah was not looking at John just then, she was looking at the child, but the effect was the same. That her husband was in love with this woman did not occur to her immediately, but grew out of the realization that this woman truly loved her son, loved him in a way one could never imitate, or force, or conjure. She saw then all she had strived to feel, saw it come so naturally out of Sarah's heart.
Will took a spill just then, found himself all tangled up with the others. Sarah bent down, laughing, and retrieved him. Will clung to her, the way John had seen him do so many times, as if his little life depended on her.
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Susan stepped back and—slipping her good arm around John's waist—beamed at him and said how fantastic their child looked.
"I think we should be able to bring him home next week," she said with a tight smile pasted on her face. "I should be able to manage by then."
Sarah's face darkened, and Susan felt an instant rush of satisfaction.
"We've really been looking forward to getting him back," she went on, eyes fixed on Sarah. Then, to John, "Haven't we?"
She glanced back to catch the look on Sarah's face, but Sarah had her mouth on the baby's neck, teasing him with kisses. Susan could not read her eyes. John stood stiffly at his wife's side, immobile. Susan tore her eyes from Sarah and gazed up fondly at him, but he was watching Sarah, and that was when it all came together. The realization was instant and total, and she stared at him in horror. She felt herself swallow involuntarily, her body in some spasmodic withdrawal from this awful truth. She flung her gaze back at Sarah, but Sarah had wrapped Will in a towel and, without a word to them, had turned up the hill, the baby still clinging to her hip, his eyes gazing darkly at them over her shoulder.
"She's a strange one, isn't she?" Susan said as she watched her move away, but John surprised her by agreeing. Yes, he said with a smile, Sarah was a little odd, but there was admiration in his voice. Susan did not like at all that he had used her name. The very naming of her hinted at a certain intimacy.
John detached himself from her grasp and strolled down the slope toward the river's edge, and Susan hated him for that gesture, all of a sudden hated this entire event, this place and these people, their rural pleasures and simple ways.
"John," she said, striding quickly to catch up with him, "this heat's getting to me. Let's go. Let's just leave."
He turned to face her and shrugged. "Sure, that's fine. We put in an appearance. We don't have to stay."
But then he glanced up the hill at the trestle table now laden with dishes.
"Looks like they're getting ready to eat." He reached for her hand again. "I'm starved," he said. "Let's eat first, and then we can go if you want."
But the call to table was slow in coming. It was early in the evening when they finally sat down to eat, and everyone filled their plates with coleslaw and baked beans and hunkered down over slabs of mesquite-smoked ribs. Susan and John found two empty chairs at one of several folding tables set up on the lawn, not too far from where Billy had pulled up a chair for Sarah and Will.
Several times during dinner John glanced aimlessly Sarah's way, hoping to meet her gaze, but she studiously avoided looking in his direction. However, when folks finished eating and the table emptied, Sarah remained, sitting alone with her chin resting in her cupped hand, staring out toward the river.
Susan had revived a little, surprised him by appearing to enjoy the company of the man next to her, an English teacher from Chase High. When John rose to get another beer, Susan caught his hand and whispered that it was time to go, but he ignored her and broke free and strolled up the lawn. He was screwing the cap off a bottle of Corona when Susan appeared beside him.
"Let's go," she said, and without waiting for him she turned away and headed toward the road.
Susan was behind the wheel of the Range Rover with the engine idling when he finally appeared. He hesitated, hand on the door, then leaned down to look at her through the window.
Never in all their years together had Susan seen such a look on his face. His jaw was set, and in his eyes burned a mutinous fire. It had flamed up once before, back when he was becoming his father's son, when they were all out in full force beating down that irrational self of his, the one that Hortense had recognized and greeted on the steps of a church all those years ago.
She pressed a switch and lowered his window.
"What's wrong?" She said it casually, but her stomach felt like she had just plummeted down a steep amusement park ride.
Susan watched through the window as he straightened and turned away and slowly walked back down the road toward the house. She called after him, and when he did not respond she stamped on the accelerator and the Rover sped away, spitting gravel in its wake.
He did not return to the party. He wandered a little in the dark, finally slumped down on the fender of a truck and remained there with his head in his hands until night fell.
CHAPTER 30
The sun dropped behind the hills and drenched the land in apricot light. The air cooled down and mothers urged their children out of the water, and they sat sulkily on the lawn, draped in towels, teeth chattering and lips the color of blueberries. Fireflies danced in the woods behind the house, and a group of children clutching jelly jars and a dip net ventured off to trap them.
Cicadas set up a high whir, filling out the orchestra of night music, and thunder rumbled to the south. Folks settled down on the lawn, some on aluminum folding chairs, others on blankets. They talked little, answering one another in short grunts or lazy laughter, and when Wayne got a hankering for argument, tried to stir up a debate about federal funding of the prairie reserve, Joy kindly told him to pipe down and eat his ice cream.
When John finally returned to the gathering, he noticed how the mood had changed. The talk had slowed and the night was spinning its magic. For a long time he hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, a bowl of melted ice cream in his hand. Sarah was sitting with Will on a quilt out on the lawn. Moments earlier, Billy had knelt down next to them and laid a hand on her shoulder, but then he disappeared down toward the river. Will was fussing, needing sleep, and Sarah was trying to bed him down there on the quilt with his bottle and a stuffed giraffe he had taken a liking to. From a distance John watched as Billy's old hunting dog, a sag-bellied bitch who had borne him four litters, singled them out of the crowd and dropped down next to Sarah. Will shot up from his reclining position and began pounding her skull with his bottle, an abuse she bore in wincing silence until Sarah snatched away the bottle. Then Will set to whining, which the dog, despite her seasoned patience, could not tolerate. When she stood up and slunk away in the direction of her lair underneath the house, Will darted off after her, quick as a beetle. Sarah flung herself onto the ground and caught him by a leg just before he crawled out of reach.
She was sprawled facedown on the grass when John stepped forward from the shadows of the house and bent down to scoop up Will, sweeping him into the air, and Will gasped with surprise and delight.
"How about a walk before I take off?" he asked quietly.
"I thought you'd gone," she said, her eyes wide with surprise.
"I came back."
"I see."
"Lost my ride, though."
She stood, brushed the dirt off her shorts. "I can drive you home." She slipped on her sandals. "I can take you anytime."
"After our walk."
"How about if we take Will into the woods? To see the fireflies."
"Then, to the woods," he said, lifting Will onto his shoulders.
For an instant Will strained toward Sarah, stretched out his arms to her with a little bleat, but then he felt his daddy's strong hands on his back, reassuring him. He gripped John's head, curled his hands around his chin, and together they moved down the sloping lawn, Will bouncing along on his father's shoulders.
At the edge of the woods John lowered Will into his arm and took Sarah by the hand. Moonlight filtered through the swiftly scudding clouds, fighting the path dimly. The children had long since tired of chasing fireflies and had fled indoors to lounge wet-haired before the TV. Now the only sounds were the gentle humming of cicadas.
"Better stop here," warned John after they had gone a certain distance. "Too dangerous in the dark. Unless you want to go back for a flashlight."
"Oh no," she whispered. "That would ruin it all."
They were in a clearing, a savannah in the midst of the burr oaks. All around them danced fireflies, tiny pulses of golden light darting through the dense, warm night air. John reached out and caught one, snatched it out of the air li
ke a wizard, and then held up his clenched fist before Will's eyes.
"What's in here?" he whispered. Will reached for his hand, attempting to pry it open.
John relaxed his fist and Will won the game. The boy peered into the cradle of his father's hand and there, resting on his palm, lay a dot of golden light. The little boy's eyes widened, and his long, dark lashes blinked back wonder. The firefly crawled across John's palm; then, sensing freedom, it flew off into the night. Will watched in silence, and then he dropped his weary head on John's shoulder, sighed deeply, and shut his eyes. He popped his thumb in his mouth and his other hand fanned the air, searching furtively for a handful of hair.
Sarah saw what he was doing, and she drew close and silently began to unbutton John's shirt. John started to speak, but she hushed him with a kiss, and then she took Will's hand and laid it on his father's chest. The little boy dug his fingers into the thicket of hair and then grew still.
"You stay with him a little longer," she whispered. "I'll wait for you in my truck."
Then she crept quietly back down the path.
At the edge of the clearing was a log, an old cotton-wood weakened by wind and age. John sat down on it and listened to the breath of his child and watched the fireflies dance in the moonlight.
After a while he rose and slowly made his way back to the house.
Most of the guests had gone home, and he heard voices on the patio and saw the glow of cigarettes in the dark. He avoided them, kept to the side of the house and cut around to the front where a truck waited with its headlights on.
"You aren't going to be missed?" John asked as he slid into the front and settled the sleeping baby into the car seat next to Sarah.
She reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. "I said my goodbyes."
For several miles they drove in silence. They rolled through Elmdale, and a short ways out of town at the top of a swell, Sarah slowed the truck and turned off the road, passing through a gated entrance. It was a moment before John realized they had entered a cemetery.
Sarah's Window Page 14