“You’re looking good,” he said.
Her hand went to her hair; it hadn’t been washed in a week. Like most things, this day had caught her off guard. She had not seen him in three years.
“Thank you,” she said faintly.
“Let’s clean this up,” he said, swabbing the table with a tea towel. “Then we can sit down and catch up.”
“WHO WAS THAT?” said Jody. She had abandoned her truck and stood at the door, peering through the screen.
“Nobody.” Charlie refilled the basin at the outside tap and headed toward the garden.
She followed him. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know.” He splashed water over the tomato plants. A few of them drooped in the sun; he’d have to tie them up to spikes, the way Grandma Helen had done.
“I’m going in the house,” Jody announced.
“Wait!” He grabbed her by the shirt. “Stay here.”
“How come?”
“Because.” He couldn’t say it out loud; he wasn’t sure. “Go get that old coffee can on the porch. I’ll let you water the turnips.”
“Really?” she said. It was Charlie’s garden; he rarely let her near it.
They watered the turnips and cucumbers and pole beans and collards, the mint and chives and parsley and dill. Six times Charlie refilled the china basin. When there was nothing left to water, he wiped his hands on his pants.
“All right,” he said. “We can go in now.”
Just then the screen door opened. The man came down the porch steps and gave them a brief wave.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” he called out.
He got into the baby blue Cadillac and drove away.
BIRDIE SAT in the bath, soaking. She heard the screen door slam, the children’s footsteps rumbling up the stairs. A knock at the bathroom door.
“Mama’s taking a bath,” Birdie called out. “She’ll be out in a minute.” She rubbed her shoulders with a washcloth, her grimy ankles, her heavy white breasts.
“Who was that man?” Jody called through the door.
Birdie hesitated. She hadn’t decided what to tell the children. She rubbed her wet hair with a bar of soap.
“That was your father,” she said.
A long silence. Finally Charlie spoke.
“Where did he come from?”
“Florida,” said Birdie. He had a parish down there, his own congregation; the parsonage was surrounded by orange trees. “Wait till you see it,” he’d told her. “Summer all year long.” Birdie couldn’t imagine such a thing. She supposed she’d get used to it.
“Go and get yourselves dressed,” she said. “Your father will be right back. He’s taking us out for an ice cream.”
“Then what?” said Charlie.
Birdie slipped her head underwater to rinse out the soap. She had asked about his girlfriend, the hateful Moira Snell; they had parted company ages ago. She sat up and squeezed the water from her hair.
“After that,” she said, “we’ll see.”
THE MAN came back that afternoon in the same striped suit, carrying a bunch of carnations. Charlie’s mother went to the door. She wore lipstick and a flowered dress. She put the carnations in a jar of water and rubbed at a spot on her collar.
Charlie and Jody watched from the parlor, in Sunday clothes. Charlie watched carefully. He had to make sure the man was his father.
He’d been six years old when his father left; yet he remembered almost nothing. His grandma Helen had told him this was natural; his father leaving was a shock to his system. Still he kept trying, squeezing hard the way he did at school when he couldn’t see the chalkboard. (He had glasses but wouldn’t wear them.) He could bring up only two faint memories. A time when they were picking elderberries for jelly and Charlie tripped and fell, spilling his bucket of berries. His father had knelt to pick them up; all Charlie remembered was the top of his head, the comb marks in the thin black hair, the white scalp beneath. This man was almost bald; the little hair he had was gray, not black.
Another time they’d walked in deep snow. It was high, above Charlie’s knees, and cold where it slid into his rubber boots. His father had carried him on his shoulders, but here again Charlie couldn’t recall a face. All he remembered was the whiteness, the thick soft blanket over the houses and trees, the whole world shrunken and quiet.
Now the man stood close to Charlie’s mother. He grasped her elbow and murmured something in her ear. She ought to know if it was him; but Charlie had no faith in her. She barely managed to get herself to work in the morning. Each day it was Charlie who woke her and made sure she didn’t go back to sleep, who walked her to her job at the dry cleaning store in town.
His mother took the man’s arm. “All right,” she chirped. “Who wants ice cream?”
They rode in the man’s car to the Dairy Freeze out on the highway. The car was silent inside, the velvety backseat wide as a sofa. Jody bounced up and down and squealed with delight. She was six and didn’t understand anything.
“Quit it,” said Charlie. Then he remembered. The two adult heads rising above the front seat; the man’s head nearly touching the roof of the car, his long neck craning forward from the head-rest. It wasn’t much, but Charlie didn’t need much.
The man was his father.
They got twisted cones, brown and white, and sat at a picnic table in the parking lot. His father paid for everything. His mother ordered vanilla custard and forgot to eat it; Charlie watched it melt in the paper cup. Then they rode back to the house.
“You children stay outside for a while,” his mother said. “Play outside until it gets dark.” She led Charlie’s father into the house. The screen door slammed behind them.
“What do you want to do?” said Jody.
“Nothing,” said Charlie, but he got a rubber ball from under the porch and kicked it to her. Jody couldn’t throw and couldn’t catch; she’d duck if you tossed a ball in her direction. Back and forth they kicked the rubber ball. Charlie watched the house, checking the windows for signs—of what, he wasn’t sure.
“This is boring,” he said after a while. “I’m going to Terence’s.” He cut through the woods to his friend Terence Mabry’s house. He wanted to show Terence the big blue Cadillac, parked behind the house as if it had always been there. He allowed Jody to follow. He could see she had nowhere else to go.
The Mabrys’ truck was gone; a single light burned in the kitchen window. Charlie and Jody wandered into the backyard and sat on the swing set. The rusty chains scattered flecks of brown on their good clothes. At dusk the bug sounds started abruptly, as if someone had put the needle on a record. Charlie picked out cicadas, katydids, the low gargling of bullfrogs.
“Can we go home now?” Jody asked.
“Let’s wait awhile,” he said.
IN THE KITCHEN the light was fading; Birdie and Kimble sat with glasses of wine. She’d panicked when he found the bottle in the refrigerator, but he didn’t seem upset. He cleared the clutter from the table and poured them each a glass. She had never seen him touch alcohol.
“To our family,” he said, raising his glass. “They’re terrific kids. You’ve done a magnificent job.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I know it hasn’t been easy.” He set down his glass. “We had our problems, but I was wrong to leave like that. I’ve regretted it every day since. I wonder if you could find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Birdie frowned. In her opinion they’d had no problems at all until Moira Snell appeared on their doorstep; but she wasn’t about to split hairs. He had come back; he had admitted he was wrong; and she was tired. Tired of worrying about the roof (it leaked), of walking to town in the rain (she’d sold the Pontiac ages ago). Since Helen’s death she’d had the cooking and shopping and laundry to do, on top of her loathsome job at the dry cleaner’s. She’d had enough of this life. She was ready to be a wife again.
“I want to talk about the future,” said Ken.
“Our future as a family.”
Birdie lifted her glass to her lips and found it empty; Ken refilled it without a word. His own glass was still full.
“I’d like to take the children on a vacation,” he said. “Maybe take them down to Florida.”
“Vacation?” Except for trips to Missouri to visit his parents, they’d never gone anywhere together. Long drives made Birdie carsick; he must have forgotten that. Still, if a vacation was what he wanted, she was willing to try.
“That sounds lovely,” she said. “I’d like to get away.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Ken fingered his glass but didn’t drink. “I was thinking it would be just me and the children. The three of us. Give us a chance to get to know each other.”
Birdie set down her glass. Outside a mockingbird trilled, a final aria before nightfall.
“What about me?” she said.
He reached across the table for her hand. “We have to be careful. All this is going to be an enormous shock to them. Little Josephine doesn’t even remember me. I’d like to spend some time alone with them before—” He squeezed her hand.
“Before what?”
“Before we turn their lives upside down.”
His hands were cold. Far away, in the town, a fire whistle shrieked; somebody’s house or barn was burning.
He smiled. “Well? What do you say?”
Birdie felt flushed, clammy; a headache starting at her temples. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t let you take them.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“Be reasonable. I’m their father. I’ll take good care of them.” There was a slight edge to his voice, a tone that meant he was losing patience.
“Of course you would,” she said hastily. “I know that. It’s just—” Her mind raced. “They start school in a couple of weeks.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get them back in time.” He raised her hand to his lips. “See? Problem solved.”
Birdie closed her eyes. The kitchen was stifling, the wine going to her head; she hadn’t eaten except for a few bites of ice cream. If she refused he could disappear in an instant, drive away in his glorious car. Then what would she have?
“Well,” she said. “If you think it’s for the best.”
Again he squeezed her hand. “You’re a wonderful mother, Vivian. The children are lucky to have you.”
Her cheeks felt very warm. “When can I come to Florida?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. One thing at a time.” He stood and pulled her to her feet.
“Now that everything is settled,” he said, “come here.”
He drew her close; she did not resist. The divorce had never seemed real to her; she’d burned the papers when they came and never told a soul. In her mind he was still her husband. She felt wobbly on her feet. She leaned heavily against him as they climbed the stairs.
Her bed was unmade and piled with clothing. She’d tried on a dozen dresses that afternoon before settling on the flowered one.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” she said.
He placed the pile on a chair and pulled her down to the bed, slipped out of his trousers like a snake shedding its skin. He unbuttoned her dress and reached inside; for what seemed like hours he nuzzled at her breasts. Curtis, she thought. The name was magic to her; it always brought about the desired result when she was alone. But this time nothing happened. His movements stopped; he collapsed with a shudder. Finally he rolled off her and lay at her side.
“I need a shower,” he said.
THE HOUSE was dark. For a moment Charlie panicked, but the car was still there, silver in the faint light.
“Come on,” he whispered to Jody.
They went in the back door. The kitchen was dark, the parlor deserted. They climbed the stairs, feeling their way along the wall. Their mother’s bedroom door was closed.
Jody reached for the knob. She had always slept with their mother.
“Don’t,” said Charlie. “You can sleep with me.” Their mother never shut her door. He understood that it was closed for a reason.
They tiptoed into his room and slid under the covers. Jody’s thumb crept into her mouth and in a moment she was snoring. Charlie would tease her about it in the morning. For now he let her sleep.
They were to mind their manners in Florida—please and thank you and I don’t care for, not I don’t like. They were to mind their father no matter what, with no back talk.
Charlie’s mother followed him through the house as he finished his cereal and brushed his teeth and packed his shorts and T-shirts in the old suitcase. They were to bathe when asked. They were to bow their heads for grace before supper as they’d done when Grandma Helen was alive. Being a preacher, their father might want them to pray all the time. They weren’t to tell him they never did this at home. They were to enjoy themselves and think of their mother waiting for them when they came back.
“Why aren’t you coming?” Charlie asked, though he was glad she wasn’t. His mother made him nervous; there were too many things that could go wrong.
They wouldn’t give her any days off from the dry cleaning store, she said. And for the moment at least, she needed to keep her job.
She kept on talking right up until the Cadillac appeared at the end of the dirt road. His father had gone to fill the tank with gas. He got out of the car but left the motor running.
“What are we supposed to call him?” said Charlie.
“Why, child,” said his mother, “you call him Daddy.”
THEY WATCHED their mother fade away until she was just a tiny waving thing in a yellow dress, her hair a bright splotch of red against the pale sky. She’d cried when they got in the car. Their father had kissed her long on the mouth. Neither Jody nor Charlie had seen her be kissed before. Jody stared. Charlie turned away, embarrassed.
In a moment they were on the road. Jody lay stretched out across the backseat. Charlie sat up front with his father. The scenery flew past them on both sides, at a speed that made Charlie dizzy. They whizzed past the Baptist church, the corner where he and Jody caught the school bus, the road their mother walked to work. They passed the radio tower, the Dairy Freeze, the Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on the Deakins’ barn. Charlie watched the speedometer, the red needle hovering at seventy.
“How’s school?” said his father.
Charlie hesitated. The question was confusing; school didn’t start for two weeks. Jody poked her head between the two front seats.
“I’m going into second,” she said, and for once Charlie was grateful for her patter. “I already know how to times and divide.”
“Good for you,” said their father.
Once started, Jody wouldn’t shut up. She named every boy and girl from her first grade class. She counted to a hundred by fives, to thirty by threes. She sang a song called “The Polly-Wolly Doodle.” Charlie was no longer grateful; he imagined pulling her hair until she cried. He looked out the window at the strange fields, cotton on one side of the road, soybeans on the other. They’d been driving only ten minutes and already he recognized nothing at all.
His world was small; he knew it was. When he was little they’d lived in Richmond, and twice a year they’d ridden the Greyhound bus to the country to see Pappy and Grandma Helen. He remembered the grand adventure of those trips, the crowds at the station, the small rest room in the back of the bus, reeking of disinfectant; the stops at Howard Johnson’s, where his mother would buy them caramels to eat on the ride. A map at the bus station showed every Greyhound depot in America, hundreds in all. Someday, when he was older, Charlie planned to ride a bus through every one of them.
He watched his father’s hands loosening and tightening on the steering wheel. The hands were brown, as if he’d been in the sun all summer. A thin band of white circled one of his fingers.
“What happened to your ring?” said Charlie.
His father looked down at his hands. “I lost it.”
“How did you lose it?
” said Jody.
“In a rest room somewhere.” The hands opened and closed, opened and closed. “I was washing my hands and it got slippery from the soap and went down the drain. It was an old ring. It belonged to your grandfather.”
After that he was quiet. A while later Charlie asked if they could play the radio. His father turned it on and found a news station; Charlie didn’t ask if he could change it. In a few minutes the news turned to static. His father didn’t seem to notice.
In the afternoon they stopped at a diner. “Order anything you want,” said their father.
Jody and Charlie got hamburgers and french fries and Cokes. Their father had a salad and a bowl of tomato soup. He opened a package of saltines and crumbled them in his fist, then dropped the crumbs into the soup.
Charlie bowed his head and looked down at his fries. The paper place mat was printed with the words “Bless this food.” He waited.
“What’s the matter, son?” his father said. “Something wrong with your sandwich?”
Charlie looked up. His father was already hunched over his bowl. A drop of red liquid ran down his chin, as if he were bleeding at the mouth.
“No,” said Charlie. He bit into a french fry. Next to him Jody had already dismantled her hamburger: meat to one side of the plate, doused with ketchup; bun and lettuce to the other side.
His father slurped the last of his soup and moved on to the salad. He stabbed a tiny tomato with his fork; it jumped off the plate and rolled across the table. Charlie pretended not to notice.
THEY DROVE until it got dark, then parked in front of the Dixie Maid Travel Court. Jody was asleep in the backseat. Charlie followed his father inside the office. Behind the desk an old man smoked and watched a fight on television. He took a twenty-dollar bill from Charlie’s father and handed back change and a key.
“Got any newspapers?” said Charlie’s father.
“You can have this here,” said the man. He handed over a folded paper, the cigarette still bobbing in his mouth.
“Go get your sister,” said Charlie’s father.
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