by Robyn Carr
“Anything we can do to help?” his mother asked. “How are they for clothes? Do they need clothes?”
“Well, since you asked, you know that box of toys and coloring books and things you keep here for when the kids come over? I think her kids would love to borrow it. What do you say?”
“And some bread, maybe? Rolls?”
“No, Ma.” He laughed. “There’s plenty of food. Just some toys for the kids.”
“Clothes, then?”
“No, really…”
“So what do they have for clothes, then?” she asked.
“Mattie, never mind,” said Big Mike, who was far smaller than his son, whom they called Little Mike. Big Mike stopped his wife as though she was getting personal. Mattie—short for Mathilda—and Michael Cavanaugh looked with deep concern at their eldest son, who stood nearly six foot two and was about as wide as a refrigerator.
“Don’t worry, Ma,” he said, touching the end of her nose with a finger. “They aren’t naked. There are no naked women and children running around my house. I can stay the night here? No problem?”
“Sure, Mike, sure. Let me give you some rolls to take to her. I’ll roll a few, and you tell her to let them rise and have them for her dinner. Do you take dinner here, or there, with her?”
Mike thought his mother stressed her. After all, his sisters, Margie and Maureen, had brought home plenty of good Catholic women who were not divorced with kids. “She’d love some rolls, Ma. That’s nice. I’ll bring Big Mike back in about an hour, okay? Then I’m going to go back to my place to make sure that anything kids can get hurt on is locked up—the tools and all that. I’ll have dinner here. I’ll be back around five. I won’t put you out, huh?”
“You never put us out,” she said, patting his cheek. Actually, she slapped his cheek, but she did so affectionately.
An hour later, when the car exchange had been accomplished, Big Mike walked into his house. Mattie came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “So?” she asked her husband.
“There is a dog, too,” Big Mike said. “A woman, pretty, two kids, both, like he said, cute, and a little dog with no manners.”
He walked past his wife to his favorite chair and picked up the newspaper, which he had already read twice. Big Mike had been retired for a year and still had not done any of the projects he had been saving for retirement. “Do you think the dog will hurt his carpet?” Mattie asked.
Big Mike sank into his chair. He shook the paper. It always read better after a good shake. He looked at his wife of almost forty years over his glasses.
“Mattie, four times you saw your boys fall in love and get married. Two times you took our little girls to the bridal shop and took me to the cleaners before you let me take them down the aisle. Why do you act like you don’t know nothing about your own kids? That dog could make Tootsie Rolls on Little Mike’s head and he don’t care. You pay attention then, Mattie,” he said, shaking his paper again. “Little Mike’s gonna keep even the dog. And it’s a terrible dog. His name is Creeps.”
“Rolls?” Chris asked.
“Listen, just count your blessings that she didn’t come over here to dust you, dress you and feed you with her own hands. All I had to say was you’ve been burned out, and my mother almost adopted you all, sight unseen.”
“That would be nice,” she said. “Your dad looked, well, I don’t know…reticent. Hesitant.” Suspicious.
“Suspicious.” At least he said it. “I’ve never done anything like this before. At least he didn’t frisk you.” He went back into the garage, brought in two more bags of groceries and put them down.
“Why would he want to frisk me?”
“Well, my mom and sisters have been parading nice Catholic old maids past me for ten years without any luck at all. And then I go and invite you and your kids to move into my house,” he said with a laugh. “When I told them what I’d done, the first thing my mother said was, ‘So, is she pretty, this woman?’” Mike decided Chris could find out how his mother felt about divorcées later, or maybe never. “I told you, they shake their heads over me. I’m sort of a special project. Since Joanie died, anyway.”
He left again, brought in two more bags. “You want me to put this stuff away?” she asked.
“Please,” he said, getting still more.
“Gee,” she said, “this is because we’re here. You shouldn’t have done that. I feel—”
“Hungry, probably. The rolls have to rise. Put them in the sunlight—there, on the windowsill.”
He brought in more bags. Eight. He felt very big across the chest, bringing so much food into his house. Taking care of people, really. It was not like giving things to his siblings or folks, who all tolerated it very patiently, even gratefully, but, no kidding around, they didn’t need his giving. They could get by fine without his gifts, his interference. What he gave his family was extra, not essential, like this. Today was the first time since he’d lost his family that he’d stocked so much; it filled him right up.
Next he brought in different kinds of bags. Then the box of toys, which he took into the living room for the kids. In the kitchen Chris was trying to figure out the cupboards. “I can’t really tell where things go, Mike. You don’t have a lot of food here.”
“I almost never eat here. My mom would die of grief if she couldn’t feed people all the time. I go over there almost every night. Here, I keep chips, beer, coffee, pop, cereal and eggs. And toilet paper. I don’t even get a newspaper.” He took out his wallet, unfolded some bills. “I ran into your landlord, and he told me to give you this to tide you over. I bought a couple of things for the kids, so you don’t have to take them shopping in their pajamas. I would have picked up something for you, but I didn’t know…you know…”
She looked at him in disappointment. “Mr. Blakely?”
“That his name?”
“That’s not true, Mike. You didn’t run into him.”
He didn’t seem to mind being caught in a lie. “You sure?”
“I talked to his wife. They’re thinking of suing me. They aren’t going to be generous about this.”
“Suing you?”
“It would seem. I’m going to have to fight them.”
“The son of a bitch. Here,” he said, holding out the money. “You can pay me back out of your settlement. You ought to fry the bastard.”
She smiled but hesitated to take the money. “Thanks. Why didn’t you just say it was yours straight out?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t take it. You suffer too much, Chrissie. It’s almost like you want to.”
“No,” she said, feeling a slight shiver at the sound of the nickname. Her dad had always called her Chrissie. “No, it’s just that I have an extraordinary amount of bad luck for someone who doesn’t take drugs or pick up hitchhikers. And I don’t want to take so much from you that I feel guilty.”
His face lit up. “I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
“I’m not,” she said, confused.
“Oh. You mean other religions borrow guilt when they don’t have enough, too?”
“Come on,” she said, taking the money.
“I think these will fit the kids,” he said, picking up the department-store bags. “I didn’t even want to take a chance guessing your size…. You’ll be okay in that sweat suit, huh? It isn’t high fashion, but it isn’t pajamas.”
“People shop at Iverson’s in worse than this. Why are you doing all this?” she asked him, a gentle inquiry.
“I don’t really know,” he said, the enormous honesty of it causing his dimple to flatten. He didn’t break eye contact with her, even though he knew the heavy brows were probably making him look dangerous. “But I am. I want to. Just let it go. Okay? Please.”
“Mike, I appreciate this. It’s very generous and kind of you, but—”
“In the closet in the room with the desk, there’s a printer. You can connect your laptop. You’ll have to buy paper. And there’s a wir
eless connection—just jump on. And here’s a house key, since you’ll be coming and going.”
“Mike,” she said slowly, “do you have some crazy fantasy about all of this? About these poor, destitute little kids and you’re the big strong fireman who—”
“Don’t,” he said, holding up his hands and looking as though something had just poked him. “Don’t, okay? Don’t start all that. My family has been dead a long, long time—I don’t have a lot of fantasies anymore. It’s almost Christmas, for Pete’s sake. I’m not trying to make you feel too grateful or too guilty. I don’t have any big plan here. It’s just sort of happening. They’re good kids—they’re too young for bad luck. Just get things back together. I don’t expect anything. Let it be.”
“Well,” she said, “it’s a lot to do…for a complete stranger.”
“Did you find everything? Bedrooms? Bathrooms? Towels? Need to know where anything is?”
“No. You have a wonderful house.”
“Well, you have your keys and some clothes for the kids. Go get something for yourself, have a good supper, take a bubble bath or something. Relax. There’s some liquor in the dining-room cabinet, if you drink. So the heat’s off for a while, okay? Your run of bad luck has been replaced by a little good luck, huh? And, Chris? I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world, but you smell sort of like a ruined brisket.”
Chapter 4
In one bag from the department store were three pairs of jeans, three shirts, pajamas, underwear and socks and a pair of tennis shoes, close enough to the right size, for Kyle. Pants, shirts, undies and tennies for Carrie were in a second bag, these in pink, lavender and white. All the price tags were removed, as was done with presents. “How did you feel, Mike, buying these things for the children?” she had wanted to ask him. But even had he stayed while she went through the bags, she would have lacked the nerve.
She suspected, or imagined maybe, that he would say it felt like something he had needed to do for a long, long time. She remembered how he had looked after the fire, his features rigid from hard work, wet with sweat and smeared with dirt. He had seemed so physical, rugged, dominant, yet there had been this tenderness all along. His kindness and humanity had glowed like a light in his soft green eyes. It was as though he did things from the heart, not necessarily prudent or logical things. What was prudent about running into burning buildings to save lives?
She had been pulled out of a fire; there was hardly any position more vulnerable than that. He had pulled her out, taken her in. There was hardly anything more masterful.
He had so quickly, so bravely told her about his missing family—not flippantly, not melodramatically—openly. Raw with honesty but no longer stinging with pain. An uncomplicated man who could speak in simple terms; he gave shelter, just like that. Because he was hardly there anyway, because the kids were too young for bad luck and because the shelters were awful…and because he’d had a daughter once. This gave her comfort and hope; her own pain was still fresh, and she looked forward to a time when she could calmly discuss all that had happened as the distant past rather than a current event.
“Here’s the deal, Chris, your daughter reminds me of my daughter….”
He had locked up his tools in the garage with new padlocks before leaving again. To keep the children safe. He asked if she would mind leaving him notes on the refrigerator, taping up her schedule so he would know if she was out for errands, working, whatever. He didn’t mean to pry, but he would have to stop by for his things now and then, and he didn’t want them to be tripping over each other or getting in each other’s way, surprising or embarrassing each other. And he gave her his mother’s phone number, plus his cell number, which he wouldn’t be able to answer when out on a call. It seemed to Chris as though she was being given everything, including space and privacy, when he should probably be asking her for references.
She had told him as little as possible about herself, secretive because her life story was so complex and astonishing. Mysterious Chris, so alone with her kids and their mean little dog. Him she had sized up within a day.
His eyes were a little sad, which was easily accounted for. He didn’t have a mustache now, but in a photo she had found while looking for the TV remote he had a thick brown mustache. He had been photographed in a T-shirt that read SACTO #54; he’d been younger, his cheeks shallower, his eyes wider, not yet experienced and crinkled. He’d been prettier, not more handsome. That was the man, she imagined, that Joanie had fallen in love with. A strong, lean, hopeful youth.
She liked his older looks. He had cozied; his manliness, the strength of maturity, even his sadness, gave him a depth a woman would be tempted to sink into for comfort, for pleasure. Every plane on his face reflected seasoning, seasoning by pain and sorrow but also by compassion and abundant love. When Mike Cavanaugh had offered to provide for her and her kids, and then did so, the gesture had settled over her like a warm blanket. He seemed sure, capable, sturdy. Here was a man, she thought, who wouldn’t collapse when leaned on. He was a complete stranger to her, but she felt perfectly safe. She hoped she would not become drugged by the feeling.
She had felt safe at other times in her life. She had felt the security of an only child; then suddenly she was an orphan. She had depended on her aunt’s unconditional love, then felt betrayed by Flo’s rage. And then—three strikes and you’re out—she had felt safe because she’d had a bunch of money and a husband she loved and a baby and what could go wrong?
She had obliquely asked Mike if he were trying to compensate for his losses. And he had said, “Don’t, okay? Just don’t. Just let it be, okay?” And then that little breathy way he had of saying, “Please?”
There was more, Chris knew. She felt a familiar pull. She was attracted to his power, his arms, his tanned face and curly hair, his bright, imperfect smile. The dimple. It had been such a long time since her body spoke to her of needs that she was shaken by this sudden, spontaneous awareness. And she sensed his feelings were not very different. Oh, this was supposed to be for the kids, but he looked at her in a way that made her think he was trying not to look at her in that way. She couldn’t help but wonder what his motives were. Maybe he wanted a woman. Or a family. He couldn’t replace what he’d lost, but he could try to recapture some of those emotions he had experienced when they were alive. The feelings of usefulness, companionship. This he could do by providing shelter. The thing he didn’t know was that he was exercising a need to provide on a woman who had a terror of dependency.
“It’s a roof,” he had said. She would try to remember what it was. And she would remind him, if necessary.
Chris scribbled a note. “Gone to shop, post office, Iverson’s, babysitter’s and burned-down house. Be home all evening. Thanx. Chris.”
She hiked up the sweatpants, pulled down the sweatshirt and was grateful her moccasin slippers had rubber soles. On her modest shopping spree she bought two pairs of blue jeans, shirts, some underwear and tennis shoes. She had purchased the barest minimum, and all on sale, but still the money Mike had given her was nearly depleted.
She stopped to pick up a new smock from Iverson’s Grocery so she could get back to work. Her boss and coworkers offered sympathy and help, which touched her deeply but did that other thing, too: made her feel even worse. What right had she, after all, to such concern, such sympathy? She had been an heiress, for God’s sake, and she had bungled it. She felt like an impostor. She longed for her mother, as she often did. Her mother would understand.
She dropped by Juanita Jimeniz’s house to explain her time off and to plan a new babysitting schedule for when she could get back to work. Then she went to the old house, which was roped off to keep the neighborhood children out. Her own children stayed in the car. The house was hopelessly destroyed, but some of the books that had been shoved in the refrigerator had survived. She took them back to Mike’s house but left them in the garage to air out.
She fixed herself and the kids a simple, cheap dinner; sh
e didn’t want to use up too much of the food Mike had bought. She would repay him, in any case. Then she soaked off the burned-brisket smell and washed her hair with Ivory—she had been too cheap to buy shampoo. She borrowed very little of what belonged to Mike and was not fooled by the appearance of new, unsqueezed toothpaste in the bathroom he probably never used. In fact, there were many new, unopened items in that bathroom, while he had a bathroom off the master bedroom full of half-used things. She didn’t think he had much call for Jergen’s Lotion or baby powder, yet it was available for her.
She scrubbed the kids, gave them ice cream, snuggled them for a while. She tucked them in early. Then she lounged, indulging in a weak bourbon and water. She wore her jeans because she wouldn’t spend her limited funds on sleepwear. The soft, deep sofa was decadent; the movie channel was as entertaining as a producer’s screening room. And she waited.
For Mike. Because she had left the note, she wondered if he would stop by. To see how she was holding up? To see if she needed anything? To see if she had ripped off the TV? To see if the kids were okay?
But he didn’t come by. He might not even have been there to read the note.
Her next day’s note said: “Out for errands, home by six. Will be here all evening. Thanks for everything. Best, C.”
But again there was no evidence that he had come home. And the phone didn’t ring while she was there. It felt very odd. Being in his house was somehow intimate, as if he surrounded her and was everywhere she looked but still was far away and hard to reach. Like Santa Claus. Or God.
She looked for something to read and found a small library in the master bedroom, which she entered guiltily. She was afraid to intrude, to invade. His books, in a bookcase by the bed, were almost all men’s adventure and spy novels. Cussler, le Carré, Ludlum, Follett, Shaw. Some horror by Stephen King. The book that was open on the bedside table was the latest thriller on the bestseller list. The books gave her a good feeling about him; he read by choice and for fun, entertainment, to imagine, to widen his vision. She wrote for similar reasons. Then she went to the study, where she made her bed from the couch. She opened the closet there. “Well, what do you know,” she said out loud.