Corrie smiled, accepting his apology. “It’s my favorite room in the house,” she said, “except for the cupola. I’ll have to show you that; you’ll like it, too.”
“It’s a nice house, Corrie. It fits you—all neat and respectable and beautiful.”
“Careful,” she warned, smiling again, “you might offend me.”
It had been a sore point between them, all those years ago. Corrie had longed for stability, respectability, a gracious home—everything Daniel didn’t want.
She looked across the table at him, sitting in her beautiful kitchen with its stainless steel appliances and marble countertops. She wondered what he thought of her choices.
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked again, more quietly this time.
“Bryn said you work for the alumni magazine?” Daniel said.
“I’m the editor,” she said, proudly.
“Then you make the decisions about what goes in?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “I have a lot of freedom that way. Of course, I have to report to the university board. I can’t include just anything.”
“Do you ever profile alumni?”
“Almost every issue,” she said. “Haven’t you ever seen The Current ?”
“I don’t get it,” he answered. “I haven’t kept up to date with the university.”
“Too busy saving the world, Daniel? How noble.” Corrie felt herself getting edgy. Damn it, she said to herself. Calm down. Daniel could always push her buttons so easily.
“I’m sorry, Corrie. Look, I didn’t come here to insult you or your magazine, or your house or your life.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she answered. “Why did you come?”
“Actually, to ask you to help me with something.”
He put down his coffee cup and leaned across the table.
“I’m working for a community center in Pasadena, and it’s about to go under. We’ve lost our funding from the state, and our federal grant just fell through, and we’re about to lose our building.”
He stood up and began pacing the room.
“The damned Republicans get into office, and everything I’ve worked for in the last eight years is about to go up in smoke.”
He stopped pacing and looked at her. “I was hoping you could profile me in your magazine—you know, a worthy graduate doing something notable? And you could put in the article how the center is going to close without help, and give the address for people to send money. Maybe the college will even do a matching grant.”
“I don’t know if I can do that, Daniel.”
“Why not?” he asked. “You’re the editor, aren’t you? And most MU grads have so much money, they could make a real difference.”
“It’s not that simple,” Corrie answered carefully. “I’d have to run it by the board. We have a policy about soliciting funds through the magazine, even for good causes.”
“But listen, Corrie, this isn’t just a good cause. This is a place that touches people’s lives, real people—kids. Not just causes.”
“And we’ve just put the fall issue to bed,” Corrie continued, forcing her voice to stay flat. “The next issue won’t come out until December, and that one is already planned.”
“Can’t you unplan it?” he asked. “You’re the editor, right? You can just unplan it.”
“Daniel, you don’t understand. It’s not that simple. We’ve signed contracts with writers who are counting on us to print their stuff. We’ve got photos and layout started. We have a format we follow. I can’t just scrap it all because you want me to.”
“I’m not asking you to change the whole magazine,” he said. “Just find room for one more article.” He smiled across the table at her. His eyes were still so blue.
“About you?” she asked.
“Not about me,” he said, “about the center. It’s such a great place, Corrie. We serve so many kids. Without the center, I don’t know what will happen to a lot of them. It’s a pretty rough neighborhood, and we’ve been making a real impact on the community. You could come see it for yourself, if you want. Then you’d understand why I’m asking. Can’t you just think about it?”
Corrie sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. What if she moved the alumni profile she’d planned to the next issue? No, she couldn’t do that. She shook her head.
“Look, Daniel,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if I can help you or not. But I’ll check it out. At the earliest, it would be the spring issue.”
“By then the center will be gone,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry,” she answered, “it’s the best I can do.”
He rose and put his cup in the sink.
“Just think about it, okay? I know I don’t have any right to ask you for help, and if it was just me, I wouldn’t. But the kids we serve, they need it so much. And it would be something new for you, something important to write about, something you could make a real difference with.”
She shook her head again, felt the color rise in her cheeks. “The magazine does cover important things,” she said. “If you read it, you’d know.”
“I’m sorry.” Daniel smiled at her. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“Yeah,” Corrie said, “you did.”
They stood awkwardly for a moment, the silence heavy between them.
“I’ll go,” he said finally. “Thanks for at least hearing me.”
She followed him to the door, where he paused. Then he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “It really is good to see you.”
“You too,” she whispered.
She closed the door behind him, leaned against it, and cried, just as she had the day ten years earlier when he’d left. It was September 14, 2001—three days after the terror attacks in New York and Washington. They’d been living together since graduation in a tiny basement apartment, Corrie working for the university’s news bureau, Daniel tending bar at a place on Kendle.
For three days, they’d sat glued to the television, watching the terrible footage from the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, the field in Pennsylvania. Finally, Daniel said he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t just stay in Middlebrook and tend bar. He needed to be there, in New York. He needed to help.
He’d begged Corrie to go with him. “Think of how much you can do there, how much we can help.”
But Corrie couldn’t leave Middlebrook. “My family is here. My mom needs me. And Maya . . .”
“Maya is sixteen,” Daniel said. “In a couple years she’ll leave for college. There’s nothing forcing you to stay, Corrie. You have a choice. Come with me.”
In the end, he had gone and Corrie had stayed, spending the next two weeks curled up in the bed they’d shared, crying, wishing she’d had the courage to go, wishing he’d loved her enough to stay.
8
Bryn leaned back on the couch, watching through the door to the kitchen as Bob washed dishes. She smiled, looking around the living room. Worn, overstuffed chairs, nicked and scratched end tables, a small truck under the coffee table. It was comfortable and homey—just like Bob. She picked up a framed photo from the end table and studied it, a family portrait taken last year. Bob and Wendy and two chubby-faced little boys, all smiling for the camera. Bryn’s eyes darted from the photo to the man in the kitchen. His hair is turning gray so fast, she thought. I didn’t realize it till now. He’ll be completely gray soon.
She shook her head, studying the picture again. Wendy’s smile was bright, and a mass of dark red ringlets circled her freckled face like a mane. Her left hand rested on Bob’s shoulder, a small diamond sparkling on the third finger.
What is wrong with her? Bryn wondered. Why would she leave someone like Bob? And for such a loser.
Bryn had met Wendy’s new boyfriend only once, and that had been enough. She knew the type—a middle-aged, beer-bellied, chain-smoking good ole boy with nicotine-stained teeth. The kind who measured the year by hunting and fishing seasons.
Stupid witch, she said to herself. Stupid, selfish witch.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” she asked.
“I’m finished now,” he answered, laughing. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”
Bob walked into the room, carrying a tall glass. “You sure you don’t want a drink?” He stood over her, waving the glass.
“No thanks.” She smiled, shaking her head. “What is that, anyway?”
“Rum and coke,” he answered, dropping into a chair. “I’ve developed quite a taste for them lately.”
“Be careful.” Bryn eyed him cautiously. “That can be habit-forming.”
“I know.” Bob put the drink down on a coaster. “I usually just have one at night. So I can sleep.”
“Is it hard?” Bryn asked softly.
“Yeah, it’s hard.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, each wrapped in thought. Finally, Bob leaned over and turned on the stereo. The opening notes of “Angel” floated through the air.
“God, I haven’t heard that in a while.”
“I took Wendy to a Sarah McLachlan concert on our first date,” Bob said quietly.
Bryn leaned over and turned the music off. “Stop that!” she commanded. “Just stop it.”
Bob simply looked at her.
“Okay,” Bryn said quietly. “Look, she’s gone. She left, and she’s not coming back. You can’t make her come back. I don’t know why she left, and I think she’s a fool. We all do. But she’s gone, and you have to deal with it.”
“I know,” Bob said. “But I keep thinking maybe . . .”
“She’s not coming back this time, Bob. And even if she did, you couldn’t take her back again. Not this time. My God, she took your kids! She took your kids to live with that hill jack. How could you even want her back?”
“When I married her I said for better or worse, in sickness and in health. I keep thinking, maybe she’s sick. You know? And she’ll get better, and then she’ll come back.”
Bryn shook her head. She was feeling queasy again.
“It’s his fault,” Bob suddenly exploded, rising. He walked around the room, carrying his drink. “It’s that bastard’s fault. He took advantage of her.”
“Listen, Bob, I could buy that if this was the first time. But this is the third time. She’s not a child. She made a choice—an active choice.”
But he wasn’t listening.
“You know how she met him, right? He was going to give Micah guitar lessons. Instead, he ends up sleeping with Wendy. What kind of predator takes advantage of someone like that?”
“He’s a prick,” Bryn agreed softly, battling a wave of nausea. “That’s why you’ve got to get a lawyer, so that prick doesn’t end up raising your kids.”
“Are you okay?” he asked suddenly, stopping directly in front of her. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks so much,” she smiled weakly.
“I mean it, Bryn. You just don’t look like yourself.”
Bryn sat silently, running her hand through her short-cropped hair. She felt her lip begin to quiver. Oh no, she thought. Don’t cry.
Stop it! She felt a tear slide down her cheek.
Before she could stop she heard herself say it out loud. “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh my God, Bryn. That’s great!” Bob dropped to one knee beside the couch. “That’s great! Are you having a lot of morning sickness? Is that what’s wrong?”
“Yes, I’m sick. No, it’s not great.” Bryn felt the tears welling in her eyes now, let them spill over and run down her face. “I don’t want to be pregnant. Paul doesn’t know. He doesn’t want a baby. I can’t have a baby!”
Bryn was sobbing now, her face buried in the couch.
“It’s not fair,” she cried. “Why didn’t this happen for Corrie? She wants a baby, she wants one so much.”
Bob sat on the floor by the couch, rubbing her back softly. “Shhh,” he said. “Stop with that. It’s not your fault Corrie can’t have a baby. She’ll be happy for you. You just worry about taking care of yourself right now. I remember when Wendy was pregnant with Micah—”
“Stop it! I’m not happy about this, okay? You don’t understand. Paul doesn’t want a baby. He’s never wanted a baby. And me? God, can’t you just see me, a mother?” She buried her face again. “This just isn’t fair.”
“You’re right, life isn’t fair,” Bob said quietly. “But yes, Bryn, I can see you as a mother. Maybe not a traditional, cookies-and-milk mom, but any kid of yours will have a free-spirited, unconventional, loving mom.” He cupped her chin in his hands and looked directly into her eyes. “You can do this.”
Bryn looked up at him and tried to smile. “You’re such a sweet man. But you just don’t know . . . you don’t understand. Paul doesn’t want a baby.”
“What about you? Do you want a baby?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed, shaking her head and pulling away from him. “I didn’t think so. But now that I’m pregnant, I keep thinking . . . I don’t know, maybe. I mean, I’m thirty-two. Maybe this is the only chance I’ll get.”
She stopped and shook her head again, grimacing. “I can’t even believe I said that. Don’t pay any attention to me. I think I’m losing my mind. I can’t have a baby, and that’s that.”
“You haven’t told Paul yet?”
“No,” she said firmly, “and I’m not going to. It would just make him mad.”
Bob took her face in his hands again and looked into Bryn’s eyes.
“You’ve got to tell him,” he said firmly. “You can’t do anything until you tell him. It’s his child, too, and he has a right to know. Besides, maybe he’ll surprise you. Maybe once he gets used to the idea, he’ll be happy about it. Wendy didn’t think she wanted kids, but once she got pregnant, she was thrilled.”
“Yeah, so thrilled she left,” Bryn snapped, then, seeing Bob’s wounded expression, she immediately regretted her words.
“I’m sorry, Bob. Oh God, I’m sorry. Don’t pay any attention to me. I just need to learn to shut up.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m okay. But you’ve got to tell him. You know that, don’t you? You’ve got to.”
Bryn sighed, nodded. “I know,” she said softly. “I just don’t want to.”
An hour later she stood fumbling with her key. She could hear the television blaring inside the apartment. Paul was home. She turned the key, set her shoulders in determination, and opened the door.
“Paul? I’m home.”
He sat on the couch, watching the news and eating peanut butter on crackers. He looked up at her with a vacant smile, then turned back to the television. The smell of pot hung heavily in the room. Bryn winced at the smoke, willing her stomach to stay calm. Oh well, she thought, now is obviously not the time to tell him.
She dropped her purse onto the table in the kitchen and plopped down beside him on the couch. “Any messages?” she asked.
“Huh? Oh . . . no,” he replied, his eyes never straying from the screen. “Hey, did you ever notice how long this guy’s nose is? Man, it must be a mile long.” He stared transfixed at the newscaster, who was reporting on a bomb threat at the Miami airport.
“How much did you smoke?” she asked, looking into the ashtray.
“Just one joint. Geez, don’t start,” he whined. “I just had one little joint to unwind. Don’t get all bent out of shape.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Bryn said soothingly. “Just asking.”
“I’ve got another one, if you want to join me.” Paul nodded toward a wooden box on the shelf. “It’s pretty good stuff. . . . Might make you feel sexy.” He leaned over and nuzzled her neck.
Bryn pulled away. “You need a shave,” she snapped.
“So I’ll shave,” he said with a shrug. He smiled and reached his hand out to touch her breast, then slipped it
beneath her shirt. “Come on, baby. It’s been a while. Why don’t you smoke a joint and loosen up a little?”
He took her nipple between his fingers. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he whispered hoarsely.
Bryn rose abruptly. “I’m tired,” she said. “And I have a lot of work to do.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Paul asked. “You’re always tired these days.”
“Maybe I’m just getting old,” Bryn said, shrugging her shoulders.
Maybe I’m just growing up, she thought. God, how could I even think this man would be ready for fatherhood?
Paul stood up, wobbled slightly. “Head rush,” he said, smiling.
He walked over to Bryn, put his arms around her, slid his hands under her shirt again. “You’re not getting old, baby. You’re still my sleek sex kitten. Now come on, let me warm you up.”
He took her hand and pulled her toward the bedroom.
Bryn allowed herself to be pulled along. Pot usually made Paul horny. She knew if they didn’t have sex, there would be a fight. And she was just too tired to fight tonight.
Paul fell back onto the bed, pulling her on top of him, his hands clutching at her breasts. She looked down at his red-streaked eyes gazing up at her blearily and shook her head. He lifted her shirt over her head and raised his lips to her breast. She sucked in her breath sharply as she felt his teeth nip at the swollen, tender nipple. It hurt. Now he fumbled with her belt. She pushed his hand aside and unbuckled the belt, but he had already reached his hand down to shove her skirt up around her waist. She sighed and stood, letting the skirt slip to the floor, and waited.
Paul sat up and pulled her panties down to her ankles, then reached out to tickle the fur between her legs.
“There’s my little kitten,” he murmured, pulling her back down onto the bed. He rolled over on top of her, burying his face between her breasts, his hand still between her legs.
Bryn closed her eyes tightly. She felt sick and puffy and tired. She felt like glass. She wrapped her hand around his head, playing absently with the hair at the nape of his neck. Just don’t get sick, she told herself.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, raising his head to stare at her face. “You’re so stiff.”
The Weight of Small Things Page 5