A Theory of Relativity (17 page)

When Leland swung open the car door for them in front of a Spanish-style house on a boulevard shaded by sentry rows of cypress, Lorraine stopped on the lawn to listen. She could hear Keefer. “Birdie!

Birdie up!”

“That’s a sentence,” she’d whispered to Mark.

Leland offered to drop their luggage at Silver Shoals, where the McKennas had reserved their room, despite Big Ray’s protests that they had nothing but space at their place. “Do you need to get back to the Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 105

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office?” Lorraine asked. She had no idea what Leland did, but his car and his clothing did not hint at carpentry.

“Actually, no,” Leland dipped his head. “I’m living at my alumnae club right this minute. Caroline and I are trying to figure some things out. It’s been . . . well, we’d planned this before Ray died, but it’s been a real hard time for her. Goes without saying I just love the Nyes, every one of them,” he went on, “and family’s family.”

“We’re sorry,” Mark said.

“Oh, golly, there’s worse things. Caro’s just the best friend I’ve got.

We’ll be just fine.”

And then Keefer, with Caroline close behind, was running barefoot down the lawn, tumbling into a half-somersault, up without missing a beat. Mark was as unashamedly fervent as Lorraine had ever seen him, covering the baby’s wrists and elbows and forehead with kisses. Mark had not wept from joy since . . . Gordon was born. They all sat in Caroline’s meticulous, subzero sunroom, drinking mint tea, marveling over the parade of toys Keefer carried, one after another, to her grandmother’s lap for inspection.

“Have you seen my folks yet?” Caroline asked brightly.

“Leland just brought us here, and I guess we can take a taxi? To the hotel,” Lorraine told her, “I could use a bath, and maybe we can take Keefer swimming. I know you have so much to do.”

“Well, she’s had her share of swimming! That’s not going to be a novel experience,” Caroline told them.

“We’re sorry,” Lorraine began. There was an awkward pause.

“Leland told us. About your marriage troubles. That you’d parted, at least for a little while . . .”

“It’s okay, it’s really okay. It’s been coming for, like, ever. And after . . .

Ray died, and Georgia died, I just decided it was time for me to start living my life as if my life wasn’t going to last forever. I’m twenty-one and I’ve only ever done what I was told! It was like I had three lives—one for me, one for Leland’s parents, one for my parents, but every time I cut the pie, my slice got smaller.”

Neither of the McKennas could respond. Keefer, however, said,

“Birdie?”

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“I have a finch,” Caroline explained, “and it’s her best friend right now. You know, she’s so wonderful. She’s like a cuddly little koala bear.

She’s exactly like Ray, those legs! She’s just the image of his baby pictures. And who she really looks like is my dad’s mom. I don’t think Grandma Nye was still alive when Ray and Georgia got married.”

“I don’t think so,” Lorraine said.

“Makes me want my own someday,” Caroline went on easily, as Lorraine without warning found herself sweating in the frigid room. “But not right now! I need a life first. I’ve been married to Lee since I was born, and we are clearly not going to ever have a child.”

“Perhaps it can be worked out,” Lorraine said. “Being newly married is so hard. You’re not quite a dating couple and not quite a family yet.”

“He’s gay, though, that’s the thing of it.”

“Oh,” Lorraine said.

“He’s a great gay husband. I felt like I was being dressed by my own in-house Versace. But he is a gay guy. And his parents would sooner eat glass than admit it and my parents would sooner eat poisoned glass.

But Ray knew. Ray told me, get out, girl! And now I don’t have my big brother to stick up for me. Mother and Father are taking it hard, but I just can’t pretend anymore. Anyhow, now they’ve got little peachie here to fuss over and worry about. I’m done being the baby.”

“Have, Caroline, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but have your parents made plans . . . about Keefer?” Mark asked.

“Just totally made that room into F.A.O. Schwarz is all. She’s got a slide into her bed, don’t you, Sugar? A slide into her crib. She can’t climb up it. It’s completely child safe—”

“At their house?”

“Well, Andy and Ali can’t decide. Frankly, I think Ali has her hands full with the monsters—”

“We’ll just get a taxi over to the hotel now,” Lorraine said abruptly.

“Don’t you want something to drink or eat?”

“I just want a hot bath, a cool bath,” Lorraine said, absently gathering up from the floor whatever seemed to belong to Keefer. “You know how it is when you travel? You just feel grimy. Is her dipe bag here anywhere, Caroline?”

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“Mother’s been putting her on the potty.”

“She’s fifteen months old!”

“She does a great job!”

Keefer grinned.

“Can we use your phone?”

“Oh, I’ll drive you over. We have family counseling at four. This has been so”—Caroline’s face crumpled—“We just never imagined. Losing Ray. Ray was our hero. And I don’t know if I should say this, but . . .

you know, this was their wedding day.”

Lorraine stood up. “I know when my daughter’s wedding day was.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’m sure you . . . I know. We’re all on edge. So, now, Caroline, the memorial is at noon tomorrow?”

“It is, but Mother expects you for dinner tonight.”

“You know, Caroline, we can’t. I just . . . don’t feel well,” Lorraine said. “And we want to get reacquainted with Keefer. Spend some time with her.”

“Mother and Father really appreciate everything you’ve done. For Keefer. And what Gordie has done,” she looked up, shaking back her blond curls. “Is Gordie single?”

“He’s engaged,” Lorraine said. “Not really. Not formally. But you met Lindsay.” Mark stared at her. “They’ve been sweethearts forever.”

“He’s great,” Caroline said, “hot.”

“He’s hot all right.” Lorraine smiled. “So, okay, we’ll see you tomorrow.” She scooped Keefer up, and pull-up pants and juice bottles tumbled. Mark scrambled to retrieve them. “Just leave them, Mark,” Lorraine whispered, as Caroline went to retrieve her car keys. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mark settled Keefer in her car seat in the back of Caroline’s Mus-tang. With his knees folded under his chin in the backseat, Mark looked like a marionette. Once at the hotel, Lorraine threw open the passenger door in the crushed-shell circle drive, and hauled Keefer out, seat and all. Keefer looked up plaintively, “Birdie?”

“ ’Bye, ’bye, Kathryn,” Caroline said, brushing the baby’s outstretched hand with her lips. “Keefer Kathryn.”

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Mark and Lorraine stood in the blazing sun, Keefer struggling in her seat. Mark took the seat from his wife and they stepped, blinking, into the lobby gloom, where two-story waterfalls made Lorraine feel she had to shout to be heard. “Let’s get in the room,” she called to Mark.

He returned a moment later, looking sheepish. “It’s been paid for,” he said, “for as long as we wish to stay.” They rode up silently, beside a silent bellman, in a glass cage.

Keefer trampolined on the king-sized bed while Lorraine rummaged for a phone book. “I doubt whether we can get a flight out of here tonight. But we can drive to Tampa. We can drive anywhere, really . . .” Mark put his hand over the phone cradle, depressing the lever.

“Wait, Lor, I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking the same thing.

But we have to go to the memorial service.”

“Why? Why? They’ll have us restrained by Republican bodyguards.”

“It’s not a joke, Lor.”

“I’m not joking, Mark.”

“Let’s get a good night’s sleep and decide tomorrow. Let’s call Gordie.”

“I’m not leaving this room.”

“Let’s get some food.”

Mark chewed on lackluster ribs, but Lorraine ignored her shrimp cocktail. Gordon was not at home. They did not leave the room, or set up a crib. Keefer slept between them, savoring her sideways thumb. In the morning, they dressed Keefer in the white dress with the daisies, which looked cleaner than it had when Diane unwrapped it from its tis-sue paper in Tall Trees. Perhaps it was a duplicate, Lorraine thought.

The phone rang, and a car came. Lorraine scrutinized the interior locks.

The parking lot at the Nyes’ club, Sandpiper Reserve, was crowded, and knots of identical young men, all blond, all wearing red ties, rocked heel to heel, restlessly, in the sun. Inside, interlocking circles of white roses around a smaller circle of red buds, at least four feet tall, stood at the entrance to the ballroom. “Happy Trails, Raymundo,” the ribbon read, “from your pals at Knockers.”

“I didn’t think . . . it’s so obvious,” Mark said.

“They’re not known for taste, they’re known for . . . fun,” Lorraine Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 109

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answered. She had never openly acknowledged her discomfort with her son-in-law’s tour sponsor, a restaurant chain neither she nor Mark had ever visited, which specialized in the Knockouts, bikinied servers in knee-high black leather skates. But it was a big tour, as big as the Nike tour.

Spotting them from across the huge polished floor, Carl Jurgen came gliding over to welcome them. Diane Nye followed him, subdued in a black skirt and white long-sleeved blouse, her artfully cropped hair flattened and, to Lorraine’s shock, displaying yellowed roots. “I look like hell,” Diane read Lorraine’s mind. “But for us, this is the worst. This is the end. This is when I have to admit he’s never going to walk in the back door and pick me up . . .”

Drowned in pity and regret, Lorraine opened her arms, and Diane let herself be held. “Do you ever think you’re going to lose your mind, Lorraine? I mean, really lose it? Just melt away?”

“Every day.”

“What do you do?”

I think of Keefer, Lorraine thought, I remember Keefer. I remember Gordon. “I try to think of the future, because I can’t bear to think of the happy past,” she said.

“There’s no God, Lorraine,” Diane said.

“I wonder myself. But I want to think so.”

“Do you take antidepressants?” Diane asked.

“Not yet,” Lorraine murmured, thinking of her stash.

“There’s no God, or God is insane,” Diane went on. “Hi, Mark.” He touched Diane’s arm. “Hi, darlin’ baby girl. God might have needed one of them. But both of them? Raymond was . . . he was a gift to the whole world.”

“He was a decent, good kid,” Lorraine agreed, thinking, Gordon was right. People of goodwill can compromise. She did not envision ever being Diane’s friend precisely, but they could share, bind a warp of sharing around their love for Keefer.

“Can you have dinner with us after this?” Diane asked. “I mean, just the four of us? So that we can really talk?”

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“Big Ray and I really want to talk to you, grandparent to grandparent. We want to make this work. We want you to be an important part of Baby’s life, always.” Diane looked into Lorraine’s eyes. In the center of Diane’s eye, Lorraine imagined she could see an egg yolk, expanding and contracting. “If only you didn’t live at the damn North Pole! Pardon my French. But we want her to . . . grow up with all . . . well, you understand, Lorraine. You want the best for her, too. I know you do.” A drizzle of guitar notes urged people to take their seats. Huge and solemn in his gray suit, Big Ray nodded to the McKennas and motioned to Diane. Into Lorraine’s ear, Mark said evenly, “I want you to listen to me. I don’t want you to flip out. I heard what she said. I know what she said. Now, I am going to leave this room quietly, and you take Keefer up there and sit down, and when I come back, I promise you I will have made arrangements for us to go home. I promise, Lorraine.” Lorraine’s heart tumbled in her chest. She showed her teeth to Mark, to the room. She knelt to pick up the baby. The guitarist was playing something sad and Spanish. Then they all heard the faraway sound of a bagpipe, its burr closer and closer, and a young man in Blackwatch plaid strode slowly into the room. He faced the crowd and played the song Ray and Georgia had chosen for their wedding proces-sional, an old ballad called “Wild Mountain Thyme.” Her eyes streaming, Lorraine went to sit beside Diane, placing Keefer between them.

Carl Jurgen rose to speak. “All of you here today knew Ray Nye as well as he knew himself. You knew him on the playing field, in school, in the house where he grew up and where his parents still live. I had thought to be older when I spoke at the memorial of my best friend. I thought perhaps it would be Ray who spoke of me. But what I will say here will be the truth, and brief. Ray Nye, Junior, was a phenomenon.

He could drink every night, of course I’m not saying he did, Ray and Diane, but he could drink every night, and come home and walk through the Scholars house, tutoring Gordie when he hit the wall on differential equations, reminding me how Locke differed from Hume. I never observed Ray study, and yet, he breathed in knowledge and shared it. He would have given you the shirt off his back, which would Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 111

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have been big enough for you to live in, and the answers on his test paper . . . though, of course”—Jurgen smiled whitely—“of course, he never did. Ray believed it all belonged to everyone.

“And because I believe he is looking down on me, I am going to tell one tiny tale out of school. When Ray and I were sophomores, we believed our fathers did not support us in the fashion we wanted to become accustomed to. And so, up we would go, to Pelican Point, and hang around on the green, stubbing putts, for many hours, until along would come some fellows . . . and Ray could spot these fellows, perhaps because he was, in his own way, so trustful of human nature. We are college students, Ray would tell these fellows—men from Plum, Pennsylvania, or Iron River, Michigan—and we play a little. And we would start, stiff-legged in our earnestness. Now anyone who has ever seen Ray Nye play golf knows he did swing slowly. To watch him swing was to think, this is impossible, this ball is going to dribble off the tee like mustard onto an old man’s tie.