Home Song (30 page)

“Why didn't you call?” Ryan asked.

“I didn't know what to say.”

“Hell, I'm your brother. You don't have to dream up what to say, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Chin tucked, Tom stared at the toes of his shoes.

“You left Claire,” the older brother said empathetically.

“No, she left me. It's just a technicality that I'm the one who moved out.”

“I can't believe it.” Ryan sounded as if he was still in shock.

“Neither can I.”

“I always thought you two had it so together that
nothing
could bust you up! Hell, Connie and I fight more than you do.”

They spent some time feeling as gloomy as the day, each sensing the sadness in the other. Finally Ryan dropped an arm across Tom's shoulders.

“So how you doin'? You doin' all right?”

Tom shrugged and crossed his arms and ankles. “Living with Dad is for shit.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

“I'm going to have to get an apartment. The dirt is driving me nuts.”

“You got furniture?”

“No.”

“Then what are you going to do, live with somebody?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“So there's nothing between you and this woman?”

“No, not a thing.”

“Well, that's good. At least you haven't got that
complication. You going to try to get back together with Claire, or what?”

“If she'll try. So far she's sticking to her guns. She doesn't want me around at all. She says she needs space, needs to figure things out, needs to get over the hurt.”

“How long do you think it'll take?”

Tom sighed and tilted his face to the sky, closing his eyes. “Hell, I don't know. I can't figure her out.”

Ryan tightened his arm around Tom. “Yeah, who can figure out women?” After a while, he offered, “What do you want me to do? Anything, you name it.”

“Nothing you can do.”

“I got some old furniture, a recliner that wouldn't fit in Brent's dorm room, and a couple of old Formica-topped tables.”

“Naw, thanks anyway, but I'll probably go and rent some. Nothing too permanent, you know?” Permanent or not, it still sounded pretty dismal to them both. “I've just been putting it off because it's going to be pretty lonely living alone, especially with the holidays coming. Dad's not the cleanest, but at least he's company. And Uncle Clyde comes over every day and they throw bullshit at each other, you know how they do.”

“Yeah.” Ryan chuckled. “I know how they do.”

A couple more ducks flew over. During happier times one of the brothers would have said, “Teal,” or “Bluebills,” or “Mallards.” Today they watched the colorful pair whisk past and said nothing. When the whistle of wings had faded away, Ryan said, “I know how much you love her. This must be hell for you.”

“Pure, living, unmitigated hell.”

Ryan gripped Tom and jostled him in a side-by-side hug,
then rubbed his jacket sleeve a bunch of times. “The boy is mighty impressive.”

“Yeah, isn't he something? I have to admit, his mother did a fine job of raising him.”

“Listen, you want me to talk to Claire or anything?”

“I'm not sure what good it would do.”

“Well, I can try.”

“Yeah, I suppose you can try.”

“I'll give her a call one day next week. Anything else I can do, just say it.”

“Well, I might need someplace to go on Thanksgiving.”

“You got it.”

They both got quiet. Ryan looked at the rectangle of light coming through the window of the cabin door. “Well, I suppose we should be going. Connie will be home by now, and we've got a ninety-minute drive.”

“Yeah, I suppose. . . .”

Tom boosted off the car. Ryan boosted off the car. They could easily count the number of times they had forthrightly hugged. They did so now, with the sadness of a broken marriage bringing them close, and the knowledge that more sadness lay ahead for Tom.

“Hey, listen, little brother, you call if you need me, okay?”

“Yuh.” Tom backed away, blinking hard, turning toward the cabin. They walked to it together, and on the step Tom turned, his hand on the doorknob. “Hey, listen, in case you try to call Claire, she's got play practice every night, so call late, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

“And call me afterwards, okay? Tell me what she said.”

“I will.”

Ryan again dropped a hand on his brother's shoulder. It
slid off as Tom turned to go inside, his usual vigor sadly absent.

Ten minutes later Tom stood on the stoop watching the two vehicles back up and turn around. He raised a hand as they rolled away. Full dark had fallen, and he thought of Ryan going home to Connie, with the kids all gathered around, talking excitedly over the supper table. He pictured his own home without him: Claire, Robby, and Chelsea, subdued now, with nothing much to say. He imagined Kent going home to his mother and telling her about the cousins, grandfather, uncle, and great-uncle he'd spent the afternoon with. Behind him the two old men had shut the door and were probably going to get out the playing cards and settle down for a long night of squabbling over canasta or cribbage. There had been many sad moments since the day he'd told Claire about Kent, but none seemed as forlorn as today, when everyone moved off into a world that operated mostly in pairs. Even the ducks that flew overhead did so in pairs. And here he stood, mateless and lonely while the autumn gathered force for the coming winter.

He went inside and found he was right. The cribbage board was on the table and his dad was coming out of the bathroom. Uncle Clyde was getting out a couple of beers.

“I'm going to go out for a while,” Tom said.

“Where to?” his dad asked.

“To the drugstore for some cough drops.” Wesley's expression said he wasn't born yesterday. “All right,” Tom relented, exasperated at having to explain himself to these two. “I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I was going to the whorehouse.”

“Nope. I wouldn't.”

“Okay, I'm going to talk to Claire.”

“Now, that I believe. Good luck.”

He wasn't at all sure what he felt as he drove toward home. Fear, yes, and hope. A lot of self-pity and a tremendous mantle of insecurity, to which he was unaccustomed. He kept thinking,
What if I make it worse? What if she's got somebody there? Would she ask John Handelman over? Would she
do
that? What if I upset the kids again? What if she cries, yells, tells me to get out?

Sometimes a quick flash of anger would strike and it would feel good; after all, he'd done the best he could to ask her forgiveness for his past mistakes, and she was putting too much emphasis on one single misguided night of his life, and not enough on the years since.

It was the damnedest thing, walking up to his own house and wondering if he must knock before going inside. He'd paid for this house, damn it! He'd painted this very door and replaced the doorknob when the tumblers got fouled up. The key for it was right in his pocket! Yet he should knock?

No damned way.

He walked right in. The kitchen was empty, the light on over the table. Somewhere upstairs a radio was playing.

He walked to the bottom of the steps and saw a bedroom light faintly illuminating the ceiling at the far end of the upstairs hall.

“Claire?” he called.

After a pause, “I'm in the bedroom!”

He climbed the stairs slowly, passed the open doors of the kids' empty, dark rooms, and stopped in the last door on the right.

Claire was standing at the dresser mirror inserting an earring, wearing high heels, a midnight-blue skirt, and a pale floral blouse he'd never seen before. The room smelled of the Estée Lauder perfume she'd worn for years.

“Hi,” he said, and waited.

“Hi,” she returned, picking up the second earring and tipping her head sideways while putting it on.

“Where are the kids?”

“Robby's out on a date. Chelsea's at Merilee's.”

“Merilee Sands'?” Merilee was a girl neither of them particularly liked. “She's been spending a lot of time over there lately, hasn't she?”

“I make sure she's home when she should be.”

“What happened to Erin?”

“Chelsea hasn't been seeing much of her lately.”

He stayed in the doorway, feet planted wide. Watching Claire lean close to the mirror and twist both earrings in her earlobes, he felt the first stirrings of arousal and wondered what to do about it.

“And where are you going?”

“I'm going to a play at the Guthrie with Nancy Halliday.”

“You're sure about that?”

She went to her nightstand and opened a drawer, selecting a long gold chain he had given to her for their fifteenth anniversary. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” She returned to the mirror to put the chain over her head.

“You put on perfume and high heels to go out with Nancy?”

“No, I put on perfume and high heels to go to a theater where a lot of classy people hang out.” Facing the mirror, she arranged the chain flat against her blouse.

“Who are you trying to kid? I've been to the Guthrie. Half the people who go there look like leftover flower children from the sixties. The women wear black tights and stretched-out sweaters, and the men wear corduroys worse than anything my dad ever put on!”

“Don't be ridiculous, Tom.” She headed for the bathroom to switch off the radio and light.

“Look, Claire!” He advanced two steps into the room and pointed at the floor at her feet. “We're separated, not divorced! That doesn't give you the right to go out on dates!”

“I'm not going out on dates! I'm going to the Guthrie with Nancy Halliday.”

“And where's her husband?”

“At home. He doesn't like the theater.”

“And where's John Handelman?”

Glaring up at him, Claire blushed. Realizing her mistake, she spun toward the closet to yank her suit jacket off a hanger.

“Yeah, I hit the nail on the head there, didn't I, Mrs. Gardner?” He stalked her and grabbed her arm, swinging her to face him while her half-donned jacket hung from one arm. “Well, you listen to me!” he shouted, trembling with anger. “I've watched that man eye you up for ten years, sidling around your door between classes and waiting like a damned vulture for his chance. Now that the word is out that we're separated and he's got access to you every night at play practice, I suppose he thinks he's got free rein, doesn't he?
Over my dead body, Claire!
You're still my wife, and if John Handelman so much as lays a hand on you, I'll have the sonofabitch castrated!”

She jerked free of his grip, massaging her arm. “Don't you dare yell at me, Tom Gardner! Not when you're standing there accusing me of what
you
did just so you can feel vindicated! I am not doing
anything
with John Handelman but directing a play!”

“Are you denying that he's been drooling at your classroom door since the day he laid eyes on you?”

“No!”

“Because it's true!”

“I've never encouraged him! Never!”

“Oh, come on, Claire,” he said disdainfully, “how stupid do you think I am? I come up with an illegitimate son and your ego is hurt, and John Handelman is hovering in the wings every night after play practice, slobbering all over you, and you expect me to believe you're not encouraging him?”

She jammed her other arm into her suit coat and slammed the closet door. “I don't care what you believe. And the next time you come into this house, you knock!”

“Like hell I will!” He snagged her before she reached the doorway and hauled her toward the bed. Three stumbling steps and she was on her back beneath him.

“Damn you, Tom, get off me!” She fought a losing battle against his superior strength, and in a trice he had her pinned by the wrists.

“Claire . . . Claire . . .” His anger softened to supplication. “Why are you doing this? I love you. I didn't come over here to fight with you.” He tried to kiss her but she swung her face aside.

“You're giving a damned fine imitation then!”

“Claire, please”—with one hand he forced her chin around—“look at me.”

She wouldn't. There were tears at the corners of her closed eyes.

“I came over here to ask you to let me move back home. Please, Claire. I can't live at my dad's anymore. It just isn't working out there, and I realize that I'm going to have to get an apartment, and the first of the month is coming up fast, but before I make a move . . .” He paused, hoping she'd take pity on him, but she still refused to open her eyes. “Please, Claire . . . I don't want to live alone in some godforsaken one-bedroom apartment. I want to live with you and the kids right here in this house, where I belong.”

She covered her face with her free hand and let out one
enormous sob. “Damn you, Tom . . .” She tried to roll to one side and he let her, sliding from her body in the opposite direction, leaning above her while she coiled away from him. “You don't have any idea how you hurt me, do you?”

“No, Claire, I suppose I don't. It was so long ago, I don't see how it can bother you this much.”

She swung her head to glare up at him. “You went from me to her to me in three days! Did you know that? I read my diary and I used to keep track of when we made love. From me to her to me—bang! bang! bang!—did you realize that, Tom?”

He hadn't. His memory was very vague about that time.

“I was your fiancée,” Claire went on, her hurt pouring forth in each heart-torn word. “I was carrying your baby, and I thought . . . I thought my body was this sacred vessel to you. Giving it to you was like . . . like taking part in a sacrament. I loved you so incredibly much. I had from almost the very first time we went out together. You were, plainly and simply, a god to me. I realize my mistake now. Holding you up as an idol became my undoing, because when you fell off your pedestal, you shattered in my eyes.