Other Plans (18 page)

“Oh, then I suppose you'll see Ann and Ben while you're there. Play some golf, have a nice little visit, is that it?” Her voice was so thick with sarcasm it didn't sound like hers.

“I'll be back tomorrow or the next day.” Tell her the truth, a voice within him said. Tell her now.

No, that's a terrible idea. Not yet. Not until I know for sure. I won't put her through that unless I have to.

The idea had come to him in a dream he'd had just before he woke, the time they say most dreams occur. It had been a strange dream in the way it had surged and receded time and again, like the tide. The idea formed so perfectly in his head, despite the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, that he wondered why he hadn't thought of it immediately, it was so right, so perfect. He would go to see Ben Nilson, his old friend, his doctor. Ben would give him the straight dope. He could believe Ben, trust him as he was unable to either believe or trust the new young doctor. Ben would fix him up, tell him the other man didn't know what he was talking about. Relief washed over him. When he turned himself over to Ben, his troubles would be over. He longed, at that moment, to hear the sound of Ben's voice; longed the way a lover longs for the sound of his beloved. He longed to feel Ben's agile hands, so steady, so soothing, so full of healing. All doctors should have healing hands: big, thick-knuckled, as Ben's were. This new doctor couldn't help being young. All he lacked was experience. You can't hang a man for that. Experience and compassion. Experience comes with time. Compassion does not necessarily. Either you have it or you don't.

Like sex appeal. Or cancer. Either you have it or you don't. There were no in-betweens.

“Maybe that's why you got so drunk,” she suggested. “Because you have to fly to Dallas. You always get nervous when you have to fly, Henry. You know you do. Is that it? You want me to believe that?”

“Ceil, I've had a rough week. Please. Everything sort of piled up.”

“Baloney,” she snapped. “That's baloney, Henry, and you know it.” A thought occurred to her. “Are you seeing another woman, Henry?”

He laughed. He couldn't help it. He broke into peals of laughter. She burst into tears, but he couldn't stop himself.

“All right, then!” she shouted. “You're leaving me, that's why you got out your suitcase. You've got some girl. I should've known!” She felt a sliver of pain in her heart muscle. She had trouble breathing. She had never expected anything like this of him.

Get hold of yourself, he told himself. And still couldn't stop. She went for him, raking her nails along his neck. He held her hands together tightly, still laughing, further infuriating her.

“Stop it!” she cried. “You're hurting me.”

He let her go. “Oh Ceil, forgive me. It's nothing like that. I love you. I'll always love you. You know that.” He tried to take her in his arms, but she would have none of him. She ran from him, stood near the door, hands cradling her face, staring at him. He saw smudges of mascara beneath her eyes and knew she'd gone to sleep without washing her face. Ceil, the most meticulous of women, had gone to bed without washing her face because of him.

“There could never be another woman for me, Ceil. Never. You are my heart. Without you, I am nothing.”

Against her will, she was moved by the tenderness in his voice, and by the expression on his face.

“What is it, then, Henry? Your job?”

“No, Ceil, the job is fine. It's cumulative, I guess. Things build up, things bother me now that never used to. And I haven't been feeling well, as you know.”

He felt himself stretched to the limits of his endurance and was fearful that if he didn't escape now, this minute, he might break down and tell her the truth.

He brushed her forehead with a kiss.

She reared back and demanded, “Why can't you give me a real kiss? Pretend we're courting. Pretend you're trying to get me into bed, that you can hardly wait.”

She grasped his upper arms and shook him and was so inadequate to the task that he surprised himself and laughed at her.

“For Christ's sake, Henry!” she exploded. “Open up! Why can't you open up to me, to all of us? We're your best friends. Let us in, let us know what's bothering you. Maybe we could help.” Ceil released him, exhausted by her outburst, and stood, quivering, waiting for him to speak.

In his usual quiet voice he said, “I have to go now, Ceil. I've got a cab coming at eight.”

He made a gesture toward her.

“All right,” she said coldly, “have it your way.”

Upstairs, in the bathroom, he heard them and felt sort of sorry for his father. When his mother got up a head of steam, watch out. He heard the front door slam and took his time going downstairs.

“Where's Dad going?” he asked cautiously.

His mother drew a deep breath, composing herself.

“To Dallas,” she managed in an almost ordinary voice. “On business.”

“For how long?” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, getting rid of some excess toothpaste, willing her to look at him. Her eyes skimmed over him, unseeing. She was in a state, he knew.

“I don't know, I'm sure,” she said, as if his father were a casual acquaintance whose comings and goings she wouldn't dream of prying into.

He went into the kitchen and she followed. “I didn't have time to make any oatmeal this morning, John,” she said. “You can have eggs or cornflakes.”

He didn't want either, but he settled for cornflakes because it seemed easier.

“Don't forget, John. Today is my day for Mrs. Hobbs, and Les is going to town for lunch. If she isn't up in ten minutes, I'll wake her. She was planning to go in with Dad, but obviously that's out. I'll run up and get dressed and drive her to the station. And,” she turned on her way out, “Emma's on her own.”

“Yeah, Ma.” The mere mention of her name provoked ennui. He yawned elaborately. “I might be able to get out of gym early so I could take her on a tour of local spots of historical interest.” His mother must have changed her mind about leaving, because she came back, rolled up her sleeves, and began to scrub the skin off the kitchen sink.

“I scarcely think that's necessary,” she said in a cold voice. “Emma strikes me as being a young woman who can take care of herself. You better get going. I'll be home by five-thirty, John, certainly no later than six.”

He kissed her ear good-bye and trudged down the front walk. She went to the window to watch him go, saw him look up at the bedroom windows, saw him break into a run as his bus came into view. He reminded her of a colt set free on a spring morning. Never let them get the upper hand, Henry liked to say. Being a parent, Ceil, is a power struggle. Once they get the upper hand, and they're in control, you've lost it. Lost the whole thing. One of the reasons Henry was so stiff with John, she knew, was his way of dealing with what he thought of as her softness with him, her efforts to keep her children protected from the woes of the world. Her desire to protect them, Henry had told her, was sometimes overwhelming. It was all right to see that they had their shots, to see that they went regularly to the dentist and that their shoes should fit properly. Anything further, he thought, was coddling and cosseting. In the final analysis, protection meant pampering, which he was against.

“I'm not running a popularity contest, Ceil,” he'd said during a recent disagreement they'd had about his treatment of John. “I'm interested in developing his character, not in making myself the best-loved dad on the block. If you don't expect a great deal from your children, if all you expect is the barest minimum, then that's what you get. And I'm not willing to settle for the barest minimum.”

She considered she'd been greatly overprotected by her mother and father, probably because she was the only child, and had long ago resolved not to make the same mistake with her children. But she found herself fighting a constant battle with herself not to repeat the errors of her parents. Wrap them in cotton batting, guard them against the germs and evil, against life. It didn't work.

Already she regretted her behavior of this morning. She knew she'd behaved badly and was sorry for losing her temper and accusing Henry of lying. Henry had never been a liar. Just as he had never been a philanderer, despite that silliness over Emma the other night.

He was a proud man, though. She couldn't imagine why he'd allowed himself to get into such a state, to be so drunk he could hardly navigate. To be brought home, like some recalcitrant child, by the police. Had he lost his job, or invested all their savings in some bum scheme, lost it all? It didn't sound like him.

She ached all over. Unwashed, uncombed, she felt like a slattern. She heard someone in the bathroom. Probably Leslie. Hastily she climbed the stairs and went to her room to try to repair the damage the past twelve hours had wreaked on her face as well as on her psyche.

A discarded Ace bandage buried in the general detritus in his desk triggered it. Just as his father's plan to go to Dallas had sprung, perfect, whole, exactly right, from the dream, so then did John's modus operandi take shape.

Skillfully, he wrapped the bandage around his knee. He'd had enough knee injuries to know how to fake one convincingly. He limped to the gym, wincing theatrically. The soccer coach saw him coming out of the corner of his eye and thought, what the hell is this, Hollander was okay yesterday. Looking woebegone, he told the coach that the doctor had advised staying off the leg as much as possible. It might be nothing, but to avoid complications—surgery, even, he hinted—stay off it. The coach heard “surgery” and his skin tightened on his face. People liked to sue. Steer clear, Gleason had said, of problems resulting in surgery, due to inadequate care on the coach's part, the school's part; he got Gleason's drift. On the slightest provocation, they used the shit out of you. Gleason had told him to be especially careful with the boys. This careful stuff, the coach privately thought, was keeping him from winning his matches.

“Okay.” The coach turned his back and blew his whistle to show he had other things on his mind. What a crock. The coach let him know by the way he hunched his shoulders and shouted orders at the other players that he thought his story was a crock.

He sped home, heart pounding, unimpeded by the Ace bandage. He let himself into the house. It was empty. He knew an empty house the minute he stepped inside. Emma's Saab was in the drive, though. He hollered, “Anybody home?” to be sure. No answer. He prowled around some, pretending he was a cat burglar. He checked the pad by the telephone.

In a cramped, felonious-looking hand, someone had written “Back soon. Hang loose.” He smiled, delighted. No big, round Palmer-method stuff from this cookie.

I break my buns so she won't get lonely, he told himself, and she's off and running anyway, probably with the milkman, though they hadn't had a milkman in years. He swung on the refrigerator door, looking for sustenance. All right for you, Emma, he told himself. See if I cut soccer practice again for you. He loosened his tie, turned on the stereo to cheer himself up, and started to dance. Then, thinking he heard someone, he turned off the music, not wanting her to catch him in action. He strained for the sound of approaching footsteps, heard nothing. He went to his room, undressing along the way. By the time he got there, he had the bandage off his knee and was down to his skivvies. He lined up the crease in his gray flannels and hung up his jacket, making his mother proud. He saw his camouflage suit nestling on the closet floor and put it on gratefully. Army surplus, with the voluminous crotch known and loved by all GIs, it was guaranteed in the magazine to be the real thing. A suit made for real men, real danger, real combat. Odd that he thought of this garment as his leisure suit. When he put it on, he thought of himself as invisible. He had never worn it anyplace but here, in his secret room. He had thought of buying one for Keith, who needed camouflage more than most people. Keith could crawl inside and he, too, would be invisible. Keith's mother and father could shout and argue and OD and chicken out all they felt like and Keith would be out of their reach. Safe. But the price of the suit had gone up, according to the latest ad, and he couldn't scrape together enough bread. In the summer he planned to mow lawns, clip hedges, guard lives of importunate, exhausted swimmers, counsel campers, teach them how to make first-class lanyards so they'd have something upon which to hang their front door keys. Now, in the dead of winter, his hands were tied.

He settled back, fished under his sofa bed, and came up with
Dandelion Wine
. He loved Ray Bradbury, loved the idea of the Happiness machine. Had tried, years ago when he was young, to make one in the garage. Another time he'd tried to make dandelion wine—stuff so bitter he could hardly open his jaws to retch.

This time he was sure he heard someone moving around downstairs, or was he? He sat up in order to hear better. If it was a burglar, ripping off his mother's silver and the stereo, the two most valuable things in the house, then let him. Or her. He wasn't messing with any armed robber. Even in this camouflage suit.

Once more he fell back and took up his book.

“So this is where you get your jollies, is it?” It was Emma, standing on the threshold, her eyes glinting through the murk. To his dismay, a hoarse cry escaped from him. He leaped to his feet, impeded by his suit's low-hanging crotch.

“Hi,” he said, super casual. “Come on in.” She already was. Slowly, she approached, her roving eyes taking everything in. With a wide swath, he cleared the bed of its flotsam, shoving everything underneath with his foot. From the way the load resisted the burial, he knew it was getting fairly crowded under there.

“I got home early,” he said lamely.

She smiled, and dimples—which he hadn't remembered—jumped in her cheeks. Too much, he thought, despairingly. Too much.