Stop Here (16 page)

“Murray, I'm pregnant, but it's not . . .”

He leaps up. “What the fuck . . . I thought you couldn't . . .” He's shouting.

“I thought so too.”

He peers at her, eyes narrowing, face reddening.

“Murray, it's not—”

He grabs the back of her chair, slides it right and left, emitting little squeals or maybe he's choking. He's creating a scene; the bartender's watching. “Murray, stop, please.”

“Okay, okay,” his raw voice nearly breathless. “Oh baby, that's so marvelous. I'm happier even than when you said you'd marry me. I'm not happy, I'm thrilled. God, Sylvie. When did you find out?”

“Yesterday . . . but Murray, it's not . . .”

He clasps both her hands, kisses them. “How are you?”

“Good,” she says, somewhat confused.

“Anything you want, baby, anything, just name it, it's yours for this great news.” He's talking so fast, his certainty is overwhelming. Harry's response would look nothing like this.

“You really are happy,” she murmurs.

“There's that empty room at the end of the foyer.”

She knows where it is, knows where's he's going, and something snags in her throat, a pill too big to swallow.

“We'll make it into a nursery.” He's still talking very loud.

She says nothing.

“We'll buy funny wallpaper, we'll hang those little musical toys. The dogs could be a problem. But they took to you real soon. I bet they'll protect the baby.”

She says nothing.

He drains his glass. “Of course there's things I can't do. Diapering stuff. I don't know . . . maybe I can learn.” He sounds faintly embarrassed. “I need a refill.”

He hurries away. A deafening silence fills her head, the kind that occurs after an explosion. For a moment she can't remember where she is. Her eyes flick to the bright screen of the mute TV. Heavily equipped soldiers traipse through strange terrain, reminding her of Shelly who bought a painting of merry women, who refuses to be laid low by Bruce's condition, who makes the most of her situation. A customer enters and sits at the bar. He, too, leaves his coat on, wet with snow. Maybe he's staying for only one drink. She's not wearing boots, how will she manage the slippery outdoors? Her heart is pumping, her mind gone numb.

Murray's loud gleeful voice is offering to buy the man and bartender drinks. Her mother often offered her presents, old scarves or sweaters that stank of whiskey and cigarettes. She hated them. Once she wouldn't take the item. Her mother, angry, grabbed her arm, pushed her face close, and said in no uncertain terms, it was rude and unkind to refuse anyone's gift.

Is she giving Murray a gift or is he giving her one?

Whatever he's saying to the customer, she can't make out, but is sure he's boasting . . . a father . . . first time . . . never thought . . . His face is hidden but she imagines him grinning with flushed cheeks, the way he does before they make love. The customer lifts his glass in a toast. Did he turn to her?

The sad march of whiskey bottles across the back mirror leads to the door. It isn't far. She could run past Murray into the cold night. But what would she find there that isn't already here? Her eyes slide to the flickering yellow light of the jukebox. Maybe, somewhere, there's music.

 

10

The Things in Between

She's going crazy. Each morning, now, she talks to her image in the mirror, says, Rosalyn, life isn't half bad yet. Then she intones Sister Judi's words from long ago, everything can be gotten through—how did Sister know? Crazy, indeed, but so what? Spying a parking space, she pulls in, flips down the mirrored visor and checks her head scarf.

Dina's car pulls up beside hers.

They walk across the crowded mall, the heat of the day apparent in everyone's slow trudge.

“It's good not to have lunch at the diner. Murray's drone . . . should he sell, shouldn't he . . . who cares?” Dina asks no one in particular.

“He does sound serious,” she murmurs.

“See what love can do?” Dina reminds her.

“All for Sylvie, right?”

“And the coming baby, don't forget.”

“The baby . . . of course,” she says quietly.

• • •

The café has A/C, thank heavens. It's crowded. Voices are loud; people seem indifferent to anyone hearing what they say. Jack, too, doesn't care. She has no idea where he is when he phones her—at work, a pub, in the street—only that he tries to probe her deepest thoughts, wants her to unburden.

The young, attractive hostess in a T-shirt, long skirt, and flip-flops leads them to a table, drops two menus, fills their water glasses. Beautiful is dangerous, her father would mutter when she was that age.

“Did you see her earrings . . . four hoops in one ear,” Dina says, her lobes free of adornment.

“I'm having a glass of merlot with my sandwich.”

“Okay, me too. Why not?” Dina agrees.

“Anything from your son?”

“If they caught him I'd know. Anyway, it hasn't been that long.” Dina's dismissive tone surprises her.

“Are you worrying?” she asks.

“Thankful not to hear and ashamed to admit it. I can't bury my feelings anymore,” Dina asserts.

“That's wisdom.”

“Yes . . . compensation for the insults of aging and . . .” Dina stops. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. You've nursed me through the whole rotten treatment. What would I have done without you?” Dina still shows up at ten every morning. Maybe she anticipates a time when Rosalyn won't be able to get out of bed. If so, she hasn't let on.

“I'm glad I had the skills to help,” Dina says simply.

“Oh shit. Let's not talk about me. Your remarks about Tim . . . I understand. He's a problem that can't be solved easily.”

“The guilt, the love . . . mixed together . . . that's hard too.” Dina picks up the menu.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Like what?” Again, Dina's faintly challenging tone surprises her. The truth is she's no longer curious about lives she needs to let go of.

“I don't know. It's what friends say,” she offers.

“I suppose. I'm having a tuna melt.” Dina closes the menu.

The waiter steps up to the table, wipes his hands on a stained towel tucked in his waist. Messy hair, sullen expression, clearly he'd rather be elsewhere. “We'll make your life easy. We'll both have the tuna melt with a glass of merlot.”

“Did you return this morning's call from Jack?” Dina asks.

“I spoke to him three times this week, four last week.”

“Are you avoiding him?” Dina searches her face.

“He's after me to go abroad.”

“So?” Dina's chin lifts combatively.

“It's too far to travel.” She doesn't say time has edges now. That there are things here she must do first.

“You're done with chemo for a while.”

“I'm done with treatment, period. Anyway, Jack . . . it's complex.”

“You mean he cares about you but since you're sick it's a waste of time?” Dina's serious eyes fasten on her.

“Don't be crude.”

“Well, then, explain it better,” Dina says matter-of-factly.

The waiter serves their drinks. “Foods still being prepared,” he mumbles.

“Do you know how I met Jack?”

“At a bar, I thought.”

“Well, that's true . . . I worked for an escort service. He paid for an arranged date with me.”

“Oh.” Her friend attempts to sound casual.

“I quit the service months ago,” she assures her.

“Aren't those one-night stands,” Dina's voice low.

“Jack was the guest who stayed. Why am I even telling you?”

“You wanted me to know,” Dina says, her composure restored.

“Probably.” Except it wasn't her intention. Lately, it's as if another person inside her decides what to say without her permission. It's what she fears, isn't it? Jack will hear what she isn't ready to share.

“Rosalyn, how you two met doesn't explain why you won't join him in Europe. Obviously he wants to show you around.”

“You're one persistent lady. Let's say, I'm not in a vacation mood.”

“What kind of mood is that?”

“Drop it. Please.”

“For now.” Dina takes a sip of merlot.

• • •

Glad to wave goodbye, she drives off. Dina's chatter about Jack felt intrusive. She doesn't want to think about him. He senses that but won't accept it. He can be endearing yet exasperating. She stuffs a pillow behind her lower back to ease the muscle spasm. She passes a row of refurbished houses with freshly painted porches and non-leaking roofs, a hard sun ignites the front lawns. Her father could move into one of the houses. She offered to arrange it months ago but he refused. It's been a few days since she saw him. It feels even more difficult to be with him. He stares at her like she might die in front of him, or else won't look at her at all. The man doesn't know how to be supportive. Simply doesn't. At least he approves of the high school student she hired to help him. She finds the boy aggressive.

She pulls into his driveway. Good, the student's car isn't there. She beeps to let her father know she's arrived. To her surprise, he walks out carrying the new oxygen container, which has a handle and resembles a thermos. “Let's go to the beach,” he says, sliding in slowly.

“What?”

“Forgot where it is?”

She starts the car. “Why?”

“I want to be outdoors while it's warm.”

The truth of that doesn't sit right, but she never could figure out how he thinks. She glances at his strong, craggy profile; he'll outlive her. She said as much to her brother, who reassured her that wasn't so in words that held no weight. The rest of the relatives are equally Pollyanna. No doubt family members need to believe what they will for their own comfort.

• • •

They sit on a boardwalk bench facing the water. A few clouds play hide-and-seek with the sun. Blankets, towels, umbrellas arrayed on the sand; lifeguards in high white chairs, whistles at the ready. Parents watch their children cavorting in the water, the noise of it all distant. She and her brother played here winter and summer, though her mom wouldn't allow them in the ocean even on the hottest days.

Lotion and salt air, she smells both, but feels outside, a witness. Yesterday, too, in the supermarket, she felt at the far end of a tunnel. Snippets of conversations reverberated in her head. It's as if what's said matters less than the things in between she must still uncover.

“Dad, do you know how to swim?”

He nods.

“Mom didn't. She was afraid of drowning.”

“She was afraid of a lot of things.”

“Parents pass on their quirks. I can't swim.”

“Worse things have happened.”

“When Mom took us here, she sat in a tiny canvas chair, her feet buried in the sand if it was warm. In the cold, we were all bundled up. She wore boots. You were never with us.”

“The fire station didn't believe in time off for the beach.”

“Or weekends?”

“What is this?”

“Just mulling stuff over, remembering . . . Mom made us wash our feet with the hose because you hated sand in the house. In winter, we had to leave our boots outside. It was a rule. She always wanted to please you.”

“What do you want, Rosalyn?” She hears him breathing.

“Was Mom a happy person?”

“Who's happy?”

“It's a question I regret not asking her.”

“That was a long time ago. Stop torturing yourself. And me.”

He must've known what her mother felt; they lived together for god's sake. “Did you love Mom?”

“I was nineteen when we married.” He lifts the oxygen container from the ground to the bench.

“Did you love us?” He spent more hours with his fire team than with them. The guys were his buddies, drinking mates, the ones he confided in if he confided at all.

“I supported my family, took care of all of you. What else can I say? What else do you expect?”

Is she stirring him up? Or will he switch on the TV as soon as he gets home to blot out the past hour? In third grade, she begged him to come talk to her class in his fireman's uniform. He refused, said, what for? She cried bitterly. Her mother whispered he was too shy; he wouldn't be comfortable. Comfort's what he always craved.

“I just want to understand you better,” she says.

“Why?”

“Dad, you're exasperating.”

He glances at her, then looks away. “Something I want to say . . .” his voice a hoarse whisper. “I have a bit of money. If there's a treatment out there your insurance won't cover, I'll pay for it.”

“I have enough money.”

“You never let me give you anything.”

Is that true? She looks at him but he continues to face the water.

“Okay. Thanks, Dad. If I come up against that, I'll ask you for help.” It's the best she can do.

“I meant what I said a while back about meeting my grandchild.”

“Don't go there,” her voice rising in desperation.

He inhales shakily. Then silence.

She could ask about the student helper or if his pals have visited, the ball games he loves, anything to break the silence. But, suddenly, she's weary of the ancient dance between parent and child. And she wonders, is it too soon to take him home? She mentioned a doctor's appointment at three, which is a lie, but the truth would be impossible to share.

He's hunched over on the bench, still staring ahead. Whatever he sees out there has captured his attention or is simply easier to look at.

• • •

From the driver's seat she watches him take small steps up the path. The maple tree in full leaf casts filigreed shadows, its thickly gnarled roots heaving the old lawn. She used to pray those roots would lift the house off its foundation so they'd have to move out. The prayer came back to her during the weeks of chemo. The intravenous bag was slowly deflating, her body exhausted, her mind, though, was wild with memories and fantasies. Faraway countries she'd visit, Zanzibar and Saint Kitts, names she heard somewhere but knew nothing about. Where's Zanzibar? She composed letters in her head to lots of people, but sent only one.

Her father reaches the door but doesn't turn or wave goodbye. She beeps to let him know she's leaving, glances at her watch. Nearly two. Arriving first is out of the question. If he's a no-show . . . but his terse phone message was explicit. Three p.m., Friendly Fishermen's Pub, Bridgton. He was never one for long phone conversations. What will be will be, she reminds herself, and refuses to give the next few hours form or content.

She knows the pub, which is dark in the afternoon and well lit in the evening. She ate there several times with Mila. Poor woman can barely talk about Darla's going to Afghanistan. Mila who will only step in a church to get out of the cold said she made a pact with God, promised not to complain if He brings her daughter back intact. On the other hand Mila talks nonstop about Jimmy, his gray hair, beard, handsome as ever, so recognizable, how each visit with him pleases her, his compliments about her youthful looks, how he loves seeing her and doesn't take his eyes off her. She even jabbers to Murray about him.

• • •

At a minute to three, she slides out of the car, walks up the back ramp, pushes open the heavy door, and enters near the bar. She scans two customers' faces, a muted TV screen, the bartender fiddling with a cranky A/C. Then she follows a long narrow corridor to the rear booths. She sees him in one, looking out the window. Is that buzz-cut marine, or army? Is he balding? His big shoulders the same as years ago, the chest broader, though. Wearing a white T-shirt, his muscular arms tanned, the short, flat fingers unchanged. She slips into the booth across from him. “Hey Carl.”

“Rosalyn. Rosalyn. How the hell are you?” He grins; his wide black eyes no longer merry, his sun-weathered face creased. Years ago, his smooth skin was soft, no five-o'clock shadow either. Now the beginnings of a beard sprout under his chin.

“Not sure how to answer.”

“Yeah, your letter said . . . sorry about . . .”

“Me too.”

“Have a drink.” His shot glass empty, his beer stein nearly drained, he hails the waiter, who looks no older than they were when they met. “Beer or bourbon?” the waiter asks, indifferent to her presence. Carl orders both and wine for her. “A very long time,” he muses, taking her in.

She nods. He used to tease that she had two words for each one of his. Now she's strangely shy. “I heard you were in Iraq.”

“Three stints. Reserves. I'm getting too old but I'd go again if they ask me.”

“You don't look old.”

“Yeah, friends never do.”

“Are you working?”

“Helping my brother fix up a basement. I've only been back a few months. It feels forever. Can't fit in . . . it's like trying on an old jacket that won't button. Everything's too tight.”

The waiter brings their drinks. Carl drains the last drops of beer and hands off the glass. “Last I heard you were at that diner.”