The Divide (30 page)

Thus, by the beginning of June, Abbie and Sox had the house to themselves. The place clearly hadn’t been cleaned in years, the windows so filthy you could barely see out. There wasn’t even a vacuum cleaner, so Abbie borrowed one and spent the next three days cleaning and scrubbing. It made her feel like her mother but at least it kept her mind off things. On the third morning, just after Sox had discovered an entire fossilized pizza under the living-room couch, her phone rang. The caller’s number was local, but one she didn’t recognize.

“Housewives Anonymous?”

“Abbie?”

She almost hung up.

“Dad. Where are you?”

“I’m at the Holiday Inn.”

“What, in Missoula? What are you doing here?”

“Abbie, you know why. I’ve come to see you.”

“But why didn’t you let me know? It’s just that, you know, at the moment, I’m kind of—”

“Abbie, sweetheart. Please.”

He asked her where she was and could he come see her. For reasons she didn’t herself fully understand, she didn’t want him to. Probably it was just to hurt him, to deny him knowledge to which he might think a father had some right. She said she would meet him in the hotel lobby in an hour and hung up.

At once she regretted it and nearly called him back to say she wasn’t coming. But she hadn’t seen him in five whole months, not since that appalling dinner before Christmas. And she didn’t want to make him think it was any big deal. No, she would go. Show him how little he figured in her life now.

It was at most a ten-minute walk across the bridge and she spent the other fifty in an accelerating spin, her heart racing, worrying about what she was going to say to him and how mean she should be. She took a shower and washed her hair and then spent at least twenty minutes trying to decide what to wear, all the while cursing herself for being so stupid because who cared? Really. What the hell did it matter? She put on a dress, then changed it for another, then settled for blue jeans and a white longsleeved T-shirt.

Sox was getting pretty good at going for walks now. He didn’t even really need a leash, just tucked in behind her. But the traffic on the bridge could be scary, so she put him on the leash to be safe.

She saw her dad before he saw her. In fact, once he looked straight at her but didn’t recognize her, presumably because he didn’t know about Sox or because she was wearing sunglasses and had cut her hair. He was standing outside under the big cement portico and a busload of guests had just arrived, so it was busy. He was thinner and his hair was longer. He kept nervously checking his watch. Then he saw her.

“Hey!”

He walked over to her and put his arms around her and kissed her and it took every atom of willpower she possessed not to succumb, not to dissolve and cling to him. But somehow she managed. All she gave him in return was a token hug. She wasn’t going to give him more. No kiss, no tears. Nothing. He held her by the elbows to inspect her. Abbie could see that he was trying hard not to cry.

“How are you doing, baby?”

“Fine. How are you?”

“I’m good. All the better for seeing you. Hey! And who’s this? Is he yours?”

“Uh-huh. He’s called Sox.”

He squatted to ruffle the dog’s ears and Sox squirmed and jumped and kept trying to lick her dad’s face.

“Hey, little fella, I already washed.”

He suggested that maybe they could go have lunch somewhere but Abbie said that with the puppy that wasn’t possible. Instead they walked up to North Higgins to buy sandwiches and juice, then came back down to Caras Park and sat on the grass looking over the river and had a picnic. There was a sculpture of some huge trout which for some reason seemed to spook Sox. He stood barking at them then saw a squirrel and chased it up a tree, below which he sat for the next half hour, staring up at it with his head on one side and giving an occasional whimper.

Her dad asked her lots of questions about college and what she had been up to and she gave him flat, factual answers, not overtly rude, just cool. Informative enough, but utterly unembellished with anything that might be construed as enthusiam or emotion. And she kept her sunglasses on so he couldn’t see her eyes. She could tell that it was gradually getting to him, because after a while he seemed to run out of questions and the life seemed to drain from his face and in the end he just stared out across the river, silently chewing his sandwich.

“So how’s
your
new life?” she asked sourly.

He turned and looked at her for a few moments before he spoke.

“Abbie, I’m so sorry.”

She gave a little laugh and looked away.

“I know how much I’ve hurt you. All of you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Of course, I do.”

“You know what? I don’t think you’ve got the first fucking clue!”

“Abbie, come on—”

“No,
you
come on! You’ve destroyed us. Everything we had. And you think you can breeze up here and say a few nice little things and make it all better again. Well, you can’t, okay? You fucking well can’t.”

She had never in her whole life sworn at him and the violence of the words shocked her as much as they clearly shocked him. Not to mention those around them. People were staring at them now and she was grimly gratified to see how that bothered him. Let them stare, let them hear, let the bastard squirm. She was close to tears now and abruptly stood up and strutted across the grass to gather Sox from his squirrel vigil beneath the tree. When she came back her dad was on his feet too.

“Sweetheart, please . . .”

“What?”

“We’re not the first family this has ever happened to.”

“Oh? And is that supposed to make us all feel better?”

“No, of course not. All I mean is that—”

“Dad, listen. You didn’t tell me you were coming—”

“You’d have told me not to.”

“Well, anyway, I’ve got to be somewhere.”

“Really?”

“Yes. What, are you saying I’m lying or—”

“Then can we meet later, have dinner maybe?”

“Sorry, I can’t.”

He looked so crushed and wretched, she almost gave in. Almost.

“Abbie—”

“Dad, I’ve got to go, okay?”

With Sox cradled in her arms, she stepped toward him and gave him a peck on the cheek. He tried to hold her but she wouldn’t let him and pulled away.

“Bye.”

“Abbie . . .”

She turned and walked briskly toward the bridge and then up the steps to the street, without once looking back. She wondered if he might follow her and when she was halfway across the bridge she looked back and down toward where they had been. But he was walking slowly away across the park, his head bowed, going back to the hotel.

Later, when she had stopped crying, she called her mother and told her what had happened. She said how upsetting it had been and how unbelievable and selfish of him it was, just showing up like that, out of the blue. As if, after what he’d done, he could just snap his fingers and everyone had to come running. Her mom listened and made all the right noises, but Abbie had the impression that she wasn’t being heard with quite the sympathy she deserved.

“I mean,” she said, “don’t you think it’s amazing?”

“Honey, he’s your dad.”

“What?”

“He loves you very much. Maybe you should give him a break.”

“Oh, like, you mean,
I’m
the one who’s being unreasonable?”

Her mother sighed and in a weary voice said no. She tried to explain what she meant but Abbie didn’t really want to listen. Jesus. For a woman to be making excuses for the guy who just walked out on her was surreal. What was she, some kind of doormat? Her mom changed the subject and asked if she was coming home soon. Abbie said she hadn’t yet decided but would probably stay in Missoula and find a job.

“How about Josh and me coming out there to see you? We could go someplace nice together.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, well, let’s both think about that. Oh, and I nearly forgot, some guy called for you, said you’d met in Seattle. Ralph, I think he said.”

“Rolf.”

“Rolf, that’s it. He’s calling back. Is it okay to give him your cell number?”

Abbie thought for a moment. He hadn’t crossed her mind in months.

“Sure,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

E
verybody was crowded against the rail on the right-hand side of the boat—the port side. Or was it starboard? Josh could never remember if it depended on which way you were facing. A lot of people had brought binoculars and just about all of them had cameras. His dad had forgotten to bring either, which, as far as Josh was concerned, was cool. Some idiots were even taking photos right now, of absolutely nothing, just a wide expanse of ocean on which the only signs of life were three other stationary boats crammed with similar idiots. You could see the pathetic little flashes of their cameras. As if that would be enough to light the tail of a whale half a mile away. In the unlikely event of one ever deciding to surface. Josh imagined these people back home showing friends their vacation pictures.
And here’s one of the ocean with nothing in it. And here’s another . . . and another.
The whole thing was probably just one big scam anyhow. They’d been out here for two hours already and seen nothing but a few bored seagulls. There probably hadn’t been a single whale sighted off Cape Cod for a hundred years.

“Over here! Look!”

Somebody behind them on the other side of the boat—there was always some smart-ass—was yelling and pointing and everyone turned and then started to run toward him. Josh had even considered playing the trick himself, waiting until everybody’s back was turned and then yelling
Thar she blows!
And they’d turn and he’d say
Suckers!
or
Aw shucks, you just missed it.
He looked at his dad and the two of them exchanged an amused grimace.

“Sorry,” his dad said. “Not exactly heart-stopping, is it?”

“It’s cool.”

They strolled after the others.

It had been a strange few days. Just the two of them spending all this time together. It wasn’t something they had ever done before. Vacations had always been the four of them, like at The Divide, and at first it had felt odd not to have Abbie or his mom around. His dad at first had seemed stiff and awkward, as if he didn’t really know what they should do or even talk about.

The original idea had been for Josh to fly to Kansas and see his grandma, then go on to Santa Fe and spend some time with his dad and Eve. Even though it might have been a little strange seeing the two of them together, Josh would have felt okay about it. In fact, he was quite interested. But his mom had totally freaked at the idea, so his dad had changed plans and instead rented a ramshackle house on Cape Cod, just on the edge of Provincetown. It was big enough to sleep about eight or ten people. Maybe it was the only place he could get or maybe he had been hoping Abbie and her new boyfriend might at the last minute change their minds and come.

They had never been to the Cape before and Josh didn’t think he’d be hurrying back. Provincetown turned out to be a big vacation place for gays—which was absolutely fine by him—but in the evenings, when he and his dad went out for dinner and walked down the street together, Josh kept imagining people were staring at them. Especially when his dad, as he sometimes liked to, draped an arm over his shoulders. Josh felt like carrying a placard saying
Listen, it’s my dad, okay?

Even driving up here they seemed soon to run out of things to talk about, at least those trivial or neutral things that had nothing to do with the separation or—as apparently it was soon to be, once the papers or whatever had gone through—divorce. It was kind of dumb, like an elephant was sitting in the room and everybody was too scared to mention it. They talked about school, about friends, about Josh’s college plans for next year (he didn’t much want to go anywhere, as a matter of fact, but at gun-point he would probably try for NYU). He knew his dad would much rather be talking about what had happened to them all, but for at least the first couple of days, he didn’t seem to know how to raise the subject. Josh nearly said, “Dad, it’s cool, go for it, let’s talk, I don’t mind.” But he didn’t, just watched the poor guy fidget and twist himself up into ever tighter knots until the only topics of conversation they had left were the weather and a whole list of boring things he had picked up from his Cape Cod travel guide.

“Apparently Norman Mailer has a house here,” his dad said one morning while they were having breakfast in the squalid little kitchen. The place smelled like something furry had died under the floorboards.

“Who’s Norman Mailer?”

“Josh, you really don’t know? Your mother would be appalled.”

Josh shrugged.

“Is he, like, some famous gardener or something?”

“He’s one of America’s greatest writers.”

“What did he write?”

There was a long pause, then his dad gave a slow, sheepish smile.

“You know, son, I can’t remember a single book he wrote.”

“Did you read them?”

“Never. Not one. Don’t you dare tell your mother.” Finally, last night, they’d gotten around to mentioning the elephant. And it was good. The only thing was, his dad kept asking him how he
felt
and didn’t seem to believe it when Josh said he was fine, really he was. It was as if what his dad wanted to hear was that he felt totally screwed up and needed therapy. That he was putting on some big front, just to be cool or brave, and that underneath he was tearing himself apart with hurt and anger.

But it wasn’t like that. Of course, seeing his mom so upset all the time was tough and sometimes really pretty heavy, like that night a couple of weeks ago in Montana, when she broke down with Abbie and Josh had to sit there on the bed and hold them both while they wailed and sobbed their eyes out.