The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs (16 page)

And she was weeping again now, staring at that spot in the road where she had last held her baby sister. Tears streaked her cheeks and mucus filled her nose as she whispered “I'm sorry” over and over again. A lifetime of apologies that could never make up for that ugly moment on that perfect autumn day.

As she wept, her eyes shifted from the spot on the pavement where her sister had lain to the patch of pavement on Federal Street where she had dropped her bike. She could see that, too, now, a Huffy ten-speed, metallic blue, its front tire spinning silently, the white and red plastic bag still hanging from its handlebars. The bag would not enter her thoughts until later, once her bike had found its way home, returned by the police during those fuzzy hours after the accident. Caroline had disposed of it before anyone had time to question its existence, which was to say that she placed the bag and its contents in the spot where her mother was least likely to look. And she had been right. As far as Caroline knew, it was still sitting there today. She had hidden the bag from the police and her mother for more than two decades, but more important, she had hidden the bag from herself.

seventeen

Caroline was surprised to see two cars parked beside her mother's. One was George Durrow's minivan; she had never seen the other before. Mr. Durrow was sitting on the front porch in one of her mother's oversized rocking chairs. Sitting beside him in an identical rocker was an older man, thin, bald and wearing a pair of large, dark sunglasses. They were drinking lemonade from tall glasses.

“It's Caroline? Right?” Durrow asked as Caroline mounted the porch steps. He had changed clothes. Now he was wearing dress pants and a sweater, with a paisley tie peaking above the collar.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “You're Mr. Durrow. Right?”

“Call me George.”

“All right,” she said. “George, then.”

“And I'm Spartacus,” the other man said, grinning.

“Spartacus?” Caroline repeated. She reached out to shake the man's hand, but he offered none in return. She reached a little closer, thinking that perhaps he was older and less mobile than he appeared. Nothing.

“You're trying to shake my hand,” the man said, smirking. “Aren't you?”

“Excuse me?” Caroline said.

“I'm blind,” he said, seeming to hone in on her voice. “I'm sorry. I thought you knew.”

“Oh God, I'm sorry,” Caroline said. “I had no idea.”

“Nor should you,” he said, extending his hand in her general direction.

“It's nice to meet you,” she said. “You are?”

“I told you. I am Spartacus.” When Caroline failed to respond, he added, “For real.”

“Spartacus? Like from the movie?”

“That's his name,” George Durrow said. “I didn't believe it either when he first told me.”

“I don't believe it. Show me your driver's license.”

Spartacus laughed.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Caroline said.

“I think it's rude that the state won't let me drive just because I can't see, but that's my lot in life. A least until Google gets those self-driving cars on the road. Did you know that in Iowa, a blind man can get a gun permit? Now that's a progressive state. But ask your mother. The name is real.”

“I'm really sorry,” Caroline said.

“Don't worry about it,” Spartacus said. “You're certainly not the first to question me. I was supposed to be an Edwin, but when I was born blind, my parents decided to go with Spartacus. They thought I needed all the help I could get. And they were hippies, so it wasn't much of a stretch.”

Caroline smiled.

“I love it,” George said. “Hippies or not, it was smart of them.”

“And your last name?” Caroline said. “Dare I ask?”

“Bloom,” Spartacus said. “Doesn't quite match the first, but there was no changing that.”

“Your parents sound like a couple of interesting characters,” Caroline said.

“They were,” Spartacus said. “They're not with us anymore.”

“I'm sorry. I'm saying all the wrong things today.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Spartacus said. “I miss them dearly, but there's nothing to be sorry about. Even Kirk Douglas will die someday.”

“Kirk Douglas?” Caroline asked.

“The actor who played Spartacus.”

“Right,” Caroline said, relieved that this banter had turned her mood around. She was surprised, too. Small talk was not her forte, yet she felt at ease with these two men, even with all of her gaffs. She pulled up a chair. “So you're here for the same reason as George?” she asked.

“I hope not!” Spartacus said. “Is there something you want to tell me, George?”

George laughed uncomfortably. “Penelope's a fine lady,” George said. “But I wouldn't dream of stealing her.”

“Stealing?” Caroline said.

“You didn't know that your mother was dating?” Spartacus asked.

“No, I knew she was dating,” Caroline said. “I just didn't know—”

“That her boyfriend was blind?”

“No,” Caroline said. “That his name was Spartacus.” Another smile.

“That's your mother. She loves the shock value. When we first started dating, she'd have me meet her friends at lunch on some outdoor patio so my sunglasses didn't look so out of the ordinary. And she'd make sure that we arrived before her friends, so they wouldn't see my cane or see me walking in on her arm. Then she'd just wait until one of them was brave enough to ask if I was blind.”

“And you went along with it?” Caroline asked.

“Sure,” Spartacus said. “I have to admit that it made for an interesting sociological experiment.”

“Sounds cruel to me,” George said.

“Sounds like my mother to me,” Caroline said.

“I can't deny that it had Penelope written all over it,” Spartacus said. “She enjoyed screwing with people so much that I started to wonder if it was the only reason she agreed to date me.”

“That's Mom,” Caroline said.

“Good thing I love her.” Spartacus Bloom loved her mother. This made Caroline surprisingly happy. It also made her wonder how much she was missing out on. “By the way,” she said, “have you seen my daughter?”

“She got here an hour ago,” George said.

“Really? She must've run. She was over by the high school when I last saw her.”

“No,” George said, “She came with … I can't remember their names.”

“She wasn't walking?”

“No, she was in that SUV over there,” George said, pointing to the Lexus. “A family. Husband, wife, two kids.”

“Really?” Caroline said.

“The fella had bandages on his hands.”

“The Labontes?” Caroline asked. “Emily and Randy Labonte?”

“Yup, that's them.”

“They're here now?” Caroline felt a weight descend upon her chest.

“Yeah, they've been here almost as long as I have,” George said. “It was nice of Polly to invite me, by the way. That's quite a girl you have.”

“Oh, you're here for dinner, too?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Durrow said. “I hope you don't mind.”

“She invited me, too,” Spartacus said. “Penelope told me to stay away tonight. She said she wanted dinner with her girls. But then Polly called and told me to come right over, so here I am. Hope it's all right.”

“Of course it is,” Caroline said. “The more the merrier. Right?”

And why should she mind? This promised to be a great evening. Her mother's blind boyfriend, a parrot-grieving client, her high school nemesis, her nemesis's possibly adulterous husband and their daughter. Plus a son Caroline had yet to meet. A perfect combination for a dinner party.

As if reading her thoughts, Spartacus said, “Agnes is here, too.”

“Agnes?” Caroline asked.

“My home health aide,” Spartacus said. “She drove me here, and Polly invited her to stay. It's going to be one hell of a dinner party,”

That was exactly what Caroline was afraid of.

eighteen

It was possible that Polly was acting out of kindness and a spirit of hospitality, but Caroline didn't think so. Her daughter was not the kind of girl to arrange a dinner party for even her closest friends. And she was never one to enjoy the company of strangers.

Like it or not, she had to admit that Polly was doing exactly what she had been told to do. Caroline had pointed her daughter at a target and told her not to veer off course no matter what she might say. She was doing exactly that.

It had seemed like a good plan in the confines of the car and even in the New Jersey diner, but now it was being put into practice, well, the truth was that Polly was scaring the hell out of her. Her daughter had proven herself to be more than capable of bending the world to her will, and Caroline had given her license to do so.

Caroline was six steps into the house when she ran into Randy Labonte—literally—causing him to spill red wine across the front of his sweater.

“Oh, God. I'm so sorry,” she said.

“Don't be silly,” Randy said, reaching into a bathroom for a hand towel. “Just a case of two objects reaching the same point in space at the same time.”

“You're a mess,” Caroline said, taking the towel and dabbing his sweater.

“More than you know,” Randy said.

“I'm not making any progress here,” she said, still dabbing. “Follow me. We need to get it into the wash before the stain sets in.” She led Randy back down the hallway and through the basement door. At the bottom of the stairs, Caroline flipped a switch, brightening the darkened space. A washer and dryer were tucked away in a corner near the stairs. She led Randy over to them.

“You have a shirt on under that, I assume?” Caroline said.

“Yes,” Randy said, pulling his sweater over his head. Caroline laughed as she realized that this was the second time in the past two hours that she had watched this man ruin a shirt.

“What?” he said.

“You're going through shirts left and right today. Aren't you?”

“I guess I am.”

Caroline applied stain remover to the sweater and tossed it into the ancient appliance.

“What's all this?” Randy asked, stepping farther into the basement. Spread throughout the dimly lit space were large pieces of furniture covered by thick sheets of plastic. Sofas, arm chairs, a dining room table, and a bedroom set along with smaller items—brass candlesticks, a bowling ball, an empty picture frame. “When we moved from our old house,” Caroline said, “we had to downsize, so Mom moved all the furniture into the basement. All this was all supposed to be temporary. She was planning on having a yard sale, but when my sister died, Mom stopped throwing things away. So everything's just sat down here ever since.”

“She can't let it go?” Randy said, tracing his finger through the dust on a sheet of plastic.

“I guess not. She hasn't touched Lucy's bedroom, either. It's sort of a shrine to her now.”

“It must be hard to move on when you lose a child,” Randy said. “I can't begin to even imagine. I remember hearing about your sister when it happened, but I didn't really know her all that well. I guess I didn't know you all that well, either.”

Caroline turned the dial on the washing machine and pressed
START
. “Yeah, we didn't really travel in the same circles in high school.”

“It's odd,” he said, “because you and Emily were so close for so long. It's a shame how people sometimes drift apart.”

How could he not know? He had to know.

“Your mom seems to be doing well now,” Randy said, moving deeper into the basement, as if to inspect every piece of furniture through its milky, plastic sheath.

“It was a long time before she was normal again,” Caroline said. She walked towards the stairs, hoping Randy would follow. She didn't like it down here. Too many memories. “But if all she's got to show for what she went through is a basement full of old furniture that she can't let go of, I'd say she's doing pretty good.”

Randy stopped beside the bed that her mother and father had shared so long ago. He turned back to her. “And now she runs a pet cemetery and deals with death all the time. Kind of ironic, huh?”

“Not really,” Caroline said. “Mom went from not handling death well at all to becoming an expert on it. Kind of like those people who convert to a new religion. They sometimes become more religious than the people who were born into the religion. Same thing with Mom.”

“I guess she decided to own it,” Randy said.

“Exactly.”

Randy bent down to get a better look at the console television that once dominated their home on Farm Street. “How old were you when your father split?”

“Fifteen,” she said. “Same age as my daughter, actually.”

“Jane, too,” Randy said.

“Yeah? She seems great. I haven't met your son yet.”

“Jake. He's twelve. A good kid. A smart-ass, but I think most kids are at his age.”

“Polly certainly is,” Caroline said.

“It must've been hard to lose your father at that age.”

“Yeah,” Caroline said. “When he left, I sort of lost my mother, too. I never really got her back.”

“What do you mean?”

“That woman upstairs isn't the one I grew up with. It's weird. She's kind of like a stranger to me. I think Polly knows her better than I do. When I left for college, she was a mess. Depressed. Drinking. While I was gone, she completely transformed herself. I think I'm a little jealous, to be honest. I could never pull off something like that.”

“What happened to your father?” Randy asked. “Do you still see him?

“No. He moved to Florida and never came back. He sent money every now and then, but that was it.”