Authors: S.W. Hubbard
“Maybe you can get a dog of your own once you move into your apartment,” I suggest.
Dad shakes his head and smiles. “Ethel wou’ na lie tha’.”
“Sure she would,” I contradict. “Ethel would like a sibling, right girl?”
Ethel wags her tail obligingly, and I press on. “I’ve always wished I had a brother or sister. Did you and mom plan on having more kids?”
Dad’s smile evaporates. He slumps in his chair. “I wanna. Har’ for her.”
“She was sick a lot when she was pregnant with me?” I know this from Mrs. Olsen. I want to see what Dad will say. He nods, but his eyes don’t meet mine. He’s a million miles away.
“She was pregnant that Christmas, wasn’t she Dad?” I ask softly. “Nana and Pop didn’t know.”
He says nothing. I see his Adam’s apple move jerkily in his throat as he swallows hard.
I reach over and take his hand in mine. “She left us, didn’t she Dad? She’s still alive. I don’t want her back, but I need to know--do I have a brother or sister somewhere?”
He squeezes my hand tight. “Lon’ time, Audrey. Le’ ih’ go. Le’ ih go.”
“I can’t let it go!” Despite my vows to be calm and encouraging, there’s a sharp edge in my voice. I take a deep breath and try to dial my emotions down a notch. “She didn’t go out shopping that night, did she? At least tell me that much.”
“No,” Dad whispers.
I drop to my knees in front of his chair so that even with his eyes downcast he’s forced to look at my face. “Tell me what happened, Dad. I nearly died in that parking garage. I need to know the truth. I can handle it.”
He doesn’t try to avoid my gaze. His eyes meet mine boldly. “You thin’ you wanna know, bu’ you don’.”
“Yes!” My voice is too loud. If the aides hear me yelling at him they’ll come running. “Yes I do,” I hiss.
He shakes his head. Then he closes his eyes and folds his hands. He’s done.
“You’re mad at me.”
Cal has arrived at my condo at three, as promised. He swept me into his arms as soon as I opened the door. But I guess I didn’t return his kiss as enthusiastically as he expected because he’s taken a step back and is smoothing the hair away from my face as he talks. “Look, baby, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you since Tuesday. I swear things will be better after the election. Bear with me.”
“No, I’m not mad at you. I’m a little distracted.” I sigh deeply. “I just got back from visiting my father at the nursing home.”
Cal slaps his forehead. “You mean everything’s not about me? I must come across as the most self-centered clod on the planet.” He leads me to the sofa and pulls me down beside him. “What happened? You dad’s taken a turn for the worse?”
I give a bitter little laugh. “Actually, he’s taken a turn for the better. He used to not be able to talk to me. Now he
can
talk, but he refuses to tell me the truth about anything.” Quickly, I recap the scene at the nursing home for Cal. He turns me around and massages my shoulders as I talk.
When I finish he kisses the top of my head. “I can see why you’re frustrated.”
I crumple into his arms. “I keep turning everything over in my head. You want to hear what I’ve come up with?” The offer is out of my mouth without my giving any thought to whether I really want to share this with him.
“Sure I do.” He takes my hands in his, straightening my mother’s ring on my finger.
“I think my mom was pregnant with another man’s child and she ran off with him and abandoned Dad and me. I think she might still be alive. I think I might have a half-sibling somewhere.”
“Whoa, baby—slow down.”
“It makes sense.” I turn to face Cal. “Agnes only took jewelry that people didn’t wear anymore—stuff she knew they wouldn’t miss. Once my mother left us, she probably took this ring off and tossed it in a drawer. Maybe Agnes left Palmyrton for a time…or maybe she went along on vacation with one of her families to take care of the kids. And that’s where she crossed paths with my mother. And stole the ring.”
Cal opens his mouth, then shuts it. He takes a deep breath and reaches for my hand. “Audrey, baby, don’t take this wrong, but you kind of sound like a desperate defense attorney who’s spinning a tale for the jury of an alternate scenario for the crime that he knows damn well his client committed. You have no evidence that your mother is alive. You just want her to be.”
“I don’t! I don’t care about her. But she had another baby, and that baby is my half-brother.”
The words hang there, surprising me as much as Cal.
“Brother? If she was pregnant, what makes you think the baby was a boy?”
“I don’t know.” I pull my knees up and curl into a ball. “There’s this guy who’s been visiting my father. He’s young and good looking. My father lied and said he was a colleague from work, but he’s not. I found the guy on Facebook and sent him a message, but he won’t answer me. If he were simply a nice person who likes my dad, why wouldn’t he answer?”
“Audrey, I ignore Facebook messages all the time. I’m too busy for that crap.”
“Yeah, but this is a guy who takes elderly stroke victims out to lunch. He’s clearly not as overworked as you.”
“So if he’s the baby your mother had with another man, why in God’s name would he be visiting your father?”
“Okay, I admit I haven’t thought it all the way through. All I know is there’s something about this guy my father doesn’t want me to know…and there’s a lot about my mother he doesn’t want me to know. So maybe my mother sent Brian to talk to my dad. Maybe because of the attack she saw my name and my picture in the paper, and she wants to—“ My eyes fill with tears. Oh, crap! This isn’t what I wanted my evening with Cal to be.
Cal pulls me into a hug. “Wants to what?”
“Go back on her deal,” I whisper. “She left, knowing she was going to have another baby. I figure she gave me to Dad because I was just like him, not beautiful like her.”
Cal pulls me up and forces me to look in the mirror over the fireplace. “Why do you keep saying you’re not beautiful? You’ve got lovely skin, high cheekbones, perfect teeth.” His hand slides lower. “A great ass.”
I see a wiry, tough brunette in a lint-y sweater who can’t maintain her hip haircut because she doesn’t know how to apply “product.” Her eyes are red, her nose is swollen and her lips are chapped. I twist out of Cal’s grip and plop onto the sofa. Every fear, every doubt, every heartbreak I’ve ever known seems to lie scattered on the ground, available to anyone who passes by. I can’t bear being this vulnerable. I want Cal gone.
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk about this. I can’t-- You’d better go home. Just leave.”
He doesn’t try to touch me, but he sinks to his knees so I’m forced to look him in the eye. “Don’t make me go home. You don’t have to talk about anything. Let me stay. Let me hold you.”
I turn my head away from him. “What do you see in me? Why do you keep coming around? I’m nothing like the women you usually date.”
Cal grabs my hand. “That’s right. You’re nothing like the self-absorbed, status-seeking, demanding bitches I usually chase. The ones who make me miserable. The ones I lose interest in after I-- Never mind.”
He walks away from me and perches on the arm of the sofa, staring down at his perfectly shined tassel loafers as he speaks.
“I’m insanely competitive, Audrey. I had to run the fastest, get into the best law school, make the most money, drive the hottest car, walk into the party with the skinniest, blondest babe. It’s all a way of telling other men my dick is bigger than yours.” He shoots me a quick glance. “That’s why Anne was so happy when I brought you around. She sees you as a positive sign that I’m capable of an emotion other than aggression.”
I always think of Cal as being more grown-up than I am, but he looks oddly boyish right now, like a gawky teenager in need of a hug. “I don’t think you’re aggressive.”
He smiles a little. “Maybe I’m not around you. Maybe you bring out a better side of me, a side I forgot I had.”
Ethel comes over and forces her snout under my hand so I have to pet her.
“Will that work with me?” Cal asks.
“Try and see.”
It doesn’t take long for Cal to drive away all thoughts of my father, my mother, my putative brother, my attacker and every other worry lurking in my brain. Cal is as single-minded about sex as he is about Spencer’s campaign. For half an hour, I’m lost in physical pleasure and sweet release. Afterwards, as I lie next to him waiting for my heart to slow down, the real world comes creeping back, one thought at a time. Images surface of my mother having sex with her faceless lover. I push them away. My mind hopscotches to another act of infidelity: Dylan’s accusation that Spencer has cheated on Anne. I realize that in my preoccupation with my father, I’ve forgotten to tell Cal about Dylan’s larcenous appearance at the Reicker sale. Beside me I hear Cal’s breathing become slow and regular. The poor guy’s drifting off to sleep, but now that Dylan’s popped into my mind, I have to talk to Cal about him.
“Cal?”
“Mmph.” His hand strokes my arm but his eyes don’t open. The tense energy that normally courses through him has dissipated. On the verge of sleep he looks childlike, innocent. As much as I’d like to savor the sweetness of this moment, I can’t seem to restrain myself.
“Cal, I need to tell you this. Spencer’s grandson Dylan showed up at my estate sale yesterday. He tried to shoplift a vase, but Ty caught him.”
Cal bolts upright, the covers dropping away from his wonderfully sexy chest. “Dylan did what?”
I stay reclined, with the covers pulled up to my chin. “No big deal, but I did think it was kind of odd for a teenage boy to come to an estate sale. And then for him to take a ceramic pot—well, I guess he stole it just for the thrill. I’m not mad or anything—but I thought you should know.”
Cal thumps the pillow with his fist. “Dammit! What are we going to do with this kid? He’s hellbent on getting himself arrested before the election.”
“I did mention that he should behave himself for Spencer and Anne’s sake. He…uh…had kind of a strange reaction.”
Cal watches uneasily, waiting for me to continue.
“He said he didn’t see why Anne would care what he does when Spencer does much worse things. He claims his grandfather has been cheating on Anne for years. Is that true, Cal?”
Call rolls his eyes. “Of course not. Spencer is devoted to Anne—anyone can see that. And Anne’s certainly not the kind of woman who would put up with a philandering husband.”
“But why would Dyl—”
“Dylan’s not happy unless he’s the center of attention. Spencer’s campaign has been keeping Anne too busy to dote on Dylan. You’d think he would’ve outgrown his need for Grandma’s undivided devotion, but apparently not.”
“They do seem to be quite close.”
“Apparently Dylan was a sickly baby,” Cal explains. “Was born with some kind of heart condition, spent months at a time in the hospital as a little kid. He’s perfectly fine now, but Anne has a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to that particular grandchild.”
Cal springs out of bed, completely unselfconscious of his nakedness. “You handled it just right Audrey. Thanks for telling me. I’ll tell Anne and let her deal with Dylan.” He holds out his hand. “Let’s take a shower and go out for some dinner, hmm?”
A hot shower, a big dinner, a few glasses of wine. By ten Cal has brought me back to the condo and gone home (big early-morning meeting) and I’m in bed as spent and satisfied as Ethel after a long run in the park and a big bowl of kibble. Too drowsy to read, I turn on the TV for a little mindless entertainment. I toggle back and forth between Friends and Seinfeld reruns, switching every time a commercial comes on. Jerry delivers a quip to Kramer, and the screen dissolves to a big image of Spencer Finneran. I pause with my finger on the remote and watch as the camera tracks Spencer eating at a diner with truck drivers, sitting in a classroom with teachers, walking on the street with cops. Then the announcer intones: “Spencer Finneran: the honest choice for the hardworking people of New Jersey.”
Nice ad. Then I remember—I never did ask Cal about my mother working on Spencer’s first campaign.
I’m bracing myself but it hasn’t happened yet. Isabelle Trent and I are touring my father’s house—my childhood home—so Isabelle can tell me what it’s worth and what I have to do to get it ready to be listed. I’m waiting for her to utter the “P” word, but we’re halfway through the first floor and Isabelle still hasn’t deemed the house “precious.”
“Why those gloomy drapes?” Isabelle strides across the living room in her five-inch heels and gives the cord a yank. Sunlight floods the room. “Look at that view! That’s what we’re selling here on Skytop Drive.” I go to stand beside her and together we look out the window. The leaves have all fallen from the trees so we can see downtown Palmyrton nestled below and the rolling hills of Palmer County on the horizon. Did my mother like this view? Did she ever miss it after she left?
“Fabulous!” Isabelle says. “When I bring buyers up here I tell them you’re paying for the view, and we throw the house in for free.”
The houses on Skytop follow a ridge. Built in the ‘40s, they’re not that far apart, but each one inhabits its own little world, surrounded by tall oaks, maples and evergreens.
I look straight down to the driveway which slopes steeply to the street after a small level area in front of the garage. “I imagine some buyers would object to the driveway. I can’t tell you how many balls I chased down that thing.”
Isabelle waves this problem off as too minor to worry about. “Real estate is all about putting a positive spin on every negative feature. I tell them when you’re on a hill, you never have to worry about water in the basement.”
“And what do you tell people in the flatlands?”
“That they’ll never have to worry about not being able to get up their driveway in a snowstorm.”
Right.
Isabelle keeps yakking, completely unaware that she’s touched a nerve. “The décor is a little dated, darling. Very common with the old gentlemen living alone. This house would be a perfect starter home for a young family, but they need to be able to picture themselves in it.” Isabelle points one perfectly manicured finger like a magician casting a spell. “So get rid of that sagging brocade easy chair, and replace it with something contemporary in a nice neutral color.”
The chair in question has the impression of my dad’s butt in it. He’s sat there every day for the past thirty-three years, when he first moved his young family into this starter home. I wonder if he’ll want to take it with him to the apartment in Palmer Towers—his end-er home--or whether he’ll be willing to let it go.
I trail Isabelle upstairs, taking notes as she fires off her commentary. “Bathroom needs a facelift, but no need to remodel--get a new light fixture and lose that sea-shell shower curtain.” We pass my childhood bedroom, which has all the charm of a nun’s cell, then head into the master bedroom. “Nice size.” Isabelle yanks open a closet door. My father’s meager wardrobe hangs forlornly. “Impressively uncluttered,” Isabelle says. “Your father’s not a hoarder, is he?”
“Just the opposite,” I say. “He tosses everything.” Including every construction paper father’s day card I ever made for him.
“Our goal is to sell this right after the holidays,” Isabelle says. “So take a few days to freshen the place up, then let’s get it listed.” Isabelle gives me her trademark double air kiss and flies off to her next appointment, leaving a lingering whiff of Diorisimo in her wake.
A second later the front door pops back open. “And darling, do something about these monstrous holly bushes. Zero curb appeal.”
All alone in the house, I wander from room to room trying to imagine a time when my parents and I were happy here. I end up in the small third bedroom, the room that might have been a nursery if my mother had been willing to have a second child with Dad. Instead, it’s always been used as a home office. There’s a computer, a filing cabinet and a bookcase, all neatly arranged. When Dad had his stroke I had no trouble paying his bills because everything was filed meticulously. I took the folders I needed and never looked any further. Now, my hand slides across the dusty surface of the desk. Could there be some information about my mother in here? Maybe he’s always known where she is.
Dusk is settling over Skytop Drive. Even though Isabelle has snapped open the window shade, there’s not enough natural light for me to see clearly. I turn on the desk lamp and begin my search.
Each drawer in the file cabinet contains folders labeled in my father’s precise mathematician’s printing: insurance policies, appliance manuals, warranties, tax records. What did I expect-- folders labeled “Letters from Charlotte” or “True Whereabouts of Missing Wife”? Of course, if he’s got something about my mother hidden in here, wouldn’t it make sense to slip it in with the banal warranties and policies? So, I search through the contents of every folder. All contain just what they say they do and nothing more. The desk drawers are equally unrevealing, but still I can’t give up.
I turn to the bookcase. A few mathematics textbooks. Some nonfiction books on the history of science. And a larger book with a faded orange cover. I pull it out: the Princeton yearbook, 1969. I’m surprised that Dad kept it. I’ve never known him to be sentimental about his alma mater. It might be fun to look through, but not now. I’ve got more important things to do. I bring the yearbook over to the desk and sit down.
One thing remains: the computer. As a mathematician Dad has always had the latest, most powerful computer available. While it boots up, I search the room’s small closet. Five empty shelves march up one side. Above my head, on the top shelf, a tattered edge of paper peeps out. I reach up and pull it off the shelf.
My Family by Audrey N. Grade 2
is crayoned across the top. Even then I had neat handwriting. The picture below shows a fairly accurate representation of our house. Next to the house stand a large stick figure with white hair wearing a dress and a large stick figure with no hair wearing pants holding the hands of a small stick figure with long dark hair and a big red smile.
Nana. Me. Pop
. read the captions. On the other side of the house stands a much smaller solitary stick figure with spiky black hair and a straight line mouth wearing pants.
Dad.
Jesus, a shrink would have a field day with this! I wonder what Miss Davidson, my second grade teacher thought? I slide the picture into an empty file folder and put it on top of the yearbook.
Back in front of the computer, I scan the list of folders in My Documents. Most are labeled with mathematical formulae. I call up the Search function and type in Charlotte Perry. Nothing. Then I try Brian Bascomb. Impatiently I watch as the computer sifts through its own memory. I’m about to give up when a file pops up on the screen. It’s a spreadsheet labeled Spring 07 Advanced Number Theory. My father’s grade roster for that class. I click and it opens. The second entry on the roster is Bascomb, Brian: A.
Brian Bascomb was my father’s student, and apparently a very smart one. I lean back in the desk chair to think. Did Dad intentionally try to mislead me about Brian’s identity or did I simply misunderstand my father’s grunts and nods? Why would a student he taught years ago come to visit him now in a nursing home? Would my father inspire that kind of devotion? I don’t recall my father ever talking about his students. Is this another facet of him I know nothing about? Is he some revered Mr. Chips-like figure at Rutgers? I hit
print
so I have tangible evidence that Brian is Dad’s student.
A noise knocks me out of my reverie. Was that downstairs or outside? I listen, every nerve alert. Mostly what I hear is my blood pounding through my veins. I glance at the window. Although it’s only six, night has completely fallen. I’ll have to turn out all the lights and walk through a dark house, out to a dark driveway to get into my car, which I’m sure I left unlocked. Shit! I wish Ethel were with me.
Suddenly, this two story colonial that I grew up in, as familiar to me as my own body, feels like an amusement park haunted house. Grabbing the yearbook and the file folder with the picture and grade roster, I power down the computer, then go out in the hall to turn on the overhead light before I turn off the desk lamp. Looking both ways as if I expect a skeleton to jump out of the linen closet or a tiger to chase me from the other end of the hall, I scamper down the stairs. As my feet pound on the treads, I think I hear another noise. Is it the old house creaking in the wind, or has someone come in through the back door? Did I lock it after Isabelle left?
Heart racing, I reach the foyer and pause to listen again. All quiet. Once in the foyer, I’m able to turn off the upstairs hall light from below, while turning on the downstairs light. Now, I’ll turn on the kitchen light, come back and turn off the foyer light, and exit the back door right next to my car. In the kitchen, I peer out the window at the pitch black driveway. Skytop Drive seems as foreboding as the moors in a Bronte novel. Unraked leaves spin in whirlwinds. The two untrimmed holly bushes loom. Naked tree branches sway and dip. The house next door broods, silent and dark, behind the tall hedge dividing the properties. If I had to scream for help, would anyone hear me? I decide to turn on the light over the back door. I’ll have to leave it on all night, but I can come back tomorrow in the daylight to turn it off. Wasting energy seems preferable to venturing out into the void.
I set the book, file folder and my purse on the counter while I put on my coat and get my car keys ready in my hand. Then I switch on the outside light and bolt for the car. Once inside I switch on the dome light and check the back seat. Empty. Of course. How ridiculous am I?
As I drive east on Skytop Drive toward home, I hear the squeal of tires as a car pulls out behind me. What driveway did it come from? In my rearview mirror I see the tail lights of a car disappear in the opposite direction.