Homecoming (11 page)

“An invitation from Gran. She wants us to come up next week and stay overnight.”

Mark read aloud,
“Don’t mention this to your father, Ellen. I’m inviting Mark’s parents too. Next time it will be your father’s turn.”

“Are my parents going?” he asked.

“Yes, we’re to ride up together.”

“We really should see your gran more often.
She’s a sweet old soul. I always think she must have been like you when she was young.”

“When Freddie is just a bit older, it will be easier and we’ll do it.”

“Remember that wedding reception? What an ordeal! I came home in a sweat because of those two men. Nine years ago! I’ll tell you right now, I couldn’t go through it again.” And he laughed at the recollection.

A
nnette had a habit that had taken root as long ago as her childhood. It was her custom, no matter what might have occurred during the day, to look ahead each night before falling asleep to something happy in the next day. More often than not the something was simple, such as a trip to browse in the local bookstore, or an afternoon with an old friend. It might even be something quite trivial, like having pancakes and sausage for breakfast on a winter morning. Small comforts, she often thought, do help to soften large griefs, no matter what anyone says. Not, she would mentally add, that I am any great authority
on grief. I have had very few of them: my husband’s death, and the deaths of poor Cynthia’s twins.

This present sorrow could not possibly compare with those. Nevertheless, the breach between her sons had gone on far too long, and it hurt. Consider all those expressions fixed in the language, like
blood brothers
, and
brotherly love;
those two men were too old and too intelligent to cast such precious bonds away.

Then there were other things that offended her sense of rightness: the impending and, in her opinion, entirely unnecessary divorce between Cynthia and her nice young husband was one. The in-laws’ feud that burdened Ellen’s household was another. What on earth was happening to people who should know better? Why couldn’t they just behave themselves like adults? Act your age! she wanted to say to them.

But that was not so easy. In a brief, inspired moment she had believed it might be, and so had written those tricky invitations. Now, tomorrow morning, her chickens would be coming home to roost. And she was scared to death.

She stood now in the library, talking to the
portrait of Lewis. His keen brown eyes paid attention; on his left hand, resting upon an open book, the wedding band gleamed. For a moment she had an old, familiar impression that he was teasing her:
Oh, Annette, what a meddler and busybody you are
.

“No, I’m not,” she replied aloud. “If you were still here, you yourself would give your sons what-for.”

Two boys who played in the bathtub together. And she almost had to laugh at the memory of the day when, half grown and old enough to bathe themselves, they had let the water overflow.

Loud shrieks, as glee turned into rage, had brought both parents running. A small lake was forming on the floor while the boys wrestled in the tub.

“He got soap in my eyes!”

“He punched me!”

By the time the slippery, protesting pair had been lifted out and pacified, by the time the floor had been mopped and order restored, both Lewis and she had been almost as wet as the boys. And how had it ended? They had all gone out for ice cream, as sweetly and happily as you please.

If only today’s troubles could be so easily tidied away!

Cynthia. All these tragic divorces, instead of putting some effort into marriage.

“It wasn’t all champagne and roses for us, was it, Lewis? And then those kids Ellen and Mark. Were they supposed to fall in love to please their parents? We didn’t. You didn’t have a bean when we were married, and I know my parents weren’t delighted about it, either, but they never said so.”

When Annette’s voice ceased, the room was too quiet. The dogs in their baskets slept deeply, without twitching in dreams of the hunt. The sleep of the old, she thought. They’re old like me. I hope they won’t outlive me, for who will take care of them? I wish I knew how long I have, so I could make plans. People do live into their nineties these days, though. Still, you can’t count on it. It seems as if you can’t count on anything, although I suppose it’s age that makes me take that point of view. Age that makes me want to lecture to the young. And yet, I’m afraid of them. What kind of a mess are we going to have here tomorrow?

It was then, as she sat down in front of the
telephone, that she knew she must ask for help. To do otherwise was nothing but foolhardy.

Marian Lester lived halfway between the Byrne house and the high school, where she taught. Only in her late forties and looking ten years younger, she was an unusual person to be a friend of Annette Byrne. But Annette had been active in community affairs, even on the board of education for many years after her grandchildren, let alone her children, were grown. And so they had had a long acquaintanceship. Then suddenly a friendship had begun.

One Saturday morning Annette had been surprised to see Marian in the group of kindergarten children who were having their nature walk through Byrnes’ woods.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired of teaching teenagers,” she said.

“No way. But I’m on the board of our local wildlife committee, and they ran short of helpers for this morning’s outing. So here I am, filling in. It’s rather fun for a change.”

Marian looked wistful, Annette thought. She had been a widow for several years and lived alone, her children being adults and far away.
The little town was hardly overfull of desirable single men, and anyway schoolteachers had scant time to go out searching. Such a pretty woman too! It was a waste.…

On impulse Annette suggested dinner.

“That is, if you have nothing better to do one night this week,” she said, with tact. “I know an old lady isn’t the most exciting company.”

Marian smiled. “That depends on who she is. And you don’t have to specify midweek. I’m not often busy on weekends either.”

“Then what about tonight?”

“I’d love it, thank you.”

They had a very pleasant evening, the first of many. They were both bookworms, music lovers, and nature lovers. They were passionate about causes. Like all women who are mothers, they had their own stories to relate.

Annette had the advantage of means that had enabled her to travel the world, yet she seldom talked about the things she had seen.

“I always say that the worst bores are people with travel tales about their hotel bargains and sick stomachs.”

“You never bore me. I
want
to hear about the
Ganges. Do you really see floating bodies? Did they serve fermented mare’s milk in Mongolia? No, you never bore me.”

There was an unusual serenity about Marian. At least, it seemed outwardly to be so. What was within, of course, one could not know. The thoughtful, listening expression and calm voice, even the smooth curve of the dark hair from the center parting to the ears, were all soothing to hear and look at. It seemed to Annette that Marian must never have had any of both Cynthia’s and Ellen’s busyness—inherited, most probably, from me, she would think with a grin.

So they admired each other, and exchanged the small favors that friends do. Marian knitted a handsome sweater for Annette, while Annette gave books and a matinee in the city. And they confided things, as friends do.

Therefore Marian knew all about the tangled quarrels in Annette’s extended family. Therefore Annette was now at the telephone.

“I need your help, you see. I want to have things straightened out. It’s ridiculous for these people to waste life like this.” And then, as a doubt rose, she asked, “Tell me the truth. Am I
wrong, Marian? Am I sticking my nose into other people’s business?”

“Well, of course you are, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. Some of the best things in the world happen because people stick their noses in.”

“So you’ll come? You can sit comfortably in the snuggery—that’s my little office where I pay bills and read mail—you can read there. Then if you hear any loud argument, and I’m sure you will, come out and be a buffer.”

“I’ll be there early. It sounds interesting.”

Hearing the smile in Marian’s voice, Annette felt her dread recede. At least she would have an ally.

“Go to sleep, Annette, and think of something nice for tomorrow, the way you always do.”

Promptly at ten o’clock Gene’s tires crunched over the gravel drive. From his earliest years when he had first learned to tell time, he had always been either right on the dot or else five minutes early. His reliability had been a family byword ever since his childhood. Perhaps, Annette thought, this time will be different and I
shall be able to reach that strong sense of what is required and right.

Coffee and his favorite cinnamon rolls were set on a tray in the sunroom, where he liked to sit on a wicker garden chair among flowering plants.

“You’ve had the chairs painted,” he observed the minute he walked in.

“I thought white would be a nice change. Do you like it?”

“Very nice. You’ve never lost your touch with African violets, I see. It looks like summer in here.”

“The light’s good. That’s all you need, no particular skill.”

“You’d never think it was twenty-five degrees above outside.”

“I got a feel of it when I let the dogs out.”

“Old Roscoe keeps going, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s in fine shape for his age. Look at him. He loves the sun.”

Gene looked at the dog, who was bathing in a pool of heat beside Annette’s chair. He looked at his mother, who was also in fine shape for her age, slender and beautifully groomed, from polished shoes and pale blue country woolens to
wavy white hair. Then he looked at the tray with its two cups and two plates. So she was not expecting anyone to join them, he reasoned, and was relieved of his earlier vision of doctors or lawyers come to discuss alarming news.

“I’ve been rummaging around in the attic,” she said. “It’s amazing how things accumulate almost before you know it. And I found some surprises. You know, I thought we’d given your trains away years ago, but here they are, in perfect condition, each piece wrapped in tissue paper. Your father must have done it. There’s a huge layout—do you remember?—bridges, tunnels, a river, villages, and trees. It will be a real treasure for Freddie in a couple of years.”

“It certainly will be,” Gene agreed, although where they would put the huge layout in that place where they were living was surely a puzzle.

He wondered about this conversation, too, and why he had been invited just today. Invited? Was not
summoned
perhaps a better word? For the letter, when he thought about it, was in a way rather strange. Again, why just today? And be prepared, if possible, to stay overnight? It would have seemed more natural if she had said,
I’d love
to have a visit from you soon. How about next week or the week after?

On the other hand, there was probably nothing to it at all except a normal desire, very normal at her age, to be with her son very soon.

“And how’s Lucy? I haven’t seen her since Labor Day weekend, and I miss her.”

“She’s an absolute joy. I took her to see the
Nutcracker
last week. The place was packed with children, but even so, I saw people looking at her and making comments. She had on a black velvet dress that Ellen said you gave her, and with that blond hair and all her chatter—”

Annette laughed. “You’re nothing but a proud grandfather.”

“I’ll admit that. But she really does attract attention. She’s the image of Ellen, don’t you think? And Ellen looks a lot like you.”

“Undeserved credit. Ellen looks just like her mother.”

Susan. Sometimes he went for days in quiet acceptance of his loss, and sometimes the very mention of her name, a face, or a fraction of song were enough to send a thrust of pain through his chest.

And he could not help but say, “I miss her terribly.”

“I know. It comes at moments, doesn’t it? Like a jab in the heart.”

Neither one of them spoke. She was gazing into the space above his head. She’s remembering my father, Gene thought, and felt her sadness.

“Yes, yes,” she said, “you look back and back.… It’s like looking in a telescope, seeing things recede, the front lawn, the meadow, the hill, the mountain, and beyond that, each smaller and smaller the farther out you can see. As in one’s life … things that happened long ago get smaller and smaller too.”

He became alert. Annette was not given to philosophical platitudes. But since she was evidently not finished, he listened politely.

“There’s another thing about time, another aspect. It’s unfortunate, really quite sad, that more often the good things, when you’re looking back through the years, seem to melt into a vague, rosy blur. It’s the bad things that stand out like black stains. Have you noticed? I had a bad argument with my sister once, and even though we made it up, when she died, I remembered it. I didn’t want
to remember it, but there it was. And I was so thankful that we had made up.”

So that was it, the old business again. He reached over to pour a second cup of coffee and was trying to think of an inoffensive way to keep his mother from continuing the painful subject, when Roscoe jumped up and barked. From the front hall sounded the spaniels’ hysterical yapping. Then there were voices.

“Jenny, how are you?”

Oh, my God, that was Lewis!

“Jenny, you look wonderful. You never get old.”

That was Daisy, dear sister-in-law with the phony English accent.

“I’ll hang up your coats. Go on in. Your mother’s in the sunroom.”

That was Jenny, undoubtedly in on this business and bursting with curiosity.

There were three of them, including Cynthia, at the doorway looking in. Gene half rose from his chair and sank back. There was a total shocked silence; even Annette, who had risen all the way, seemed for an instant unable to move.