Stranger, Father, Beloved (13 page)

“Let me try mine. Yes, it is delicious.” She put the spaghetti into the microwave. “Thank God for wine. It's perfect at the end of the day.”

“You got that right. I should get into the stuff. Replace my beer with this. It tastes healthier than beer.”

“It's not as fattening. Not that you need to worry about that,” she said, glancing at his slim frame.

“Neither do you.”

“Well, that's debatable.” Both were silent. Nancy appreciated the comment but had no response. She would take it—maybe her appearance wasn't as bad as she thought. It was amusing that all the men in her life were very thin, to the point of being waiflike, while she had never had the luxury of being skinny.

She set the plate of spaghetti down on the placemat in front of him and sprinkled Parmesan cheese over it.

“Aren't you eating?”

“I ate already,” she lied. She hadn't had dinner, although she
had stuffed herself with popcorn earlier. Besides, she didn't like to have people watch her eat, especially people who weren't her family. Michael's mother had once remarked to him about the way she ate, and she had never forgotten it. She had not been meant to hear it—the remark had been made in stealth and in low tones, and Michael had been offended and stood up for her, but she had still heard. “Noisy eaters” is what she had said, referring to both Max and Nancy.

John was a tidy, efficient eater, never getting sauce around his mouth. The wine relaxed him, and she noticed that he was not a bad-looking man.

She poured him another glass while he ate, as well as a glass of water.

“I'm glad I didn't go to book club. Maybe I'll drop out. I don't see why I need to discuss the books with everyone. It's not really my thing, anyway. Since you're done, let's sit out on the patio and drink our wine. Oh, I have pie—do you want a piece? It's apple.”

“Oh, yes, please. That sounds perfect. Let me wash the dishes.”

“Okay, since it's only one dish I'll let you.”

They cleaned up the kitchen, and then Nancy flicked the switch for the low-level lighting that decorated the back patio.

“These lights are probably my favorite feature in this entire house. Does that sound silly?” She felt extreme pleasure in turning on these little lights that, by day, were camouflaged into the wood of the patio. At night the little bulbs, twelve in total, cast a ring of pale light over the floorboards, reminding Nancy of a fairy village on a hillside.

She and John sat in adjacent chairs at the edge of the patio looking over the expanse of the darkening yard.

“This is nice, isn't it?” Nancy murmured once she was seated. There were fireflies hovering over the garden and up into the trees.

“That's the only bug I know of that I like,” John said.

“Fireflies?”

“Yeah. The only beautiful bug around, unless we were in the Amazon. I'm sure there are pretty bugs there.”

“You ever traveled overseas?”

“Me? Naw. You?”

“Michael took me to England and Ireland. It was amazing.”

“Did you stay in a castle?”

“Actually, we did. But only for two nights. It was very romantic. They had candelabras on the hallway walls and electric candles in the hotel rooms. I think the style was gothic.”

“Gothic like Dracula?”

“High ceilings and long velvet curtains—dark lighting.”

“Spooky. But it sounds like a lot of fun.”

A fox walked lazily across the yard, and its presence disturbed a rabbit chewing on some grass twenty feet away. The rabbit jerked its head up, listening, its eyes wide with terror, then turned and scampered away from the fox into the dense bushes.

“My shoulders are cold. I'm going to go inside for a throw—do you need one?”

“No, I'm okay. Oh what the hell, bring me one.”

“I'll grab the bottle while I'm at it too.”

She came back out and gave John the white throw, which was softer than the pink one that she kept for herself.

“This is a little slice of heaven here, this property. You sure I'm not bothering you by being here?”

“Not at all—I need the company. It's been a long day, and, as you can see, my husband is not around.” The bluntness of her statement silenced the two of them for a minute.

Nancy was aware that in the darkness she probably appeared quite pretty to John, and she basked in the knowledge.

“I'll open another bottle,” she said and went into the kitchen.

When she returned, she poured John another glass and then sat down again next to him.

“What do you think is your best feature?” she asked.

“Physical feature?”

“Yeah.”

He laughed and covered his mouth with his hand. “I've never been asked that before. I don't know, let me think about it. What's yours?”

“I have excellent hands and feet. I always have. Beautiful, dainty hands and nice nails and lovely-colored skin. My feet haven't aged a day since I was a girl. And they never smell.”

“I guess mine would be my back. I don't have back hair, and I have strong back muscles. My wife also said I have a nice mouth.” He blushed and was silent. “You have other nice features, though. Hands and feet are great, but you have other, more obvious good traits.”

“Like what?”

“Nice eyes and hair. I'll stop there before I say something out of line.”

“Come on. No one needs a compliment more than me. Who cares if it sounds out of line?” The truth was, she was desperate for the compliment.

“You promise you won't get offended?”

“Yes.”

“You have nice breasts.”

Nancy began giggling and looked away quickly. “That was out of line! But I can't say I'm not flattered. I've been told that before.” She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh God, we should stop. This conversation is getting to be too much. Where the hell is my family?” she asked, and the two of them laughed.

“We've been deserted,” John replied and searched her face. “Should I leave?”

“You probably should, although I've been having so much fun. I haven't had a belly laugh like that in ages. Thank you for that.”

“No, thank you. You've been quite the hostess. The meal was excellent.”

“I can't really take credit for that—it's from a jar.” Even as she said it, she noticed that she felt a satisfaction that had been missing for years. John was easy to please and take care of. He operated from the code of regular men.

“Yeah, but why does leftover spaghetti always taste so much better than when it's fresh?” he asked.

“It does, doesn't it? Are you okay to drive?” She suddenly wished she had not cut the evening short. She did not want him to leave, but there was no way she could ask him to stay at this point.

“Yes, definitely.”

They walked toward the front door, and he stood there for a moment with his keys in his hand. “Well, see you Monday bright and early.”

“Yeah, have a good rest of the weekend, John.”

After he left, the silence in the house took on a new texture, and for a moment she felt inexplicably frightened of the dark. As she stood there alone in the downstairs kitchen, she realized why. It was happening again. Michael was headed toward one of his breakdowns. Could they survive another one? The thought was unbearable, and she tried to dismiss it. Maybe after all these years she was becoming paranoid for no reason. She took a deep breath and went to lock the patio door.

CHAPTER NINE

John was becoming a permanent part of their lives, or so it seemed to Michael. He had been working in the backyard for a couple weeks now, and having him around eased Michael's mind in an inexplicable and yet fundamental way. John was always cheerful in a quiet manner and seemed to admire Michael, how he had a large house, a successful career, and children. He smiled at an offered glass of iced tea with sincere gratitude. Why couldn't Michael appreciate the little things like that? Perhaps it was his wealthy upbringing; perhaps he had been spoiled, always wanting more, more, more. Now he saw John's face in his mind's eye, handsome in a subdued way—there to restore order should a family emergency rise.

Michael had gone to bed that night at eight, while it was still partly light. He lay down just to rest for a minute, and the warm breeze and the smell of the hydrangeas through the window, the sky all lit up with pink, bewitched him. He found himself heavy, a delirious form of slowness, and the sheets felt better against his skin than they ever had as he lay in them, and he could not bring himself to get up but felt he would sleep forever.

Michael drifted off holding that stoic and trustworthy face of John's in his mind. John wouldn't let them down. He had stayed for dinner with Nancy the other night, and imagining the two of them alone, eating and talking, gave Michael pleasure. Nancy should be able to enjoy a nice meal with a grounded, normal, single man.

Michael awoke at five in the morning with clarity of mind and did not feel like sleeping a second longer. He went down to the kitchen to make breakfast for his family. He was ashamed when he realized how rare it was for him to pamper his family, and he was especially vigilant with carrying out his tasks.

Looking out into the dimly lit yard, he saw John's partially constructed porch extension and gazebo and felt genuine happiness that John would be here in a little over an hour to work. He wished he could skip work himself and stay to help him out in the yard. Michael's fondness for John was growing.

He felt he should have made more of an effort to introduce John to the others the night of the party. Trying to imagine John as a student at his old university, his mind produced no image. He would probably consider the classes to be a waste of time, with all their abstractions and intangibles.

He loves what's practical, not what's abstract, Michael thought. Why can't I have more of that? I wonder if practical men are better in bed? Are they more vigorous lovers because their minds are turned off? He felt that John would commit himself to the task of lovemaking with the same diligence he would bestow upon removing the weeds from Michael's garden, completing a task without distraction. It was possible to imagine the type of lover John might be, eager to please, kind, and surprisingly long lasting. His unassuming
nature would create a better lover. Michael himself had never been able to commit himself to the task in the right way, except for a few times when drunk. He always wanted to get it over with at a certain point, and rhythmic movements could be maddening. A man like John would get the job done and done well. Michael would give credit where credit was due. When he picked, he picked well. Good for Nancy, he thought, only the best for her.

Looking through the fridge, he found a bag of oranges in one of the bins. He began squeezing them with energy and pouring the juice into cups. With bacon frying in the microwave, he began to make fruit cups. There were enough berries in the fridge to make a nice assortment of colorful cups for everyone. Michael imagined the pleased expressions on their faces when they came down the stairs, and he relished his own happy feelings that morning.

Maybe he could create something beautiful to leave behind for his daughter. If his novel was a success, he could redeem himself in her eyes. She loved books, loved to lose herself in a good story, just as he did. Perhaps she would see that he could indeed brighten the world with some beauty instead of always bringing darkness. He placed a fruit cup in front of Ryan's plate—the most colorful one.

Michael had used to think a lot about how he first met Nancy. He had stopped thinking about it because it became far too disturbing to remember those days. He felt that there had been a real succulent innocence to their involvement, actually, and it startled him to remember it. It was too painful to recall how they had been then, knowing what they had become now.

He knew he was indebted to Nancy for her loyalty through the series of events that had taken place when they were in their early twenties. He had acted out his rage several times in front of her, and she had still stayed up all night to sit beside him while he finished an
important essay. She was the only person who had seen him turn into a monster, and she had loved him through it all. He used to consider her a saint; the depth of her kindness was immeasurable. Despite all his academic achievements, Michael felt he was nothing next to her in those moments. They were two ends of the spectrum colliding at the center and resting there. She didn't judge him, and she was the only one who knew how far his mind could stretch toward the unsavory, as well as the unreal.

He knew he would have been happiest had he stayed in the academic world; he knew he was nothing without his intellectual prowess being carefully cradled and nursed. It would have been so easy for him to have become a professor, so natural, that it was horrifying that he had given it up. His mental problems would have been overlooked there, as all professors are seen as slightly crazy; it even added to their charm.

And my family, he thought in the empty kitchen. They would have been a hell of a lot happier if I were happy. A miserable father brings down the whole crew.

It was almost eight. Where was everyone? He crept up the stairs and into his bedroom. Nancy's robe was draped on a chair outside their bathroom door—she was in the shower. He went back out and into Max's room, which was shockingly cold. Max was still nestled under the covers, his face not visible, his raspy breath audible. Nancy usually woke Max before her shower. Today she had not. The door's hinges squeaked as he opened it. Max's body did not move, but his breath continued—slow inhales and rough, fast exhales.

Michael felt odd standing there, so he laid a hand on his boy and roused him. Disorientation colored Max's face as he looked up. After his son was born, Michael had known there would be no more children. His physical condition seemed to be some sign that what they
were doing was wrong in some way and that they should not continue.

“Time to get up,” he said awkwardly, his hand still on Max. Max got out of bed so quickly that it occurred to Michael that maybe his son was afraid of him. Heading straight to the neat pile of clothes Nancy had laid out for him the night before, Max wouldn't look at him.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, Dad.”

Michael wanted to go into Ryan's room but thought better of it. She had been up late the night before talking on the phone. He couldn't hear what she was saying but was sure she was talking to a new boyfriend of some kind because of the incessant loverlike murmuring sounds. He could scarcely picture who the boy would be, but it was undoubtedly some horny pimply type of kid. He wondered if she'd bring him back to the house. No doubt he'd been briefed on dear old Dad. Michael was sure that the boy had to know he was strange; Ryan would have told him.

Back in his own bedroom, Michael sat on the stool in front of Nancy's vanity table and looked at all of her cheap cosmetics. He wondered why, after all these years, she still insisted on buying drugstore makeup. They could afford department store brands.

Michael remembered how his parents had had a good laugh at her expense when Nancy had thrown her first dinner, celebrating their engagement. The event had taken place at Nancy's small apartment, and she had cooked the dishes she felt were appropriate. God only knew how it had ended up looking like a smorgasbord of cafeteria food: macaroni and cheese, peas and carrots, even a basket of potato chips on the corner of the table. The effect of the evening had been that his parents thought he had lost his mind to marry her—someone so common, so unrefined. Although he would have been just as
ashamed to present a woman like Alex's Meg to his parents, whose imitation of elegance would have been immediately clear to them. She was a bauble next to a gem like Michael's mother.

Michael went back to the kitchen and poured the pancake batter into the frying pan. A stack of three or four pancakes had accumulated before he noticed Max sitting at his seat at the table. He had his head bowed and was swinging his legs back and forth.

“Hungry, son?”

“Mom usually cooks.”

“She'll be down soon. Doesn't Mom deserve a break?”

Michael went to the stairs. “Nancy!”

Upon seeing Nancy's smiling face, Michael became excited, ushering her to her chair and placing two pancakes on her plate.

“Tea, Nancy? I know you love tea. Well, guys, I am not even half as good a cook as your mother,” he said in Nancy's direction, and she smiled, “but I am trying. Hopefully, it will be edible.”

“Michael, this looks great!” Nancy said in her cheerful way, and he smiled to himself. She loved him, and he wanted to give something back to her.

He brought her a cup of herbal tea and gazed out impatiently into the yard.

“John should be here soon. He doesn't have the day off, does he?”

“No, as far as I know, he'll be working here. Thank you for this. This is such a rare treat, Michael.” She looked up at him, and again it struck him that although she spoke with sincerity, she also appeared mildly frightened of him as well. Was she? He wasn't sure.

Am I such a monster that my family is afraid to make a move or ruffle my feathers? he wondered.

Ryan came down and gave him a nasty look, making no effort to appear happily surprised.

“Please have some food, Ryan.”

“I'm not really hungry. I'm just going to head out.”

“Please.” It came out a little more forcefully than Michael had intended. Desperation was evident on his face. She stood looking at them, her hand resting on a banana. Michael wondered why everyone was being so silent.

“Ryan, your father would appreciate your sitting down,” Nancy interjected. “He's treating us to a meal—let's enjoy it. Look at all this food.” Nancy had had a talk with him earlier that week and let him know they both had to really work on being harder on Ryan. She had been acting lately as if there were no boundaries, and they needed to get on her case about it. He admired the way Nancy was taking control; he admired the strength in his wife.

But now Michael could feel the joy draining out of the situation; his attempt at parenting was falling flat. Ryan looked at him as if she were studying him for a moment, wondering whether or not she should show him mercy. She looked calmer and happier than he had seen her in years. She picked up the banana and said, heading out the door, “Sorry, I'm going to be late. You guys enjoy.”

Michael could not get the look on Ryan's face out of his head. She was too young to be doing stuff like sneaking around with boys. He had prayed that this sort of thing wouldn't happen until college—that she would save herself until then. But kids were doing that less and less. High school was the time for it these days. Michael reassured himself by remembering that this was most likely the hardest part of his life. Having a teenage daughter who hated him and was having sex was the toughest thing he would ever face. That and his faulty career choice—there would be no bigger struggle.