Twilight Child (12 page)

 She hadn't
told him all of that last serious conversation with Frances, only of her
assurance that the condition was temporary. She had, of course, mentioned the
adoption, but in the context of the entire traumatic event, that had seemed
merely a secondary priority. How could they know that it would come back to
haunt them?

 “Peter is
taking Tray on—as a father,” Frances had said. “He's adopting him.” To her
credit, it was not something casually mentioned on the telephone. Frances had
come over to the house in the late afternoon while Charlie was at work. She had
been in the yard playing ball with Tray when Molly came home from school. A
week had gone by since the scene between Peter and Charlie. It had not been a
happy week. Charlie had been moody and depressed, still not able to accept the
reality of the impending marriage. For her part, Molly had her own worries
about the new term and a new, very young principal.

 The weather
was still warm enough for cold lemonade, which she had made and brought to the
patio. Sensory memories always made the recollection seem more real. Even now
she could savor the tangy taste, which, as the conversation proceeded, grew
bitter and metallic.

 “I owe Tray
this chance.”

 Frances's
lips trembled, and her voice was shaky.

 “Are you all
right, dear?” Molly had said.

 “No, I'm
not.” She had paused. “This hurts.”

 “What does?”
Molly had been genuinely confused. It did concern her that Charlie had not
exactly given his blessing to the marriage so soon after Chuck's death, but
then again, he hadn't been happy about Chuck's marrying Frances in the first
place. He'd get over this as he had gotten over the other, Molly thought. Or
had he?

 “You and
Charlie won't be coming to the wedding,” Frances had said bluntly.

 Molly had
thought that over for a moment. They had received invitations. But the
statement and the flat way in which it was delivered startled her. Had it been
a question or a command?

 “There is
always the possibility that Charlie might change his mind. You know how he is.
Of course, out of respect for his views I wouldn't go without him. He's just
still depressed over Chuck.”

 “It wouldn't
matter in any event, Molly. Peter and I both think it's best.” She had paused
and lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

 “I suppose it
is understandable,” Molly had said without conviction. “What with Peter's
family and all. Considering the circumstances, it's probably more appropriate
to leave us out.” She'd tell that to Charlie, leaving him with one less problem
to grapple with.

 “And after
we're married, we'll need lots of space, Molly.” Frances seemed to have gained
courage, and the lip tremors had stopped. Briefly, Molly had been taken aback,
as if she were speaking to a person other than the one she had known for the
past six years. The other Frances had kept more to herself, an internal type,
rarely confiding and certainly not as assertive as she now appeared. Peter's
influence had already wrought changes in her.

 “I've never
been that kind of a mother-in-law. You know that, Frances.”

 “What I mean
is”—Frances stammered—“is that we really want you and Charlie not to visit.”

 “You know
Charlie and his pride. He'd never go where he wasn't invited.”

 Molly had
noted that Frances had averted her eyes. Her shyness had always made eye
contact difficult. Now she was deliberately avoiding any attempt at it.
Although the sun shone brightly and Tray played contentedly with the ball, the
atmosphere had suddenly become ominous.

 “Then you do
understand what I'm saying?” She grimaced as if she were in pain.

 “I understand
what you're saying. I'm not sure what you mean,” Molly had said haltingly. “You
know that Charlie and I will do nothing that will interfere with your
happiness.” She paused, trying to gather her wits, not daring to contemplate
what was coming next. “I hope you won't be too hard on Charlie. He really
wasn't very nice to you and Peter the other day. I hope you're not holding it
against him. He just can't hold things in. Doesn't seem to do much good to tell
him, either. But he's a good man.” She said the last emphatically, almost as if
it were a sales pitch. She wanted to keep talking, but she couldn't think of
much else to say.

 “This is very
hard for me,” Frances said. “And I don't want to cry.”

 “Of course
not, dear.” She was having difficulty holding back tears herself.

 “I owe this
to Peter. He's been simply wonderful about Tray. And me. I know it's the right
thing for us.”

 “I want only
what's best for you and Tray,” Molly managed to say. “We'll be happy to stay
away for a while. Of course, you need time to adjust to each other without us
hanging around and bothering things.”

 “I was afraid
of that. I don't think you completely understand, Molly,” Frances said, her
voice barely a whisper. “What I mean is—” She paused, began again, swallowed
the words, cleared her throat, and said, “I mean for you both to stay away
completely.”

 “I told you
we'll do it, Frances,” Molly said with rising irritation. “Depend on it.”

 “Until we say
otherwise, Molly. Now do you understand?”

 It was like a
club to the head. Was she getting the point?

 “I'm a bit
confused.” Molly had responded with the same tone that she often used with her
students.

 “From Tray as
well,” Frances said, almost swallowing the words.

 Molly felt
suddenly groggy, slightly dizzy. She was having difficulty understanding.

 “You mean
never see our grandson? You mean that?”

 “Not never,
Molly. Just for now.”

 “No visits?”

 “Not for
now.”

 “No telephone
calls? No letters?”

 “Just until
Tray adjusts. For the time being.”

 “You're
saying that we're to have no contact with our grandson.” She felt foolish in
the repetition.

 “It makes
sense for Tray.”

 There had
been a long pause as Molly coped with a sudden shortness of breath.

 “I know
you'll think we're heartless and cruel. I would like you to understand. But if
you don't, I'll have to accept that.” She began to race along now. “I want this
to be a completely fresh start for Peter and me. Tray, too. For the three of
us. We'll see how it goes.” For a moment Molly felt the uncommon inspection of
Frances's eyes. “I'm not saying it's forever,” she added quickly.

 “Is this your
idea?” She had felt helpless by then, ready to grasp any lifeline.

 “Mine and
Peter's.”

 “But why? We
love Tray. How can it possibly hurt to see him?”

 “It's not
that, Molly. The boy's been through enough. Let him accept his new life. Think
of his well-being first.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “I know
you think I'm being cruel and heartless.”

 “Misguided,
maybe. But no, not cruel and heartless.” I will not give her that satisfaction,
Molly thought bitterly. I will not make it easy for her.

 “I feel awful
about it, Molly. But I think it's the right thing. He'll have Peter's folks. We
just think it would be too complicated. We don't need any outside pressures
just now. Let's all adjust to the situation first.”

 “We're his
grandparents. Not the enemy.”

 “That's not
the issue, Molly. It's just—just that we want to make a fresh start.” She was
repeating herself now, as if she had memorized a speech. “There's Peter to
think about. He had a very bad first marriage, and he worries about anything
that might hurt ours. Besides, why should he have to cope with resentments that
have nothing to do with him—with another man's parents to remind him that he
wasn't the first?”

 “He said
that?”

 “Not in so
many words, but I imagine he could be thinking it.”

 “He'll have
Tray to remind him of that.”

 “But he'll be
Tray's father. Legally and otherwise.”

 “Not
otherwise. Just legally,” Molly had snapped, instantly regretting her sudden
outburst.

 “There. You
see? I don't fault you for it. It's an attitude. None of us should have to
contend with that for now.”

 “I don't know
what to say.” She felt drained.

 “Maybe
someday we'll think differently, but for now, I pray that you won't be too
unhappy.”

 A numbness
had begun to set in and, in her mind, she managed a subtle shift of focus to
Charlie.

 “It's going to
be rough on Charlie. You know how much he adores Tray.”

 “I know.”

 Molly had
half expected her to bring up a point about Tray's being a kind of surrogate
son for Charlie, but wisely Frances left that alone. There is something more
here than meets the eye, Molly had decided, something unspoken. She wondered
if, keeping her wits about her, she could bring it to the surface. Anything,
she thought. Anything but this.

 “Don't you
think that this step is, well, to say the least, a little drastic?”

 “Yes, it is.
But it can't avoided.”

 “You think
we'll be a bad influence on Tray?”

 “Certainly
not bad. But confusing. Let's just try it, Molly. Nothing is forever.”

 “Not
childhood either. Nor our lives.” She had been trying desperately to keep her
composure, but soon her eyes were misting and she could not disguise a sterling
effort to hold back a tearful collapse.

 “This is not
easy for me either, Molly,” Frances had said, her voice catching.

 “You don't
know the half of it.” She managed to hold back her tears while her mind tried
to conceive of strategies that might get Frances to change her mind. “It
somehow doesn't seem right. Charlie and I are blood kin to Tray, unselfishly
devoted and loving.”

 “Please,
Molly. I don't question that.”

 It was
impossible to think and grieve at the same time. All mental and emotional
strength seemed to have run out of her. There was only room for a desperate
probe.

 “It's not
because of Chuck, is it?”

 They had
rarely discussed that issue. Now she regretted her deliberate avoidance of the
subject.

 “Now that you
ask, it was awful, Molly. Being alone so much. It wasn't a marriage. Maybe at
first. No. It wasn't very good. Not for me. It was lonely and—why am I going on
like this? Let's just say that it wasn't like yours and Charlie's. Not like
most loving married couples. Chuck didn't want to be married, Molly. He didn't
want the responsibility. He just wasn't satisfied with me—or Tray. He didn't
want Tray, you know.”

 Molly felt a
flash of anger.

 “Now that's
not true, Frances.” In her heart, of course, she knew otherwise.

 “Maybe not
Tray, specifically. Rather the whole idea of being tied down, of fatherhood. Of
answering to one woman.” She had grown nervous again, and the lip tremors
resumed.

 “Really,
Frances—”

 “He was away
for six months or more at a time. I admit I've been naive, but I'm not a fool.
There are men like that. They like the freedom and danger of that kind of life.
A wife and children don't fit into it.”

 “You should
have demanded he stay home.”

 “I tried. You
know I tried,” she said, her voice again lowering to a whisper. But her answer
was tentative, and Molly saw her sense of shame and failure.

 “Maybe you
weren't assertive enough,” Molly said, knowing there was a barb in it. She felt
a stab of guilt. When it came to Chuck, maybe none of them had been assertive
enough, including herself.

 “Well then,”
Frances replied. “I don't want to make the same mistake again. I'm not afraid
anymore. I have my priorities and I don't intend ever to be silent again.”

 Priorities
, Molly thought. She could not remember Frances ever using that
term. It seemed scientific—sounded like Peter's word. She was Peter's
spokesman, Molly decided.

 Her anger was
rising now, and she knew that soon she would reach the point of no return, when
words could be weapons of total destruction. There was no point in citing
Frances's lack of assertion or any other imagined faults, no point in implying
that they were the cause of Chuck's death. Not now. Too many people were
already blaming themselves. But this business of priorities had an ominous air
about it. Worse, she understood exactly what it meant. Molly, too, at this
point in time, had her priorities. And they were in direct conflict with
Frances's.

 Molly, too,
had consciously reordered her priorities at one point in her life, perhaps not
with as much revolutionary fervor as Frances, but to the men around her it had
seemed radical at the time. She chose to take up her teaching job again when
Chuck was barely out of diapers, a decision that had shaken the rafters of her
own marriage. No, there could be no retreat from a woman's reordered
priorities. The game was lost, she knew.

 The
conversation had finally dwindled. There was nothing more to say, nothing left
to do but hug Tray and hide her tears.

 “You're
squeezing too hard, Gramma,” Tray had said. Sniffling, she disguised her
anguish by tickling his ribs. Tray had squealed with laughter, a sound that had
since replayed itself at odd moments of quietude on sunny afternoons in the
backyard, along with the remembered sound of Chuck's boyhood voice.