Twilight Child (25 page)

 “I'm sorry,”
she told Molly, who looked up, ashen-faced, from what was obviously tepid
coffee.

 The lunchtime
crowds were arriving in droves. The lines were long and the atmosphere noisy.
She slid in across the booth from Molly.

 “I hope they
don't throw us out for loitering,” Molly said. She looked toward the busy
counters. “Do you want something?”

 “I'm fine,”
Frances said. Molly looked tired, much older than she had appeared when Frances
had last seen her.

 “I'm afraid
he doesn't have much of a light touch,” Molly shrugged.

 “Who?”

 “Father
Time.” Molly's eyes inspected her. “But you're looking wonderful, Frances.
Radiant.”

 “I'm happy.”
She had resolved not to tell her about the new baby.

 “And Tray?”

 “He's doing
fine. The baby, too.”

 “Peter?”

 “Everybody is
wonderful, Molly. Really wonderful. I have a good life now.” She wished she
hadn't said “now.”

 “So it's all
behind you? Us? Chuck?”

 The irony of
the face-to-face confrontation, Frances thought, was that it put Molly at a
distinct disadvantage. The knowledge calmed her.

 “I'm afraid
so.” She hesitated. “Except for that lawsuit. It's something we all could have
done without.”

 “I'm really
sorry about that. But there didn't seem to be another way. Sometimes you get
into a situation that cannot be resolved except by an outside source.”

 “If only you
would both realize—” Frances began.

 “Still the
hard-nose, eh, Frances?” Molly said, shaking her head. Her attitude had a
sharper, more confrontational edge than Frances had seen in her before.

 “What I'm
trying to say is that pressing the issue only makes it worse. I've told you
that you've got to give us all time.”

 Frances
watched Molly's eyes narrow. Her nostrils quivered. “Your concept of time and
ours is vastly different. For God's sake, Frances, it's been two years. Are you
saying that if we let things alone, give up the suit, you'll give us some
future date when you'll let us see Tray? Is that what you mean?”

 “I suppose I
do,” Frances said.

 “But it's now
that it counts the most.”

 “For whom?”

 “For Tray, of
course.”

 “I think
that's where we differ, Molly,” she said gently. “It's now that Tray needs the
stability of what he presently has. Perhaps later, when he gets into his teens,
the situation won't be as disruptive.”

 “Like what?
Like thirteen? Fourteen? Seventeen?”

 “I'm not
sure.”

 “At eighteen
he can choose for himself whether to see us or not. By then he'll have
forgotten what we look like or who we are.” She was obviously holding back her
anger, although her voice was still soft. Around them the noise level was
rising as more customers poured into the place.

 “That's
eleven years from now. We'll have missed the best part of his life.”

 “That's just
the point, Molly. It's him I have to think about first,” she sighed. “I guess I
can't make you see it.”

 “There's
nothing to see,” Molly said bitterly.

 “That's
because you won't look. Peter is Tray's father now. That is an inescapable fact
of Tray's life. He is a real, living, caring father. Not a substitute. A true
father. And Tray loves him. The boy is happy. He has a brother.” Frances
hesitated, then continued. “You and Charlie are part of another life. How many
times must I say it? It's not said out of cruelty or spite or anger. The boy
doesn't need you. I know it sounds awful. But it's true. I mean, I've kept the
boy's name. I haven't totally erased Chuck's memory. But it's my and Peter's
responsibility to decide what's best for him.”

 “What about
us?”

 “Don't you
understand? I can't look at it that way.”

 “Were we so
mean and terrible to you?” Molly asked pointedly.

 “Not really.”
She had hesitated, just enough to convey the real truth of her earlier
unhappiness. “It has nothing to do with that.”

 “But you do
see us as a kind of enemy?”

 Frances
looked around her uncomfortably. Guard against this, she told herself.

 “That's
ridiculous,” she said. “You people see everything from the wrong end of the
telescope.”

 “Afraid that
somehow we'll corrupt our own grandchild?”

 “Now you're
going too far, Molly.”

 “I can't help
it. I just don't understand. Are you really afraid that we'll hurt Tray? Is it
Peter you're worried about? Or maybe—” Frances sensed that something truly
awful was coming, something totally out of character for Molly. She said
nothing and waited.

 “We've seen
your house, Frances. And you. Your clothes. Even the way you talk. It's like
the rough edges have been smoothed out.”

 “I really
don't know what you're talking about.”

 “Dundalk is a
long way from Columbia.”

 “Not as far
as you think.”

 “It's like
you moved up a notch or two and don't want to be reminded—”

 “I'm not
going to sit here and listen to that, Molly,” Frances said, her agitation
rising. Molly was pressing sensitive buttons, as if she knew exactly what would
get the most telling reactions. Frances started to slide out of the booth.
Molly put a hand on her arm.

 “It's not
that, Frances,” Molly said, her lips trembling. “Not that at all.” Her eyes
glazed over as if she were focusing on something deep inside of her. “It's
killing Charlie.” Her neck muscles knotted with the effort to keep herself
under control. Clearing her throat, she tried to continue, then coughed into
her fist.

 “I'm sorry,
Molly. Really I am.”

 “You can't
understand what has happened to him. Chuck, Tray, his job, everything that
meant anything in his life has simply disappeared. It seems like such a little
thing, a simple regular visit with the only grandchild he has”—she coughed
again—“we have.”

 Molly's gaze
seemed to sweep through her like a cold wind. She felt stripped of flesh,
transparent.

 “You must
think I'm a terrible woman, Molly,” Frances said.

 “No.” She
shook her head a number of times. “Just misdirected.”

 “I'm not
directed, Molly. It's a joint decision,” Frances said indignantly. “I have to
get on with my life as best I can. Do what's going to be right for Tray.” She
paused, and her hands tightened into fists. “I didn't exactly have things easy.
Life with Chuck wasn't a bed of roses.” She had not intended the reference and
could see in Molly's face the confusion it raised.

 “Is that the
real issue then?” Molly asked. “Not just Tray.” She obviously wanted to say
more, but held off. No, she thought. Not just Tray.

 Frances felt
the beginnings of a great retch growing in her stomach. This is madness, she
thought. Why am I subjecting myself to this? Time to go. “So you will not drop
the suit?” she asked.

 “We will if
you let us visit Tray. The solution seems quite simple.”

 “Not to me.
Not to Peter and certainly not to Tray.”

 “Frances,
dammit,” Molly's voice rose above the din. People turned around to look at her.
To Frances, the flare-up seemed totally out of character, and it frightened
her. Seeing that she had made a stir, Molly lowered her voice and spoke through
her teeth. “I think Charlie is thinking about committing suicide.”

 Am I a
punching bag? Frances asked herself. Letting myself in for this? It had been a
mistake. Her first instincts had been correct.

 “I don't
understand,” she said after a long pause.

 “I've never
lied to you, Frances. I've always tried to be forthright and above board. I'm
sorry. To me this is a matter of life or death. I have reason to believe that
Charlie has suicide on his mind.” She averted her eyes, perhaps embarrassed by
the revelation.

 “You can't be
serious.”

 “Can't I? Did
you ever see a man sit with a loaded gun on his lap in the middle of the
afternoon?”

 “But you
can't be sure—”

 “I can't take
that chance.”

 “Over not
seeing Tray? Is that what you're implying?”

 “Over
everything.”

 “And you're
saying that if he doesn't get to see Tray and he then takes his life, somehow
it will be because of that.”

 “I had no
intention of putting it in those terms, Frances. Really I didn't.”

 “I think it's
awful to even suggest it.”

 Molly averted
her eyes and played with her fingers. “I have my life, too.” With an obvious
effort of will, she withheld her tears. “And Charlie is my life. I'm here—I've
begged you to come here so that I can beg you to let—well, at least
Charlie—come and see Tray. Let them visit on any terms acceptable to you. I'm
willing to stand aside if it will help. I'm not a martyr type, Frances. You
know that. And I love Tray. I don't know if this makes any sense. But Charlie
needs this. He needs it desperately. Why can't you reconsider? Persuade Peter
to reconsider. Frances, we've lost our only son. Can you know what that means?
I know you're a good girl, a decent girl, a caring person. You've got to give
Charlie this chance. . . .”

 It was no
longer possible for Molly to hold it in, and she let go, but not completely.
She had balled a napkin in one of her hands. She now flattened its wrinkles and
lifted it to wipe her tears. Frances watched her, angry, stupefied, and
shocked. She was also moved, but in a strange way it only solidified her resolve
to keep them from seeing Tray, to keep him from being exposed to the terror of
such thoughts. “My God, Molly. Why must everything rest on this? Why don't you
find some other way to fill your lives? I mean, in a way you're free, totally
without demands and responsibilities. You can travel. You can do anything you
want.”

 “I still have
my job,” Molly whispered, sniffling.

 “It just
seems that you're both getting morbid about all this.” She had never seen Molly
in such a state of helplessness. There had always been an air of
self-contentment and reserve about her. Even Chuck's characterization of his
mother as the family's defensive back seemed to be diminished by her pleading.
It shocked Frances to see Molly's eroding strength.

 “It's not
very pleasant to see your husband disintegrate,” Molly said, the pointed
sarcasm somehow steadying her. Frances resolved to leave as soon as she could.
Molly had trapped her, she decided. She was working on her guilt. Feeling
panicked within herself, she cried silently for Peter.

 The
restaurant was getting extremely crowded, and patrons carrying full trays as
they passed looked at them with beady-eyed resentment. Yet she did not want to
make the first move for fear that it would plunge Molly into even deeper
despair.

 “I never
expected things to get as bad as this,” Frances said.

 “And you have
it in your power to put it all in reverse.”

 The intensity
of Molly's sudden inspection burned into her. The tears had dried. The inner
hysteria seemed to have dissipated, leaving Frances even more suspicious of
Molly's motives. She could not seem to move out of the glare of the older
woman's pressuring gaze. “I'll do anything you ask, Frances. Once a month is
all Charlie needs. That's not much to ask, is it?”

 “That's not
the point.”

 “Then every
two months if that's the way you want it.”

 “Why are you
doing this to yourself, Molly?”

 “It doesn't
have to be long, either. Maybe an afternoon. Just one lousy afternoon. If you
want, they can stay in the neighborhood—”

 “It has nothing
to do with how long or how many times. It has nothing to do with that.”

 “Then what?”

 She saw the
man she presumed was the manager eyeing them from behind the counter. He
disappeared, then emerged from a side door across from their table. Molly, facing
Frances, did not see him.

 “You're just
upsetting yourself with that kind of reasoning,” Frances sighed, knowing it was
not reasoning at all, but the hysterical voice of the woman's heart. I can't
really help the way she feels, she told herself. I must not be manipulated. I
must do what is best for Tray. For Peter. For my family.

 “It's wrong,
Frances. Charlie says it's against nature.”

 She saw the
man approach and swallowed her response, which, in any event, would have seemed
belligerent. Tray does not exist to provide Charlie with psychiatric therapy,
was what she had in mind, borrowing from Peter's more scientific reasoning.

 “I'm sorry,
ladies,” the man said. “But you can't hold that table for an unreasonable
amount of time.” He waved his hand around the room. “We're loaded.”

 “We'll be
ready very shortly,” Molly shot back.

 “Really it's
not fair,” the man said.

 “What's
fair?” Molly countered.

 “I think he
has a point,” Frances said.

 “Thank you,
lady,”

 “In a minute,
then.” Molly squinted up at him with unmistakable contempt, startling the man
with her vehemence, but with enough authority to get him to leave. The gesture
had the effect of making Frances step back even further from the abyss of pity.