Bygones (15 page)

“Would you ever be needing a desk in this room?”

“That might be nice.”

“File cabinets?”

“Probably not.”

“Shelving?”

He wobbled a hand like a plane dipping its wings.

“In order of preference, would you place this room high or low in the decorating order?”

“Low.”

“All right . . . let's move on.”

They meandered to the other guest bedroom, and from there to the powder room, the gallery, the kitchen, ending up in the living room.

“Tell me, Michael, what's your opinion of art deco?”

“It can be a little stark but I've seen some I like.”

“And glass—glass tabletops, for instance, as opposed to wood.”

“Either is fine.”

“Would you be entertaining in this room?”

“Maybe.”

“How many might you want to seat at one time?”

“I don't know.”

“A dozen maybe?”

“Probably not.”

“Six?”

“I suppose so.”

“Would that entertaining be formal or informal?”

“Informal, probably.”

“Meals . . .” She moved to the end of the room where the chandelier hung, studying the change of light on the carpet, imagining it on furniture as she moved from the light-realm of one window to another. “Would you ever entertain at sit-down meals?”

“I have in the past.”

“Will you use the fireplace or not?”

“Yes.”

“Will you ever watch television in this room?”

“No.”

“How about a tape player or CD player?”

“Probably I'd want that in the family room off the kitchen.”

“Which do you prefer, vertical or horizontal lines?”

“What?”

She looked up at him and smiled. “That one usually throws people. Vertical or horizontal? One is restful, the other energetic.”

“Vertical.”

“Ah . . . energetic. Are you an early riser or a late riser?”

“Early.” He always had been but she had to ask.

“And how about the tail end of the day? Do you watch the David Letterman show?”

“Do I what?”

“Are you a night person, Michael?”

He scratched his neck and grinned crookedly at the floor. “I remember a time when I was but it's funny how nature takes care of that for you when you reach middle age.”

She smiled and went on to her next subject. “Give me your opinion of this chandelier.” She looked up at the ceiling.

He wandered nearer and looked up, too. “It reminds me of grapefruit sections,” he said.

She laughed. “Grapefruit sections?”

“Yeah, those pieces of smoky glass all standing on end like that. Aren't they shaped like grapefruit sections?”

“Skinny ones, maybe. Do you like it?”

“Mmm . . .” He studied it pensively. “Yeah, I like it a lot.”

“Good. So do I.”

She made a note about repeating smoked glass in the tables and another about café doors as she moved through a wide doorway into the family room/kitchen. In this room the view had curved away from the lake and focused instead on a tall stand of cottonwood trees—naked now in winter—and a small town park with a white gazebo. Thankfully there were no swing sets or playground equipment, which would be desirable for a young family, not for a building that catered to older, wealthier people.

“What happens in the park?” she asked.

“Picnics in the summer, I guess. That's about all.”

“No band concerts, no boat launching?”

“No. Boats are launched over at the county beach or at the White Bear Yacht Club.”

“Will you launch one?”

“Maybe. I've thought about it.”

“A lot of sailboats on the lake, aren't there?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine you're looking forward to watching them from both inside and out on the deck.”

“Sure.”

She made a note about vertical blinds and sauntered toward the kitchen island, where a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread and some throw-away containers created his bachelor's pantry. She glanced over the pitiful collection, then looked away because it brought a sharp desire to play housewife, and neither of them needed that.

“Will this be a working kitchen?” she asked, her back to Michael as she waited for an answer.

It took some time before he replied, “No.”

She gathered her composure and turned to rest her clipboard on the island. “Are there any hobbies of yours I should know about?”

“They haven't changed since six years ago. Hunting and the outdoors but I go up to my cabin for that.”

“Have you developed any allergies?”

His eyebrows puckered. “Allergies?”

“It has to do with fabrics and fibers,” she explained.

“No allergies.”

“Then I guess all that's left to ask about is the budget. Have you thought about a range you want me to work within?”

“Just do it the way you'd do it for yourself. You were always good at it, and I trust you.”

“All of it?”

“Well . . .” He glanced around uncertainly. “I guess so.”

“The guest bedroom, too?”

His eyes came back to her. “I hate empty rooms,” he said.

“Yes . . .” she agreed, “and it is the first room a visitor sees when he steps into the foyer.”

She had the illogical impulse to go to him, take him in her arms for a moment, pat his back and say, It'll be all right, Michael, I'll fill it with things so it isn't so lonely, though she knew perfectly well a home full of things could not substitute for a home full of people.

She looked down at her clipboard. “I'll need to take some measurements. Would you mind helping me?”

“Not at all.”

“I've tried to sketch the layout of the unit but it's unusual enough to be difficult.”

“I have some floor plans at the office that were done for the sales people. I'll send you one.”

“Oh, that would be helpful. Meanwhile, shall we measure?”

They spent the next twenty minutes at opposite ends of a surveyor's tape, getting room and window dimensions. When they were all tidily written on her rough floor plan, she cradled the clipboard against her arm and reeled in the tape.

“What happens next?” he asked as they returned to the foyer, where he retrieved her coat and held it for her.

“I'll take all these dimensions and transfer them onto graph paper, room by room. Then I'll go ‘shopping' through my catalogs and come up with a furniture plan, window treatments, fabric and wallpaper samples. I'll also have all the suggested furniture cut out to scale on magnetic plastic so they can be arranged on the floor plan. When all that is done I'll give you a call and we'll get together for the presentation. I usually do that at my store after hours because all my books and samples are there and it makes it easier without customers interrupting. Then, too, if you don't like something I've suggested we can go into other books and look for something else.”

“So when will I hear from you?”

Her coat was buttoned and she drew on her gloves. “I'll try to get on it right away and get back to you within a week, since you're living in rather Spartan conditions. I don't see anything wrong with playing favorites and putting you ahead of some of my other clients, do you?”

She flashed him a professional smile and extended her gloved hand. “Thank you, Michael.”

He took it, squeezing hard. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

“What?”

“Your forty-dollar trip charge.”

“Oh, that. I initiated the trip charge merely to dissuade lonely people who only want company for an afternoon—and you'd be amazed how many of them there are. But it's obvious you need furniture, and you're not some stranger whose intentions I question.”

“Business is business, Bess, and if there's a trip charge, I'll pay it.”

“All right, but why don't I bill you for it?”

“Absolutely not. Wait here.”

He went into the room with the drafting table, leaving her in the empty foyer. She watched him through the doorway, stretching her gloves on tighter. She picked up her clipboard, her purse, and watched him some more, then followed him into the room, where he was making out the check with one hand flat on the drafting table, his elbow jutting.

The photo was still there, compelling. She studied it over his angled shoulders and said quietly, “They were adorable when they were that age, weren't they?”

He stopped writing, looked at the picture awhile and tore out the check before turning to Bess. His gaze lingered on her, then traveled once more to the picture.

“Yes, they were.”

The room remained silent while the two of them studied their son and daughter caught in a carefree day from their past. His gaze returned to Bess and she felt it on her cheek as one feels heat from a nearby fire, while she continued studying the picture.

“Michael, I . . .” Struggling for words, she met his eyes and felt a burning sense of imminence in the admission she was about to make. “I went to visit my mother on Sunday and we had a talk.” She paused but he said nothing. “I told her how difficult it's been seeing you again, and she said that the reason is because you're making me take a second look at myself and my fault in the divorce.”

Still he waited while she clung to her clipboard and willed the words forth.

“I think I owe you an apology, Michael, for turning the kids against you.”

Something changed in his eyes—a quick transport of repressed anger, perhaps. Though he moved not a muscle he seemed more rigid, while his hazel eyes remained steady upon hers.

She looked down at her glove. “I swore I wouldn't do this—mix business with anything personal but it's been bothering me, and today when I saw their picture here I realized that . . . well, that you loved them, too, and how it must have hurt you, losing them.” She met his eyes once more. “I'm sorry, Michael.”

He thought about it for passing seconds before speaking in a low, throaty tone. “I hated you for it, you know.”

She shifted her gaze to the drafting table. “Yes, I know,” she said quietly.

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I felt hurt, and wronged.”

“But that was another matter entirely, what was between us.”

“I know that now.”

They stared at each other until the silence in the room seemed to be compressing them.

“Mother said something else.” Again Michael waited for her to go on while she struggled for courage to do so. “She said that when I went back to college you fell to the bottom of my priority list and that's why you found another woman.” Nothing changed on his face so she asked, “Is that true, Michael?”

“What do you think?”

“I'm asking you.”

“Well, I'm not going to answer. I don't see any point, not at this late date.”

“So it is true.”

He handed her the check. “Thanks for coming, Bess. I really should get down to my office now.”

Her cheeks were hot as she accepted his check and said, “I'm sorry, Michael. I shouldn't have brought it up today. It's not the appropriate time.”

She preceded him into the foyer, where he opened the door for her then changed his mind and held it closed for a moment.

“Why did you bring it up at all, Bess?”

“I don't know. I don't understand myself lately. It seems as if there were so many things between us that were never settled, all these . . . these ugly emotions that kept roiling around inside me. I guess I just need to deal with them once and for all and put them behind me. That's what apologies are all about, right?”

His eyes lit on hers, hard as chips of resin. He nodded stiffly. “All right, fair enough. Apology accepted.”

She didn't smile; she couldn't. Neither could he.

He found her a carpet sample and ushered her out, at a respectable distance, and pushed the elevator button. The door opened instantly, while he was still speaking.

“Thanks for coming.”

She stepped on, turned to offer a conciliatory smile and found him already stalking back into his condo. The elevator door closed and she rode downstairs, wondering if by her apology she'd made things better or worse between them.

 

RANDY CURRAN DROPPED INTO a lopsided upholstered rocker and reached into his jacket pocket for his bag of pot. It was almost 11 P.M. and Bernie's mom was out, as usual. She was a cocktail waitress so most nights they had the place to themselves. The radio was tuned to Cities 97 and they were waiting for “The Grateful Dead Hour.” Bernie sat on the floor with an electric guitar on his lap, the amp turned off as he picked along with a Guns N' Roses song. Randy had known Bernie Bertelli since the eighth grade, when he'd moved to town right after his parents got divorced, too. They'd smoked a lot of dope together since then.

Bernie's place was a dump. The floors were crooked, and the walls had a lot of plastic knickknacks hanging on them. The shag carpeting was the color of baby shit and matted worse than the hair of the two old Heinz 57 dogs, Skipper and Bean, who were allowed to do pretty much anything they wanted anywhere in the house. Skipper and Bean were presently stretched out on the davenport, which in its younger days had been upholstered in some cheap nylon plaid but now was covered with a flowered throw with soiled spots the shapes of the dogs at either end. The coffee tables and end tables had screw-on legs and the drapery pleats sagged between all the hooks. Against one wall a pyramid of beer cans reached the ceiling, the top can wedged against the water-stained tile. Bernie's mom had put the top one there herself.

Randy never sat on the davenport, not even when he was high or drunk. He never got
that
high or
that
drunk! He always took the green rocker, a decrepit thing that looked as if it had had a stroke, because everything on it sagged to one side. The broken springs in the seat were covered with a folded rag rug to keep them from poking your ass, and the upholstered arms were covered with cigarette burns.

Randy fished out the Ziploc bag and his bat, a miniature pipe big enough for a single hit. Gone were the days of rolling smokes. Who could afford that anymore?

“This shit is getting expensive, man,” he said.

“Yeah, what'd you pay?”

“Sixty bucks.”

“For a quarter?”

Randy rearranged his expression and shrugged.

Bernie whistled. “Better be good shit, man.”

“The best. Lookit here . . .” Randy opened the bag. “Buds.”

Bernie leaned over, took a closer look and said, “Buds . . . wow, how'd you score that?” Everybody knew that buds gave you the most for your money—better than leaves or sticks or seeds. You could pack it tighter and get really loaded off a couple of hits.

Randy packed his pipe, missing the days when he'd tear off a Zigzag paper and roll a joint big enough to pass around. He'd seen a guy one time who could roll one with one hand. He'd practiced it himself at home a few times over a sheet of paper, but he'd dropped more than he'd rolled, so he'd settled for doing it deftly with two hands, which in itself was considered a mark of prowess among pot smokers.

Randy struck a match. The bat held less than a thimbleful. He lit up, took a deep drag and held it in his lungs until they burned. He exhaled, coughed and refilled the bat.

“Want a hit, Bernie?”

Bernie took a turn, coughing, too, while a scent like burning oregano filled the room.

It took two hits before Randy got the rush—the sweet chill that riffled through him and left him with a slow-growing euphoria. Everything became so exquisitely distorted. Bernie looked as though he was on the opposite side of a fishbowl, and the lights on the component set shimmered like a meteor shower that was taking ten years to fall. Someplace in the distance men coughed occasionally but the sound filtered down a long corridor, like shouting through a concrete culvert. The music from the radio became a major sensation that expanded his pores, his hair follicles, his fingers and his ability to perceive.

Words came to him and swirled through his vision as if they had mass and form—graceful, beckoning words.

“I met this girl,” Randy said. “Did I say that already?” Seemed like he'd said it about one hour ago and it had taken till now for the words to drift down, landing on the dog Bean, bouncing off his red fur in slow motion, disturbing him so he rolled over onto his back with his paws up and his eyes closed.

“What girl?”

“Maryann. Some name, huh? . . . Maryann. Who names their kids Maryann anymore?”

“Who's Maryann?”

“Maryann Padgett. I had dinner at her house. Lisa is marrying her brother.”

On the davenport Bean was snoring and his lip was fluttering. Randy became transfixed by the sight, which took on kaleidoscopic beauty, that dog lip, black on the outside, pink on the inside, flap-flapping in rhythm with his gentle snores.

“She scares the shit out of me.”

“Why?”

“ 'Cause she's a good girl.”

Thirst came, exaggerated like everything else. “Hey, Bern, I got the dry mouth. You got some beer?”

The beer tasted like magic elixir, every sip a thousand times better than orgasm.

“We don't mess with good girls, do we, Bern?”

“Shit no, man . . . why should we?”

“Screw 'em and strew 'em, hey, Bern?”

“That's right. . . .” Two minutes later Bernie repeated, “That's right.”

Ten minutes after that Bernie said, “Shit, man, I'm really fucked up.”

“Me too,” Randy said. “I'm so fucked up your nose even looks good. You got a nose like a goddamned anteater and I'm so fucked up your nose looks cute.”

Bernie laughed and scattered sound down a jeweled corridor.

Many minutes later Randy said, “You can't get serious about girls, you know what I mean, man? I mean . . . hell . . . next thing you know you're marryin' 'em and you got kids and you're screwin' somebody else's old lady and walkin' out and your kids are bawlin'.”

Bernie digested that a long time before he asked, “You bawl when your old man left?”

“Sometimes. Not where anybody could see me, though.”

“Yeah, me too.”

A while later Randy felt the lethargy lifting and the munchies coming on. He pitched forward in his chair and counted seven beer cans around him. He belched and Bean woke up, stretched and quivered, jumped off the couch and shook a fresh layer of dog hair onto the matted carpet. Pretty soon Skipper did the same. The two of them nosed at Bernie, whose eyes were as red as if he'd been fighting fires.

Randy gave himself some time, coming down. It was after midnight and the deadhead hour was in progress on Cities 97 and he had to be up at six. Actually, he was getting pretty tired of the Grateful Dead and of that stinking job at the warehouse. And of this pigsty of Bernie's and of the rising cost of marijuana. And of Bernie, who never could afford to buy his own. What the hell was he doing here in this lopsided rocking chair with the cigarette burns on its arms, looking at Bernie's big nose and counting the beer cans?

Who was he getting even with?

His father, that's who.

Problem was, the old man didn't really give a damn.

* * *

Bess received the floor plan from Michael on the Monday after she'd seen his condo. He'd mailed it, along with a note in his familiar handwriting, on a piece of notepaper with his company logo in blue at the top.

Bess, Here's the floor plan for the condo, as promised. I've thought about the mirrors for the gallery. Go ahead and plan them in. I think I'll like them. I've been thinking about what you said just before you left and it makes me realize there were areas where I needed to change and didn't. Maybe we can talk about it some more. It was nice seeing you again. Michael.

* * *

She got a queer flutter at the sight of his handwriting. Funny about a thing like that, it was like studying his wet toothbrush and his damp towel, things he'd touched, held, worked with. She reread the entire message four times, imagining his beautifully shaped hand holding the pen as he wrote it.
Maybe we can talk about it some more.
Now that was a loaded suggestion, was it not? And had it really been nice for him, seeing her again? Didn't he feel the same tension she felt whenever they stood in the same room? Didn't he feel eager to escape, as she did?

* * *

Michael received a call from Lisa.

“Hey, Dad, how's it going?”

“All right. How's it going with you?”

“Busy. Cripes, I didn't dream there was this much stuff you had to do to plan a wedding. You free on Saturday afternoon?”

“I can be.”

“Good, 'cause you men have to meet at Gingiss Formal Wear and pick out your tuxedos.”

“Tuxedos, wow.”

“You're gonna be a knockout, Dad.”

Michael smiled. “You think so, huh? What time and where?”

“Two o'clock at Maplewood.”

“I'll be there.”

* * *

Randy hadn't thought about his dad being there. He walked into Gingiss Formal Wear at two o'clock the following Saturday afternoon, and there stood Michael, talking with Mark and Jake Padgett. Randy came up short. Mark spied him and came forward, extending his hand. “Here's our last guy. Hey, Randy, thanks for coming.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Jake shook his hand. “Hello, Randy.”

“Mr. Padgett.”

That left only Michael, who offered his hand, too. “Randy.”

Randy looked into his father's somber eyes and felt a sick longing to go into his arms and hug him and say, “Hi, Dad.” But he had not called Michael
Dad
in a long time. The word welled up and seemed to fill his throat, needing to be spoken, needing to be repressed. Michael's eyes so resembled his own it seemed like looking in a mirror while his father's hand waited.

At last he put his hand in Michael's and said, “Hello.”

Michael flushed and gripped Randy's hand hard. Long after the contact ended Randy felt the imprint of his father's palm on his own.

A young blond clerk intruded. “Everybody here now, gentlemen? If you'll step this way.”

They followed him into a rear room, carpeted and mirrored. Mark and his father went first, leaving Michael and Randy to exchange uncertain glances before Michael politely waved Randy through the doorway before him. The room held tuxedos in every conceivable color from black to pink, and smelled of a hot iron from a tailor's adjacent workroom. The clerk told Mark, “Sometimes the bride is in on this, too. Since yours isn't, I presume you've talked about colors.”

“The bridesmaid's dress is coral. She said I could decide what color the tuxes should be.”

“Ah, good. Then might I suggest ivory with coral cummerbunds—ivory is always tasteful, always elegant, and seems to be the trendy choice right now. We have several styles, the most popular are probably the Christian Dior and After Six.”

The clerk prattled on while Michael and Randy remained intensely aware of each other, electrified by their encounter. With their emotions in turmoil they missed much of what was being said. They assessed jackets with satin lapels, pleated shirts, bow ties, cummerbunds and patent-leather shoes.

They removed their jackets, faced a wall of mirrors and had their measurements taken—neck, sleeve, chest, overarm, waist and outseam. They shucked off their pants and donned trousers with satin stripes up the sides, stood stocking-footed before a wall of mirrors and zipped up their flies, trading glances in the mirror before looking discreetly away.

They buttoned on pleated shirts, ruffled shirts, experimented with bow ties and thought about when they were a boy and a young father and Randy had put shaving cream on his face and shaved with a bladeless razor while his dad stood beside him and shaved with a real one; and times when they'd stood side-by-side and Randy had asked, wishfully, “Do you think I'll ever be taller than you, Dad?” And now he was, by a good inch—all grown up and capable of holding grudges.

“A forty-two long, sir,” the clerk said. Michael slipped into a tuxedo jacket that smelled of dry-cleaning fluid, tugged the sleeves and collar into place while the clerk circled him, assessing the fit. Mark made some joke and Randy laughed. Jake said, “Never been in one of these monkey suits before, how 'bout you, Michael?”

“Just once.” At his own wedding.

When the fitting was done they put on their street clothes again, zipping winter jackets as they shuffled from the store into the mall. Saturday shoppers moved past in twos and threes. The smell of baking cookies drifted through the hall from Mrs. Field's across the way. Mark and Jake headed straight toward the exit, leaving Michael and Randy to follow. Every step of the way Michael felt his chest contract as his chance slipped away. A question danced on his tongue while he feared Randy's rebuff.

Just before they reached the plate-glass doors, Michael spoke. “Listen, I haven't had lunch yet, have you?” He strove for an offhand tone in spite of the fact that his heart was in his throat.

“Yeah, I grabbed a burger earlier,” Randy lied.

“You sure? I'm buying.”