Bygones (21 page)

“I've planned a surprise for Lisa and Mark. I've ordered a limousine to pick them up tomorrow.”

Bess's eyes widened. “You didn't!”

“Why? What's—”

“So did I!”

“Are you serious?”

“Not only that, I had to pay in advance for five hours, and it's nonrefundable!”

“So did I.”

They began laughing. When they stopped they were smiling into each other's eyes. The restaurant manager came along and said, “Excuse me, we're closing.”

Michael stepped back guiltily.

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

They went out into the chill night air at last and heard a key turn in the lock behind them.

“Well,” Michael said, his breath a white puff in the frigid air, “what are we going to do about that extra limo?”

Bess shrugged. “I don't know. Split the loss, I guess.”

“Or treat ourselves. What do you say—wanna go to the wedding in a white limo?”

“Oh, Michael, what will people say?”

“People? What people? Want me to take a guess what Lisa would say? Or what your mother would say? Matter of fact, we could give the old doll a thrill and swing by her place on the way and pick her up, too.”

“She's already got a date. He's picking her up.”

“She does! Well, good for her. Anyone I know?”

“No. Somebody named Gil Harwood. Claims she's going to have an affair with him.”

Michael reared back and laughed. “Oh, Stella, you're a real piss cutter.” When his laughter subsided, he angled Bess a flirtatious grin. “Now, what about you?”

She grinned. “Do
I
want to have an affair? Michael, hardly.”

“Do you want to ride in a limo?”

“Ohhhh . . .” She drew out the word coquettishly, as if to say, Oh, that's what you meant. “Do I want to ride in a limo? Certainly. Only a dummy would say no to an invitation like that, especially since the thing is paid for with her own money.”

“Good.” He grinned, pleased. “We'll let yours take Lisa and mine will come and pick you up. Four forty-five. We'll get there in time for pictures.”

“Fine. I'll be ready.”

They started toward the parking lot.

“My car's this way,” he said.

“Mine's that way.”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yup.”

They turned and walked at a forty-five-degree angle away from one another. The night was so cold it made their teeth hurt. Neither of them cared. Reaching their cars, they unlocked their doors and opened them, then stood looking at each other across the nearly empty parking lot while the halogen lights turned everything the color of pink champagne.

“Hey, Bess?”

“What?”

It was a moment as sterling and clear as the silent city night around them, the kind of moment lovers remember years after it happens, for no particular reason except that in the midst of it Cupid seemed to have released his arrow and watched to see what mischief it might arouse.

“Would you call tomorrow a date?” Michael called.

The arrow hit Bess smack in the heart. She smiled and replied, “No, but Lisa would. Good night, Michael.”

 

TO LISA, SPENDING her wedding eve in her childhood home seemed meet. Shortly after eleven, when she dropped her overnight bag on her bed, things were much as they'd been when she was a teenager. Randy was down in his room with his radio tuned low. Mom was in her bathroom cleansing off her makeup. It almost seemed as if Dad would shut off the hall light, stop in the doorway and say, “G'night, honey.”

She dropped to the bed and sat looking at the room.

Same pale-blue flowered wallpaper. Same tiered bedspread. Same crisscross curtains. Same . . .

Lisa dumped her purse off her lap and radiated to the dresser. Into the mirror frame her mother had wedged her school pictures. Not just the second-grade one they'd laughed at the day she'd tried on the wedding dress but all thirteen of them, from kindergarten through twelfth. With her hands flat on the dresser and a smile on her face, Lisa studied them before turning to find, on the rocking chair in the corner, her Melody doll, and propped against its pink vinyl hand, the note from Patty Larson.

She picked up Melody, sat down with the doll on her lap and faced her closet doorway, where her wedding gown hung between the open bifold doors.

She was totally ready for this marriage. Nostalgia was fun but it failed to beckon her into those bygone days. She was happy to be altar-bound, happy to be pregnant, happy to be in love and happy she'd never taken up lodging with Mark.

Bess appeared in the doorway, dressed in a pretty peach nightgown and peignoir, rubbing lotion on her face and hands.

“You look all grown up, sitting there,” she said.

“I feel all grown up. I was just thinking how absolutely ready I am for marriage. It's a wonderful feeling. And remember years ago when I asked you what you thought of girls moving in with guys, you said just try it and watch the shit hit the fan? Thanks for that.”

Bess walked into the room, leaned over Lisa and kissed the top of her head, carrying with her the scent of roses. “I don't think I said it exactly like that but if the message stuck, I'm glad.”

Lisa hugged her mother, her head nestled against Bess's breasts.

“I'm glad I'm here tonight. This is the way it should be.”

When the hug ended Bess sat on the bed.

Lisa asked, “You know what I'm happiest about, though?”

“What?”

“You and Dad. It's so great to see you two sitting side-by-side again.”

“We're getting along remarkably well.”

“Any, ah . . .” Lisa made a hanky-panky gesture with a widespread hand.

Bess laughed quietly. “No. No
ah
anything. But we're becoming friends again.”

“Well, hey, that's a start, isn't it?”

“Is there anything you want me to do for you tomorrow? I'm taking the whole day off so I've got time.”

“I don't think so. It's hair in the morning and be at the church by five for pictures.”

“Speaking of that, your father asked if he could drive you to the church. He said he'd pick you up here at quarter to five.”

“Will you be here, too? And Randy? So we could all go to the church together?”

“I don't see why not.”

“Wow, won't that be something . . . after six years. I can't wait.”

“Well . . .” Bess said, rising. “It's early, and isn't that a miracle? I'm going to get a full night's rest and wake up bright and early with the whole morning to myself.” She kissed Lisa's cheek. “Good night, dear.” She looked into her happy eyes. “Sweet dreams, little bride. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

The light over the kitchen stove was still on. Bess went down to turn it off. It was a rare occasion when Randy was home at this hour, so she indulged herself and continued down to the walkout level, where she knocked softly on his door. Music played low but no answer came. She opened the door and peeked inside. Randy lay on his side, facing the wall, both arms outflung, still dressed in the new clothes he'd worn earlier. On the opposite side of the room one dim lamp lit the top of his chest of drawers, and the ever-present lights on his component set spiked and fell like electronic graphs.

He always slept with the radio on. She'd never understood why or how he did so but no amount of nagging had changed his habit.

She approached the bed and braced a hand behind Randy while leaning over to kiss the crest of his cheek. So like his father he looked, young and innocent in slumber. She touched his hair; it even felt like Michael's, was the same dark color, the curl more pronounced.

Her son—so proud, so hurt, so unwilling to bend. She had seen Randy snub Michael tonight and thought him wrong. Her heart had gone out to Michael, and in that moment she'd felt a flash of bitterness toward Randy. Mothering was so complex: she didn't know how to handle this young man who hovered on a brink where an influence in either direction might decide his fate for years to come, possibly for life. She saw very clearly that Randy could be a failure in many regards. In human relations, in business and in that most important aspect of life, personal happiness.

If he fails, I'll be part of the reason.

She straightened, studied him a moment more, turned out the lamp and quietly slipped from the room, leaving the radio playing softly behind her.

* * *

When the door closed, Randy's eyes snapped open and he twisted to look back over his shoulder.

Whew, that was a close one.

He let his head drop to the pillow and rolled onto his back. He thought she'd come in to ask him some question, and all the while she'd been touching his hair he'd expected her to shake him and make him turn over. She'd have taken one look at his eyes and known, then he'd be out on his ass. He had no doubt she meant it the last time she'd warned him.

He was still loaded, the lights on the component set seemed threatening, as if they were attacking from the corner of his eye, and he was getting dry mouth and the munchies.

The munchies—God, they always got him, hard. And food never tasted so good as when he was high. He had to have something. He rolled from the bed and walked the mile and a half toward the door. Upstairs all was black. He felt his way to the kitchen, turned on the stove light and found a bag of Fritos. He searched the refrigerator for beer but found only orange juice and a covered jar of iced tea.

He drank some tea straight from the jar. It tasted like ambrosia.

Somebody whispered, “Hey, Randy, is that you down there?”

He nudged himself away from the cabinet and shuffled stocking-footed down the hall. Above him Lisa leaned over the rail.

“Hiya, sis.”

“Whatcha got?”

“Fritos . . .” A long while later he added, “and iced tea.”

“I can't sleep. Bring 'em up.”

Climbing the stairs he mumbled, “Jesus, I hate iced tea.”

Lisa was sitting Indian-fashion against her pillows, dressed in a gray jogging suit. “Come on in and shut the door.”

He did as ordered and dropped to the foot of her bed, where he bounced forever, as if on a trampoline.

“Here, give me some,” Lisa said, rolling onto her knees, reaching for the Frito bag. “Randy!” She dropped the bag and grabbed his face, pointing it toward herself. “Oh, Randy, you stupid ass, you've been smoking pot again, haven't you!”

“No,” he whined. “Come on, sis—”

“Your eyes look like abortions! Gol, you're so damned dumb! What if Mom caught you? She'd throw you out.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“I should, you know.” She looked as if she were considering it. “But I don't want to spoil my wedding day tomorrow. You
promised
me you weren't going to smoke that shit anymore!”

“I know but I just had a couple o' hits.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.” Randy fell to his back across the foot of Lisa's bed, one arm upflung. “I don't know.”

She took the iced tea out of his hand, helped herself to a swig and stretched to set it on her bedside stand, then resumed her Indian pose and wondered how to help him.

“Man, do you know what you're doing to your life?”

“It's just pot; hey, I don't do coke.”

“Just pot.” She shook her head and sat awhile, watching him stare at the ceiling.

“How much you spend on it a week?”

He shrugged and flopped his head once.

“How much?”

“It's none of your goddamn business.”

She stretched out a foot and rocked him. “Look at you. You're nineteen years old and you got a set of Pearls. Big deal. What else have you got? A decent job? A stick of furniture? A car anybody besides your mother paid for? A friend who's worth anything? Bernie, that anal aperture. God, I can't figure out for the life of me why you hang around with him.”

“Aw, Bernie's all right.”

“Bernie's a loser. When are you going to see it?”

Randy rolled his head and looked at her. She ate three Fritos. She leaned forward and put one in his mouth. She ate another one, then said, “You know what I think is wrong with you? You don't like yourself very much.”

“Oh, listen to her, Lisa Freud.”

She fed him another Frito. “You don't, you know. That's why you hang around with losers, too. Let's face it, Randy, you've dated some real pus bugs. Some of the girls you've brought over to my apartment, I mean I wanted to stretch a condom over my hand before I shook with them.”

“Thanks.”

She fed him two Fritos this time, then set the sack aside and brushed off her hands.

“You treated Dad like shit tonight.”

“Yeah, well, you treat shit like shit.”

“Oh, come off it, Randy, he's doing his damnedest to mend things between you. When are you going to be a big man and get past it? Don't you know it's eating you?”

“He's not what's bothering me tonight.”

“Oh, yeah? Then what is?”

“Maryann.”

“Struck out with her, too, huh? Good.”

“Listen, I was trying. I was really trying!”

“Trying what? To get in her pants? You leave her alone, Randy, she's a nice girl.”

“Boy, you really think a lot of me, don't you?”

“I love you, little brother, but I have to overlook a lot to do it. I'd love you more if you'd get your act together and give up that weed and get a job.”

“I've got a job.”

“Oh yeah, working in that nut house. What're you scared of, huh? That you're not good enough on those Pearls?” She stretched out one leg, put her foot on his ribs and wriggled her toes.

He rolled his head and looked at her.

“You gonna remember this in the morning?” she asked.

“Yeah, I'm all right now. I'm coming down.”

“Okay then, listen, and listen good. You're the best drummer I've ever heard. If you want to drum, then by God, drum. But realize this—it's a high-risk job, especially when you go into it smoking grass. The next thing you know they'll have you on coke, then on crack, and before you know it you're dead. So if you're gonna be a musician, you get in with a straight band.”

He stared at her a long time, then sat up. He drew one knee onto the bed. “You really think I'm good?”

“The best.”

He grinned crookedly. “Really?”

She answered with a quirk of her head.

In time she said, “Okay, so what happened with Maryann? She didn't look too happy when she came charging into the house.”

“Nothing happened.” He dropped his gaze to the bedspread and ran a hand through his hair. “I cussed, that's all.”

“I told you she was a good girl.”

“And I apologized but she was already beatin' it inside.”

“Next time watch your mouth around her. It won't hurt you, anyway.”

“And I no sooner got inside the restaurant than she yelled at me for how I treated Dad.”

“So other people notice it, too.”

“I don't even know why I should like the girl!”

“Why do you?”

“I just said, I don't know.”

“I'll bet I do.”

“Yeah? . . . So tell me.”

“She's no pus bag, that's why.”

Randy chortled deep in his throat. He sat silently for some time before telling his sister, “The first time I saw her it was like wham! You know? Right there.” He socked his chest. “Felt like I couldn't breathe.”

Lisa gave a crooked grin. “Sometimes it happens that way.”

“I put on my best manners tonight, honest, I did.” He plucked at his sweater. “Even got these new clothes, and mucked out my car, and pulled out her chair at the table, and opened the car door for her but she's tough, you know?”